Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Read online

  Rising, feeling refreshed, he made it into Fulford Road before 8 a.m., having first called in at the café below his apartment to pick up a breakfast roll and a cup of coffee. On the way through he noticed that Linda wasn’t in reception and hoped that she was just running late. She was never late. Taking the stairs up to CID two at a time, he found the squad room was deserted. Why that was, he could only guess at. For once ignoring the progress boards for the Ravenscar case, he pulled up a chair and powered up his laptop. As expected, he found several emails marked for attention. One was from Harman, sent the previous afternoon, and scanning through it he picked up the general information. The websites managed through McNeil’s server had been mixed content, from pornography to get-rich-quick schemes. Caslin didn’t understand the reference to something called “Tor” but Harman highlighted it as particularly notable.

  Sifting through the spam in his inbox, he opened an email from Dr Taylor. She had been able to ascertain that William Johnson had indeed been buried twice, apparently uncovered and reburied within the previous ten days. Caslin found that time-frame curious and figured it was significant. He was also pleased to see that Dr Taylor had signed off her email by pointing out that he hadn’t left her his personal number. He reflected on what she had written, not regarding the case, but as to whether she was inferring a social engagement. After several minutes of rereading and analysing the one sentence, it dawned on him that he had no way of knowing her intentions and decided that he would call her later that day.

  Pulling out his phone he dialled Harman’s number but the call wouldn’t connect and was directed straight to voicemail. Looking around CID at the lack of presence, he decided now was a good time to pen an update for Gerry Trent and his investigation. He had no idea what the IPCC would make of everything that he had turned up to date. If he was honest, he couldn’t comprehend it yet himself. It took well over an hour for him to compile a relatively complete time-frame of where his investigation had taken him thus far. Certain aspects he chose to not to share, therefore limiting his writing to the core detail alone. Once he had reviewed the piece several times and he was satisfied with the content, he attached it to an email and sent it directly to Trent.

  The unhealthy breakfast left him still feeling hungry and he pulled on his coat to head down to the refectory to get something else to eat. There was a general background noise as he entered, not in itself unusual but there was a level of disquiet that was palpable. Caslin joined the queue. Picking up an apple and some fruit juice which he placed on his tray, he glanced around the room. There was something going on. He waited until the line shuffled up and he reached the till. No-one stood behind him and once clear he asked the operator, a retired lady whose name slipped his mind, what was going on. She shook her head, her face conveying a look of genuine sadness.

  “That young lad in CID, it’s very sad.”

  “Which lad?”

  She seemed amazed at Caslin’s ignorance, “That smartly dressed chap, the Chief Constable’s son.”

  “Harman? What’s he done now?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  Caslin stopped. Giving her his full attention, he conveyed an expression that demonstrated he truly had no idea what she was about to say.

  “He was found early this morning, dead.”

  Passage of time ceased. The noise in the background no longer registered. It was as if the world had stopped spinning for the briefest of moments before Caslin was able to register the information. The lady before him was still talking. He could see the lips moving but no sound appeared to be coming to his ears.

  “… cleaner found him, I heard—”

  “Where?”

  “In the bedroom, is what people are saying—”

  “No, where? His apartment?”

  She nodded, “Hanged they say. He was such a polite young man. Tragic really.”

  Caslin left his tray where it lay before the till and stumbled out of the canteen. He felt nauseous and with each step his feet felt heavier. Two officers greeted him as he passed by but he didn’t respond. Once out in the corridor he stopped, propping his back against the wall and looking to the ceiling. He took a deep breath. Surely there was a mistake? Harman had seemed perfectly fine when he had spoken to him… when was it… yesterday, perhaps the day before? Quickly he made his way to the gents and after first checking that he was alone, ran a basin full of cold water. Cupping with both hands, he threw some over his face. Drawing his palms across his cheeks, he eyed himself in the mirror between breaths.

  What was Harman looking at? The question sprang to the forefront of his mind. Had he stumbled across something that might have got him killed? Massaging his fingers into his cheeks and eyes, he let the water trickle from his chin, dripping back into the basin. A uniform entered behind him and Caslin pulled a couple of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall to dry his face, depositing them in the waste bin on his way out. Back in the corridor, he headed for the DCI’s office with a determined pace.

  DCI Stephens beckoned Caslin in, despite the latter’s failure to knock.

  “Is it true?” Caslin asked. Reading the haunted expression from across the room, he already knew the answer.

  Frank Stephens nodded. His voice almost broke as he spoke.

  “It’s true. The housekeeper found him this morning, it was too late. There was nothing to be done for him.”

  Caslin stood just inside the office, thoughts coming to him in a random fashion.

  “It’s not right,” he mumbled.

  “We’ve seen it a hundred times, Nathaniel. But you’re correct, it’s not right.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant. He’s not the type.”

  “Well, I was there first thing this morning, with Atwood and Hunter. It’s pretty clear. We found a bottle of anti-depressants in his kitchen, along with a repeat prescription. From the date on the label it seems he’s been on them for some time.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Nor did anyone else, by the look of it.”

