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  Passing through the entrance door into a traditional pub, the summer light was stripped away by dark wood and even darker carpets. The smell was typical for the pub and welcoming. With only those queuing for service present inside, Caslin made his way to the end of the bar and took a seat, eyeing the staff. One barman caught his eye and acknowledged him but there was no sign of the landlord.

  Rather than leap in, Caslin waited and when his turn came, he ordered a pint of bitter. When the barmen returned he handed over a fiver and asked him to take a look at the photos. The young man was willing to help but barely recognised Natalie. He thought she probably did drink there but appeared much like any other student and they had hundreds of them. He was adamant however, that Stuart Nicol didn’t frequent the pub. Caslin thanked him and tried the other member of staff but she too, was of no help.

  Finishing his drink, Caslin left. It had passed Seven o’clock and, despite it being a week night, the pub was starting to fill. Taking a left turn, he walked along King’s Staith before another left brought him to Clifford Street, a stone’s throw from Angels and Ice. The club would be nigh on empty at this time. He guessed he would get more from the staff when quiet than later when the place was jumping. The doors were locked when he arrived, the club not opening until 8 p.m. but he hammered a fist on the door anyway. It took several attempts before he got a response, a young woman unbolting the door and eyeing him warily. He didn’t look like their usual customer.

  “We’re not open until-”

  “Eight, I know. I can read,” Caslin said, brandishing his warrant card. The door opened and he passed through. Not a place that he ever had cause to visit, the interior was new to him. Passing by the entrance foyer and cloak room, he went through a double door and up a flight of stairs before entering the club proper. A circular bar was centrally located, with a second tier that wrapped around the outside of the room, with viewing galleries to the dance floor and booths beneath. Everywhere he looked there was chrome and neon contrasting with dark walls and floors. Grateful to not be present during opening hours, for this wasn’t his kind of place, Caslin was directed to an office at the rear. Here he was introduced to Jacqui Morris, the manager of the club.

  Smartly dressed in a sharp business suit, Caslin couldn’t help but think she was more a banker than a club manager. Openly admitting that she spent little time on the floor of the club, Jacqui called for her Door Supervisor, Mike Berry. He looked more the part, tall with a shaved head, although slender and wiry and most certainly not the heavy-set individual one might expect. Speaking eloquently, Caslin knew the image was only part of his make-up. The man was likely to be ex-forces, he guessed, due to the way he carried himself and the order with which he went about his role.

  “Yeah, I know these two,” Berry said after Caslin passed him the photos. “She’s often in here, sometimes twice in a week. Spends a fair bit of time chatting to the door staff. Not unusual that. Good fun as I recall.”

  “What about him?” Caslin asked.

  Berry frowned, “Yes, not as often, mind you. I’ve seen him with her a handful of times but he’s not a regular.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “From her, no,” he shook his head. “Him on the other hand, different story. We had to throw him out once, a little while ago. Nothing too serious, an altercation at the bar. We already had an eye on him at the time so it didn’t get the chance to escalate.”

  “What was it about, do you know?”

  “The usual. Too much alcohol and someone chatting to his girl, I think. Not that we stopped to ask.”

  “Can you remember when you last saw him?”

  “A week or two, maybe. Come to think of it, I reckon it was the weekend before last. They were both here, in a small group.”

  “With other students?”

  “No, not this lot,” Berry said. “That’s why I remember it. I thought it an odd bunch for her to be running with. Not the usual crowd, aside from him obviously.”

  “Did he always arrive with her?”

  Again, the doorman shook his head, “Can’t say I remember them ever arriving together before. He’s not really the student type, you know?”

  Caslin thanked them for their help and left. The Cloaked Beggar, his last port of call, was located on Feasegate. The frontage suggested what lay beyond. Many of the bars and pubs around there were sleek and classy on the exterior, pushing for high-end appearance. Not so the Cloaked Beggar. Peeling paintwork and signage, dating back decades, greeted the patrons. Inside fared no better, threadbare carpets, whose original colouring was a forgotten memory and traditional décor, heavily stained by tar from days prior to the smoking ban.

  When he entered, all eyes descended on him and the general hum of the half-filled pub dropped slightly as he approached the bar. Perhaps it was his imagination but conversation nearby appeared to cease when he came into earshot. The barman sidled up within a few moments, giving a brief nod in greeting.

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  “Double Macallan, no ice,” Caslin stated. The barman got him his drink and took the ten-pound note on offer. Bringing back his change. Caslin accepted it and asked casually, “You seen Stuart tonight?”

  The barman eyed Caslin suspiciously, “Don’t know any Stuart,” he said flatly.

  “Sure, you do, Stuart Nicol. He’s in here all the time,” Caslin replied, glancing around. “I owe him some money but can’t get hold of him. Thought he might be about.” The barman walked away without another word. Caslin heard a chuckle and turned to see from where it originated. The man sitting nearby, at the bar, smiled in his direction.

  “I would’ve thought a man of your years would have more experience than that.”

