Blacklight (Dark Yorkshire Book 2)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Caslin nodded as it came together in his head. Summerbee had more or less confirmed his knowledge of the system the night they brought him in. He pretty much requested a fine to get it over and done with. Caslin was irritated that he didn’t pick up on it.

  “Well, well, Peter,” Caslin replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “It would seem our boy isn’t as squeaky as he would have us believe. Slippery little shit, isn’t he?”

  “Sir?” Holt enquired.

  “Never mind. Let’s go and have another word, see if he feels more like opening up.”

  Half an hour later, the three of them were facing each other in an interview room. For the second time, Summerbee had waived his right to legal counsel. A career criminal would usually lodge that right immediately, thereby locking down the interview and stalling the investigation. An innocent person however, who felt they had nothing to hide, would often feel no need of counsel but then there were others who fell into a different category altogether. Those who enjoyed the game. The arrogant. The self-important. These people thought they were smarter than everybody else, particularly the police. Caslin had figured this guy, up until now, to be firmly lodged in the second of those categories. He didn’t appreciate being taken for a fool and therefore, chose not to beat about the bush.

  “Tell me about your arrest for solicitation, three years ago, Mr Summerbee. Or would it be Dreyfuss?” the stress on the name, along with the intensity of Caslin’s gaze, made a denial futile.

  “Oh that,” their suspect replied without skipping a beat. “A misunderstanding.”

  “The magistrate didn’t agree.”

  “Opinions vary,” Summerbee stated, a half smile crossing his face, “ancient history.”

  “And the two arrests for Actual Bodily Harm. Are they also ancient history?”

  “Never passed to trial, those cases were dropped.”

  Caslin sat forward in his chair, locking eyes with the man across from him. “The victims were prostitutes, weren’t they, Mr Summerbee?”

  The smile widened into a broad grin. “I didn’t know that and besides, how can they be victims of a crime, if one never took place?”

  Caslin felt his anger building but maintained a professional level of calm. “Dropped because the victims withdrew their statements.”

  “And you and I both know that equates to the same thing. No evidence, no crime.”

  “Did you think you could throw us off with a simple name change, that it wouldn’t show when we ran your prints?”

  Summerbee shrugged, “You’re the policeman.”

  “Anything to add to your earlier statement, bearing in mind our forensics team is currently cataloguing every detail of your house, as we speak?”

  Summerbee leant back in his chair, stretching out his arms above him and yawning. “I do hope that they wiped their feet. Our carpets are very expensive. When my solicitor gets through with the wrongful arrest claim, I dare say she’ll be expecting compensation to cover the clean-up and repair costs.”

  Caslin stared at him. He had misread this man. Expecting him to fold once put under pressure, he now realised that this was a player who not only knew the game but just as importantly, how the police played it.

  “Is that right?” Caslin asked.

  “Oh, didn’t I mention it?” Summerbee said innocently. “I would like to see my solicitor now. Not your duty moron but my own. By my reckoning you have me for about another fourteen hours, so you best get a shifty on. Hadn’t you?”

  “Interview suspended,” Holt said following a look from Caslin, “at 07:14.”

  Caslin watched as Summerbee was escorted back to his cell, before joining Holt on the walk back to CID. Mounting the stairs, the latter appeared visibly dejected.

  “What was all that about? Holt asked.

  Caslin stopped and put his back against the wall. The interview had been continuously revolving in his mind. “Wasting time.”

  “Whose? Ours?”

  “Using up the allotted detention time,” Caslin said. “He showed us the buffoon card, naïve, lonely husband, playing away. He bluffed and I bought it.”

  “What are we going to do now, Sir?” Holt asked.

  “There’s one thing from Melissa’s call that’s bothering me.”

  “Just the one?” Holt asked with no sarcastic intent.

  “She said “They”.”

  “Sir?”

  “She said “They are trying to kill me”,” Caslin looked to Holt. “Who are they?”

  “The wife?” Holt asked.

