Blacklight (Dark Yorkshire Book 2)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Caslin chuckled, “I could say the same.”

  “Call it even?”

  “You can buy me dinner,” he said with a grin, before the feeling of guilt returned at his shockingly inappropriate sense of timing. The grin faded rapidly.

  “Name it,” Alison replied. “I think once this is settled, we could all do with some time off. Kyle tells me that they’re looking for your brother?” Caslin looked away, rubbing at his eyes. “I hope they find him.” He nodded but couldn’t think of any words to convey his feelings about the situation.

  “Me too,” he said meekly, which he realised was a wholly inadequate response, under the circumstances.

  “I have a lift home waiting for me, downstairs,” she said, standing up. “I could stay, if you would prefer?”

  Caslin shook his head, “I think you should go home, get some rest. Try and put today behind you.”

  “It’s no trouble, I’d be happy to.”

  “Thanks,” Caslin said, genuinely, “but I’m not great company and don’t see that changing anytime soon. Besides, Broadfoot…Kyle…will want me back at Fulford Road soon enough, to explain myself.”

  “Okay,” Alison replied, squeezing his arm affectionately. “You know where I am, if you want to talk.” She backed away, offering him a warm smile as she turned away. He occupied the vacated chair. Returning his attention to his father, he didn’t notice her hesitate at the threshold, whilst opening the door. Almost as an afterthought, she looked over her shoulder. “I know this isn’t really the time but I meant to ask you, how did you know about Melissa Brooke’s condition?” Caslin looked at her, confused.

  “Condition?”

  “Yes, her medical condition,” she clarified. “You got me thinking, after we had dinner and I re-ran her bloodwork.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “Prescription drugs as opposed to the illegals.”

  “What did you find?” Caslin asked.

  “The Zyprexa, the anti-psychotic that you asked me about.”

  “What about it?”

  “Melissa had it in her system,” she said. “I chased up her medical records and she had a long history of treatment for paranoid schizophrenia. Zyprexa was one of several medications that she had been taking for quite some time.” Caslin sat in silence, processing the information.

  “I knew she’d had a drug problem, in her past. Her mother and a…colleague, told me that.”

  “You didn’t know about her mental state?”

  Caslin shook his head, “Not to that extent, no. Thinking about it, not at all, really.”

  “Oh…I’m sorry,” Alison said, flushing with embarrassment. “I figured you were just a great detective.”

  Caslin smiled at the last, “I am an exceptional detective. I just choose to hide it well.” Alison excused herself and left, the door swinging closed behind her. Taking out his mobile phone, he stared at the blank screen. Tossing it gently within his palm, he toyed with the details over and over, in his mind. That information had tweaked something in his subconscious and he sought to pull it together. The door opened and a nurse entered. Seeing the phone, she tutted.

  “Please could you step out, if you’re planning to use that? The signal can interfere with the machines,” she said, indicating his father.

  “Really? I thought that was a myth.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s policy,” she replied, politely and Caslin didn’t take offence. He got up and left the room. Stepping out into the corridor, he acknowledged the protection officer and walked towards the ward exit, scrolling through his contacts as he went. Coming to stand before the lifts, he found the number he was searching for and hit dial whilst summoning the lift. The phone call took a moment to connect and he was forced to wait a number of rings before the recipient answered.

  “Well, it’s about time. I was expecting your call,” a familiar voice said without even the most basic of greetings.

  “I know where you’ll be,” Caslin replied, returning the lack of courtesy. “I’ll be there within an hour.”

  “I think you should be able to make it in less than thirty minutes. It would be prudent to do so.”

  “One hour,” he replied curtly. The call ended as the doors opened. Caslin put his phone back in his pocket and stepped in, pressing the ground floor button. He now knew what he had to do. The guilt, the self-doubt, any feeling of blame had gone, to be replaced by a focused rage. Only one course of action remained open to him and with it came a feeling of dread, gathering in the pit of his stomach.

