Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 10

  There was a lot here to make sense of. At this time any thoughts on a motive were utterly meaningless. What cause or reason could justify such savagery? Caslin found cases that involved children were the worst. No matter how bad a crime scene, he could always maintain an emotional detachment but he found that far more difficult when children were present. There had been times in the past when he had got home of an evening and hugged his own tighter than usual. Karen would meet his eye and she never asked, but she always knew. He didn’t have to like what he saw in the job, he only had to be successful in his role. He might not be able to prevent such acts but he could avoid their repetition and try to ensure the punishment of the guilty.

  He made a mental note to pass that thought back to Harman if and when the subject arose once more.

  Caslin would be interested in Robertson’s conclusions. He trusted him. The man was thorough and if there was anything insightful that they could use in the investigation, then he would find it. However, he knew in his own mind that he was right. This was the work of one shooter. The rounds dispatched were done so with great accuracy, far too much to have been delivered by automatic rifle or multiple gunmen. No, this was carried out with a meticulous eye for detail, if also with a tendency for overkill. Why the young girl didn’t receive the headshots was still bothering him. Was it a simple oversight or was the killer interrupted?

  Questions that needed answers. All that Caslin seemed to be dealing with at the moment were questions. He took out his phone and checked the time. His headache was back. DCI Stephens approached him and came alongside.

  “It’s a bloody horror show.”

  “That it is. If no-one saw anything, did anyone hear the shots? They would have been going for a while.” Stephens looked him up and down, as if contemplating the reasoning. Caslin decided to help. “If there was only the one shooter, then he either had more than one weapon or, which I think is possible and somewhat chilling, he took time to reload. I know it only takes a second if you know how but—”

  “A second, if you’re calm.”

  “This guy was as calm as you like.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Shell casings.”

  “What about them?”

  “There aren’t any, at least not that I saw. The car park should be littered with them. The wounds on the victims are large calibre and I’ve never seen such in my career associated with a revolver. I know they’re around but outside of the movies, revolvers, at least in the UK, tend to be smaller, .22 or 38s. My guess is the shooter’s armed with a semi-automatic and if he took the time to clean up, then we either have a professional, someone fastidious about not leaving evidence or at the very least, familiar with our procedures. Whichever way you want to look at it, his actions took time and that means we are dealing with someone the likes of whom I’ve never come across before. Broadfoot can throw up as many checkpoints as he likes but they’ll come to nothing.”

  “We’ll have to see about that. We’ve got people going house to house but there aren’t many inhabitants nearby. Ravenscar itself has only a few hundred residents. There’s the B&B at the entrance to the cordon less than a quarter of a mile away, if we catch a break, they might have seen or heard something. The wind is rattling in off the sea though. The sound would have carried inland and away from them.”

  Caslin indicated the moorland sloping away from them towards the sea.

  “What’s further down the approach road, beneath us here?”

  “It drops away, giving access only to Stoup Brow Farm, a few holiday lets and a disused quarry. Pretty much a dead end, apart from a route onto the farmland. The DCS is setting up a Major Incident Unit and he wants us on it. That’s why we’re here. The local boys aren’t equipped to go at it alone. He’s the Senior Investigating Officer and he’s giving me control of operations based out of Fulford Road.”

  “Right,” Caslin said, as he looked over and raised an eyebrow in an unspoken query.

  “Yes, he knows your background, but he wants your experience.”

  “Even though he knows my background.”

  “Don’t start with me, Nate. I’ve got a giant broom up my arse and we’ve all got to make do. You’re on the team and you’d better not show me up.”

  “Understood,” Caslin replied, unsure if the retreating form of the DCI had heard him or not but confident that he wouldn’t care either way. “I need to speak with you about the Horsvedt case,” he called after him.

  The reply was almost lost as it carried on the wind.

  “That’s Trent’s business now, so let him get on with it. Maxim can follow up anything that you’ve turned over and Terry Holt can back him up, if he needs it.”

  Caslin cursed. This case should take priority, he knew that and it was a reasonable call, but he hated loose ends. Once again, he turned to take in the view of the bay sweeping out before him. Despite the biting wind, the cold and the scene he had just viewed, he still thought that he was standing in a beautiful spot. Casting a glance sideways at the canvas tent billowing in the wind, he wondered whether Claire Skellon had been able to appreciate it as well.

  It was 12:18 p.m. on Friday 10th November.

  Chapter 12

  The entrance to the train station was bedlam. The combination of queuing for limited parking spaces, shifting taxis at the ranks and buses negotiating the narrow lanes, was causing consternation. Caslin cursed, which drew a stern look from his father beside him. Having spent three quarters of an hour together, Caslin’s impatience was reaching new heights.

  Fortunately, they had made it with time to spare. The station clock read 10:55 a.m. but still they needed the driver of an estate car to vacate his space faster. A bus sounded its horn behind them, Caslin was blocking the road, but he ignored the gesticulating driver. His father also had a habit of speaking when keeping silent would be less of a distraction and ultimately, far more useful.

