DCI Jack Mason series Box Set Read online

  After lunch, the sun appeared. Still cold, the blustery North Easterly winds that had been buffeting the coastline all day had finally subsided. Now it was a pleasant afternoon. Crossing into Fowler Street, he noticed a small group of hawkers stood huddled around the back of an open white transit van. Tightly bound together by some peculiar sense of communal secrecy, to Carlisle’s trained eye they were obviously up to no good. He made a mental note of it. On another occasion, he would have undoubtedly checked them out. Not today; he had more important things on his mind.

  Nothing much of interest in his in-tray, he braced himself for the worst. A few missed phone calls, a couple of e-mails and another blank page in his dairy. Wonderful! Just when he thought things were picking up again. It was then he spotted the large brown envelope. It was sitting on Jane’s desk – the kind hastily put together by a frustrated admin clerk who hated her job. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since Jane’s last visit to police headquarters; now this.

  ‘I see the postman’s been.’

  ‘It arrived this morning,’ said Jane.

  Carlisle detected a twinge of excitement in his business partner’s voice.

  ‘What is it?’ he enquired.

  Jane bit her bottom lip. ‘How the hell would I know, it’s marked for your attention.’

  A memory tugged at him. A reminder of the dreaded tax forms that regularly dropped through the letter box at the end of every tax year. Tax forms are full of endless questions, his father once told him. How damn right he was.

  ‘Special delivery, no doubt?’

  Jane appeared hesitant. ‘No, it was handed to me by a rather hunky looking Detective Chief Inspector.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Just before lunch,’ Jane replied.

  He checked the label again, marked: CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. Police jargon for hush-hush material, but on whose authority he wondered. It certainly didn’t look official, he was convinced of that. On closer examination, he could see the flap had been resealed with two thin strips of masking tape. Tight bastards, he cursed, it’s been recycled.

  ‘A DCI you say?’ Carlisle said, trying his utmost not to sound too overly enthusiastic.

  ‘Well that’s who he told me he was.’

  ‘Did he––’ Carlisle checked himself. ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Yes. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Mason.’

  ‘Jack . . . bloody. . . Mason!’

  Jane pulled back as if her feet had suddenly been cut from beneath her. ‘He spoke highly of you, and insists you meet up with him again.’

  ‘I bet he did. No doubt the emphasis was on . . . insists.’

  A stunned silence followed.

  Carlisle took another deep breath, his eyes firmly fixed on the envelope. The first thing that came to mind was, how in hell’s name had Jack Mason managed to reach Detective Chief Inspector? The last time they’d worked together, Mason was suspended from Special Branch duties for shooting a drunken female barrister involved in a frenzied knife attack with one of her regular clients. The barrister survived. Only just. Found guilty of manslaughter, she’d been sent down for ten-years. Mason, meanwhile, got off with nothing more than a stiff reprimand. The newspapers were full of it. Not only was Mason made the villain of the piece, the press had turned him into the people’s hero. Some things never change, he cursed.

  ‘I take it, you know one another?’ said Jane.

  ‘We worked at the Met together.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it.’

  He stood in stunned silence for moment. The mere mention of Jack Mason’s name could only spell one thing . . . trouble. If Jane thought the contents of the brown envelope were the key to their salvation, she was sadly mistaken. He studied the disappointment in her eyes, the rejection. One thing for sure, he would need to tread carefully.

  ‘What else did Mason tell you?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘Oh come on, he must have said something. Jack Mason has never been shy when it comes to conversation.’

  Jane remained calm, as if retaliation was pointless.

  ‘He’s in a tight corner, apparently.’

  ‘No surprises there then!’

  Jane sighed. ‘It’s down to these recent cutbacks, and he’s short of a criminal profiler by all accounts.’

  ‘Ah. So that explains why my name popped out of the hat?’

  Jane stared at the flickering computer screen. ‘He seemed genuine enough. He’s here to investigate a recent spate of murders apparently, and believes there could be a connection.’

  ‘Really . . . and what else did he tell you?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  Carlisle leaned forward with interest, both elbows on the table. Jack Mason was no fool. The man was obviously looking for a way out. A spate of murders, possibly linked, could only mean one thing. He thought about it, still trying to come up with a rational explanation as to why Mason would want a criminal profiler. His biggest concern right now would be the media. Headline news never excited Jack Mason at the best of times. Although he did have his media critics – more than a few – he knew how to handle them.

  ‘I take it he’s looking at the nature of the crimes?’

  ‘Not in as many words, but he did express his concerns as to the psychological aspects of the case.’

  Carlisle fumbled the envelope, straightened, and moved back to face the window. Mason was an arrogant sod at the best of times, in more ways than one. Besides, everything had to be done his way, which left little room for anyone else to manoeuvre around in. But why was he clutching at straws? Surely the police would have plenty of forensic evidence to link these murders. Unless . . . of course. He paused, took another sip of his coffee, and tried to get his head around it. The case sounded tempting enough, but was it the right move, he asked himself. There again, he’d been so wrapped up in his own personal grief lately. Jane was right: he needed to snap out of it, move on, and find a way of coming to terms with it.

