“You said was. Where is he now?”
“He no longer works for the FCO, having left his post earlier this year,” Broadfoot replied. “In fact, he left the government entirely.”
“Where is he now?”
Broadfoot shook his head, “I don’t know. Do bear in mind you only tossed this in my direction a little over seven-hours ago.”
“What did he do? At the FCO, I mean,” Caslin asked, ignoring the senior officer’s mild dig at him.
“Michaelson was a Grade 2 Senior, working in investment and business relations with UK trade and industry. He took the lead in supporting relationships between UK business and foreign enterprise.”
“Do we know why he left?” Caslin asked. Having taken the left fork in the path they now arrived at the York Observatory. A small hexagonal structure, crafted from stone and encircled by well-established trees. Broadfoot stopped, turning to face Caslin.
“Now that’s where it got a little interesting. In short, no. I haven’t got the reason he left the civil service nor any specifics on what he was working on when he did so. Not through lack of asking, I might add but I’m waiting on people coming back to me. Nathaniel,” he said pointedly, “I never have to wait for people to get back to me. Not when requesting such basic information and, let us not forget, Michaelson was a senior official but not a Permanent Under Secretary nor sitting at Director level.”
“What does that tell you?” Caslin asked as Broadfoot resumed walking, Caslin falling into step alongside.
“That inquiries relating to Michaelson or his portfolio are flagged somehow.”
“Flagged? By who?”
Broadfoot shrugged, “Could be any number of departments. I don’t know but… it’s certainly intriguing.”
“What about Project Obmen? Anything?”
“No. Sorry. I’ve nothing on that. Had Michaelson made any direct references to it?” Broadfoot queried.
This time Caslin shook his head, “No, he didn’t but with everything I received, it seemed significant. What with Michaelson being concerned with business affairs, I hoped he was linked to it and that would fill in some of the blanks.”
“Can’t help you there,” Broadfoot said. “Speaking of sources. You asked after Cory Walsh?”
“I did. What can you tell me?”
“As much as you have probably found out under your own steam, I imagine,” Broadfoot said. “A successful businessman. A billionaire, largely self-made. He’s been making waves in recent years. Not only here in the UK but it’s fair to say in much of the developed world.”
“Why? What’s he up to?”
“Lobbying anyone who will listen.”
“To what end?”
“Tightening of financial controls in global markets,” Broadfoot stated. “He’s been trying to toughen up the regulation put upon foreign investments and money flows. It’s almost a one-man crusade against financial corruption.”
Caslin blew out his cheeks, “Good luck with that.”
Broadfoot agreed, “If anyone ever wanted to move a mountain, it’s him. Walsh hasn’t been without success, mind you. He’s been instrumental in legislative changes in over a dozen jurisdictions in the last five years. Some powerful names have had assets frozen or been blacklisted in the financial markets as a direct result of his campaigning.”
“So, he wasn’t lying when he suggested he has enemies?” Caslin said rhetorically.
“It’s a stance that’s won him as many enemies as it has friends. There have been repeated attempts to have him extradited on international arrest warrants. They’ve become almost an annual event for him. Not that any government has sought to enforce them.”
“Who filed the warrants?”
“Russia. All of them,” Broadfoot replied. Caslin didn’t respond but he felt Broadfoot’s gaze fall upon him. “Are you tying Walsh’s crusade to the Kuznetsov suicide?” Caslin looked away, his eyes drawn to the cenotaph in the memorial gardens on the opposing riverbank, directly opposite them.
“No. To be honest, Kuznetsov has never been mentioned in this context. Unless, you know something I don’t?” he said, stopping and meeting Broadfoot’s eye. The latter chewed on his lower lip momentarily prior to answering.
“There has been some chatter,” he replied.
“Regarding Kuznetsov’s death?” Caslin clarified. Broadfoot nodded.
“GCHQ has reported a noticeable rise in high-level communication in the run up to, as well as the aftermath of, last week’s events. Following on from Kuznetsov’s death things dropped back.”
