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  “What intelligence have you turned up regarding who was in town on the day of the murder?” Matheson asked, switching tack. Caslin figured he’d passed the test, at least for now.

  “Those names on the alt-right?” he clarified. She nodded. Caslin shook his head, “Despite their best efforts to throw us off by splitting into smaller groups, most of those with form were tracked by our intelligence teams. At this time, we can’t be certain of their whereabouts at the time of the murder, so there is still the possibility that one or more of them were involved.”

  “And how are you following up that line of inquiry?”

  “We’ve gathered up as much of the CCTV, available across the weekend, as we could and we’re running it through facial recognition software to track them and their whereabouts but…”

  “But?”

  “It’s a painstakingly slow process with the available resources,” Caslin argued.

  “Then perhaps… and please feel free to take this suggestion on board, you might want to focus on the more likely scenario rather than chasing the ghosts of last year?” she said with a cutting edge to her tone.

  “It’s worth following up, I assure you and until it’s clearly to the contrary, I’ll keep all available lines of inquiry open,” Caslin countered, sitting forward in his seat and resting his elbows on the desk.

  Matheson fixed him with a stare, “I want an update before the close of play, Nathaniel. I’m expecting to speak with the Chief Superintendent this evening before he delivers his press conference and it would be good for me to have something useful to say.”

  “I’ll do my best, Ma’am,” Caslin said respectfully. With that said, his senior officer turned and left his office.

  Sitting back in his chair, he watched as she crossed the squad room, pausing as she came alongside Hunter’s desk. Words were exchanged but as to what was said by either of them, he had no clue. Shortly after, Matheson made to leave CID and Hunter shot him a concerned look in passing. The DCI was certainly trying to keep him on a short leash and he was well aware that she’d still be both willing and able to hang him with it should the need arise.

  Taking out his mobile, Caslin fished a slip of paper out of his wallet and unfolded it. Tapping the number written upon it into his phone, he spun his chair to the left enabling him to look out of the window. The sun was shining through the branches of the barren trees, belying the bitterness of the wind. The call connected and he waited patiently as the phone rang at the other end. Just when he was expecting the voicemail to cut in the call was answered.

  “Inspector Caslin, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon,” Cory Walsh said, in greeting.

  “Well, what can I say, you make a compelling argument,” Caslin replied, turning back to observe his CID team, hard at work. “I think we need to talk.”

  “I’ll message you when I get a moment,” Walsh said and the line went dead. Caslin was surprised, removing the handset from his ear and checking the screen to see if the call really had been disconnected. It had. Standing up, he put the phone down and walked to the window, putting his hands in his pockets. His phone vibrated, followed by the accompanying sound of the beep to signify he’d received an SMS. Reaching back, he picked up the phone. Opening the message, he found it to be brief – King’s Staith, 10pm.

  Caslin deleted the text and put the phone in his pocket. He knew the street well. It was at the edge of the city centre on the quayside of the River Ouse and opposite the warehouses of the old merchant’s quarter. The latter were now mostly luxury apartments with a historic view. Hunter appeared at the threshold to his office. He beckoned her in.

  “What do you want me to do regarding Thomas Grey, sir?” she asked.

  “Turn over his business affairs. Try to find any link to Danika Durakovic. If nothing shows there, search for anything that stands out as odd, particularly in relation to financing. These guys are wealthy but they’re not funding their projects with their own capital. See if you can find out whose money they have access to? Make sure you do it quietly, though,” he said, casting a sideways glance at Terry Holt.

  Hunter followed the direction of his gaze and nodded, before turning to leave, “Will do, sir.”

  “Sarah?” Caslin called after her. She looked back at him, over her shoulder. “What did Matheson want?”

  Hunter glanced away before answering, “Nothing much. She just said…”

  “Said what?” Caslin asked, sensing reticence.

  “She said to be careful,” Hunter replied, looking him in the eye. Caslin nodded, chewing his bottom lip and raising his eyebrows.

