‘I can’t speculate on that,’ said DS Holt, ‘but what I can say is, because of Wiseman’s previous convictions and the fact he’d masterminded the whole operation, the judge sentenced him to a minimum of twenty years.’

  Mason nodded. ‘Thank you, George.’

  Manley blew through his teeth. ‘The word on the street is the money the gang made off with has since gone missing. Well over ten million quid. Some say it was squirrelled away into Swiss bank accounts, others say their accountants made a killing from it, laundering it into offshore bank accounts. The thing is, anyone caught with their fingers in the till usually faces the consequences with these people.’

  ‘You’re clutching at straws, Harry,’ said DS Rob Savage, shaking his head. ‘We’re talking ten years ago here.’

  ‘That’s my point,’ Manley replied. ‘Apart from Mad Frankie the rest of the gang are now out on parole.’

  Mason dutifully stroked his chin in thought. Manley had a point, and a good one at that. Even though Frank Wiseman was behind bars, it didn’t mean he wasn’t active. He made a mental note of it and pushed on.

  ‘Looking at the SOC photographs, apart from heavy bruising to the victim’s ankles and wrists, there don’t appear to be any other surface injuries to her body.’ Mason opened his hands expansively, the ripples of a grin racing across his face. ‘If there are no signs of a struggle, perhaps she knew her killer?’

  ‘Even so, why kill her?’ asked Holt.

  ‘Therein lies the motive, George.’

  ‘It could have been a mistake.’ Manley shrugged.

  The room fell silent again.

  ‘This second victim,’ said Holt pointing to the corkboard. ‘What about personal effects – a wallet, driving licence, a mobile phone, or something with an address on it?’

  ‘We found nothing,’ Mason confirmed.

  Manley’s face lit up. ‘He could have been giving her one. . .’

  ‘If he was, then during the post-mortem Dr King would have found semen traces in Jennifer Oakwell’s body. She didn’t.’

  ‘Bugger,’ Manley huffed.

  ‘All is not what it appears to be. Find the second victim’s body and we’re halfway to solving the case.’

  Mason thought a moment. Manley had unwittingly raised another valid point. Why kill Wiseman’s ex-wife in the first place? There again, he thought, what if she’d been acting as a go-between? Relaying her ex-husband’s instructions to the rest of the gang? This case wasn’t as simple as he first thought, far from it. And, if he was completely honest, he still wasn’t ruling out a revenge attack. At least she was local, which made his investigations a lot easier.

  ‘What are we doing about the gang members who are now out on parole?’ asked Manley.

  ‘We need to speak to these people, Harry. Find out where they were on Friday 21st February.’ Mason consulted his notes. ‘While you’re at it, let’s check out the local area CCTV and see if anything unusual crops up.’

  As the team left the room, Mason put his head in his hands and muttered under his breath, God! What a mess.

  Chapter

  Three

  David Carlisle checked his scorecard and did a quick mental calculation. Hole eighteen, where to start? Two hundred and twenty yards, a long par 3, with out of bounds left, right and long. In anyone’s books, this was the kind of hole that could ruin a good scorecard. There were trees down either side of the fairway, and four large bunkers protecting the green. Minutes earlier Harry Manley had sliced his tee shot, sending his ball into the long rough. It was a lousy shot, and an impossible position to recover from.

  Sucking in air, Carlisle took out his trusty 3–iron and stepped up to the tee box. Aligning himself with the flag, he pushed his tee into the soft ground and stepped back a pace. Jack Mason had struck a perfect tee shot from this very position – straight down the middle of the fairway. After landing heavily, it had carried a further thirty yards before pulling up just short of the eighteenth green. The tension was mounting and there was no getting away from it, this was now a pressure shot.

  Addressing the ball, Carlisle took a practice swing. The wind was starting to pick up, making conditions even trickier. After watching the trajectory of Mason’s ball, he’d decided to aim left. If the wind carried his ball towards the right-hand side of the fairway, he was in with a chance. Then, as the head of his club connected with his ball, it soared into the air like a rocket. Seconds later it hit the fairway, bobbed a few times, and pulled up just short of the right-hand bunker. Perfect, he thought.