“Do you think they’re related?” Caslin asked. Broadfoot locked eyes with him for a brief moment before breaking it off. His shoulders dropped at the same time.
“It’s your case, Nathaniel.”
“One that I’m being pushed to sign off, sooner rather than later.”
Broadfoot sighed, “Unsurprising. Under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Big picture, Nathaniel,” Broadfoot said, setting off once more and gazing at some unidentifiable point in the distance. “The UK government has only recently come out of a decade of frosty relations with the Kremlin. The strength of that relationship has been tested again recently. Whether Kuznetsov’s death was a suicide or something more sinister doesn’t really matter.”
“I think it matters to his family,” Caslin stated, cutting a sharp edge to his tone.
“Not when it comes down to international relations. When the interests of the Crown are threatened everything else becomes secondary,” Broadfoot replied. “Even an unfounded hint of impropriety could do untold damage.”
“That’s not my problem,” Caslin said as a matter-of-fact.
“Make sure it doesn’t become so,” Broadfoot replied. “I understand things haven’t been great for you recently back at Fulford Road.” Caslin flicked his eyes at Broadfoot and away again. The grape vine was evidently still intact.
“Really? I get on all right with Matheson. She’s a decent enough DCI,” the last was said as convincing as possible.
“And Sutherland?” Broadfoot asked, referring to his successor as Caslin’s Detective Chief Superintendent.
He shrugged, “I’ve had worse.”
Broadfoot grinned, “As an aside, I was disappointed you didn’t take up my offer.”
“I know,” Caslin replied, not wishing to discuss the subject any further. “It wasn’t the right time,” was all he was willing to say. Wishing to change the subject, Caslin took out his phone. “Can you have a look at something, for me?” he asked, opening up his gallery folder and flicking through the photographs within it. Scrolling to the bottom, he found what he was looking for and passed the handset across. Broadfoot took it, holding it at arm’s length to try and make out the detail.
“I don’t have my glasses,” he said, apologetically.
“Zoom in,” Caslin suggested. “I just want to know who that is beyond Matheson, standing with Sutherland and ACC Sinclair?” Broadfoot used his thumb and forefinger to enlarge the image. The picture was the one Caslin had taken through the glass from his vantage point at the top of the stairwell, following the meeting he had been summoned to where he’d been practically ordered to tie off the Kuznetsov case. Broadfoot handed the phone back. His expression was impassive. “Well?”
“Commander Niall Montgomerie,” Broadfoot said flatly. “He heads up SO15.”
“SO15?” Caslin confirmed he’d heard correctly. “That’s the Counter-Terrorism Unit.”
“Yes. I work with them regularly,” Broadfoot said. “I should imagine, he was present in York because of the tensions surrounding the protests.”
“You imagine?” Caslin said, raising an eyebrow. “In your position, shouldn’t you know?” Broadfoot nodded, his expression hadn’t changed, remaining unreadable but Caslin knew him well enough to know that Montgomerie’s presence was news to him. “Speaking of that intelligence chatter, you mentioned.”
“Go on
,” Broadfoot said.
“Any increase relating to activities among the far-right groups? A suggestion that they had something special planned, a new campaign maybe?”
Broadfoot shook his head, “Nothing of note that would necessarily raise a threat level. We knew they were coming to York but that’s been common knowledge for some time. As to carrying out a statement of intent, violent or otherwise, no, I’m not aware. That’s not to say it’s inconceivable, mind you.”
“They’re getting more organised, aren’t they?”
Broadfoot agreed with regret in his tone, “Gone are the days where you find a bunch of skin-heads getting smashed and trashing a few Asian-owned newsagents. Your modern fascists, the skilled manipulators, are educated, well-financed, dress like Hipsters and are well aware of what we do to curtail their activities. Three-quarters of referrals to the government’s deradicalization scheme are for those indoctrinated in right-wing ideology.”
