The Wharf Butcher, page 25
Not a good sign, he cursed.
‘Do we know where he was strangled, Henry?’
‘No,’ the doctor replied. ‘Wherever it was, there’s plenty of trace evidence under the finger nails.’
‘He obviously put up a struggle,’ Mason said gloomily. ‘Let’s hope we get a DNA match this time.’
‘I’ll be frank with you, Jack. Your killer’s a strong bugger and pretty quick about his business. I’d say this bears all the hallmarks of Annie Jenkins’ murder. And, another thing, it looks like he’s used the same type of hammer-head nails again.’
Mason searched for answers. If the doctor’s statement was correct, then Trevor Radcliffe’s murder had turned out just as David Carlisle had predicted it would. Every slaying followed a pattern, but the speed and ferocity of the kill was staggering. With so much blood spread over such a wide area, the killer’s clothing must be saturated in it.
Seconds later, they were joined by Luke James. Fully kitted out in protective clothing, he was carrying something of interest in a plastic evidence bag.
‘Thanks for the call, Luke,’ Mason nodded.
‘I was in two minds,’ said James. ‘I guessed it was your day off.’
Mason acknowledged his approval with a sweeping hand gesture, before turning to the doctor again. ‘When can we lower him down?’ he asked.
‘We can’t . . .’ the doctor snapped. ‘Someone’s tampered with the hoist controls, and I’m waiting for an engineer to arrive.’
Mason swore. ‘The sick bastard certainly knows how to draw our attention towards his handiwork.’
‘If that’s what you can call it!’ the doctor replied.
Mason huffed. ‘Who found the body, Luke?’
‘George Wallace, boss. The first thing he recalled was seeing Radcliffe swinging from the marine hoist. It was over before it had begun, so to speak. The minute he approached the crime scene, the killer made off towards the boathouse.’
‘Where’s Wallace now?’
‘He’s with DC Bower in the Command Control Truck. They’re both being debriefed by the duty investigation officer.’
Unlike Wallace, Mason mused.
‘What else do we know?’
‘We’ve managed to grab a couple of eyewitness statements from two trawler men.’ James cleared his throat. ‘After they heard gunshots, they reported seeing a tall man making off towards the Fish Quay. Two minutes later, he was spotted again near the Ice Factory by one of the maintenance men there. Stan Johnson has a couple of uniform lads over there now.’
Mason felt his eyebrows rise. ‘Gunshots––’
‘Yes,’ said James. ‘Apparently Wallace managed to fire off a couple of shots at the assailant as he tried to make his escape.’
‘At least he did something right,’ said Mason. ‘Where was DC Bower in all of this?’
James lowered his head in embarrassment. ‘He was taking a piss, boss.’
Mason pictured the scene, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out the rest of the story. He was fuming. ‘Do we know how our suspect got here?’
‘Another stolen Mondeo . . . the one over there,’ said James, pointing across to the waste ground where several parked cars now stood. ‘And before you ask, someone has already carried out a PNC check on it. This one was stolen to order from Clayton Street yesterday afternoon.’
Mason hunched his shoulders, still furious. ‘Is it one of ours?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ James replied.
Mason swore again. Having strategically placed a dozen police bait cars specially-equipped with GPS tracking devices in and around Newcastle, he was hoping the Wharf Butcher would take one. Not this time seemingly.
He checked his notes. ‘What are we doing about the local Metro stations, Luke?’
‘It’s already been taken care of, boss.’
‘And the ferry crossings – what’s happening there?’
‘Both landing sites are covered,’ James replied. ‘But it’s my guess he’ll probably stay low until it gets dark.’
Mason sighed as he flipped through the pages of his notebook. It was then he eyeballed Peter Davenport. He was taking photographs of one of the jetty posts.
‘What the hell is Davenport up to now?’
The doctor grimaced, as he stared down from the top of the step ladders. ‘You don’t even want to go there, Jack.’
‘Oh and why not?’ Mason replied.
