The Wharf Butcher, page 24
Then the anger surfaced.
Bitch!
‘And she was so . . . pretty.’
The pretty one, who knows she is pretty, is probably not pretty at all.
‘You’re such a genius,’ he smiled.
Under the cover of the Central Arcade, he now faced a more daunting challenge. It had stopped raining, and the two police officers – the ones he was following – they were hiding somewhere. Where, he had absolutely no idea, but he was working on it all the same. Then, on the corner of Hood Street, an elderly couple squeezed out of the back seat of a taxi and set foot onto the wet slippery pavement. Gripped by fear, and a whole lot of suspicion, he ducked back into the shadows.
He checked his surroundings.
How did you spot that? You’re so amazingly talented.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I even knew they were coming.’
Never mind that – just look who’s here!
Perfect, the two of them together at last.
It was the profiler that concerned him now. He was unpredictable, and capable of reading into other people’s minds.
‘Can people really do that?’
Yes they can, but not into your mind, of course.
‘Are you sure?’
Oh yes, I’m certain of that. You’re a genius – remember?
As the profiler moved north, Jack Mason descended into the bowels of Monument Metro station. He was alone now, just him and the profiler. Even so, Lexus was wary.
There, standing in front of him, was an armed police officer. He was a tall man, with distinct bushy sideburns and protruding eyes that glared back at him as though he was invisible. He wasn’t of course – but he could have been – everyone knew that. Then, as another squad car dashed headlong towards another unknown destination, his mind was thrown into turmoil again. There was work to be done, important work, and he knew he must attend to it. Close to the Bigg Market – in a quieter corner of the city – he spotted what he was searching for. It was a MK3, with reclining leather seats and such an amazing dashboard panel. And guess what, it was filled with an array of clocks and fancy gadgets.
He glanced through the window.
‘Is it a trap?’
Only a genius would know that –the voice in his head replied.
‘So why has the previous owner abandoned it?’
It could be a gift––
‘What for me?’
Why not, they knew how important it was to you.
Thirty minutes later, opposite the North Shields Fish Quay, Lexus pulled up onto a shallow piece of waste ground and checked his surroundings. Set back from the river was the boathouse. It was a tall structure, isolated, with high windowless walls and a long flat roof that ran the entire length of the building. He was closer now, much closer than ever before. Inside the building’s wooden structure, was Trevor Radcliffe’s yacht. He knew that, he had seen it before, many times.
The only thing that bothered him now, was space. There wasn’t any, not for what he had in mind.
Then the voices returned.
Stop worrying, you’ve planned this for weeks now.
‘I know, but I can’t help it.’
Yes you can, you’re almost home and dry.
Then, Trevor Radcliffe appeared and a new excitement gripped him.
He was a frail man, unsuspecting, and totally oblivious of the dangers that now surrounded him. His death would be a clinical ending, concise, and not over indulged. There had been others of course, only Jack Mason knew that. Just how many he had no idea, but unquestionably more than a few. He checked the boathouse.
How do you feel right now?
‘Excited,’ Lexus replied.
Me too!
Chapter Forty
The tide was on the turn when DS Wallace and DC Bower parked their undercover vehicle onto a small piece of waste ground, and switched off the car’s engine. Wallace sat for a while – both hands firmly gripped around the steering wheel – and surveyed his new surroundings. To Wallace’s reckoning, and to his relief, the boatyard was little more than a hundred metres away. With clear unobstructed views, it was the perfect location to protect Trevor Radcliffe from becoming the Wharf Butcher’s next target. He would need to stay vigilant, he realised that. One false move and it would all end here.