  “Sage advice,” he said, waving her away. Hunter was only too pleased to.

  Chapter 17

  Caslin drew his coat about him, increasing his pace in an effort to shake the cold from his body. The bitter wind, channelled by the buildings cut through the narrow city streets in a fierce reminder that winter was far from over. The crisp sunshine of earlier in the day was now replaced by a dark, brooding expanse of cloud cover threatening to burst into freezing rain at any given moment. Departing Spurrier Gate, Caslin took the right turn onto Bridge Street in the direction of the River Ouse. Upon reaching the bridge instead of crossing, he accessed the steep steps down towards King’s Staith and left the hum of the traffic to pass above him.

  Descending to the quayside, the sound of music and laughter carried to him from the nearby pub. For most of the year this area was well served by patrons sitting at tables along the riverside making it one of the popular places to enjoy an evening out. However, for the next few months at least the cobbles would be accompanied by silence with only the water, lapping against the quay, one of the few sounds to be heard when the traffic died down.

  Looking around, Caslin was alone. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he chastised himself for forgetting to bring his gloves. In the lee of the bridge, he’d felt the benefit of shelter from the wind but once clear of it the icy breeze struck him. Turning his back, he sought to give his face some respite. Walking forward a few yards, he was able to get a clearer view along the river. In the distance, with the aid of the streetlighting, he could see a man walking his dog on the edge of the Tower Gardens but he was heading in the opposite direction of him. Checking the time, it was a little after ten and Caslin shifted his feet. They were numb.

  The sound of footfalls behind caused Caslin to turn as another descended the stone steps from above. The man was in his thirties, well dressed for the conditions in a blue all-weather coat and a woollen hat. He bore Caslin no heed as he walked past, taking the second turn onto Cumberland Street and heading up towards the city centre. Caslin eyed him for a brief moment before checking his watch again.

  Without knowing where the meeting would take place, Caslin decided to get some circulation through his body and set off in the direction of the Tower Gardens. Passing Lower Friargate, he glanced up the street to see if a car was parked up, potentially waiting for him. A man stood a little way off with a mobile phone pressed to his ear, laughing and joking in conversation with someone but he was paying no attention to his surroundings. Caslin walked on.

  A line of terraced, Georgian Townhouses ran to his left for the next hundred yards. Where he walked, at the quayside level, were the arched accesses to the basements. Now being used as garages or general storage areas, they were prone to flooding as and when the river burst its banks which it was liable to do with more regularity than Caslin remembered from his youth. Glancing up at the terrace, lights were on but curtains were drawn. The end of King’s Staith brought him to the Boat Dock, where tourist trips along the river began and ended with the architecturally stunning, Skeldergate Bridge in the background.

  Exhaling heavily, Caslin turned and looked back from where he’d come. The street was deserted. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his mobile phone and scrolled through the contacts. Finding Walsh’s phone number, he dialled it. Leaning against one of the many bollards lining the quay, Caslin waited patiently
for the call to connect. It did so but failed to be answered. The call rang out after thirty seconds without cutting to voicemail. Checking the screen, he saw the connection had been terminated. He redialled, only to be diverted to voicemail as soon as a connection was made.

  Putting the phone away, he looked around. A sense of irritation came to him. No doubt, Walsh would have a reason for being late or unreachable. Caslin didn’t feel as if he was being played for a fool. After all, Walsh had approached him and not the other way around. With it now pushing half-past ten, Caslin figured he’d call it a day. Walking back the way he’d come, he reached the steps but on the spur of the moment, rather than head up, he ducked into the King’s Arms for a swift nightcap. A wall of heat struck him as he opened the outer door. Business was far from brisk with only the regulars apparently in situ and Caslin was able to approach the bar with ease.