  ‘What a cracking shot!’ Manley called out.

  ‘Thanks mate.’

  As the next player stepped up to the front of the tee box, you could have heard a pin drop. Wearing a bright orange sweater, matching trousers, and black brogue golfing shoes, George Holt was out to impress. Or that was his intention.

  ‘Easy, George,’ Mason chuckled, ‘there’s sixty quid resting on this shot.’

  ‘No pressure then,’ Holt replied.

  After taking a massive divot out of the front of the tee box on his practice swing, the detective sergeant addressed his drive with a little more caution. As the head of the club struck his golf ball with a resounding thwack, it shot up into the air and disappeared into the distant treeline. Seconds later it came to rest in a bunker.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Holt cursed.

  Now out of the running, Manley dropped his Ping 5–iron back into his caddy bag and turned to face them. ‘It looks like we have another bucket and spade job, lads.’

  ‘Sod off,’ Holt replied.

  ‘Given the choice, I fancy my shot rather than yours, George,’ Manley said smugly.

  ‘It isn’t over yet.’

  The tension was mounting, along with the snide remarks.

  Carlisle hadn’t got off to a particularly good start that morning. Had it not been for a fluke shot on the fourteenth green, he would have been well out of the running. When he was younger he could hit a 250-yard drive to within three feet of the hole. Not anymore. Fast approaching forty-four, his reactions were slowing as was his concentration. He’d never intended to be a private investigator; it had happened quite by chance. After accepting voluntary redundancy from the Northumbria police force, that’s when he’d decided to set up his own business. It was nothing ambitious, enough to earn a few quid and see him through to retirement. Well that was the theory, and he was sticking to it.

  Having given up all hope of ever finding Harry Manley’s ball, Mason declared a penalty stroke. Then, just when they were least expecting it, the detective constable pointed to a small patch in the long grass.

  ‘Here, lads––’

  Holt looked on in bewilderment. ‘Are you sure that’s your ball, Harry?’

  ‘Well, this is where it landed.’

  ‘But yours was a white ball, and this one’s pink!’

  ‘What the hell,’ Mason cursed. ‘He’s not going to win bugger all from here.’

  Fast losing patience, Manley slammed his golf club into the ground and turned to face them. ‘Oh. Watch this!’

  Three shots later, Mason was proved right.

  Now down to three possible contenders, the Detective Chief Inspector was in a rich vein of form. Taking out his trusty 9–iron, he addressed his ball with an air of confidence. It was another crap shot, and Carlisle had fared little better. The moment his ball hit the back of the green, it scooted off and disappeared into the trees.

  All eyes now turned to George Holt.

  With little room to manoeuvre, the Sergeant shuffled his feet in the bunker sand and addressed his ball with a lofty wedge. Then, as a huge cloud of sand flew into the stratosphere his ball dropped to within an inch of the hole. It was a magnificent recovery shot, leaving Holt with a simple tap in.

  Mason checked his scorecard.

  ‘Bugger me, that shot makes you sixty quid better off.’

  ‘The winner was never in doubt,’ said Holt.

  They all fell about laughing.

  ‘Well done, gentlemen,’ Mason acknowledged. ‘This calls for a small celebration.’

  Manley was quick off the mark. ‘Does that mean the drinks are on you, boss?’

  ‘Sod off, Harry. Tradition has it the winner gets the first-round in.’

  Things were livening up, and after they’d changed into more suitable clothes, they made for the bar. Still unsure as to why Jack Mason had invited him here today, Carlisle trod with caution. Behind the narrow-lipped smile was an unbending ruthless streak. Mason was thick skinned, arrogant, and difficult to work with. Everything had to be done his way, which left you little room for manoeuvre. The minute the DCI rounded on him, Carlisle realised he’d been conned.

