Stepping out of reception, Caslin passed through the ground floor of the building and left the station by the rear entrance. Following a brief hunt amongst the parked vehicles, he located Linda’s Fiat in the far corner of the car park. Feeling slightly out of place cocooned in the little car, surrounded by the cream leather seats and chrome trim of the interior, he left Fulford Road, determined to take a drive down Clement Avenue. Following the route from memory, having swiftly given up on the in-car navigation system, Caslin made several wrong turns before taking a left into the road that he sought.
Bringing the car to a stop underneath the overhang of a large silver birch, he looked around.
Chapter 33
Clement Avenue bore nothing of any note. It was simply another residential street in Fulford, lined with a mixture of non-descript detached and semi-detached housing stock, constructed in the sixties. Getting out of the car he stretched out his arms, stifling a yawn. Despite being only around five o’clock it felt much later. The road was quiet, many residents having not returned from work yet. Whilst others were already hunkered down due to the inclement weather.
Caslin took a walk down the street, taking in the various properties as he went but once again, found nothing untoward. Having reached the other end, he came to stand before the road’s name plate. Withdrawing the printout from his pocket he compared the two in the orange glow of the streetlight above. They were identical. This was where the photo had been taken. Caslin glanced around once more, trying in vain to see what Harman may have been looking at from this vantage point. Nothing remarkable stood out. Why take a picture here?
Crossing over to the other side of the road he began walking back towards the parked Fiat. All the while he looked to the left and right, searching for inspiration. Regrettably, he reached the car without coming to a conclusion. Getting back in, he sat there in the dark, remaining thoughtful. Unfolding the printout again, he stared at it intently, seeking inspiration.
Taking out a pen, he began to play around with the numbers. Firstly, he tried to reorder them as if they might be a combination to something. Rapidly he discounted that notion, there were far too many. Considering they might be a primitive code, he began to list them. The first number he allocated as a page number, the second a line, and then lastly, a word in that line. That was a classic method of generating a code. The words when put together spelt out the message. The problem with the theory was that he would need the source book that Harman used in order to make any sense of it. Furthermore, the picture and number sequence had been uploaded together. If that had been done on the move then Harman would have had little time to carry out such a procedure. He discarded the idea as nonsense.
The windows of the car began to steam up around him but Caslin was almost oblivious to the outside. Harman must have anticipated that the puzzle could be solved, and by Caslin, otherwise why would he leave it for him? The notion that it was unsolvable by design came and went in a fleeting moment. Harman was far too straight to have carried out such a pointless exercise.
Headlights illuminated the interior as another car made the turn into Clement Avenue. Caslin glanced up as it passed by. The vehicle had his attention and he watched as it made its way a hundred yards, or so, before turning right into the driveway of a house. The driver got out of the car, pulling his coat about him as he walked up the path. The indicators flashed twice as the alarm was set before the figure unlocked the front door and passed into the darkness beyond.
Caslin stared at the house for the next couple of minutes. Areas of the interior lit up as the occupant went from room to room. Tossing his pen onto the passenger seat, Caslin folded up the paper in his hands and tucked it into an internal pocket. Taking out his phone he saw that it was a quarter to six. In all likelihood, he would be missed back at Fulford Road soon. Typing out a brief message, he sent it before replacing the phone in the pocket from where it came and got out of the car.
Light drizzle was starting to fall as he crossed the street and headed for the house. Walking up the driveway, alongside a neatly manicured lawn, he approached the front door. Glancing to the right, noting the piece of numbered slate fixed to the wall beneath the exterior porch light, he took a deep breath before pressing the bell. Then he thrust his hands into his pockets, shielding them from the cold.
“Good evening,” Caslin said as the door opened. A surprised expression crossed the face of the man standing before him.
“What are you doing here?” DI Atwood asked.
“Thought we could have a chat.”
“About what?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Caslin replied, silently pulling the pieces together in his head.
“You’d better come in, then,” Atwood replied, beckoning Caslin inside.
Caslin hesitated, glancing back towards the street, “I’m supposed to be—”
“C’mon, you’re letting all the heat out,” Atwood persisted. He looked past Caslin to the street beyond, casually scanning both left and right. Standing to the side, he allowed Caslin room to enter. The hallway was wide by modern standards with stairs off to the left, tastefully decorated in neutral colours.
“Nice house,” Caslin said. “Live here by yourself?”
“Thanks. Yes, I do, but it’s only rented. I didn’t see much point in buying as I planned this to be a stop-gap solution.”
“Big house for just you, though. What is it, three bedrooms?”
“No, four,” Atwood corrected, “but I like the space downstairs. I don’t want to live in some pokey one or two-bedroom flat like a middle-aged student.”
“I always had it in my head that you were married.”
Atwood led him through to the back of the house and into the kitchen.
“I am. Well I was until recently.”
“I can relate.”
“Do you want a coffee, tea, or something a little stronger? You’ll no doubt need it after today.”
