Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  “Turned out nicely, then.” Frank Stephens appeared pleased with the outcome. “Holmes might be pushing it a bit. Columbo is more like it. Speaking of which, I’ll send someone back to yours for some clean clothes. Broadfoot will be wanting a word before wheeling you out in front of the press—”

  “Bugger that, Frank. Leave me well out of it.”

  “They’ll want to hear from you. You’re the talk of the internet, news bulletins and the like. It’s all in meltdown after this morning’s drama. No excuses.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Caslin put his head down and submerged it in the water. There was no way he was going to a press conference. Moments later he came up for air, “Any word on Chloe?”

  “She’s out of surgery and the prognosis is good.”

  “What are we going to charge her with?”

  “Now that is a question.” Stephens appeared thoughtful. “My guess is we’ll wrap it up as neatly as possible and throw it to the CPS. Let them figure it out. One thing for sure though, she’ll not be walking away.”

  “Damn right,” Caslin agreed as he rubbed his face with both hands. Tilting his head in the mirror to examine his latest head wound, he had a thought, “One thing that came to me...”

  “What’s that?”

  “When McNeil was picked up on the A59, he was heading towards York.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Radford Farm is in the other direction,” Caslin said without breaking the stare at his own reflection. “Where was he going?”

  “You think he was going to Chloe’s?”

  “Just speculating but it would make sense. She has been lying to us from the word go, mitigating her actions at every opportunity.”

  “We’ll have a job to prove that.”

  Two mildly excruciating hours later and Caslin was clear of the briefing room. The flash of media bulbs had done little for his headache. Keeping to as few details as possible and relying on the “unable to comment due to ongoing investigations” line, Caslin found the press conference to be less painful than anticipated. Fortunately, Kyle Broadfoot was more than keen to pick up the slack, not only comfortable in front of the cameras but also pleased to be the face of such a high-profile success. Caslin found the description of “success” to be bittersweet. The passer-by shot that morning in Hull had died of the injuries she’d sustained and one of Humberside’s officers remained in a critical condition following the incident. DC Underwood’s family would also be facing their first Christmas without their daughter.

  Not wishing to face CID once again and having been advised to remain at the station until he could be debriefed by the IPCC, Caslin headed upstairs. Bumping into Linda on his way brought a genuine moment of comfort in what had been a trying week. She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek. He felt like the favoured son of a beloved mother. She looked well in herself, having been off work for a spell due to a particularly nasty reaction to her most recent bout of chemotherapy. Caslin hadn’t realised how many days had passed since he had last seen her.

  “I was so sorry to hear about that young lad you were working with.”

  Caslin smiled appreciatively, for she was talking about Maxim Harman.

  “It was a shock.”

  “He had seemed so energetic that night. Such a shame.”

  Caslin had told her how well she was looking and promised to see her later in the day, for a proper catch up. Resuming his course, he headed for the newfound sanctuary of the roof. The sun had set and the clear sky saw the air temperature rapidly dropping away. His coat still bore some blood but it had long since dried and he saw no reason not to wear it. After all, it was his blood. Pacing backwards and forwards to jolt his circulation into warming him, he contemplated the events of the day. Knowing that there should be, at the very least, a modicum of joy at finally stopping Na Honn’s rampage, he was annoyed with himself for the apathy that he was experiencing. Previously, he had felt elation upon the breaking of a big case but today there was nothing. Writing it off as fatigue he flexed his shoulders. Immediately he regretted that decision.

  Putting a call in to Karen, he was disappointed to only reach her voicemail. Leaving a message, he told her that all was well and that the case was over. At the point of hanging up he paused for a moment, allowing a thought to develop in his mind. Having taken a deep breath, he apologised in a heartfelt manner. Not only for instigating the headlong dash to France but for all that had occurred in the previous two years. Tears welled in his eyes as he hung up.

  Glancing up at the night sky, he wondered what the next chapter life had in store for him. For the first time, he genuinely gave consideration to his options. Turning such thoughts away he tried to focus on something more positive and knew that he was about to make someone’s day. Looking up Colin Brotherton’s number, he dialled it. Unexpectedly, the call was answered immediately.

  “Hi Colin, it’s Nate Caslin.”

  “Strewth, are you okay? I’ve been watching you on the news all day!”

  Caslin laughed, “Who would have thought that you knew a celebrity?”

  “Pleased to see you’re alright. What do you have for me?”

  “Straight to the point.”

  “Why else would you be calling?”

  Caslin had to concede that Brotherton was on the ball.

  “I think that we have a good shot at putting your case to bed. You were right about Skellon, she is Lucy Stafford.”

  “I bloody knew it!”

  “We still don’t know why she disappeared like she did. It’s all a bit circumstantial. This guy that I’m all over the media with today, he took her out. The family in the Mercedes were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “All this isn’t out there yet, so discretion required, alright?”

  “Of course.”

  “An associate had a long-standing grudge against her from years back. He took it upon himself to settle it on his behalf, seeing as he was unable.”

  “Why couldn’t he do it himself?”

