Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Read online

  It was well after ten o’clock as he slipped downstairs, his father was the only person still up. Sean was probably listening to his music in the darkness but nevertheless, had been silent when Caslin had tried the door. Rather than risk waking him, he left the door closed and made off.

  “You’ll have to make more time for them.”

  “Yes, Dad. I know.”

  He meant it. The guilt had already struck him and not for the first time either. It was a common thread that ran through his life. One that he felt almost powerless, or unwilling, to address. The children had been asleep when he had made it back to his father’s house the night before, and he had promised to make up for it the following day. Iain Robertson had been primed to visit Radford Farmhouse with as large a team as he could spare, Maxim was happy to assist, which would have given Caslin most of Sunday before he would be needed. That was far from how it transpired.

  The plan had been an early breakfast and then a trip, the destination didn’t matter, the kids would choose but the point would be several hours of family time. The plan had definitely not included a visit to Fulford Road, which was what Caslin got before he had even managed a bowl of cereal.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing pulling forensics off the Ravenscar case?”

  It was less of a question and more of an invitation for an altercation. Frank Stephens looked as if he was going to blow.

  “We turned up something that couldn’t wait. Iain said he could spare some time—”

  “Well he bloody well can’t! And most certainly not without my say so.”

  Caslin’s back was up. With a little thought he should have sensed that this hadn’t been the time but he was an experienced officer, not one to make an issue of nothing and therefore didn’t appreciate being treated as such.

  “We cannot sit on evidence that could indicate—”

  “What?” DCI Stephens was out of his chair, fists clenched and braced against his desk. “Indicate what? It’s a missing person that you don’t even know is missing, in an inquiry that the IPCC has the lead on. You’re not even supposed to be investigating the bloody case!”

  “It needs to be checked.”

  “What about Claire Skellon? You were coming back to me on her by yesterday and I’m still waiting.”

  The DCI had him on that one. That was bad. His tone was barely apologetic and more than a little arrogant in his response.

  “This came up and I had to prioritise—”

  “Skellon is your priority, full stop,” Stephens sat back down but his expression had remained crimson and he shot daggers at Caslin.

  “Once Iain gets through on the site, then I’m sure I’ll know more. Then I can see where we need to take it. If we need to take it further.”

  The DCI calmed down then as if a weight had been lifted. His tone changed, becoming softer, eyes straying to the paperwork on his desk.

  “I pulled Robertson. He’s back where he should be.”

  Caslin flipped, “You did what?”

  It was not the most professional moment of his career. There followed a heated exchange where both men aired their views, supposedly to each other but most of CID knew what was going on. It was a slanging match that only ceased when DCS Broadfoot had entered the room. Both men had fallen silent. For his part, Caslin felt somewhat embarrassed that the argument had spilled out beyond the office.

  “I would ask what is going on but I figured it out at the end of the corridor,” Broadfoot stated in a manner that left neither man comfortable.

  “A disagreement on resource allocation, Sir.”

  The Det Ch Supt eyed both men for a moment before speaking.

  “This has always been a professional office, Frank. That’s the main reason I gave you command of the incident team and based the unit here.” His eyes scanned Caslin first and then Stephens. “Perhaps I erred in that decision? There are thirty officers on this case—”

  “Which was your first mistake,” Caslin interrupted, he couldn’t help himself. He should have but he couldn’t.

  “Is that right?” Broadfoot’s tone indicated it was a rhetorical question. “How so?”

  Caslin cleared his throat, “They’ll trip over each other, if they’re not already. It’s a scattergun approach, too inaccurate.”

  “Well, I’ll take that under advisement.” Caslin knew he wouldn’t. “Perhaps though, that was not my first mistake. In the meantime, I trust that your…. disagreement…. can be resolved more professionally?”

  Broadfoot glanced at Frank Stephens once more and left without another word. Stephens took a moment to allow the dust to settle before speaking.

  “Your record indicates you’re one hell of a detective but what’s this I’m hearing that you’ve been withholding information on an assault out at Radford Farm?” Caslin closed his eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “Not to mention the formal letter of complaint that I received this morning, from a member of the press.”

  “Not that scrote Sullivan, surely?”

  “Are you telling me you’ve roughed up more than one journalist in the past two days?” Stephens held up his hand before Caslin could protest, “You’re clearly not a team player, Nathaniel. Spend as much time on the Horveds as you like. You’re off the unit.”

  “The Horsvedts, Sir.”

  “I don’t want to see you in my squad room for the next week, at least. Keep Harman with you. You’re more use to each other, than me. I’ll get a proper policeman to look into Skellon.”

  Caslin took the glass that was offered as he sat down. It was scotch. No surprise there. He sipped at its contents and appreciated the warmth spreading out in his chest. The fire crackled and Caslin glanced at his father, happy to see that he was engrossed in a book. The alcohol appeared to be more a relaxing accompaniment than the full session that he had feared.

  “Did they enjoy the day?”

  His father looked across, peering over the rim of his reading glasses.