  Their eyes met.

  ‘I know I can be irritable at times, but I know what’s right for us. Mason’s thick skinned, he’s a difficult beast to work with at times. Hard-hitting coppers usually are. Never underestimate their tenacity to succeed; beneath the surface there’s always an underlying mean streak. They’d rip the skin from your very back, sooner than look at you. Our problem is this,’ he said, pointing back down at the envelope. ‘The minute we tear back the flap, is the minute we step into Jack Mason’s world.’

  ‘If you feel so strongly about it, why not tell him to sod off?’

  ‘It’s not about the money, Jane, it’s all about the principle. I don’t want our business to be run by some arrogant, hot-headed copper. Those days are over I’m afraid.’

  ‘But we’re strapped for cash, David, and up to our eyes in debt.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Then he saw reason. If Jack Mason was assigned to the case, then it had to be something special. Mason wasn’t the sort of copper to be involved in routine murder.

  He fumbled the envelope again.

  ‘What if I opened it?’ said Jane. ‘You can always blame me.’

  ‘I’m–––’

  Jane stared at him with her big blue eyes, leaving him in no doubt what she was thinking. Tearing open the flap, she removed a DVD and several neatly folded documents. From what he could see, someone had gone to work with a yellow highlighter marker pen, besides adding copious notes to the side column of each report.

  ‘This is awful!’ said Jane.

  As the story began to unfold, Carlisle’s attention was instinctively drawn towards the nature of the crimes. The killer, whoever he was, was extremely proud of his handiwork by all accounts. Charles Anderson, who ran a high-end legal practice in Newcastle, had been murdered in broad daylight. Two Northumberland farmers had been bludg
eoned to death. Two separate crimes, both intrinsically linked, and both carried out within a six week period of one another. Whoever was responsible for this type of violent crime was usually a very dangerous person to deal with. Solving their murders was all too often like working in a minefield; you trod carefully or you got yourself blown to pieces in the process. Right now Carlisle could think of a dozen reasons why he shouldn’t accept the case, but couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  ‘Were any valuables or money stolen from the property?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no mention of it.’

  ‘Sexual motives, then?’

  Jane shook her head again. ‘Nope, nothing of that nature mentioned.’

  ‘But that may have been the killer’s initial intentions,’ he said, staring across at her.

  ‘I thought this case would interest you. Take a look for yourself.’ Jane handed him the files. ‘In the meantime, I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘Hold it . . . young lady,’ Carlisle said, raising his arms as if he were holding back a large steel door. ‘We’re going nowhere until I’ve spoken with Jack Mason.’

  ‘That could be difficult,’ Jane replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mason insists he has his answer by ten o’clock tonight.’

  Carlisle drew back, but the urge to accept was too great. He peered down at the case files, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. In his mind, it was already a done deal.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’

  Jane looked across at him and winked. ‘I see what you mean about Jack Mason.’

  ‘Oh, and what is that?’

  ‘When Mason says jump, everybody jumps . . . feet first by the look of things.’

  Chapter

  Five

  January 2012

  The first thing that struck David Carlisle was the bleak isolation. Nestling between the foothills of Cold Law and Harden Hill in Northumberland National Park, Dove Farm was barely a ten minute drive from the picturesque village of Netherton and fifteen miles from Morpeth. By eleven o’clock the sun had burned away most of the lingering mist that had persistently clung to the valleys that morning, but there was still a hint of a breeze. The views from up here were spectacular, a mixture of mosaic heather land and rolling hills, sprinkled with ancient settlements, castles and fortified buildings; reminders of Northumberland’s tempestuous and rich history. Many of the rural farmsteads were widely dispersed, often located on higher ground, or at river crossing points. In his opinion, Dove Farm was no exception.

  At a glance the farmhouse looked to be 18th century, although parts of the existing east wing probably dated much earlier. It had thick walls built of random rubble, with irregular window openings on two levels. The adjacent farm buildings consisted of barns, stables and shelter sheds, and a south facing row of stone built cottages. Death, it seemed, was no stranger to the farm. Built on the site of a bastle or fortified farmhouse, down the centuries the region had played a central role in the border wars between Scotland and England.

  Like most murder scenes that Carlisle had ever attended, the place was a hive of activity. Beyond the yellow barrier tape marked: CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS, he spotted the slightly built figure of Peter Davenport. Camera poised at the ready, the SOC photographer was busily snapping away at anything and everything in sight. Nothing was taken for granted. Everything was being meticulously recorded and taken down. Further afield, a group of forensic officers were hard at work. Their mood appeared relaxed, but Carlisle knew otherwise. Fingertip searches were a painstakingly slow process, as there was always a slim chance the perpetrator had left a vital piece of evidence behind.

