Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 16

  “What’s your point?” DCI Stephens asked.

  “What’s my bloody point? I didn’t even have a case that linked me to that address. He had no business there, so who pointed him in my direction? There’s someone leaking here but it sure as hell isn’t me.” The last comment drew howls of protest and derision from the assembled officers but Caslin was already in full flow. “This shit isn’t supposed to happen post-Leveson. But I guess that’s what you get for assembling an army of wannabes and plastic journeymen!” Caslin scrunched the paper between his hands and hurled it in the vicinity of the waste bin, before making to leave.

  “Get out!” Stephens yelled.

  Caslin didn’t need to be told twice and stormed out of CID, almost colliding with DI Baxter as he stepped out into the corridor.

  “Steady, old boy.”

  “Sorry Simon,” Caslin managed to say, without breaking step.

  Caslin was still seething as he reached the ground floor. Even when not on a case he was still causing ructions. His work life never used to be that way. It was always the calmness of his approach that garnered results. Remembering that he had left the cup of coffee on a desk upstairs, he swore. The corridor was empty and leaning against a wall, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying a moment of relative peace.

  Taking some deep breaths, he considered his next move. Sullivan made what he had perceived to be an idle threat. Evidently, he had misjudged that situation and now he found himself thrust centre stage, once again. Or was he? Frank Stephens was struggling, that was clear from day one, and was most likely striking out at anyone with the misfortune to walk into view. There was nothing to Sullivan’s story, so perhaps it would swiftly blow over. Until then some uniforms would need to be deployed to Radford Farm to keep the press at arm’s length. The unintended consequences of doing that, however, might raise the suspicion that the journalist was on to something. At some point the story there would break and the scrutiny would intensify but, for the moment at least, there was time to investigate without the accompanying circus.

  The moment of reflection was pierced by approaching footsteps on the polished floor. Caslin opened his eyes and cast a glance sideways to see the approach of Linda, easily the friendliest as well as most capable of the civilian desk clerks.

  “Nathaniel, do you have a moment?”

  “For you, Linda, I have several,” he smiled, and she returned it.

  “I’ve been trying to get through to CID for the past half hour and no-one’s picking up. Is there something going on?”

  Caslin’s smile broke into a laugh that he immediately checked.

  “It’s a little fractious up there at the moment. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Possibly. There’s a gentleman in the front office asking to speak with someone in CID but he won’t tell me why.”

  “What sort of person, normal or…?”

  Now it was Linda who laughed, “He seems like a pleasant man, elderly. Although, I am not entirely sure he is… how should I put it?”

  “Quite all there?” Caslin finished for her.

  “Yes, that was what I thought. As you know, we do get them towards the silly season. I know you’re busy but do you think—”

  “Of course, take me to him.”

  He realised then that he hadn’t seen Linda for several weeks. Presuming that she had been on sick leave, he thought better of asking. Suffering from an aggressive form of bone cancer, which was taking its toll, she was routinely off work but to her credit she never once offered a complaint. Occasionally she would appear introverted and he would proffer a smile or a wink of support, safe in the knowledge that if she wanted more, he was there.

  Linda led them back to the entrance foyer at her own pace and saw him through the security door, into the lobby. There was only one person present, a man seated in the corner. A dark-tan walking stick rested between his knees. The glass window to the enquiries desk was closed and the murmuring of those at work, alongside the backdrop of the gentle hum of the morning traffic outside, was all the sound that came to ear. Linda introduced them and withdrew.

  “Good morning,” Caslin said, taking a measure of the man slowly rising before him.

  He was heavy set for someone of his apparent age and, despite being dressed in several layers of thick winter clothing, Caslin could tell that he would have been a powerhouse in his youth. Stooping forward he offered his hand. Caslin took it.

  “Colin Brotherton,” he introduced himself. “Detective Sergeant, from over in Leeds. Well I was until I retired, anyway.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr Brotherton. Now what brings you to Fulford Road?”

  “Colin, please. I’m trying to get you lot to take me seriously, that’s what.”

  Caslin was momentarily taken aback for he was expecting the voice of a frail individual but his was forceful, and he was aggravated. Glancing about them and then to the entrance doors, Caslin could see the bright, November sunshine beyond.

  “Do you fancy a cup of coffee?”

  The retired detective grinned, revealing gaps for a number of missing teeth amid those heavily stained with yellow.

  Not long after, they were seated in a café on the edge of the city centre. The place was small and narrow, with only a half-dozen tables for use by the patrons. Most of their trade seemed to come by way of those heading in and out of the centre. Caslin waited patiently until their coffee arrived, along with the bacon sandwiches and a muffin. He was starving. Apparently, the retired detective had been so keen to reach York that he had travelled the day before, sleeping in a local hotel in order to be at the station first thing.

  “Why didn’t you just call? Believe me we have dozens of people in the office at the moment.”

  “I did,” Brotherton explained. “Several times, and I only got through twice, but I get the impression that you boys aren’t interested in the ramblings of an old git like me.”

  To Caslin’s mind, that seemed a little harsh but in all likelihood, probably not too far from the truth. He protested anyway.

