Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Harman continued, “There isn’t the equipment here to do the data transfer. At least, I’ve not found it yet. It’s not particularly difficult to do but nevertheless—”

  “That’s dedication to your hobby, though. You would worry the tape might stretch or wear out over time.”

  “Also, where is the camera? The recordings that I reviewed were at an angle suggesting the camera was placed at height but with no table or furniture of note in the building that matches the line, I’m assuming use of a tripod. The picture and sound quality were far too good to have been made with a phone or a basic digital camera. We’re talking about some decent kit. Not stuff that you throw in a drawer somewhere. Besides that, I haven’t found a computer either, just the cabling to the desk.”

  Caslin nodded. He remembered noting that the hardware was missing when he first arrived.

  “See what you can find. Have you accessed the server yet?”

  Harman shook his head, “Iain was a bit reluctant to let me. He’s onto the tech guys for support but so far, nothing doing. He promised that I can access it if they can’t stump anyone up in the next twelve hours.”

  “Fair enough. On another note, have you had any joy with the bank about who’s collecting the rent for this place, or with Horsvedt’s rig and customs, for that matter?”

  “Without a warrant the bank was reluctant but in the light of this lot, I should be able to get something over the phone later today. If not, I’ll go in personally tomorrow. As for customs, we’ve got some footage of his truck driving onto a ferry at Dover but nothing more than that.”

  “Is it definitely Horsvedt at the wheel?”

  “It’s impossible to tell from the footage. And the ferry company delete their internal CCTV after three months, so there was no joy there, either. Do you think he’s done one?”

  Caslin shrugged, “I’m not prepared to rule anything out, just yet. Okay, good. Anything else?” Harman shook his head. He seemed about to speak but thought better of it. Caslin pushed, “What’s on your mind, Maxim?”

  Harman looked back in the direction of the hatch and into the passage beyond, now lit by portable lamps.

  “Isn’t it on yours?”

  Caslin left the others and made his way over to the house. The rain had eased off, so he picked his way across the sodden ground in an effort to keep his shoes and trousers clean. He knew what Harman was feeling, for he carried the same images in the forefront of his own mind and already knew that they would never leave him. It was necessary to maintain a degree of emotional detachment from the case and it was the investigation process that enabled Caslin to do that. Years ago, he had realised that he couldn’t prevent such events but was reassured that he could sure as hell try and stop it happening again. That helped maintain his sanity. With time Harman would learn that also, he would need to. Caslin felt guilty that he hadn’t taken a moment to ease the pressure on his colleague but he was annoyed, and others came a distant second when he was annoyed.

  That morning they had met with Frank Stephens. What could have been dismissed as an intense fetish was thrown out by what Harman had. No matter how into domination a woman could be, begging to know where your infant child was, and what had been done with him, went far beyond sexual gratification. The images of McNeil spitting in Angela Horsvedt’s face, repeatedly striking, and urinating on her naked body as she wept, were not easily cast aside. By their reckoning she had appeared in at least five recordings, one of which lasted six hours and fourteen minutes. When the camera was turned off, Caslin felt he knew what had followed. The DCI had taken a few minutes to reflect on the video and the silence had hung heavily in the room before he gave the investigation the green light. Nothing more had been said. If ever a picture had spoken a thousand words, it was in that very moment.

  The irritation wasn’t with Stephens nor with Harman for his indiscretions, who else could have mentioned Caslin’s assailant at the farmhouse? He was annoyed with his own action, or at least, his inaction. This case had struck a chord immediately but he had been slow to respond. Only time would tell what that meant. Would the cost of his procrastination be higher than he was prepared for, or did the case end with the death of Garry McNeil? Was he now merely picking over the carcass? Caslin was unsure and furthermore, he didn’t know which outcome he found most palatable.

  Glancing through the front window to the sitting room, he saw one of the forensics team taking photographs of the floor before the fireplace. The carpet and rug had been rolled back and even from his vantage point, Caslin could see the outline of a dark-brown stain, perhaps two feet across, on the floorboards beneath. He wouldn’t need confirmation from the lab, he had seen similar marks too many times before. Whose blood it was on the other hand, would most likely take some telling.

  “Too slow,” Caslin chided himself as he turned away and risked a glance skyward. The rain was beginning to intensify once again. “Too slow.”

  Chapter 17

  The door to his flat in Kleiser’s Court slammed shut behind him, something else for Mrs Ogilvie to whine about. Caslin turned on the lights and both hallway bulbs struggled into life. The nature of low energy bulbs ensured that he remained in gloom. A small clutch of mail lay unopened on the floor and sifting through it, he picked out those that looked interesting, leaving the junk for later.

  Passing through into the living room he threw his coat over the armchair, turning on the standing lamp behind it, as he went. A bank statement was not desirable reading and he discarded it. Another letter was stamped with his solicitor’s address and that went the same way. The last was clearly written by a child and he opened it with a smile on his face. It was a note from Lizzie, thanking him for the weekend and instructing him to call her one evening in the coming week when he had the chance. It was signed off with a heart drawn beneath her name. The postmark was York, so she must have posted it from the train station when her grandfather had seen them off.