Wallace detested undercover surveillance operations; eight hour shifts, cooped up inside his undercover Ford Focus Sedan. It was unnatural, soul destroying, besides interfering with his social life. Fed up to his back teeth, he grabbed his Bushnell high- powered binoculars and zoomed in on anything that might grab his attention. It was mid-afternoon, and apart from the odd tourist mooching around town, North Shields Fish Quay was quiet. Then, at the mouth of the river he spotted a small fishing boat, as it made slow headway between the two harbour piers. Following in its wake, a flock of Fulmars were quarrelling over a few fish scraps being tossed over the stern of the incoming vessel. In search of easy pickings, a lone predator swooped low over the water, dived, and took off again with a fish head in its mouth. Before the others had realised what was happening, it was long gone. It was the highlight of Wallace’s day, a small piece of action that had helped to relieve the boredom.
He watched as DC Bower set off to get them both fish and chips. Wallace was hungry; he hadn’t eaten in hours now. Opposite, on the small stretch of waste ground, several cars were parked. The place had an eerie presence. One of the cars, a green Astra, belonged to one of the trawler men and it had definitely seen better days. Certain that it posed no threat, Wallace checked his watch and panned towards the boatyard for anything of interest. Apart from a few empty oil drums, an old rusty anchor chain, and pile of discarded wooden pallets, the place appeared deserted. Refocusing the lenses, he suddenly spotted the top of Trevor Radcliffe’s balding head.
‘Bugger,’ he cursed. ‘It’s you again.’
Why anyone would want to kill someone as lacklustre as Trevor Radcliffe was beyond his wildest imagination. But they did, and a killer was out there somewhere, hell bent on causing mayhem. Wallace could not recall the last time he’d felt as irritable as this before. He wasn’t alone, the whole undercover team were sick to death of Radcliffe’s monotonous routine. It was like reading the same pages of a book a dozen times over, infuriating and totally uninspiring.
He took out his mobile, fiddled with the buttons, then checked back through the digital displays for any missed calls or text messages. There weren’t any. Switching the thing off, he tossed it onto the passenger seat in frustration. Seconds later his police radio crackled into life, and spewed out some undecipherable message before falling silent again. Bored out of his mind, DC Bower not having returned, Wallace sank back into the driver’s seat and tuned into his favourite music channel.
*
It was a ship’s foghorn that jarred DS Wallace from a light sleep. A cross channel container ship, bound for Copenhagen. Straining to follow its movements, it suddenly dawned on him that Trevor Radcliffe wasn’t alone anymore. He picked up his binoculars, and hastily zoomed in on the boatyard. All he could see, at a glance, was Trevor Radcliffe’s assailant. He was a tall man; lean, early thirties, dressed all in black with fair short-cropped hair.
Then he spotted the knife.
Nothing could have prepared Wallace for this. Radcliffe’s body was strung up like a broken swastika, and dangling in mid-air like a bird in flight.
‘Shit!’ Wallace screamed.
Bracing himself, he slammed the undercover car into gear and took off under a cloud of dust. He knew every inch of this waste ground . . . every bloody inch. As the car slid to a halt in front of the boatyard, he flung back the door and fired off two quick shots.
‘Drop you bastard!’
As the assailant ran for the shelter of the boathouse, Wallace’s heart sank.
Now covered in blood, Trevor Radcliffe’s hands and feet had been nailed to a makeshift timber cross. His face was cyanotic, eyes glazed, and the tongue protruding beyond his lips. It was then he noticed the large gaping cavity in Radcliffe’s chest, a deep red crater where the flesh had been rolled back and the upper rib cage prised apart.
There was nothing he could do for him now: Radcliffe was dead.
Fumbling for his handset, he pressed the call button.
‘Oh Jesus . . .’ he cried, in a voice little more than a whisper. ‘I need backup . . . and right away.’ The next thing he noticed, glancing around, was the fresh blood trail.
Had one of his shots struck lucky?
He crept forward, the gun pointing ahead of him. ‘Police, come out with your hands up, you’re completely surrounded.’
Inside the boathouse the air felt oppressive, filled with an overpowering stench of kerosene fumes. Then it struck him: he was sitting on a powder keg and about to be blown into kingdom come at any second. Panic gripped him. His hands were shaking, and the rest of his body had locked solid. The moment his foot caught the wooden trestle, he was sent sprawling to the floor. Terrified, Wallace scrambled to his feet – his gun still pointing ahead of him.
