Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  Hunter took them to the rear of the building where they located the pedestrian entrance. They both donned boot covers and latex gloves in order to preserve the integrity of the scene. Until they determined otherwise, they’d consider it to be a crime scene. Stepping into the gloomy interior, Caslin immediately spotted the form of the deceased. He was laid out flat off to the left. In front of them, tied up, was a small speedboat. There would easily be room for at least two more mid-size crafts but presently, that was the only one present. A brief inspection showed it to be covered and Caslin touched the casing of the outboard motor finding it cold.

  Joining Hunter alongside the dead man, he briefly assessed the body. He was in his fifties with greying hair that would once have been of the darkest black. He was dressed in a red tracksuit and sported running shoes which, by the assembled detritus in the treads, indicated he had recently been moving through the grounds and most likely, the surrounding woodland. Nearby, Caslin noted a noose, fashioned from a thick rope the likes of which were commonly used by traditional fisherman. He’d seen similar attached to lobster pots in the coastal villages frequented during his childhood holidays. Casting his eyes around, Hunter noticed and appeared to read his thoughts.

  “The emergency responders untied him from there,” she said, pointing to one of the roof trusses above them spanning the width of the building. Caslin turned his focus to where the rope could have been secured once looped over the beam. He found several rusting, metal cleats attached to the outer wall. Any of them, he deemed, would’ve been sufficient for the cause. “He used the difference in height between the jetty and the water for the required drop.”

  “His staff didn’t bring him down?” Caslin asked, surprised. Hunter shook her head.

  “Apparently not, no.”

  “Was he alive when the paramedics got here?” Caslin asked.

  “No, they were on scene eight minutes after the call.”

  “That was fast.”

  “They were attending an RTA not far from here but weren’t required. They received the call on their way back to the ambulance station. When they brought him down there was no sign of a pulse but they attempted a resuscitation anyway. He remained unresponsive.”

  “Right,” Caslin said aloud, processing what he was seeing before him. Turning his attention back to the body, he noted the man looked familiar. “I know him, don’t I?”

  “You’d have to have been living under a rock for the past few years not to, I reckon,” Hunter said. “Nestor Kuz-”

  “Kuznetsov,” Caslin finished for her, “of course. Wasn’t he in court for something last week?”

  “Yeah, contesting a business arrangement. Suing one of his former partners as I understand it,” Hunter confirmed.

  “It wasn’t going well, I recall,” Caslin stated, scanning the man’s heavily lined features. He knew of the Russian Oligarch’s reputation both as a ferocious businessman and a vocal critic of the regime back in his homeland. He was a controversial figure, popular in the columns of the print media but not one that Caslin often paid particular attention to. “I see why Matheson isn’t taking any chances with this one.”

  “Sir?” Hunter queried.

  “Any suicide note?”

  “Not that we’ve found so far. The door was apparently locked from the inside.” Caslin stood and looked back towards the door. Scanning for other potential entry and exit points, he eyed several. There were windows set into the opposing walls. Each were single-glazed and opened onto land, running adjacent to the building. There were the double doors, used to take the boats out onto the lake and, turning his eye to the stairs in the far corner, there was also the access to the balcony he’d noted on their approach.

  “I wouldn’t put a lot of stock in that,” Caslin said aloud, returning to the body. “Strange.”

  “What’s that?” Hunter asked.

  “In my experience, suicidal people aren’t usually focused on their personal fitness prior to killing themselves. Not beyond the realm of possibility I guess,” he mused. “Also, his face is a little too purple under the circumstances. Do you know what I mean?”

  Hunter nodded her agreement, “First responders said similar. They expected the face to be paler in a self-induced hanging. Much of the colour has already drained since they brought him down.”

  “Make sure Robertson is aware, would you?”

  “I will.”

  “Terry Holt should be back at Fulford Road by now. Get him to do a work up on this guy. We’ll go through it later when we get back.”

  Caslin knelt down again, leaning over to enable a closer inspection of the deceased’s neck, attempting to assess the markings left by the ligature. Without wishing to disturb the body further, Caslin viewed as best he could what looked like a V-shape, imprinted in the folds of skin where the rope had wrapped around the throat. Beneath the inch-wide groove were scratch marks, superficial and random. Hunter saw him checking them out.

  “I’d imagine he was clawing at the rope as he was dying. An indication of foul play?” she asked.

  “Or that he had a change of heart,” Caslin countered. Hunter nodded briefly. Flicking his eyes around, Caslin looked for any indication of a struggle. Nothing was apparently disturbed. Although he conceded there was very little present in the boathouse that could have been. In one corner, a number of containers were visible, probably with fuel or oil for the boats.

  Similarly, to the rear, were built-in shelving that housed spare parts, buoyancy aids and associated equipment. None of which appeared to have been moved in quite some time. Probably not since the previous summer judging by the levels of dust.

  Returning to the deceased, Caslin checked the back of his hands looking for damage to his knuckles, abrasions, cuts, or even evidence of soil to indicate he had been knocked to the ground in an altercation or dragged to his place of death. He found nothing. Caslin was hopeful that the pathologist, Dr Alison Taylor, would be able to find something if they’d missed it.

