victim’s cottage, nothing. According to Dr Pamela Wilson – the home office pathologist – post-mortem had revealed very little about the weapon used; only that she believed it to be a large kitchen knife. Stabbed in the left side, Stanton’s throat had been slit, severing the carotid artery, jugular vein and windpipe. The blood loss and lack of oxygen alone would have certainly weakened the victim. Whoever killed Stanton knew exactly what he was doing. That much they were agreed on.
The more they talked it over, the more convinced they became. Yes, Stanton’s death had been quick, but no mutilation or theatrical exhibitionism had taken place as it had in the Anderson and Riley murders. Ernest Stanton’s death, it seemed, had certain inevitability about it. Stanton was hated.
Mason ran the flat of his hand over the top of short-cropped hair, and expelled another long drawn out breath. Thumbing through the pages of his notebook, he turned to face him. ‘This lone drifter, seen in the vicinity of Dove Farm,’ Mason said. ‘It has a nice ring about it, and I need you to take a look up there for me.’
Mason explained.
‘Where the hell is Alwinton?’ Carlisle asked.
‘Not far from Rothbury, I’m told, and within spitting distance of Dove Farm.’ Mason grinned. ‘There’s an Inn there . . . called The Hanging Tree.’
‘Blimey, that’s aptly named.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the lone figure now staring in through the office glass partition wall. Mason raised two fingers and mouthed the word s two minutes.
The officer disappeared.
With thoughts now elsewhere, the DCI reached over and handed him a well-thumbed document. There was another awkward exchange of glances, before Carlisle leaned over and peered at the label: CHARLES ANDERSON – PATHOLOGIST REPORT.
‘It’s a real horror story,’ Mason said, shaking his head. ‘But this time I need to know what your thoughts are.’
Carlisle nodded.
And with that, Mason took off in a hurry.
Chapter Nine
Looking far from relaxed, DCI Jack Mason stood before the assembled team in what was now the tenth briefing o f Operation Appletree . Even the weather seemed to echo the team’s sombre mood. It had rained incessantly that morning, with no signs of abating.
Fresh out of police training school, the late arrival of a windswept female Probationary Constable brought the usual friendly banter.
‘Jesus,’ said Mason. ‘I was worried you might not make it, Constable Ellis.’
‘Sorry, boss, I’ve only just finished duty.’
Mason shook his head.
They sat around three central tables hurriedly pushed together. A drop-down projector screen and two white boards were now the dominant features in the room. Scribbled across the top left-hand corner of one of the white boards were the words: KILLER STRIKES FEAR INTO THE CITY.
Mason shuffled a few papers together, and waited for the noise levels to die down.
‘Today’s headlines,’ Mason groaned, banging the flat of his hand against the whiteboard. ‘I can well imagine what the Chief Constable will say when he reads this crap in his morning newspapers.’
Carlisle, sat huddled around the middle table, listened with interest as Mason ran back over the past few days’ events. Not for the first time, the nature of the crimes had certainly attracted more than the media’s attentions. Grotesque killings and badly mutilated bodies made good press. It’s what sold newspapers, it was part of society’s bigger picture. Even so, the local radio channels were pushing out regular bulletins at an alarming rate. Someone was feeding them insider information. If not, the news teams were damn good at their jobs – too good in Carlisle’s opinion.
‘It’s a well-known fact that most murder victims in the UK knew their killers,’ Mason explained. ‘So what does that tell us about our killer? Two of his victims were strung up like wild beasts in a hunter’s trophy room. Charles Anderson’s naked
The more they talked it over, the more convinced they became. Yes, Stanton’s death had been quick, but no mutilation or theatrical exhibitionism had taken place as it had in the Anderson and Riley murders. Ernest Stanton’s death, it seemed, had certain inevitability about it. Stanton was hated.
Mason ran the flat of his hand over the top of short-cropped hair, and expelled another long drawn out breath. Thumbing through the pages of his notebook, he turned to face him. ‘This lone drifter, seen in the vicinity of Dove Farm,’ Mason said. ‘It has a nice ring about it, and I need you to take a look up there for me.’
Mason explained.
‘Where the hell is Alwinton?’ Carlisle asked.
‘Not far from Rothbury, I’m told, and within spitting distance of Dove Farm.’ Mason grinned. ‘There’s an Inn there . . . called The Hanging Tree.’
‘Blimey, that’s aptly named.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the lone figure now staring in through the office glass partition wall. Mason raised two fingers and mouthed the word s two minutes.
The officer disappeared.
With thoughts now elsewhere, the DCI reached over and handed him a well-thumbed document. There was another awkward exchange of glances, before Carlisle leaned over and peered at the label: CHARLES ANDERSON – PATHOLOGIST REPORT.
‘It’s a real horror story,’ Mason said, shaking his head. ‘But this time I need to know what your thoughts are.’
Carlisle nodded.
And with that, Mason took off in a hurry.
Chapter Nine
Looking far from relaxed, DCI Jack Mason stood before the assembled team in what was now the tenth briefing o f Operation Appletree . Even the weather seemed to echo the team’s sombre mood. It had rained incessantly that morning, with no signs of abating.
Fresh out of police training school, the late arrival of a windswept female Probationary Constable brought the usual friendly banter.
‘Jesus,’ said Mason. ‘I was worried you might not make it, Constable Ellis.’
‘Sorry, boss, I’ve only just finished duty.’
Mason shook his head.
They sat around three central tables hurriedly pushed together. A drop-down projector screen and two white boards were now the dominant features in the room. Scribbled across the top left-hand corner of one of the white boards were the words: KILLER STRIKES FEAR INTO THE CITY.
Mason shuffled a few papers together, and waited for the noise levels to die down.
‘Today’s headlines,’ Mason groaned, banging the flat of his hand against the whiteboard. ‘I can well imagine what the Chief Constable will say when he reads this crap in his morning newspapers.’
Carlisle, sat huddled around the middle table, listened with interest as Mason ran back over the past few days’ events. Not for the first time, the nature of the crimes had certainly attracted more than the media’s attentions. Grotesque killings and badly mutilated bodies made good press. It’s what sold newspapers, it was part of society’s bigger picture. Even so, the local radio channels were pushing out regular bulletins at an alarming rate. Someone was feeding them insider information. If not, the news teams were damn good at their jobs – too good in Carlisle’s opinion.
‘It’s a well-known fact that most murder victims in the UK knew their killers,’ Mason explained. ‘So what does that tell us about our killer? Two of his victims were strung up like wild beasts in a hunter’s trophy room. Charles Anderson’s naked
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