DCI Jack Mason series Box Set Read online

  ‘And the estimated time of death?’

  ‘Between six and eight the previous evening,’ Mason replied.

  That meant the victim would have been dead twelve hours, thought Carlisle, ample time for the killer to carry out his business. He cupped his face in his hands, and tried to imagine the scene. Thirty feet up, nailed to the rafters and the victim’s face staring down at him. The profiler’s eyes suddenly shot open again. Without an accomplice it would have been an almost impossible act to perform. Unless . . .

  ‘What kind of person commits such atrocities?’ Jane asked.

  Mason rolled his eyes. ‘What makes him tick? Now that is an interesting question.’

  Distracted by the rapid fire shutter of Peter Davenport’s digital camera, they made slow progress across the farmyard. On reaching the farmhouse, a large north facing building, Carlisle took stock. The entrance, guarded by two ornate pilasters supporting a heavy scalloped lintel and carved from solid stone, had a look of stately grandeur. To each side of a solid oak door stood a large earthenware plant pot; the shrivelled unattended remains of a previous summer still lying lifeless in damp soil.

  Herded along a stone floored hallway, they swung left and down a steep flight of stone stairs. The kitchen had that familiar whiff, a sweet coppery metallic smell reminiscent of death. To one corner stood a large black open-range fireplace, its huge mantel and fender now void of any warmth. All that remained were the burnt ashes lying in the bottom of the fire basket, discarded, and frozen in time. Unlike a dozen other crime scenes that Carlisle had attended, this one felt different. The room had an eerie presence, whitewashed walls and a low beamed ceiling. Pots and pans of every imaginable shape and size hung in profusion from smoke charred rafters. Slung by their handles, they reminded him of a medieval army ranked in tight formation and about to do battle.

  ‘We found Mrs Riley’s body slumped beneath this table,’ Mason explained, pointing to the floor.

  ‘How did she die?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘She was bludgeoned to death. The manner in which this bastard mutilates his victims ranks amongst the worst I’ve ever come across. It disgusts me to think that such vile crimes can still be committed in a modern civilised society.’

  Jane flinched. ‘I take it her wounds were extensive?’

  ‘Death would have been instantaneous.’

  No attempt had been made to clear away the congealed bloodstains where the victim had fallen. The press would have a field day, he thought, but that would come later. In his notebook, he scribbled down Serial killer and underlined the words.

  ‘Any particular side?’ he asked, rasping a few days’ stubble.

  ‘The right side, along the suture line midpoint between the frontal and parietal bones.’ There was bitterness in Mason’s voice. ‘She was struck with such tremendous force, she suffered multiple skull fractures. You would normally only anticipate seeing this type of injury in an automobile accident, or someone who’s fallen from a high-rise building.’

  ‘What do we know about her attacker?’ Carlisle asked.

  ‘He’s male; around six-two, and of medium build. Early indications confirm the angle of entry makes her attacker left-handed.’ Mason stepped back as if to enforce a point. ‘In answer to your previous question, Miss Collins, we found heavy latex deposits on the jack lever. We also found transfer blood on the cooking pot handle. It was Derek Riley’s.’

  ‘So he came prepared?’

  ‘Let’s wait for forensics before we go jumping to any conclusions,’ Mason replied.

  At last a physical description, thought Carlisle. Not much, but at least something to work on? From what Mason had told them so far, none of this made sense. Why the killer had made every effort to avoid personal detection and yet, audaciously display his victim’s body as art forms was clearly a conflict of interests. Surely a more natural reaction would have been to dispose of the evidence, bury, or even burn it. Somehow the pieces didn’t fit.

  Mason hesitated. ‘If you ask me, this whole damn business reeks of another vendetta killing.’

  ‘Feudal killing,’ Carlisle nodded. ‘Now that is an interesting consideration. At least it would account for his wanting to avoid personal detection, whilst allowing him sufficient time to display his artistic talents.’

  ‘We agree on that point then?’

  ‘I’m not convinced,’ Carlisle replied.

  ‘So we’re still at odds?’

