Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Chloe remained silent, her eyes cast downward.

  “That reaction would explain why we couldn’t find any record of your marriage in the council archives,” Harman stated.

  “We got married abroad. What difference does it make?” she snapped.

  “Did you get divorced abroad as well?” Caslin continued. His tone was calm and his body language relaxed. “Perhaps you could think on that, while you explain this.”

  Caslin laid out two sheets of paper. One was a bank statement and the other, a headed form detailing a direct debit agreement, the recipient was Sylvia Vickers. Chloe examined the paper but didn’t comment. Caslin waited in order to gauge her reaction and when nothing was forthcoming, took a photograph from his paperwork and placed it on top of the other two sheets, directly in front of her. The image was black-and-white, slightly grainy but readily identifiable in the CCTV snapshot was Chloe McNeil. She was pictured in discussion with an adviser from the bank.

  They waited in silence. Caslin had enough to push on but he still waited. Harman appeared to be about to speak but a sideways glance conveyed the message to remain quiet. One of Caslin’s favourite techniques was to imply that he already had the knowledge, the witness may voluntarily give up more than they realised was necessary. Across the table, seated in front of him, was a liar.

  “You said you had no idea where Garry had been living. No need to deny it, we wrote it down,” Caslin said as he drummed his fingers on the table. “You also denied knowing the Horsvedts,” Caslin ran his fingers over to the direct debit form and slowly tapped it with his forefinger. “And I think we can all agree that that also wasn’t true.”

  Chloe shot him a dark look, her cheeks flushing.

  “I didn’t know where he was!”

  “Come on Chloe,” Caslin shook his head. “Why continue to lie to us? It only puts you in deeper.”

  The penny appeared to have dropped. Chloe became flustered in her response.

  “Sylvia is my mother, okay. The farmhouse is hers. I just… just…”

  “Collected the rent money?”

  “Yes.”

  “After pretending to be her?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s fraud, identity theft, tax evasion… to name but a few.” Chloe nodded her understanding as she stared at the table. Caslin began to push. Indicating the recorder that silently monitored the interview, he added, “Please speak up, for the benefit of the tape.”

  “Yes, I know,” she almost whispered the words.

  “What can you tell me about the workshop?”

  Chloe cast her eyes fleetingly at Caslin and then quickly to the ceiling, before returning her gaze to the table, shaking her head.

  “What do you want to know? Garry built it.”

  “The workshop?”

  “Yes, years ago. He needed somewhere to do his stuff when he was on leave and the council place didn’t have the space.”

  “What about the rest?”

  Chloe looked up as if taking a measure of what Caslin did or didn’t know. After considering her response for a brief moment she bit her lower lip and exhaled slowly. Her shoulders sagged.

  “My father built the shelter back in the sixties. He was obsessed with the Cold War and always talked about being prepared. As a kid I thought he was a bit crazy. We used to play in it when we were small.”

  “And Garry built the workshop onto the front of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now tell us about the tapes.”

  “I know about his videos, okay,” Chloe exclaimed. “And I knew he might be staying there. He did sometimes when we’d had a fight.”

  Caslin sat back in his chair. Now they were getting somewhere.

  “He would stay in, what should we call it, the bomb shelter?”

  “You could call it that, yes, or a bunker. That’s what Garry said it was.”

  “Who did the internal works on the bunker?”

  Chloe shook her head, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Come on, Chloe. It wasn’t all done fifty years ago. The bathroom, kitchen, running water, electrical cabling…”

  “This is your chance,” Harman offered her. Chloe shook her head once more.

  “We already knew that you were aware of the recordings. I know a third person was present and that was you,” Caslin was lying but that wasn’t illegal. “I want you to think on this next question carefully before you answer it because it is very important for all of us in this room. Where are Daniel and Angela Horsvedt?”

  “Why would I do something to them?”

