The Wharf Butcher Read Free Page B

was a real nasty piece of work. Wasn’t he recently acquitted for fraud?’
    Then the penny dropped. Of course, Ernest Stanton had been involved in a massive fraud scam involving Flood Defence contracts. Having witnessed first-hand that morning the terrible devastation of nature’s wrath, how could he have overlooked that? Nothing, it seemed, was sacred in humanity’s desperate struggle against the ravages of global climate change. Whole communities were being swept away by flooding. It was a massive problem, and one in which the Government was willing to throw vast sums of money at in search of a solution. As Carlisle remembered, Ernest Stanton had made a small fortune out of other people’s misery. Working for the Environment Agency, he was notoriously known for taking back handers. Everyone knew the score, but proving it was another matter. Stanton’s untimely death had come as no surprise. Even to the police. No wonder they’d kept a tight lid on things earlier that morning.
    Without giving it another thought, he closed down the lid of his computer and shuffled a few papers around on an untidy desk.
    ‘Tell me,’ said Jane. ‘What were the police hoping to find after the car had lain at the bottom of the river for weeks?’
    ‘Not a lot, I would imagine.’
    ‘I wonder who killed him.’
    ‘God knows!’
    Carlisle took another sip of his coffee, and casually glanced down at the neatly folded newspaper laid across his desk. His attention was drawn to a short article tucked away in the small print, concerning the recent cold weather snap. As if he needed reminding. His legs were numb, and his back was still aching from having stood around all morning in the freezing cold.
    ‘So how did your meeting go?’ he asked.
    ‘I was wondering when you were going to get round to that,’ Jane said, looking somewhat miffed. Her eyes engaged with his for just a fraction longer than necessary, a warning signal. It was time to sit up and listen. ‘A friend of mine was saying there’s been an awful lot of change taking place at Police Headquarters. They’re reorganising the place . . . shuffling people around.’
    ‘Did your friend say why?’ he asked.
    Jane straightened. ‘Seemingly, it’s all down to the recent government cutbacks. My friend’s husband is having a dreadful time of it. According to her, something very hush-hush is going on. They’ve drafted in several new faces apparently, specialist people, not your ordinary run of the mill coppers.’
    ‘Did she say who these people were?’
    Jane flushed, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘No, but she believes they’re part of the Met’s Murder Investigation Unit. It seems the senior officers are keeping a very tight lid on things.’
    ‘That’s odd.’
    ‘I know, especially when these people have been allocated their own separate floor of the building.’
    There had to be a simple explanation, he reasoned, a training exercise or perhaps a combined force initiative. Besides, it wasn’t unusual for the Metropolitan to assign a team of specialist officers to another force. He’d been there before, many times, but it still didn’t add up in his opinion. There again, he thought, if something of major importance was taking place they may be trying to keep it from the media. Half-cocked stories made good headline news, but usually spelt major trouble for the police back-room staff.
    But why allocate these people their own separate floor of the building?
    ‘What else did your friend tell you?’ he quizzed.
    ‘Apparently your name is being bandied around.’
    ‘What!’
    ‘Well that’s what the Deputy Chief Constable’s secretary was saying.’
    As the pen dropped from his fingers, it hit the floor with a clatter. He thought about picking it up, but chose not to do so. It had been five-years since his redundancy, so why the sudden ‘U’ turn?
    ‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked.
    ‘How do I know, I–– ’
    ‘Did your friend say why my name was