Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  Walking forward, Caslin was joined by Terry Holt coming alongside.

  “I’ve requested CSI,” he said quietly. “They’ll be here within the hour.”

  Caslin nodded slowly, his eyes scanning the room. “They’ll be busy,” he said, without looking at Holt. Approaching the kneeling figure to within a couple of steps, mindful not to threaten the integrity of the forensic evidence, he dropped to his haunches to assess the victim. The man was perhaps in his early fifties although in this light it was difficult to tell. He appeared to be of near-Asian or of middle-eastern origin, stripped naked and kneeling on what Caslin guessed to be a prayer mat, judging by the size and pattern. His hands were clasped into his lap before him and his head was bowed as he was slumped slightly forward. Evidently, someone had worked him over. The man’s body, his back in particular, exhibited early signs of bruising and multiple lacerations. The wounds stretched from one shoulder across the full width of the body to the other. Matching injuries were visible to the ribcage at the front and sides.

  The face was swollen, consistent with a severe beating. Crouching further, Caslin positioned himself to see the man’s face from below. He recoiled.

  “What is it?” Holt asked. Caslin flicked his eyes up for a second before returning to inspect the dead man.

  “His eyes have been removed,” he said softly.

  “Why would someone do that?” Holt asked, fear edging into his tone. Caslin didn’t answer. The cheeks were swollen and split in places. As were the victim’s lips although they were set apart due to something being wedged into the mouth. Caslin couldn’t make out what it was. Blood had now ceased flowing. Most of the injuries, Caslin could see were superficial and not life threatening. Painful, certainly but wouldn’t have led him to bleed out. However, in contrast, it was clear his throat had been cut. A wound four-inches long, as well as substantially deep, stretched across the neck just below the larynx. As a result, the torso, waist and legs were all soaked in blood. The blood on the body was dry. Much of it had flowed down seeping into the prayer mat and carpet, pooling into a deep shade of crimson. This had saturated the floor and still appeared sodden such was the volume. The smell of excrement was intense. Caslin figured the deceased’s bowels must have relaxed upon death.

  “Take a look around for the eyes, would you?” Caslin said.

  “Where?” Holt asked.

  Caslin shot him a look of consternation, “I don’t know. Just use yours, yeah?” Holt nodded and set off.

  Turning his attention away from the body, Caslin surveyed the remainder of the scene. There was blood spatter across three of the walls as well as areas of the ceiling. In several places, they took the form of curves or arcs. No doubt, Robertson would confirm but having attended enough violent homicides in the past, Caslin knew this to be cast-offs. The blood was thrown from a weapon as it decelerated before and after each swing or blow. Looking around, Caslin noted a small dining table and two chairs. One of the chairs had been pulled out and it too, was covered in blood. Gaffer tape was visible on the arms and at the base of the legs. Apparently, it had been sliced through with a sharp blade. Checking the victim’s wrist, hair was missing. Standing up, Caslin crossed to the chair and took a closer look at the remnants of the tape. Hair was visible, embedded in the adhesive. The victim had been forcibly removed at speed. Turning, he glanced at the wall directly in front of the kneeling man. Caslin held his breath. Roughly five-feet high and three wide a white cross had been crudely spray-painted onto it with the words vermin out scrawled alongside. Caslin let his breath out slowly.

  The silence was interrupted by a stifled scream. Caslin jumped momentarily before running into the hall, calling out, “Terry?” He found Holt in the bedroom.

  “Sorry, sir,” Holt said, looking sheepish. “It startled me.”

  “What did?” Caslin asked, glancing in the direction of the bed where Holt was pointing. Caslin dropped to one knee and lifted the overhanging duvet so he could see under the bed. A pair of eyes were staring at him, narrow and frightened. “Terry, it’s a bloody cat.”

  Holt nodded, “I know. Sorry. I didn’t see it and it hissed at-”

  “All right,” Caslin said, interrupting him. Spotting a carrier atop the wardrobe, Caslin crossed the room and brought it down.