  Caslin considered that idea. Female murderers were far rarer than their male counterparts but it wasn’t unheard of. “Should be easy enough to check if Mrs Summerbee was where she claims to be. Where was it again?”

  “Away on business, Sir. I didn’t ask where.”

  “Have a word with her and check it out. Then I want you to get into her husband’s life, turn it upside down. I want details, his business dealings, employment history, where he’s lived since he graduated from puberty, pant size, anything and everything, you can get. This bastard is hiding something and I want to know what.”

  “What about his solicitor?”

  “Get custody to chase her up. Unless Iain Robertson finds something soon, I don’t think we’ll have cause to re-interview. I’m sure the call-out charge for his counsel will be substantial. We’ll hold him for the maximum. That’ll give the boys and girls in paper suits a shot.”

  “Alright, I’ll get on it,” Holt said, his voice sounding fatigued.

  “In the meantime, I’ll have a word with Vice, this morning and see if I can find out who Melissa’s been working for. Someone other than her family will be missing the money, if not her. Locating the driver-”

  “If there is one,” Holt voiced the thought.

  “You’re right,” Caslin said, although Melissa herself had always told her mother similar. “If there is one, he can verify or devastate our boy’s version of events.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Caslin indicated for him to crack on but Holt looked momentarily lost and hesitated before moving off.

  “Something wrong? Caslin asked. Holt turned back to face him.

  “No, Sir, not really,” Holt began. “I’m just a bit knackered.”

  “Half-hour for the Queen, Terry.”

  Holt frowned but nodded at the same time. The constable understood the reference to the unpaid daily overtime each officer was expected to give. He didn’t argue about the eleven hours that followed. Caslin considered it karma for not having done his job properly in the first place. Only time would tell if the delay to the investigation would turn out to be pivotal in finding Melissa.

  Now left alone, Caslin remained where he was. At this hour, hardly anyone was in. The station would soon be filling up and he knew it was going to be a busy day. Deciding that a shower and a set of clean clothes were in order, he set off to cadge a lift from uniform into the city. Heading back towards custody, his legs felt leaden so he veered towards the elevators. That was a mistake. Calling the lift, he waited for only a few seconds before the ping sounded and the doors opened. He was faced with the towering figure of Kyle Broadfoot.

  “I wondered when you would show up,” the DCS said evenly. Immediately, Caslin knew the shower was going to have to wait.

  “I owe you an apology, Sir. I was-”

  “I know where you were,” Broadfoot interrupted him, “and please don’t insult my intelligence with a heartfelt apology. We both know you won’t mean it.”

  “Sir,” was all that Caslin could say.

  “Next time, speaking to me directly would be advantageous. Understood?”

  Caslin knew it was rhetorical, he nodded. “Of course, Sir.”

  “Walk with me, Inspector,” Broadfoot instructed. Caslin fell into step, regretting not taking the stairs as the sound of the elevator doors closing, came to ear. “What was it about this other case that was so pressing?”

  “A lead came
through on a missing person, Sir. It needed to be followed up.”

  “Hmm,” Broadfoot murmured as they walked. “Missing person? A minor?”

  Caslin sensed that he knew more than he was letting on. “No, Sir. She’s twenty-one.”

  “Any reason to think that something serious has occurred?”

  “Possibly, we have someone in custody downstairs-”

  “But you don’t know for certain? I mean, she may well turn up in due course or have left of her own accord.”

  Caslin wondered what was going on. “You said to carry on with my caseload, Sir.”

  “Indeed, I did and I meant it,” Broadfoot stopped and turned to him, looking around as he spoke. They were alone in the corridor. He lowered his voice, “However, low priority cases can afford to slip a little, can’t they?”

  “Melissa Brooke is a low priority, Sir?”

  “That’s for you to determine, Nathaniel,” Broadfoot said, examining the lapel of his blazer, identifying and removing a bit of fluff with his thumb and forefinger. “I want to ensure that you have your priorities right, focus on what’s important. Resources being what they are, you can always pick up the slack at a later date.”