All he could hear was a door creaking, nothing else.
‘Move another inch you motherfucker, and I’ll blow your brains out,’ Wallace screamed.
Silence followed, only the wind playing on the door latch could be heard.
Following the blood trail, at midpoint along the slipway, everything came to a stop. There, at eye level, Radcliffe’s cardiovascular organs had been skewered to a jetty post. Physically sick and unquestionably shaken, Wallace dropped to his knees. He’d failed miserably, and the killer was nowhere to be seen.
And then, the sound of a wailing police car siren.
‘Oh No!’ the detective sergeant gasped.
Chapter Forty-One
It was Saturday afternoon, and Jack Mason was relaxing with Sky Sports TV. The television pundits were running back over the latest team selections, and on paper, today’s rugby match between Leicester Tigers and London Wasps looked a mouth-watering fixture. Both sides were evenly matched, and apart from injuries, the game was finely balanced and looked as though it could go all the way to the wire. For as long as he could remember, Jack Mason had always enjoyed his rugby. Not that he was ever any good at it, as he was never selected for any of his school rugby teams, or any other team for that matter. Nowadays he was more of an armchair critic, and considered himself good at it . . . or so he would have everyone believe.
His mobile phone rang.
The voice on the other end of his phone sounded guarded. ‘What’s up, boss?’ said Luke James.
‘I’m watching the rugby on the television, why?’ Mason replied.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still following that crap.’
Mason could think of dozen things to say, but chose not to answer. This had been his first lieu day off in weeks, and he was determined to sit back and escape from the stresses of everyday life.
‘You still there, boss?’
‘Yes, Luke––’
‘I don’t want to spoil your day, but there’s been another development.’
Mason picked up the remote control, and turned down the TV volume. Not one to shy away from a problem, he sensed hesitation in Luke James’ voice. With one eye on the television and the other on the clock, he was in two minds whether to cut their conversation short. ‘Can’t it wait till Monday?’ Mason asked.
‘I’m not so sure, boss,’ James replied hesitantly. ‘There’s been another murder over by North Shields Fish Quay. This time it’s Trevor Radcliffe.’
Mason took a deep breath. ‘When did this happen, Luke?’ he said, softening the tone in his voice.
‘Around two o’clock this afternoon.’
‘I thought we had twenty-four hour surveillance covering Radcliffe’s place?’
Mason’s mobile fell silent. Then he heard a police car siren wailing in the background. ‘We did,’ said James. ‘Like I say, it’s still early days.’
‘Who’s the duty Scene of Crime Officer?’
‘Stan Johnson . . . he’s only just arrived.’
Mason sighed in relief. At least something was stacked in his favour. Stan Johnson was a good man to have around at a homicide scene. Besides being level headed, he was thorough, and knew how to keep a tight lid on things.
‘Who’s the duty doctor?’ he asked.
There was another long pause on the other end of his phone.
‘It’s Doc Hindson, I’m afraid,’ the Detective Sergeant sighed. ‘I realise you don’t see eye to eye with one another, but––’
Mason swore quietly to himself. ‘It’s not your problem, Luke, but thanks for the heads-up anyway.’
‘No problem, you grumpy old sod,’ James chuckled down the other end of the phone.
‘You need to get hold of David Carlisle. Ask him to meet me there.’
‘Will do, boss.’
With that Mason hung up and got ready. Having set Sky to record, he gathered his keys, locked the house door, and clambered into his car. With any luck, he would catch up on the Rugby later. There again, past experience had taught him not to hold his breath on that. There were any number of things could go wrong at a homicide crime scene, and, Sod’s law, usually did.