  ‘It’s not a clear-cut case . . . I wish it was.’ Carlisle paused in thought. ‘Suppose this was a retaliatory crime, one carried out by a hired assassin; call it what you must. The motives would be straightforward, and they’d have followed a logical pattern. However, if we’re dealing with a multiple personality disorder such as paranoid schizophrenia, that’s an entirely different matter.’

  Mason’s eyes narrowed. ‘Here we go; surely you’re not suggesting that this is the work of some deranged psychopath?’

  ‘And why not?’ Carlisle shrugged.

  ‘I agree he comes prepared, but that’s a bloody ridiculous statement.’

  Carlisle looked at Mason before he answered. ‘In that case you’d better prepare yourself for a few more sleepless nights, Jack.’

  ‘How can you possibly say that?’

  ‘Because this one’s organised, I’m absolutely certain of it.’

  ‘Planned executions, eh?’

  ‘It certainly wasn’t his first,’ Carlisle confirmed. ‘People who commit ritual mutilation on their victims are usually making a serious statement.’

  The DCI stepped back as though he’d been hit a sledgehammer blow. Mason was a creature of habit; he disliked bad news. It always rubbed him up the wrong way.

  It had turned cold again; there was a distinct nip in the air. At over three-hundred feet above sea level, Harden Hill formed a formidable backdrop to the local farming community. Carlisle watched as a tiny pocket of sheep began to traverse well-worn trodden tracks, high up on the peaks.

  ‘It’s such a tranquil setting, Jack. Not the kind of place you’d associate with such violent crimes.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Mason.

  Chapter

  Six

  Jack Mason clenched his fist and gave the General Manager’s cottage door a short, sharp, authoritative rap. Four days into his murder enquiry, and Dove Farm was surprisingly peaceful again. Having scaled down his operations at the farm, all that remained was a small uniformed police presence tasked with guarding the place.

  As the door drew back, Mason was immediately confronted by a sixty-year old gaunt faced male whom he took to be Eugene Briggs. Thrusting his warrant card under the occupant’s nose, he announced his intentions, although not before habitually wedging his left foot up against the open door. It was then he spotted the Border Collie. It was staring up at him and baring its teeth.

  ‘Eugene Briggs?’ Mason asked, sliding his foot into safer territory.

  ‘Yes, I am. What can I do for you?’

  Mason gave him a well-rehearsed frown. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr Briggs. This is Police Constable Jackson, and we’re here in connection with the Riley murders. May we come in?’

  The minute they stepped into the room, Patches, a three year-old Border Collie, made her presence felt. The dog’s piercing, alert eyes following the young constable’s every movement.

  ‘Fine young animal,’ Mason announced. ‘Is he a working dog?’

  ‘He is a she. Unless I’m mistaken,’ said Briggs, pointing towards the hearth rug where the dog obediently flopped down in front of a roaring log fire. The Farm Manager dropped back in his chair, took off his glasses and began cleaning the lenses with a grubby handkerchief. The shock of finding Derek Riley’s horrifically mutilated body had obviously left a lasting impression on him. Briggs looked physically drained, thought Mason.

 
‘I understand you’ve already made a statement to the Alnwick police, Mr Briggs?’

  ‘That’s correct, Inspector, so why are you here?’

  ‘Just following up on our enquiries,’ Mason said, opening his notebook.

  ‘In that case, do you mind telling me what this all about?’ demanded Briggs.

  Mason held eye contact. ‘If you must know, our purpose here today is to establish your relationship with Derek Riley.’

  ‘Surely I’m not a suspect?’

  ‘Everyone’s a suspect until they’ve been eliminated from our investigations, Mr Briggs. That’s the law of the land, I’m afraid.’

  Briggs eyes widened. ‘Thank you for reminding me, Inspector.’

  Mason detected a hint of sarcasm in the old man’s voice. His eyes were red-rimmed, glazed as though lacking sleep. He was probably a good guy, but right now he remained a vital witness and he was determined to get the bottom of it.

  ‘It’s my understanding that you were employed here at the farm. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, I am, lad.’

  ‘May I ask in what capacity?’

  ‘I’m still the farm’s General Manager, until I hear otherwise.’