  “Chloe, this is as serious as it gets,” Caslin paused. “We have you lying through your teeth already and with Garry gone, this will all fall on you. Juries hate a female murderer, almost as much as a judge—”

  “Murder,” Chloe was out of her chair catching both Harman and Caslin off guard. “You bastard!” she shouted, swinging a fist at Caslin’s head. He just barely managed to avoid it, toppling backwards from his chair.

  Flat on his back, he let out a groan as he looked up to see Harman grappling for control across the table. Chloe shrieked hysterically as they struggled back and forth. Caslin had touched a nerve. Perhaps his hunch was paying off. Harman’s enquiries at the bank had finally borne fruit. Neither detective could believe their eyes upon opening the email attachment at Fulford Road, just as the working day officially began. Lack of sleep was forgotten. For the first time, Caslin had felt like he was going to get answers. Chloe was elevated from the status of a witness to a person of interest at the top of a scant list.

  Upon restoration of calm they had a recess in the interview. Chloe was reread her rights and immediately requested legal representation, much to Caslin’s disgust. When solicitors were present, the interviewee invariably became less forthcoming. Within the hour they resumed and, much to his surprise, found Chloe far more agreeable than expected. Voluntarily she confirmed that the marriage to Garry had never taken place, merely changing her name in order to appear so. Not the greatest of admissions as the fact had already been established. However, she steadfastly denied being knowledgeable of, or complicit in, any criminal act that her estranged lover had been involved in.

  “Come on, Chloe,” Caslin said, shaking his head in exasperation. “This is your mother’s property, let out to tenants by you. Your lover is living there and you expect us to believe that you are entirely ignorant of this whole situation. The beatings, the torture, the recordings, none of it rings true?”

  Chloe shrugged, “Believe what you want. As long as I got the rent money, I didn’t care what went on out there.”

  “And did you? Get the rent money, I mean.”

  “Regular as clockwork until a couple of months ago. I went out there to ask them about it and they were gone. People do that you know, just go. You know what these foreigners are like.”

  Ms Leonard, the Duty Solicitor sitting beside her client, wrote something in her notebook and then glanced towards Caslin.

  “Do you actually have anything else to bring here, or are we going to re-cover the same ground again? I’m not entirely sure what my client is accused of, beyond what she has already provided. Without legal representation, I might add.”

  Caslin hated solicitors. He thought about calling time on the interview there and then but chose one last tack.

  “Everyone has at some point watched crime drama on television, be it a Saturday afternoon Columbo or a bit of Morse. We all expect the classic line ‘means, motive and opportunity’. That is very true but when it comes to murder, I focus on motive and the rest follows soon enough. Do you know how that breaks down for me in this case?”

  Chloe met his eye for the first time in at least ten minutes. She glanced at her counsel, who was making further notes in her pad and then back to Caslin, giving him an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

  “No.”

  “I call it my ‘Rule of Three’, three reasons that either standalone or contribute collectively to
murder. The first surrounds money, the second, sex and lastly, revenge. The alarm bells ring when I am lied to and with you Chloe McNeil, Sylvia Vickers, they are piercingly loud indeed. This is your chance to tell the truth, your side of the story. You see, I have money covered with the Horsvedts,” he tapped the bank statement for effect, “and the home movies definitely cover the sex. Now I say to myself, that’s two out of three and in my mind, that’s looking pretty good for me… not so much for you, though.”

  Caslin let the thought hang in the air and fixed her with his gaze. Even when someone sat in silence, he had an instinct that told him whether he was hitting home. She was on the hook.

  “Look,” she said, her tone edged with fear as she dismissed the protestations of her solicitor, who was attempting to advise her to remain silent, “it’s not me behind that camera, okay. I can prove it.”

  Inside Caslin felt the excitement rising with the anticipation but outwardly remained stoic.

  “Go on.”

  “I’m not filming them, I was…” she stopped, almost as if she couldn’t get the words out. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done what I did, but I was scared and panicked.”