*
The drive to North Shields took Jack Mason a little under thirty minutes. The traffic was heavy, but on approaching Union Quay, he felt a ripple of excitement. Stopped by an eager young constable intent on giving him the third degree, he flashed his ID, and was immediately directed towards a small car park opposite the New Dolphin public house. The whole area was in lockdown, and everywhere crawling with police. Ignoring the No Entry sign, Mason pulled up behind a parked police transit van and sat for a while.
Time to garb up, he thought, as he wormed his way into a hooded white over suit. Climbing the short rise to the harbour, he stood for a while savouring the views. The North Sea seemed choppy, a stiff breeze cutting directly across the Tyne estuary. To the south stood the Groyne pier; its distinctive red lighthouse always reminded him of a space ship out of one of those 1940s sci-fi movies. Close to North Shields Fish Quay, and parked up on waste ground, he spotted the familiar yellow command truck. His eyes staring resolutely ahead, he slipped back into police mode, and ambled towards the crime scene.
Ducking beneath the police line tape, he was met by Stan Johnson who quickly brought him up to speed.
‘If you’re looking for a body,’ the SOC officer smirked, ‘there’s one over by that yellow machine hoist contraption.’
‘Ah, now I see it . . .’
‘It’s not a pretty sight, mind,’ said Johnson.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Johnson replied. ‘Uniforms are checking up on a couple of witness statements, but until Forensics have finished, there’s not a lot any of us can do.’
Great, Mason thought. He checked his watch. It would soon be kick-off time, and with any luck the police doctor would have already established the cause of death. If not, then he would need to wait for the home office pathologists to complete their findings. There again, if the victim had been poisoned first, a full toxicological examination would be required. ‘Damn,’ Mason cursed eager to get going; this was the last thing he needed. These things took time, he realised that, but suddenly nothing seemed straightforward anymore.
From what he could gather, the whole area was now a hive of activity and a lot had already been set in motion. On nearing the river he saw several forensic officers, including Peter Davenport. Camera in hand, the SOC photographer was standing in a sea of yellow crime marker flags and grappling with the fading light. Running a murder scene was a job Jack Mason loved, it came natural to him. He’d always been fascinated by homicides, ever since he first entered into police training school. Today was different, today he was struggling.
Agitated, he spotted the portly figure of Henry Hindson – peering down at him from the top of a set of high step ladders. They exchanged glances, but neither spoke. Not the best of starts, Mason thought, as he glanced up at the gaping dark red cavity in the centre of Trevor Radcliffe’s chest. Strung up like an art form, his body had been nailed to a wooden cross and hoisted six feet above the ground. He’d seen plenty of evil in his time before, but nothing compared to this.
Suddenly he felt his stomach lurch.
‘He was manually strangled, then hoisted above the ground,’ Dr Hindson said.
‘Strangled first, eh?’
‘I’m certain of it,’ the doctor replied in his usual laconic manner.
‘Do we know the approximate time of death?’
‘The victim’s body temperature suggests barely three hours ago. It was a pretty ferocious attack, and judging by the amount of blood loss, there should be plenty of footprint evidence.’
All the while Radcliffe’s glazed eyes bore down at him.
‘Was he killed here?’
‘It would seem so.’
‘Then he was hoisted up?’ said Mason, scribbling down some notes.
‘Looking at the extent of the damage, I’d say it would have taken him all of forty minutes to carry out this amount of butchery.’
He noticed the doctor’s eyes – they were bloodshot and the pupils dilated. The old sod had obviously been drinking again. Nothing much changed there, thought Mason.
‘It’s not looking good, Doc?’
‘His work’s pretty crude in my opinion, Jack. Rest assured he’s certainly no cardiovascular surgeon.’ A faint smile passed over the doctor’s face. ‘Mind, I’ve seen worse.’
Mason took a closer look at Radcliffe’s body, and began to mull over the doctor’s statement. Forty minutes didn’t seem long enough time to open up Radcliffe’s chest cavity, remove the heart, and then crucify him. Besides, without medical knowledge where the hell would you begin?
