Blacklight (Dark Yorkshire Book 2)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Skipwith was dripping with money. At least, that was how Caslin had always viewed the place. Well within the commuter belt but situated amongst beautiful countryside, the houses could sell for figures resembling telephone numbers. Scanning his pitiful entourage, he was thankful for the pleasant evening. The sun had set but heavy cloud-cover kept the temperature up. Leaning his back against the car, he watched as the various officers went from door to door. Most of the properties here were detached, with many on large plots, and he considered that a lot could happen that people wouldn’t see. He hoped that inherent nosiness would win out, over discrete liaisons. The last he expected was to find anyone openly admitting to entertaining prostitutes at the first time of asking.

  Terry Holt came into view at the end of a gravelled driveway. Closing the gate, he cast a glance towards him and shook his head. Caslin hid the disappointment well as he marked off another address. They’d been at it for over an hour but thus far had drawn a blank. The majority of officers on shift were at the beck and call of the Bermond inquiry and he was spared only a half-dozen bodies. Hunter promised she would call if a significant lead came in following the press conference. So far, nothing had.

  The radio crackled and he scooped it up off of the car’s bonnet. There was someone he needed to speak to. The address was a two-minute walk away and he made it in quick time, bringing Holt with him. The house was a bungalow, set back from the main road, as most were. A tarmac drive curved around an immaculately manicured garden, giving the house two approaches from the highway. A uniformed constable met them at the entrance.

  “Mrs Sheila Cosgrove, Sir,” the constable stated. “She was woken by a commotion on the night in question. I think you need to hear this.”

  Caslin nodded and allowed himself to be led up to the residence. She was elderly, well into her eighties, Caslin guessed, and as neatly turned out as her front lawn. Following introductions, she got to her story.

  “I thought it was a dog shrieking during the night, not unheard of out here. Some people are so ignorant when it comes to their neighbours. They can make-”

  “The noise, Mrs Cosgrove?” Caslin pushed, politely.

  “Oh yes, well I thought it was a dog but then I heard a scream.”

  “A scream?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “I thought so, it was rather disturbing but then I heard nothing more, so I thought I’d go back to sleep.”

  “I see. What time was this?”

  “I have no idea, it was very late, though,” she said, thinking on it. “I retire around ten each night so it was later than that.”

  “Right,” Caslin said, glancing towards the uniformed constable who appeared nervous at that point.

  “Mrs Cosgrove, could you tell the Inspector what you told me happened next?” the officer said swiftly.

  “Oh, of course. I heard someone banging on my door.”

  “Who was that?” Caslin asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “By the time I got out of bed and went to the door, there was no-one there.”

  “Did you see anything when you looked out?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said glumly. “I didn’t open it, the door I mean. I just looked out of the window. You can’t be too careful these days, can you?”

  “Did you think to call anyone?” Caslin asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t really want to get involved. I thought I might have imagined it. Did I?”

  “Okay, Mrs Cosgrove,” Caslin ignored her question. “That’s very useful information. Thank you very much. DC Holt will take a statement from you.”

  “That was at one o’clock.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Caslin said. He had already turned to leave.

  “It had just gone one o’clock in the morning, when I heard the banging.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely,” she said defiantly. “I checked the time, when I went back to bed.”

  “Thanks again,” Caslin said. Leaving her with Holt, he set off back down the driveway, considering what it all meant. Assuming the caller in the early hours was Melissa Brooke, she had somehow eluded her attackers but how far would she have run before seeking help? Not more than a few doors, he figured. Was she being chased when she ran to Mrs Cosgrove’s and where would she have gone afterwards? The thought came to him, whilst assessing potential flight routes within the immediate vicinity, as to whether Melissa had made it as far as she was able.

  Caslin walked back to his car and, using the radio, asked each officer to check in with any information. Nothing more had come to light. Barely a fifth of the village had been canvassed and it was already approaching nine o’clock. He needed to find that house. Terry Holt reappeared soon afterwards, striding purposefully towards him.

  “Did she have anything else?”

  “No,” Terry replied. “I think she’s a bit dotty but sound enough to trust on the basics. It’s something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “Vale View,” he indicated a house, four down from where they stood. “I spoke to a lady there, bit of a stroppy mare, if ever I met one, seemed really put out that I was delaying her evening. She had plans and couldn’t possibly be late. She was away on business when we think Melissa went missing.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t think about asking at the time, too busy checking out the Audi that she was getting into,” he said. Caslin figured he was more likely to be checking her out but said nothing. “She was wearing a wedding ring.”

  “You didn’t speak with the husband?”

  “No, she was home alone but another car’s just pulled up.”

  Caslin had missed that, so preoccupied was he with contemplating Melissa’s escape. “Let’s go and have a chat and see what he has to say for himself.”

  Vale View was an impressive detached house, stone built with an appealing frontage that stood out from others nearby. Caslin figured that his entire apartment in Kleiser’s Court would fit into half of the ground floor. Their feet crunched on the pink marble chips as they passed the double garage and mounted the porch. Holt rang the bell and the wait lasted only seconds before a figure could be seen in the hall beyond.