“You have no idea,” Caslin said. “Coffee will be fine though, I’m driving.”
Caslin watched as Atwood filled the kettle and took down two mugs from a cupboard above.
“I wondered how you got out here. Your car was totalled, wasn’t it?”
“You could say that. It doesn’t matter. It was a piece of shit, anyway,” Caslin said as he looked about the kitchen with a curious interest. There was little of note to grab his attention. The counters were all clear, without any dirt or loose implements to clutter them up. The stainless-steel sink appeared to reflect the light from the overhead spots like a mirror. The room was immaculate. “Do you actually live here?”
The question caused his host to smile as he glanced over his shoulder whilst retrieving a bottle of milk from the fridge.
“I like things clean and tidy.”
Caslin nodded, “It’s like a show house.”
Atwood laughed. The kettle clicked and he added the boiling water to the cups.
“Do you take milk?”
“A little. And some sugar, if you have it,” Caslin said reluctantly. Had he realised it would be instant coffee he would have chosen tea but it was of little consequence. “I gather your promotion has come through.”
“More of a transfer than a promotion, but yes.”
“You’re heading off then?”
“Yep, next month, all being well.”
“Diplomatic protection, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, should be a good one for the CV. I can’t wait.”
“I’ll bet,” Caslin said, sipping at the steaming brew that had just been passed to him. Despite the sugar, it remained bitter and lacking in flavour.
“So, what brings you here?”
Caslin took another sip of his coffee and placed the cup down on the breakfast bar. Undoing his coat, he reached in and withdrew the paper, clearing his throat as he unfolded it.
“A message from beyond the grave.”
DI Atwood raised an eyebrow as he also took a mouthful of coffee. Stepping over, he w
atched as Caslin placed the paper on the counter and flattened it out.
“What on earth do you have there?”
“That was exactly what I was contemplating, until you happened to drive past.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Really?” Caslin said, narrowing his gaze. “I think I’m beginning to.”
Michael Atwood stepped away, resting his back against the counter behind him. With both hands, he cupped the warm mug in front of him. With a nod of the head he intimated for Caslin to continue.
“Do you remember the email that Harman sent to me, the day before?”
“The day before he committed suicide? Yes, but only vaguely.”
“Aye, that one. He was telling me all about that ‘Tor’ program. Apparently, it shields your identity online, untraceable. At least, that’s what I found out. I read that the CIA developed it to aid political dissidents and the like although I’m not sure about that bit.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Well, I didn’t think too much of it at the time but that’s the kind of software that any officer spending time with CEOP would surely be aware of,” Caslin said, fixing Atwood with a gaze. The latter appeared unmoved.
“I don’t recall the conversation. Only that I was checking that you were okay. I probably wasn’t paying much attention.”
“I asked you specifically.”
“I don’t recall,” Atwood repeated. Moving over to the sink he filled a glass of water from the tap. He took a moment to drink half of it before turning back to Caslin. “What’s your point, if you have one? Are you pulling me up on my competence or my listening skills?”
“Like I said, I didn’t think much about it. Until I got this,” Caslin indicated the photograph. “And of course, the number sequence. That had me running around in circles right up until I knocked on your door.”
“And?”
“This house. Number forty-seven, correct?”
“Correct,” Atwood nodded. “So, what?”
Caslin pointed to the sequence. The last two digits were separate from the others, a four and a seven.
“I’m not a strong believer in coincidence.”
“Nor am I, I think it comes with the warrant card,” Atwood grinned. Passing Caslin, he went over to a sideboard and retrieved a glass from one of the shelves. He then took a bottle of red wine from the rack and returned with both to where he had been standing. Opening a drawer, he glanced across at Caslin. “You’ll forgive me, I’m not driving and it’s been a long couple of days.”
“So that has me thinking,” Caslin continued. “A photograph of your street, your house number and these others, what could they be?”
“Please, do tell,” Atwood replied, bringing out a corkscrew and setting about opening the wine.
“Harman wasn’t the greatest of detectives, it must be said. Not exactly a chip off the old block but he had a thing with technology. In that, he excelled.”
“Damn it,” Atwood snapped as he withdrew the corkscrew with only half of the cork attached. “I hate this thing. It’s cheap as shi… excuse me, while I get another.”
Caslin watched as his colleague disappeared into the dining room, returning only moments later with a different corkscrew and began teasing the broken end of the cork from the neck of the bottle.
“Those numbers, they’re a reference to this house, aren’t they?”
Michael Atwood stopped what he was doing. He slowly put the bottle down and turned around to face Caslin.
“How do you figure?”
“What are they, an IP address for your computer, or ident number for your mobile?”
“Been reading up?”
“I’m thirty-nine, not a dinosaur.”
Atwood took a deep breath, “What are you saying, or should I say, accusing me of?”
“Who says I’m accusing you of anything?”
“Let’s not be coy, Nathaniel. If you have something to say, say it.”
“What happened? Did Maxim come across a link to your address amongst all those fake ones? Did he challenge you—”
“He wouldn’t have the balls.”
