‘Hold on a minute!’ Mason said. ‘If her wrists and ankles were bound, how could she have put up a fight?

  Savage looked puzzled. ‘So why the theatrical re-enactment of staging an elaborate accident in the first place, unless––’ Everyone held their breath in anticipation. ‘Nah, forget it.’

  Mason’s face dropped.

  ‘More to the point,’ the doctor questioned. ‘Why cut off two of her fingers?’

  ‘Maybe he tried to nick her rings, like he did with the last one,’ Manley jested.

  Mason was now on the edge of his seat. This was the last thing he wanted to hear right now. Besides, the physiological aspects were more David Carlisle’s field, and the profiler was currently giving evidence at Leeds Crown Court. One thing was for sure: whoever killed Caroline Harper certainly knew what he was doing.

  ‘Good point, Harry,’ Mason nodded. ‘We know these women wore expensive rings, so if drugs were involved it could have been his motive for killing them.’

  ‘What about the local pawnshops, boss?’

  ‘More likely to have been sold in a pub, don’t you think?’

  ‘What, twenty-thousand nickers worth of diamonds?’ DS Holt cut in.

  Gasps all round.

  ‘OK,’ Mason said. ‘Let’s run a check on all the local pawn shops.’

  ‘I’ll put my feelers out,’ said Manley, dutifully popping another humbug into his mouth. ‘I know a few scumbags who owe me a few favours.’

  Mason wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly sensed they were onto something. He shook his head in approval. ‘The removal of the victim’s fingers needs to be kept under wraps for the time being. The last thing we need is the media getting hold of it. If this is the killer’s signature, and God forbid he strikes again, at least we’ll know it’s him when he does.’

  ‘That could be difficult, Jack,’ said Dr Brown.

  ‘And why?’

  ‘I’ve heard the press are already sniffing around the Coroner’s office.’

  Mason knew where this could be heading, but there was little he could do about it. News travelled fast, and the press were quick about their business.

  ‘That certainly changes things.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a word, Jack?’ said Dr Brown.

  ‘No, leave that with me,’ Mason sighed. ‘I’ll speak to Gillian King after the meeting.’

  ‘What’s happening about witness statements on the RTC?’ asked DS Holt. ‘Anyone come forward with any more information?’

  ‘No, none that I’m aware of,’ Mason replied. ‘And there’s certainly nothing on the files, George.’

  ‘Perhaps we should revisit the collision scene, get uniforms to carry out a door to door.’ Holt pulled a face. ‘As I remember, there are a couple of decent pubs at the top of the Felling High Street worth a visit. Maybe we should talk to those customers who were drinking in the area that night.’

  ‘I thought we’d already done that,’ Mason said.

  ‘We have, but people tend to forget things. Punters talk, especially after a few drinks.’

  Savage turned to Holt. ‘That’s true, which makes every punter in the pub that night either a witness or a possible suspect.’

  The drinks tray arrived, and everyone made a bee-line for the plate of chocolate biscuits. Just as Mason was about to lean over to grab one, his desk phone rang. Checking out the caller display, he raised his hand as he reached over and grabbed it.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. We have it covered. There’s an all-night stakeout operation in place for tonight. Let’s hope they strike again. If they do, we’ll be ready and waiting for them.’

  With that he hung up.

  ‘What’s the Super after now?’ Manley chuckled, wiping the biscuit crumbs from his chin.

  ‘Bloody Alpacas,’ Mason replied. ‘The woman has a fixation we can catch the thieves red-handed. Doesn’t she know we’re in the middle of a murder investigation down here?’

  Manley was quick off the mark. ‘Maybe she has plans to open up an Alpaca delicatessen, boss.’

  The team fell about laughing.

  Mason leaned over to grab a chocolate biscuit. There weren’t any.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said slamming the flat of his hand on the top of the desk. ‘You lot can bring your own sodding biscuits the next time.’

  A loud hiss rang out around the room.