  Mason lowered the tone of his voice for effect. ‘This is a very sad affair; what was Derek Riley really like to work for, Mr Briggs?’

  Briggs eyes welled, as if full of morose sorrow.

  ‘Derek was a gentleman. There was never a wrong word between us in all the twenty-five years I worked for him. Why someone would want to kill him beggars belief.’

  ‘Do you know of anyone who would want to harm him?’

  ‘None that I can think of,’ Briggs replied.

  ‘What about the people he mixed with?’

  ‘That’s insane,’ insisted Briggs.

  They spent the next fifteen minutes going back over Briggs’ position on the farm. What he did, his hours of work, and his relationship with Derek Riley. As though reliving the memory, Briggs struggled with his answers.

  Mason made a few more notes, before moving in closer. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Briggs, this type of crime is never nice to talk about, particularly when the person is known to you. Murder always leaves a nasty impression on other people’s minds, and in most cases, it’s the police who are left to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘I appreciate your concerns, Inspector.’

  God, Mason thought, do you. He paused to consider his next question. ‘Take your time, Mr Briggs. I’d like you to tell me in your own words how you stumbled upon Mr Riley’s body that morning.’

  Briggs lowered his head, and spoke through cupped hands as if gaining some comfort from it. ‘I never want to go through anything like that again,’ he said. ‘The man responsible for such heinous crimes is a monster. I cannot think of any other words to describe him.’

  There followed a short pause, a checking of notes.

  ‘When did you last see Mr Riley, alive?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Like I told you people before, that would be Thursday, around four o’clock,’ Briggs replied. ‘We were organising some fencing repairs up on yon top fields. We’d planned to do them at the weekend, but the weather wasn’t up to much at the time. In the end, we agreed to put the job back a week.’

  Mason caught the look of concern in the Constable’s glances. Having taken a sudden disliking to uniforms, Patches was baring her teeth at him. The old man made a point of discouraging her, much to the young Constable’s relief.

  ‘And where exactly are these top fields?’ Mason asked.

  ‘They are over in Scrainwood. There’s a footpath that runs alongside the burn; the fences stop the sheep from wandering onto the roads,’ Briggs replied.

  ‘Uh-huh. So when was the last time you saw Mrs Riley?’

  ‘That same evening I’d called in at the farm to drop some worksheets off for Derek.’ Briggs’ stare hardened. ‘Mrs Riley was preparing dinner, as I remember.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Around five o’clock.’

  Mason moved towards the window, and peered out across the farmyard. He had been over this ground before, so many times. Briggs must have entered the building through the main farmhouse entrance, as the kitchen was at the far end of a long hallway and left down a flight of stone stairs. There were so many imponderables, so many possibilities. In the end he made a mental note of it, and then said. ‘The night you and Derek Riley were discussing these fence repairs, I take it you were alone?’

  ‘Yes, apart from a passing drifter.’

  Mason cocked his head in interest. ‘What can you tell me about him?’

  Reluctantly Briggs went on to explain how at three o’clock that afternoon, a lone drifter had wandered into the farmyard in search of casual work. There were far too many of them according to Briggs. They mainly came from East Europe, young men in their mid to late twenties, looking to improve their situation. Everyone knew the score, a day’s work for a day’s pay and all you got in return was a half-finished job.

  ‘Tell me, what happened next?’ Mason said, keeping up the pressure.

  ‘He headed north,’ Briggs replied. ‘We never saw him again.’

  That certainly wasn’t picked up in Briggs’ previous interview, Mason suspected. Although just a minor detail, it could have a major bearing on the case. Understandably traumatised, he had to coax rather than force the information out of Briggs. It wasn’t his style. He felt uncomfortable about it, but he was getting results all the same.

  ‘On the night of the murders,’ said Mason. ‘What were you doing?’

  Briggs fidgeted in his chair, as though reliving a bad memory. ‘After finishing work, I came back home, changed and had tea. We stopped in all evening, and watched TV.’

  ‘You say we . . . would that be Mrs Briggs?’

  ‘Yes, it would.’

