The Wharf Butcher Read Online Free PDF Page B

Carlisle, ample time for the killer to carry out his business. He cupped his face in his hands, and tried to imagine the scene. Thirty feet up, nailed to the rafters and the victim’s face staring down at him. The profiler’s eyes suddenly shot open again. Without an accomplice it would have been an almost impossible act to perform. Unless...
    ‘What kind of person commits such atrocities?’ Jane asked.
    Mason rolled his eyes. ‘What makes him tick? Now that is an interesting question.’
    Distracted by the rapid fire shutter of Peter Davenport’s digital camera, they made slow progress across the farmyard. On reaching the farmhouse, a large north facing building, Carlisle took stock. The entrance, guarded by two ornate pilasters supporting a heavy scalloped lintel and carved from solid stone, had a look of stately grandeur. To each side of a solid oak door stood a large earthenware plant pot; the shrivelled unattended remains of a previous summer still lying lifeless in damp soil.
    Herded along a stone floored hallway, they swung left and down a steep flight of stone stairs. The kitchen had that familiar whiff, a sweet coppery metallic smell reminiscent of death. To one corner stood a large black open-range fireplace, its huge mantel and fender now void of any warmth. All that remained were the burnt ashes lying in the bottom of the fire basket, discarded, and frozen in time. Unlike a dozen other crime scenes that Carlisle had attended, this one felt different. The room had an eerie presence, whitewashed walls and a low beamed ceiling. Pots and pans of every imaginable shape and size hung in profusion from smoke charred rafters. Slung by their handles, they reminded him of a medieval army ranked in tight formation and about to do battle.
    ‘We found Mrs Riley’s body slumped beneath this table,’ Mason explained, pointing to the floor.
    ‘How did she die?’ Carlisle asked.
    ‘She was bludgeoned to death. The manner in which this bastard mutilates his victims ranks amongst the worst I’ve ever come across. It disgusts me to think that such vile crimes can still be committed in a modern civilised society.’
    Jane flinched. ‘I take it her wounds were extensive?’
    ‘Death would have been instantaneous.’
    No attempt had been made to clear away the congealed bloodstains where the victim had fallen. The press would have a field day, he thought, but that would come later. In his notebook, he scribbled dow n Serial kille r and underlined the word s .
    ‘Any particular side?’ he asked, rasping a few days’ stubble.
    ‘The right side, along the suture line midpoint between the frontal and parietal bones.’ There was bitterness in Mason’s voice. ‘She was struck with such tremendous force, she suffered multiple skull fractures. You would normally only anticipate seeing this type of injury in an automobile accident, or someone who’s fallen from a high-rise building.’
    ‘What do we know about her attacker?’ Carlisle asked.
    ‘He’s male; around six-two, and of medium build. Early indications confirm the angle of entry makes her attacker left-handed.’ Mason stepped back as if to enforce a point. ‘In answer to your previous question, Miss Collins, we found heavy latex deposits on the jack lever. We also found transfer blood on the cooking pot handle. It was Derek Riley’s.’
    ‘So he came prepared?’
    ‘Let’s wait for forensics before we go jumping to any conclusions,’ Mason replied.
    At last a physical description, thought Carlisle. Not much, but at least something to work on? From what Mason had told them so far, none of this made sense. Why the killer had made every effort to avoid personal detection and yet, audaciously display his victim’s body as art forms was clearly a conflict of interests. Surely a more natural reaction would have been to dispose of the evidence, bury, or even burn it. Somehow the pieces didn’t fit.
    Mason hesitated. ‘If you ask me, this whole damn business