  “He was already dead.”

  “So why the need?”

  “There was no need. At least not for a normal human being, anyway. This associate was knocking around with Chloe Vickers for several decades. Knowing what I do about the two of them, I think Lucy would’ve had good reason to be concerned. Now, if you ask me, what are the odds of Maxine de la Grange and Lucy Stafford coming in contact with different serial killers? This guy was on the scene when Maxine was murdered and had connections to her, through his partner. Then he turns up years later, harbouring some kind of rage towards Lucy. I’d suggest that you’d have a better chance with the lottery jackpot.”

  “True. Were it a horse, I wouldn’t back it.”

  “That would explain why she felt the need to pull a fast one and vanish,” Caslin offered. “Like I said, it’s largely supposition but I think it’ll be enough to get a review of the case, if not get it reopened. Once things settle this end, I’ll put the wheels in motion. With you so involved back in the day, you should expect a call.” There was silence at the other end of the line and Caslin had to check that the call was still connected. It was. He had been expecting an outburst of excitement at bringing closure to the case that had dominated the retired officer’s latter years. Instead, there was silence. “Colin, are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” Brotherton said but his voice was barely a whisper.

  Caslin realised then, that he was emotionally overwhelmed. Having worked towards a result for all these years, the reality of a resolution was almost too much to take in.

  “Time to let it go, Colin.”

  Fighting back the tears, Brotherton replied, “Thank you, Inspector Caslin. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Caslin said. With that, he ended the call.

  Alone with his thoughts once more, Caslin suddenly felt happier within himself. Reaching into his pocket he took out the battered envelope that accompanied him everywhe
re that he went. Opening it, he slid the paper out and scanned the contents. There was no need for the words were committed to memory long ago. A letter received shortly after the spectacular collapse of a trial at the Old Bailey. The writer had reason to hate him but quite the opposite was true. He made good on his promise, a promise to a grieving mother. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the cold breeze passing over him. Returning his focus to the letter in his hands, his eyes lingered on the content.

  “Follow your own advice, Nathaniel. Time to let it go.” He folded the paper in on itself twice and then gently tore it into pieces. As the wind picked up, he waited for a strong enough gust before launching them into the air. Watching with a smile on his face as they were carried away, he felt the release of the pressure from the last two years. “Time to let it go.”

  Moments later his phone rang.

  “Could I speak with Mr Caslin, please,” a soft, female voice asked.

  “You’re speaking to him.”

  “Mr Caslin, my name is Louise and I would like to talk to—”

  “I’m not in the mood for buying-—

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve got the wrong man at the wrong time. I don’t have PPI or need anyth—”

  “No, no, you misunderstand. I don’t want to sell you anything,” she countered.

  Caslin let out a sigh, “I’m sorry, forgive me. What can I do for you?”

  “I am calling from a company called ‘Safely Home’ and we have you down as a recipient for one of our clients.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “You are to be provided with the information lodged with us. You know that we have you on record?”

  Caslin was confused and becoming irritated.

  “You have me at a complete loss. Are you sure you’ve got the right person?”

  “Nathaniel Caslin, of York?”

  “What is it that you do?”

  “We like to think of ourselves as the benevolent Big Brother. Amongst other things, we operate a service where people can provide details on their whereabouts of an evening. So, in the event of something going wrong, friends or relatives have a starting point.”

  “Starting point?”

  “Yes. Often our clients are nervous singletons going out on a first date. They’ll give us their location via an upload with our app and then update it as the evening progresses.”

  “Why would they need that service?”

  “Well, for instance, if you were invited back to a guy’s place unexpectedly, you could upload the address quickly. It only takes a few seconds with the app. That way, you’d have peace of mind without the major buzz kill of making a phone call.”

  “Not wanting to kill the mood, you mean?”

  “Exactly. No more ‘excuse me while I call my friends because you might turn out to be a rapist’, kind of scenario.”

  “Wow. The things you can get from technology these days never ceases to amaze me. And what has this got to do with me?”

  “Firstly, I must apologise that we have not been in touch before now but usually the nominated recipient contacts us. It is just by chance that we saw the news today and his name was mention—”

  “Perhaps you could enlighten me faster because I’m hanging up in about ten seconds?”

  “The notification wasn’t generated as it should have been when your friend… erm… passed away.”

  “Whose passing?”

  “Mr Harman’s.”

  Caslin was dumbstruck for a fraction of a second. His mind raced in circles before becoming alert, pain and fatigue forgotten in all but an instant.

  “Harman? He was a client of yours?”

  “Yes. We have a message that he lodged with us on… let me just look it up… here. On the Sixteenth of November.”

  “That was the day he…” Caslin left the thought unfinished. “What did he leave with you?”

  “He uploaded a picture along with a short… it’s probably easier if you view it for yourself. Would you like me to send it to you?”

  “Yes, could you email it to me?”

  “Certainly, we have your email… oh,” Louise faltered.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Your email listing here, it’s a police address.”

  “Correct. Is that a problem?”