  A suited man, in his mid-forties answered the door, eyeing the two men suspiciously. Caslin offered up his warrant card and decided to dispense with the preliminaries.

  “We’re here to discuss last Friday’s visitor,” he said sternly. Although the man’s facial expression didn’t change, Caslin noted that he glanced to either side of them, into the driveway beyond, before replying.

  “I…I don’t know-”

  “Let’s not waste any of your time, or mine,” Caslin said. He knew that this was their target. His body language was screaming it.

  “You had best come in.”

  Caslin looked to Holt, who was surprised at the exchange but followed. They stepped into a brightly lit, double-height entrance hall. A contemporary, oak and glass staircase swept up from their right, two sets of double doors were to their front and left. The first was open and Caslin could see a living room beyond. The others were partly glazed and gave access to a spacious kitchen. Their host showed them into the living room, which was as impressive as the entrance hall.

  “What is it that you do, Mister?” Caslin asked.

  “Summerbee, Peter,” the man offered, resignation in his tone. “I’m a partner in a share-brokerage firm.”

  “Tell me about Friday, Mr Summerbee.”

  He sighed deeply and glanced at his watch, “I would like this to be concluded as soon as-”

  “Before your wife gets home, I understand,” Caslin offered. He had little time for people who used prostitution, whatever their reasoning. “Better to get it out quickly, then.”

  Summerbee looked at him nervously. The man seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. “My wife was away, I thought that some company would be…good. So…I booked someone.”

  “A prostitute?” Holt asked.


  “An escort,” he corrected. “I understood them to be discreet.”

  “What made you think that?” Caslin asked.

  “I got the number from a friend. He said that they were always top.”

  “Top what?”

  “Quality, obviously.”

  “It didn’t go to plan, did it?” Caslin challenged him and Summerbee’s reaction confirmed it. He sat down on the sofa, elbows to his knees and cradled his head in his hands.

  “No, it was a bloody disaster.”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  Summerbee looked up at Caslin and took a deep breath. “She flipped out, that’s what happened. I thought they were professionals but she completely lost it.”

  “What did you do to her?” Holt said, accusingly.

  “Nothing, I swear!” he retorted. “I didn’t have a chance to do something to her, not that I would you understand but she was barely through the door. I knew something was wrong, she was odd.”

  “Odd? In what way?” Caslin pressed.

  “I don’t know, she was high on something, I reckon,” he said, eyes flicking between the officers standing in his living room. “They’re supposed to be clean.”

  “Like you, you mean?” Caslin asked, sarcastically. Summerbee looked to the floor. “Were you alone?”

  “Yes. Like I said, my wife was away.”

  “What happened next?”

  “She went straight into the downstairs cloakroom and locked herself in.”

  “Just like that?” Holt questioned, his tone intimating that he found the narrative unconvincing.

  “That’s how it happened, I’m telling you. When she didn’t come out after five minutes, I knocked on the door and there was no answer.”

  “And then?”

  “I started banging on it and shouting at her. I didn’t want some junkie overdosing on my toilet.”

  “Certainly not with your wife away,” Holt said, scribbling down what was being said.

  “Speaking of which, can we keep this between us-”

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Caslin interjected. Their host smiled, looking relieved. “Keep talking.”

  “Right, yeah. Anyway, she burst out of the cloakroom and barged past me for the door.”

  “The front door?” Caslin asked.

  “Exactly. It wasn’t locked, so out she went. That’s it.”

  “That was the last you saw of her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Gone midnight for sure but I’d had a few. Look, whatever the bitch did, it’s got nothing to do with me. Give me a ticket for soliciting, or whatever you call it and let’s be done, yeah?”

  Caslin looked to Holt, who shrugged almost imperceptibly but it was enough. So far, the account matched the timeline of the recording as well as the details offered in Mrs Cosgrove’s description.

  “Unfortunately, Mr Summerbee, it’s just not that simple. You see, that bitch, as you so colourfully described her, has gone missing,” Caslin paused for effect, “and you are the last person to be with her. She has a little girl at home, waiting to find out where her mum is.”

  Summerbee went a whiter shade of pale, his mouth trying to utter a response but no words emanated from within. Finally, he managed to regain some semblance of composure and string a coherent sentence together, blurting out, “No, no…I wasn’t…you should ask the guy-”

  “What guy?” Caslin asked.

  “The one that was with her,” Summerbee implored him, flailing hands driving home the point. “The…the driver.”

  “She came with a driver?”

  “Yeah, he walked her to the door and spoke to me. I think he was checking me out. He was waiting in the car.”

  “And what did he do, when all of this went down?”

  “I told you, she took off into the rain and he went after her.”

  “Chasing her?”

  “That’s what it looked like to me. She was screaming like a banshee!”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, assessing the sceptical eyes viewing him. “Honestly. I shut the door. Bloody chuffed she was out of my house, that’s for certain. It was one time, a mistake…a big one. I looked out ten minutes later and the car was gone. You have to believe me.”

