Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Caslin reached the door and turned the handle, before the DCI called after him, “And have a wash before you come back tomorrow. You might not care what people think about you around here but I bloody well do!”

  Caslin paused for the briefest of moments before leaving. It was a fair comment. He had looked awful that morning and it was doubtful that eight hours on he would appear any better. It was clear to him that Stephens didn’t like having the IPCC in his station, bad smells tended to linger. Trent’s arrival had been a shock, far from pleasant, and it had left a bitter taste. There was only one answer for that, the only answer Caslin had.

  Chapter 6

  Caslin’s mood had not improved by the following morning when he made it up to the third floor of the station, shockingly hung over, and entered a packed CID. Taped to the door was a crudely enlarged and photocopied publicity poster for the latest James Bond film. Scrawled across it in capitals were the words ‘WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE’. His suicide theory had clearly found its way out of Stephens’ office. Caslin held the door open with his left hand and indicated the homemade sign with his right. No-one inside, sitting at their desks, met his eye.

  “Very bloody funny,” he said flatly to a chorus of laughter from within.

  DC Holt was the first to look up, grinning as he spoke, “Well these spooks are hard to find. We thought we’d better make a start.”

  More laughing.

  Caslin walked in and pulled out the chair at his desk, “There isn’t an ejector seat fitted to this is there?”

  Holt shook his head, the grin widening. Caslin was about to sit down but changed his mind, pulling on the coat that he had just removed and headed for the exit. DS Hunter looked like she was about to ask where he was going before thinking better of it. Caslin moved with purpose and nearly collided with Maxim Harman as he rounded the corner in the corridor. The latter had a cup of coffee in his hand and almost threw it over him.

  “Sorry, Sir,” Harman said weakly.

  When Caslin reached the stairs, he called after Harman.

  “Do you know where Hope Street is?”

  Harman nodded, “It’s just off Walmgate, on the east side, edge of the old city walls. Why?”

  Caslin thought for a moment before ignoring the question.

  “Good. Get your coat and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Harman hesitated, “The Guv wants me on this ticketing scam. He’ll have my backside if—”

  “Now!” Caslin said forcefully. “You can make up the ground on that later. Hell, I’ll even help you. Come on,” he encouraged the DC to get a move on, turning his back and setting off.

  Harman let the door swing shut and scampered down the corridor after the rapidly diminishing figure, trying not to spill his drink as he went but failing miserably.

  “Where is it we’re going again?”

  Caslin eyed a sandwich shop on Walmgate. It was a little place, squeezed in between a newsagent and a dry-cleaners. He decided they would stop there on their way out. Hope Street was in an old estate set just within the ancient city walls, a stone’s throw from the Barbican that lay beyond them. It was an estate of brick terraces with a diverse community. From memory, Caslin knew that Dick Turpin was buried somewhere nearby, in the graveyard of a church that itself had been long gone for many years. He glanced around as Harman pulled up at the kerbside and put on the handbrake. It struck him that there was something ironic about the highwayman being buried amongst the residents here, for he too had crossed social boundaries. A fleeting thought crossed his mind as to whether there was a criminal gene that permeated certain areas down through the ages? He doubted it.

  Number twelve was a maisonette, located between two larger properties. The dark blue paint of the front door was peeling around the edges and the window frames were also in need of a lick of paint, as the top layer of white was flaking off to reveal another of deep brown. There was a collection of plastic bins, grey and green, alongside recycling crates, all arranged haphazardly on the concrete pathway leading up to the buildings. Some had plasticised numbers stuck to them, whilst others were crudely hand painted. Loud music could be heard banging out from one of the upper windows of the terrace and Caslin prayed that it wasn’t from number twelve. His headache was clearing but he still felt a little tender.

  Harman rang the bell and stepped back to wait. A few of the neighbours passed by in the street and the two men felt very conspicuous as eyes fell upon them. Caslin felt they were easily identifiable as police. After a wait that made him wonder if they were being ignored, a woman opened the door. She was in her late forties, had light brown hair that was tied back at the nape of her neck, with a fringe that hung low across her forehead. She drew her dressing gown closer about her as the chill of the outdoors hit home, viewing them suspiciously. They introduced themselves, showing her their warrant cards and reluctantly, she invited them inside.

  The hallway was narrow and cluttered, with stairs off it to the bedrooms above, leading into a larger reception room that could accommodate a three-piece suite. Once, it was white leather but now it showed signs of discolouration and wear. The smell of cannabis prevailed in the room as did the distinctive stale smell of cigarettes. A television was fixed to the wall, far too large for the room and was quickly muted, sparing the visitors a dose of daytime chat. As they each took a seat, Caslin was relieved to see that the dressing gown covered jogging bottoms and a sweater.

  “We’re looking for a ‘C McNeil’. We believe that name is registered at this address?”

  “That would be me, Chloe McNeil,” she said, taking out a packet of menthol cigarettes from a pocket in her dressing gown, along with a disposable green lighter, and sparking up. “What’s this about?” she asked, between drags.