  Rising, he crossed to the windows. Noting the simple latch and no further security, he also found one that had a corner of the pane missing. A cursory examination of the floor saw no signs of broken glass. Studying the glass further, he assessed the damage to be historic and therefore unlikely to be linked. The frames of both windows were wooden and in dire need of maintenance. In one case the entire frame was movable, with the minimum of pressure from his bare hand, away from the main fabric of the boathouse such was its degradation. Opening the window closest to him, he carefully extended his arm. The window opened outwards in a vertical arc. Without someone else to hold it clear, a single adult would struggle to climb out without catching themselves on the rotten wood of the frame or the brass latch that secured it closed. It would not be an optimum exit route in order to flee the scene. Spying the beam, at least six-inches thick, securing the arched access to the lake proper, Caslin knew that no one left via those doors.

  Walking to the front of the building, he looked out across the lake through several gaps in the aging planks that made up the doors. The house and its associated estate were substantial with sprawling wilderness in every direction. There wasn’t a boundary in sight. There was every possibility that someone could have accessed this location by boat, using the lake as an escape route and departed the scene under cover of the surrounding woodland. Someone would need to walk the perimeter of the lake to check for any sign of recent activity.

  “Who did you say found him?” Caslin asked, glancing back to Hunter.

  “A member of his security team.”

  That aroused Caslin’s interest, “How strong is the detail?”

  “Five,” Hunter confirmed, “at least, those present today.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “Back in the main house. I have them downstairs in the library. There are officers with them. So far, no one’s saying much. They are Russian nationals, though. I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt in that, perhaps, their English isn’t
very good.”

  “Get a hold of Fulford Road and tell them to have an interpreter on standby just in case. Would it be harsh to imply they’re not very proficient at their job?”

  “Depends on whether or not you see this as suspicious?” Hunter said playfully.

  “Like you, I see everything as suspicious,” Caslin replied, coming alongside her, “it comes with the warrant card. Any family members?”

  “He was divorced. His wife remained in Russia as far as I’ve managed to ascertain from the staff. The housekeeper appears to know the most or at least, she’s more talkative than anyone else. She’s visibly upset.”

  “His protection detail?”

  “Not so as you’d notice but then again…” Hunter allowed the thought to tail off.

  “What?” Caslin asked, making eye contact with genuine curiosity.

  “I get the impression they aren’t too keen on women. Not those in authority in any case. Unless, I’m just too sensitive?” she said with mock indignation.

  “I got you. Next of kin?” Caslin asked.

  “He only has one daughter. She studies at university, in London. Someone is on their way to speak with her as of now. Presumably, she’ll head up but I’m not sure if she’ll do so under her own steam.”

  Noise from outside carried to them signifying the arrival of Iain Robertson and his team of technicians. Caslin stepped out to greet him as they began to set about their individual assignments.

  “Ruined all my trace evidence?” Robertson said, with a grin, his blue coveralls rustling as he moved.

  “There wasn’t much for me to damage, if I’m honest,” Caslin replied.

  “Is that so?” Robertson replied in his characteristic, strong Glaswegian failing to mask his sarcasm. Not that he was trying, mind you. “I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind? Don’t tell me, DI Caslin has actually come across a crime scene where he believes there wasn’t a crime committed?”

  “Perhaps,” Caslin agreed. “Although, it’s a little too clean, for me. If you follow me?”

  “Aye, I know you well enough. Don’t fret. If there’s something to find, I’ll find it.”

  Caslin knew it to be the case. Iain Robertson was the most thorough crime-scene analyst he had ever worked with and he’d worked with the best.

  “Sarah,” Caslin said to Hunter, “I’m going to have a word with the security team. You coming?”

  She shook her head, “I reckon you’ll do better without me, judging from the reception they gave me earlier. I’ll recap what we discussed with Iain and you can fill me in later.”

  “Fair enough. Library, wasn’t it?” he asked. Hunter nodded.

  Leaving them to crack on, Caslin headed back to the house. It certainly wasn’t unusual for wealthy people to have an entourage. In many cases, they were as much a symbol of status as a Bentley or a holiday home in the Caymans. That in itself meant little but why a businessman required a personal protection detail of that number gave rise to many questions. Least not, who was he afraid of and why would that be?

  Ascending another beautifully carved staircase to the rear of the house. Caslin approached a uniformed officer. He pointed out the entrance to the building as well as to the library, just inside and to the right.

  Pleased to be indoors, away from the bitter breeze sweeping across the lake, Caslin undid his coat and entered the library. It was an impressive sight. A double height room with a gallery that wrapped around three walls above him in a U-shape.

  Natural light poured in through a bay window, also double-height, with a superb view of the lake and the woodland beyond stretching into the distance. The collection on display was equal to those preserved in the many stately homes, Caslin had visited over the years. There must have been thousands of tomes, many of which were leather bound in traditional style and Caslin couldn’t help but scan a few of the titles as he passed by.

  Unsurprisingly, many of those he eyed were written in the owner’s native Russian and so meant little to him. Although, he was pleasantly surprised to recognise the odd name.

