Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  “What do we have, Terry?” Caslin asked.

  “Only one man fitting the bill checked in earlier today, sir,” Holt said, barely concealing his excitement. “A Russian national by the name of Alexander Koliokov. The system tells us his key card hasn’t been active since lunchtime.”

  “So, he’s here?” Hunter asked. Holt nodded.

  “Room number?” Caslin asked.

  “311. This way,” Holt stated, setting off and indicating the direction of the lifts. “Third floor.”

  The concierge followed on, appearing rather interested. Caslin guessed this wasn’t his usual night shift. The interior of the lift matched the plush surroundings, polished steel walls that shone with a golden tint. The doors slid open and they stepped out onto the third floor. They all looked for the numbering to guide them but a voice spoke from behind.

  “To the right,” Caslin glanced back and thanked the young man who was accompanying them. The small party made their way along the corridor until they reached Room 311. A ‘do not disturb’ sign hung on the door handle. Holt met Caslin’s eye and he nodded. The constable rapped his knuckles on the door three times. They waited but there was no sign of movement within. That was unsurprising bearing in mind they were approaching one o’clock in the morning. Holt tried again only this time with more force. Still, there was no reply. Caslin turned to the concierge standing a few steps behind them, watching expectantly.

  “Open it,” he said flatly. The young man didn’t hesitate and came forward producing his master card. He placed it into the slot and the LED changed from red to green. Caslin indicated for him to step away to a respectable distance. Taking a firm grip of the handle, he eased it down and cracked the door open. Collectively, the three took a deep breath. Terry Holt was first through with Caslin and Hunter a half-step behind.

  “Police!” Holt barked in an authoritarian tone. It wasn’t a raid but they wanted to be sure the resident knew who was coming. No one responded as they entered. The lights were out, the suite in darkness. Hunter located the nearest light switch and illuminated the entrance hall. Koliokov had booked into a suite consisting of two bedrooms, a lounge, the bathroom as well as access to a private roof terrace. The group spread out and searched for the Russian flicking on lights as they went.

  “Nothing in either bedroom apart from a suitcase,” Hunter called out.

  “Bathroom’s clear,” Holt shouted. Caslin stood in the lounge hands on hips.

  The room was dressed to perfection. It barely looked as if anyone had been present since the hotel staff had last serviced it. A gust of cold wind drifted over him and Caslin turned to see the curtains swaying gently. He was joined by the other two. He indicated towards the doors where the breeze originated. The access to the roof terrace.

  The three moved over and Hunter threw back the curtains. Outside, despite the darkness, they could make out the figure of a man sitting alone in a recliner. Caslin saw a switch to his right and assumed it was for the outside. He pressed it and the figure was bathed in a pool of off-white light, strung out around the terrace. The mix of soft light amid the now falling rain cast an eerie picture particularly as the water had aided the spreading pool of red beneath him.

  “Explains why he didn’t answer,” Hunter said under her breath. Caslin gently pushed the door open with his elbow ensuring he didn’t touch the handle and potentially damage any forensic evidence. Drawing his coat about him, he turned to Holt.

  “Go back downstairs with the concierge and take a look at their CCTV. I want to know if this is Koliokov and whether anyone else turned up who cannot be accounted for today. Was he alone, did Grey show up and if so, who was he with? And while you’re at it, give Iain Robertson a call and get his team out here.”

  “I’m on it,” Holt said, turning to leave.

  Caslin followed Hunter out onto the terrace. Both were careful where they put their feet. The falling rain was pooling on the stone tiles of the terrace, washing the man’s lifeblood out from beneath him. They got as close as they dared. He was obviously dead and had been for some time, his pale features drained of all colour. He wore suit trousers and a pink and white striped shirt, unbuttoned at both collar and cuff. A cursory examination revealed his wrists had been cut but vertically rather than horizontally as the majority of suicide victims tended to do. Doing so ensures a faster rate of bleeding and in turn brings on an expedient death.