  Chapter 27

  Caslin passed the cabbie a ten-pound note and got out, not waiting for his change. Mounting the steps into the station, he passed Linda on the desk but gave her only a cursory greeting as he went through the security door to the station proper. Barely acknowledging anyone who crossed his path, he took a left and headed downstairs, to the basement level. The archives and the evidence rooms were of no interest to him and when he reached his destination, he stood outside, taking a deep breath before turning the handle and walking through.

  “Hello, Maurice,” Caslin greeted the desk sergeant, a fixture of Fulford Road, not far off retirement. He looked up from his paperwork at the newcomer, smiled and crossed to the counter.

  “It’s good to see you’re okay, Nate. You look a little banged up, if you don’t mind me saying? Nasty business. Any word on your brother?”

  Caslin shook his head, “Not yet. Listen, I’m a bit pushed for time but that executive order that came down from upstairs, regarding-”

  “You drawing a firearm?” Maurice finished for him, Caslin nodded.

  “I’d like to take the Chief up on it.” The desk sergeant appeared taken aback. Caslin recognised his reticence and continued, “It’s not been countermanded, has it?”

  “No, no, of course not,” Maurice shook his head. “I thought that-”

  “So, can I draw a weapon, or not?”

  “I…I…don’t see why not but why-”

  “Until this investigation is complete, I want…I need to be able to protect my family. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Maurice visibly relaxed, “Of course, bear with me.” He retreated from the counter and punched his security code into a door behind him, before disappearing into the armoury. Caslin glanced around him, his eyes flitting nervously towards the security camera, mounted in the ceiling. Maurice reappeared within a couple of minutes, two boxes held out before him. He placed them down on the counter and reached for a clipboard. Scribbling details down onto a form he told Caslin what he was issuing him.

  “This is a Glock 17. It’s the standard model, 9mm and carries a seventeen-round capacity, in each magazine. It weighs a little over nine-hundred grams, fully loaded, and has a “safe action” trigger. You’ll be far less likely to accidentally shoot yourself or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Things have moved on from the old six-shooter, then,” Caslin replied, appearing nonchalant.

  Maurice glanced up from his clipboard with a serious expression, “I know you’ve had your training on semi-automatic firearms. Can you handle this weapon confidently? If not-”

  “I can,” Caslin assured him. “I can. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be flippant.”

  “Okay then,” Maurice said, returning to his paperwork. “I’m also issuing you a box of ammunition. I’ll expect everything documented here to be returned, assuming that you have no need to discharge the weapon, once you no longer have need of it.”

  “Understood,” Caslin replied. Maurice passed him the clipboard.

  “Please double check what I’ve put down, read the declaration at the bottom and sign.” Caslin did so and passed it back. The armoury sergeant pushed the boxes towards him and Caslin scooped them up. “It’s a reliable bit of kit. It won’t let you down.”

  “Thanks,” Caslin said. Once back out in the corridor, he made his way to the archive room. No-one was present inside and he quickly opened the boxes. The pistol was well maint
ained and having fed two magazines, he lodged the first back into the pistol, chambering a round and placed the second in his jacket pocket. Concealing the weapon in the rear waistband of his trousers, he stashed the now empty boxes on a shelf, behind some archived files. Forcing himself to calm his nerves, he returned to the corridor and made his way back upstairs. Feeling on edge, making his way through the station, he left without speaking to anyone. Once clear of Fulford Road he stopped and called a taxi, arranging to be picked up from the nearby Holly Lodge Hotel.

  The taxi arrived within five minutes and the ride out took just shy of twenty, for the rush hour traffic had long since subsided. Indicating for them to pull in at the side of the road, the driver protested as they were still on the highway but Caslin dismissed his concerns. Again, he didn’t wait for his change and got out. The car accelerated away and Caslin took in his surroundings. Many of the warehouse units in view, were deserted and locked up for the night. Only those loading delivery vans or with night-shift processes had anything but security lights on.

