Fear the Past

by J M Dalgliesh

  “Let’s gather as much of the CCTV as we can from the surrounding area. We might catch a break.”

  “Good idea,” Caslin said, pursing his lips.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Just that…” he left the thought unfinished, turning his head and scanning the tree line behind them. He cast his eyes up and took in the streetlights as well as the pub’s minimal exterior illumination. “Not a bad place to jump someone,” Caslin said, turning to Hunter and then scanning the floor nearby. She considered the theory. Caslin stepped away from the car and dropped to his haunches, reaching out but not touching the floor. He looked to the heavens and then back at the ground.

  “What is it?” Hunter asked, coming alongside.

  “The tarmac is wet, so it could be a trick of the light but I think this is blood,” he said, moving his hand in a circular motion indicating a patch of the car park that appeared a darker shade than that surrounding it. “It stands to reason Wyer would have taken his coat off when he reached the car and was about to get in. That’s why it’s unlocked with the coat on the back seat. Do you have your torch?”

  “Yes,” she replied, reaching into her coat pocket.

  “Can you put some light on this?” he asked. Hunter set the beam to where Caslin pointed. The damp patch shone with a tinge of red. Caslin looked past the car and into the trees beyond. “There’s a great place to keep an eye on things,” he said, looking from there back towards the pub. “You’ve got a decent sightline to the exit door from the pub into the car park. Likewise, anyone entering by car. There’s nothing behind the trees there to note your presence, only the gable wall of those buildings. You’re totally concealed.”

  “You think he was ambushed?” Hunter asked.

  “If it was an opportunistic robbery why didn’t they take his wallet? And why didn’t they just leave him where he fell?” Caslin argued, pointing to the ground at their feet.

  “They went to a lot of trouble to get rid of the body but he was always likely to be found,” Hunter said. “Maybe it was a robbery that got out of hand and when they realised he’d died, they panicked. Perhaps they got rid of the body because it would tie them to this area.”

  Caslin had to admit her logic was credible but not flawless. “The car ties it to the area though and they didn’t move that. We’d better put a call into forensics and let Iain Robertson know he has another crime scene.”

  “He’ll be happy,” Hunter said, smiling.

  “Ahh… he loves being miserable,” Caslin countered. “It gives him something to complain about.”

  ***

  “Terry, talk to me about Tony Mason,” Caslin said, momentarily distracted by his mobile ringing. Picking it up off the desk, he registered the caller before quickly dismissing it and sending the call to voicemail. Putting down the handset, he turned back to DC Holt and indicated for him to continue.

  “Anthony Mason, resident here in York and a former detective inspector with North Yorkshire Police. Previously a DS with Greater Manchester,” Holt stated, walking over to the information board and pointing to Mason’s photograph, sited alongside one of Jody Wyer. “Companies House has him registered as a director of Blue Line Investigations, a limited company formed five years ago as a joint enterprise between the two of them.”

  “What do we know about the company?” Hunter asked.

  “All required filings with HMRC have been carried out on schedule. Their position is solvent with a healthy cash position,” Holt said. Hunter made a note. “I checked out their website. The services they offer are much as you described - corporate investigations, insurance fraud, marital disputes.”

  “And Mason himself?” Caslin asked.

  “The performance reviews in his personnel file were variable.”

  “How so?”

  “He earned glowing reports throughout his early career as he climbed the ranks until hitting a downward trend in the latter years of his service. I’d interpret that as a result of a change in commanding officer alongside a shift in how we were managed.”

  “Is that your polite way of saying he was proper old-school in his approach to policing?” Caslin queried.

  Holt nodded enthusiastically. “He received several complaints regarding his conduct in the last three years up until he hit his thirty and retired,” Holt said, referring to his notes. “One of those complaints came from a fellow officer.”

  “Wow,” Caslin said, glancing towards Hunter. “He was probably keen to get out of the door.”

