Dci jack mason series bo.., p.88
DCI Jack Mason series Box Set, page 88
part #1 of DCI Jack Mason Series
Mason took another sip of his coffee and tried to gather his thoughts. Nolan was a family man and didn’t have a bad word to say about anyone – let alone kill someone. This wasn’t as easy as he had first thought, and a lot of water had passed under the bridge since the company had gone into liquidation. If the killer was an ex-employee, it certainly wasn’t evident from what Nolan was telling him.
Then Mason remembered. ‘Tell me,’ he said, pen poised. ‘Did the company ever deal in heavy duty duct tape?’
‘We did, and it was one of our most popular product lines. It’s funny you should mention Leeds, as that’s where most of it was sold.’
‘Who to exactly?’
‘A paint company in Seacroft.’
Alarm bells ringing, Mason jotted down some notes.
‘The three Leeds delivery van drivers you talked about,’ Mason said. ‘Have you met up with any of them since?’
‘Yes, I occasionally bump into one of them. Why do you ask?’
‘Most are married, I suspect?’
‘Yes, they are.’
Mason suddenly remembered what Carlisle had told him about the killer sticking rigidly to set routines and decided to probe deeper. ‘That’s interesting. After the company went into liquidation, did any of them ever go back into the distribution business?’
‘A few did as I remember, and––’
‘Would you know who, exactly?’
Nolan reeled off a couple of names, but Mason was reluctant to divulge why he needed the information in the first place. If the press ever got a whiff of it, his investigations would be blown out of the water. He glanced at the blue Audi R8 coup again.
‘Nice car,’ he said, pointing to it. ‘What does something like that set you back?’
‘Interested in buying one, Inspector?’
Nolan had automatically switched back into sales mode, and Mason had picked up on it.
‘No, just curious, that’s all.’
‘Around one-hundred and twenty-grand, but they’re a beautiful looking car. Three hundred and ninety-seven horsepower, nought to 62 mph in 3.2 seconds, and a whole lot of extras thrown in. It certainly looks your type of motor, Inspector. Would you like to test drive one?’
Mason gave him a look that said, you must be joking bonny lad.
‘Just for the record,’ Mason said, as he stood to leave. ‘Did anyone at Auto Spares Distribution ever team up with a Russian woman?’
‘A Russian woman. . .’ Nolan repeated, as he stared back at him bemused. ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why?’
‘Internet chat-rooms, that sort of thing?’
‘Hell no. Besides, it’s not the sort of thing that anyone would discuss at work.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ Mason grinned, ‘but it is the kind of thing that someone might brag about!’
Nolan shook his head, as if puzzled by it all. ‘Can’t say as they ever did.’
‘Thanks for your time.’ Mason extended out a hand. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
He left the dealership showroom into bright sunshine, pausing to take one last lingering look at the beautiful blue Audi R8 coup. One-hundred and twenty thousand pounds, he whispered, cheap at half the price. There again, Mason thought, he would need to reach Chief of Police to own something new of that value.
Chapter
Forty-Five
It had rained briefly that morning, and damp puddles still clung to the pavement. The estate had changed very little over the years. Not exactly the Ritz, it still carried an element of hopelessness about it, as if stuck in a time warp. There was quite a mix of houses in the street, and those unoccupied had overgrown gardens full of junk. Across the street, a rusty old Ford Escort was jacked up on bricks. Its wheels were missing, and the exhaust pipe had fallen to the ground like some jouster’s broken lance in battle. Mason folded his arms across his chest as he climbed out from the silver Ford Focus. The people who lived here didn’t give a toss about the material things in life, only drugs.
He stood for a moment and glanced at his watch. Strangely enough, he was having another quiet day. All his clear thinking had paid dividends that morning. They’d made a few calls, eliminated several people from his enquiries, and generally made their presence felt. Approaching thirty-six, Patrick Stanley was the last of the three Auto Spares Distribution drivers on his list to interview. And that, he told himself, was the purpose of his visit here today.
From the outside, the house looked deserted. All the upstairs curtains were drawn, and there was junk mail sticking out of the letterbox. Peering in through the broken kitchen window blinds, Mason felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He could not be sure, but there was something about the place that told him to stay focused.
‘He’s not answering the door,’ Carlisle announced, as he approached from the side of the building.
‘He’s probably in bed and smacked out of his mind on drugs.’
‘It’s not the safest of areas to hang around in, that’s for sure.’
Mason hesitated for a second, then authoritatively rapped on the kitchen door. He’d been over this ground too many times these past few days and was beginning to tire of it. People who had secrets to hide always refused to answer their doors. Curious, he peered in through the window blinds but could not see movement.
‘Who are you looking for?’ an unfriendly voice called out from a neighbouring fence.
‘Police,’ Mason replied. ‘And you are?’
‘I live here. What is it you’re after?’
Mason stared at him full of suspicion. To call him a stout man would have been an understatement. His centre of gravity was located around his mid-riff and reminded Mason of an overgrown Teletubby. Then, out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. It wasn’t much, but enough to draw his attention towards the hostile dog now sat observing him. It was baring its teeth, and if he wasn’t mistaken it was a Pit Bull Terrier and one of the four dog breeds banned from the UK.