  “Have you spoken to Stefan recently?”

  “Err… no, not recently. Maybe six months ago. Why? Is he alright?”

  “Do you care?”

  Caslin bit his tongue, “That’s a bit harsh, Dad.”

  His father shrugged, “He said you hadn’t spoken in over a year.”

  “Maybe he’s right,” Caslin gripped the steering wheel. The estate was finally clear. Why didn’t people know the dimensions of their own car? “In my defence, I have been a little preoccupied.”

  “With your own life, yes. You could spare some time for others as well though. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Caslin frowned as he parked up. Suddenly the cost of eliciting a favour from his father appeared too high.

  “I’ll call him, okay. Is that good enough?” Caslin said. His father shrugged once more. “What’s he up to now then? Is he still working at that mail-order warehouse?”

  Caslin was irritated as his father started to laugh, “He’s not been there for over a year! He was working for a local drop-in centre, doing odd jobs and things, but I think that’s also fallen by the wayside.”

  “What happened this time?”

  “How would I know? I don’t like to pry,” Caslin bit his tongue again. “He’s getting out a bit more these days, even has some friends, I think.”

  “Well that’s positive. Where from?” Caslin asked, attempting to sound interested.

  “Some group or another. Shared background, I think. It gives them something to talk about.”

  “Hmm,” Caslin looked at his phone as his father continued talking. He wasn’t interested and was already thinking about the case. The team were up and running at Fulford Road and Caslin wanted to be in the thick of it.

  “Are you listening?” his father snapped.

  “Yes, of course I am. What did you say?”

  “I said Stefan hasn’t got over the army. He still finds it hard.”

  Caslin nodded. There was no doubt that his brother had had a tough time. What he had experienced in the Balkans and the Gulf could on
ly be guessed at but adapting to civilian life had been one wrench too far. Stefan had been unable to hold down any form of work since leaving the forces. Caslin often feared a professional courtesy call, or worse still, getting a late-night phone call from a colleague requesting he attend an identification.

  “Hopefully he can pull it together,” Caslin said casually.

  “Well, at least his friends’ help.”

  “Say that again,” his father’s words caught somewhere in Caslin’s mind, as if they were somehow significant.

  His father looked puzzled, “Stefan’s friends must help him. That’s all I said.”

  Caslin glanced across. For a second, he was confused as to why he had asked. Moments later he shook it from his mind and suggested that they head inside. The children would be arriving soon and he intended to be on the platform to greet them.

  The impressive statement of Victorian engineering with its cast-iron canopy, spanning multiple platforms, was packed with weekend travellers, both residents and tourists alike. The central bridge that arched over to platforms five and beyond was filled to capacity but the crowd moved steadily, without incident. Conversation was limited as they negotiated the throng and attempted to filter the background noise of public notifications and diesel-electric trains.

  Checking the station clock once more he saw that they still had time. Caslin bought them both a coffee from one of the many concessions available, adding a fruit pastry to his order. Returning to the platform, and his father, he handed over the coffee and took the pastry from his mouth.

  “Sorry, they didn’t have a tea pot.”

  “Typical, but not surprising. This country was built on tea, you know.”

  Caslin rolled his eyes heavenward as the lecture began but he endeavoured to tune it out. He glanced along the platform, an anxious man pacing, a gaggle of teenage girls waiting to surprise a returning friend, all with far too little on in this weather, he thought. A mother was attempting to control her three children as they ran to and fro. No doubt their father was coming home. His own father was oblivious to the distractions and continued on. As Caslin understood it the Empire had been built on sugar, primarily off the sweat of plantation slaves, backed by an efficient military and civil service. He had no intention, however, of arguing the point. Quietly he knew that his father had come to the rescue today and he was grateful. Finding a way of conveying that and sounding genuine when he did so, would be essential.

  The events of the previous day had determined the change of plan. There was now no chance of him taking the weekend off for the visit of the children as intended, not that he wanted to. The crime scene had dominated Friday and there were still forensic reports to come back to. Robertson had given a briefing late the previous night and confirmed much of what Caslin had suspected. The strict caveat was applied that no definitive conclusions could yet be drawn. In Caslin’s mind, that meant this killer was clever enough to cover his tracks.

  The checkpoints had thrown up nothing unusual and no further witnesses had come forward to shed light on events, but they remained hopeful. The victims had been positively identified. Those in the car were three generations of the same family. The driver of the Mercedes was a widower, Hakim Al-Asadi, along with his step-mother, Rana. The other was his thirteen-year-old daughter, Aasara. The lone victim found near to the cairn was confirmed as Claire Skellon, an unmarried charity worker. A colleague carried out the necessary visit to the mortuary on Friday afternoon. Her death had barely been a footnote in the morning papers, which instead lavished pages on the tragedy of the Al-Asadi family. They had resided in York, apparently moving there within the previous year and, other than polite conversations, had made little impression on the neighbours. As of Saturday morning, their next of kin had yet to be contacted.

