Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  In the meantime, Caslin would see what he could dig up on Claire Skellon. In a strange way he was apprehensive about what he may turn up, for he was the one tasked with looking into her background. That in itself was a simple process, one that he failed to give proper credence, or effort to, being far too preoccupied with the events at Radford Farm. There was a distinct possibility that his lacklustre performance had ensured a vital lead was missed. Preferring to put that notion to the back of his mind, he pushed through the double doors of the entrance and stopped dead in his tracks. Of anything that he might expect to greet him upon arrival, it was certainly not her.

  “Hello Nate,” Karen said tentatively. She was smiling but it was at best nervous and at worst, contrived.

  For a moment, Caslin was stunned into silence and stood open-mouthed in the lobby. Linda watched on with an air of entertained voyeurism and two uniformed officers passed by, each casting a glance at the pair as they went.

  “Are you going to say hello?” Karen asked. She was definitely nervous. “This… this was a bad idea—”

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’m just… erm.”

  “Surprised?” she finished. “I’m probably the last person you expected to see.”

  “Yes, I… forgive me. I just…” he stammered, searching the area with his eyes and focusing on the solitary plant in the corner of the lobby.

  “Shall we get a cup of coffee?”

  Caslin instinctively shook his head, “I’ve just had one.”

  “Well, shall we go somewhere for a chat, or have you already had one of those, too?”

  The last came out of frustration and he didn’t bite back as he usually would. The initial surprise at seeing his wife had been replaced by a fleeting burst of exhilaration, the likes of which he hadn’t felt in a long time. That unnerved him.

  Regaining the composure that had escaped him, he ushered her out of reception into the daylight. It was a cold, but pleasant day and glancing over his shoulder he saw Linda give him the warmest of smiles as they left. She was one of the few at Fulford who had taken to Caslin, with no preconditioning of her attitude towards him, accepting him for who he was. Subsequently, they had got on famously. On several occasions she had asked about his family, a subject where few dared to tread, and he minded not in the least. Linda was one of the decent people, not a malicious gossip or one with ulterior motives.

  Karen offered to drive and they headed into town in her hire car, making small talk on the way. Neither was entirely comfortable and they acted like a young couple feeling each other out, fearful of opening up too much. Caslin had the same question going over and over in his mind. Why was she here? It was a question that he was too afraid to ask. They parked the car in an area predominantly used by the coach companies for bringing tourists in to see the sights. From there, they walked a short distance through a park towards the Ouse and took the towpath running alongside.

  There were daytime dog walkers and the occasional jogger, but nothing like the volume of people that descended on the area in spring or summer. A tourist cruise boat passed them by. Caslin counted three passengers, seated near the bow, listening intently to the pre-recorded diatribe. Whatever Karen had been saying, he had long ago ceased listening and cut her off in mid-flow.

  “Karen, I’m not being funny but why are you here?”

  His wife looked over at the river as if spotting something of note.

  “I need to speak to you about Christmas.”

  “And you couldn’t do that over the phone?” Caslin felt it a fair question.

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  Caslin waited but nothing more was forthcoming. Their progress scattered a few ducks, gathered on the path. They dropped effortlessly into the water but remained nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the newcomers. In all honesty, he didn’t care what she wanted. He was pleased to have her here with him, albeit with mixed emotions. There was the burning desire to throw away what had gone before and ask, no plead, for her to give them another chance. That very thought flashed through his mind and his lips moved to ask the question but no sound emanated from within. Never had he felt so powerless. At that very moment he would have given everything he had, all that he achieved in life, just to hear her say the same words. She didn’t.

  “Nate, I’ve met someone.”

  Those words should have hit home like a hammer but they failed to. Instead, the moment of intense emotion was replaced by a vague numbness that settled over him. What Karen had said meant nothing, changed nothing. He still wanted her back and, in his mind, that was just as likely now as it was five minutes previously.

  All he could muster in reply was a tame, “Oh.”

  Karen was frustrated at the response, “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  Caslin blew out his cheeks. What was he supposed to say? The last thing he wanted was to appear hurt, which he was, or to react in an undignified manner, which he might still. There was the instinctive reaction to remain calm, aloof to the fact that she had seemingly moved on. That would give the outward impression that he was confident within himself, more than able to cope with life after her. Then there was the underlying fear that she would see right through that façade to the broken, pitiful creature that he had become. With more rational thought, the reality was that he was most likely to be found somewhere in between.

  “Nathaniel?”

  “Erm… congratulations,” the word stung as it crossed his lips.

  “Really, do you mean that?”

  It dawned on him that Karen was actually seeking his approval.

  “Yes, I guess so,” he lied as convincingly as he could. “I’ve only ever wanted what was best for you.” The latter was true and remained so.

  “He’s a doctor. He works out of the neurological unit at —”

  “Now that, I don’t really want to know, Karen. I’m understanding but let’s not push it.”

  A few minutes passed in silence and they resumed their walk along the towpath. For his part, Caslin spent the time turning their situation over in his mind. How had they reached this point? He often thought that instructing divorce solicitors had been the point of no return but this appeared more finite. Karen had found a new partner, someone else with whom to share those intimate moments. This truly was a stone marker on the impending death of their marriage.

