“They’d have a point,” Stefan agreed. “When was this place last rewired?”
“If it looked like it belonged in the 21st Century, I couldn’t afford the rent. The roof leaks, I’ve got mould, rot, both wet and dry and basically, I live here because no-one else wants to.”
“I was sorry to hear about you and Karen,” Stefan said, referencing Caslin’s ex-wife.
“The old man fill you in, did he?” Stefan nodded. Caslin frowned and then continued, “I’m sure it didn’t go down quite the way he described.”
“No matter, I’m sorry, all the same. How are the kids?”
“Doing okay,” Caslin said, taking a sip of his drink. His nose stung and he could feel his bottom lip beginning to swell. “Staying long?”
From his position, facing the window, Stefan shrugged, “See how it goes. You know what Dad’s like.”
“Only too well,” Caslin replied.
Stefan turned around, sipping at his own scotch, “Don’t be too hard on him, Nate. He doesn’t mean to be difficult. He’s actually alright-”
“Ha!” Caslin retorted. “Problem is, you and I have different fathers.”
Stefan smiled, knowing better than to get involved in that debate. They didn’t, but to Caslin it often felt that was the case. “I should apologise for not visiting sooner. You know, after what happened?”
Caslin fixed him with a stare, “I’m sure you had your reasons.”
Stefan flicked an eyebrow, “Probably not very good ones, though,” he said solemnly. Meeting his brother’s gaze, he continued, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Nate but are you okay?”
Caslin smiled, “I’ll be fine, it’s not the first kicking I’ve ever had.”
“No, not that. I mean you’ve clearly got a problem.”
Caslin’s smile faded to a scowl, “What do you mean by that?”
Stefan put his glass down, taking a seat on the sofa opposite. “You can’t kid a kidder, little brother. Your eyes are dilated, you’re sweating and the shakes tell their own story.”
“Piss off,” Caslin bit back.
“I’ve been there. What are you taking? Whatever it is, I think you need to cut back-”
“You know nothing about it!” Caslin snapped, downing his drink and slamming the glass to the coffee table. “I’ve not seen nor heard from you in three years and you swan in, talking this shite. Who do you think you are?”
“Look,” Stefan said in a conciliatory tone, “I know what it’s like.”
“I got bloody shot, Stefan.”
“I know what it’s like to be under fire,” Stefan stated. “At least I got to shoot back.”
“Oh, we’re not going to have this conversation again, are we?” Caslin challenged. “There are enough guns on the street without the police adding more.”
“If you’d had a gun, maybe you would have got him first, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Or maybe he would have shot me in the face without a discussion,” Caslin countered. Stefan dropped it, sitting back in his seat. Caslin stood up and went to pour another scotch, returning with the bottle. “Anyway, who are you to be lecturing me? How many jobs have you tried and failed at, since you got out of the army? How many dives have you stayed in? You don’t get to rock up and start calling the shots.”
“You’re right,” Stefan said, offering up his hands in supplication. “You’re right. It’s not my place.”
“What are you doing here?” Caslin asked. “With you, there’s always a reason.” Stefan nodded solemnly. If he was hurt by the slight he didn’t let on.
“I wanted to speak to you-”
“Knew there would be something,” Caslin replied, with more than a hint of malice. “About what?”
“It was about…” Stefan began, before looking away.
“About what?” Caslin asked again.
“…I wanted to talk to you about dad, that’s all,” Stefan said, shaking his head. “I’m a bit worried but…this probably isn’t the time.”
“Never a good time, Stefan. Never,” Caslin said bitterly, nursing his scotch.
“Maybe I should just go.”
“I think that’d be a good idea,” Caslin replied, focusing on the drink in his hand.
“I’ll find my own way out.”
Caslin didn’t look as Stefan passed out into the hallway. Instead he swallowed his drink in one fluid motion, immediately pouring another. He heard the door close and the latch click, as it dropped into place. The noise of revellers in the street outside came to him, fading as they moved away. The darkness was descending and Caslin knew it. However, on this occasion, unlike many others in recent months, he chose not to fight it.
