Blood Money Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blood Money

  First published by Hamilton Press in 2018

  Get exclusive Dark Yorkshire material

  “We know nothing in reality; for truth lies in an abyss.”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

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  Also in the Dark Yorkshire series;

  Blood Money

  Dark Yorkshire – Book 4

  J M DALGLIESH

  First published by Hamilton Press in 2018

  Copyright © J M Dalgliesh, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.

  It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  We learn through experience and we must never forget.

  “We know nothing in reality; for truth lies in an abyss.”

  Democritus

  Chapter 1

  The Americano was drinkable now. Sitting in the café, having watched the world go by for the past thirty minutes, had given the liquid a chance to cool. Putting the last piece of his meatball panini into his mouth, he wiped his fingers, then his lips, with a paper napkin, before scrunching it into a ball and tossing it onto the empty plate. The mad rush of custom at this time of the day was easing off.

  The establishment was still full. There were several families corralling their children in the narrow passages between tables. Presumably they were off school this week. Others, out for a dose of retail therapy, compared their purchases and discussed their next port-of-call. The general noise level was such that voices were often raised to be heard above the sound of the coffee grinder and steam wands, cutting across all other sounds. He didn’t care. His mind was a picture of calm, weeding out the unnecessary and focusing on the task at hand.

  The lack of direct sunlight, on this, an overcast day, leant the interior a darkness that it needn’t have been. The entrance door opened as three people came in. The first held the door for the others, allowing an unwelcome blast of cold air to be drawn through, across those already seated. Some glanced in the direction of the newcomers, conveying unspoken displeasure at the draught. The street beyond the full-height window he was sitting next to was remarkably busy for a week day.

  The sound of a drum beating came to his ear and he turned his attention in that direction. Approaching from the east was a mass of people.

  They stood out from the remainder of the throng, navigating York’s pedestrianised zone. Whistles blew in unison and those seated around him began to look as well. Men and women of all ages and colours marched past in a haphazard fashion. Those at the head of the column were clutching a banner before them. The ones who followed brandished placards or blew into whistles with fervour.

  His phone, set out on the table before him, vibrated. Glancing down as the text message flashed up, he shot a brief look across the street beyond the demonstrators and towards the figure directly opposite him, standing in the recess of a shop entrance. They made eye contact and he nodded, almost imperceptibly unless you were watching for it. The movement was acknowledged and the man casually set off. The attention span of those within the café was limited. The notion came to him that these people cared little for the demonstration passing by outside. They had better things to be doing; shopping, eating and chatting. If only they knew, he thought to himself, standing. Their lives were so simple, so superficial… so boring.

  Leaving the half-cup of coffee on the table, he slipped his phone into his pocket and picked his way through the people seated around him. Wrapping his scarf around his neck, he buttoned up his overcoat in preparation for the temperature drop as he went outside. Brushing against one woman, he uttered an apology but she didn’t hear it nor did she flinch, so engrossed was she in her conversation.

  Stepping out into the street, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The brief spell of clement weather, the incredibly delayed Indian summer, someone he’d overheard call it, was now a distant memory. The rain threatened to fall again at any moment. This reminded him of home, although it was still warmer. At least that was his recollection.

  Two police officers strolled past accompanying the stragglers waving their placards in the air, their breath sending clouds of vapour around them as they walked. No doubt, the higher concentration of resources would be found at the counter protest, that engineered by the nationalists across the city. He admired the provocative nature of launching an anti-immigrant rally in a city with few migrants along with a high concentration of students. It was sure to draw attention which, of course, was the intention.

  Setting off in the opposite direction, he felt his phone vibrate once again. Taking it out of his pocket he registered the text and increased his pace. The last time he had walked the route it took him twelve minutes but today, he had some ground to make up so would be quicker. Central York had an abundance of cut-throughs and passages that could assist in traversing the city, if you knew where they led and how to find them. Another message came through. This one brought a smile to his face. They had stopped briefly, either due to being easily distracted or their presence had been noted. No matter. Everything was well in hand.

  Leaving the hub of the merchant’s quarter behind, he had to step from the narrow pavement into oncoming traffic to navigate past a gaggle of people window shopping. Eyeing a break, he sprinted across the road, raising a hand in thanks to the nearest driver.

  Taking a right onto Fossgate, he headed further out of the centre. The crowds rapidly began to thin as popular shops were replaced with niche establishments once he crossed the river. Fossgate became Walmgate and business premises intermingled with small, modern residential blocks.