  Ordering a pint of beer and a whisky chaser, he handed over a twenty and waited for his change, acknowledging the barman with a nod when he returned. A fire crackled in the hearth, a comforting experience on dark winter nights. Caslin took a table at the front of the building with a window overlooking the river. Tossing his coat and scarf onto a free chair, he sank down. It’d been a long day. Rubbing at his face with his palms, he took a deep breath and then reached for the scotch, downing it in one fluid motion. The sting barely registered as he put the empty glass down and picked up his beer.

  Running the events through his head, Caslin sought to make sense of the investigation. Without Walsh’s intervention, he’d be far deeper into the workings of the neo-Nazi groups currently flooding the city rather than toying with Thomas Grey and the demise of his two associates. Keeping that information from DCI Matheson, among others, was both necessary and telling. He had nothing concrete with which to base these inquiries on and they wouldn’t stand up to any form of scrutiny.

  The door behind him opened as more latecomers entered. Caslin sipped at his pint. The two arrivals walked to the bar and signalled the barman for his attention. Caslin’s thoughts drifted to Kuznetsov’s apparent suicide.

  He was still bothered by that case, not so much because of any evidence of foul play because there wasn’t much of that, more his own reaction to the death. Had the fallen billionaire been an unemployed bricklayer found hanged in his garage, would Caslin be as sceptical about the suicide? He hoped he would approach them equally but the nagging voice in his head wondered whether he was guilty of somewhat overplaying the significance of one man’s breakdown. Why was that? Self-analysis was useful, up to a point but beyond that merely caused analytical paralysis. Caslin cast his doubts aside and returned to his drink. A handful of patrons made to leave, clearly having had a cracking evening, and stumbled out of the door, behind him.

  Caslin smiled and cast an eye around the pub. The two latecomers were propped up at the bar, one seated on a stool, the other standing alongside. Something caught his attention but he didn’t know what it was that had piqued his interest. The two weren’t talking although the one standing had his back to him. Caslin stifled a yawn and then flexed the muscles in his shoulders, rolling them backwards in a circular motion to try and release the tension. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he knew he should head back rather than order another drink.

  Standing up, he drained the remaining half of his pint and picked up his coat and scarf. Returning the empty glasses to the bar, the staff were out of sight when he looked to acknowledge the service and so, left without a word. Stepping out into the cold night air saw him shudder, such was the contrast from within the pub. Pulling his elbows tight to his sides, he rubbed his hands together before putting them in his coat pockets.

  Heading to the right, Caslin mounted the steps up to Bridge Street and the most direct route home across the city centre to his flat, in Kleiser’s Court.

  A bus passed by on the road above, the rumbling sound passing as the sound of the pub doors opening behind him came to ear. A brief glance over his shoulder saw a figure leave the King’s Arms. The man braced against the cold, pulling a hat over his head and he too, began the steep climb to the street above. Caslin continued on. Cresting the top of the stairs, he angled right and eyeing a break in the late-night traffic, trotted across the road to the other side.

  Reaching the old church on the corner, Caslin passed the entrance to Feasegate and crossed onto High Ousegate. The street narrowed and with its mix of three and four-storey shop units, it felt more enclosed. For some reason he felt on edge as if the hairs on the back of neck were upright.

  Very few people were around at this time of night and Caslin became aware of someone walking a short distance behind him but on the other side of the road, over his right shoulder. Pausing at a shop window, Caslin made as if he was checking out one of the interior product displays, lingering over the detail whilst keeping half an eye on the reflection in the glass. As the figure honed into view, it was indeed the man who had left the pub at the same time. He paid no attention to Caslin and walked on, head down and earphones in.

  Caslin shifted his eyes and watched as the figure disappeared from view in the reflection from the shop window. Stepping back, he looked to his right as the man reached the end of the street and took a left. Shaking his head, Caslin smiled at his own paranoia and set off.

  Part way along High Ousegate was Peter’s Lane, a narrow cut through between the buildings. Used largely by employees of the various businesses. The lane, little more than an alley, eventually opened out onto Market Street. Caslin passed down it. Only one source lit the route, an overhanging lamp near to a kink further up the passage. Barely a shoulder’s width at its narrowest, the lane would be almost unnavigable if not for the seeping light pollution from the streets at each end. His footsteps echoed on the stone flags beneath his feet, reverberating off of the brick walls to either side of him.