  “I see, Sir,” Caslin said, appearing thoughtful.

  “Something on your mind, Nathaniel?”

  “Seeing as you ask, Sir. I can see that Melissa Brooke isn’t an ideal victim, unlike Natalie Bermond.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, she’s a prostitute, single parent from a council estate and has a documented drug habit. Let’s face it, it’s a bloody good job she isn’t black-”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Inspector,” Broadfoot said with controlled authority. “I believe that I’ve been clear enough for you.”

  “Crystal clear, Sir.”

  “Good man,” Broadfoot smiled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an early meeting to attend. I trust you’ll keep me advised of developments, following on from the press conference and morning papers?”

  “Without doubt, Sir.”

  Once again, Caslin found himself on his own. Broadfoot’s shoes echoing on the polished floor, the only sounds to be heard, as he strode away. He swore under his breath. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he could feel a headache coming on. Reaching into his pocket he found his pills and popped one into his mouth, doing his best to swallow it without the aid of water. He needed some air and resumed his course. No longer were his legs bothering him, the conversation with Broadfoot keeping his mind occupied.

  The refectory was clear of uniform and the custody suite was likewise, apart from those on shift. Abandoning the plan to arrange a lift, he went through the main reception and on out into the daylight. The brightness caused him to shield his eyes, having had no sleep and being under fluorescent neon for the previous eight hours. He retrieved his mobile and called for a taxi, only managing the briefest of conversations before the battery died. Confident that he had made the request in time, he walked up the path and sat down on the low wall to wait. The morning was crisp and the fresh air smelt good. He figured the painkiller was starting to take effect but, if truth be known, the sensations were no longer as stark as they used to be.

  Glancing towards two large white vans, satellite dishes mounted on their roofs, he wondered how they had obtained permission to leave them there. Which hotel the press had taken over for the duration of their stakeout was another curiosity. No doubt they would descend on the station again shortly. Looking away, he hoped his cab would arrive before that happened. Having had more than his fair share of exposure in recent years, the thought of more was nauseating.

  Hearing footsteps approaching he raised his gaze from the floor, wondering who would soon be greeting him. It was not the exchange he expected. A familiar face stood before him, red-eyed and shaking with adrenalin. Whether it was a reaction borne of anger or frustration, he didn’t know but here was Suzanne Brooke. Her arms were clamped to her sides, fists balled so tightly he could see the white of her knuckles. His expression changed from one of surprise to open bewilderment as she raised a hand and slapped him across the cheek. The blow stung but was hardly forceful.

  “What the bloody-”

  “You bastard!” she swore in his face, so close that he could see the spittle on her quivering lips, such was the ferocity of her speech.

  “Mrs Brooke,” he began, standing, but got no further.

  “My daughter’s not worth as much, is that it?” the question spat at him.

  “It’s not like-”

  “You fucking coppers are all the same!” she shouted at him, tears falling. “You don’t give a shit about my daughter…and why...because she had her problems and didn’t go to the right school? Well she’s worth ten of you…”

  “Mrs Brooke,” Caslin raised his voice just enough to get her attention. “We are working on your daughter’s disappearance-”

  “Where’s my bloody press conference? My front page? Damn you,” she moved to strike him again, only this time he caught her wrist as she lashed out.

  “Mrs Brooke, this isn’t going to help.”

  She collapsed into his arms, his grip all that kept her from sinking to the ground. Unqualified sobs emanated from within and she shook uncontrollably. Caslin held her tightly, as if cradling one of his children. She seemed so fragile to him at that moment, likely to shatter if he let her go. The anger, bravado and violence were all little more than an expression of grief and frustration. Were it his own daughter, Caslin knew he would tear the world apart to find her. He recognised the perception of inequality. To be fair to her, it wasn’t merely perception. He felt the same.