  Upon reaching his destination, he stopped, eyeing the communal entrances to each block. No-one was coming or going, so the opportunity to slip through was unavailable. Knowing the security doors were not fit for purpose for someone of his skill-set, he acknowledged they were merely time consuming. Of an evening, it would certainly be workable to enter that way but in broad daylight, a little too brazen even for him.

  Further along were the gated entrances, giving access to the gardens at the rear. Approaching, he found them to be locked. They
were of metal construction, six feet high, and cast with spikes at the top. Decorative but not effective against anything but an opportunist. A quick glance around to ensure he would pass unnoticed and within seconds, he had scaled the railings, hoisted himself over the top and dropped unobserved to the other side. Casually walking to the rear, he cut to his left and found himself in a grassed courtyard area overlooked only by the residential flats of the block. Nothing stirred. The uniform small, square windows adorning every flat were shrouded with net curtains or dropped blinds. People here valued their privacy even if it came at the cost of natural light. Moving with purpose, he walked to the fourth window along on the ground floor.

  One last look around and he withdrew a metal strip, concealed within his coat. An inch wide, smooth and incredibly slim, he slipped it between window and frame, jockeying it into position. Once happy, he thrust it upwards and felt the reassuring sensation of the latch moving away. The window cracked open and he eased it out towards him. Putting his tool away, he brushed aside the curtain and clambered in, pulling the window closed behind him. The process had taken only the briefest of moments.

  The room was as he had found previously, spartanly furnished and stale, desperately in need of some fresh air. Inspecting the dining table, he scanned a magazine that had been left open upon it, this month’s National Geographic. Alongside that was a book on the fundamentals of economics.

  The ticking of the clock mounted on the wall in the narrow kitchen, set off the multi-function living space, carried through to where he stood. Movement in the corner of his eye saw him turn to see a cat stretching out on the sofa, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. He ignored it and walked towards the hallway.

  Off to the left was the bathroom and another door to the one and only bedroom. To the right, three metres away, was the front door, accessed from the communal entrance. Glancing at his watch, he knew there wouldn’t be long to wait.

  As if on cue, a key was inserted into the lock apparently in somewhat of a rush as the bearer struggled to get it into place. A vision of a flustered man came to mind as the latch disengaged and the door flew open. Taking a step back from view, he held his breath so as not to make his presence known, becoming one with the wall. The adrenalin coursed through him as always but externally, his outward appearance was a picture of measured calm. The sound of someone entering and swiftly closing the door behind, dropping the latch and hastily attaching the security chain assured him that their quarry was aware of his colleagues’ attention.

  Reaching into his coat, he withdrew the weapon, no more than six inches in length and easy to conceal. Depressing the power button, he allowed it a moment to activate. Stepping back into the hall, the resident was startled to find a man standing before him, gun raised. The red laser, levelled a dot directly to the centre of his midriff. He raised a hand in supplication.

  “No, wait-”

  The request was never completed. The barbed probes were deployed, punching through his heavy, winter clothing and delivering their burst of energy. Both sensory and motor nervous-systems were overwhelmed and the target dropped to his knees with a barely audible grunt, wide-eyed and straining every visible muscle. Covering the distance between them with speed, he pressed the Taser against the bare skin of the man’s neck. Deploying the second charge incapacitated him yet further. The target slumped sideways to the floor, losing consciousness.

  With a large stride, he stepped across the fallen man and over to the door. Activating the button to override the security lock to the communal entrance, he heard the outer door click open via the intercom. The sound of the others moving through came to him. Leaving the door to the flat ajar, he returned his focus to the man lying prostrate at his feet. Grasping him unceremoniously by the collar at the back of the neck, he dragged him down the hallway and into the living room.

  The door to the flat was pushed open and echoes of footsteps on the polished floor of the communal passageway carried as the group passed through, closing the door to the flat behind them. It was time to get to work.

  Chapter 2

  The door to the courtroom closed behind him and Caslin breathed a sigh of relief. Confident he’d conveyed his evidence in as an efficient and devastating manner as he could have, he allowed himself the slightest of smiles, eyeing those standing a little way off along the corridor. For their part, they shot daggers in his direction. The three of them stood watching him as he made his way towards the washrooms. Caslin’s throat was dry. Two hours on the stand had taken its toll but the end result would be worth it. Up next was their star witness. The clerk of the court called the name, as Caslin sidled past the three goons who, he was certain, would love nothing more than to wade in on him. Caslin chanced a wink in their direction. One bristled, only for another to place a calm, restraining hand on his forearm.

