time. Leaning over, he grabbed a digestive biscuit and took a huge bite out of it.
‘Sorry about that, it’s a bit manic at the moment.’
Carlisle sighed, and shifted his position. ‘These new developments that everyone’s talking about, I’ve––’
‘Ah, yes,’ Mason interrupted. ‘It seems our suspect has what’s known as a short leg syndrome. Have you heard of it before?’
‘No. I can’t say as I have. Is it common?’
‘God knows!’
‘So, what’s the significance?’ he asked.
‘Well, it certainly narrows the field down,’ said Mason, brushing the crumbs from his mouth. ‘If nothing else, it’s allowed me to open up a whole new line of enquiries.’
‘Anything of interest show up?’
‘Early days, I’m afraid. We know our suspect wears a corrective right boot which has a two-inch lift, or addition to the sole. It’s certainly not a recent affliction.’ Mason leaned back placing his hands behind the back of his head. ‘We’ve got Hedley looking into it. No doubt he’ll soon get to the bottom of it.’
‘That wouldn’t be, Tom Hedley, would it?’
Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know Tom?’
‘We once used the same golf club.’
‘It’s a small world, eh.’
As Carlisle recalled, Tom Hedley had married his childhood sweetheart, Doreen Pearl, a studious type, brainy, nothing stunning, nevertheless a decent looking woman. They’d grown up together, lived on the same council estate, and gone to the same school. Hedley was a stickler for detail, a natural selection for forensic work but an extremely boring person to socialize with.
Mason pushed back in his seat, but didn’t stand.
‘Whatever it was that caused this bastard to limp, it certainly didn’t happen overnight,’ Mason sighed. ‘What’s more, footprint impressions left at both crime scenes indicate his right boot is well worn on the heel.’
‘What about hospital records?’
‘No, nothing of interest showed up. Our prime candidate is serving a six year sentence in Durham prison, and was a right pain in the arse. The other has Alzheimer’s disease. He is eighty-seven, goddammit.’
‘Not exactly a fruitful outcome?’
‘You can say that again. The old guy couldn’t even tie his bloody shoe laces.’ Mason lowered the tone of his voice. ‘Not a good start, I’m afraid. If the truth be known, our killer is still out there and probably preparing his next grand performance.’
‘What about private clinics?’
Mason gritted his teeth. ‘I barely have enough ground troops to keep this place ticking over, let alone any for checking out private clinics. Take a look around, my friend; this is my so called Operations Room. There’s barely room to swing a cat in here, let alone run a murder investigation. If this is what modern day policing has come down to, then God help us all.’
He watched as Mason opened the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet, and took out a thick file marked: FRYER’S WHARF. With the exception of a small computer table, the rest of the office was untidy and cluttered.
‘I had these brought over from Gateshead police station.’
‘More witness statements?’
Mason looked at him sceptically. ‘I was rather looking forward to some feedback on the previous case files I sent you, but hey––’
‘I’m still working on it, Jack.’
‘So is everyone else round here, it seems.’
There was something in Mason’s tone that caused him to sit back. He needed more time, but the Chief Inspector was pushing for answers. Fresh leads had a nasty habit of vanishing quickly; he realised that, but this was ridiculous. He reached over, and opened the folder – a mixture of witness statements, and police interviews involving some of Charles Anderson’s close business contacts. Skim-reading through the first few pages, he recognised the suspect’s MO. It had a familiar pattern to it – a swift death, followed by heartless mutilation. Nailing your victim’s body to a warehouse
‘Sorry about that, it’s a bit manic at the moment.’
Carlisle sighed, and shifted his position. ‘These new developments that everyone’s talking about, I’ve––’
‘Ah, yes,’ Mason interrupted. ‘It seems our suspect has what’s known as a short leg syndrome. Have you heard of it before?’
‘No. I can’t say as I have. Is it common?’
‘God knows!’
‘So, what’s the significance?’ he asked.
‘Well, it certainly narrows the field down,’ said Mason, brushing the crumbs from his mouth. ‘If nothing else, it’s allowed me to open up a whole new line of enquiries.’
‘Anything of interest show up?’
‘Early days, I’m afraid. We know our suspect wears a corrective right boot which has a two-inch lift, or addition to the sole. It’s certainly not a recent affliction.’ Mason leaned back placing his hands behind the back of his head. ‘We’ve got Hedley looking into it. No doubt he’ll soon get to the bottom of it.’
‘That wouldn’t be, Tom Hedley, would it?’
Mason raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you know Tom?’
‘We once used the same golf club.’
‘It’s a small world, eh.’
As Carlisle recalled, Tom Hedley had married his childhood sweetheart, Doreen Pearl, a studious type, brainy, nothing stunning, nevertheless a decent looking woman. They’d grown up together, lived on the same council estate, and gone to the same school. Hedley was a stickler for detail, a natural selection for forensic work but an extremely boring person to socialize with.
Mason pushed back in his seat, but didn’t stand.
‘Whatever it was that caused this bastard to limp, it certainly didn’t happen overnight,’ Mason sighed. ‘What’s more, footprint impressions left at both crime scenes indicate his right boot is well worn on the heel.’
‘What about hospital records?’
‘No, nothing of interest showed up. Our prime candidate is serving a six year sentence in Durham prison, and was a right pain in the arse. The other has Alzheimer’s disease. He is eighty-seven, goddammit.’
‘Not exactly a fruitful outcome?’
‘You can say that again. The old guy couldn’t even tie his bloody shoe laces.’ Mason lowered the tone of his voice. ‘Not a good start, I’m afraid. If the truth be known, our killer is still out there and probably preparing his next grand performance.’
‘What about private clinics?’
Mason gritted his teeth. ‘I barely have enough ground troops to keep this place ticking over, let alone any for checking out private clinics. Take a look around, my friend; this is my so called Operations Room. There’s barely room to swing a cat in here, let alone run a murder investigation. If this is what modern day policing has come down to, then God help us all.’
He watched as Mason opened the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet, and took out a thick file marked: FRYER’S WHARF. With the exception of a small computer table, the rest of the office was untidy and cluttered.
‘I had these brought over from Gateshead police station.’
‘More witness statements?’
Mason looked at him sceptically. ‘I was rather looking forward to some feedback on the previous case files I sent you, but hey––’
‘I’m still working on it, Jack.’
‘So is everyone else round here, it seems.’
There was something in Mason’s tone that caused him to sit back. He needed more time, but the Chief Inspector was pushing for answers. Fresh leads had a nasty habit of vanishing quickly; he realised that, but this was ridiculous. He reached over, and opened the folder – a mixture of witness statements, and police interviews involving some of Charles Anderson’s close business contacts. Skim-reading through the first few pages, he recognised the suspect’s MO. It had a familiar pattern to it – a swift death, followed by heartless mutilation. Nailing your victim’s body to a warehouse
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