Chapter 13
The ringing of an alarm was frustrating, the conversation halting due to the noise breaking his train of thought, no matter how much he tried to disregard it. Now accompanied by hammering he struggled to convey his message, lips moving but no recognition came from the woman sitting on the bed next to him. Frustration turned to anger. The light from the window pierced his eyes as he awoke, shielding them with the back of his hand. The repeated pressing of his doorbell and muffled voices replaced the fading memories of Karen in the forefront of his mind.
“Alright,” he shouted, immediately regretting doing so. Standing up, his legs were stiff and his head pulsed with each movement. A glance at the bottle on the table, less than a finger remaining within, explained a great deal. “I’m coming!” he called out and the racket subsided. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, running a hand through his unkempt hair, still finding his bearings.
“About time, Sir,” DS Hunter said, as he beckoned her in. She took stock of him. “What happened to you last night?”
Caslin exhaled heavily, “Make yourself useful and stick the kettle on, will you?”
Hunter was about to object but Caslin walked towards the bathroom, allowing the front door to swing closed on its own. Examining himself in the mirror, Caslin ignored the bruising that lined the left side of his face. Observing the dark rims beneath his eyes and stubble growth, he filled the basin with water. The shrieking floorboards of the hallway heralded Hunter’s return from the kitchen, coming to stand the other side of the door.
“We’ll have to make it coffee to go,” she said aloud.
“Where are we going?” he asked, masking his face with foam, hissing as he touched a raw point of his face.
“We’ve found a body,” Hunter said. Caslin stopped short of applying the razor. “We got a call around dawn, this morning.”
“Where?” Caslin asked, resuming his action.
“South of Thorganby, in the Derwent,” Hunter stated. “A local man was night-fishing, didn’t see her until daybreak.”
Caslin paused, fearing the worst, “Anyone we know?”
Hunter didn’t answer.
The journey out to Thorganby took a half hour and Caslin’s head was still pounding when they pulled off Bonby Lane, parking on the verge. There were several uniform and CID cars already present. Greeted by John Inglis, he gave Caslin a withering look, inclining his head as he spoke.
“What on earth have you been up to?”
Caslin remained impassive, “Cut myself shaving.”
Inglis glanced at Hunter who looked away. The DCI chose not to push the subject. They made the short walk across the wooded glade to the river’s edge.
“It looks like she went in further up and got snagged in the bend, just over there,” he indicated with a sweep of his arm. They both looked in that direction, towards a cluster of uniforms.
“Have you got her out yet?” Caslin asked.
Inglis shook his head, “We’re letting the forensics team search the bank before we do that. There’s no doubt that she’s dead.”
Caslin understood as soon as he reached the bank. The upper part of the body was clearly visible beneath the surface of the water. The current ebbed and flowed in such a way that made one extended hand appear as if it were waving to t
he officers, overlooking her from the riverbank. The grey of the early morning sky, as well as a light breeze, leant themselves to the cold, foreboding atmosphere that encompassed them. To the right, Caslin noted two special unit officers, donning their wetsuits to carry out the retrieval. From his vantage point, Caslin could make out that the body was evidently a female, Caucasian, with long dark hair.
As if reading his thoughts, Hunter said, “Do you think it’s Natalie?”
He shrugged, “Well, if not then it’s someone’s daughter. I never hope to see anyone like this. Who found her, Guv?”
“Thomas Breckon,” Inglis pointed out a man in the distance, dressed in waders and an all-weather coat, being spoken to by a colleague. “He was fishing at the turn. Apparently, it’s a well-known spot for the local enthusiasts.”
“Do we have any idea how she went in, witnesses or the like?”
“Not yet, no. Mr Breckon saw no-one else from the moment he arrived, last night around ten-thirty. We have teams scouring the riverbank, both upstream and down, looking for where she went in and any of her personal effects, handbag, clothing, that type of thing. She appears to be completely naked but we’ve found nothing, so far.”