  Approaching the turn where he expected the passage to widen to a more comfortable norm, allowing vehicular access, Caslin sensed someone else had entered behind him. Following the path to the left, Caslin chanced a glance back the way he’d come before disappearing from view. With scant seconds to make a judgement in the dark, he couldn’t make out any details of who was coming towards him. A few metres ahead and the path turned once again, this time sharply to the right. Increasing his pace, Caslin made it around the corner and scanned the scene. There were multiple doorways, recessed rear-entrances to shops and their associated flats above as well as various gated routes into other buildings.

  There were multiple options for where he could choose to conceal himself. A wooden door that offered access to a small yard was ajar and Caslin brushed aside some collapsed cardboard packaging with his foot in order to open it further and allow him in. He then pulled the door closed just enough to shroud his presence but still leaving him a view of the passage. He retreated into the shadows and waited.

  Moments later, a man came into view, walking briskly. The same man Caslin had eyed in the reflection of the shop window. No longer was he the casual stranger making his way home from the pub. Now, he gave the impression of a focused individual, alert and determined. Caslin recognised him. Not only had he been drinking with the other man back at the pub but he had also appeared on King’s Staith earlier, passing by Caslin and heading into town. Caslin waited, absolutely certain that he was being followed.

  From his own experience, Caslin knew that surveillance teams seldom worked alone and this man certainly had at least one colleague. Confident he’d allowed enough time for his pursuer to round the next bend before he came out from his hiding place, Caslin edged forward. Reaching the next bend, he risked a glance around the corner. Having reached the junction with Market Street, the man was pacing with a phone clamped to his ear. Such was the emptiness of the city at this time of night, Caslin could make out every word.

  “No. I think I’ve lost him… yeah, Market Street… probably heading home,” he said, responding to questioning from the other end of the line. “I don’t know... I didn
’t see anyone… okay, I will.”

  The man put the phone in his pocket and looked in both directions, unsure of which way to go. Caslin followed, a dozen paces behind. Quickening his own pace, he sought to make up the ground between them with the brighter lights and noise of the busier street to mask and detract from his approach. Setting himself, Caslin was buoyed at how his makeshift plan had played out. Confident he could comfortably challenge the man in a more public area, he stepped it up.

  Late-night revellers passed by, granting further cover and Caslin increased the speed of his approach. Barely two steps behind, he braced to take down his target only to see him turn at the final moment with impossibly quick speed, dropping his shoulder as Caslin reached out. An iron grip took a hold of Caslin’s forearm and without the time to process what happened, he found himself upended, seeing the streetlights above pass by in a whirlwind of blurred, orange light.

  Striking the flag stones at an alarming rate, Caslin felt the air burst from his lungs. He rolled and came upright, lunging at his opponent who, in turn, advanced on him. Throwing himself forward into the man’s midriff, Caslin clasped his arms around him and drove his head into his stomach. His opponent groaned as he was forced back and against a shop window. The latter flexing under the pressure. The advantage was short-lived as Caslin felt a knee rise into his stomach, striking him forcefully. The pain shot up through his chest and again, the wind was knocked from him.

  Losing his grip, Caslin slumped to his knees and was thrown backwards as the man pushed off. Trying to stand, a fist struck him across the left cheek and he was sent sprawling to the ground, arms flailing.

  Panic flared within as he made to stand. Having lost both the element of surprise and the upper hand, Caslin knew he was in trouble. A crushing blow struck his ribs and he doubled over. The kick saw him collapse into a heap. Some excited shouts came from distance and Caslin sensed hesitation in his opponent because no further blows were forthcoming. Rolling onto his side, fearing the next onslaught, he was surprised to see a figure sprinting away along Market Street. Looking around, he was alone, once again.