  “No, no, of course not. Sorry, it just caught me by surprise. Usually it’s a relative or friend—”

  “Never mind,” Caslin pushed her on. “Have you sent it?”

  “There. Done. If there is anything el—”

  “Thanks,” Caslin said, hanging up the phone.

  Replacing the handset in his pocket he headed inside and down the stairs at a rate of knots. Wishing the whole time that he had learnt how to synchronise his email and phone set-up. Resisting the urge to break into a run he made his way along the corridor of the third floor, accepting the acknowledgements of a handful of colleagues as he went. Just outside CID, he pulled up as he came face to face with DCS Broadfoot.

  “Inspector, I’ve been looking for you since the close of the press conference.”

  “Sorry, Sir. I needed a bit of quiet time after the… well, the events of the day.”

  Caslin was keen to get past and access his laptop in the squad room.

  “Understandable,” Broadfoot said, waving his limited entourage onwards whilst he remained. Once they were out of earshot he continued, “I have to head off to brief the Chief Constable but I wanted to have a word with you before I left. I know we got off to a rough start.”

  “Not at all, Sir.”

  Broadfoot smiled, “It’s okay, Nathaniel. I jumped to the wrong conclusion about you, influenced by prior events no doubt. I dare say I listened to a little too much hearsay. I feel that I might owe you something by way of an apology.”

  “Not at all, Sir,” Caslin repeated, anxious to have the conversation over with.

  “Good man,” Broadfoot offered his hand. Caslin accepted it with a smile. “I think that there may be an opportunity opening up for you in the near future. Perhaps we could discuss it in the coming days?”

  Caslin was caught slightly off guard. That was possibly the last thing he expected to hear coming his way.

  “Getting rid of me, Sir?” he answered with a hint of humour.

  “Far from it,” Broadfoot replied with a large grin. “We’ll talk then?”

  “Of course, Sir,” Caslin replied.

  Both men said their goodbyes and Caslin slipped into CID. The squad room was almost deserted as the vast majority had been allowed to head home, or to hit the pubs, for some much needed relaxation. Caslin unearthed the laptop from his desk drawer and powered it up. The whole time he was mulling over what Harman could have left for him. He was still none the wiser as he connected to his email account. The inbox stated that there were two hundred and eighty-one unread emails, all highlighted in red, requiring his attention. The latest was all that he was interested in and he opened it, immediately double clicking the attachment. The following seconds passed slowly while the file downloaded.

  The wait proved to be a disappointing anti-climax. The file opened to reveal a close-up photograph of a road sign, “Clement Avenue”. Caslin had to close down the picture and reopen it again to make sure that there was nothing else to it. There wasn’t. Puzzled, he minimised the photo and looked again at the email. Underneath the attachment icon was a sequence of numbers that read “192168245245 47”. Reading and rereading the email, he found nothing else to elaborate on what either the numbers or the photograph meant. Frustrated to say the least, he sent both to the nearest printer before bringing up a map showing Clement Avenue on the screen. Noting that it was south-west of York, in a residential area not far from the station, he wondered what it could mean.

  Thinking that he wanted the email readily accessible, he spent a quarter of an hour setting up his phone to have access to his email account. He had to resend the email to himself in order to ensure
he could access it from his phone. Then he powered down his computer. Retrieving the printout from the machine, he folded the copy and tucked it into his pocket. Then he left the squad room, making his way downstairs.

  The representative from the IPCC hadn’t arrived yet and Caslin thought he could slip out for an hour or so without rocking the boat. Finding Linda in reception, he asked if he could borrow her car to run an errand. She agreed. Journalists were still encamped at the main entrance so Caslin made for the station rear. Almost as an afterthought he returned to reception and, ensuring no-one else was within earshot, he beckoned Linda over.

  “You said that you saw Maxim on the night he died?”

  Linda nodded in response.

  “Yes, I was working late, trying to get some things done before heading home. I was going into hospital the next day for, well, you know? Why do you ask?”

  “How was he? Did you speak with him?”

  She shook her head, “No, he appeared to be in a hurry.”

  “That’s a shame. I was wondering what he was up to. He left me a message but it doesn’t make a lot of sense, really.”

  “You should have a chat with the others, they might know.”

  Caslin’s interest was piqued.

  “Others?”

  “Yes, he was with a couple of the officers from CID when I saw him. They all left together.”

  “Where were they going, did they say?”

  “I didn’t speak to them. I’m assuming they were leaving together, anyway. Maxim was chatting with that new one, from London.”

  “DI Baxter?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Young Terry Holt was only a step behind.”

  “Terry was with them as well?”

  “Like I said, I assumed so but maybe not.” Linda clearly sensed something was amiss. Her gaze narrowed slightly as Caslin digested the information. “Why, what’s going on?”

  “Probably nothing,” Caslin said reassuringly. Linda’s expression gave him the feeling that she was distinctly unimpressed with his response. “Honestly, it’s just something has come up but I’ll have a chat with them and let you know. If anyone’s looking for me, just say, I’ll be back in half an hour or so.”