  “Done what, Chloe?”

  Again, Ms Leonard tried to intervene but Chloe would have none of it.

  “Shut up! I have to get this out.” She stared at Caslin and this time didn’t flinch. Tears fell as she spoke. “I had to get them. After your visit, I knew it was only a matter of time and I had to.”

  “Get what?” Caslin was confused.

  “I knew that you’d find where he was living and then the tapes and stuff. I was ashamed. Garry used to make me… do things… and he… he—” At that moment she leant to her side and vomited. All present were caught by surprise. Harman even yelped as his lower leg was sprayed. Chloe remained bent double. Unqualified sobs began to emanate from her as she retched.

  “Perhaps we should take a brief break?” Ms Leonard asked. Caslin was about to agree when they were interrupted.

  “No! I have to say it now,” Chloe shouted in between sobs, momentarily regaining some composure. All colour drained from her face. “Garry was into some twisted stuff. I hated it and when he started to record it… it just got worse. Sometimes the look on his face… I reckon he forgot who I was. It scared me.”

  “What did you do? You were going to tell me,” Caslin asked.

  “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry… I hit you but I didn’t know what else to do. I just wanted those bloody tapes, but I didn’t kill no-one!”

  That was an unexpected turn of events. Caslin’s mind reeled as he contemplated the significance.

  “What about the others? On the tapes, you knew about them, didn’t you?”

  Chloe nodded, “Yes. He would pick people up from time to time and even ask me to join them as well, sometimes.”

  “Did you?”

  Again, Chloe nodded, “Once or twice.”

  “The third person, off camera?”

  “I don’t know, I swear!” Chloe implored him, looking Caslin straight in the eye. “When there were three of us, we were all on film. We were adults. We can do as we want.”

  Caslin sat back in his chair and sighed. The realisation hit him that the moment of euphoria wasn’t coming and worse still that he was heading back to square one. He took a deep breath and glanced at Harman, whose forlorn expression meant he had reached the same conclusion.

  “I’ll need those tapes.”

  “You shall have them,” Ms Leonard stated evenly.

  Chapter 18

  The refectory was open but, apart from a few uniforms milling around, the room was quiet. The machine rattled as the cup dropped from the dispenser and the nozzle engaged. DI Atwood came alongside, placing a pound coin into the adjacent vending machine and selecting the summer-berries flavoured water. Caslin forced himself not to sneer.

  “How is it going with Ravenscar?” Caslin asked casually.

  “Can’t say, Nathaniel. Sorry and all that,” Atwood answered, without sincerity. “Broadfoot’s ordered a blackout. If you’re not on the case, you’re not in the loop. I’m sure you understand?”

  “Oh yes, completely.” Caslin watched the retreating officer as he headed back to CID, cracking the seal on his bottle as he went. Atwood appeared to have enjoyed that immensely.

  “That guy’s an arse.”

  Caslin looked around to see DI Baxter approaching. He didn’t respond but instead fed some change into the vending machine, selecting a bag of crisps before reaching over to retrieve his coffee, teasing out the cup whilst waiting for his snack selection to drop.

  “So, are you going to fill me in?”

  Baxter smiled, “Not much to say, if I’m to be honest. There’s a lot of endeavour but it’s not heralding results so far.”

  “Anything significant, at all?”

  “We’ve set up a smaller crisis team to look at potential lines of inquiry for the perpetrator. You know the drill, escape routes along with methods of travel, possible weapon disposal locations. We’re hopeful.”

  “No leads on the forensics, any witnesses turn up? An event like that is so rare up here, outside of the drug world, anyway. You’d expect to have plenty to run with.”

  Baxter frowned, “We’re still looking into the family. You never quite know if refugees from war zones are all that they appear to be in their paperwork.”

  “Particularly when they turn up dead,” Caslin added. Baxter agreed.