  Caslin carefully folded the note, placing it centre stage on the mantelpiece. Crossing the room, he went to the kitchen, filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. Absently he took a mug from the drainer and retrieved a tea bag from a small tin in the cupboard above while the kettle began to quietly hum. The milk was dated for Sunday but a sniff gave it the all clear, if only barely, and Caslin reversed a chair to sit down and wait. It had been another long day. Tired hands rubbed at tired eyes but his working day was not over. There was another batch of recordings that needed reviewing and with resources stretched as they were, no-one else could be spared.

  The click brought him out of his preoccupation and, stifling a yawn, he got up to pour the water. A draught washed over him and he shivered. The curtain wavered slightly in the corner of his eye. Stirring his tea bag gently he let go of the spoon and walked over to the kitchen window, open barely an inch but still enough to bring the freezing winter inside. Had he not checked whether it was closed prior to leaving for his father’s the previous week? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. Glancing over his shoulder, he scanned the room. Everything seemed in place. Nothing had drawn his attention when he got home and surely, he would’ve noticed.

  The window opened onto a fire escape. From there it was only a small drop to the courtyard which in turn gave access through a locked door into the communal area of Kleiser’s Court and the main thoroughfare out onto Stonegate, exiting between a café and an antiques dealer.

  Caslin lifted the window on a whim, it screeched in protest, and ducked his head out. The courtyard was silent as always. Lit only by the light escaping the surrounding flats it was seldom used by the residents, except in an emergency which Caslin had never experienced since he moved in. He withdrew and eased the window down, dropping the latch and screwing the lock into place. Taking one last glance around him before shaking off his paranoia, he went back to the tea. Moments later, seated in the living room with brew in hand, he powered up the laptop. It wasn’t going to be an enjoyable task but it was a necessary o
ne.

  Several hours and much caffeine later, his eyes were glazing over. His body was tired but his mind was active. Each recording followed a similar vein to the last, none of which sat well with him. On more than one occasion he had glanced at the Talisker, standing proud in a bookcase across the room, and considered cracking the seal. When the moments came, he resisted. Professional enough to bury his emotional reaction, human enough to care, he needed to stay focused. There would be something here, something worth seeing that might give him a break.

  Caslin awoke with a start. Momentarily confused, he was cold and felt stiff. His computer balanced precariously on his lap. Moving it to the table he flexed his legs and answered the mobile that was tucked into his trouser pocket, noting that it was just after two o’clock in the morning.

  “Caslin,” he answered. His voice cracking as he spoke.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No.”

  “Well I should have done. You’ll be no good if you don’t—”

  “Iain, why are you calling me in the middle of the night?” Caslin recognised the voice of Iain Robertson, instantly.

  “I may have some answers for you out here.”

  “Are you still at the farmhouse?”

  “Aye,” Robertson sounded despondent, “and you should make your way out, too. Although, I fear you’ll end up with even more questions.”

  Caslin didn’t know how he should feel, excited about a break or irritated at the prospect of more intrigue. Thus far, all he had managed was to feel like a blind man, punching in the dark. With any complex case he often had to wait patiently for the fog to lift even if only for the briefest of moments but often that was all it took. He let Robertson know he was on his way and hung up. The laptop was hibernating on the coffee table before him and he touched the glide pad to bring it back to life.

  Inadvertently he must have paused the player when he fell asleep. The still image of McNeil and an unidentified woman was disconcerting. Hovering the cursor over the cancel tab, his finger lifted off as his attention was drawn to the corner. At first, Caslin almost dismissed it and was once again about to shut it down when he changed his mind. Instead, he took the image to full screen. Although the quality wasn’t great at that resolution, he gently eased the slider control to the left and moved the image backwards. Was it a trick of the light? Restarting the recording, having first muted the sound, Caslin ignored the figures in the foreground. Once he had seen it again he repeated the review for a third time. There was no doubt. It was a subtle shift but nonetheless, a movement in the bottom left of the picture, shrouded in shadow. He strained to see what could have caused it.

  Sitting back in his chair, he stared at the frozen image but as time passed, he kept coming back to the same conclusion. To his mind there was a third person present.

  Standing alongside Iain Robertson, underneath the intense glow of the portable floodlights a little after 2 a.m., Caslin found his missing person’s case developing into a murder inquiry.

  “How long do you think he’s been there?”

  Robertson knelt at the edge of the shallow grave. With a gloved hand, he raised the edge of the dust sheet to reveal the face of the man beneath, crudely buried, barely a stone’s throw from the workshop.

  “A while, judging by the rate of decomposition but I’d await the results of the post mortem, rather than hazard a guess.”

  “I’m willing to bet that the cord around his neck is related to the cause of death,” Caslin pointed to the length of blue rope.

  Robertson nodded, “It’s similar to baler twine, only thicker. I do a fair bit of sailing, as you know, and that wouldn’t look out of place on a fishing boat.”

  “A fisherman? Out here?”

  Robertson snorted, “You’re the detective, Nate.”

  “This is our man, though.”

  “The haulier?”

