“I know what you all think but I swear to you, she’s clean these days. I would know. I know my daughter.”
“Alright, Suzanne. I’ll look into it and see what’s going on. Would you like to hold on here while I have a word with the investigating officer?”
Suzanne nodded. A brief smile crossed her face before returning to the strained expression that had greeted him in reception. She didn’t want to make a complaint. This was a frightened mother who wanted someone to help find her daughter.
Mulling over their conversation, as he made his way upstairs to CID, he wondered what Terry Holt had made of it. He tried hard not to draw any conclusions about his attitude before speaking with him. Holt was a reasonably decent member of the team but he did suffer with preconceived ideas about people from certain backgrounds. That did him few favours with his DI but as Caslin had to admit; Holt wasn’t alone. Passing through the double doors into the squad room he gave only cursory responses to the greetings received, making a beeline for the stocky DC, currently hunched over his desk.
“Terry, my office,” he said as he walked past, noting the open copy of the Racing Post before him. “When you’re finished picking a few losers, naturally.”
Several people erupted into laughter as Holt rapidly closed the paper. He stood up and hurried after Caslin.
“What’s up, Sir?” Holt asked as he entered the office.
“Close the door behind you,” Caslin told him, taking his seat behind the desk. Holt’s brow furrowed at that. He had the look of someone who thought he was in trouble. Caslin always kept the door open; usually keen to be a part of the atmosphere of the squad room, a throwback to earlier days. Unless that is, he had something to say. “Melissa Brooke. Talk to me.”
Holt hesitated before pulling out one of the two remaining free chairs but Caslin didn’t stop him.
“Prostitute, reported missing on Saturday, just gone. I pulled her file,” he went on, “multiple arrests for soliciting, shoplifting, possession…the list goes on.”
“What have you done to investigate?” Caslin asked. There was no insinuation in his tone, merely a request for cold facts.
Holt thought for a moment. “I went to her address, there was no sign. I made an enquiry at the hospitals under her name, or any anonymous female admitted since Friday night, for that matter.”
“No hits?”
“Not one,” Holt stated. “Nothing on file with us over the weekend either. Chances are she’s sleeping off a rough weekend, or she’s on a nice earner.”
“Terry, don’t make assumptions,” Caslin chastised him.
“Sorry, Sir. But what have I got? A mother reports her daughter missing, who happens to be a Tom, less than a day since she last spoke to her. Oh, and she’s a junkie. Am I supposed to be surprised? It is the weekend after all.”
“Mother says she’s clean.”
Holt baulked at that. Caslin couldn’t tell if the reaction was from disagreeing with the statement or outright surprise that his DI knew so much about the case, having been off for three days.
“They always think they’re clean,” he countered, Caslin had to agree. “She’s got form as well.”
“Who? The mother?”
Holt nodded, “Receiving, as well as some benefit fraud, couple of years back.”
“Well, at least you’ve been busy,” Caslin said dryly. “The mother says Melissa had a driver, which puts her into the realms of the organised criminals, a cut above your average junkie. Have another look at it. And while you’re at it, Suzanne…the mother, is waiting downstairs. So, you can give her a lift home and find out as much as you can.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Holt didn’t argue. He got up and left without another word, his DI having found a direct avenue of investigation that Holt hadn’t even considered. Caslin didn’t need to say anything further. His expectation was for the DC to put in more effort. About to head downstairs to speak to Suzanne Brooke before she left, Caslin stopped at the doorway, finding DCI Frank Stephens looking for him.
“Just the man.”
“Guv?”
“You need to get yourself over to Ripon. Studley Park, to be exact.”
“What’s going on out there?” Caslin asked.
“We’ve got a missing girl,” Stephens enlightened him. “She didn’t show at the Abbey as expected. They’ve found her car, apparently abandoned, on a lane to the south of the park.”
“Okay, Guv but what’s this got to do with us?” Caslin said, highlighting that it was a little off their patch.
