Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  “He was certainly withdrawn,” she said. “More so than I’d ever experienced with him prior to that. However, he found our separation equally challenging and after four years of virtually living apart, I’m not entirely sure how recent that change in his manner may have been. I had no idea that he was… having the thoughts that he was.”

  “I am sorry you are having to revisit all of this,” Caslin said apologetically.

  “That’s quite all right, Inspector. I think on it every day,” she replied. The statement only led him to feel even worse.

  “How is your mother?” Hunter asked. Miranda met her eye.

  “She also passed away, two months ago,” she said. “I have laid her to rest alongside my father just as she would have wanted.”

  “I am sorry,” Hunter said, wishing she’d never asked. To lose her husband through suicide along with her remaining parent in such quick succession must have been extremely difficult to process.

  “Don’t worry, Dear. You weren’t to know,” Miranda said, warmly.

  “Your husband’s study, may we see it?” Caslin asked. Miranda nodded.

  “Certainly,” she said, rising. Caslin and Hunter also stood. “Please, come this way.”

  They were led from the drawing room, back into the hallway. Heading down the hall and to the left, Miranda showed them to a room at the rear of the building. Coming to stand before the door, she stepped to the side and turned to face them.

  “I must admit, I haven’t been in there since… since I found, Finlay,” she said, in halting speech.

  “That’s okay. There’s no need for you to come in,” Caslin said, placing a reassuring hand on her forearm. Miranda appeared grateful. “Tell me, has much been touched or moved from in there?”

  She shook her head, “No. No one’s been in there. Just the paramedics… oh, and the constable who came along after. I haven’t felt ready to tackle it, not yet. You see, it was my father’s study before Finlay took it over and, well… he passed away from a heart attack in the same room. They were so alike, those two. It is somewhat fitting, I suppose.”

  “Thank you,” Caslin said, grasping the handle. Miranda excused herself.

  “I will wait for you in the drawing room,” she said before leaving them alone. Caslin cast Hunter a sideways glance and opened the door.

  Caslin led the way. The room was almost a perfect square, with dual-aspect windows. The southern-facing pane allowed the room to flood with light as the winter-sun dropped low on the horizon. A traditional, hardwood desk was on one side of the room, set in from the wall, with the east-facing window behind the chair. Caslin indicated for Hunter to inspect the shelving units, stacked to shoulder height with lever-arch folders, while he approached the desk.

  Coming around to the other side, Caslin pulled out the chair and sat down. There was a banker’s desk-lamp in situ, antique brass fitting with an emerald-green shade. He pulled the switch and it bathed the surface of the desk in artificial light. Nothing much adorned the desk apart from a solitary wedding photograph, its dark brown hue giving away its age, and a little stationery so Caslin turned his focus to the drawers.

  Glancing down, he noted the two pedestals, one to either side of him. Both had four drawers with one large double-width drawer interconnecting both units. He opened this one first and inspected the contents. Aside from some blank sheets of headed paper, a letter opener and some assorted envelopes of various sizes, he found nothing to pique his interest. As he was pushing it closed, he spied a ring of keys. Picking them up, he counted three, guessing they were for the locks to the desk. They were small, brass, with intricately cast patterns on the bow. Closing the drawer, he inserted one of the keys into the lock. It slid in effortlessly and the mechanism turned with ease.

  Switching his attention back to the pedestals, he tried the drawers one by one. Checking all eight, Caslin found none of them to be locked. Then he set about going through them again although this time he spent more time on each as he analysed the contents. More than half of the drawers were empty and of the remaining ones, Caslin found nothing of note. There were old utility bills, some correspondence relating to a function being arranged in the local village and a scattering of receipts but nothing relevant. Having optimistically expected to find a diary, some handwritten notes or copied files that might generate a new lead, Caslin was left disappointed. Sitting back in the chair, he exhaled deeply. Hunter looked over from where she was scanning through a folder.

  “Nothing?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Caslin shook his head.

  “No. If Michaelson brought his work home with him on the weekend, he didn’t leave it here,” Caslin said, dejected. “What about you?”

  “Same here,” she replied. “Most of this stuff relates to the farm and its holdings. Maybe he didn’t keep anything after he retired or his files were down in London. He would’ve had his own digs down there after all.”

  Caslin blew out his cheeks, “Then what was he doing holed up in his study?” A thought struck him. Picking up the keys once more, he tried one in the lock of the first drawer in the pedestal to his right. The key turned smoothly. Pulling out the drawer, he then pushed it closed and then did the same again, only slower. Repeating the process with each drawer, Caslin found none of the locks to be stiff and the drawers were smooth in transition from closed to open. Pursing his lips, he sank back in the chair. Hunter crossed the room to join him, giving up on her search having located nothing even vaguely related to their investigation.

  “A penny for them?” she asked, reading his quizzical expression.

  “The drawers,” he said, indicating them with a general sweep of his hand before scooping up the keys. She looked at them and then back at him.

  “What of them?”

  “They all work,” he replied, as if that answered everything.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is an old desk. An antique, not a reproduction.”

  “So?”

