Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Divided House

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  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

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  First published by Hamilton Press in 2018

  Acknowledgements

  Divided House

  Dark Yorkshire - Book 1

  J M DALGLIESH

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  For H, M and RT

  “He who is unable to live in society, or who has no need because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a God.”

  - Aristotle

  Chapter 1

  The gentle click-clicking sounds carried through the darkness. She didn’t know from where they originated but the noise appeared distant and the repetition was somehow hypnotic. With precious little else to occupy her thoughts, she spent many an hour trying to figure out the source. Initially, she considered that they might come from a nearby industrial unit or workshop. However, those thoughts had gone now. The sounds were constant and almost never altered in pattern, no matter what the time of day or night. Not that she knew when one passed into the next.

  Standing on her bed, little more than a stinking mattress on the floor, she reached up to the vent. A slight breeze brushed over her fingertips. On tiptoes, she opened her mouth in a vain attempt to inhale the clean air. It was useless. There was so little to be had.

  Hearing what she thought was a movement beyond the door, she looked in that direction. Dropping back down, she sat herself on her bed and hugged her knees, willing the door to remain closed. The sliver of artificial light creeping under the threshold created something of a paradox for her. The feeling of comfort that is usually drawn from light was absent. In here the opposite was true. The darkness, as wholly encompassing as it was, brought the only respite from her torment.

  A memory from childhood, one long forgotten, came to mind. The warmth of the light, illuminating the landing beyond the bedroom door, signified that protection was near. A bad dream or a sense of loneliness could be relieved within moments of a frightened call to her attentive parents. Not so in this place. Her parents were long dead now. She chastised herself for the fleeting notion that she would be better off with them. Not doubting that that was true, she forced her family to the forefront of her mind. They had to be her focus as well as her motivation for the things that she had done, and would still have to do, in the coming days.

  Reminding herself of the core principles instilled in her over the recent weeks, compliance, obedience and willingness, she knew that those words would be their salvation. The key to getting out of this damp, stale, environment, lay in practising those virtues. The teachings at mass had not been too dissimilar. On occasion, there were sermons focusing on the torment of the world, the family unit and the conflicts within your soul. Challenges would lie in your path. Some were set for you to rise above, others to battle and all to overcome, lest they devour your spirit. For now, she was living through such times. There was still hope and her faith remained strong.

  The door stayed closed and she stared at it for a few minutes. The sound was only a trick of the mind. She was grateful. The moment that it opened her nightmare would intensify. Another draught from above brought much needed fresh air into the room. The ventilation system had to run somewhere. She considered, not for the first time, whether the vents served other buildings as well. If so, there was always a chance that someone would hear her pleas. The urge to scream at the top of her voice through the grate was almost overwhelming. Remembering, however, that unnecessary noise brought about punishment, she kept quiet. Memories of previous experiences flashed back through her mind. They were a stark reminder. She didn’t want to go back in the pit. She never wanted to go back there. Besides, no-one had ever come to her aid before when she had called out. Why would this time be any different? No, she had to follow the rules.

  Thoughts turned to the man who currently occupied the pit. Thankfully, for the moment at least, he lay still and resolutely quiet. Was he courageous and resilient or incredibly stupid and obstinate? You cannot always control what happens to you but you can control your reaction to it. That had been another lesson learnt throughout the duration of her time here. It was sound instruction. This life had become manageable, more or less. Much to her anger, it appeared that others were either unable to understand that message or unwilling to give in. Such behaviour was selfish and impacted on everyone else. The one in the pit could be placed in that category, for he refused to be nullified under any circumstances.

  He was a fool. Why couldn’t he understand the way of things, it wasn’t complicated? Follow the rules and life becomes bearable, or at least more so. Several others had come and gone which meant that there was a route out of this place.

  A sound emanated from the next room. This time she was certain. He was coming. His boots broke the shaft of light that crept under the door. It was time. Withheld breath and an unbroken gaze in that direction, she waited to hear the key turn in the lock. Feeling her heartbeat quickening, she willed this to be the last time. Her spirit dissipated as the telltale sound came to her ear. She whispered what was expected of her.

  “Compliance, obedience and willingness.”

  Chapter 2

  The pub was quiet, not unsurprising on a cold Monday evening in November. Lendal Cellars, Caslin’s favoured haunt, was set well below ground in the vaulted brick ceilings of the former Lord Mayor’s wine cellar. The lack of natural light, irrelevant at this time of year, and recessed lighting gave him shadows in which to seek comfort.