  “Those aren’t the greatest highlights on file for him though,” Holt said. “He was the subject of an investigation by Complaints nearly a decade ago.”

  “What was their interest?” Caslin asked, finding his curiosity piqued. The Complaints Division were responsible for investigating serving police officers, covering everything from conduct to corruption.

  “His financial affairs,” Holt said. “He was the victim of two counts of common assault. One in 2006 and another, more recently, in 2011. The latter saw him hospitalised for over a week.”

  “How does that tie in with Complaints?” Hunter asked.

  “There was the suggestion that this resulted from debts he had run up.”

  “Who with?”

  Holt shook his head. “The investigations didn’t go anywhere. Complaints ended theirs with a reprimand placed on his file relating to his gambling habits, recommending an ongoing process of monitoring. The thinking was that he’d left himself open to manipulation with his debts which, as you both know, is a big no-no.”

  “What about the assaults?”

  “In 2006, the case remained unsolved. Mason claimed he had no knowledge of his assailants and there were no witnesses. In the second case, the charges were dropped when Mason himself refused to press charges. I think that was the final nail in his career. Shortly after, he was shifted across to Acomb Road to see out his thirty.”

  “Any suggestion as to who he owed money to?” Caslin asked. “Are we looking at loan sharks or backstreet bookies?”

  Holt shrugged, “Sorry, sir. I don’t have that information. I’m going to go through the archive and gather the related names and I’ll run them through the database for prior convictions and known associates. I might get a steer from that. I had a thought though. If he hit the financial buffers perhaps there was a pattern in his personal life that coincided with it?”

  “Go on,” Caslin encouraged him.

  “He moved house on several occasions in the last ten years and not only at times matching a redeployment. Now, bear in mind it’s only a cursory examination but each time he was downsizing and moving to a less desirable area.”

  “Cashing in to fund his lifestyle?”

  “Or to stem his losses,” Holt countered.

  “Great work, Terry,” Caslin smiled, turning to Hunter. “I reckon we should pop back and have a word with Mr Mason. I think he is holding back on us a little.”

  “Agreed,” Hunter said and they both stood up.

  “Let me know what you find in the archives,” Caslin said. There was a knock on the frame of the door to their office. Simon, the civilian clerk from the station’s front office ducked his head around the door.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Inspector Caslin,” he said tentatively. For a man who was notoriously unaware of how mundane people generally found his presence to be, he was however, acutely aware of how Caslin felt towards him – largely disinterested.

  “What can we do for you, Simon?”

  “I’ve taken three calls for you, Mr Caslin,” he said. “They are all from your father. He is trying to get you on your mobile but is not having much luck. Is there a problem with your phone?”

  “No. Not at all,” Caslin replied. Hunter looked away and Terry Holt turned his back stifling a grin, both well aware Caslin was being short and yet equally aware Simon wouldn’t notice.

  “Oh… right. Well, he’s asked that you return his call when you are free.”

  “T
hank you,” Caslin said.

  “He has called three times,” Simon said, watching Caslin pick up his mobile and put it in his pocket.

  “Thank you,” Caslin repeated.

  “If he calls again, what should I say?”

  “Use your imagination,” Caslin said, pulling on his coat and signalling for Hunter to join him. They both walked out, Hunter smiling at the bemused clerk who was trying to make sense of the exchange.

  “That was mean,” Hunter said playfully as they made their way along the corridor.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Caslin said with a wry grin. “Heads up,” he added under his breath as DCI Matheson rounded the corner in front of them. She indicated for them to stop as they approached.

  “Nathaniel,” she said, also acknowledging Hunter with an expression serving to advise her that her presence was not required.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” Hunter said to Caslin who nodded. Matheson waited until the detective sergeant was out of earshot before she spoke.

  “As much as I appreciate your Major Crimes Unit picking up some of CID’s caseload, I was wondering what your interest in the Wyer case is?” Caslin smiled. That was a popular question at present.