“He was just a kid, Michael. Why did you have to kill him?”
Atwood took on a look of consternation as the two men stared at each other across the kitchen. Shaking his head, he exhaled heavily.
“Kill him? Come on, Nathaniel. You’ve seriously lost it, this time.”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Michael,” Caslin admonished him. “It won’t take much you know, revisiting what Maxim explored. Iain will find it sooner or later. Plus, what he sent me the night he died.”
“That’s all circumstantial, Nathaniel. You know that—”
“So far, yes, but I wonder what we’ll find if we look at the suicide with fresh eyes. Can you be absolutely certain you left nothing behind?”
Atwood began to laugh, “You crack me up, Nathaniel. You always have done. And I’ll give it to you, you’re a pretty good detective but, unlike me, you never look far enough ahead.”
“I’m going to have to take you in, Michael. This ends here and now,” Caslin stated, stepping forward.
“And don’t I know it,” Atwood replied. At that moment he brought out a revolver that he had concealed in the rear waistband of his trousers, bringing it to bear in the blink of an eye. Caslin froze.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said softly. “I really wasn’t.”
“And now you are, good for you.”
“You’ll never—”
“Get away with it? I already have. To think,” Atwood said, indicating the gun in his hand, “my grandfather’s old service revolver would come in so useful. I keep it well oiled but I’ve never had cause to use the thing.”
“Until now, you must be chuffed to buggery,” Caslin said. The realisation hit him that he had just dropped the ball in the biggest way possible. “So, you might as well tell me what happened. Was there an unexpected knock on the door, just like tonight?”
“He was standing in the street when I came home. That ever-present, gormless expression on his face, same as usual.”
“You invited him in?”
“I had a feeling that he had come across something, when I pulled up and wound the window down. He was behaving oddly, even by his standards. It’s a strange thing that afflicts so many people. That they stand when they should run, remain polite when being rude would be far more appropriate. Or even,” he used the end of the barrel to indicate Caslin, “accept an invitation when their good sense tells them they should decline it.”
“Sometimes it’s a measure of your own self-belief.”
“That was always Harman’s problem. He never knew when to trust his instincts. More often than not, he just got carried along with the current. It was so typical of the lad though, to stumble across something and not have the confidence to speak up. He would rather go it alone than risk looking like a fool and getting it wrong as he had done so many times before.
“Well, arguably that was a reaction caused by the rest of us, as much as by any personal failings.”
“That’s where you and I are very similar, Nathaniel. We’re not too worried about what everyone else thinks about us.”
“Perhaps,” Caslin mused openly. “I would never have thought of you as capable—”
“We’re all capable. When push comes to shove. You should know that in our line of work.”
“Debatable,” Caslin shrugged. “Even so, you… an arsehole, definitely, but a killer… I wouldn’t have pegged it.”
“It’s not wise to insult a man holding a gun on you.”
Caslin placed his cup down on the counter.
“I’m banking on you coming to your senses.”
“Really? Explain it to me.”
Caslin cleared his throat.
“You figured that you had a good chance of getting away with taking out Maxim. Quite rightly, as it turned out. You must know that you won’t get away with this.”
Atwoo
d fixed him with a stare. It was cold and made Caslin doubt his own logic. Why had he engaged with him? He had had the upper hand and should’ve taken his chance. Now he was boxed into a corner. He felt foolish, like he had tripped over his own arrogance. Despite the outward appearance of calm, Caslin felt his heart going ten to the dozen.
“I’ll find a way. It’s not the first time that you’ve gone off on your own. I’ll bet that no-one knows where you are.”
Inwardly Caslin cursed. Atwood knew him too well. The two men remained motionless, facing off. Each was waiting for the other to make a move. For his part, Caslin had only one more card to play.
“Come in with me, Michael. This doesn’t have to get any worse but it has to end, now.” Caslin immediately regretted the turn of phrase. The last thing he wanted was Atwood considering finality. “We’re not going to accomplish anything standing here. You see, you are wrong about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve passed the information Maxim left me onto Gerry Trent. I emailed him before I knocked on your door.”
“You bastard,” Atwood snapped.
Turning to face him with a somewhat resigned demeanour, Caslin shrugged.
“If you want to shoot me, then go ahead. It won’t get you anywhere. Maybe a bit of a head start but… if it makes you feel better, go ahead.”
“I would’ve lost everything… and for what?” Atwood shouted, tears welling in his eyes. Caslin was unsure if they were born of frustration or anger. “For checking out a website after a few beers… everything?”
“Come off it, Michael. Don’t trivialise it. There was more going on than that, wasn’t there?” Caslin said accusingly. “Were you paying for downloads, streaming it live and getting off on it like those other sick bastards?”
Atwood shook his head but Caslin could see that his words were hitting home.
“I never went looking for it… I swear.”
“Technology is neither good nor bad but it is great for removing barriers. You’re able to get in on things that you wouldn’t seek in the real world.”
Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 32