  Taking out his phone he checked the time. He would be late again. A raised voice caught his attention. Seated in a booth, at the far end, were a couple deep in conversation. Returning focus to the pint before him, he swirled the remainder and drained it in one fluid motion. Caslin fancied another. He stood up and pulled on his coat before glancing around and heading for the men’s room. Passing out of the main bar, he caught sight of a man’s hand roughly clasping the face of his partner. Stopping briefly in the doorway, the woman met his eye. The moment passed as she was released from the grip with a sharp push, her eyes brimming at the reprimand for some apparent indiscretion, the details of which were lost on him.

  The door swung closed. The corridor was narrow and despite a succession of wall mounted lights, still felt oppressive. Caslin made his way up a f
light of stairs, casting a fleeting glance towards the discreet security camera, mounted in the ceiling. Entering the men’s room, he first checked that the cubicles were empty before reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving a plastic vial, secreted within. Gazing at the white powder that it contained, he took a deep breath before catching his reflection in the mirror. An involuntary expression of melancholy stared back at him. The door opened as another entered and he closed his palm, concealing the vial and replacing it in his coat. Instead of what he’d planned, he stepped forward and turned on the tap. Leaning over and cupping his hands under the stream, he lightly doused his face.

  The newcomer passed by, coming to stand before the urinal alongside him. Caslin glanced over. A look that didn’t pass unnoticed.

  “Problem?” he asked, nonchalantly.

  Caslin eyed the man warily, contemplating how pleased his partner must currently be to be rid of him, if only for a trip to the gent’s. He was of middle age and well dressed, with once dark hair, now shot through with grey. His face was heavily lined, amplifying the effect of too much sun on tanned, leathery skin.

  “No. Not me,” Caslin replied. Should he say something? It wasn’t really any of his business, certainly not personally and without a complaint, not professionally either. Morally? Well, that was altogether different. He drew himself upright and took a deep breath, adjusting the position of the waistband of his trousers and clearing his throat. Without looking back, he left the men’s room and returned downstairs. Entering the bar, he glanced at the woman, a young lady would’ve been more apt for she was far younger than the man she was with. He offered her a slight smile as he passed. She returned it, nervously. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back to her. She was staring at the wineglass in her hand.

  “You don’t have to put up with that, you know?” he said bluntly.

  Her eyes flicked up at him and away. Shaking her head, she replied, “You don’t know him.”

  “I don’t need to,” Caslin replied. “Whatever it is you think he has, it isn’t worth it.” She met his eye with a brief expression of hope but that dissipated as the door to the bar creaked open. Her partner stepped through and immediately drew a conclusion about the subject of their conversation. He glanced down at her and she fell silent, head bowed. Squaring up to Caslin, he shoved him backwards with two flat hands against his chest and then raised a finger pointedly.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” he asked aggressively.

  “Now, calm down—”

  “Piss off,” the man stated, advancing. Reaching out to grasp the lapels of his coat, Caslin deflected the move with his forearm. The movement drew an angry response and Caslin barely managed to avoid the blow as the man lashed out, with a closed fist. Stepping to the side, he used his assailant’s body weight to pull him across, putting him off balance. Pressing home the advantage, Caslin pivoted, sending his opponent to the floor, upending a table on the way down. He was showered in alcohol and glasses as he hit the ground. With a howl of frustration, he rolled and tried to rise, his face contorted with uncontrolled rage, but Caslin was upon him in an instant. Driving home a right cross, he sent the man sprawling to the floorboards once again.

  “Please!” a woman shouted, barging in between Caslin and the fallen man, pushing him away. “Please, stop,” she implored him. Caslin stepped back, stunned at the interruption as he watched her kneel by her partner’s side. Blood was pouring from his nose and he appeared dazed, the rage replaced with shock and fear. She glanced up at Caslin, a flash of anger in her eyes.

  “You’ve got to stop doing this kind of thing, Nate,” a voice said from behind. Caslin glanced over his shoulder at the barman, standing some twenty feet away, eyeing proceedings. Other patrons were now watching with a mixture of trepidation and bemusement. “You’ll get yourself barred if this keeps happening.”

  Caslin turned on his heel and stalked away. Waving away the barman’s protestations, he headed for the exit. Pulling his coat about him and climbing the steps, he left the Cellars. Picking his way through the light throng of people, out and about amongst the narrow streets of the old city, he hurried on. The students were entrenched again, in mid-semester, and tourists still milled about in York, even at this time of year.

  Passing a couple of buskers at the entrance to Dean’s Park, he cut through, circumventing the Minster. He took the next left onto Chapter House Street. The car was parked nearby, he was almost certain. With a bit of luck, he’d only be a half hour late. Skipping over the cobbles, he reached the corner and swore. The plastic wallet glued to his windscreen angered him more than he could have believed possible.

  “And the hits just keep on coming,” he said aloud.