  Indicating for Holt to block one side of the bed to deter the animal from escaping that way. Caslin went to the other. Reluctant to be clawed, he put the carrier close to where the cat waited before attempting to flush it out. He needn’t have worried. The safe haven of the carrier was appealing and the animal darted in. Caslin swiftly closed the door and dropped the latch.

  Holt shook his head. “I don’t like cats, sir. Horrible creatures.”

  “We can leave it here, for now,” Caslin said, standing and heading back into the living room. Holt went with him.

  “I’ve checked the bathroom and the kitchen. I couldn’t find the eyes unless they’ve been well-stashed. Do you think he took them?”

  “Who?”

  “The killer?” Holt asked.

  “Or killers,” Caslin mused, scanning the room. “You know what, Terry? This took a lot of time and patience. Despite what we see we’re not looking at an act of uncontrolled fury here,” Caslin said, swirling his hand in the air and indicating the scene before them. “There was method applied to this. The eyes were probably cut out for a reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “A message, perhaps? I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to have to figure out,” Caslin replied. He walked across the room and casually inspected the spartan contents of a bookcase. There were two books on philosophy, several on economics and another on the history of finance. He couldn’t see any items of sentiment. There were no picture frames, family photographs or belongings to signify a personal association. Looking around, Caslin noted there was no television nor a place set aside for one. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed or ransacked, putting a doubt in his mind as to robbery being a motive. “What’s his name?”

  Holt consulted his notebook, “According to the neighbours this flat is rented to a Farzaad Amin.”

  “Who called in the request for a welfare check? The same neighbours?”

  Holt shook his head, “No, sir. By all accounts, the neighbours only found out when uniform tried to gain entry this morning.”

  “They didn’t hear anything?” Caslin asked, surprised.

  “Apparently not, no,” Holt said. “But I’ll follow up on what uniform heard when I go door-to-door, once CSI get to work.”

  “Good,” Caslin said. “This would have made quite a bit of a commotion. Someone had to have heard something. What do we know about Mr Amin?”

  “Not known to us, sir. No priors, nothing.”

  “All right. Find out what you can from the neighbours and we’ll see where we go from there.”

  “Do you think he was killed during prayer time, sir?”

  Caslin glanced across at the deceased and then towards the window as if looking at something in the distance, “I doubt it. I’m pretty sure this is staged.”

  Holt seemed perplexed. Looking around, he tried to assess what Caslin saw in order to reach that conclusion, “You seem confident. Why do you think so?”

  Caslin fixed him with a stare, “He’s facing north.”

  Holt raised a questioning eyebrow, “So?”

  “You’ve not spent a lot of time around Muslims, have you?” Caslin replied. “If he was praying, he’d be facing east.”

  Hunter’s voice carried to them, from the front door. By the accompanying noise level, she was not alone. Caslin judged CSI had arrived at the same time. He called back in response. Moments later, DS Hunter appeared from around the corner. Her first reaction was arguably the same as theirs. One of abject horror.

  “Good Lord,” she said quietly, furtively looking around. Iain Robertson came to stand behind her. He also took a sharp intake of breath.

  “Right. Everybody out of my crime-scene,
if you don’t mind?” he said, in his gruff Glaswegian. Caslin knew not to argue and the team had a lot to process. They would be there for some time.

  “Terry, you and Sarah start by canvassing the neighbours,” he instructed. Holt nodded but Hunter appeared lost in thought. “Sarah!” Caslin said, forcefully getting her attention.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, what did you say?”

  “Go with Terry. Find out what you can about this guy. If he had many friends, how did he live, what he got up to?”

  “Will do,” she said, glad to be leaving the room. She turned and Terry Holt followed her out. Caslin stepped across to speak with Robertson.

  “There’s a cat in the bedroom,” he said. “I’ve got it crated. Presumably, you’ll be quite happy for me to shift it?”