  It was the joker in the pack who spoke first. ‘Actually they’re quite moreish,’ Manley grinned. ‘Not much good for dunking in your coffee though, the chocolate runs.’

  Mason made a little sweeping gesture with his hand, as he saw the funnier side.

  ‘Joking aside, lads, has anyone bothered their arses to find out how the transit van driver is doing?’

  ‘He’s out of intensive,’ Savage replied.

  ‘Has he given us a statement yet?’

  ‘Yes, and no, boss. The trouble is he doesn’t remember a bloody thing about what happened that night. All he recalls is leaving home to pick up his van from the works yard; the rest is a blank.’

  Mason leaned over as if resigned to the fact.

  ‘Pity, and yet I was half-expecting that would happen.’ The DCI scratched the side of his head. ‘Mind, he looked in pretty bad shape when they lifted him into the back of the ambulance, he’s lucky to be alive I suppose.’

  ‘It’s nice to hear he’s making a good recovery,’ said Holt.

  Mason checked his watch; ten-thirty and they still hadn’t started on the Seaham murder case files. God what a mess, he thought. It was Sod’s law that a Water Board van happened to be travelling in the opposite direction that night. Had it not, then things might have turned out differently. A lot different, he cursed.

  Twenty minutes later, with fresh plans in place, the meeting drew to a close. Much to George Holt’s disgust, the moment he was told he would be heading up the overnight Alpaca surveillance operation, his face dropped. The weather forecast wasn’t looking good either; heavy snow was forecast that night.

  More importantly, thought Mason, was the raid on his biscuit stash.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  David Carlisle could not remember the last time he’d drunk his way through a bottle of champagne. It was one he’d been keeping as a celebration drink in case Jackie fell pregnant. Staring down at the empty bottle the memories came flooding back. Knowing and loving Ireland as Jackie did, it was only natural they’d visited the place as often as they had. His wife always believed her visits to Strabane inspired her sense of well-being. It was like a second homecoming to her. During the winter months they’d spend hours walking the banks of the River Mourne together, taking in the wildlife and admiring the foothills of the Sperrin Mountains and beyond. Somehow they’d always end up at Jackie’s favourite restaurant bar, Murphy’s on the Green, just off Market Street in Strabane. The place had a great atmosphere, besides serving really good food. Sometimes he was amazed at just how many of Jackie’s old school mates would frequent the bar. People she’d grown up with long before moving to university in Newcastle. That was all behind him now, nothing but a distant memory.

  Nothing had prepared him for what happened that fateful day. One minute Jackie was alive, the next she’d been torn away from him in a sea of utter panic. All he could remember as the ferry rolled over and onto its side, was the look of utter disbelief on her face. First the sound of breaking glass, followed by loud rumbling noises as people and vehicles were thrown into the river. No one stood a chance, and no one saw it coming. Waking up in a hospital bed to be told that your wife was listed amongst the casualties wasn’t exactly the best day of Carlisle’s life. He was devastated.

  Legs like jelly, Carlisle staggered into the kitchen and made another cup of strong black coffee. Feeling like shit, his head was pounding and he swore never to move his eyeballs again. God, he felt awful. Slumped in his favourite chair, he sat mesmerised watching the steam vapour vanish from his coffee. Trying to get his head around the rest of the day’s plans was like trying to hit a hole-in-one in golf. Nothing seemed to function anymore. He tried moving his legs, but the champagne was clouding his brain and his feet were refusing to budge. He should never have opened the bottle in the first place. It was pure self-indulgence, sheer greed. Furious with himself, he showered, got dressed and prepared for the day ahead.

  The early morning chill had finally given way to a watery sun when he walked the short distance to the little village square. Although the rest of the world had a spring in its step, he felt he was treading on eggshells. He thought he was going to throw up, but he didn’t. Instead he pushed on regardless.

  ‘What a bloody state,’ Carrington said, staring back at him from the driver’s seat of the undercover pool car.