  Tearing off the offending article, Caslin unlocked the car door, the fob having stopped working months ago, and got in. He threw the ticket into the passenger footwell, alongside the last one. The key was in the ignition as his phone rang. Gently rolling back his head, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Taking the phone from his inside pocket and pressing the answer tab, without looking at the screen, he knew who it would be.

  “Caslin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you coming in today?”

  “On my way, as we speak,” he said, turning the key. Most of the dashboard lit up although fewer icons than earlier in the day. “I’ve had some car trouble.”

  “Okay. I was just getting a bit worried because you-”

  Caslin ended the call. It was 10:24 p.m., Harman had waited five minutes more than the day before. Progress, he thought, as the car stuttered into life. The old Volvo squeaked as it ticked over. Caslin dabbed the accelerator a couple of times and observed the plume of blue smoke illuminated in the glow of the brake lights. Having wiped clear, the mist from the windscreen with the end of his sleeve, he swung out into the light city centre traffic and headed for Goodramgate and the ring road. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the car park at Fulford Road. Reaching over to the glovebox, he retrieved a can of deodorant. Giving himself a healthy blast to mask the smell of Lendal’s, he followed it up with a couple of breath mints and made his way to the entrance. Most of the four-storey building was in darkness. Only the occasional rectangle of light punctuated the façade as cleaners, and those on late-turn, worked through.

  Despite the cold he was sweating as he entered reception. The room was well lit but the counter was closed, with only a sign indicating a buzzer to push for assistance. Caslin reached the secure entrance to the left and punched in his code. The lock clicked and he passed through. Making a beeline for the vending machines, he selected a white coffee, before resuming his course to the third floor. Looking at the contents of the cup in his hand he observed the film that had formed on the surface, fleetingly wondering what on earth caused it.

  He made it up the stairs having burnt his fingers only twice and pushed open the door with his free hand. One person was present as he walked in, apologising as he did so.

  “No matter,” Harman replied. “I don’t have anything on tonight anyway.”

  You have to say that, Caslin thought. Personally, he would have been livid if the situation had been reversed, and for the second night in a row.

  “That’s okay, then,” was what he actually said.

  Would it really have killed him to get to work on time? Maxim Harman was far too nice a lad to be doing this job and too placid when people took advantage of him. Perhaps in time, he would learn to sharpen his elbows a bit but Caslin was unsure that he had it in him. Judging by how Harman was regarded by the rest of the team, it would be fair to assume that they thought likewise.

  Harman was the youngest member of the group, only two years in the job and already in CID. Sponsorship through university brought a certain level of expectation which was further enhanced by having the Chief Constable of Northumbria Police for a father. Many thought that was a combination to unlock the door to a fantastic career, but it certainly led those around him to form opinions as to how he
got there.

  “Anything for me?” Caslin asked.

  “No, it’s been pretty quiet. There was a break-in at a pharmacy over in Bishopthorpe Road, this evening.”

  “What was taken?”

  “I don’t know yet but the secure cabinets are unbroken,” Detective Constable Harman shrugged. “The keyholder’s going to do an inventory. Although, I’ve asked him to hold off until scenes of crime get there to check for prints. They smashed a window at the back to force entry.”

  “I hope you told him that’ll probably be tomorrow. They won’t be paying out overtime for a junkie on a smash and grab.”

  Caslin sensed Harman hadn’t considered that.

  “No,” he said, “I didn’t think. Should I give him a call?”

  “Either that or expect him to be a little shirty the next time you speak.”

  Harman promised that he would. There was little else to report. It was a Monday. Caslin sat down in his chair and casually glanced at the paperwork on his desk. Cold case files that had been exhaustively investigated the first time around but not yet signed off for removal to the archives. Caslin knew. Just like everybody in the office knew. He was being kept “busy”.

  Late turns and night shifts, along with a caseload that was either unsolvable, or plainly not worth the effort and resources required to get a result. He was up to his eyes in counterfeit goods, petty mail-fraud and ringed cars. Nothing that set the imagination alight and most would barely scrape past the desk of a trading standards officer, let alone a Detective Inspector. He was sure that the cases in the folders before him were as cold as ice. The perpetrators were no doubt well on their way through their next enterprise. The chances of success were slight but Caslin knew that wasn’t the point.

  The office had a DI already in Michael Atwood and he was deemed sufficient for the detective chief inspector. It wasn’t paranoia. Atwood had his own office and got the lead on anything that came through whereas Caslin had the caffeine shift and a desk in the corner of the squad room. He sighed as Harman bid him goodnight. Leafing through the collection of menus he kept in his top drawer, Caslin considered how things had changed for him. He tried not to think about it too much, it depressed him. There was a Chinese that delivered within five miles, for nothing. The smell in the office in the morning would cause much consternation though. Chinese it is then.