  “Interest is ongoing, Ma’am,” he replied. Caslin was confident her words of appreciation were genuine since his own recruitment to Kyle Broadfoot’s crime bureau had left Fulford Road’s resident investigation team shorthanded. Particularly with Caslin’s insistence on taking both Terry Holt and Sarah Hunter along with him, a decision that decimated the operational effectiveness of Fulford Road’s CID. Replacements were either in place on a secondment basis or in the process of being reassigned. Nonetheless, the upheaval was significant. “Besides, we have an ongoing commitment to support you until such time as Fulford Road is back to the appropriate headcount.” Matheson smiled but Caslin saw past it.

  “Your political nous is improving, I see,” she said.

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  “In the meantime, can you offer me any reassurance that this bombing will not be repeated any time soon?”

  “I wasn’t aware that’d been confirmed,” Caslin said. Matheson frowned, her patience tested. Caslin had to concede some ground, “Early days. We don’t have a motive yet but the ownership of the business is more likely to be part of the inspiration than a random act of terror. That’s my instinct talking, just to be clear.”

  Matheson accepted the statement with good grace, “Thank you, Nathaniel. If you need my help, just let me know.”

  “I will Ma’am,” Caslin said. “Thank you.”

  The DCI moved off and Caslin increased his pace, eager to hook up with Hunter and head over to see Tony Mason. Previously, he hadn’t known what to expect but having met the man, Caslin didn’t like him. He knew the type, bold, brash and a devil to unpick. Mason would only offer the information he knew Caslin could easily find out in other ways. Wyer wasn’t talking to those around him regarding what he was working on or if he was, they weren’t willing to reveal it. Either way, Caslin knew there was more information to be had and he intended to find out what that was.

  Chapter Eight

  Approaching Mason’s office, they spied his white Jaguar pulling out into traffic and set off in the opposite direction.

  “What do you want to do, call in at the office or…”

  “Follow him,” Caslin said. “We’re already heading that way. Outside of the office he may just drop his guard and you never know, maybe he’ll give us more.”

  Hunter kept pace with Mason’s car maintaining a comfortable distance with several vehicles in between them. They passed out of the city centre heading north towards the outskirts of York before cutting east. The residential area of Rawcliffe was to their right, bordering Clifton which was the direction they were travelling. Hunter saw Mason’s indicator flicker on as he took a turn onto the Clifton Moor industrial estate, the last vestige of development before they reached the countryside. The traffic was lighter here and she eased off allowing him to put a little distance between them to remain unnoticed before she also took the turn.

  Mason pulled his Jaguar into a scrap metal yard, easily identifiable by the towering stacks of wrecked cars visible above the perimeter fence. Hunter pulled up a few hundred yards away. To get any closer risked their presence being revealed as the nearby businesses were set back from the highway by some distance leaving too much open ground in which to try and conceal themselves.

  “Leave the car here and let’s see if we can get a little closer,” Caslin said, getting out of the car. Hunter did likewise having reached over and grabbed her camera from the glove box. Falling into step alongside him, she hooked her arm through his to simulate being a couple. Together, they made their way along the path on the opposite side of the road from the scrap yard, casting casual glances in that direction as they passed the entrance. Emblazoned with a bold, blue and white sign signifying MacEwan’s Metals, Mason’s car was parked before the site office but no one else was visible. They kept moving so as not to draw attention to themselves but Caslin looked to their right and the building on the opposite side of the road. It was a two-storey distribution warehouse of some kind belonging to a large logistics firm. “This way,” he said to Hunter, guiding her in the direction of the entrance.

  Once inside, Caslin flashed his warrant card and sought access to the upper floor. The site manager was accommodating without prying, happy their presence had nothing to do with him or his team. He showed them into his office which overlooked the frontage giving them an uninterrupted view of the scrapyard. Caslin thanked him and they were left alone. A few minutes passed and they waited. The only movement came from the operation of a large crane, bending and scooping up a mixture of tangled metal and dropping it into a hopper to await the crusher. They didn’t have to wait too long before figures emerged from within the office.