  He waited for a break in the traffic and then trotted across the carriageway to enter the industrial estate. Realising that the allotted hour had passed some time ago, he broke into a run. The pace caused him no end of discomfort and having covered barely half of the distance, he found himself grimacing with every step.

  Slowing as he approached the far end of the through road, he dropped to his haunches, not only to get his breath back but also to give him a chance to survey the ground. With no intention of walking up to the main gate, he decided the adjacent facility to the left, was his best bet. The entrance gate was relatively easy to overcome and he landed deftly on the other side. There were several gate-cameras trained on him at that point but they weren’t his immediate concern. Quickly covering the ground between the gate and the building proper, he used it to mask his advance.

  There was no visible activity within the compound next door but he figured that belied what was inside. Moving around the compound, he looked for any weakness which he could exploit, in order to scale the perimeter fence separating the two units, unseen. He found such a point at the south-eastern corner, where he judged there to be a gap in the continuance of the security cameras. If he was wrong, he would be in big trouble and very quickly. The fence was roughly eight feet in height with three lengths of razor wire, set at forty-five degrees, along the length of the crest. Taking off his jacket, he wrapped it around one arm and, with one last check that he wouldn’t be seen, he ran to the fence. The chain links rattled as he clambered up, throwing his jacket across the razor wire to give him some protection as he negotiated the final ascent. With some difficulty, far slower than he would’ve liked, he managed to haul himself over the top and dropped to the other side. He landed unceremoniously on concrete and collapsed into a heap, knocking the wind from his lungs.

  Leaving his jacket atop the fence, he drew his weapon and cautiously moved towards the warehouse. It was of steel-framed construction with corrugated infill panels. The windows were largely confined to the mezzanine area, where the offices were housed and alongside the access points to the building, at the front and rear. Apart from the emergency exits, there were no internal viewpoints in his direction, allowing Caslin to approach unobserved. From memory, he tried to recall the interior layout of the building. It had been largely empty, the one and only time that he had been here previously and he considered how that may have changed. If so, there was a good chance of concealing himself within, provided he could gain entry. Any further planning, beyond his end goal, would have to wait. Whatever he encountered inside would impact the strategy and he wouldn’t know that until he was there. Hugging the side of the building, he made his way to the rear.

  Reaching the corner, he pressed himself against the wall before risking a glance. Four cars were parked alongside each other, two of which he recognised. Again, there was no movement and he ducked down, making his way under the windows at the rear, so as not to be seen. They were expecting him; of that he was certain. Standing next to an entrance door, he chanced a look through the nearest window. Inside were rows of storage racks, running into the distance. All were arranged symmetrically with regular spacing between them. Many were filled to capacity with shrink-wrapped items, stored on pallets, at various levels. Caslin could only guess at what was contained within them. Probably legitimate wares being used as a front for laundering, smuggling or a combination of the two and more besides.

  With his confidence boosted by the potential for him to slip in unnoticed, he tried the handle of the door and was relieved to find it unlocked. The hinges were well oiled and the door gave way with little effort and more importantly, little noise. Passing through, he eased it closed behind him and scampered towards the racking, seeking shelter while he got his bearings. There were muffled voices coming from further in, the sound echoing in the cavernous roof space. Caslin couldn’t distinguish them and therefore had no idea how many people were talking, let alone present, but evidently, he was at a distinct disadvantage on the numbers front. Moving with purpose, as quickly as he dared for fear of discovery, he progressed between the racks, making his way towards the voices.