“I don’t always call the plays, Nate. Sometimes I just read them out.”
“Fair enough.”
The DCI glanced past Caslin, back into his office, taking in the clear desk and barren walls. He shook his head as he turned back to face him, “When are you going to start treating that as your office? You could at least put a picture of your kids on your desk, even one of your car, if you prefer?”
Caslin looked over his shoulder and shrugged, “I’ll get around to it.”
He watched the DCI leave. It had been six months since he’d returned to CID from his enforced absence, on medical grounds. The death of the former incumbent of that office still weighed heavily on him. For sure his surroundings would become more familiar to him but it was low on his priority list. Several sets of eyes fell on him as he stood in the middle of the squad room.
“What’s that about, do you reckon?” DS Sarah Hunter asked openly.
Caslin shrugged, “Haven’t a clue but…” he pointed to her, “We’re going to find out. Get your coat.”
“Me, Sir? I was planning to-”
“You’re driving.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Chapter 3
Their route took them north on the A1 before cutting west and eventually picking up the A61, circumventing Harrogate. They were aiming for a remote lane that ran north between the Spa town and Studley Park, a World Heritage site that encompassed the ruins of the Cistercian Fountains Abbey, Georgian water garden and the Studley Royal deer park. Leaving the A-road they picked their way along the narrow lanes, used predominantly by the locals to avoid the traffic on the main arterial routes.
The day was overcast with frequent bursts of heavy rain, bringing down visibility and slowing their progress. Approaching a police cordon, a solitary traffic vehicle positioned across the road, Hunter slowed the car and pulled alongside the lone officer. Following a brief inspection of their warrant cards they were bidden access and directed a quarter of a mile up the lane. Hunter parked the car on the verge, near to several other unmarked and liveried vehicles. Caslin noted the presence of a canine unit and then a CSI van, one usually driven by Iain Robertson, the senior scenes of crime officer in North Yorkshire. The big guns were most definitely out. Clearly this was more than merely a report of a missing girl.
Getting out of the car, Caslin put on his overcoat. This year had been one of the wettest, and therefore coolest, on record. The promise of an Indian summer was becoming hollower as the days passed. Glancing in the direction of the park, he saw the ruins of the abbey in the foreground, perhaps half a mile away.
His attention was drawn to a red Vauxhall Corsa, parked partly on the road with the front perched atop the verge. Casting an eye over the car as they walked, he couldn’t see any signs of damage indicative of an accident or a breakdown. It appeared in good condition and was less than three years old, judging by the plates.
“Glad you could make it,” a familiar voice called to him. The tall figure, unmistakably DCS Kyle Broadfoot, broke free of the small group deep in discussion and made his way towards them. Caslin acknowledged the greeting with a smile and took the offered hand. He was unaware that his attendance was optional.
“What do we have, Sir?” he enquired as Broadfoot also acknowledged DS Hunter.
“A twenty-year old girl who didn’t turn up on site, as expected. Her dig leader, and tutor I believe, contacted the parents. They’re family friends an
d he found it strange. The parents became concerned.”
“Presumably, they knew that she was due here today.”
“Yes, she had spoken of it when they talked on the telephone last night. They felt it out of character. She is very conscientious, apparently, and they knew that she wasn’t ill. The father left his office, after his wife called him to see if he knew why she hadn’t shown, and drove the route. He found her car here.” Broadfoot indicated the Corsa.
“When was all this, Sir?” Caslin asked, looking around the scene.
“A little after 9 a.m., this morning.”
“They were quick off the mark.”
“She was due in from 6 a.m., to make the most of the light.”
“Where was she due to work, Sir?” Hunter asked.
“Not work,” Broadfoot corrected her. “She’s an Archaeology student from the University of York. She’s part of a team carrying out some excavations at nearby Fountains Abbey. Using it as the foundation of their dissertation pieces, I understand. They called off the dig last Thursday, due to the torrential rain, and were set to restart again this morning.”