  ‘Please don’t shout.’

  ‘Get in,’ she insisted.

  Sliding into the front passenger seat, Carlisle quietly closed the door behind him and buckled up his safety belt. ‘I could do with a little sympathy, Sue.’

  ‘Like hell,’ Carrington huffed. ‘We have a long day ahead of us, and you look like shit!’

  Exiting Whitburn village, the young detective drove west towards Gateshead. They didn’t get far. The rush hour traffic on reaching Heworth roundabout was now at a standstill. Fast living up to its reputation as Gateshead’s largest permanent car park, horns blaring, engines revving, no wonder his head was in bits.

  Carrington eyed him with suspicion.

  ‘Jack Mason wants us to take a fresh look at Caroline Harper’s flat.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘Yes. He wants you to try and get your head round what’s been going on in there.’ The young detective stared across at him as if not quite believing. ‘There’s little chance of that happening by the looks of things. God! What a bloody state.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said in an effort to brush her comments aside.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  Sometimes it was easier to say nothing. His head was pounding, his tongue felt like coarse sandpaper, and he could sorely have done with a drink of water. Not the best start to his day, he cursed.

  ‘What’s the latest feedback from uniforms?’ he asked.

  The young detective flicked an annoying strand of hair from her eyes. ‘We’re still carrying out a house-to-house sweep of the area, but I’m not pinning any hopes on it.’

  ‘What about neighbours?’

  ‘Nobody’s willing to talk.’

  ‘Tittle-tattle, gossip more like.’

  She stared at him, but said nothing.

  Carlisle didn’t do theory, it wasn’t his style. His was more about understanding the psychological aspects of the crime – what made a killer tick. If Caroline Harper wasn’t stalked, and her killer wasn’t an opportunist, then surely he must have been known to her.

  From the outside the property looked deserted. All the curtains were drawn, and there was blue and white police cordon tape still attached to the front door. Carrington said nothing, but the look on her face told him he was still in her bad books.

  ‘It’s not looking good, is it,’ she said fiddling with the car radio.

  ‘Given the circumstances I suppose that’s understandable.’

  Carrington stared blankly out through the windscreen again. ‘Let’s get some fresh air. It certainly looks like you could do with some.’

  ‘And do what,’ he groaned.

  ‘Familiarise ourselves with the area.’

  ‘Do you have anywhere in mind?’

  ‘There are a couple of pubs I think we should visit.’

  The thought of the smell of stale beer made Carlisle retch. Drink was the last thing on his mind right now. If only she knew how bad he felt, then maybe she wouldn’t have suggested it.

  He leaned in closer, his voice barely a whisper. ‘He didn’t kill her here, Sue.’

  ‘Oh, and what makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s grooming them, winning them over before he strangles them.’

  ‘You haven’t said that before.’

  ‘No. Not yet I haven’t.’

  ‘Damn you,’ Carrington huffed. ‘Don’t tell me that inquisitive mind of yours has suddenly started to function again.’

  ‘It’s just that––’

  Her eyes demanded attention.

  ‘The way I see it, Coldwell Lane is barely a stone’s throw from here and this place fits the bill perfectly.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that either,’ Carlisle shrugged. ‘We need to wind the clock back a couple of weeks, think this through logically. Caroline Harper was strangled sometime between the hours of eight and nine-thirty, which gave her killer plenty of time to carry out his dirty work. Think about it: there must be dozens of outlying districts where he could have performed his vile deeds before driving here.’

  ‘So what are you proposing we do?’

  ‘We need to look further afield, spread our tentacles out.’

  Detective Carrington said nothing, and walked on regardless. Bensham and Saltwell estates were largely a legacy of the rapid growth that Gateshead underwent following the Industrial Revolution. The houses, a mix of terraced, semis and elegant villas were in sharp contrast to the visual anarchy of Gateshead’s town centre, where a planning wedge had been firmly driven between the sublime and ridiculous. Nevertheless, Saltwell Park was one of Britain’s finest examples of a Victorian Park and part of Gateshead’s heritage, which at least offered the local community some respite from the urban sprawl of the city.