Mason flashed his warrant card under the man’s nose and watched the frown lines ripple. He wouldn’t pull him over his dog now – that would come later.
‘Does Patrick Stanley live here?’ Mason asked.
‘He’s out, why?’
‘Out where?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
Mason checked the door. It wasn’t locked.
‘If Stanley does return,’ Mason said, stepping inside the building. ‘Tell him he’s got visitors.’
They entered a long narrow passage, their shoes squelching on wet carpets. Then, after flicking the hall lights on, Mason slipped into detective mode. Whilst Carlisle checked the downstairs rooms, he dashed up a short flight of stairs to gain the element of surprise. He’d barely reached the top of the landing when he stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Good God!’ he gasped.
‘You okay?’
Panic gripped him, and he could feel himself hyperventilating. ‘Touch nothing,’ he shouted, ‘this place is now a murder scene.’
Eyes full of curiosity, Carlisle stared up at him from the bottom of the stairs. ‘What is it you’ve found, Jack?’
Mason took another deep breath and steadied himself against the bannister rail. The bathroom door was ajar, and he could barely believe his eyes. ‘It’s like a slaughter house up here,’ he said pushing the door open with the toe of his shoe. ‘There’s blood everywhere, and what appears to be chunks of human flesh lying in the bottom of the bath.’
‘Any footprints?’
‘There’s plenty of those around.’
Carlisle stood transfixed. ‘Blimey––’
‘We need to suit up and secure the building before the rest of the cavalry arrive.’
***
Twenty minutes later, the estate resembled an impregnable fortress. Feeling like a kid in a sweetshop, Mason watched as a team of forensic officers crawled on hands and knees over the suspect’s back garden searching for clues. Amongst other things, they were looking for body parts or buried victims clothing. These things took time, but time was fast catching up on them. There were jobs to be done, fresh plans to set in motion, and new lines of enquiries to explore. Once they’d carried out a thorough examination of the suspect’s property, it was a simple matter of legwork. Nowhere was safe for Patrick Stanley anymore, wherever he ran. But that wasn’t all, and the Detective Chief Inspector was staring at a much bigger problem – the arrival of the Area Commander’s entourage.
Mason’s instincts as a working detective told him they were gradually closing in. Whoever the killer was, there weren’t a lot of options left open to him. He smiled inwardly as the profiler reappeared in the doorway.
‘Well there was a turn up for the books.’
‘I had a hunch we were close, the minute we entered the estate.’
‘If I hadn’t have known you better, I’d have sworn you’d been tipped off.’
‘It’s not over yet,’ Carlisle said shaking his head. ‘The killings may have stopped, but Stanley will be a difficult person to track down.’
‘I’d already guessed as much.’ Mason blew out his cheeks, his eyes fixed firmly ahead. ‘No doubt the Acting Superintendent is itching to go public on this one.’
‘Let’s hope not, as it could cause all sorts of problems.’
‘I know,’ Mason sighed, ‘but I doubt she’ll listen to me. She’s more concerned about what Mad Frankie might get up to once he finds out who killed his ex-wife.’
Carlisle stared at him. ‘I’d almost forgotten about Wiseman.’
‘We need to get to Stanley first, before the criminal fraternity beats us to it.’
‘He’ll probably lie low for a while; it’s in his best interest.’
‘Yeah, but where is the question?’
‘The answer to that may be hidden in the detail.’
Mason put a pencil against his lips and thought for a moment. ‘Stanley’s bound to make life difficult for everyone – there’s no other options left open to him.’
‘Not with Frank Wiseman breathing down his neck, there isn’t.’
‘You’re right. The fewer people who know about this, the better.’ Mason thought a minute. ‘Do you think he’ll head for Leeds?’
‘It’s difficult to say. Although he may still have a few contacts there.’
‘One thing’s for sure, he’ll get far less hassle down there than here. Perhaps that’s what lies behind the Acting Superintendent’s thinking.’
‘I would think so.’
‘Bugger.’ Mason groaned. ‘I was hoping for a quick result, but it’s not going to happen.’
‘These people are always one step ahead of the game. Just when you think you have them in the palm of your hand they slip through your fingers like grains of sand.’
Mason gave a little shake of the head. ‘No doubt the Area Commander’s cronies will want to get involved, which leaves me little room for manoeuvre.’
‘Our biggest threat right now is the media. Once they get hold of the story we’ll all be catapulted into the stratosphere.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Stanley’s a popular guy – in more ways than one.’
Mason adjusted his stance. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what forensic throws up.’
‘I doubt they’ll find anything we don’t know already.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
There was nothing either of them could do, not until the SOC manager had given clearance. Entering the hall, it was the serious look on Tom Hedley’s face that suddenly caught their attention. Carrying a large brown paper bag in his hand, the senior forensic scientist’s posture was guarded.
‘What’s up now?’ Mason asked.
‘You guys should look at this,’ Hedley insisted.
They both stared at one another.
Mason blew through his teeth. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found more body parts. I couldn’t handle much more of this bastard’s handy work.’