  Further to those wounds, Caslin counted at least four, but possibly five, slashes to the throat three to four inches long. Two of which appeared relatively shallow but others were evidently deeper.

  “I don’t see any defensive injuries,” Hunter said, raising her voice above the howl of the wind and the driving rain. “And I can’t see any weapon,” she added, casting an eye around them.

  Caslin shook his head, “Nor me.”

  “Looks like an elaborate suicide,” Hunter said but sounded less than convinced. “With a vanishing blade too.”

  “Travel all the way to York from Russia to top yourself on the roof of a poncey hotel,” Caslin said appearing dismissive.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Hunter agreed. “Maybe he didn’t like what Grey had to say?”

  “Or maybe Grey didn’t appreciate the visit?” Caslin said before glancing skyward. The rain was increasing in intensity. He looked around, noting the terrace wasn’t overlooked by any other hotel window. Surrounding them was open land. A small estate with a well-designed and cultivated landscape of trees and foliage. The nearest building adjacent to this one was well over three-hundred metres away, without a clear sightline. “Let’s go and see what this guy brought with him and then catch up with Terry and the hotel cameras.”

  The two of them returned to the lounge grateful to be out of the rain. This time they were more thorough but the detailed search provided nothing fruitful. Koliokov had unpacked upon his arrival but all he brought with him was an overnight bag containing two changes of clothing and essential toiletries. Inside the bag, Caslin found the man’s passport and opening it to the photograph page, he was quite certain this was the man sitting outside in the rain. He brandished the passport towards Hunter who leaned over and nodded her agreement. Hunter opened a drawer beside the bed and took out a black, leather wallet. Opening it, she thumbed through the contents.

  “Anything interesting?” Caslin asked.

  “A few thousand Roubles. A couple of hundred in Sterling. Credit cards and…” she paused.

  “What is it?”

  “… a picture of a girl young enough to be his daughter by the look of it.”

  “Maybe it is his daughter?” Caslin said. Hunter exaggerated her expression turning the corners of her mouth down.

  “Not dressed like this,” she said, removing the picture, turning it and presenting it to him. Caslin scanned the image of the young woman, barely eighteen in his opinion and scantily clad in erotic lingerie striking a provocative pose. He blew out his cheeks.

  “Well, you’d bloody well hope not,” he concluded. Hunter replaced the photograph back into the wallet.

  “Any sign of his phone?” she asked.

  “No,” Caslin replied, heading back into the lounge. Hunter followed. Crossing the room to the bar, Caslin spied an open bottle of scotch. Approaching, he found there were two glasses on the counter and he sniffed at them. Both had contained scotch but were now empty. There was an ice box open alongside them. Koliokov had either drunk two glasses himself or shared a drink with another. Caslin hazarded a guess it was Grey. He pointed them out to Hunter, “Make sure CSI lift the prints off of these. I’d put money on it one of these has Grey’s prints all over it.”

  “You think he’s at the centre of all of this don’t you?” Hunter asked.

  “Perhaps not the centre but he’s involved and could be the key to unlocking what’s going on.”

  “You sound quite sure of that,” Hunter pressed.

  “There are a lot of people moving in and around his circle who are turnin
g up dead at the moment and there’s one thing for certain,” Caslin said, leaving the thought hanging in the air.

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s the one who is still alive,” Caslin said flatly.

  “For now,” Hunter added.

  “Sure, he’s probably in the safest place right now,” Caslin argued.

  A uniformed officer arrived at the entrance to the suite and Caslin told him to secure the scene until forensics arrived. Together, Caslin and Hunter made their way back downstairs to the lobby and found Holt sitting in the concierge’s office analysing the security footage.

  “What do you have for us, Terry?” Caslin asked. Holt sat back in the office chair and spun it around to face them.