  “If you don’t use them, things like these locks…” he pointed to the first drawer, down to his right, “the mechanisms are liable to seize up or at the very least, the wood swells, warps, stiffens, whatever, making keys harder to turn. Not here. Every lock works like a charm. The same with pulling out the drawers. There are no runners, no bearings to make it smooth. If you don’t open them regularly, they’ll get stiff or screech.”

  “So, the desk was well used?” Hunter asked, not quite following his line of thought.

  “Very much so,” Caslin confirmed. “And yet, half the drawers are empty and none of them were locked.”

  “And… if they were frequently locked…” Hunter followed the logic.

  “That’s right,” Caslin said. “There must have been something to secure more valuable than headed paper and a few old electricity bills.”

  “But there’s nothing,” Hunter stated, glancing around the office. Caslin followed her lead and scanned the room for anything that might catch his attention. There were two canvas paintings, hanging on the walls. One to the left of the south-facing window, depicting a landscape, along with another above the fireplace. The latter was an inset, cast-iron Victorian addition with intricate detailing. A work of art in itself.

  Coming out from behind the desk, Caslin crossed to the fireplace and examined the canvas hanging above. It was a portrait, seemingly of one of Miranda’s ancestors. A portly man, with an angular jaw and red-faced complexion. Judging from the clothing he wore, Caslin assumed he may have been the first to own the family residence at some point in the Eighteenth Century.

  “Look at these,” Hunter said, over her shoulder. Caslin came to stand alongside her. She was casting an eye over some photographs, framed and hanging on the wall behind the desk. “This must be Finlay and Miranda, fairly recently,” she said, pointing to a photograph apparently taken on a warm, sunny day. Miranda appeared much as she did now albeit with a far more relaxed demeanour and brighter eyes. The man next to her, with an arm ar
ound her shoulder was smiling and Caslin knew it to be Finlay Michaelson having come across his picture in the coroner’s case file prior to making the drive out to Long Marston.

  They were either photographs of family holidays from over the years or what looked to be special occasions, perhaps in far-flung locations but in many cases it was impossible to tell. Caslin hovered over one of the couple sitting astride horses with mountains in the background.

  “I’d say that was Argentina, if I had to guess,” Hunter offered, seeing Caslin focusing on it.

  “Really? You sound sure.”

  “Stephen and I travelled to Patagonia shortly after we got engaged. The light and the landscape are memorable. Those mountains behind them look like the Austral Andes,” Hunter said. There was something in her tone that struck a chord with him. A note of melancholy perhaps? He wasn’t sure and chose not to mention it.

  “I’ve never been,” Caslin said, moving along and scanning the next picture. Taking a step back, he scrutinised the arrangement. There was something odd about it but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what had sharpened his focus. Hunter noticed.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  Caslin shook his head, “I’m not sure. Can you put the main light on please?”

  The sun had dropped below the horizon and the gloom of a winter afternoon was now sapping the light from around them. Hunter crossed the room and flicked the switch. The five-way, wrought-iron chandelier counteracted the growing darkness. At first glance, the arrangement of the framed pictures looked haphazard at best. They were not all of a uniform size, some were set in landscape while others were in traditional portrait style. Even so, something didn’t look right to his eye.

  Coming to stand before the desk, Caslin sought to tease out the thought currently lodged in the back of his mind. From this vantage point, he could see a slight discolouration in the wall between two pictures. Hunter caught sight of his lingering gaze and followed his eye.

  “What is it?” she asked, doing a double-take. Caslin didn’t answer but walked around the desk and approached the point he was focusing on. Reaching up with his right hand, he ran his fingers lightly across the wall. They stopped at a point and he tapped it with his index finger.

  “The paper,” he said, turning his body side-on and moving closer. “The paper has been bleached by the sun and here,” he tapped the wall again, for emphasis, “there’s a hole.”

  “There was another picture hanging there?” Hunter asked, scanning the remaining images. “What about over there?” she said, pointing to another anomalous gap between two frames and bearing a similar contrast. Caslin crossed to it and located a nail-hole for a picture hook.

  “Good spot,” he said, confirming the find. “We need to know when they were taken down.”

  “And why?” Hunter said quietly. Caslin nodded his agreement. “I think Miranda is going to have to come in here after all. I’ll go and get her.”

  * * *

  “Take your time,” Caslin said. Miranda Michaelson stood in the centre of her late-husband’s study, staring at the desk in front of her. Clearly, she was struggling to maintain her composure. The last time she was in that position was when she’d found her husband of forty-two years slumped at his desk, having ingested an overdose of painkillers.

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” she said, her voice threatening to crack at any moment.

  “Anything unusual or out of place, no matter how small or insignificant you might think it,” Hunter offered by way of encouragement. Miranda closed her eyes, looking to the floor and took a deep breath. Lifting her head, she reopened her eyes appearing focused on what she had to do. Both Caslin and Hunter waited patiently. Miranda started with the desk, drawing her gaze across the surface before shifting her attention away.

  “What about the contents?” Caslin suggested, indicating the drawers.

  She shook her head, “I never went into them. Finlay was quite insistent that I should stay out of his work affairs and besides, he always kept them locked. The Official Secrets Act and all of that.” Caslin nodded, briefly flicking his eyes to Hunter who indicated she’d noted the significance of the comment. Miranda turned and looked around the room, pausing at the portrait over the fireplace.

