The Wharf Butcher Read Online Free PDF

be preserved untouched for the forensic teams.
    ‘You’ll need to suit up,’ Johnson said. ‘There are a couple of spare suits in the ops truck.’
    Wriggling his way into the fresh white paper over-suit, Carlisle slipped on a pair of disposable overshoes and moved towards a large wrought iron gate. On closer inspection, he noted the whole area had been cordoned off, including many of the adjoining out-buildings. Dove Farm appeared a remote location, secluded, and off the beaten track. The wind up here seemed to be blowing in all directions. It was then he caught sight of several yellow crime scene evidence flags fluttering on the breeze. Each carried a number, each an important piece in the forensic jigsaw puzzle. Nothing, it seemed, was being left to chance. Everything that could be done was being done.
    ‘Let’s deal with Derek Riley’s murder first.’ Mason’s jaw was clenched tight as he stared at them. ‘I take it you’ve both read Charles Anderson’s case files?’
    They nodded in unison, but neither spoke.
    Not the best of starts, thought Carlisle, as they made their way through thick, heavily congealed sheep droppings. Nearing the west barn – a large stone building set back on the west wing of the courtyard – they stopped for a while, and between them managed to drag open the huge timber door. As the daylight poured into the building, he could see the interior had been built on two levels. The upper floor, slightly set back, was used as a hayloft. The ground floor – recently covered in a fresh layer of straw – had a strange pungent odour.
    Mason turned to face them again. ‘It all begins here. This is where Derek Riley first met with his killer.’ There followed a quick check of notes. ‘Early Post-mortem results confirm he was struck a massive blow to the cranium, puncturing a fifty-millimetre diameter hole through the skull parietal bone. The force of the blow probably rendered irreparable damage to the cerebellum, but it did not kill him at this stage.’ Mason pointed to the heavily congealed bloodstains splattered across the inner timber walls of the barn, an index finger following the blood trace. He appeared on edge, and the veins on his neck stood out like a roadmap. Every now and then, he would pause to point out where the victim had attempted to stem the blood flow. ‘Take a look at this,’ Mason went on. ‘This is where Derek Riley finally met his ending. From here, his body was hoisted up into the rafters and then he was crucified. It wasn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you.’
    Sometimes it was easier to say nothing.
    For one frightening, incomprehensible moment, Carlisle imagined they were dealing with a copycat crucifixion killer. All the signs were there . . . the arms outstretched, six-inch nails driven through the wrists and feet, and the body posed for maximum effect.
    Mason turned to face them again. ‘Not fifty metres from here, we recovered a two-metre heavy steel jack lever. DNA traces and body flesh tissue match those of the victim’s blood group. In other words, we now have our murder weapon.’
    ‘And fingerprints?’ asked Jane.
    ‘I’ll come back to that later.’
    Jane glanced at Carlisle, but said nothing. Mason had lost none of his pragmatic bullishness, it seemed.
    ‘To call this a frenzie d attack . . . would be an understatement. Derek Riley’s facial features and the top of his skull had been pulverised beyond all recognition.’ Mason drew breath, as if reliving the moment. ‘This was a brutal attack as you can well imagine, and we found extensive traces of cerebral matter spread over a wide area.’
    ‘Who discovered the body?’ Carlisle asked.
    ‘The farm’s General Manager, a man called Eugene Briggs.’
    ‘When was this?’
    ‘Six thirty the following morning.’
    ‘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