  Having checked out a dozen pubs that morning, all within a few miles radius of the victim’s flat, they finally entered the Gold Medal on Chowdene Bank. In what was now a well-practised routine, DC Carrington flashed her warrant card under the young barman’s nose and held up Caroline’s Harper’s photograph in front of him.

  ‘Recognise this woman?’

  The barman screwed his face up, and barely focused his attention. ‘Yeah, she comes here now and again. Why do you ask?’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘About a week ago,’ the barman replied.

  ‘Can you be sure it was her?’

  ‘Yeah, of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Is she a regular in here?’

  ‘Nah.’ The barman pulled another pint as he went about his business serving another customer. ‘She’s a looker that one, and likes to flaunt it with the men. That’s how I recognised her.’

  Carrington paused in reflection for a moment and thought about it.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she demanded.

  The barman’s face had turned a jaundiced colour, and he averted his eyes before answering. ‘Jess,’ he muttered.

  ‘Jess, what?’

  ‘Allan,’ he replied. ‘Listen, I’m not into drugs if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I never mentioned anything about drugs,’ Carrington insisted, pen poised at the ready. ‘But I may do later!’

  The young detective’s answer had the desired effect.

  ‘She normally comes in with her fella. A tall skinny guy, with long, swept-back black hair. If you ask me, some guys have all the frigging luck.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about him?’ Carrington insisted.

  ‘He’s loaded with money, that’s for sure.’

  ‘What do you mean – loaded?’

  ‘The flashy car he drives, and the expensive clothes he wears, he’s––’

  Carrington’s blue eyes widened. ‘What type of car is it?’

  ‘It’s silver, and before you ask I haven’t a frigging clue what make it is.’

  Full of contradictions, Carlisle guessed he was mid-thirties, scrawny looking with a pockmarked face and shifty eyes. His main disability, if that’s what he could call it, was a bad attitude problem. Everything about him was a chore, as if the end of the shift couldn’t come fast enough.

  ‘Tell me,’ Carrington said, her voice switching back into police mode again, ‘how do you know it was silver?

  The barman puckered his lips and huffed. ‘I was taking a smoke break when they pulled into the pub car park that night. You could tell he had money, the moment he stepped onto the tarmac. His car was expensive looking, silver, with alloy wheels and big white flashy bucket seats.’ The barman’s dark mouse-like eyes were all over the place again, as if trying to escape from her questioning. ‘If you must know, she reminded me of one of those chat show hosts – large as life with a big bubbly personality. Not him, he’s an arrogant sod, very demanding and always talks down at you when he speaks.’

  ‘And they always come here together?’

  The barman stared at them with suspicion. ‘So what’s your interest in these people?’

  Carlisle felt they were onto something. If he drove an expensive car, there was every chance of tracing it. He gestured towards the back of the building. ‘Does the pub car park have CCTV coverage?’

  ‘No, mate, the patrons leave their cars here at their own risk.’

  ‘This boyfriend, is he from these parts?’

  ‘No, he has a funny sort of Yorkshire twang. Well I think it is Yorkshire, or maybe he’s from Lancashire.’ The barman almost laughed. ‘I can never tell the difference between those two accents, they both sound the frigging same to me. One things for sure, he’s definitely not a Geordie.’

  Carrington’s eyes met with Carlisle’s.

  ‘And they’ve never set foot in here since?’ she said.

  ‘Not when I’ve been around.’

  What do you think?’ Carlisle said, moving to the one side of the bar.

  ‘Flash cars, expensive clothes, they’d stand out a mile around these parts,’ Carrington replied. ‘Someone on Prince Consort Road must have noticed something.’

  ‘You’d have thought so,’ Carlisle agreed.

  ‘I’ll get Uniform Branch to carry out a discreet check.’

 

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