  Caslin took in his measure, guessing he was in his fifties, rangy with blonde hair and beard, both shot-through with grey. Casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, that had seen better days, he sported a stud earring in his right lobe and his face was well worn.

  “Is that right?” Caslin asked, sipping at his drink.

  “Yeah,” the man said, “you should’ve just got your ID out and saved a few quid on the scotch.”

  Caslin smiled, “Is it that obvious?”

  “You may have a shit suit on but people like you aren’t friends with Nicol.”

  “Who said we were friends?” Caslin countered. “You know where I can find him?”

  Again, the man laughed, “No. And if I did, I would hardly be likely to tell you.”

  “And here was me thinking we were getting on so well,” Caslin replied. “I could always get some uniform down here to toss this place. Doubt they’ll find anything but it’ll piss you all off, no end.”

  The man thought about it for a second, before looking around. “That would be a shame, what with the boys watching the football and all.”

  Caslin turned his attention to the big screen just as a shout went up, regarding some decision that went one way, rather than another. “We couldn’t have that, could we,” Caslin reiterated.

  “He’s not been in, not for days. Good enough?”

  Caslin met his eye and deemed him to be on the level, as much as anyone in this place ever would be, “Who does he hang about with?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Cheers,” Caslin said, “but I prefer blondes.” Swiftly finishing his drink and with a wink towards the unnamed man, he placed his glass on the bar. Leaving the pub, through a cloud of cigarette smoke from those congregating around the door, he found the mixture of fresh air and alcohol going to his head. He knew to avoid the booze with his medication but often chose to ignore the advice. Feeling slightly giddy, he set off towards Stonegate and his flat in Kleiser’s Court.

  The commercial heart of the city, near to the Minster, was quieter than usual. The shops were long closed and the bars and restaurants along the medieval streets, often tucked discreetly down alleys and in small courtyards, carried the noise away. Caslin became aware that he might not be alone. A
few people were milling around, heading for drinks or a meal but he had the distinct feeling that he was being followed. Despite stopping a couple of times, feigning interest in shop windows, he couldn’t catch sight of anyone. Ultimately dismissing it as paranoia, he resumed his course.

  Taking a left onto Swinegate he spied someone he knew. Checking for traffic, he ducked between two oncoming cars and ran over the road to catch her up.

  “Hey, Lisa,” he said to the woman walking in the same direction.

  “Hello, Mr Caslin,” she replied, with a smile. “I’ve not seen you out here for a while.”

  “I’ve been keeping busy.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” Lisa said. “Do you want to walk with me for a bit?”

  He nodded, “It would be my pleasure. How’s business?”

  “Are you asking a professional question or just making small talk?”

  He grinned, “The economy’s picking up, so they tell us and I wondered if you’d seen an upturn?”

  She laughed, “No matter what the state of the economy, people always make room to socialise. Some would rather go hungry. Were you looking for me or having an evening out?”

  “A passing coincidence but seeing as you’re here,” Caslin went on. “What do you know about a guy called Durakovic?”

  Lisa stopped walking, the smile fading from her face, “Anton Durakovic? More than I’d like.”

  “You’ve come across him, then?”

  “Not so much me,” Lisa shook her head. “He’s pretty new in things around here. I understand he’s ruffled a few feathers amongst the established.”

  Caslin bobbed his head in understanding, “He’s muscled his way in over the last couple of years.”

  “Doesn’t play by the same rules. At least, that’s what I’m led to believe. These former Eastern Bloc types rarely do. They operate like they did back home.”

  “Do you know where he’s from?”

  Lisa shook her head, “No idea and I hope not to get close enough to find out. Not that I have anything to worry about on that score.”

  “Why not?”

  “So far he’s not interested in my line of work. He goes for the more elite clients and people like me don’t make enough, so it seems.”

  “Escorts only?”

  “Yes. You know as well as I do, that with street girls you often get drug or alcohol dependency, or both. Durakovic likes his girls clean. They fetch more on the market.”

  They walked for a minute or so without conversation, Lisa’s arm hooked through his. “Do you know Melissa Brooke,” Caslin asked casually. He felt her arm tense slightly against his.

  “Mel? Yes,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  “Her mother has reported her missing.”

  Lisa took in a deep breath, “That’s not good.”

  “She works for Durakovic,” Caslin offered.

  “I know,” Lisa said, her tone implying she knew more.

  “Should we be worried?” he asked. Lisa stopped walking, turning to face him.

  “I told her not to get involved with that lot. I said it was a bad move, particularly in her position.”

  “Her position?”

  “Mel cleaned herself up a lot in the last year. Didn’t want to be on the streets or even in the game, not that many of us do,” the last words spoken were accompanied by a sad expression.

  “Then why go to work for Durakovic?”

  Lisa shrugged, “Money, why else? I saw her, must be what, a month ago? She was looking good, still sober and probably the best I’ve seen her in ages. She was raving about how things were going.”

  “With Durakovic?” Caslin inquired.

  “Not so much, no. She said she was still definitely looking to get out and thought she’d figured a way to make it happen. Planning to get her daughter back too.”