  “Find my daughter, Inspector,” she almost whispered, pulling away from him. He saw in her face the impact that these past few days were having. The strain evident in her eyes, the stream of tears falling unchecked. He felt guilty.

  “I am looking for her, believe me,” he said reassuringly. A flashback to DCS Broadfoot came to mind and Caslin shoved it away. “I won’t let her go, I promise.”

  She looked at him. That same look, the one she gave him the first day they met. She smiled weakly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I put my trust in you, Inspector.”

  Those words hurt more than the blow to the face. He hoped it was not misplaced but he didn’t say so. “Can I buy you a cup of tea or coffee?”

  She shook her head, “No, thank you. I must get back to my granddaughter. I don’t want her to wake up and realise that I’m not there.”

  Caslin wondered who was watching her but chose not to ask. “If you need a ride, I have a-”

  “No…but thanks,” she said. Stepping away, she made to leave, before adding, “Just find Melissa, please.”

  Without another word, she walked away and didn’t look back. Caslin felt the weight descend upon his shoulders. He took a deep breath as a taxi pulled into the car park. Acknowledging the driver with a wave, the car approached and he got in. They moved off. Caslin hadn’t seen the photographer standing near to the junction with Fulford Road.

  Chapter 9

  Biting into the bacon roll, he savoured the taste. It almost made up for going the entire night without sleep. A shower and change had worked wonders. The centre was busy but it always was, in the old town, a stone’s throw from the Minster. He ate as he walked. His destination was less than a mile from the city limits and he needed the exercise. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, the warmth of summer finally arriving.

  Wiping his hands with a paper napkin, he discarded it in a waste bin as he crossed the River Ouse, via Bridge Street, and on to Micklegate. The traffic buzzed around him but he took out his phone anyway. Selecting the right contact, he dialled the number. The phone rang three times before he was connected to an automated service, lodged eighth in the queue. He had passed the Church of the Holy Trinity and gone beyond the city walls before he spoke to the receptionist. He asked if his repeat prescription was ready for collection.

  “Dr Pradesh has
requested you make an appointment, Mr Caslin.”

  “I beg your pardon?” he said, surprised. “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know but there’s a note pinned to the repeat prescription. Would you like to make one now?”

  Caslin dithered, quelling the fear threatening to rise from within. “Yes…please. When can you fit me in?”

  “I’ll just check,” the receptionist said. “How is 9:45 on Tuesday?”

  “That’s nearly a week,” Caslin said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Don’t you have anything sooner?”

  “I’m sorry, no, not unless it’s an emergency. Should I book it?”

  “Do that.”

  “That’s confirmed, then. 9:45 on Tues-”

  Caslin hung up. He was annoyed. Micklegate passed into the wealth of The Mount, with its tree-lined rows of Georgian townhouses. Eyeing the Elmbank Hotel up ahead, he took the next right and then Driffield Terrace was on his left. An imposing run of buildings, he sought one at the far end. Freshly painted white, it appeared to glow in the morning sunshine.

  Realising he was sweating with the exertion of the walk, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Approaching the front door, framed by ornate metal railings, he spied the security camera set high on the wall above. He rang the bell and didn’t have long to wait. The door opened and he was met by a suited man, heavy-set with a hawkish appearance.

  “I’m here to meet with Mr Durakovic,” Caslin said, receiving no response. “He is expecting me.” Caslin showed his warrant card and was bidden entry. Once inside, the noise from the traffic died instantly and he surveyed his surroundings. The interior was bathed in light, with white painted walls and the reflective aid of marble flooring, as far as the eye could see. A crystal chandelier illuminated the hall and stairwell, dividing the front and back of the house, and Caslin clocked another member of security on the half landing to the next floor. A suited body came up from a second stairwell to the rear, welcoming Caslin with a somewhat contrived smile.

  “Inspector Caslin, I understand?” the newcomer asked. Caslin brandished his warrant card again but it was waved away. “Please, no need for the formalities, Inspector. Do come with me.”