Free The Wharf Butcher by Michael K Foster Page A

the inner sanctum. Now deep in discussion over matters of monumental unimportance, they had decided to turn their backs on him.
    Left in the cold, Carlisle finished his pint and slipped out of the building through the side entrance. Glancing round, the man in the threadbare, blue jumper was staring out of the pub window at him. Smiling to himself, Carlisle unlocked the car door and clambered into the front seat. Why on earth, he wondered, would someone walk twenty miles every night, to stand in a bar full of miserable morons?
    It was time to make tracks.
    *
    No sooner had the Riley murders hit all the headlines, than shock waves reverberated throughout the city. The very nature of the crimes had captivated the attention of even the most cynical press reporters. To a packed media gathering, and representing the Northumbria police force, Jack Mason was about to embark on yet another consummate performance. The public’s insatiable demand for answers was unrelenting. TV cameramen, sound engineers with long boom microphones, reporters and photographers with powerful satellite transmitting cameras, were all crammed into the tiny interview room. Up close and intimate, the atmosphere was electric.
    As the noise levels heightened, a young female TV reporter moved forward and towards a solid bank of microphones set up in front of the broadcast table. After making some final adjustments with her sound engineers, she returned to her seat. Broadcasting live across the networks, the DCI did not disappoint. Skilfully using the power of the media to his greatest advantage, he waited for the shuffling to die down before reading a brief statement.
    Mason’s face had remained expressionless throughout.
    Gathering up his notes, the DCI thanked everyone, and coolly slipped from the room. It was that kind of meeting, the bare facts and nothing more.

 
    Chapter Eleven
    The address on the envelope read: Companies House, 4 Abbey Orchard Street, Westminster, London. Two blocks south of Victoria Street and within easy walking distance of Victoria tube station, it was Jack Mason’s old stamping ground. He knew the area well. Too well if the truth was known. Not the best neighbourhood to patrol at night, Mason thought, but at least he still had some fond memories of the place. However, for a small fee and in the relative comfort of his office, he’d purchased a DVD ROM Directory direct from Companies House. The only thing he knew for certain was that listed amongst the directory’s central archives was the past ten-year business accounts for Charles Anderson’s legal practice. A very useful tool, and one Jack Mason was slowly getting to grips with.
    He soon discovered that Charles Anderson, operating from Grainger Street – within close proximity of Newcastle’s city centre – had been joined by his lifelong colleague and fellow member of the European Law Society, Thomas Schlesinger. Together they’d forme d Anderson & Schlesinger Law Firm , an upmarket legal practice serving the North East of England. He hadn’t given too much thought to it, but within a two year period of starting up, their legal practice had moved from rundown premises on Scotswood Road, to an upmarket property block in the heart of Newcastle’s prestigious business sector. No doubt Thomas Schlesinger’s professional influence had something to do with it. Nevertheless, the company’s meteoric rise to success was remarkable. On the surface everything appeared in order, but the deeper he dug, the more Mason began to uncover. Ninety-six per-cent of Charles Anderson’s business, it seemed, had been tied in with a conglomerate called Gilesgate Construction. To make matters worse, its Chairman, an articulate self-made multi-millionaire and ruthless local politician called Sir Jeremy Wingate-Stiles, immediately set alarm bells ringing.
    Not the most trustworthy person to do business with, Mason reasoned, Sir Jeremy was a renowned Machiavellian type. Mason hated bureaucrats