  Without a motive directly evident, the team had adopted a late-night brainstorming session and came up with theories ranging from a crazed local gunman to honour killings. Any of which were plausible and could not be discounted at that moment in time. It was a sad statistic that nine out of ten victims knew their killer personally, crimes referred to as “self-solvers”, so the team were leaning towards an associate link. Caslin preferred the approach of following the evidence trail wherever it led them but that required forensics or strong witnesses, and he wasn’t hopeful of either in this case. Hakim had a son who studied abroad and a younger brother, who lived in Surrey, but he too was out of the country and they had a watch on the airports for his return.

  As expected the crime scene was awash with journalists. The story took precedence in the national, and even the international, news. The race angle led the tabloid coverage and the pressure was already ramping up. Caslin had only a brief window to collect his children and take them to their grandfather’s house before he was to be back in the office. He wasn’t pleased at the prospect of not spending time with them but it just wasn’t possible. They were good kids and he hoped they would understand. Karen on the other hand was a very different matter.

  The Major Crime Incident Unit had taken over the squad room of Fulford Road for the foreseeable future, so, at least, he could remain local. Caslin’s phone pulsed in his pocket. He took it out, much to the frustration of his father who was still harking back to the Empire, and answered it.

  “Caslin.”

  “Sir, it’s DS Hunter. The DCI is holding a meeting at midday and we’re all expected.”

  “Subject?”

  “We’ve got a potential lead on a motive, plus some more background has come in. One of the papers is speculating that there’s a family feud going on.”

  “I remember a newspaper running a story about a London bus found on the moon but that didn’t make it so.”

  “I know but the paper hasn’t printed it yet, they came to us first.”

  “In return for what, an exclusive?”

  “Perhaps, but it’s credible, so we need to look into it.”

  “How did they find that out before we’ve even been briefed?” Caslin had been around enough to know how journalists worked. He dismissed the thought, “Scrub that. What do you have on the background?”

  “Hakim left Libya shortly after Gaddafi’s regime collapsed in 2012. He brought his family with him. Since then he’s been working out of an office in York and occasionally one in Kent, they’re registered to a company called GOS.”

  Caslin looked at the station clock and then the arrivals board. The train was on time.

  “What do they do?”

  “That’s the interesting bit. We haven’t got a clue. I did an internet search but turned up nothing apart from some smart offices, a postal address and a VAT number.”

  Caslin waited for a moment, letting the information sink in. The train was pulling alongside the platform, the noise making it harder for him to have his conversation. He scanned the carriages as the doors began to open and passengers spewed out in an effort to escape the rush, or to make their connections. Caslin’s father mouthed that he would find the children.

  Moving the phone aside from his mouth, Caslin called after him, “You don’t know what they look like.”

  His father cast him a dark look, “Of course I do! You always send me their school photographs in my birthday card.” An inability to conceal the look of surprise at that statement gave the game away. His father added, “Or maybe Karen does. She probably signed your name as well, didn’t she, you little shit?”

  Caslin shook his head and turned away, returning to his call.

  “You’re right, that is interesting. Find out more.”

  “Already on it. Will you be here?”

  “I’ll be there,” he hung up and turned back see his father holding Lizzy’s hand. Sean was a step behind and engrossed in something on his phone, rucksack hanging from one shoulder. Lizzie hurled herself into his arms and they embraced fiercely. His son smiled at him from beneath a floppy fringe and promptly returned his focus to the screen before him. Caslin indicated that they should get a move on. H
is father gave him a disapproving look. There was no need to say the words.

  Caslin nodded as he spoke, “I know, Dad. I know.”

  “Should you let Karen know they arrived safely?”

  Caslin was about to answer but his daughter beat him to it.

  “I’ve already told her.”

  “You have?” Caslin sounded surprised.

  “Yes, I texted her. And I told her that Granddad was here, too.”

  Caslin raised his eyes skyward. Sean glanced up and laughed at his father.

  “You’re so busted.”

  “And don’t I know it,” Caslin replied. They all laughed then. Moments later his phone began to ring. Caslin looked at the display and rejected the call. There were three enquiring faces looking at him. He responded, “I’m driving.”

  Caslin made his apologies as he entered the squad room. Chairs were in scarce supply and people were making use of desk tops or happily standing, in any free space available. Comfortable leaning against a filing cabinet, Caslin took off his coat and caught his breath. He was sweating from having taken the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t realised how out of shape he was.

  It took well over an hour and a half to make the round trip from the station to his father’s house in Selby and back to Fulford Road. The children seemed quite happy with the prospect of spending time with their grandfather. Lizzie had even professed an interest in the railway. Sean, on the other hand, had his social media and had been lost in cyberspace from the moment of arrival. This was a paradox for Caslin. The technology that allowed everyone to remain connected, managed at the same time to detach the user from the personal relationships that were all around them. Whereas when he was a teenager they would hang out in groups on street corners, today they existed almost exclusively in a virtual world. Was it a leap forward, or was society heading for a rude awakening, with human contact a thing of the past? How would such a country be policed? No doubt he’d be long gone and it would therefore, be someone else’s problem.