  “I don’t see Durakovic as the sort to let you walk away when you please.”

  “That’s what I told her. Plus, if he found out about her former recreational habits…I doubted it would go down well. This business is unforgiving at the best of times and men like that…well, you know how it is.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “Wasn’t bothered,” Lisa replied forcefully. “Said she had it all planned out and that I wasn’t to worry. It’s almost like…”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure…like she knew something that I didn’t.”

  “Such as?”

  “I took it that she had some kind of leverage, a way to get what she wanted. I thought she was playing with fire and told her so but…I’m not surprised she’s gone missing, let’s put it that way.”

  Caslin let the information sink in. It appeared as if Durakovic’s reputation was not merely for show. He could be ruthless if necessary and Vice had told him that his girls didn’t quit, at least not of their own accord. He wondered what Melissa thought she had that could facilitate her exit strategy. Would she have attempted to blackmail someone like Anton Durakovic? If so, she was a very brave young lady, or more likely, a foolish one.

  “Word is that Durakovic’s girls are accompanied. Is that right?”

  “Oh yeah, always,” Lisa said assuredly. “Makes a big show of it, so you feel safe. Protecting his asset is arguably more like it.”

  That information tallied with the factual element of Summerbee’s account. Caslin still wasn’t prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, not yet. “It was good to see you, Lisa,” Caslin said, affectionately kissing her on the cheek. “Maybe you should think about a change?”

  “We do what we have to,” she replied.

  “Take care of yourself out here, won’t you?”

  She smiled warmly, “I always do, Mr Caslin.”

  Resuming his course towards Stonegate, his thoughts oscillated between Natalie and Melissa Brooke. Two young girls who had grown up on separate sides of the track. One, who seemingly had everything going for her, whilst the other faced a struggle from the very moment she was born. Melissa, hell-bent on bettering her life and in contrast, Natalie appeared to be flirting with a darker element in hers. The convergence of their lives to this eerily similar point, together with their distinct likeness, struck him as he slipped into the Coffee Yard, via one of the many medieval alleys linking the old streets of York. Stonegate was now only yards away.

  Moving footfalls on the enclosed brick-passage came to ear. Slow to react, he turned just in time to see the fist strike him on the left side of his face. Stunned, he staggered back, only managing to raise his arms in a defensive motion as more blows rained down. He fell against the wall, an involuntary shout emanating from somewhere within. Tucking his elbows in and protecting his head with his forearms, he sought to fend off the fists and feet that repeatedly thrashed at him.

  Another shout could be heard in the melee and the blows suddenly lessoned as another joined the fray. Caslin, momentarily winded, used the wall at his rear to brace against before launching himself at the nearest body. A whack to the head didn’t slow him and he swung in retaliation, landing a glancing blow. A combination of flying fists later and it was all over. The attackers fled back down the passage from the direction they had come, a man giving chase. Caslin fell back against the wall, trying to catch his breath. The pursuing figure soon gave up and returned to Caslin’s side. The enclosed Coffee Yard wasn’t lit but Caslin recognised the voice as soon as he heard it.

  “Life’s certainly not dull around you, is it little brother?”

  “Right enough,” was all he could manage in reply, drawing deep breaths whilst probing his features, searching for damage before spitting blood to the floor.

  “Good job I stopped by, by the look of it,” Stefan said. Even in the gloom, Caslin could see the smile. “Come on, let’s get to yours.”

  Two minutes later and the door to Caslin’s apartment in Kleiser’s Court closed behind them. Caslin pointed his brother in the direction of the living room and headed into the bathroom. Pulling on the light
cord, he inspected his face in the mirror. Already one of his eyes was bloodshot and watering and there were several areas tender to the touch, which would no doubt look far worse in the morning. One of his teeth felt loose, wobbling when he ran his tongue against it.

  “Bastards,” he said to his own reflection. Rifling through his medicine cabinet, he located his painkillers. There were only four left in the strip and he knew there to be a further three in his jacket, nowhere near enough to see him through until Tuesday. Putting the box back, he closed the door and joined Stefan.

  “What was all that about?” his brother asked.

  “A couple of chancers, I expect,” Caslin muttered. If truth be known, he had no idea but found it likely they had followed him from the Cloaked Beggar. Stefan appeared to accept the explanation and made no further comment. “Do you fancy a drink?” Caslin asked, crossing to the other side of the room and bringing down a bottle of Jura from a shelf. He went to pour out two glasses but found a shaking hand making it difficult. Holding the bottle with his left, he flexed the fingers in his right, to try and ease the movements. Moments later he passed one glass to his brother and sank into his armchair with the other. Stefan walked to the window and looked out onto Stonegate below.

  “This place is a bit…old fashioned,” Stefan said, glancing around at the exposed beams and dark panelling that lined the walls. “What would an agent call it, a fixer-upper?”

  Caslin snorted a laugh, “Either that or in need of modernisation.”

  “They’d have a point,” Stefan agreed. “When was this place last rewired?”