“Three-quarters…” Caslin replied, dumbstruck.
“I fear there’s an ideological war coming, Nathaniel,” Broadfoot said solemnly, offering Caslin his hand by way of saying goodbye. Caslin took it. “Just not the one most people in this country expected to see. Should anything else come my way I think you’ll be interested to hear, I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, should you need me you know where I am.”
“Thank you for your time, sir,” Caslin said.
Broadfoot set off, leaving Caslin standing alone in the grounds of the museum. He watched the senior officer depart, his driver coming to meet him and the two headed for the car park. Caslin remained where he was, mulling over what he had learned. Perhaps, the key point he found most enlightening was the unintentional offering. With everything Broadfoot said, the leap from Walsh to Kuznetsov was the most telling. Farzaad Amin’s name never came up, not even in passing. To Caslin’s knowledge, Nestor Kuznetsov had no bearing on Cory Walsh nor Amin’s death and yet, Broadfoot drew the link. Intentional or otherwise it set Caslin’s mind racing. Taking out his phone, he called DS Hunter.
“Sarah, it’s Caslin. Drop everything you’re doing and find Finlay Michaelson.”
“Finlay Michaelson. Got it,” Hunter said. “Who is he?”
“The key,” Caslin replied and hung up.
Chapter 19
Hunter negotiated the overtaking manoeuvre with ease. For once, Caslin felt certain she’d demonstrated enough caution. Leaving the tractor and its trailer behind, the car accelerated. Making the next turn in the road, Caslin reached up and tilted the sun visor. They were heading west, away from York towards Long Marston, a small village barely seven miles from the city. Slowing as they approached the outer limits of the village, leaving the open farmland behind them, Caslin focused his attention on the road ahead.
“There should be a left turn coming up, signposted for the Village Hall,” he said peering into the distance. As expected, they came to the intersection and Hunter took the turn onto Angram Road. There were houses to either side of them. A mixture of modern homes designed to blend seamlessly in although failing to do so, nestled in between aging brick-buildings constructed over the past few centuries. Many were easily identifiable as converted agricultural buildings, juxtaposed alongside traditional farmhouses, often striking an odd-looking contrast with one another.
The houses to their left were replaced by a perimeter wall, running adjacent to the road and stretching forward for several hundred yards. Caslin knew this wall, with its mature trees beyond, shrouded their destination from the roadside. Ahead, the village church could be seen towering over an upcoming line of three or four houses at the edge of the settlement boundary.
“This one?” Hunter asked, slowing further and annoying the vehicle that had sped up behind them.
“Yes, the entrance should be just up here on the left,” he replied, pointing with his forefinger. No sooner had he spoken, the turn onto the driveway came into view as the wall curved in and away from the highway. Hunter flicked on the indicator and braked in order to give herself time to make the tight turn into the grounds of the house. The brickwork of the boundary wall must have been set prior to the advent of modern vehicles, such was the limited space on either side of them. The car following them accelerated aggressively once they were clear. Evidently, the driver was in a hurry to get to their destination.
The driveway was gravel-lined and cut immediately back in the direction they had come before winding off to the right and up towards a large, detached Georgian farmhouse. Caslin cast an eye over it as they pulled up, coming to a stop. The brick building, with its stone detailing, clay pantile roof and elegant twelve-pane, sash and case windows struck an imposing figure in the mature gardens that surrounded it. Many of the curtains were still drawn, despite the setting sun now being at the rear of the house. Hunter glanced around. A detached, double garage lay ahead of them. It was closed with the fallen leaves of the established garden banked up against the doors, driven there by the wind.
“No car outside. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” she said. Caslin unclipped his seatbelt and opened his door.
“We’re expected. She’ll be home,” he replied, getting out. Hunter followed suit.