‘Cos that’s where he nailed Radcliffe’s organs to the jetty post!’
Mason swallowed hard. ‘Jesus!’ he yelped. ‘This place is fast turning into a bloody chamber of horrors.’
‘He’s certainly not squeamish, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ the doctor confirmed.
Mason had seen enough. Besides, there wasn’t a fat lot he could do until the so-called experts had finished their investigations. Suddenly, the task ahead seemed daunting.
Moving towards the river bank, he felt a distinct nip in the air. The sun now low in the sky, the technical teams were already setting up floodlighting. Seconds later he was joined by Vic Miller from the Northumbria Armed Response Team. Trailing in his wake was Eric Taylor, the man in charge of the covert operation.
‘Ah, the very man,’ Mason said, desperately trying to compose himself. ‘What the hell happened to my twenty-four seven surveillance operation?’
Taylor gave Mason a withering look. ‘I believe two of your team were covering it, Jack.’
‘Covering what?’
‘Trevor Radcliffe. It’s––’
‘From what I’ve seen so far, the killer had enough spare time on his hands to carry out his own private post mortem.’
Taylor’s head dropped. ‘I heard – well, I’ve only just arrived. It’s––’
‘How reassuring, perhaps I can help.’
Taylor nodded, but said nothing.
‘You cocked up, and big style,’ said Mason. ‘I’m now left with another stiff on my hands, and a whole lot of explaining to do.’
‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation, Jack. It––’
‘There may well be,’ said Mason, sucking in the air. ‘But I need answers . . . and quickly. Make sure I have a full written report on my desk – first thing tomorrow morning. Are we clear on that?’ he said, stepping aside to allow the two police officers to carry on with their duties.
The shadows lengthening, Mason watched as a lone police launch began another sweep of the northern riverbank. Closer to home, a team of uniformed police officers were checking out on a derelict warehouse building. Soon it would be dark. Even so, nothing was being left to chance. Everything that could be done was being done.
The question was where the hell was he?
Chapter Forty-Two
Sliding his hand around the butt of his trusty Smith & Wesson 36, Jack Mason gently eased it from its holster. Extending his right arm out across the river, he began to take aim. As the front sights came into view, he gently squeezed the trigger. Suddenly he felt an enormous sense of power, even though the gun wasn’t loaded.
‘Bang, bang!’ he whispered.
‘You can get arrested for that,’ a familiar voice from behind him rang out.
Lowering the gun, Mason spun sharply to face David Carlisle. It seemed a lifetime since he’d last fired a gun in anger, but his twenty years with the force had taught him there would be no hesitation. ‘Just keeping my hand in,’ Mason replied, trying to stifle a yawn. ‘I’m glad you could make it. When did you arrive?’
‘Only just, I came over on the first available ferry,’ Carlisle replied.
Mason shuffled awkwardly, his shoes crunching the hard gravel underfoot. ‘There’s not a lot I can tell you in all honesty,’ he said. ‘Not until the so-called experts have finished their investigations.’
They talked a while before moving towards the boathouse.
‘When will he stop,’ said Mason, pointing up at Radcliffe’s lifeless body.
‘It’s becoming too much of a habit,’ Carlisle replied.
Mason shook his head. ‘Tell me about it. Each time he seems to take it a step further. What’s going on?’
Carlisle gave a little grimace, as though the killer’s handiwork had struck another chord with him. ‘He’s becoming more ambitious, I’m certain of that. It’s as if he’s reached the point of no return, and he’s rushing towards the finishing line. Sadly he’ll stop at nothing until he gets there. In his mind it’s a matter of elimination, and his victims are mere pawns in a reign of terror against the person he loathes. The more violent his killings, the greater the terror he hopes to spread. It’s his way of showing off his power over the person he despises.’
‘This one’s totally off his head, if you ask me.’
‘It always appears that way, I’m afraid. There are days when even the Wharf Butcher doesn’t understand his own thoughts . . . and that’s worrying.’