  “I thought so, yes. Sean got a little bored but he had his e-phone thing, so he was fine.” Caslin thought about correcting him but chose not to. He opened his mouth to speak before realising he had nothing to say. His father went on, “They’ll forgive you for a while but in the end, they’ll hate you for it.”

  Caslin nodded. The job had to take a back seat at some point. His family were more important. On the verge of losing his wife, the last he wanted was to lose his children as well. He took another sip and his mind wandered. Realising that conversation was not to be forthcoming, his father returned to his novel. By the nature of the artwork on the cover, it looked to Caslin like a piece of Second World War fiction. The man had a stack of them.

  Why couldn’t he have left the DCI’s office and driven straight back to Selby? He had the perfect excuse. Was it pride? Was it frustration? Either way he had found himself out at the farmhouse. The place was secure but no further forward in an investigation. Iain Robertson hadn’t even got to the scene before being called away. Harman had left at the same time and so, Caslin had found himself there alone.

  Maybe it was pure bloody-minded stubbornness that had taken him back out there. A need to prove everyone else wrong, if not merely to prove himself right, that there was something far more significant going on at Radford Farm than anyone realised. Frank Stephens was under pressure. There were dozens of officers on the Ravenscar case and a lot of ground to cover. To be fair, the DCI’s reaction could have been anticipated but Caslin had tried to mitigate the impact of his own actions. There was something about this case. He couldn’t leave it, he wouldn’t.

  “I’m going to head up, read in bed for a while.”

  Caslin was snapped from his thoughts as his father rose, his index finger holding his place on the page.

  “Goodnight, Dad.”

  “Help yourself.” His father indicated the bottle on the coffee table, beside his recliner. “Go easy though.”

  Caslin smiled. Tempting as it was, he had
no inclination to drink more for he had work to do. Finishing the drink in hand as the stairs creaked under his father’s weight, Caslin went out into the hall and retrieved his bag. Reseating himself before the fire, he took out his laptop and powered it up. Also from the bag he took a stack of black cases, placing them neatly on the coffee table before him. Finally, having rested a notepad and pen on the arm of the chair beside him, he returned focus to the laptop. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven. It was late but sleep was far from his thoughts.

  He had been reviewing the discs one by one, for over an hour, when his phone began to vibrate. Responding quickly to minimise the risk of awakening others, Caslin answered. He was greeted by silence, a pause long enough to make him check that the call was still connected. It was Harman. A hesitant voice came through.

  “Are you seeing what I am?”

  “Yes, I expect so.”

  “It’s…”

  “I know. It doesn’t make good viewing unless you’re into it.”

  Harman sighed, “Not this, I’m not. What have we stumbled onto?”

  Caslin took a moment to consider his response. With far too many discs to go through alone, he had split them and dropped a batch off with Harman, before heading out to his father’s. What they had were amateur recordings of sexual domination, featuring both men and women. That alone was surprising to him. McNeil was easily recognisable. The string of people that submitted to his will were not. At least, not yet. By no means a shrinking violet this indulgence was not one he cared for, but he had been around the track a few times and was seldom shocked by human desires.

  “I think we can hazard a guess as to why that place is secreted away. He was into some messed up stuff—”

  “It’s more than that.”

  Caslin found his attention brought into sharp focus by Maxim’s voice, whether through tone or reticence.

  “What have you got?” There was silence at the other end of the line. “Maxim,” Caslin persisted, “what have you got for me?”

  “They can’t ignore this. They can’t ignore her.”

  Chapter 16

  The rain came in waves, lashing against the windscreen with such ferocity that ensured the wipers were ineffective. Early afternoon seemed as black as night and Caslin nearly missed the turning, braking heavily and swerving across the oncoming traffic, blaring horns decrying his manoeuvre. The suspension groaned as the springs bottomed out on the unmade road, Caslin winced. One of these days he would remember to go easy. Parked up before Radford Farmhouse were several vehicles, two unmarked white vans and another that he knew to be Maxim’s.

  Pulling up, he braced himself against the heavy rain and clambered out, running for the cover of the porch. No lights were visible in the house, so he made his way to the rear and again, sprinted the short distance for cover. What had originally been considered to be only a workshop now seemed wholly inadequate as a description. The labyrinthine passageways, secured doors and mass of concrete blockwork seemed more at home in an old war film than on a Yorkshire farm. Moreover, upon surveying the exterior in daylight, the construction was cleverly hidden from view. Surrounded as it was by a copse of trees, sweeping around both sides to the rear, with earthworks that covered the depth of the structure in its entirety, it would be feasible to imagine walking over it without realising what lay beneath.

  The workshop was a later addition, many years old but significantly later than the reinforced structure whose entrance it shrouded. Passing swiftly through the workshop and ducking through the hatch he found Harman in the computer room, hard at work cataloguing the contents of the roll cabinet they had uncovered the previous day.

  “Good timing, Sir,” Harman said as he slipped his clipboard under his arm, his forensic suit coverings rustling as he walked. “SOCO’s just given me a shout to take a look inside.”