They approached the entrance. The door was oversized and original, judging by the thickness along with the detailing. Modern reproductions were easy to spot. There was no need to knock as the door opened before they reached it. The woman who stood before them cracked a weak smile. She was in her sixties, Caslin guessed, of slim build with a heavily lined face. Her eyes were sunken and the welcoming expression appeared forced. Caslin recognised only too well the physical manifestations that coincided with mental torment.
“Mrs Michaelson?” he asked, already sure of the answer. She nodded.
“Inspector Caslin?” she countered. He took out his wallet, showing her his warrant card. She barely glanced at it, merely stepping aside and beckoning them to enter. “Please, come in.”
“This is Detective Sergeant Sarah Hunter,” Caslin offered, as he stepped forward. Hunter smiled, in greeting, with another returned in her direction by their host. Mrs Michaelson led them along the hallway into the interior of the house, ushering them into what Caslin figured to be the drawing room.
An open fire crackled in the hearth. The room was traditionally decorated with wood-panelling to waist height on all four walls. Two large sofas were set facing each other to either side of the fireplace. It was here that they were guided to and offered a seat. The sound of a ticking clock, hanging on the wall behind them was interspersed by the occasional crack from the wood as a burst of trapped air ignited in the flames.
“Would you care for some tea or perhaps coffee?” they were asked graciously. Both Caslin and Hunter declined. Mrs Michaelson sat down opposite them, striking a somewhat uncomfortable looking pose. Judging by her demeanour since their arrival, Caslin figured she wasn’t a sedentary person and sitting still was not in her general make-up.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Mrs Michaelson,” Caslin began, she smiled.
“Please, do call me Miranda,” she offered.
“Once again, I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” she replied. Miranda Michaelson bore the stark pain of losing her husband in her expression. “Please, how can I help you?”
“As I said on the telephone, we’re investigating a case in which your late-husband’s name has come up. Within his role in the Civil Service, he may well have been aware of details we’re yet to uncover or may have come across some names of those who are involved,” Caslin said softly. “I certainly don’t wish to cause you any undue distress. Did he ever mention his work to you?”
Miranda shook her head, “I am terribly sorry, Inspector. Finlay didn’t speak to me about his work. He rarely ever did. Perhaps earlier in his career, when he was confident he was in line for a promotion but even then, never in any great detail. Regarding anything within the last few years I’m afraid I can be of littl
e help to you.”
“Could we ask about why he retired when he did?” Hunter asked.
“Of course, yes,” Miranda said, turning to her. “Everything was getting rather fraught domestically. I returned to nurse my mother… oh, it must be… four years ago now. She was finding the house to be far too much for her to cope with. Finlay remained in London, obviously, but he would travel up as and when he could manage to.”
“And this caused…” Caslin struggled to find the correct word, “friction, between the two of you?”
“After a while living apart begins to cause problems. The pressure was certainly mounting,” Miranda replied honestly, her voice tailed off as she glanced out of the nearest window at nothing in particular.
“So, your husband took early retirement?” Hunter asked.
“Mother was ailing and I needed the support.”
“And he moved here to help you,” Caslin said.
“To be closer to me, yes,” Miranda confirmed. “Or, at least, that was what he said.”
Caslin sat forward, interested, “You have your doubts?” Miranda stiffened slightly. Had he not been looking directly at her, Caslin may have missed it.
“He would still spend hours in his study,” she said, an edge to her tone. “Even though he was supposedly retired. I never got the impression that he ever really wanted to give it up. To be fair, he’d worked hard to get where he had and if the truth be known, I think he found it galling to step away because of the needs of my family.”
“The relationship was difficult?” Hunter pressed but took care to be gentle.
Miranda chuckled, “Finlay referred to my mother as an Ogre. They never took kindly to each other. My father, on the other hand, was altogether different. Finlay was like the son he’d never had. They got on famously.”
“Can you tell us about your husband’s state of mind around the time of his death?” Caslin asked. “Did he convey any feelings to you or appear stressed, agitated, about anything?” She thought on it for a moment before answering.
Blood Money Page 19