“Has Iain Robertson any idea how long she’s been in the water?”
“Not without getting her out. That’s going to be down to the pathologist to determine, I fear.”
The divers entered the water. Caslin shuddered as he empathised with the thought of the cold water. In spite of their suits, the Derwent’s temperature would still be a shock to the system. The speed of the flow and the depths at the nature reserve, a little further north, ensured the temperature remained fairly constant throughout the year. Caslin considered whether the girl died before she ended up in the water or whether hypothermia and drowning played a part.
Not able to take his eyes off the scene, he watched as she was released from the chains of nature that restricted her passage down river. Gently they brought her to the surface and back to the waiting team on the bank. Iain Robertson oversaw her removal from the water, his team clad in their forensic coveralls. Carried to the crest, they were able to get their first proper view of the victim. Her skin was pale with a tinge of blue, no doubt due to the cold, but a severe head injury was visible at the top of her right side. Her eyes were closed and she looked almost angelic, so serene was her expression. Once again, the likeness struck him and Caslin sighed in recognition. Inglis looked up from a kneeling position, at her side.
“Melissa Brooke,” Caslin said evenly. “Been missing since Saturday morning.”
“Well, she’s not missing anymore,” Inglis replied, standing up and coming alongside him. “She does look a lot like Natalie Bermond though, doesn’t she?” Caslin nodded but made no comment.
“Can we link them?” Hunter asked, raising the prospect that was most likely on the mind of others present.
“Let’s not get carried away,” the DCI said. “After all, they may look similar and went missing within a few days of each other but that’s all.”
“Isn’t that enough to consider it a possibility?” Hunter questioned.
Inglis met her eye, “Have you got anyone in the frame?”
Caslin spoke up, “We do, a local man. He’s been in custody and we’ve searched his place but got nothing to link him directly to anything like this. He admits to being with her the night she disappeared but claims she left his place shortly after midnight.”
“So, he was the last one to be seen with her?”
“Not what he says but we’ve been unable to corroborate his account, as yet.”
“Dare I ask if there’s a link to Natalie or the rest of the Bermonds?”
Caslin shrugged, “Nothing that we’ve come across. At the moment, I can barely even tie him to Melissa.”
“Maybe you will now. Is it plausible? Tying him to two, I mean?”
Caslin shook his head, “He would have been a busy man if so.”
“With an awful lot of front, too,” Hunter added.
“I’ll speak to Broadfoot but in the meantime, not a word, okay? The last we need is the press to tie the two together. We’ve got enough going on as it is.”
They all accepted that on the face of it. However, since when did the press need encouragement, Caslin thought? They were going to link the cases anyway, regardless of what they were told. He figured that was inevitable at this point.
“Whose case is Melissa Brooke?” Inglis asked.
“Mine,” Caslin replied, “or it was. I have a DC still looking into it.”
“Right, unless the DCS says otherwise, you can get on it,” Inglis said, methodically working through his thought process. “Do what you have to, to rule him in or out. If you find anything to link them, fine, we’ll bring the full resource to bear. Until then, the rest of the team stays focused on the Bermond kidnapping. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” Caslin repeated, looking down at Melissa. Caslin noted numerous scratches across her arms, legs and upper body. They were deep, having brought blood to the surface of the affected area in several places. He watched her being zipped up in a bag for transport. His thoughts passed to Peter Summerbee. Skipwith was only a couple of miles south-west of their location, as the crow flew, with not very much in between apart from farmland. Easily a journey that he could’ve made without being seen, in the dead of night. The forthcoming visit to see Suzanne Brooke reared up in his mind. The need to do so saddened him greatly. Despite her insistence that they find her daughter, Caslin thought that Suzanne already feared the worst. That came as no consolation to him nor would it to her. His headache was gone, along with all physical symptoms of the rigours of the previous night, to be replaced by a burning focus.