  Both men knew the way and once Caslin had donned shoe coverings, they headed down the corridor. Iain Robertson came into view as they reached the makeshift bathroom, greeting Caslin as he did so.

  “What’s the matter Nathaniel, do you think I’ve not got enough work to do already?”

  Caslin would have smiled but he knew this wasn’t the time. The sanitary units behind them had been taped off. They were marked for further study as SOCO were yet to process that area. Robertson beckoned them forward but indicated they should remain in the kitchen area, whilst he disappeared from view into the room beyond. Flashes soon emanated from within as the team busied themselves photographing and recording all that they could find. The kitchen had already been processed. The units, worktop and table, were coated in a fine mist. The remnants of the fingerprint gathering process. There were areas of notable interest and each had been numbered for reference. What they found would come in the subsequent report.

  Edging across the room, Caslin observed Robertson at work. The area appeared different under the light from the portable forensic lamps. Bathed in a purple hue, it was still recognisable from the shadowy memory of the previous day but more so from the images that he had seen on the laptop the night before. Those images were seared into his consciousness. A succession of people, predominantly women but not exclusively so, being subjected to what were at best deviant and at worst, profoundly sinister levels of structured abuse. Robertson was an experienced investigator and Caslin was confident in his abilities as he watched him orchestrate the team, ensuring that no trace of evidence was missed or corrupted. They moved methodically and with a purpose.

  Even from their vantage point the two waiting detectives could make out some detail. SOCO had been busy with their chemicals and under the light, evidence of blood splatter and pooling was clear to see. Evidence markers indicated points on the floor, walls and ceiling. The chain that lay undisturbed on the floor had multiple markers highlighting areas for further analysis. The recorded images came to the fore in both of their memories, those chains held firm even under the greatest protest. Caslin shuddered, was it the memory or the draught, he wasn’t sure.

  Only once he was happy that the process was correctly organised did Robertson return to the kitchen, peeling off his gloves and removing his hood. He wiped a weary hand across his face. In his fifties but appearing far greater in years than that, Caslin could see that the workload was taking its toll. Never one to shirk his responsibilities, Iain would be the last to leave a crime scene, often competing with Caslin for that accolade.

  “Well I thought I had seen it all,” Robertson said ruefully.

  “I don’t think any of us ever gets to see it all,” Caslin responded.

  “Aye, you’re probably right.”

  Harman was still staring into the room. Even in the artificial light his face appeared ashen. Caslin touched him on the shoulder.

  “Why don’t you duck out for a minute and get some air. It’s pretty oppressive down here.”

  Harman didn’t need a second invitation. He nodded and left them. Robertson watched the younger man leave and once out of earshot, he turned to Caslin.

  “Don’t you wish you could be that young again?”

  Caslin smiled, “Maybe we could have had a career in a bank or something?”

  Robertson laughed, “You’d have met more criminals in that job, I’m sure.”

  “What can you tell me about this?” Caslin indicated the room behind him.

  “That will take some time,” Robertson frowned.

  “I’m expecting more than just…. deviant behaviour?”

  “Many would do weirder, I don’t doubt it for a second but I presume you’re asking me if this was more than kinky sex?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “That is hard to say at this point,” Robertson’s expression furrowed deeper still, “but there is a great deal of blood, even for hardcore fetishists. I should think we’re looking at more than one… what shall we call it… event or incident? I must stress that is pure conjecture until we do more work and don’t ask me how many, it’s impossible to tell. We’ll do blood types
and that may give us some idea. DNA screening will take longer but with a fair wind, we could get profiles. It’s a mess, though and separating one from another may take a while.”

  “Dare I ask how much time?”

  Robertson was pensive, “We’re not allowed to out-source to private labs anymore, the age of austerity and all that. So, we have to prioritise the cases. What with Ravenscar—”

  “Don’t worry, I get it.”

  “I don’t like to guess, you know that, but if I had to say, then I would suggest that we are on the tip of something very dark indeed. Why were you so certain that we pull out the stops on this?”

  Caslin didn’t answer but thanked Iain for the information and requested regular updates as they processed the scene. He made his way outside and found a rather pale looking Harman leaning against the door frame of the workshop, staring out into the rain.

  “What can you tell me about the computer set-up in this place?”

  Harman glanced across.

  “In what way?”

  “You’ve got a degree in Computer Science, haven’t you?” Harman nodded. “Then tell me something.”

  Harman thought for a moment and then retrieved his pocket book. He scanned through his notes and cleared his throat.

  “Right, the discs that we’ve seen so far are on DVD but not all were recent. Some that I came across were time coded. That gave it away.”

  “As what?”

  “Copies. They were originally on VHS and then transferred. Some are time stamped from years ago. Assuming that is that the maker didn’t intentionally alter the date on the original device.”

  “Just to throw us off, you mean?” he asked, Harman nodded. Caslin felt that was doubtful. “Unlikely but you’re right to mention it.”