Table of Contents
Blacklight
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
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First published by Hamilton Press in 2018
Blacklight
Dark Yorkshire - Book 2
J M DALGLIESH
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For the people in my life, old and new
Chapter 1
The overnight storm had left the car park treacherous in places. The pooled water at certain points highlighted where not to stop, or walk, once beyond the confines of the interior. The distinctive crunch of hiking boots on gravel carried as he climbed out and made his way to the rear, dropping the tailgate. Pulling the red and black rucksack out and slipping it over his shoulders, he locked the vehicle and cast his eyes skyward. The day was still overcast but held some promise as shafts of light split the grey, changing the landscape beneath from grim to stunning. Far off to the west was an ominous sight. Swathes of rain lashed the distant hillside and he was thankful that the wind direction was favourable.
The rucksack on his back felt strange, being nigh on empty, an unnecessary addition to the all-weather gear that he wore. Surprisingly to him, there was another car parked up already. This early in the morning, he found that unusual. Granted he had only been here twice before, once scouting and once to leave his kit but nonetheless, he had never come across another soul. That was the reason he had chosen the location. There were so many better, no, not better - more travelled places that drew in the tourists and locals alike. Leaving the car park from the east side, he set off on the well-worn trail.
Starting out in a valley, the path trekked east before changing direction and tacking north, his destination point would never see him leave the confines of the hills to either side. On a dreary day, such as this, there was always the likelihood that a walker would barely see the sun, let alone the views that Yorkshire was famous for. The going was tough as the trail narrowed and the gravel passed into mud. The water drained into the valley, leaving the soil wet and sticky underfoot, slowing his progress. Despite this, his destination was well within a fifteen-minute walk. He knew that to be almost exact. The need to make notes was never required, that was his gift. The ability to commit details to memory, even trivial ones, that would slip the mind of lesser people in moments. He knew where to make the turn from the trail; after the boulder, one hundred yards beyond the sprawling gorse ahead.
The sound of voices came to ear and he stopped. The first was young, a girl, and after that an adult male, her father? Their chatter carried to him on the light breeze. Another, a young boy was complaining about his feet getting stuck in the mud. A shriek followed as someone presumably lost their footing. Resuming his course, he clocked them rounding the forthcoming turn in the track, the boy now being led by his mother. The man was at the head of the party, a furrowed brow, born of frustration, upon his face. They were equipped for a hike, judging by their gear but none of them looked comfortable.
“Good morning,” the father said, glancing up from the Ordnance Survey map, enclosed within a transparent case, hanging by a cord from his neck.
“Having trouble?” he asked, reading the look of concentration on the man before him. The group had all stopped behind the two men, the children’s expressions one of hope and expectation.
“Is it that obvious? We wanted to visit the bird sanctuary at dawn but we’ve taken a wrong turn on the way back to the car.”
That wasn’t surprising. He knew the sanctuary, a well-tended area returned to its natural habitat by a wilderness group over the past eight years. It was easy to get disorientated there, not for him but certainly for the general public. The group were good on nature, bad on signage. They planned to not only reintroduce native tree species but also the indigenous animals, wolves and lynx, to national parks in the future. That is, if they managed to overcome the objections of local landowners.
It would be easy. Too easy. He dismissed the thought. Stepping forward he located their point on the map before tracing a line with his index finger, walking them through the route back to the car park. Even with the children in tow, it would take them under twenty minutes. With many spoken thanks and smiles of gratitude, the family moved on. Once again, he was alone. Picking up the pace the sense of excitement rose within him, as it had done at this time in each of the previous three years. He left the trail where he remembered to, skirting the heather and jogging up a shallow incline before coming to a stop alongside a solitary silver birch. For some reason this species loved the landscape here and was one of the few managing to thrive.
Looking around he was struck by the isolation of where he stood. There was nothing to indicate an urban presence, no roads, artificial light or noise, beyond the breeze passing through the nearby foliage. He was most definitely alone.
Removing the rucksack, he put it on the ground before him and dropped to his knees. From inside he took out the only item contained within. The collapsible shovel was assembled in moments and with one last look around, he set about digging. Barely five inches beneath the surface, he found the rim and within a minute of that he had unearthed the top. Clearing more space around it, he put the shovel down and used his fingers to pry off the lid to the orange plastic tub, breaking the airtight seal.