  ‘You mentioned taking Patches for her walk, what time would that be?’

  ‘Around ten o’clock, and before you ask, we were only gone ten minutes or so.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mason.

  There was nothing to be gained by questioning his wife, thought Mason. Briggs’ alibi was watertight. Mason looked at his watch. ‘One further question, if I may, Mr Briggs. Did Derek Riley ever mention the name Lowther Construction to you at all?’

  ‘No. I can’t say as he did. Why do you ask?’

  Mason supressed a grin. ‘I assume you knew of Derek’s involvement in such a company though?’

  ‘No. That’s the first time I’ve heard that name mentioned before.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure, Inspector. Besides, why would Derek Riley want to get involved in a construction company . . . he was a sheep farmer goddammit?’

  Mason smelt a rat. He knew Derek Riley certainly had shares in Lowther Construction; previous police investigations had already established that. If Briggs was telling him the truth, then it was a damn good question. He stood for a moment, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward. Perhaps he should have been more forceful, attacked the question from a different angle. There again, he doubted Briggs would have stood up to such a gruelling. He checked his notes; had he missed anything?

  Then he remembered.

  ‘I understand Derek Riley had a son.’

  ‘I presume you mean Selver,’ Briggs mumbled.

  ‘Ah, yes, that’s the name I was looking for,’ Mason confirmed. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know his whereabouts would you?’

  Mason jotted down some details, and stood as if to leave. The moment the young Constable reached for the front door, Patches lifted her head and growled. Hesitant, the two officers exchanged glances. Undecided as to who should go first, it was time to pull rank.

  Seconds later, Jack Mason burst out laughing as the rookie policeman took flight across the farmyard.
It was precious little moments like these that brought a rare smile to the senior detective’s face.

  It was 2.30pm when he finally pulled up outside the Market Tavern, a traditional pub in the centre of Alnwick market town. Close to the castle, just round the corner on Fenkle Street, the place had a great atmosphere. Standing at the bar, Mason ordered steak and ale pie and a pint of Maften Magic real ale. Most likely, he thought, Briggs had nothing to do with it. The person responsible for these crimes undoubtedly knew his victims. There again, if the old man wasn’t involved, then the killer had to be someone local. But why crucify Derek Riley? What the hell was all that about?

  Then there was the question of Briggs’ previous interview, the one held at Alnwick police station. Why hadn’t the desk Sergeant picked up on the lone drifter? How could he have missed that? The timing made perfect sense, even if nothing else did. And another thing, apart from watching TV that night, what was Briggs doing around the time of the murders? It had just turned six o’clock; surely he must have heard something that night, a scream, a cry, or even a plea for help. And yet he heard nothing.

  Mason sat aimlessly staring out of the pub window. Why a farm owner would want to get involved with a construction company, he no idea. It didn’t make sense. None of it did. Unless, of course . . .

  His steak and ale pie arrived.

  Chapter

  Seven

  David Carlisle hated the long drawn out, dark winter nights; alone, behind closed doors, and faced with countless sleepless nights. Having spent the best part of the evening browsing through the Charles Anderson case files, he’d woken with a start. It was dark, and the street lighting was casting a strange ominous glow over the bedroom walls. Ever since his wife’s untimely death, he’d been struggling to cope with his loss. The house was so quiet nowadays, as if the heart had been ripped out of it. There were times, and there had been many of late, when he thought of what might have been. Somehow he didn’t think it was humanly possible to miss another person as he missed Jackie. She was such an amazing woman, and so full of life.

  Suddenly, the day ahead seemed full of doom and gloom. At two in the morning, his was a black, silent world, full of memories. And another reason to feel miserable was the feeling of guilt. Why must he always blame himself for Jackie’s untimely passing? Surely it wasn’t his fault. How fickle and fragile life really is, he thought. Nothing is for certain. It didn’t take much to alter the course of another person’s life – a small gust of wind, a lapse of concentration, a mistake. How such a thing could happen, was beyond him. Why hadn’t they stopped at home like everyone else that morning? Gone swimming, or even spent time out shopping together. One minute she was there, the next, she’d been tragically torn away from him.