  “We have Thomas Grey arriving shortly before Two-Thirty this afternoon,” Holt said, indicating to the monitor beside him. The concierge hit play and they rolled the camera footage on. They watched as Grey entered the hotel lobby and purposefully made his way to the reception desk. A short conversation followed and the clerk made a telephone call whilst Grey waited. He stood before the counter one hand in his pocket.

  “Looks pretty relaxed, I’d say,” Hunter offered.

  “He does but it’s shielding his anxiety,” Caslin countered. “Look how he’s drumming the fingers of his free hand on the counter and shifting his feet. He’s trying hard to appear casual but I’d say he’s anything but.”

  “Good shout,” Holt said. “I’d missed that.”

  “Is he alone?” Caslin queried.

  “Yes,” Holt confirmed. They watched as the clerk replaced the receiver and the two shared a few more words before Grey set off in the direction of the lifts. “Presumably he’s just been given Koliokov’s room number. No one follows him. There’s another angle showing Grey enter and exit the lift alone on the third floor. We don’t have him entering Room 311 but he reappears in the lobby barely fifteen minutes later.”

  “That’s quick,” Hunter said, surprised.

  “Doesn’t give him much time for that scotch,” Caslin said, Holt looked up quizzically but didn’t pursue the question. “Can you bring it up?”

  “Of course,” Holt said and moments later they were watching Grey re-entering the reception from the lifts. However, on this occasion, he appeared agitated. Every movement was in haste as he glanced about the reception changing direction several times before heading for the entrance doors and out into the car park.

  “Was he looking for something or someone?” Hunter asked.

  “Almost as if he was expecting someone,” Caslin said. “Terry, can you roll that back so we can see it again please?” Holt did so and they watched the footage again. “Can you see any indication he’s been in a confrontation? Damage to his suit, dark patches that could be blood perhaps?”

  They all viewed the footage intently seeking the telltale sign that Grey had a hand in Koliokov’s death. Holt slowed the footage down in places and replayed it in others but the images were just too small to give that level of detail.

  “Do you think he is looking for someone or not?” Holt asked.

  “What are you thinking, Terry?” Caslin asked.

  “I was just wondering if he might have been trying to avoid being seen. Look here,” Holt pointed to the screen with the pen in his hand, “he changes direction twice and both times are when either a member of staff or another guest comes close. What’s he hiding?”

  “Blood?” Hunter asked. “Although that’s pure conjecture at this point.”

  “Terry’s right, though,” Caslin agreed. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be tied to the scene.”

  “Didn’t notice the cameras,” Holt added sarcastically.

  “Maybe not thinking straight?” Hunter said.

  “All right,” Caslin said, “let’s walk through it. Grey arrives for an impromptu meeting with someone he’s been avoiding. What that’s about we can only guess at but most likely it’s to do with-”

  “Money,” Holt interrupted. “Most likely big money at that.”

  “Yep,” Caslin agreed. “I would suggest Grey either owes Koliokov or they have a joint commitment and Grey hasn’t come through with his end of the deal. Koliokov wants answers because he’s feeling the pressure at his end.”

  “And Grey doesn’t have them or, at least, not the answers he wants to hear,” Hunter concluded.

  “Which leaves us with the question – was Koliokov dead or alive when Grey arrived?” Caslin asked.

  “Or when he left?” Holt added.

  “To follow it through,” Hunter continued, “Grey leaves having instigated, or come across, a suicide or committed a murder and staged it as a suicide. Does he then have a mental collapse due to the pressure of the situation and winds up at Bootham Park?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Caslin asked.

  “It’s convenient is all I’m saying,” Hunter replied. “What if Grey could have had himself committed for his own safety? As you said earlier, he’s in the safest place possible right now.”

  “That would suggest he walked in on something and he’s… what… hiding in Bootham Park?” Caslin asked. “And people say I’m cynical,” he mused openly.