  ‘What do you know about Mad Frankie Wiseman?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Not a lot. Why?’

  Mason cocked his head to one side. ‘I’m told you did some work for his son recently.’

  ‘Yes, I did. His lawyers asked me to resolve a problem for them.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  Carlisle felt the cutting edge of Mason’s tongue. ‘Why? Is there an issue?’

  ‘There could be.’

  ‘If you must know, his son Robert was getting a lot of grief from a group of local thugs who lived on a nearby council estate in Wallsend. They were threatening to burn his pub down if he didn’t pay the protection money they were asking for.’

  ‘And what was your part in all of this?’

  ‘Low key stuff mainly, surveillance work, talking to local people, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So, it was the family lawyers who hired you, and not Frank Wiseman’s son?’

  ‘That’s right. They were keen to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘You certainly pick your clients,’ Mason grunted. ‘What’s wrong with going to the police nowadays?’

  ‘Knowing Frank Wiseman, the police would be the last people he’d want to deal with.’

  Mason thought a moment. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Besides, his son was trying to make a clean break of it and didn’t want his old man getting involved.’

  Mason grinned. ‘So, they hired you to sort things out for them?’

  ‘You could say that, yes.’

  ‘Some things never cease to amaze me, my friend.’ Mason wiped the beer froth from his lips and turned to face him. ‘What about the son’s mother? Did you ever bump into her at all?’

  ‘No, I never met her. Why?’

  Mason cradled his glass. ‘Knowing Frank Wiseman, it was lucky you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, and why do you say that?’

  Mason took another swig from his glass. ‘It’s not general knowledge, but a few days ago his ex-wife was brutally murdered in a vicious knife attack. Her name is Jennifer Oakwell.’

  ‘So, that’s what all the fuss was about?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Oakwell was her maiden name.’

  Carlisle reflected on Mason’s statement. ‘How the hell did you manage to keep that one from the media?’

  ‘It goes with the territory.’ Mason tapped his nose. ‘If you want my advice, you stay well clear of Frank Wiseman’s lawyers in future.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘Good, at least we’ve sorted something out.’

  Now deep in thought, Mason fiddled with his watch strap. However much he could annoy you at times, he still had his positive sides. Not many, though. Still pondering over the DCI’s hidden agenda, Carlisle decided to throw him a hook line. ‘If I can help in any way, you know where to find me.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘So, where do you go from here?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘It’s strictly a police matter at this stage, but that could all change in due course.’

  Mason didn’t elaborate.

  Chapter

  Four

  Jack Mason stood in the shade of the arcaded cloister and checked his mobile phone was switched off. It was 8.50 am, and West Road crematorium was now bathed in glorious sunshine. He could hear the distant hum of the rush hour traffic but could not see it. Soon it would ease off, and things would get back to normal again. Whatever normal meant.

  His brain stuck in overdrive, Mason had barely paid attention to the Garden of Remembrance that morning. His mind was on other things. Security was tight. It had to be. Frank Wiseman was a high security risk, a category ‘A’ prisoner who wouldn’t think twice about beating your brains out just for the fun of it. Not that there was any chance of that happening. Everything was under control – or so Mason believed.

  Among those paying their respects that morning were some of Newcastle’s most notorious villains. It was a large turnout, a solid show of support for a fellow gangster whose ex-wife had been brutally murdered under very suspicious circumstances. If this was an inside job, whoever the killer was he’d be nervously looking over his shoulder right now. The big guns were out for him, and it wouldn’t be long before the streets of Newcastle threw up another dead body.

  The killer’s, hopefully!

