The Wharf Butcher Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 18 th 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