  “Sarah Hunter is still pushing the honour killing angle but that doesn’t fly with some of us. The friends are too vague and there’s no evidence that they had plans to marry off the daughter. No flights booked, that we can find, and no correspondence abroad. Even the girl’s diary has no mention of it, or anything else that showed she had concerns.”

  “What about his employment?”

  “The father?” Baxter clarified. Caslin nodded. “The company were nonplussed about telling us what they were up to but they gave it up.”

  “And what were they up to?”

  “Surveillance, but nothing for us to be concerned with. Hakim was a technician, tasked with the collection and analysis of data from the on-board flight systems of commercial aircraft. They report back to manufacturers on fuel usage, directional alterations and relaying of transponder pings. Not something that you would kill for.”

  “Nothing linked to military aircraft or private enterprise?”

  “I see where you’re going but no, purely data collection on passenger and freight traffic. The information they gather is useful for performance analysis and monitoring of international flight paths. They have no access to other systems.”

  “Why are the company so obsessive about keeping that quiet?”

  Baxter shrugged, “It’s a competitive industry, apparently. Aviation manufacturers are all looking for an edge.”

  “What about the brother and this inheritance dispute?”

  “He swears blind there wasn’t one and so far, despite our best efforts, we have to agree with him. There’s nothing to the contrary.”

  “One wall after another, then. I’ll bet that’s not going down well.”

  “The DCS is getting antsy, which is a bit of a break from the cool persona that he likes to portray. I expect he’s taking some severe flak from above.”

  “I can imagine,” Caslin said as he stooped for his crisps, scraping his knuckles on the metal flap as he withdrew his hand. He cursed.

  “It’s weird,” Baxter continued. “With an incident like this, there really should be a clear direction but it’s not panning out as we expect. The victims’ backgrounds, witnesses, forensics, motive, unusual trends in behaviour… all are drawing a blank. It’s like a random act of overkill.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Caslin said as he blew the steam off the top of his coffee. “There’s nothing random about it at all. There will be something.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Baxter deposited his coins and started to make his own se
lections. “You must be gutted to be missing out on this one.” It was a statement rather than a question. “How about you and that farm thing, are you still working it? That guy from the IPCC getting around, is he?”

  “Not seen him,” Caslin replied, “but he knows where I am. I keep hitting my own dead ends there. It’ll probably turn out that there’s little else to it.”

  With that Caslin left and headed upstairs. He was happy to chat about Ravenscar but saw no reason to share his own case. Approaching the CID squad room, he realised that a briefing was underway. That was a shame. He wanted a clear opportunity to have a look over the information boards. Discretion would be required, particularly if Frank Stephens was chairing the briefing.

  Barely a foot was through the doorway before attention turned his way.

  “Just the man. Is this down to you?”

  Caslin stopped at the entrance. The voice was that of the DCI and his tone, hostile.

  “Is what?”

  “This!” Stephens shouted as he threw a newspaper in Caslin’s general direction, the pages separating en route. Several people beneath the flight path instinctively ducked. “Is this how you go about getting resources put your way?”

  DS Hunter read Caslin’s confused expression and offered up the detail.

  “There’s a front-page article in The Post, linking Ravenscar with your farmhouse.”

  “You’re joking?” Caslin asked, putting his coffee down.

  “It’s the usual, ‘Sources close to the inquiry reveal link to an isolated farmhouse’, typical tabloid stuff.”

  Hunter scooped up the front page from the carpet and handed it to him.

  “Nothing to say?” Frank Stephens asked.

  All eyes fell on Caslin as he was scanning the paper. He frowned and tried to muster the energy for a rebuttal but saw little in it for him.

  “Please don’t tell me it was Jimmy Sullivan?”

  “No surprise that you know who wrote it—”

  “Now hold on a damn minute.” Caslin wasn’t having any of it. “If there’s been anything coming out of this office, it’s got sod all to do with me! You should ask who told Sullivan that I was out there in the first place? He had no reason to be snooping around.”