  Knowing he was closing in on their position but still unable to see them, Caslin paused to assess his options. The prospect of coming to a negotiated settlement was rapidly dismissed. If he had believed in that solution, he wouldn’t have adopted this clandestine approach. Seizing the initiative would most likely yield the best outcome. All of them would have to be neutralised in one motion. Feeling the trigger, Caslin shifted his grip, fearful of accidently discharging the weapon with its safety lever being built into the trigger mechanism. Too much pressure and he might accidentally shoot himself, whilst seeking to control the adrenalin pulsing through him. His heart was hammering and his hands trembling at the prospect of the forthcoming confrontation. Inaction was giving fear a chance to assert itself. He knew it was now or never. Stooping low, he passed through the next run of racking, figuring it to be the penultimate row before he would clap eyes upon his quarry. The assessment was accurate, for once in the next aisle he could see figures moving beyond the pallets, in fleeting glimpses. He counted six that he could see, too many to overpower in a straight fight but if he held his nerve and got the jump on them, he had a chance.

  The familiar trilling of his ringtone, bursting into life, sent him into a panic. Silently cursing whilst scrabbling through his pockets to silence it, proved ultimately futile, as bodies honed into view before him. Caslin leapt forward, weapon raised, bellowing commands.

  “Police, stand down your weapons!” he screamed. He wasn’t the only one shouting for each of them were equally vocal, although in another language. With their weapons drawn, levelled at him, the standoff continued with neither side backing down. Everyone was apparently unwilling to open fire. “Stand down!” Caslin reiterated, fear edging his tone. Something in the corner of his eye made him look up, just in time to see a figure drop from above. The blow to his head was sudden and everything immediately went dark. The sensation of falling was strangely comforting and Caslin instinctively tried to keep hold of his gun but all feeling left him.

  The floor was cold and hard, the back of his head grating against it as he moved. Images of people and colour passed in and out of his vision. For a moment he thought he was upside down only to feel his feet hit the concrete, as he came to a sudden stop. Those foreign voices carried in the air about him, only this time without the menace. Darkness followed. He heard muffled voices, along with a stinging feeling on his face, not once but again and again, in a regular pattern. Opening his eyes, he saw a familiar face standing over him. He received another slap, seemingly for good measure. Caslin had no idea how long he had been out.

  “He’s awake,” Karl, Anton Durakovic’s right-hand man, stated, this time in English.

  “Good,” Caslin heard another say, from a short distance away, knowing it was Durakovic himself. “Why not bring the family back together.” A
t that point, two men roughly man-handled Caslin upright before aggressively dragging him forward and dropping him back to the ground. His head swam and his vision blurred momentarily before righting itself. Looking in the direction that he was facing, he observed someone sitting in a chair, less than two metres away. Caslin realised that he knew him but even so, he was barely recognisable. The face was so pulped and bloodied, that he hardly resembled him at all. Neither of his eyes could open and his lips were swollen and split in several places. Blood streamed in equal measure from numerous other injuries. Even so, Caslin knew that this was his brother, Stefan.

  “Hey, big brother. Some kind of mess you’re in,” he said, only half-joking. Stefan didn’t acknowledge him, he couldn’t. His head did shift from lolling to the right, over to the left. Whether that was intentional or not, Caslin couldn’t tell. Stefan had both arms tied behind him and his legs were tethered to the chair, at his ankles, with cable ties. Anton Durakovic ambled into view, coming to stand between the brothers. Looking at Caslin, lying at his feet, he inclined his head. Extending his arm, Karl stepped forward, passing him a gun. Durakovic inspected the weapon. Caslin recognised his Glock.

  “What was your plan?” the gangster asked him. “Were you going to sneak in here, kill me and rescue your brother? Was that it?” Caslin didn’t reply verbally. He leaned to his right and spat on the floor. Durakovic smiled, “Still the defiance. A sign of spirit. I like that,” he said, grinning. “It won’t do you any good, though.”

  “Is that so?” Caslin said, levering himself into a sitting position. Two men made to intercept him as he tried to stand, only for their boss to wave them away. “I figure that you have about ten minutes to end this peacefully, before everything hits the fan.”

  Durakovic laughed, “You would make a lousy poker player, Inspector. A very lousy player indeed. There is no-one outside, we have checked. There are no helicopters, no police cars and most certainly, no cavalry riding to your rescue.”