“Any sign of a breakdown?” Caslin asked. Broadfoot shook his head.
“What about a struggle?” Hunter said.
“Not that we can see. The car was unlocked, no sign of the keys.”
“What about her personal effects…purse, mobile?” Caslin asked.
“Come and see,” Broadfoot suggested and led them to the car.
Caslin put on a pair of latex gloves that Hunter passed to him, before opening the passenger door, noting that the vehicle was facing in the direction of the Abbey. It would seem that she stopped on her way to the site. A quick glance to the ground saw no evidence of freshly laid-down rubber. Caslin figured the damp conditions could well have prevented the tyres from doing so, if she had indeed stopped in a hurry. A lack of mud or grass deposits in the wheel arches, positioned on the verge as they were, further indicated to him that this was a controlled stop.
“What’s the name?” Caslin asked casually as he stooped low to inspect the interior. Hunter passed around to the driver’s side, opening the door, and doing likewise.
“Bermond, Natalie Bermond.”
Caslin’s ears pricked at the name, “Bermond? The parents?”
“Catherine and Tim-”
“Timothy,” Caslin finished.
Hunter stopped her inspection of the vehicle and looked across at him. His expression had taken on a faraway look. “You know them, Sir?”
Caslin was snapped back into the present. Standing up, he turned to Broadfoot who answered an unasked question.
“An old friend of yours, I understand?”
Caslin shrugged almost imperceptibly, “I wouldn’t go that far…I mean, we were but that was a lifetime ago.”
“Well, he requested your presence.”
“Really?” Caslin was surprised although that explained the cryptic request for his attendance. Broadfoot pointed a little further down the lane where two plain-clothes detectives were speaking with another man, one whom Caslin barely recognised. Timothy Bermond was no longer the scrawny youth, with a mass of floppy hair that he recalled from his childhood. He was balding and carrying more weight than was probably good for him. Even from this distance, Caslin could see facial lines far more determined than one would expect on someone of his years. No stranger to weight issues himself, he suddenly felt better about his physique as he took in that of his childhood friend.
Returning his gaze to the car, he focused on the cabin. The gearstick was in neutral and the handbrake was on. The interior was almost immaculate with hardly any signs of wear. The absence of rubbish that often accumulated in vehicles, particularly owned and driven by youngsters, struck him as odd. There was a fair amount of mud on the off-side floor mat, but other than that, it was spotless. Out of habit, he scanned the linings of the roof and sides to see if there was any visible blood residue, but found nothing. He saw no mobile phone, coat or backpack, nor any sign of personal items left behind. Hunter met his gaze and he thought that she had come to the same conclusion. Both stepped away from the vehicle. Looking around to the front of the car, Caslin saw Iain Robertson kneeling down a few metres away. Walking over he greeted the gruff Scot with a smile.
“Morning Iain.”
Robertson looked up and returned the smile warmly, “Hello, Nate.”
“What have you got there?”
“Tyre impressions,” Robertson indicated the depressed earth at his feet, two locations that signalled the front and rear wheels of a vehicle that had left their mark in the grass verge. “Made by a big vehicle, too, taking the width and depth into account…and recently.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Lack of water retained in the tread patterns.”
“Four by four?” Caslin asked.
“Quite likely, I should imagine. As far as it’s possible for me to surmise, at this stage anyway. I wouldn’t rule out a van of some description just yet, though. Spacing between them limits the scope for much else. Short wheel-base van, or an SUV, is my best and most highly educated, guess.”
Caslin smiled, Iain was normally modest, despite having the least to be modest about. When it came to the analysis of forensic examination, there was no-one better.
“Did it stop abruptly, do you think?”
“Doubt it very much,” Robertson stated with confidence. “Look at these tread impressions in the mud. If it had stopped suddenly, there would be more of a scuff and far less detail to the pattern.”
“Could you match it?”
“To a brand?”
“Preferably to a vehicle but whatever you can do,” Caslin replied, slightly tongue-in-cheek.