  Mason appeared first. Even from this distance his pink cheeks looked far flusher than they had previously. His expression was fixed and he didn’t look happy. Another man followed closely behind. He was older. Caslin figured he was in his late sixties with swept back hair that appeared almost white in contrast to his tanned skin, judged most likely to be natural rather than fake. He was gesturing as he talked and it looked very much as if Mason was the target of his ire. The latter turned and replied in kind raising his arm and pointing a finger in an accusatory gesture. Seconds later another came from within the office. Clearly, this man was the calming influence who sought to reconcile the other two.

  “Recognise any of these guys?” Caslin asked.

  “The peacemaker is David MacEwan,” Hunter said. “He’s been around a bit but I don’t know the other one.”

  “I thought I knew him,” Caslin said quietly. “I didn’t realise he was back from Spain though.”

  “Nor did I,” Hunter concurred.

  “What about the guy with the white hair?”

  “No idea.”

  “Get some pictures, would you?”

  Hunter took out her camera, zoomed in on the trio and began snapping away. The heat of the conversation subsided and they continued to talk but it was clear they hadn’t reached a resolution. Mason clambered back into his Jaguar, slamming the door shut and rapidly firing the engine into life. The wheels spun in the gravel as he turned the car around and drove out of the yard, accelerating away at speed once the car reached the tarmac of the highway.

  The remaining men continued their conversation and they were joined by another, a younger man who approached from the left and was previously shielded from view by the perimeter fence. Hunter ensured she had him in the frame as well. Moments later, he disappeared again before reappearing minutes later at the wheel of a red Mercedes. He got out leaving the engine running. They watched as MacEwan shook hands with the white-haired man and they shared a joke about something. The latter got into the car and the driver shut the door for him.

  “Make sure you get that index,” Caslin
said, taking out his phone and putting a call into the control room.

  “I’ve got it,” Hunter confirmed as the vehicle left the yard taking a right and heading out of the industrial estate. Returning her focus to MacEwan she snapped the final picture of him and his associate as they dropped out of sight, back into the office.

  “Right, thanks,” Caslin said, hanging up on his call. “The Police National Computer check on that Mercedes has it registered to a hire car company based at Manchester Airport. We’re going to have to get onto them directly to find out who’s driving it.”

  “He certainly didn’t get that tan in Yorkshire. Not at this time of the year,” Hunter said dryly. “Should we go and have that chat with Mason now?”

  Caslin shook his head looking at his watch, “No. Let’s find out a bit more about the new figures before we do. Mason looked pretty pissed off with whatever the conclusion of that discussion was. Related to Wyer, do you think?”

  Hunter thought on it. “MacEwan’s a career criminal. We’ve had him a couple of times over the years but he’s always managed to slip through the net when those around him end up doing serious time. It’s a strange acquaintance for an ex-copper to be associating with.”

  “We need to know who the unidentified man is and see where he fits in,” Caslin said.

  “MacEwan’s been sunning himself for the past few years,” Hunter said. “Maybe that’s one of his business partners from over there.”

  “Perhaps,” Caslin said. “Whatever’s going on, Mason is rattled.”

  ***

  “We’re not looking at anything particularly complicated here,” Iain Robertson said, addressing the group. Kyle Broadfoot was in attendance at the briefing of the initial forensic analysis of the bombing. Caslin perched on the edge of a table to the left and Terry Holt was seated with Hunter. Robertson turned and pointed to a sketch of the minicab offices owned by the Fullers. On it, Robertson had placed pins labelled with the names of the victims to denote where he believed they were standing at the moment of the device’s detonation. “I think the explosion originated here,” he said, indicating the back office, located in the middle of the building behind a stud wall separating the waiting area from the front lobby. “Two of the victims were present in the room, judging from the severity of their injuries.”