  Caslin explained the events that had led them to her door. He left out the grislier details as he was acutely aware she probably had some connection with the deceased as yet to be determined. Surprisingly to Caslin, she failed to react in any notable way to the information. If she was missing someone there was no apparent concern. The pickup was not known to her, nor was the address of Radford Farmhouse, and she had no knowledge of anyone by the name of Horsvedt. Were it not for the utility bill in the vehicle, there would be no link to her at all. Caslin could feel his frustration mounting. As a last resort he described the deceased as best as he could remember. Chloe stubbed out her cigarette vigorously as he spoke, causing ash to spill over onto the coffee table as she disturbed the pile. Just at the last of his description she hesitated momentarily, but it was enough.

  “Sound like someone you know?” Caslin asked tentatively.

  Chloe McNeil glanced over at him, her mouth open and lips slightly apart. An expression that was hard to read. She finished stubbing out the butt and rose. Crossing the room to the mantel above her coal-effect electric fire, she picked up a photo that had been tucked behind another frame. Pausing with it held in both hands before her, she stared intently at it, before passing it to Caslin.

  “Is this him?” she asked softly.

  Caslin examined the photo. It was a shot of Chloe with her arms draped around a man, taken on a bright sunny day, evidently some time ago. The edges were tatty, with both figures in the picture appearing several years younger. Chloe’s hair was darker, not greying as it was now, and the man she sat with had a nineties flat-top. However, the likeness was unmistakable, they had found their man. Caslin handed the picture to Harman as Chloe McNeil withdrew another cigarette from the box and lit it, her hands shaking almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat.

  “I’d like you to attend an identification. We need to be certain.”

  “But it’s him, isn’t it?” she interrupted.

  Caslin remained non-committal, “We need to be sure. Who is it, in this picture?”

  Chloe took a long draw on her cigarette, exhaling heavily before she spoke, “My husband… my… ex-husband, Garry. Garry McNeil.”

  Caslin waited a moment, letting the information
sink in. He gently elbowed Harman to get his attention.

  “Perhaps a cup of tea might be in order?”

  Harman took the hint and pointed in the direction of what he assumed was the kitchen. A slightly shell-shocked Chloe nodded and smiled appreciatively.

  “I’ve not seen him in a while,” she said after a moment. Caslin only now noticed her voice was gravelly in tone. Gingerly she seated herself on the arm of one of the chairs.

  “When did you last see him?”

  Chloe thought for a moment, clinging to her cigarette as she did so, “About seven or eight months ago I reckon, got to be… yeah. He came around every now and again, after we split but he keeps his distance now, since the divorce.”

  Caslin nodded his understanding and couldn’t help but wonder if his marriage was heading the same way. The sounds of a kettle boiling came to him from the kitchen.

  “Do you know where Garry has been living?”

  She shook her head, “No, and to be honest I couldn’t have cared less!” Caslin was a little taken aback. Chloe seemed to notice and quickly responded, “We didn’t break up on the best of terms, Garry… well, he found it hard when he came back to civvy street.”

  “He was in the forces?”

  “Yeah, the Rifles. He did his twenty and came out,” Chloe thought for a moment. “2008. Pretty sure it was in the June.”

  “You say he found it hard?”

  Chloe nodded, “He struggled to hold down work. It was always casual, labouring or security.”

  “Security?”

  “Agency stuff. Night watchman at factories and the like. He had a stint on A and E at the weekends for a while.”

  “Any idea what he had been doing more recently?”

  Chloe shook her head. Caslin passed the photograph back and Chloe’s eyes lingered on it for a moment.

  “It wasn’t always bad though. This was taken at Glastonbury in ’91, I think. We had fun back then, old rockers now…”

  Harman reappeared with a tray of mismatching mugs and placed it down on the table before them.

  “Do you have anyone that we can call for you, Miss McNeil?” Caslin asked.

  She shook her head, “There’s no need. When do you want me to do the…” she searched for the word.

  “Identification?” Harman answered. Chloe nodded.

  “As soon as we can arrange it. This afternoon if you feel up to it?” She said that she was although appeared less than enthusiastic. That was fair enough. In all his years on the job, he was yet to come across anyone who looked forward to identifying their loved ones. Even the disgruntled ex-lovers found it distasteful, if not overwhelming. “I’ll set the wheels in motion.”

  Caslin left Harman in the room with her. She was withdrawing into herself but that was natural, she was in shock. Taking out his phone he was about to call Fulford when it buzzed. He answered it and to his surprise it was Frank Stephens.

  “You’d better get back here.”

  “I think we’ve identified our man, Guv.”

  “That’s the good news, then,” Stephens said genuinely. “You can fill me in when you get here. Bad news, depending on how you look at it, is you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “The preliminary is in from the pathologist and it would appear that your man topped himself.”

  “We’re on our way,” Caslin said and hung up. He had resisted the urge to say “I know”.

  Chapter 7

  “Garry McNeil died of cardiac arrest, having first slipped into a coma and suffered a pulmonary oedema, according to the pathologist,” DCI Stephens said, sitting back in his chair as if the weight of such news had settled heavily upon him.

  Back at Fulford shortly after 3 p.m., Caslin had joined the meeting. Michael Atwood was at the DCI’s side and Gerry Trent was notable by his absence. DS Hunter sat alongside both Constables Holt and Harman. Caslin had taken the remaining chair.