  “A relative?” Caslin asked. Her eyes lit up momentarily and a brief smile crossed her lips.

  “My great-great-grandfather, yes,” she confirmed, with pride. “He bought this house with proceeds from investments made overseas.” Miranda continued on, concentrating hard on the task set for her. Caslin did a little calculation in his head, giving a fleeting consideration to whether the profits needed to purchase a house such as this would have been garnered through means considered, these days at least, to be of an amoral origin. His thoughts were punctuated by an exclamation. “There!”

  “What is it?” Caslin asked.

  “A photograph is missing right there,” Miranda said, pointing. “And another,” she added, crossing to where Hunter had noted the second space.

  “Do you know when they came down?” Caslin asked, endeavouring to contain his enthusiasm. It was soon dashed.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Miranda said. “I don’t come in here very often.”

  “Do you remember what the pictures were of?” Hunter asked. Miranda thought on it for a while, her expression a mask of concentration.

  “One was of a fishing trip, I think. Finlay went on it a few years ago. It was in the Mediterranean with some colleagues. He was quite excited as I recall. The photo was taken on board the yacht. Finlay appeared terribly dashing in that one.”

  “Who was he with?”

  She shook her head, “It was some freebie excursion sponsored by companies through the DTI, I believe.”

  “Was it an official Department of Trade and Industry junket?” Caslin asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Miranda scoffed. “It was several years ago and like I said, Finlay didn’t discuss his work.”

  “And the other one?” Hunter asked but Miranda was noncommittal.

  “I don’t recall. I’m sorry.”

  “Did your husband have a computer here, at home?” Caslin asked. Miranda nodded.

  “Yes, he had a laptop. He kept it there, in his desk.” Caslin glanced over to Hunter, whose impassive expression belied the same feeling he was suppressing. They were on the right path. He knew it.

  * * *

  “What do you think?” Hunter asked. “Someone else has been in there, haven’t they?” Caslin looked back at the house as she turned the car around and set off along the driveway. The tyres crunched on the gravel and Hunter remembered to turn on her headlights before they reached the highway.

  “Miranda swears blind only herself, the ambulance crew and the police officer who attended, entered the study. Then it was the undertaker and a Detective Constable who we know signed it off as a suicide on the same day. Other than that, no one has been in there.”

  Hunter shot him a sideways glance, “So, that’s that?”

  “Is it hell,” Caslin retorted. “You’re right. Someone’s been in there and cleaned it out.”

  “Do you think she knows who?”

  “Some people are natural actors but not her,” Caslin said, shaking his head. “I’ll bet they did it under her nose and without her knowledge or consent. I want to know who and why? Michaelson was neck deep into, or up to, something. I’m absolutely certain of it. What I would give to know who was with him in those photographs.”

  “Someone made an effort to ensure no one would,” Hunter replied.

  “Or what he was involved in.”

  “Whatever it was it drove him to take his own life,” Hunter said.

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Where do we go from here?” Hunter asked, internally acknowledging Caslin’s scepticism.

  “I want you to set up surveillance on Thomas Grey. For one, he’s stressing about something and, more importantly…” he let the thought tail off.


  “More importantly?”

  “Well, first and foremost, he’s still alive.”

  Chapter 20

  Nursing his pint, Caslin’s gaze drifted beyond the vaulted, brick ceiling and up into the next tier of Lendal Cellars. A man was propped up, one elbow resting against the bar, complaining about his day to anyone who’d listen. By all accounts, his friends were just as tired of listening to it as he was. The pub was quiet tonight. On any given day, the clamour of the crowd would merge into a general hubbub, replacing an overheard conversation with anonymity. This evening though, the freezing temperatures and driving rain were keeping people away.

  For Caslin, the short walk across the centre to his favourite haunt was neither a distraction nor an escape. He did his best thinking alone and over the years had realised he could be alone even in a crowd. It was a state of mind. From his seat in a booth, situated in the lower section, Caslin could see right across the pub. Immediately clocking the figures as they entered from above, he watched them descend the steps. The first, casually scanned the few people present whereas the other two, only a step behind, moved with the grace and agility of predators, furtively glancing around, assessing patrons as a hunter would their targets. Caslin had wondered how long it would be before he’d see them again.

  One of the accompanying men dropped off, remaining in the upper bar, near to the main entrance and set himself with his back to the wall and a clear line of sight in Caslin’s direction. The other continued on, with Cory Walsh, towards him. The latter offering a partial wave as they approached. Caslin flicked him a greeting with a bob of his head.

  “I figured you’d be stopping by at some point,” Caslin said.

  Walsh smiled warmly, splaying his hands wide, “Please accept my apologies for missing our appointment the other night. I was called away at short notice.” Walsh removed his coat, followed by a scarf, and carefully folded the former before laying both across the back of the padded seat to the booth. Sliding in opposite Caslin, he nodded another greeting before glancing towards his associate. “I’ll have a scotch,” he said, looking to Caslin who nodded. “Make that two,” Walsh instructed and the man departed.