  No sooner had the car engine shut down, than the familiar thick-set figure of Jack Mason appeared in the doorway of the mobile Major Incident Room vehicle. Wearing white paper coveralls, latex gloves and paper overshoes, he descended the short flight of stairs and approached with an air of casual confidence. He wasn’t a conspicuously tall man, five-nine, with powerful shoulders and a large moon-like face. His nose had been broken several times, and appeared to be stuck back on a face that had seen more than its fair share of trouble.

  ‘I’m glad you could make it,’ Mason said, extending out a hand. ‘I had a hunch this case might interest you.’

  Behind a narrow lipped smile was an unbending ruthless streak. The last time they’d worked together, Mason was having marital problems. It went with the territory. Major crime investigations usually meant long periods spent working away from home. That was the nature of the beast; it played havoc with family and social life.

  ‘What have we got?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘Nothing certain yet, but it looks like we have another vendetta killing on our hands.’

  ‘Vicious?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Mind if we take a poke around?’

  ‘There’s not much to see,’ said Mason, stepping aside to allow Jane to slide her long slender legs out of the passenger seat. ‘It’s mainly down to forensics, I’m afraid.’

  Sensing Jane’s awkwardness, Carlisle came to her rescue. ‘Miss Collins will be working with me on this one, Jack.’

  ‘OK by me,’ Mason shrugged, ‘but I’ll need to run it past the Acting Chief Commissioner all the same.’

  Carlisle nodded, but offered no reply.

  They were joined by Stan Johnson, the Crime Scene Manager. Late forties, with an unruly mop of curly black hair, the man had a touch of the eccentric about him. He bred budgerigars for show, and was the honorary president of his local Morris dancer’s society – whatever that meant. He knew Stan vaguely, enough to know that he was a stickler for detail. Any evidence left by the perpetrator, such as DNA, fingerprints, footprints, fibres, and even tyre tracks had to be preserved untouched for the forensic teams.

  ‘You’ll need to suit up,’ Johnson said. ‘There are a couple of spare suits in the ops truck.’

  Wriggling his way into the fresh white paper over-suit, Carlisle slipped on a pair of disposable overshoes and moved towards a large wrought iron gate. On closer inspection, he noted the whole area had been cordoned off, including many of the adjoining out-buildings. Dove Farm appeared a remote location, secluded, and off the beaten track. The wind up here seemed to be blowing in all directions. It was then he caught sight of several yellow crime scene evidence flags fluttering on the breeze. Each carried a number, each an important piece in the forensic jigsaw puzzle. Nothing, it seemed, was being left to chance. Everything that could be done was being done.

  ‘Let’s deal with Derek Riley’s murder first.’ Mason’s jaw was clenched tight as he stared at them. ‘I take it you’ve both read Charles Anderson’s case files?’

  They nodded in unison, but neither spoke.

  Not the best of starts, thought Carlisle, as they made their way through thick, heavily congealed sheep droppings. Nearing the west barn – a large stone building set back on the west wing of the courtyard – they stopped for a while, and between them managed to drag open the huge timber door. As the daylight poured into the building, he could see the interior had been built on two levels. The upper floor, slightly set back, was used as a hayloft. The ground floor – recently covered in a fresh layer of straw – had a strange pungent odour.

  Mason turned to face them again. ‘It all begins here. This is where Derek Riley first met with his killer.’ There followed a quick check of notes. ‘Early Post-mortem results confirm he was struck a massive blow to the cranium, puncturing a fifty-millimetre diameter hole through the skull parietal bone. The force of the blow probably rendered irreparable damage to the cerebellum, but it did not kill him at this stage.’ Mason pointed to the heavily congealed bloodstains splattered across the inner timber walls of the barn, an index finger following the blood trace. He appeared on edge, and the veins on his neck stood out like a roadm
ap. Every now and then, he would pause to point out where the victim had attempted to stem the blood flow. ‘Take a look at this,’ Mason went on. ‘This is where Derek Riley finally met his ending. From here, his body was hoisted up into the rafters and then he was crucified. It wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you.’

  Sometimes it was easier to say nothing.

  For one frightening, incomprehensible moment, Carlisle imagined they were dealing with a copycat crucifixion killer. All the signs were there . . . the arms outstretched, six-inch nails driven through the wrists and feet, and the body posed for maximum effect.

  Mason turned to face them again. ‘Not fifty metres from here, we recovered a two-metre heavy steel jack lever. DNA traces and body flesh tissue match those of the victim’s blood group. In other words, we now have our murder weapon.’

  ‘And fingerprints?’ asked Jane.

  ‘I’ll come back to that later.’

  Jane glanced at Carlisle, but said nothing. Mason had lost none of his pragmatic bullishness, it seemed.

  ‘To call this a frenzied attack . . . would be an understatement. Derek Riley’s facial features and the top of his skull had been pulverised beyond all recognition.’ Mason drew breath, as if reliving the moment. ‘This was a brutal attack as you can well imagine, and we found extensive traces of cerebral matter spread over a wide area.’

  ‘Who discovered the body?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘The farm’s General Manager, a man called Eugene Briggs.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Six thirty the following morning.’