  This gathering was different, though, the likes of which Mason had not witnessed before. Not in his lifetime, nor in anyone else’s come to think of it. It was surreal. Dressed in a smart black mohair suit, white button-down shirt and black silk tie, Frank Wiseman descended the Group 4 prison van steps flanked by four burly prison guards. Eyes hidden behind wrap-around Ray-Ban sunglasses, his face bore a look of indifference. What was going on inside the prisoner’s head was anyone’s guess. Now under a heavy security screen, he watched as the prisoner was whisked through one of the west wing side doors and into the chapel beyond. It was a tense stand-off. No one spoke. They were dealing with professional criminals here, people at the top of their game who wouldn’t think twice about breaking your arm.

  As the two police motorbike outriders sped off towards the rear of the cemetery, the Group 4 prison van followed in their wake. Nothing was left to chance. Everything that needed to be done was being done. Now stationed at intervals around the perimeter wall, a strong presence of armed police officers could be seen. Wearing their familiar black combat overalls and black Kevlar body armour vests, the police were taking no chances. If there was trouble to be had, it would start after the service and not before it, Mason thought. He knew how easy it was to fall flat at the first hurdle. It only took a second, but in that moment in time everything could turn on its head.

  Having prepared for every eventuality, nothing could move in or out of the place. Not without his permission, that is. Then glancing up, Mason caught his first glimpse of the beautiful horse drawn hearse. Pulled by a pair of handsome black Belgian horses, they carried black drapes on their backs and wore tall black ostrich feather plumes on their heads. High up on the open top seat, he noted the driver and groom were immaculately turned out in traditional Victorian livery. No expense spared, he smiled. Mad Frankie’s ex-wife was getting the best that money could buy.

  Mason knew from experience that events such as these always carried a high element of risk. It was the budding reckless young wannabes who scared the living daylights out of him. The mindless thugs who turned up in outlandish twenties pin-striped suits and posed like henchmen in an Al Capone movie. And another thing, why were funerals always such morbid affairs? Having spent the past twenty minutes listening to the sounds of religious piped music invading his privacy, it was doing his head in. He’d often wondered what kind of music they’d play at his final send-off. Something livelier, he hoped – Iron Maiden or Guns N’ Roses, something with a little more humph.

  The DCI had barely reached the chapel door when he felt his coat sleeve being tugged. Turning sharply, his heart sank. Tony Fox was the Godfather of all Godfathers – a notorious Newcastle gangster who controlled the north side of the city.

  Mason gathered his composure.

  ‘Nice of you to turn up, Jack. A friend of the family, was she?’ said Fox.

  ‘No, just keeping a watchful eye on proceedings.’

  ‘It’s always nice to know when the police are looking after my interests, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what we’re paid to do.’

  ‘It’s a sad affair,’ said Fox, feigning empathy.

  ‘Someone out there had it in for her, and whoever he is, I want the bastard taken down.’

  Fox looked down at him and smiled. Six feet six, and built like a brick shithouse, he stood head and shoulders above everyone present that morning. It wasn’t common knowledge – or maybe it was – Fox had homosexual tendencies and was attracted to young boys who frequented his night clubs. Not that anyone complained. They didn’t. And those who had were now pushing the daisies up.

  ‘Now here’s the thing,’ said Fox, chewing on an ivory toothpick between gleaming whitened teeth. ‘Why would someone go to all the trouble to murder such a sweet, innocent young lady like Jennifer Oakwell?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Tony. You tell me.’

  The gangster’s eyelids flickered, enough to display his contempt. ‘It’s not the same old city anymore. Not since these Eastern Europeans moved in.’

  ‘Pissing in your pot, are they?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Fox shrugged. ‘Like I say, it’s not the same city. These recent killings have sparked off a whole load of unnecessary trouble, and I do not like what I’m hearing. The sooner this bastard is taken off the streets, the better I’ll sleep at night.’

  Mason stroked his chin, pondering the gangster’s statement. Walls had ears, and if a useful piece of street gossip was about to come his way, then he’d be eternally grateful. Not that that was ever going to happen; it wasn’t.

  ‘It’s strange you should say that,’ Mason replied, ‘cos it’s been awfully quiet over at the station lately. These foreigners you talk of, do you think they could be involved?’

 

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