  “I’m sure that’s not the case.”

  “I can’t really blame you,” Brotherton continued. “I expect I would have reacted the same way myself, back in the day.”

  “You couldn’t get anyone to listen and so you came in person?”

  “Not at all,” he rigorously shook his head in the negative. “I found several of your boys that would listen. They just told me I was wrong… very politely, I might say. But wrong nonetheless. Can I smoke in here?”

  Caslin shook his head, “It’s illegal these days.”

  Brotherton frowned, “Isn’t everything that used to be good for you.”

  “What were you wrong about, Colin?” Caslin asked, taking a bite out of his sandwich, having first laced it with brown sauce.

  “I’m sure I’m not, you know. It’s that shooting you had out on the moors. I know one of the people involved, from a case I worked years ago. Damndest thing I ever saw when I picked up the paper, staring right back at me, a face I hadn’t seen in what… nigh on thirty years.”

  “Whose face?” Caslin was intrigued. The light was gleaming in the eyes of the man opposite.

  “Lucy Stafford.”

  “Lucy Stafford?” Caslin repeated. A sense of deflation settled over him. “And who is she?”

  “The dead woman, on the moor. You’ve got those that were in the car and then Lucy, by herself.”

  “From the Ravenscar shootings case, you mean?” Caslin asked.

  Brotherton nodded emphatically, “Exactly. But the papers and yourselves have got it all wrong.”

  Caslin put his hand up to stop him. He was confused, “You’re talking about Claire Skellon.”

  “That’s what I am trying to tell you. Her name is Lucy Stafford. No idea where you get this Skellon from. She was Lucy when I knew her. Might explain why we couldn’t find her though. To think after all these years, she’d turn up like this, very sad.”

&
nbsp; Sitting back in his chair, Caslin relaxed and took a sip of his coffee. The brief rush of trade around them had died down and only the proprietor, clearing tables, was making noise. The other staff member was busying himself restocking the sandwich cabinet. Once more, Caslin found his interest piqued. The old man currently devouring a blueberry muffin seemed to be in control of his faculties and adamant about what he knew. They met eyes and Caslin exhaled deeply, picking up his coffee once more.

  “I think you had better start at the beginning.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Brotherton said, appearing to find a second wind. Sitting slightly higher in his chair, he began. “It was back in the early eighties, I was a DC at the time. Even though I had been in the job for a decade, I was still enthusiastic and keen to make a real difference in the world. I was young back then. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. Anyway, we were looking into the disappearance of a young girl—”

  “Lucy Stafford?” Caslin said.

  “No. Don’t interrupt me. Patience really is a lost art these days,” Brotherton admonished him before continuing. “She was Maxine de la Grange, only eighteen and working in the Leeds sex trade. After she hadn’t been seen for a couple of weeks, she was reported missing and I was tasked with looking into it. I was also a DC in ’77 and so soon after Sutcliffe, we had to take violence against prostitutes a bit more seriously than maybe we used to. Not that we shouldn’t have before but back in the day, people weren’t so bothered, were they?”

  Caslin had to agree, “I’m not so sure that opinion has changed all that much in the main. Indifference is just more concealed. Did you find Maxine?”

  Brotherton stared into his cup as if seeking something at the bottom of it. Slowly he nodded but his expression had changed.

  “Aye, we did. On a patch of waste ground on an industrial estate, she was in a right state.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, for several days. Someone had really gone to work on her. Not just a good hiding but much more than that. She had multiple stab wounds, broken bones and other injuries that implied more torture, than a beating. Pretty girl she was. Didn’t deserve that, I tell you.”

  “Lucy Stafford?”

  “I’m getting to her, bear with me. Lucy was one of Maxine’s friends. She was the one that came to us.”

  “Not her family?”

  “Didn’t have any. Maxine was brought up in care and her and Lucy met in a children’s home, when the latter had a brief separation from her family. Both girls had difficult backgrounds, so it wasn’t a shock that they were often in trouble. Nothing dreadful, mind you, just mixing with the wrong crowd. It was petty stuff, shoplifting, underage drinking, that kind of thing. It was no surprise to me that Maxine fell into the life that she did.”

  “So, Lucy wasn’t in the trade then?”

  Brotherton shook his head, “No, not as far as I knew, but that’s not to say she wasn’t without her own problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “Her mother used to drink, heavily. Lucy sort of had to take care of herself and as soon as she hit sixteen, she was out on her own. By her volition, I should add.”

  “Definitely not in the trade?”

  Brotherton sighed, “Never told me she was and I had no evidence to the contrary, or reason to doubt her for that matter. She was a strong-minded girl. I always felt she was in control despite the chaos that swirled around her. Anyway, they remained friends and Lucy was fired up about us finding Maxine.”

  “Did you collar anyone for the killing?”

  “No, we couldn’t tie anyone to it. There were rumours that some guy was trying to pimp her and a few others, setting himself up as some kind of gang master but we could never get a name. We interviewed as many of her friends and associates as we could but nothing came from it. Lucy was helpful up to a point but…”

  “She disappeared.”