“I’ll give it a go,” Robertson said, smiling.
“Good man,” Caslin replied. “Have you taken a look at the car?”
“Of course. I didn’t see a lot in it for me, though. We’ll run the full battery of checks, if the DCS thinks it worthwhile but nothing leapt out as being noteworthy.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll catch up with you later,” Caslin said, departing. Returning to stand alongside Broadfoot, he found the head of North Yorkshire CID looking perplexed.
“It’s a curious one, isn’t it?” Broadfoot said. It seemed to Caslin to be a rhetorical question. He answered anyway.
“Not much to suggest anything untoward happened,” Caslin said. He looked at the surrounding fields, only the odd building punctuating the landscape to denote that they weren’t too far from habitation. This was a lonely place on the fringes of urban life. That was the beauty of Yorkshire, once beyond the edge of the towns and cities you were liberated by the landscape. “Any luck with witnesses?”
“Nothing as of yet but we have officers knocking on doors.”
“To be fair, she could just as easily have met a friend here and left in another vehicle,” Caslin said. It was the most plausible of scenarios in the absence of evidence to the contrary.
“The father clearly doesn’t think so,” Hunter offered.
Caslin glanced over at the man, a worried expression noticeable on his face, as he stood deep in conversation with their colleagues. The dog handler was returning, from the northern end of the lane, and it appeared as if he had also turned up nothing of note.
“Perhaps we should speak with him, then,” Caslin said. Turning to Broadfoot, he added, “If you don’t mind, Sir?”
Broadfoot shook his head, “You’ll be reporting to one of the team from Harrogate, DCI John Inglis. You know him?”
Caslin shrugged, “No, never met him.”
“That’s him over there with Mr Bermond, the one to the right,” Broadfoot pointed him out. He was of slender build and looked as smooth as a film star with the way he carried himself. “I’ll introduce you later.”
“Thank you, Sir. Am I to be seconded away from Fulford Road?”
“Certainly not. You can carry on with your caseload. Inglis can handle this. Do what y
ou do, Nathaniel, but do it through John.”
“I understand, Sir,” Caslin confirmed. However, he did feel that he was largely present at the behest of Timothy Bermond and therefore, primarily for window dressing. Broadfoot had, until recently, intimated to Caslin that he had a new role lined up for him but subsequently that had fallen by the wayside. Perhaps Caslin’s manner had brought the DCS to his senses.
“Pay attention to this, Nathaniel. We can’t afford any slip-ups. Find her and do it quickly, please.”
Caslin said that he would endeavour to do just that and set off, Hunter falling into step alongside him. Once out of earshot, although still in a lowered tone, she voiced her thoughts.
“What did he mean by that?”
Caslin smiled as he replied, “You haven’t put it together yet. All of this?” he waved his hand in a circular motion, a gesture regarding the police presence.”
“It is a little over the top, seems a bit of a fuss-”
“About nothing?” Caslin said. Hunter nodded.
“Exactly, I mean we don’t know that anything has happened but half the force has turned out, including the Prince of Darkness.”
Caslin laughed at the reference to Broadfoot. He did have a reputation for being more than a little self-serving. The fact was that Hunter was right but he was disappointed that she had missed the obvious.
“Timothy Bermond’s father is Sebastian Bermond.”
The penny dropped and Hunter took a sharp intake of breath, “Oh, bloody hell.”
Caslin nodded, “Now you see.”
Further comment was halted as they approached Timothy. He clocked their arrival and broke away from his conversation, stepping forward to meet them. He thrust his hand into Caslin’s.
“Glad you’re here, Nate.”
“It’s been a while, Tim,” Caslin said graciously, accepting the firm handshake. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.
“I know, me too. I saw that you were back in the area, after that case you had last year. You were all over the papers.” Caslin thought back, he didn’t want to go there. “I considered calling you then but…well, it’s been-”
Blacklight (Dark Yorkshire Book 2) Page 2