‘Not this time, but you’d be surprised what’s hidden under the floorboards.’
‘Like what?’
Hedley opened the brown paper bag and Carlisle stuck his head inside.
‘Well I’ll be dammed.’
‘What the hell is it?’ Mason demanded.
Carlisle smiled as he turned to face Mason. ‘It’s a powered surgical saw––’
‘That’s strange,’ Mason shrugged. ‘Why leave the house doors unlocked with chunks of human flesh in the bath, and hide a surgical saw under the floorboards?’
Carlisle winked at him. ‘That’s why you employ a criminal profiler, Jack.’
Chapter
Forty-Six
The damp getting to his bones, DS Savage shuddered inwardly. He’d encountered Tony Fox’s nefarious organisation on more than one occasion in the past and could think of far better places to meet on a windswept night. The dimly lit back lanes of Low Fell weren’t exactly the safest of places to hang around in, not at any time. The problem was, if ever they were going to make inroads into catching the man responsible for such heinous crimes, they would need to take risks. DCI Mason’s meeting with Tony Fox had initially set the wheels in motion, but Fox had gained the upper hand, and was giving the police a run for their money. With claims that Patrick Stanley had once worked as a barman at Fat Sam’s nightclub, could the gangster be bluffing?
The detective sergeant stood perfectly still for a moment, fists clenched, legs slightly apart and ready to spring into action. He’d been in this situation before, but it never got any easier. Deep down there was a much darker side to all of this, and one involving a serial killer. His boss was right, he should have agreed to backup instead of going it alone. He hadn’t, and now he was faced with an even bigger challenge.
Then, just when he was about to make his move, a figure emerged. He wasn’t a tall man, squat, with rounded shoulders and wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his face.
‘I assume Jack Mason sent you?’
‘Yes, and you are?’
‘That’s not important.’
The stranger had turned aggressive suddenly, as though trying to force the issue. It wasn’t the best of situations to be in either, as dark alleys had a nasty habit of kicking off just when you least expected them to.
‘You came alone?’
‘Yep! Just as arranged,’ the sergeant replied.
‘I which case I’ll not keep you longer than necessary.’
The terms of engagement having been agreed, Savage was under no illusions as to where this was heading. There was a hint of hostility in the stranger’s voice, enough to throw him off balance. He’d been involved in numerous clandestine meetings over the years, and the rules of engagement never changed. No weapons, no concealed recording devises, and no hidden agenda up your sleeve. Break the rules, and the consequences could be disastrous.
‘How do I know we can trust you?’
‘You don’t,’ the stranger replied. There followed an awkward stand-off between them, a coming together of minds. ‘A friend of mine tells me you’re seeking Wasp’s whereabouts?’
‘Yes, we are.’
Another uncomfortable silence.
‘He’s still in the city as far as we know, but that’s as much as I can tell you.’
‘Where exactly?’
The stranger held his hand up in front of the sergeant’s face. ‘Not so fast, my friend. There’s a few things we need to iron out first.’
‘At least tell me which part of the city Stanley’s in.’
‘That’s not possible either. Not until you people have agreed to our terms.’
‘Terms? What terms are those?’
‘Not so fast––’
The moment the stranger reached into his coat pocket, the detective’s heart sank. Things were moving at speed, and he was having to think on his feet.
‘What is it you people are looking for?’ DS Savage asked.
‘Assurances,’ the stranger replied.
‘Regarding what?’
The stranger handed him a crumpled brown envelope. ‘If you want to know Stanley’s whereabouts, you’re to turn a blind eye to Fat Sam’s.’
‘Why haven’t you gone to Jack Mason direct?’
‘It’s not my call.’
‘Whose call is it then?’
‘Like you, I’m merely the messenger here.’
Still curious as to who was pulling the strings, the sergeant wracked his brains. If Tony Fox did know Patrick Stanley’s whereabouts, who else did? There were always the Eastern Europeans, of course, but that was highly unlikely.
‘So, what’s the deal?’ DS Savage insisted.
The stranger pointed to the envelope and dropped back into the shadows again. ‘If Mason agrees to our terms, he’s to call that number.’
‘And what if he doesn’t?’
The stranger seemed taken aback, as if no wasn’t the answer he was looking for. ‘What do you mean. . . doesn’t?’
‘I’m merely the messenger here, so I can’t speak for Jack Mason.’
‘Let’s just say he’d be wise not to refuse.’
There was urgency in the stranger’s voice. Threatening. There again, plea bargaining with gangsters always carried an element of risk. Get it wrong, and your world could be turned upside down. It was a fine balancing act, and everything was at stake here.
‘When are your people expecting an answer?’ the sergeant said, playing on his words.
‘Sooner rather than later.’
‘And what sort of assurances do we have?’
‘There are no guarantees, as the whole damn city is out looking for Wasp.’
‘I take it he no longer works at Fat Sam’s?’
The stranger shrugged as if not knowing, but the eyes were the giveaway. Patrick Stanley, alias Wasp, had obviously worked at Tony Fox’s nightclub at some stage, which was the perfect environment to win over his victim’s.
