‘Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t Jack Mason of all people,’ said Sykes. ‘Fancy bumping into you here. This is a strange place to be holding a fashion show, don’t you think?’

  ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’ Mason groaned.

  ‘A little bird tells me we may have another stiff on our hands.’

  ‘Well, well, chance would be a fine thing,’ Mason replied. ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘You know me, Jack. I like to keep my ears to the ground.’ Sykes’ lips were on the verge of that nasty little superior smile that Carlisle was all too accustomed to seeing. The reporter took out his notebook and fumbled around in his pockets for a pen. ‘It would help if I knew what all the excitement was about?’ said Sykes.

  Mason shrugged. ‘Some prankster having a good night out, I suspect.’

  ‘I wonder if it has anything to do with this recent murder case.’

  ‘What gave you that impression?’ Mason replied bluntly.

  ‘You know me, Jack.’

  ‘You’re wrong, mate. We already have someone banged up for that.’

  Sykes eyed them with suspicion, as he brushed the flecks of dandruff from a badly creased jacket. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s a big turnout for such a small fashion show.’

  Mason gave him a cold smile. ‘No doubt you’ll find plenty to write about.’

  ‘That’s right, Jack. You know how I like to keep my readers informed.’

  ‘In which case I’ll not keep you any longer,’ Mason nodded.

  The reporter stopped dead in his tracks and turned sharply to face them again.

  ‘Anywhere out of bounds?’ said Sykes, sarcastically.

  ‘I’d stay well clear of the tracks if I were you.’

  Sykes bottom lip quivered. ‘Now that would make one hell of a headline story.’

  ‘Glad to be of assistance,’ Mason chuckled.

  They remained silent, but Carlisle sensed a reaction as Sykes sauntered towards the platform waiting room.

  ‘Scumbag,’ Mason muttered through clenched teeth.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The weather forecast was abysmal. The lid of grey-clouds that had hung over the coastline that morning had turned everything monochrome. Two minutes to eight, and the steady stream of traffic crawling through the village of Whitburn that morning had finally ground to a halt. Gridlocked at the traffic lights again! It was the same damn place every time. Whoever had designed such chaos needed their heads examining, thought Carlisle.

  Stood waiting for DC Carrington to return to the undercover pool car, Carlisle’s mind was all over the place. The expensive dress, the one found on the mannequin on Chester-le Street station, had turned out to be an exclusive designer label. With only five purchased throughout the whole of the north-east of England, the tech boys had done a fantastic job in tracing every single one of them. All that remained now was to check on the owners.

  With several people to interview, the day ahead looked a long one. One of the dresses had been purchased on a joint bank account belonging to a George and Mary Fowler. Unable to contact Mary Fowler, DC Carrington had made arrangements to meet with her husband at Slaley Hall Hotel in Northumberland.

  There was a definite purpose in DC Carrington’s stride as she stepped out of the bakery that morning. Dressed in a smart blue coat, black trousers and matching shoes, she heaved her bag over her shoulder and zapped the undercover pool car’s automatic unlocking system.

  ‘Monday morning sucks,’ the young detective announced. ‘What about you?’

  Carlisle faltered before climbing in beside her.

  ‘Give me Saturday any day of the week.’

  She gave him a frosty look. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a boring football fan?’

  ‘I could be, why?’

  ‘Let’s not go there. I can’t stand football at the best of times. The game’s full of overpaid, deluded prima donnas who hate getting their strip tops dirty.’ The young detective fiddled with the car radio before picking up on their conversation again. ‘Sunday’s the only day of the week I seem to have any free-time on my hands these days.’

  Carlisle bit his bottom lip as he glanced uneasily at the distant tree-line. He hated to admit it, but he was spending far too much time with his ageing father lately. Now in his twilight years, the old man was becoming more and more dependent on him each passing day. What with their Friday night shopping trips, and sorting out his father’s household bills, it was trying to fit everything in that was the problem.

  ‘What’s so special about Sundays?’ he asked.

  ‘I treasure my sleep-ins.’

  Carlisle felt a conflicting surge of emotions, as he listened to her story. ‘It’s funny you should mention sleep,’ he said. ‘I’ve been getting these recurring nightmares lately.’

  ‘Nothing serious I hope?’

  ‘It’s not him, it’s Jackie this time.’

  Carrington turned to face him. ‘And––’

  His thoughts elsewhere, he pretended to fiddle with his mobile still unsure that he wanted to talk about it. ‘It’s always the same weird dream,’ said Carlisle. ‘It’s Jackie, and she’s lying face down in the water and her body is drifting slowly towards me.’

  ‘That’s creepy,’ she shuddered. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘I reach out to her and pull her into the river bank.’ Carlisle swallowed hard, annoyed with himself for having dared to even think about sharing his intimate thoughts with the young detective. But the look on Carrington’s face and the sympathy in her eyes, seemed to force him to continue. ‘After dragging her out of the water, I keep shaking her but she doesn’t respond. Then, out of nowhere this Hindu holy man appears.’