  “That’s right, she disappeared. No word, nothing. Just vanished. We considered the possibility that perhaps she was in trouble, but we had no evidence of that and she was an adult who could do as she pleased. There were no family members that came looking for her and with apparently nothing to investigate, we drew a blank and moved on. It never sat well with me though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Several reasons really. Lucy was so passionate about her friend. She would call me or be at the front desk asking questions every other day until we found Maxine. Then she pressed repeatedly for us to get a result before dropping off the face of the earth. When the coroner eventually released Maxine’s body, not a single person showed up to claim it. Eighteen years old. Imagine that, and no-one cared enough to bury her. I had a whip round in the squad room and we bought Maxine her headstone. The whole of CID turned out for the funeral but that was it.”

  “Lucy didn’t show?”

  “Exactly. It just felt wrong and has bothered me ever since. We never caught the killer, nor did I clap eyes on Lucy again.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now. Up she pops in your case. I don’t know where she fits in, or even if she does. I haven’t got a clue what to make of it all, to be quite honest.”

  “Nor do I,” Caslin mused openly. “Did you get anywhere with forensics at the time, any blood, DNA?”

  “We had never heard of DNA back then, this was ’83. There was no evidence that Maxine had been sexually assaulted but there was an unidentified blood sample on her body. Forensics put it down as gravity bleeding, the killer getting careless with his knife.”

  Caslin knew what that meant. When a victim is repeatedly stabbed, the amount of blood produced often spreads to the handle which then becomes slippery and the assailant loses their grip, injuring themselves on their own blade.

  “Were you able to get anything from the sample?”

  Brotherton shrugged, “The lead times were horrendous for lab work back then and the focus was all about Antigen levels. We got a blood group and from there, we were able to narrow down our target range to about three million people. It was real needle and haystack stuff.”

  “You said that Lucy was helpful up to a point. If she was so close to Maxine, did she have any idea who had killed her?”

  Brotherton looked out through the window and into the riverside park beyond, whilst considering his answer. His voice took on an emotional edge as he spoke.

  “She never gave me a name and always said she didn’t know, but… when we were leaning towards the theory of it being the work of a punter, she became very agitated with me. That suggested there was more going on than she was letting on. I pressed her on a few occasions and hoped that I could earn her trust so that she would open up. It never happened though.”

  “If she knew, why wouldn’t she want to say?”

  Brotherton shrugged, “You’ve got me there.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Colin,” Caslin began. The man opposite seemed to tense as they met eyes, “But it’s been thirty years. How can you be so sure that Claire Skellon is in fact, Lucy Stafford?”

  Brotherton swirled the dregs of his coffee, at the base of the cup, for a few seconds before responding.

  “How long have you been on the force?”

  “Fifteen years, give or take.”

  “And in that time, I’ll bet you’ve had a case that got to you. I don’t mean one that upset you. Let’s face it, in our line of work you always do and always will. What I’m talking about is one of those that really gets under your skin and the more you scratch at it, the more it itches. You can’t let it go and if you were able, you’d keep going until you fixed it, no matter what the consequences. Those are the people who stay with you.”

  Caslin considered those words and applied them to his career. He understood.

  “Have you?”

  Caslin nodded, “I have.”

  “Were you able to fix yours?”

  Caslin didn’t answer.

  Chapter 19

  Colin Brotherton’s words were still ring
ing in his ears as he pulled up outside Fulford Road. Turning the engine off, he unclipped his seat belt and reached into his inner jacket pocket, removing a tatty envelope from within. Gently opening the flap, he withdrew the handwritten letter inside, itself showing signs of wear. A young couple passed nearby. Their laughter breached the sanctuary of his car and Caslin watched them as they walked off, deep in conversation, without a care in the world.

  Turning his attention to the paper in his hand, he considered whether or not to read it once more. Closing his eyes, he felt the tears welling inside. Blinking them away he took a deep breath, roughly returned the letter to the confines of its sleeve and put it back in his pocket.

  “I would do it all again,” he whispered to himself.

  Rubbing his face vigorously with his palms, he sought to change focus. Was Colin Brotherton looking for something that wasn’t there, seeing the ghost that still haunted him. Was it one last chance at redemption for a perceived, past failing? Having met the man, Caslin didn’t think so but he had to consider the possibility.

  Resolving to take one more look at Claire Skellon, he got out of the car. The door protested at the movement and he apologised as he pushed it to. He would have to be discreet. Having already had the suggestion rebuffed twice, Caslin realised that he wouldn’t get assistance from the team. Moreover, he had no doubt what DCI Stephens or Kyle Broadfoot would make of it, not least as it was him bringing it forward. He would need to tread carefully and see if it came to anything. The real issue would be getting into the database without anyone knowing what he was up to. The names in this case would be flagged and if information control was as he expected, then questions would be asked the moment he accessed it.

  Despite his awkward position he had made a commitment to look into it. The retired detective offered Caslin his old case files, with the caveat that no-one should find out. If Brotherton’s information was accurate, then the angle needed investigation. They had agreed to meet that evening at a hotel in the city.