“We’ll want answers on this one fast,” Hunter said, joining him as they walked away from the others.
“Aye,” Caslin agreed, scanning the immediate area. There was nothing to see. A small farm stood in the distance on the far side of the river and the odd sound of activity, further afield in Thorganby, carried on the breeze. “Call pathology and instil a sense of urgency in them. We need to know cause and time of death, as soon as possible. Let’s get some meat on the timeline following her 999 call on Friday night.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hunter replied, taking out her mobile. Caslin stopped and took in the scene once more. An early morning mist hung across the fields, soon to be stripped away by the sun, burning away the cloud cover. This was no place for a young woman to meet her end.
“And while I think about it,” Caslin added. “Speak to Terry Holt and find out if Anton Durakovic has any link to Peter Summerbee, business or otherwise.”
“Sir?” Hunter queried. Caslin didn’t respond but walked away from her to be alone with his thoughts. He replayed what Lisa had said to him only the day before. Melissa may well have thought her leverage enough to permanently get her off the game but instead, it could just have got her killed.
A whistle from behind him drew his attention. Turning, he saw DCI Inglis beckoning him over. Hunter fell into step and they reached him together.
“Come with me,” Inglis said, his expression was stern.
“Where to, Guv?” Hunter asked.
“Upstream. The dog handler has something.”
“Clothing?” Caslin asked but the DCI shook his head.
“Another body,” Inglis paused, “or I should say, part of another body.”
Four hundred yards upstream, just inside the nature reserve of the Lower Derwent Valley, the dog handler made the discovery. What initially looked like a piece of dirty clothing turned out to be much more. Two forensics officers were laying out markers, preparing to catalogue the scene, while another set up her camera for the shots. Iain Robertson carefully lifted the edge of the material, a hessian sack dumped in a mass of brush in an open clearing. Caslin took in the remains contained within. Impossible to tell which part of the body he was looking at, he figured it to be part of an upper torso. There was a tattoo visible in o
ne patch of discoloured flesh. Perhaps a hand span in width, it was black, and depicted some kind of Gaelic symbol.
“How long do you think it’s been here?” Caslin asked.
Robertson thought on it. A precise man, he was never keen to offer impromptu theories, “I would envisage six months but treat that with caution. These parts of the valley hold a lot of water, even in the summertime, and the type of soil might slow degeneration somewhat. I’ll narrow it down once the pathologist has a look.”
“Where’s the rest of it?” Caslin asked. Unable to ascertain if this was a male or female, from what they had, he was generic in his description.
“We have another sack over there,” Robertson pointed to a location twenty yards away, closer to the river, where an officer was taping off an area. “Looks like parts of a leg.”
“Parts?” Caslin voiced openly. He glanced up from the grisly contents of the sack and eyed the teams scouring their immediate location. At that point a shout went up nearby with yet another discovery. “Bloody hell,” Caslin muttered under his breath. “What on earth have we stumbled on to?”
The nature reserve was located east of York, within the triangle of Wheldrake, Storwood and East Cottingwith. Here the River Derwent flowed by on the west side, with the Pocklington Canal and The Beck joining from the east. Sandwiched between them was the reserve, made up of a mixture of scrubland and a large expanse of wetland. With the exception of a few working farms, to the east and the south, there was nothing else in the vicinity. Although Caslin could see that there were precious few vehicular access points, it was easy to envisage someone slipping in unobserved to deposit the remains.
“Widen the search area,” Caslin said as Inglis came to stand with him. “We need it picked clean. If there’s a crisp packet lying around, I want it examined.”
“Agreed,” Inglis said, turning to Robertson. “If you need more bodies, I’ll make sure you get them. There are limited access points to this area and this guy didn’t hike out with these sacks, so maybe we’ll get lucky.” Spotting the look on Caslin’s face, Inglis raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.
Blacklight (Dark Yorkshire Book 2) Page 12