  ‘A holy man––’

  ‘Yes, and his whole body is covered with ash and his forehead painted bright yellow. It’s the look on his face that puts the fear of God in me. It’s as if he’s already dead.’ He waited for a reaction, but it never came. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but he reaches out to her and brushes me aside. All the while he keeps chanting this recital in a dead monotone.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she opens her eyes.’

  Carlisle turned to face her. ‘No. That’s when I wake up sweating.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Several weeks––’

  Carrington reddened, as though he’d touched another raw nerve with her. ‘It’s weird how your mind can play tricks with you. When I was a young girl, I used to get these awful nightmares where I couldn’t run fast enough to get away from danger. My mother always used to tell me that a traumatic event in your life can trigger bad dreams.’

  ‘That’s scary,’ he said trying to humour her.

  ‘Not half,’ she sighed.

  The young detective nodded, her eyes peeled on the road ahead.

  Carlisle turned his attentions to the day ahead, but the killer was never far from his mind. And another thing, there was something about Alexander Moore that had got Jack Mason’s back up. Although he had to agree, Moore was definitely a bit of an odd-ball and could be extremely anti-social at times. Whether the temporary SOC photographer was capable of murder was another matter, but Mason seemed to think so. There again, trying to convince Jack Mason that it wasn’t a copper they were looking for was like talking to a brick wall.

  ‘How’s Peter Davenport doing nowadays?’ Carlisle asked casually.

  ‘I’ve not seen him since he returned back to work. Why?’

  ‘Just curious, that’s all. I’ve been thinking about his replacement.’

  ‘Oh. What about him?’ Carrington replied.

  ‘What’s Alexander Moore’s background?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘He comes from Middlesbrough, doesn’t he?’

  Carrington seemed taken aback. ‘Yes, Acklam, I believe.’

  ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  ‘No. Why should it?’ Carrington shrugged. ‘Moore was only here on temporary assignment. Now that Peter Davenport’s returned to work, I guess Moore’s gone back to his old post in Middlesbrough.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘Why do you ask? Has Jack Mason mentioned something to you about him?’

  ‘No, not to me he hasn’t. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that he’s been making a few enquiries about him lately.

  ‘What, Alexander Moore!’

  ‘Yes.’ Carrington frowned. ‘Everyone’s looking over their shoulders nowadays. It’s as if we’re all under suspicion.’

  Carlisle feigned surprise. ‘Thankfully I’m not involved in internal politics anymore.’

  ‘You’re lucky. Things have moved on since you left the force,’ Carrington said, ‘Me, I try to steer well clear of the backstabbers on the team – they always give me the jitters.’

  Wise move, he thought. He made a mental note of it.

  ‘Have you ever stood in a crowd and said to yourself the person standing next to you works as an insurance broker?’

  ‘This isn’t another one of your stupid brain games, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then the answer is yes, many times,’ she replied.

  ‘It’s called extrasensory perception, a sixth sense. Call it what you will, but there was something about Moore that caused you to think that way. Not that I disliked the guy, but he did have a peculiar way of interacting with people.’

  Carrington wrinkled her nose. ‘What can I say? You’re the so-called mind expert around here. I’m just the general dogsbody who chauffeurs you around everywhere.’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  As the undercover pool car sped north towards Consett, midday County Durham suddenly seemed a darker place than ever. Plagued by a serial killer who seemed hell bent on destroying his mental wellbeing, Carlisle didn’t hold out much hope of ever catching him. Not at the moment, he didn’t. There again, he thought, had the team dismissed the killer’s spiritual text messages too readily. Not a religious man himself, the concept of God was something that Carlisle had never quite got to grips with. With so much killing in the world, he was beginning to doubt if God really existed at all. And, if he did, why had he allowed such evil to happen in the first place? The more he thought about it, the more he argued with himself. Surely Satan was the driving force behind so much unprovoked slaughter in the world. If not, then who else was responsible? Either way, the question of God rested heavily on Carlisle’s mind and he still hadn’t reached a final decision over the matter.

  Not yet he hadn’t.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A steady drizzle had turned into a sudden downpour when they finally reached Slaley Hall in Northumberland. Set in its own grounds, according to the brochure this striking Edwardian mansion boasted 142 hotel rooms, two golf courses, a gym, swimming pool and a spa with five treatment rooms. Oh, and not forgetting laser clay pigeon shooting. Not that Carlisle was into pigeon shooting, he wasn’t. But the thrill of shooting at flying discs and watching them explode into a million fragments somewhat appealed to him.

  Carlisle was stepping out of the car when a sudden flash of inspiration struck him. What if the killer was a foreigner who had hired an expensive yacht to show off his imaginary wealth? It seemed a perfect cover. There again, he knew that every port in the country was now under renewed scrutiny with the Border Patrol. Even so, Mason was desperately short of manpower and his team were overstretched. Things were slipping under the radar, even he could see that. The fact that not much progress had been made in determining Caroline Harper’s last known movements backed this theory up.

  At the reception desk they were directed to the Claret Jug, where they identified themselves to George Fowler. Everything about the man oozed wealth, and his appearance was distinctly old Etonian. He had a posh accent and spoke through his nose.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Fowler asked as he stood to face them.