Mason’s expression masked unease. ‘I’m getting bad vibes about this one, David. He’s gone a step too far this time, and that concerns me.’
‘It was never going to be straightforward, Jack. These people have the ability to get inside your head. Radcliffe wasn’t a victim of chance; he was a victim of choice. He’s planning the risks, and working it all out.’ Carlisle took a step back and stared blankly out across the river. ‘Tell me, have you had anymore feedback from Monday night’s “Crimewatch” appeal?’
Mason pondered his statement; it had been a busy week. After heated discussions with several Crimewatch television producers, rather than a full on five minutereconstruction, they’d plumped for theWanted Faces board. He’d been well advised. Following Monday night’s live broadcast, the police had been inundated with phone calls. Two leads in particular were of great interest to him, plus a further dozen follow up calls. No thanks to the profiler, his three minute live appearance with Sophie Raworth– one of the leadCrimewatch presenters – had raised more than a few eyebrows amongst the top brass.
‘We’ve had a positive response,’ Mason replied cheerily. ‘Sadly, this incident isn’t going to help us any.’
‘Let’s hope he never watches the show, eh.’
‘Now there’s a thought!’ Mason shuddered.
It was dark when Mason finally reached the Mobile Command truck. The lights were still on, and the place was jam-packed with coffee drinkers. He recognised the suited and hooded figure of DI Swan. Holding a video camera in his left hand, he was pointing to a large map pinned to the back of the Command Truck. The man he was talking to, a short, ruddy faced duty SIO called Dick Broderick, was taking down some details. No doubt the press would be hanging around for a statement, but it was still early days as far as Mason was concerned.
‘A mug of coffee, sir?’ a young female police community constable said.
‘No thanks.’ Mason nodded in appreciation. ‘I must be off.’
‘What shall we tell the media?’ asked Harry Baldwin, the police liaison officer.
Mason though a moment. Trevor Radcliffe’s murder was as near as possible a carbon copy of the way Annie Jenkins’ body had been found. Only this time, and as Carlisle had pointed out, the killer had gone a step further. Newcastle had seen its fair share of murders, but this time it was different – as if the killer was hell bent on exhibiting his handiwork. Besides, the last thing he needed right now was badass press. Even so, the community still had a right to know and he would need to think carefully about it.
Mason shook his head feebly, and then turned to Baldwin. ‘Tell them we’re holding a press briefing at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. That should do the trick.’
‘I’ll do my best, boss, but those cockroaches have been pestering me all evening.’
‘No doubt they’ll find something to print, Harry.’
Harry Baldwin stared sullenly across at him, stretched his mouth and gave him a lopsided grin that showed off a mouth full of nicotine stained teeth.
‘Not just a wee statement, Jack.’
The silence seemed to go on for eternity, before Mason answered. ‘No. Not tonight, Harry.’
Just out of habit, he checked in on Stan Johnson. There were a number of factors to consider, and most of them surrounding Gilesgate. Another board member added to the killer’s shopping list was the last thing he wanted right now. Sometimes it was all so predictable, as if the killer had rehearsed his murders beforehand. The fact the Wharf Butcher could slip through the police net as though he were invisible, didn’t bode well in Mason’s opinion. He felt unsettled by it all – strangely nervous.
Now dark, there wasn’t a lot he could do anymore. There were reports to fill in, and procedures to set in motion. He thought for a moment, and tried to get his head around it all.
‘So, where the hell is he, Stan?’
The SOC officer gave him a vacant smile. ‘God knows, Jack. He’s probably miles away by now. Let’s hope someone has spotted something suspicious.’
Then, David Carlisle appeared in the doorway. His hands were filthy and his shoes were covered in mud. It was the look on the profiler’s face that caught Mason’s eye.
‘Yes, David.’
‘Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,’ Carlisle said, holding up a forensic plastic evidence bag. ‘But I found these down by the Fish Quay.’
The room fell silent.
Chapter Forty-Three
How bad is the pain?
‘Dreadful . . . I can barely breathe.’