  “Not here,” he said softly.

  “As you were, gentlemen,” Caslin said, with a grin, turning his attention away from them. His feet suddenly felt that bit lighter. People stood in small groups, others sat alone waiting to be called in to give their evidence.

  Courts were strange places, alien to most. The mix of fussy tradition, staid protocols and anxiety-inducing waiting periods all contributed to an air of suspense and trepidation. To Caslin, this week was a culmination of hard graft, months of stress and hopefully, a successful conclusion.

  Pushing open the door into the gents, he held it for a young man leaving. He was barely eighteen years of age and ashen-faced, sporting a flattened hair-style and an ill-fitting off-the-peg suit. Either he had delivered his testimony or was about to. Caslin felt for him. Years in the job gave him trust in his instincts to spot a scumbag and that lad wasn’t one.

  No-one else was present and Caslin took in his own appearance in the mirror. Despite the sunken eyes, having not slept particularly well as was usual when due in court the following morning, he felt he looked in rude health. Having made a real effort in recent months with both his diet and exercise regime, his physical shape was improving. Running the warm tap, he cupped his hands underneath and gently placed his face into his palms, ensuring he didn’t dampen his clothes. Daily, he wore a suit he wouldn’t be too bothered if a drunk happened to spew on, but in court credibility was everything and appearance counted.

  The entrance door flew open and Caslin jumped, instantly alert to the threat. DC Terry Holt burst in, a look of panic in his eyes.

  “Sir. You better get back in there,” Holt stated unequivocally. Caslin felt water running down his face and brushed it away with the back of his hand as it threatened to drip down onto his pristine, pressed shirt.

  “What’s up, Terry? What’s going on?”

  “Your man, Marquis. He’s blown it!” Holt said.

  “What do you mean, blown it?” Caslin questioned.

  “Recanted his entire statement on the stand.”

  “What?” Caslin asked, incredulous.

  “The confession, implicating the others… his entire bloody testimony… he’s thrown us under the bus!”

  Caslin pushed past Holt, who was too slow to get out of the way but resisted the urge to break into a run as he made his way back to Court Number Two. The men he had casually provoked watched his approach only this time, they bore the smug expressions upon their faces. Caslin held his demeanour in check. They already knew. They knew in advance this was going to happen. Caslin felt sick as he took the stairs up to the viewing gallery, Holt only a step behind.

  Easing the door open, they slipped back into the courtroom. The atmosphere was heavy. The assembled journalists, voyeurs and associated parties watched on intently as the judge intervened, asking direct questions of the witness.

  “I wish the record of this court to be very clear. Are you indicating, Mr Marquis, that there has been police collusion in your appearance here today?”

  “I am, Your Honour, yes,” was the reply. Caslin stared down at the woman standing in the dock. Her expression was one of profound confidence in stark con
trast to the cold, stern look she had aimed at him whilst he was on the stand. Whatever had been said already, she knew she was walking out of court this morning. Caslin felt a knot of anger tighten in his chest. Turning his focus to the witness stand, he took in Anthony Marquis. It had taken Caslin months to turn him from an integral administrator into a mine of information. Only when he was sure the Crown Prosecution Service would have enough to convict had he acted. Now, the case was unravelling right before his eyes.

  “And to clarify, you are accusing officers of encouraging you to fabricate incriminating documentation against the defendant. Along with willfully coercing your testimony here today?” Judge Barker-Riley queried.

  “One officer in particular, My Lord,” Marquis stated.

  “That officer would be?” the judge asked. Caslin knew what was coming, he muttered under his breath.

  “You little shit.” The words were heard by those near to him, causing several to glance in his direction but didn’t carry to the chamber below.

  “Detective Inspector Caslin, My Lord,” Marquis stated evenly. There was a muted intake of breath from many within the courtroom, sparking conversations between those seated in the gallery. The judge called for calm.

  “This is a very serious allegation, Mr Marquis. Do you stand by it?” Marquis glanced towards the dock before looking the judge square in the eye.

  “Absolutely. DI Caslin has manipulated me, threatened both myself and members of my family with arrest and incarceration, unless I helped him bring evidence against the accused. I admit, I should have been stronger and not gone along with it but… Mr Caslin is an imposing figure with a lot of power in this city. His reputation speaks for itself.”

  “My Lord,” the prosecution QC stood, his intonation giving away how rattled he was, “hearsay regarding a serving police officer’s reputation, one whom I am obliged to convey has an impeccable record of service-”