  “No,” Hunter countered, “real cynicism would be to suggest that if he had a hand in Koliokov’s death, being detained under the Mental Health Act gives him an out if it ever comes to trial? After all, what did Dr Ashman say regarding his apparent suicide attempt – his heart wasn’t in it?”

  Caslin sighed, Hunter was right in both scenarios. They needed to talk to Thomas Grey and get his view of the day’s events but that wasn’t going to happen until the morning. He rubbed at his temples with the tips of his fingers, suddenly feeling the fatigue wash over him.

  “All right, let’s call it a day now and go home, get some rest. Grey isn’t going anywhere and let’s face it nor is Koliokov. Tomorrow morning, we should be able to get Iain’s initial thoughts on what went on here tonight. Likewise, we’ll be able to get some sense out of Grey and figure out just what is going on. Terry, first thing tomorrow I want you to run a check on this number,” Caslin said, passing a slip of paper with the mobile number where the mysterious texts were being sent from.

  “Okay. Who does it belong to?” Holt asked.

  “That’s what I’m hoping you can tell me,” Caslin said. “If not, tell me where it’s been would you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Holt said, taking the paper and reading the number as if trying to glean some information to get ahead of the game.

  “Shall I pick you up in the morning and we can head straight over to Bootham Park?” Hunter asked.

  “I’ll meet you there. I’ve got an errand to run first.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” Hunter enquired.

  “I figured I’d stop by and have a word with Danika.”

  Hunter exchanged a worried glance with Terry Holt before looking back to Caslin, “Durakovic? Do you think that’s wise, under the circumstances?”

  “Why? Because I’ve been warned to stay away from her?” Caslin asked.

  “The thought occurred, yes,” Hunter replied. Caslin grinned.

  “Sometimes you take all the fun out of this job, Sarah, you really do,” he said with a wink. Hunter raised her eyes to the ceiling accompanied by an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Holt looked to the floor masking a nervous smile.

  Chapter 24

  Caslin pressed the intercom button. There was a brief delay until a gruff voice answered.

  “I’m here to see Miss Durakovic,” he said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the male voice responded, in heavily accented English. Caslin cocked his head slightly and sighed looking up at the camera to his right.

  “You know who I am,” he said aggressively. “Just open the bloody door.”

  A few seconds passed and Caslin heard the locking mechanism retract before the oversized entrance door opened. He was met by two men, non-descript henchman of Danika’s retinue. He recognised neither. The first becko
ned him inside with the second closing the door behind them and falling into step as they made their way through the house.

  Caslin was surprised to find once the door closed the outside noise of central York dissipated quickly, despite their proximity to the train station and the press of the daily commute. Danika Durakovic lived in a Georgian townhouse, part of a redevelopment in the city centre only attainable for the rich or shameless. Danika fitted comfortably into both categories. Approaching a set of full height double doors, Caslin was told to wait as his escort passed through them and into the room beyond. He looked to the other chaperone.

  “Nice place you have here. Immoral earnings paying well this year?” he asked with a casual flick of the eyebrows. The man said nothing but he smirked. Caslin found it smug and unsurprising. The wait was momentary as the doors before him parted and he was ushered in.

  Danika sat behind a large ornate desk crafted from hardwood and traditionally adorned with a green leather finish, watching his approach intently. Immaculately presented as always, she cut an imposing figure in her white suit, blonde bob and fastidiously applied make up. Her hands were set out before her forming a tent with her fingers, elbows to the desk. The tips of her fingers touched her lower lip and Caslin assessed her as curious, if not amused, by his presence.

  “To what do I owe this honour, Mr Caslin?” she asked, her lyrical tone purring as it came to him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to pat me down?” Caslin asked with a hint of sarcasm eyeing the two extra bodyguards present to his left and right, with both his former escorts standing behind him. Danika laughed. It was genuine.

  “Really, there is no need,” she said, casting a glance to the associate closest to her right. “I have it from highly placed sources that you have been instructed to steer clear of me.”