The Wharf Butcher Read Free Page A

against the cold, Carlisle checked his surroundings before moving back towards his parked car. It was strange how some people spent their entire lives avoiding trouble, whilst others got more than their fair share of it. That was the way of the world, life was a lottery and if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Times were hard and money was tight. Had it not been for a recent spate of petty crimes, his business would surely have gone into liquidation. It was a bizarre state of affairs, and the irony never ceased to amaze him.
    It was mid-afternoon when he finally pulled his Rover P4 100 into the last available parking space at the back of the office building. It had stopped snowing, and a low wintery sun was casting long slanting shadows well into the heart of Beach Road. An observant man, Carlisle watched as a heavy roller shutter door came down on another day’s trading. Like most shopkeepers around here, they were struggling just to pay the extortionate council rents that were being meted out. And that was another thing: they were already three months in arrears themselves. What a mess, he cursed.
    Opening up the office, he made coffee, answered a few e-mails and checked for missed phone calls. Not that he was expecting any, but at least it made him feel wanted.
    ‘I’m back!’ the female voice called out.
    Carlisle turned sharply away from the window and back towards the open door where his partner, Jane Collins, now stood.
    ‘Ah! It’s you, Jane.’
    ‘Who else were you expecting to see?’ she teased.
    Carlisle looked up. ‘The last thing I need right now is someone with a sense of humour. I’m chilled to the bone, having stood around all morning in the perishing cold.’
    Jane slid her long elegant frame further into the office, running the flat of her hand down over the front of her dress as if to remove the creases. She was an extremely attractive woman, mid-thirties with long blonde shoulder length hair, deep blue eyes and a slim waistline that gave her the look of a model. If nothing else, her feminine touch had certainly brought another dimension to their ailing business. The clients loved her, she was a natural attraction. Single, Jane’s latest admirers – two Siamese cats lovingly saved from the local cat rescue centre – were the love of her life.
    ‘Before I forget,’ said Jane, ‘another client phoned, desperately in need of legal advice.’
    More like the dregs of society, Carlisle thought, taking another sip of his coffee. Evading further questioning, he moved towards a large bay window and peered down at the busy street below. It was 3.46pm. Soon it would be dark. Apart from an appointment involving a false insurance claim, he had nothing else pencilled in his diary that day. There was, of course, his regular five o’clock Monday appointment with Mr Smallman, a ninety year old flamboyant bachelor who claimed his partner was having an affair with the chairman of the local squash club. He cringed at the thought.
    It had been twelve months since their last major assignment. A vicious love triangle, as he recalled. Boy meets girl – girl disappears under mysterious circumstances – and doting father asks them for help. In the end, it turned out that girl left boy to live with her girlfriend. Not only did she fake her own disappearance, she did a damn good job of convincing everyone else into the bargain. Luckily, the girl’s father was a rich industrialist and his daughter’s timely disappearance had undoubtedly saved their business from bankruptcy.
    ‘So, where have you been?’
    ‘Dunston,’ he replied. ‘The police there have just pulled another car out of the river.’
    ‘Did they say whose?’
    ‘No, just that it was stolen.’
    ‘That sucks!’ Jane said. ‘It was someone’s pride and joy no doubt.’
    ‘Apparently the car was involved in a murder . . . a guy called Ernest Stanton.’
    Jane stopped in her tracks. ‘If it’s the same Stanton that I’m thinking of, he