  Caslin nodded, “I reckon so. He’s roughly the right build, the location, it fits.”

  “Come with me and see if this does too.”

  Robertson led him over to another area illuminated by artificial means. A taped off patch of scorched earth, perhaps four metres square. Within the cordon were the remnants of a bonfire. A colleague, clad in a forensic paper suit, moved aside to allow them access. Robertson knelt and pointed out some charred pieces that Caslin couldn’t identify.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Bones,” Robertson replied flatly. “At least, fragments of bone.”

  “Human?”

  “Undoubtedly. Take a look at this,” Robertson shifted position slightly, affording Caslin a better view. “Teeth. A couple of molars and an eye if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Adult?”

  “More than likely, yes. There are more pieces than you can see here. For any detail greater than that, though, you’re going to have to wait. We’ll catalogue them and get them over to the lab as soon as we can.”

  “Anything else?”

  Robertson let out a laugh, “You know me too well, Nate, too well. Before the light failed us, we identified several areas of disturbed earth, other than this, that warrant closer inspection. Two are within the copse and a third on the south side of the bunker, beneath some sprawling vegetation. Inside the bunker, we have evidence of post mortem blood staining in the shower tray and gravity splatter in the basin.”

  “The killer was cleaning up.”

  “Aye, looks that way.”

  Chloe McNeil appeared visibly shaken as she sat in the interview room. Harman had picked her up before seven that morning and brought her in to make a statement at Caslin’s request. Sipping at his Americano, one that he had bought on the way to Fulford Road, Caslin couldn’t take his eyes off Chloe as he watched her via the video link. People always had a reaction to an interview room. Usually it generated anxiety but that in itself meant little, not necessarily indicating guilt. Even so, he was fascinated to observe her body language as her eyes searched the room while she waited for him.

  Entering with Maxim a step behind, Caslin thanked her for coming in. The uniformed officer present departed and they each took a seat, Caslin placing a manila folder on the table in front of him.

  “Can I smoke in here?” Chloe asked.

  Caslin shook his head, he was grateful for that rule. Quitting was hard enough and an enclosed space with her menthol brand would guarantee nausea.

  “Chloe, I’ve asked you to come in because we’re looking to find out as much as we can about Garry,” Caslin began. “I appreciate that this is a difficult time but we’d like you to help us out if you can.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. This meeting had been thoughtfully engineered, the time of day, location and choice of room, each carefully selected. People were less prepared at the start of the day. He wanted her to volunteer the information he needed and with this approach, he felt more likely to get it.

  “What kind of a man was Garry, as a person to be around, I mean?”

  Chloe smiled, relaxing a little and sinking back into her chair.

  “He used to be really outgoing, always quick with a smile and a joke. The kind of guy everyone wanted to be with, you know?”

  Caslin nodded, “I know the type.”

  Chloe continued, “He changed when he came out of the army, though. That last tour in the Gulf got to him. He was still my Garry, only a bit more aggressive. I didn’t like that side of him so much.”

  “Now, when did you last see your ex-husband?”

  Chloe thought for a moment, “It was around August, this year.”

  “August?” Caslin repeated. Chloe nodded.

  “We have some home movies that were found amongst Garry’s possessions,” Harman interjected, Chloe didn’t react. “Do you know the ones that I’m talking about?”

  Chloe shrugged, “No idea.”

  “Remind us, what did Garry do in the army?”

  “He was in the Rifles.”

  “Was he into his technology, computers and such?”
/>   She burst out laughing and it was genuine, “Garry? God no. He was useless with that sort of thing, didn’t even have a mobile phone.”

  “Really?” Caslin found that interesting.

  Caslin waited, letting the silence hang in the room for nearly a full minute. Casually, he opened the folder in front of him and removed some papers, placing them neatly on the table. Across from him, he saw her demeanour change. No longer did she appear nervous. Her hands were now folded across each other and resting before her. As calm as she outwardly appeared, Chloe McNeil would not meet his eye.

  “Let’s back up a little,” Caslin was conciliatory. “You said you saw Garry in August? Previously, you said you hadn’t seen him for seven or eight months. That’s a little different to August, which is only around three.”

  Chloe glanced up at him, “You must have written it down wrong.”

  Caslin smiled, “You should be aware that police officers are trained to take statements and record information, accurately. This is our job. We don’t make those kinds of mistakes.”

  She visibly tensed, “Maybe I made a mistake.”

  “I’ll let you in on something else,” he lowered his voice. “In my job, I am always looking for the first time someone changes what they say. It interests me and I start to question everything else that they have said and continue to say. You see, Chloe, we pay attention to what people tell us.”

  “There appear to be some inconsistencies in your statement and we would like to give you an opportunity to clear them up, if you can,” Harman said.

  Chloe looked at him and then back at Caslin, “Are you sure I can’t smoke?”

  Caslin ignored the question and turned to the paper before him.

  “When did you get married to Garry?”

  Chloe was taken aback, “You what?”

  “Your wedding day, when was it? You do remember? I’m getting divorced and right now, I cannot stand my wife but I do remember the day we got married, May 21st.”