  ‘We’d like to speak with your wife, if we may,’ DC Carrington said.

  ‘Oh, perhaps I can help?’

  The young detective showed him her warrant card, and stepped back a pace. ‘No, sir, we need to talk to your wife about a dress she recently purchased on a joint bank account.’

  ‘A dress,’ Fowler said, looking somewhat bemused. ‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid. Mary’s away at the moment.’

  Carlisle and Carrington exchanged glances.

  ‘Where can she be contacted?’ Carrington asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I really can’t help you with that either.’

  ‘What about telephone contact details?’

  ‘She does have an iPhone, but she refuses to answer it.’

  ‘Any reason why?’

  ‘The silly woman has buggered off again, and I’ve absolutely no idea where she is at the moment.’

  ‘I take it she’s left home, sir?’

  ‘Yes, if you must know.’

  ‘Have you reported this to the police?’

  ‘Good God, no, this isn’t the first time that Mary’s left home.’ Fowler sighed. ‘It happens regularly, I’m afraid. When you marry someone who can’t make her mind up what a normal healthy marriage relationship is there’s not much you can do about it.’

  ‘Oh!’ Carrington said, trying her best not to laugh.

  Fowler folded his arms. ‘When the stupid woman finally comes round to her senses again, no doubt she’ll return home.’

  Carlisle suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple,’ Carrington explained. ‘We believe your wife may be involved with a man who isn’t exactly the nicest person to be going around with at the moment.’

  ‘Another man––’

  Carrington slid a photograph out of her handbag and handed it to him.

  ‘Do you recognise this dress?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Fowler retorted.

  ‘Take another look,’ she insisted. ‘We believe your wife may have purchased it from an exclusive department store in Newcastle.’

  Fowler paused in a display of indignation, and gave Carrington another withering look. ‘How do you expect me to know that? Mary’s wardrobes are crammed full of the stuff. I’ve lost track of the number of dresses she’s bought over the years.’

  At least he’d given her an honest answer, thought Carlisle.

  ‘Have you any idea as to where your wife might be at the moment?’

  Fowler shrugged, as though full of resentment. ‘That’s pretty obvious isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, so you do know where Mary is?’

  ‘Well not exactly, but I do know she has a little terraced house in Durham.’

  For some reason Fowler was trembling, as though Carrington had struck a raw nerve with him. Carlisle made a mental note and turned to face him again.

  ‘And where might that be?’ he asked.

  ‘Claypath, it’s close to the city centre.’ Fowler smiled resignedly to himself. ‘The reason I know is that the last time she skedaddled off, I hired a private detective to look into the matter. That’s when he found out where she was living.’

  Life was full of little surprises.

  ‘I presume Mary rents this so called property,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Good God, no.’ Fowler composed himself. ‘She owns it outright. Mary’s a highly talented woman, she’s intelligent, but every now and then she likes to get away from it all.’

  ‘Get away from what exactly––’

  Fowler cut him off mid-sentence. ‘She’s reached a midlife crisis and thinks she’s twenty-one again. I know my limitations, Mr Carlisle, but there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. We’re very fond of one another’s company, and like to travel abroad when we can. Mind, I find it difficult at times. I just don’t seem to have the energy to keep up with her nowadays.’

  Carrington’s eye’s narrowed. ‘Tell me about Mary, how would you best describe her?’

  ‘You only need to look at her photographs to see what an attractive woman she really is.’ Fowler tugged at his watch strap. ‘Like everyone, she has her moments and can be very belligerent at times.’

  Oh dear, Carlisle thought. Here we go again.

  ‘How old did you say your wife was?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘She’ll be coming up to forty-two next month.’

  The profiler did a quick mental calculation. ‘If I’m not mistaken that makes you fifty something?’

  Fowler nodded, but refused to be sucked in.

  What made this case so decidedly different was their smaller age difference. It didn’t look good. If his wife had fallen under the killer’s spell, then how had he selected her? Thinking of this, it wouldn’t have been difficult for a good social predator to spot a pretty woman in difficulties. You only had to look in the right places for that, and the night clubs, of course.

  Carlisle finished his drink and sat for a moment staring blindly into space. Who were the most likely candidates, he wondered. Who on the team could he trust least?

  ‘So why would your wife purchase a property in Durham City?’ Carlisle asked.

  Fowler sat flabbergasted. ‘That’s where she grew up. She went to Art College there.’

  Carlisle noticed some uneasiness in Fowler’s voice. Sitting directly opposite him, his mannerisms reminded him of a meerkat. A commodities trader in his past, Fowler had made a shed load of money out of selling energy to India. There again, it wasn’t his wealth that attracted his errant wife towards him, it was something else. Clearly an attractive woman, why had she gone to all the trouble of marrying a man she had no intention of living with all of the time? Something was wrong. Unlike the others who had regarded their husbands as mere pawns in the grand scheme of things, Mary Fowler seemed more mature. It didn’t add up. None of it did, and Carlisle was floundering.

 

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