  “What brought that on?” Caslin asked. Everyone was processing the information being divulged from the document Frank Stephens held before him.

  “He had ingested cyanide. Apparently, a capsule had been loosely sewn into the waistband of his jeans. We found the hole for which after Dr Taylor produced the cause of death.”

  “That’s a bit cloak and dagger,” Atwood stated.

  “Too right it is,” Stephens agreed. “Let’s have a recap. What do we know about this McNeil character?”

  “He was forty-nine years of age, former military, having served for two decades. Recently divorced and has been struggling to adapt to civilian life over the past seven years,” Caslin offered.

  “Known income sources?”

  Caslin shook his head, “Still to be determined. Nothing regular, as far as we are aware.”

  “What connection do we have with Daniel Horsvedt?”

  Harman spoke up, “Preliminary investigation shows no discernible link through work or criminality. Neither man has been on our radar, past or present.”

  “Any idea as to why McNeil had possession of Horsvedt’s vehicle, or indication as to why he tried to pass himself off as the former?”

  “Maybe he borrowed it from him and didn’t have insurance. It wouldn’t be the first time,” Atwood suggested.

  “We’ll have to find a link between them for that to be the case,” Caslin added. “That leads us to a bigger question though.”

  “Which is?” Stephens asked.

  “Where is Daniel Horsvedt? I know it’s early days but the border police haven’t come up with anything to show that he, or his rig for that matter, have left the country recently.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a ringing desk phone. Stephens answered it and accepted the call, putting it on loudspeaker for everyone to hear.

  “Go on, Dr Taylor, we’re all listening.”

  “Thank you, Frank. Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen,” there was a murmur of greeting from those present as the pathologist joined proceedings. “Apologies for my absence but I was required to follow up with the detail as soon as possible.”

  Caslin was struck by the softness of the tone in the doctor’s voice. The thought distracted him briefly from the subject matter in hand.

  “What have you been able to ascertain, Alison?” DCI Stephens asked.

  “The Hydrogen Cyanide dosage was well over 200 milligrams, almost twice what would have been considered strong enough to kill Mr McNeil. 1.5 milligrams per kilo of bodyweight could be fatal, depending on the person. Even if he’d been admitted to a hospital immediately, knowing what he had ingested, it remains highly doubtful that he would’ve made it.”

  “Any idea where he got it from? I mean it’s not exactly freely available at your local pharmacy,” Caslin inquired.

  “There is a possibility that there’s a chemical marker that may, or may not, help trace the source but…”

  “But?” Caslin pressed.

  “Well, it’s a guess but judging from the method of delivery, I would find such a marker to be unlikely in this instance.”

  “Do you have anything else for us, Alison?” Stephens asked.

  “Not at this point. I’ll get the full report to you as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Stephens said as he hung up. Caslin was already missing the sound of her voice. Stephens refocused on his team before him. “So, we have virtually nothing as it stands now? At this moment in time we have no idea as to where McNeil was living, working or getting his money. Nor do we know why he was pretending to be someone else on the night that he died. Let alone, where that person is and no clue as to the motive for suicide. Do I have that, about right?”

  The DCI had stress in his voice. Caslin recognised it and momentarily felt a twinge in his chest. The question was rhetorical and no-one responded directly.

  “We have a name, that’s a start,” DI Atwood said. “Once released, we may get more leads coming our way.”

  Caslin shook his head. How Michael Atwood had made DI was a
mystery to him. He was always looking for an angle to either get up the ladder or make it known that that was where he was heading. If there was anything of potential risk to his credibility, a case that looked too messy for him, he would find some way to duck out without appearing to do so. Caslin had a phrase for people like him, referring to them as “Teflons”. As far as he could work out, Atwood had no major collars on his record and moved between positions, and constabularies, frequently. No doubt the regularity of his departures ensured that his misjudgements never got a chance to catch up with him. He had only been in York for ten months, following a two-year stint in Child Exploitation and Online Protection within the National Crime Agency, and was rumoured to already be engineering a transfer. God only knew where to, this time.

  What he did have going for him though, was the ear of their boss. However, if Caslin’s DI had suggested waiting for the public to proffer information in a case like this, rather than taking a proactive approach, he would have hit the roof. Maybe that was one reason why his own career was prematurely on the way back down.

  “I’m not going before the press this evening with nothing more than a name and a suicide,” Stephens exclaimed. “We’ve bloody had the guy for two days. If I don’t give them more than that, they’ll damn well start making it up. This case takes priority. By all means, continue with anything else you’ve got on but we need movement on this.”

  It was a fair point. The red tops loved a case like this and had the dead man been an immigrant, or an ethnic minority, they probably would have had a field day with it, by now. As it stood, there was a limited window of peace before the status quo would evolve.

  From the outset it was made clear that an investigation into the death in custody was off limits, this was firmly in the control of Trent and the IPCC. As long as all information was freely passed to them, then CID could look at the surrounding matters, until such time as they were deemed relevant. Caslin felt that such a large team wasn’t required but had to admit that the case was unusual and no-one knew where it might lead.