  “Is it a suspect?” Robertson asked, jovially. Caslin cast an eye around the room. Robertson wasn’t deterred, “You have to laugh at death as much as life, Nate. Without it, you’re as good as lost.”

  Caslin nodded, “The cat?”

  “Aye. As long as it doesn’t have any blood on it. Does it?”

  “Not as far as I could tell.”

  “In that case,” Robertson said, “be my guest. I don’t want it running around contaminating the forensics. What’ll you do with it?”

  Caslin shrugged, “Get one of the neighbours to take it or something.”

  Leaving Robertson to get himself set up, Caslin went to the bedroom and retrieved the carrier. Making his way out of the flat, he could hear conversations already happening as his officers canvassed the neighbours.

  Emerging into the bright sunshine, Caslin blinked and shielded his eyes with his one free hand. The sun was sitting low in a crystal-clear, blue sky. A larger crowd was gathering now. Word must have begun to spread. Unlocking his car, he put the carrier on the back seat before relocking it and heading back towards the building.

  Parked on the other side of the street, he noted a black limousine. The metallic paint sparkled into the afternoon sunshine. Unsure of the model, Caslin thought it could be a Maybach. It wasn’t every day that you saw one of those kicking about. A uniformed chauffeur sat in the driver’s seat, bearing a cap and gloves. Shielding his eyes against the sun. Caslin tried to make out the figure sitting in the rear but couldn’t. Clearly, they were drawing a higher status of voyeur these days.

  A few voices carried from the crowd seeking answers to questions about what was going on. Caslin turned his attention to them and scanned the assembled. The thought occurred as to their motivations. Many were merely curious, others, so bored that this was the most excitement they’d experienced in years. Family or friends could arrive seeking knowledge about their loved ones. Occasionally though, there were the others. Those who took pleasure in seeing the response to their efforts. A killer might return to observe the goings on, revelling in the chaos they had created.

  Caslin stood and watched them for a few moments trying to spot anyone who stood out. A lone figure, standing in silence. Someone taking photographs or filming the incident on a mobile phone. Anyone who looked like they didn’t belong. Satisfied that no one fitted his criteria, he returned inside.

  Farzaad Amin’s flat was one of two on the ground floor. Caslin saw Hunter at the top of the stairwell. He trotted up the polished stairs, his shoes echoing as he went. She waited for him. When he reached her, he noted an odd expression upon her face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. Looking beyond her, over her shoulder. He registered Holt casting a sideways glance in their direction.

  “Yes. Of course,” Hunter replied, almost defensive in her tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Caslin shrugged, “No matter. What have you got?”

  Hunter consulted her notes, “There was no answer when we called at the other flat on the ground floor. The neighbours say it’s currently vacant. The inhabitant went into a care home and the housing association haven’t reallocated it yet. We’ve had more luck up here. Neither of the incumbents on this floor knew him very well. They say he’s quiet, keeps himself to himself. They’ve never seen him receive any visitors. Although, he was always amiable whenever they crossed paths.”

  “What do they know about him?”

  “They believe he’s from Afghanistan. Whether he has refugee status or is an asylum seeker, neither were sure.”

  “How long has he lived here?” Caslin asked, watching Holt say goodbye to an elderly gentleman and come across the landing to join them.

  “Several years by all accounts,” Hunter confirmed.

  “When you get back to Fulford Road give the Home Office a call and try and to ascertain his status. It might be relevant.”

  “We’ve got something of a hate-crime, sir,” Holt said, coming alongside. He glanced at Hunter, “You all right?”

  “Yes, Terry. I’m fine,” she snapped.

  “The thought had occurred, Terry but why? What do you have?” Caslin asked him.

  “The above neighbours,” he paused to check his notes. “The Sahni family reckon Amin’s been getting some serious grief from the locals. As have they on occasion.”

  “Which locals?” Caslin pressed, glancing out of the window overlooking the street beyond. The crowd appeared to be increasing by the minute.

  “Kids, mainly,” Holt clarified.