Where does it hurt, my child?
‘Everywhere . . . really bad . . . what am I to do, mama?’
You will think of something,the voice inside his head replied.You always do.
Then, from an upstairs bedroom window a young woman appeared. She was petite, late thirties, with long shoulder-length hair and a smooth pale complexion. He sat for a while, confused, his eyes hunting through the darkness. She made him smile, and Lexus had never seen anyone more beautiful before.
What do you want? She asked.
‘Don’t you remember me?’
She stood for a while, as though reading his thoughts, then beckoned him inside. He thought he could hear voices, children’s voices, and there was music coming from another part of the building. The room felt cold, despite a huge log fire that burned fiercely in a large open fireplace. Everything was surreal, unnatural, as though he was living out a dream.
‘Is that you . . . mama?’
She smiled and her hand reached out and tenderly touched his thigh, but the pain in his side was unbearable. He tried to switch his mind to other thoughts, but the voices kept telling him to turn away. He froze, still bleeding profusely from the gunshot wound in his thigh. This was more serious than he had ever imagined; his was a desperate situation. Then it dawned on him. This wasn’t Trevor Radcliffe’s blood he was staring down at, this was his blood and he was slowly bleeding to death.
‘What am I to do . . . mama?’
You’re a genius, my son; you will think of something.
Then he remembered: had he taken his medication? Not today he hadn’t. Not that it made any difference, to him at least. Up here amongst the dead, the whole world was assembled at his feet. It was an awesome sight, a million candles that flickered like glow worms in the dark night sky. And wasn’t he so incredibly talented for spotting it? At least he thought he was. Then, his eyes suddenly shot open again as he struggled to cope with the truth.
‘Are you still there, mama?’
Yes, my child . . . what is it you want now?
‘They’ve shot me, mama, and it wasn’t me those evil policemen had fired at . . . it was Trevor Radcliffe. He was the wicked one, the vile beast they were trying to kill.’
Surrounded by darkness, Lexus writhed on the ground in agony. The pain was relentless, excruciating, sapping his strength until he could barely breathe anymore. This was all his depraved, evil father’s doing; he was certain of that. Wasn’t it his despicable actions that had driven him to the lowest depths of despair? His pulse quickened, and he threatened to end it all by throwing himself into a place where all light ends and eternal darkness begins.
Then, in the pitch-black darkness of the night, he sucked in the air and tried to clear his mind of all wicked thoughts.
‘How will it all end . . . mama?’ he begged.
You must talk with God, only he knows how to help you now, my child.
‘I know, and he talks to me the entire time.’
Inside The Ship Inn, a rundown, derelict public house long since boarded up, Lexus’ mind was in turmoil. Everything was unreal – unnatural, as though he’d fallen into a pit full of writhing demons. Then, as another squad car tore headlong into the night, he crashed to the floor in agony. His shirt felt wet, and unbearably sticky.
Then the voices returned, only this time more forceful.
Death is final, but life is full of possibilities, my child.
‘Is this a dream . . .?’
Do you feel pain?
‘Yes, I do. I really, really do,’ Lexus cried out.
Then this is reality, my child.
Chapter Forty-Four
David Carlisle watched as the water droplets rippled down the windscreen. It was late afternoon, and the rain was drumming down and bouncing off the pavement. He sat for a while, staring at the derelict building opposite and tried to get inside the Wharf Butcher’s head. This place certainly felt right; he was convinced of that, but the killer was playing mind games with his thoughts and jumbling things up.
Someone clambered out of a patrol car opposite, turned his collar against the driving rain and scurried towards them. Lowering her car window, DC Carrington let out a long exasperating sigh as the police officer bent down and stuck his head in through the opening.
‘Do you want us to check the building out?’ the sergeant asked.
Carrington stared at him, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Is there a problem, Sergeant? I––’
‘No,’ the sergeant replied, the rain bouncing off the peak of his cap and sending water droplets in through the open window. ‘I just thought I’d save you the bother . . . that’s all.’