  “What car was it?” Caslin asked.

  “I don’t know. A silver saloon, maybe.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I’m not into cars, I’m sorry.”

  “What about the driver, tell us about him,” Caslin said.

  Summerbee thought about it for a moment, “Late thirties, perhaps early forties. Clean shaven. Sort of average looking.”

  That narrows it down, Caslin thought, “What about height, weight, hair colour?”

  “Erm…average, I guess.”

  “Average hair colour?” Caslin persisted. He judged that this punter was trying to minimise his involvement in the investigation as much as possible. No doubt vainly hoping it would all go away.

  “I didn’t really pay him any attention. I was looking at the girl for pity’s sake!”

  “Right, I think we should get all this down, in a more formal manner,” Caslin stated, “back at the station.”

  Summerbee sat bolt upright as the realisation hit him, “I thought we were going to keep this…you know…on the quiet.”

  “Did you, Mr Summerbee?” Caslin said lightly.

  “I haven’t done anything,” he stated.

  “You can come of your own free will or you can be arrested.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” Summerbee repeated.

  “Have it your own way. Perhaps your memory might improve with a change of surroundings. Do you want to call your wife first, or would you rather we let her know?”

  Caslin stood with Holt alongside him, watching the uniform vehicle reverse out of the driveway, Peter Summerbee sitting in the rear.

  “Are you buying it?” Holt asked.

  Caslin saw the car disappear from view and then he turned back towards the house. The story may well fit the facts, as they understood them but those facts were scarce. With so many gaps in the events of the night, Caslin was damn sure that there was more to it.

  “I’m not ready to buy anything, just yet. I want him put under some pressure. Start off with his clothes. Then move onto swabs and bodily scrapings, from every conceivable orifice. Afterwards, leave him in a cell for a few hours to think it all over. I want him believing we’ve got him nailed on,” Caslin looked at Holt. “Only then, can we be sure he’s given us everything. In the meantime, I’ll wake up one of the almighty and get a search warrant, for this place. Iain Robertson and his team can tear it to pieces. If there’s something to link him to Melissa, I want to find it.”

  “I’ll do some digging and see if he’s got a record, while I’m at it,” Holt said. “I’ll bet it wasn’t his first time either, no matter what he says.”

  “I don’t like this, Terry,” Caslin said softly, biting his lower lip. “I don’t like this one little bit.”

  Chapter 8

  “What has Robertson found?” DCI Frank Stephens’ tone had an unusual ring to it that he couldn’t decode. Caslin bought a bit of time by sipping at his vending machine coffee, his third since three in the morning and it was now only six. It tasted awful.

  “We have to give him more time.”

  “So that would be nothing, then?”

  “Yes, Guv,” Caslin accepted that the initial forensic search at Vale View had drawn nothing to link Summerbee with Melissa Brooke’s disappearance. “He’s only had eight-”

  “Hours,” Stephens finished. “Yes, and that’s eight hours of overtime for a specialist team. That’s costing me a fortune. And before you say it, I know, you can’t put a price on a missing person.”

  “But you will,” Caslin said.

  “Too bloody right if it flushes my budget down the swanny.”

  Caslin sat back in his
chair, the lack of sleep beginning to catch up with him but even so, he wondered what the DCI’s problem was. He rubbed at tired eyes and almost lost the will to argue, almost. “It’s worth it just to put the wind up that arse, Summerbee. He’ll choke if he’s done anything, you know the type.”

  “Well I hope you’re right,” Stephens said flatly. “Broadfoot already has his back up because you cleared off and missed the press conference.”

  That was a fair point. Caslin had ducked it but not without valid cause. “I’ll apologise to him, Guv. It wasn’t what I usually do.” He then thought the same was necessary for the Bermonds.

  “Usually you just bugger off.”

  “That’s right,” Caslin agreed.

  “We’re not going to be able to hold Summerbee beyond twenty-four hours, you know that?”

  “Of course,” Caslin said. Unless forensics found something at the house, Summerbee would walk. The chances of getting an extension to thirty-six hours were non-existent and a ninety-six, laughable. Their only suspect, if he could stretch to calling him that, was giving them very little. “May I go? I need to take a shower.”

  “Yes, you can and you do. I’d take care of that before you find Broadfoot, if I were you.”

  Caslin left the DCI’s office. Entering the squad room, he found a bleary-eyed Terry Holt, waiting for him.

  “You’re not going to believe what I have here, Sir,” Holt said, a wry smile on his face. “Peter Summerbee is clean.”

  “Yes, I know. So, what have you got?” Caslin asked, eyeing the DC’s computer screen.

  “I have a Peter Dreyfuss here, who does have a record. It goes right up until he adopted his wife’s maiden name.”

  “Interesting,” Caslin said, keen to know more. “What for?”

  “Two arrests for Actual, no convictions but he does have a fine for solicitation, from three years ago.”