  “I haven’t told the kids, yet,” Karen said solemnly. “I’m not sure how they’ll take it.”

  Caslin shrugged, “Strangely, of the two, I think Lizzie will handle it better. I know she’s the youngest but she’s well ahead emotionally.”

  “And Sean?”

  Caslin shook his head, “It’s hard to know what he thinks about anything. Does the boy even speak anymore, or has he taken a monastic vow of silence?”

  Karen laughed with genuine humour, “I get that too.”

  “What’s so funny?” Caslin asked.

  “You could almost always diffuse any given situation, Nathaniel Caslin.”

  “Almost.”

  They stopped walking and turned to face each other. Karen reached out and took both of his hands in hers. The lines of her features softened by the winter sun and a gentle smile.

  “You understand why I had to come?”

  He nodded, “Karen, I know this isn’t great timing, there never will be a good time but do you think we could—”

  “Don’t, Nate, please…”

  “It’s barely been a year. Surely we could try once—”

  “No Nathaniel, just stop!” she snapped at him, releasing his hands from her grip. In that moment, Caslin went from feeling a sense of warmth and hopeless optimism to that of an embarrassed, grovelling wretch.

  Karen started up the pace, once more, this time with more purpose. Her expression took on the stone-faced persona that he had come to recognise in the past eighteen months.

  “Crispin has a holiday home in Normandy. He’s invited us to spend Christmas and New Year with him there. I thought it woul
d be a nice break for the kids after all they’ve been through.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Don’t start with me, Nathaniel. I’ll bet you hadn’t even considered the holidays. You can have them for a week in January, before they start back at school, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, Karen,” Caslin bit back. “You’ve got it all figured out as always.”

  Caslin turned on his heel and without a second glance, stalked away. He was annoyed with himself for failing to mask his emotions and even more so, for practically begging her to come back to him. Nothing good ever seemed to come from them talking anymore. The frustration further riled him as he considered that every time he thought he had hit rock bottom, he struck another level.

  The time was well past 7 p.m. when his knuckles rapped on the door of Room 211. After waiting for a minute, the door creaked open and a bleary-eyed Colin Brotherton beckoned Caslin to enter. The room was like any other chain hotel that he had seen, an ensuite shower room by the entrance, a double bed, with a sofa and small desk beyond it. The smell of stale smoke hung in the air, despite the cold breeze drifting through an open window. The bed was neatly made and if not for a battered suitcase with a raincoat draped over it at the foot, he would have been forgiven for thinking the room was unoccupied. On the desk sat an archive box. Several dates could be made out scrawled on the side in faded marker pen, along with a case number.

  “There it is. That’s all I have.”

  Caslin masked his disappointment as he lifted the lid and scanned through the contents. There didn’t appear to be much there, considering it was a murder inquiry. The unasked question became apparent and the retired DS saw fit to answer.

  “This was all I was able to appropriate. I know it’s not a lot.”

  “Appropriate?”

  “What I euphemistically call it. Stole is more accurate. When the case started to go cold, people were reassigned and the team decreased in size, week on week. When it was shelved, all the paperwork was archived and there were tonnes of the stuff. This was all I managed to siphon off, on the quiet.”

  “You kept the investigation going then, in your own time.”

  “I told you I couldn’t let it go. I took only what I thought was really pertinent.”

  Caslin was silent as he sifted the contents. There were witness statements and crime scene photographs, pathologist notes from Maxine de la Grange’s autopsy along with copious notes from a number of detectives on the case.

  “Would the remaining evidence have been computerised yet?”

  Brotherton shook his head, “I doubt it very much but the hard copies will still be in the archives. They’re pretty good with that sort of thing.”

  “I wish I could say the same. In my experience if they haven’t shredded it, then they’ve usually lost it.”

  Caslin saw no reason to hang about and replaced the lid. Lifting up the box, he made for the door. After insisting that he wasn’t just humouring an old man and promising to keep him informed, Caslin said his farewells and walked to his car. Despite the thickness of his coat, the cold wind cut through him and he shivered. His fingers were numb by the time he rested the box on the bonnet and unlocked the door. He hoped that the alcohol on his breath hadn’t been too oppressive. If so, Brotherton had given no indication of noticing.

  Karen’s visit had thrown him somewhat and he had failed to respond in the proper fashion. Had it not been for the agreed meeting that evening, he would surely still be in a pub, feeling particularly sorry for himself. Having considered, and then swiftly dismissed, calling Karen to apologise, he had skipped his afternoon plans and hit the beer. Now his head was thumping and his eyelids were heavy but he had managed to keep it together, for the time being at least.

  Glancing at the archive box on the passenger seat, he clipped on his seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition. Knowing full well that he shouldn’t be driving, he ignored the thought. Instead, he acted in the same cavalier fashion towards life that he always took when the dark mood descended. His phone began to ring, and taking it from his inner pocket, he saw that it was Harman. Caslin was irritable and wanted to be left alone. He rejected the call and threw the phone onto the seat, alongside the archive box. Pressing the accelerator, he left the car park, pulling out onto the main road. Traffic built steadily as he hit the outskirts of town, heading for home.