  At the centre of the library, Caslin found the men he sought, seated upon casual sofas, set out before a grand fireplace. The warmth radiating from the logs, burning in the grate, was welcome. One of the men stood off to the left, sipping at a mug which Caslin assumed contained tea or coffee, judging from the steam rising from within. He was immediately envious. The remaining four were spread over the seating, under the watchful eye of another uniformed constable. The latter acknowledged Caslin as he approached.

  Caslin scanned the men, without saying a word. Clearly, they were all of a strong physique. Not necessarily heavy-set or full of muscle but evidently athletic in build. Those seated were all dressed in suits, quality materials, nothing off the rack. Caslin could tell the difference. The other wore suit trousers but with only a tight-fitting, white V-necked tee-shirt above.

  Caslin noted the jackets of the four men seated appeared to be oversized or badly cut in stark contrast to the quality of the fabric and associated tailoring. He also knew that to be merely the response of the ill-informed. These men were professionals and their suits were tailored to factor in shoulder holsters for their personal weaponry. However, Caslin would put money on it that they wouldn’t find a single firearm that wasn’t currently licensed or under lock and key, as per their legal obligation.

  Those four men paid Caslin little heed. They didn’t flinch at his arrival nor did they appear remotely interested in addressing his requirements. The solitary figure, standing beside the fireplace, was a different case altogether. His eyes had not left Caslin from the moment he entered. For his part, Caslin had pretended not to notice preferring to carry out his own examination. Now he turned his attention towards him. The man radiated gravitas. He was the leader of this group that was certain. Caslin took note of his heavily tattooed upper torso and forearms. A brief look at the others showed that they too, were adorned in a similar fashion. Their clothing however, masked any close inspection.

  “You are the senior investigating officer here?” the standing man asked, in heavily accented but otherwise perfect English.

  “I am. Detective Inspector Caslin,” he offered, “and you are?”

  “Grigory Vitsin,” he replied but offered nothing more.

  “Which of you found Mr Kuznetsov?” Caslin asked.

  “That was me,” Vitsin stated.

  Caslin nodded, “You have worked for Mr Kuznetsov for a long time?”

  “Many years, yes.”

  “Can you think of any reason for Mr Kuznetsov to have taken his own life?” Caslin asked, scanning the faces of all those assembled as he spoke. No one appeared to be remotely considering the question let alone listening to him, much to his irritation. Caslin chose to conceal the feeling for now.

  “You must forgive them, Inspector Caslin. They speak very little of your language,” Vitsin stated, almost apologetically.

  “They might find it easier going about their day in this country, if they did.”

  Vitsin smiled, “Within Mr Kuznetsov’s world there was little need. With our native language there are more than enough Russian speakers living here, within the UK.”

  “Can you tell me why your employer might take his own life?” Caslin asked again.

  Vitsin shrugged, “He was a strong man. A proud man. Sometimes, men like this cannot live without both.”

  “Meaning?” Caslin pressed.

  “I know little of these things but it is clear to see that his life was spiralling beyond his control,” Vitsin shrugged. “A man can only fall so far.” Caslin thought on that for a moment, pacing slowly around the room before coming to stand alongside Vitsin. He cast his eyes over the man’s body art. The patterns across his chest weren’t clear to see but Caslin could make out the image of a dagger, passing through the neck. The hilt was depicted on one side and the point appeared out of the other. In passing, he counted at least four drops of blood dripping from the tip of the blade
onto what looked like a flaming star.

  “Interesting work,” Caslin said, inclining his head towards Vitsin’s chest.

  “You admire body art?” he asked.

  “Not my thing, if I’m honest,” Caslin replied, now casually casting an eye over the Russian’s forearms. The right arm had what looked like a woman sitting with a fishing line seemingly caught on her dress. It struck him as an odd motif for such an evidently alpha-male to bear. “But I’m aware the detail is often symbolic of a deeper story. Is that fair?”

  Vitsin inclined his own head, in response, “Sometimes.”

  Caslin returned to the subject of Kuznetsov, “Have you any knowledge of threats to Mr Kuznetsov? Anyone who would wish him harm?”

  “Why do you ask? He killed himself.”

  “Did he?” Caslin asked. The four men seated appeared to understand that comment as a couple of them, almost imperceptibly, glanced furtively at each other.

  “Of course, he did,” Vitsin said flatly, unfazed by the question. “No one could have got to him without us seeing.” Caslin turned to look out of the window towards the lake and the boathouse although, the latter wasn’t visible from here.

  “He runs alone, your boss?” Caslin asked, locking eyes and trying to read the man standing before him. Caslin assessed this guy must be one hell of a poker player for he could determine nothing from his lack of a reaction. Vitsin merely went back to drinking his coffee. The smell of which carried to Caslin, only making him want it more.

  “Every day,” he confirmed. “Thirty minutes. The same route, around the estate.”

  Caslin did a quick bit of mental arithmetic, “That’s probably around three miles?”

  Vitsin shrugged, “Give or take?”

  “That’s quite a period of time to be out of your sight and away from your protection,” Caslin said, casting a sideways glance towards the bay window.