Immediately, a smile crossed his face as he examined the contents. There was no evidence of moisture penetration, as he anticipated, and all was as he had left it. Firstly, he took out the length of coiled rope, cable ties and duct tape, placing them all in the open rucksack. Next, he picked up the mobile phone, removing the cover and slotting in the battery from his own handset, deliberately chosen to be interchangeable. Switching it on, he watched as the screen illuminated and went through its start-up process. Putting the phone in his jacket pocket he returned his focus to the container. A re-sealable bag came out, the three hundred pounds in used tens and twenties were swiftly transferred to his pockets.
A bottle of drain cleaner and pack of refuse sacks were added to the rucksack. Retrieving a small red and white cardboard box, he opened it to reveal it was full to capacity. Lastly, he took out the semi-automatic pistol and checked it over. The slide was well greased and moved with ease back and forth, as did the hammer. Several years of military service had taught him how to prepare a firearm for these conditions. Releasing the magazine, he loaded it with rounds from the cardboard box and, having replaced it, chambered one. Ensuring first that the safety was on, he put the weapon in the
pack alongside everything else.
Quickly reattaching the lid, he buried the container once more, covering the disturbed earth with detritus that he found lying around. Finally, he collapsed the shovel and returned that to the rucksack. Lifting it onto his shoulders he bore the newly acquired weight with ease. With a last glance at the ground, content that almost any sign of his presence was fleeting, he set off back towards the car park. The family came to mind once more and he wondered whether they had reached their car and set off already. A wave of exhilaration passed over him and he fought to subdue it. This wasn’t the time. Although, he had been raised to never look a gift horse in the mouth and for a brief moment he considered breaking into a run before quelling the urge. That was getting harder and harder as time passed. The recognition of that fact made him stop to draw breath.
There was a process and it was successful. One that had been developed through experience and had never failed him. Why should he change it now? Was this becoming mundane? Perhaps it was time to broaden his horizons a little bit, mix up the status quo. Maybe so, but not today. That would require some thought. Unless an opportunity presented itself again, of course. That would signal something else was at work, a power far greater than him.
Retracing his steps back to the trail, as the sunshine broke through the clouds in ever greater bursts, he made it to the car park soon after. The family had made worse time than predicted and were still loading the car as he approached. The mother smiled warmly in his direction before leaning in and clipping their daughter’s seatbelt in place. The father offered a small wave of acknowledgement. No doubt his pride slightly dented at having to ask a stranger for help in finding their way. Their son was hopping around in the rear, apparently searching for something lost amongst their gear.
Whistling a nameless tune his thoughts drifted to the contents of his rucksack, all easily accessible if required. He must have slipped into a daydream of possibilities because he found the father staring at him as he finished stowing their kit, closing the boot to their people carrier. He looked on as the family closed their doors, the father casually walking around to the driver’s side and taking out his keys. The man stopped and glanced over towards him. At that moment he realised he had stopped walking and was standing in the middle of the car park, watching intently. Still, he didn’t move.
The excitement was building, once again. This coming weekend was shaping up to be a great one.
Chapter 2
The door to the taxi slammed shut and the car moved off. Caslin watched as the driver pulled out onto the Fulford Road and accelerated away, in the direction of the city centre, with apparent disregard for the fact he was leaving a police station. Caslin considered sticking him on at a later date. Although, £6.80 was practically daylight robbery and he felt that he should be able to arrest him for that alone. Telling that to the cabbie however, could’ve been deemed provocative, so he let the thought pass. Grabbing a ride from someone, hopefully later that day, to collect his car would be far more agreeable than shelling out again.
Crossing the car park, he mounted the steps to the entrance and walked into reception. Linda was on the front desk and he gave her a smile and a wave whilst she returned it, pointing to the clock on the wall, signifying he was late. Caslin’s smile broke into a grin. Linda was much like a mother to him, only without the emotional baggage. He was punching in his code to the security door when she drew his attention, indicating a lady seated to his left. Crossing over to the counter, he approached Linda with an enquiring look on his face.
“She’s been here since first thing,” she said in a hushed tone.
“What does she want?” Caslin asked, equally lowering his voice.
“I think she wants to make a complaint. At least, that would be my guess. She’s asking to see a senior officer.”
“Who’s the unfortunate in the firing line?” Caslin said, smiling as he spoke.
“One of yours, Terry Holt.”
His smile faded. That was the last thing he needed. First the car, now this. He considered what on earth his DC had been up to. Glancing over his shoulder, he took the measure of the woman. She was in her early fifties, he guessed, judging by the hair style and clothes that she wore but had the look of someone far older. The skin to her face was heavily lined and despite fake tan, hair dye and a bit of make-up, it was clear that she was losing the battle with time.
“Any idea what her problem is?” he asked without looking away.