  Once back at Kleiser’s Court, with a curry and a scotch under his belt, Caslin went through the contents of the box. The autopsy report detailed much of what he already knew from his earlier conversations that day and the scenes of crime report was meticulous in its coverage. Brotherton was correct, for Maxine de la Grange had been a pretty girl, whose life had come to a shocking and premature end. Reading about her teenage years he identified several missed opportunities for an intervention where she could have been steered in a new direction. How often did he consider that when cases came across his desk? With a regularity that was far too alarming.

  However, what had become of her certainly didn’t ring true as a trick gone bad, which was the line of inquiry that the investigation appeared to favour. Absence of a sexual assault wasn’t in itself definitive but the method of death, a combination of beating, stabbing and mutilation akin to torture, implied a more personal motive.

  It was perhaps forgivable for the detectives at the time to have believed this the actions of a deranged madman, but with the benefit of modern interpretations of violent events, Caslin had to agree with Brotherton. Something didn’t sit well with him either. Anyone demonstrating that level of psychopathy would not have carried out a first-time attack with such brutality, nor would they be able to make it a one off. The pressure to continue to develop even greater, bolder experiences would be all consuming and yet, according to the file that attack was a singular event. If the perpetrator had been imprisoned for another offence, or died, then that might explain the lack of further incidents but there was nothing to indicate that that was the case.

  Turning his attention to the file on Lucy Stafford, he first took a look at the accompanying photograph. Taken when she was sixteen and arrested for shoplifting, Caslin tried to picture her as a grown woman, thirty years senior. Unsurprisingly, he struggled to see it and then once again found himself questioning Colin Brotherton’s ability to do so from a grainy picture in a newspaper. In that moment he dislodged something in his memory. Wrestling with the detail, he fought to bring it forward but almost as quickly as it had sprung to mind it disappeared.

  Reaching to the coffee table, he poured another Talisker. An unsteady hand made for too large a measure but he resigned himself to drinking it, nonetheless. Scanning through the rest of the file, he didn’t see anything that caught his eye. There had been a cursory investigation into her disappearance but as he understood already, and concurred, there was no evidence to suggest foul play. Lucy Stafford was recorded as absent by will and nothing more was said.

  Caslin’s neck was aching and when he stood, he felt giddy and unsure of his footing. Now was most certainly the time to go to bed before he fell asleep in the chair. Tossing the file back into the box, he opted to leave the witness statements for another day and headed off to the bedroom. No clearer as to whether Skellon was Stafford, let alone why she would be, he pushed it all from the forefront of his mind.

  Whilst undressing, images of Karen came to mind and he wondered whether she was thinking of him. Although drunk, he accepted that it was unlikely. Crawling under the duvet he felt his head spinning and he closed his eyes, wishing for the serenity of sleep. His smiling wife and children sitting around a roaring fire, a handsome doctor handing out presents with an illuminated tree in the background, were the last thoughts that came into focus as he drifted off.

  Chapter 20

  Surprisingly, the following morning began with a clear head. The sun was low in the sky and the air crisp, with only a light wind. The local radio station had a stand-in presenter who, for a change, favoured music over inane chatter a
nd chose songs from a by-gone age, the seventies. Caslin found music from that era inoffensive and far preferable to members of the public calling in to discuss their pension schemes with a studio guest. That was the last show that came to mind.

  A particular song had been lodged in his head since he had pulled up but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember who the performer was. Humming the chorus as he descended to the evidence locker of Fulford Road, he recounted the thought process that had led him there. Harman had followed up the missed call from the previous night with an early one that morning.

  “Iain hasn’t been able to rally the tech support that he wanted, so I’ve got the green light to take a look. I don’t think he’s too pleased about it, though.”

  “Robertson’s never pleased about anything, comes with the birthplace.”

  Harman laughed, “I’ll let you tell him that, Sir.”

  “Best not. What have you turned up?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Call me when you do.”

  Caslin was frustrated by that conversation. He couldn’t help but wonder what the point of the call had been. Harman should, by this stage in his career, be capable of getting on with it. Caslin only wanted a phone call when he had something pertinent to pass on. He felt like he was wet-nursing the lad at times.

  However, the conversation started him thinking. Chloe had declared McNeil to be largely illiterate when it came to technology, a response that came too fast to have been contrived. However, the evidence was indicating something different. The digital transfer of recordings, simple enough Harman had said, but Caslin’s technological level was apparently far greater than McNeil’s, and he wouldn’t know where to begin. Furthermore, why were only some copied and not all? Caslin recalled seeing a mobile phone within the pickup and yet, Chloe claimed Garry didn’t own one. The implication was that he would be unable to use it if he had. However technophobic a person was, what were the odds in this day and age of someone under fifty not owning, nor knowing how to use, a mobile phone? Caslin couldn’t name anyone who fitted that bill. He found it unlikely. Moreover, how on earth did a dedicated server, situated in a Cold War bunker, fit into this scenario?