  “Come off it, Terry,” Caslin retorted. “That, downstairs, wasn’t done by kids picking on the neighbourhood brown guy.”

  Holt shook his head, “No, no, but there’s been talk about him interfering with them. The kids, I mean. Some are alleging he’s a nonce.”

  “Well if he is, it’s the first we are hearing of it,” Caslin stated. “Try to get some more details, would you? We’ll have to consider every possibility but let’s face it this wouldn’t be the first time a bit of a loner has that accusation thrown at him. Particularly, if he’s a foreigner.”

  “Yes, sir,” Holt said, turning and heading off up to the next floor.

  “Any weight in that, do you reckon?” Hunter asked.

  Caslin thought about it, “Kiddie-fiddlers are usually on our radar in some capacity or another and he wasn’t. I guess that’s not conclusive, though. What was done to him looked personal to me. Not kids, not a burglar. Much more than that.”

  “A relative?” she suggested. “A father of a victim?”

  Caslin thought on it, “It’d take a special kind of someone to have the stomach to do what was done downstairs.”

  “True. That’s not to say we don’t have them here in York. What do you make of the religious overtones?” Hunter asked.

  “Best to keep that quiet for as long as possible,” Caslin said, lowering his voice. “That’s the last thing we need this weekend. You crack on with Terry. I’m going to head back to Fulford and see if there is anything in the database similar to this. I have the feeling this wasn’t the first time our guy did something like this.”

  Chapter 9

  Descending the stairs, Caslin sensed the situation outside was escalating. Raised voices carried into the foyer of the communal entrance, punctuated by the occasional shout. Picking up the pace, he took the last few steps at a canter, emerging into the daylight and a fractious scene. The crowd of onlookers appeared to have swollen within the past few minutes and the number of placards visible above the throng indicated trouble was brewing. A situation of interest to the local residents was now turning into something deeper.

  The four officers, tasked with maintaining the security of the cordon were currently standing between two distinct groups, numbering approximately thirty in total. The crowd were spreading out into the road and blocking the remaining lane. No traffic was flowing. Beyond, more people appeared to be heading their way. One man had taken to a dwarf wall, elevating himself above the others in order to address those assembled. He was in his forties, sporting closely cropped hair and smartly dressed in a suit and tie. Reaching down, someone handed him something and he raised it to his mouth. It was a microphone, attached to a portable megaphon
e held by another.

  “Who wants to be free?” he called into the microphone. Immediately, a raucous cheer went up alongside several denouncements from others. “Mass migration is eroding Europe’s Christian culture to the point that we, the indigenous population, no longer have a place to call home.”

  The crowd began to chant, “Yes! Yes!” Sensing the situation was about to deteriorate further, Caslin took out his mobile and dialled the station. With officers spread out across the city, he knew that they needed to be here.

  “Open immigration has brought them to us, with no affinity or allegiance to the country they’ve ended up in. This is our fault because we don’t demand it changes!” the speaker shouted.

  “England for the English!” someone shouted, only for others to begin repeating it along with accompanying applause. The opposing sides were advancing on each other, jostling for position. More officers arrived having escorted protestors from the town centre. Caslin was incensed at how the policing plan had apparently fallen apart in such a spectacular fashion. The sides were never supposed to meet.

  Tempers began to fray as accusations were traded. So far, bravado was all that was on display but it wouldn’t take much for that to change. Caslin’s call was answered and he requested immediate support as he assessed the developing melee. DC Holt came alongside, appearing flustered.

  “What’s all this?” he said. Caslin didn’t have time to answer.

  “Family. Church. Nation,” the speaker stated to rapturous applause. “We need to rebuild our country based on our traditions, our culture and our beliefs. Our sense of self is ebbing away because of a cancer gnawing away at the heart of our democracy. Our system, the police,” he said, pointing towards the thin line of high-vis jackets, struggling to keep the conflicting groups apart, “defend rapists, criminals and paedophiles.”