“Perhaps you should ask her?” Linda said evenly, with only a hint of condescension.
He glanced back at the civilian desk clerk and smiled.
“Well maybe I will, then. Did she give you a name?”
“Suzanne Brooke.”
“Thank you, Linda.”
Leaving the counter, he walked across reception and his approach was met with wary eyes. Before he was able to introduce himself, she rose from her seat.
“Are you a senior officer?” she asked, her tone stern and uncompromising. Caslin was slightly taken aback and realised how Linda had formed her conclusion.
“I’m Detective Inspector, Nathaniel Caslin.”
“You’ll do,” she said. “I want to make a complaint.”
“You had better come with me,” Caslin replied, indicating towards the internal access to the station proper.
“About time.”
Caslin glanced at the clock, which read 9:48. What a start to his working week.
Having found them a quiet room, Caslin got her a cup of tea, himself a coffee and they sat down. Whether he had misinterpreted her attitude or not, he wasn’t sure, but there was a definite softening of her stance as they began to talk.
“May I ask what you would like to complain about, Mrs Brooke?” Caslin asked, hopeful that it was something minor.
“Miss Brooke,” she corrected him. “But I know I’m a little old for that, so Suzanne will do just fine.”
Caslin acknowledged the correction with a nod of his head. She had definitely softened.
“You have an issue with one of our officers?” he asked, as casually as he dared, hoping to cut this one off early.
“Yes, Detective Constable Holt,” Suzanne glared. “He’s not taking my report seriously. I’ve phoned and visited over the weekend and I’m being fobbed off.”
“You’ll forgive me. I’ve been out of the station for a few days. I’m not aware of what he’s working on. Could you fill me in?”
Suzanne sat forward in her chair, apparently pleased that a senior rank was prepared to listen. Caslin wondered if she had lost her cat.
“My daughter’s missing,” she began, emotion edging into her voice. “It’s not like Melissa, not at all.”
Caslin also sat forward. “When did she go missing?”
“I realised something was up on Saturday morning, when she didn’t show up to see Jack, her son.”
“He was with you?”
“He lives with me, you see,” Suzanne met his eye, tears forming on the rim of hers. Caslin observed the woman across from him, watching her demeanour morph from aggression into nervous vulnerability. “She never misses a day out with Jack, never.”
Caslin did a quick mental calculation. Being Monday morning, only a little over forty-eight hours had passed since she had been last heard from.
“How old is Melissa?” Caslin asked. Suzanne frowned.
“That was the first question DC Holt asked me as well.” Caslin cursed himself silently. “She’s twenty-one. And before you say it, I know, she’s an adult and can do what she wants.”
Caslin held up a hand. “I’m only building a picture, in my mind. Do you have any reason to think that she has come to harm? Have you been to her residence-”
“Of course, I have!” Suzanne interrupted him. “I have a key to hers and she’s not been back, I would know.”
“Not been back, you said? Do you know where she was on Friday night?”
Suzanne fell silent, leaning back into her chair
as a sense of deflation overcame the threat of rising anger. “She was working.”
“Where does she work?”
There was a moment of hesitation before her eyes flicked up at Caslin, then dropped back to the table. Caslin knew what that look meant, she didn’t have to say it, she didn’t want to.
“Not exactly,” Suzanne replied.
“What does she do?” Caslin asked again.
“She…she’s an escort.”
The words appeared to sting as they crossed her lips, her body language signifying resignation. Caslin could immediately see her difficulty in acknowledging what her daughter did for a living but at the same time, it brought her reasoning into focus.
“Why do you think that something untoward has happened to her, other than missing a play date with her son?”
“She wouldn’t miss it and certainly not without letting me know. She doesn’t do this to me, she knows how I worry,” Suzanne’s eyes were imploring him to act, to find a solution. “She’s not a street walker, you know-”
“That’s of no consequence to me, Suzanne. I promise you,” he reassured her. “How then, does she carry out her…business?”
She looked at him then, as if attempting to read his thoughts, assessing whether he really cared or was passing judgement, as so many others had no doubt done before. Her expression was unreadable. “I don’t know, Mel keeps that to herself but she always insists she’s safe. She’s never unaccompanied.”
“Her pimp?” Caslin asked. There was no easy way to sugar coat such a question.
She shook her head, “No, it’s not like that. She has a driver; all the girls do.”
Caslin considered that. This put Melissa in a different bracket to the prostitutes who inhabited the red-light areas of York, or even the call girls who operated independently through wanted ads in magazines or the internet.
“Any history of substance abuse or-”
Blacklight (Dark Yorkshire Book 2) Page 1