  “It still doesn’t make any sense.”

  “In these cases, does it ever?”

  “Did you look for—”

  “Of course, we bloody looked,” Stephens’ anger flared but he swiftly brought it back under control. “I know it’s hard—”

  “Did he leave anything?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “That’s unusual—”

  “You’re reaching,” Stephens interrupted him. “It’s not unusual and you know it. Michael pointed it out and he was right, that more often than not, people don’t leave anything. Unless of course, you know something specific that the rest of us don’t?”

  Caslin thought about it but shook his head. Harman suggested that the content of his email was important but there was nothing to set alarm bells ringing.

  “He tried to get a hold of me last night but I… my phone was off.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, Nathaniel. The lad was trying to escape his demons. He managed it.”

  Caslin sighed, “He was working on the computer set-up, out at Radford Farm.”

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  Caslin shook his head, “I can’t see how it would be. He implied that he was on to something.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Check it out, make certain, if you feel it necessary.”

  “You’re sure there was nothing to find, nothing out of place?”

  “The apartment was what you would expect from Maxim. It was as immaculately turned out as him.”

  “Suicide,” Caslin said softly.

  “It doesn’t sit well with me, either. He’s one...” the DCI paused as his words caught in his throat, “one of our own.”

  The artificial glow from the mixture of street and Christmas lights emanating from outside the apartment, lent the sitting room an ethereal appearance. He blinked several times. The sash window was cracked open and there wer
e some revellers passing below. Their voices grew faint as they moved on. He hadn’t imagined it. There was another knock at the door, it was his door. Looking around, Caslin tried to ascertain what time it was but he had no idea. The day had passed in a blur.

  This wasn’t the first time he had come across a colleague in similar events. Once he was called out to find a constable hanged in a garage, only two weeks following retirement, and three days after his wife had left him for another man. This was different, Harman was just starting out. The job shouldn’t have worn him down so soon. He was inexperienced without a doubt but intelligent, and far more able than he was often given credit for, even by Caslin. Such a waste. However, no matter how often he replayed the conversation with Frank Stephens in his mind, the feeling of unease surrounding the circumstances tugged away at him. Could he have done more? Undoubtedly. Would he have been able to guide the younger man? Most probably. The thought that lingered more often than not, was that perhaps Maxim had chosen him to be his saviour. The number of calls made that day to Caslin’s mobile could have been entirely professional, but were they? Unanswerable questions that constantly repeated in his mind.

  The knock at the door came again, only this time more forcefully. Dragging himself upright, Caslin made his way out. Unlocking the deadbolt and opening the door without looking through the spy hole, he wished he had.

  “Good evening, Inspector. Your landlady let me through the outer door.”

  “Good evening, Mr Trent.”

  The two men stared at each other in the dim light of the communal hallway for a few moments. The visitor offered up a brown paper bag. Caslin took it and inspected the contents. A bottle of Jura.

  “Very nice. You had best come in.”

  Caslin led them back inside, putting on lights as they passed through into the sitting room. Trent took his coat off and for the moment at least, slung it over his forearm, choosing to remain standing.

  “No need to break the seal on that just because I brought it for you.”

  Caslin laughed, “I’ve not had a drop all day, if that was what you were getting at.”

  Trent smiled easily in return, offering his hands out apologetically.

  “Nothing was further from my thoughts. I remember that you are picky about who you drink with that’s all.”

  Caslin headed out into the kitchen to pick up some glasses. Trent lay his coat across the back of a chair at the dining table, confident that he would be staying for a little while longer. Casually he took in the archive box that sat atop the table, running an index finger along the top of the files contained within. Tilting his head to one side, he raised an eyebrow as Caslin returned with two glasses in one hand and an ice cube tray in another.

  “I prefer water with mine but I don’t know how you take it.”

  “Ice will be fine,” Trent replied. Indicating the files, he asked, “Who is Lucy Stafford?”

  Caslin passed him a glass, now containing three ice cubes and offered up the scotch. Trent nodded and found his glass filled with a healthy measure.

  “Just a cold case that I’ve had on the go.”

  Caslin put the bottle on the table and replaced the lid back onto the archive box.

  “It was only a casual enquiry. I’m not here to give you any cause for concern.”

  Caslin smiled, “Up until recently, cold cases have been all that I’ve been tasked with. I don’t mind telling you that it’s been pretty much ball-ache for the past year.”

  Trent swirled the ice around in his glass.

  “Bad Karma?”

  Caslin assessed the man before him. There didn’t appear to be any malice in his demeanour and he chose not to look for any. Raising his glass, they met eyes.

  “To absent friends,” Caslin said solemnly.

  “Absent friends,” Trent repeated.

  Caslin took a seat and indicated for Trent to do the same but the latter declined, crossing to the far side of the room. He glanced down into the street below, taking in the view of the scaffolding against the building opposite. Without turning he began to speak. Caslin was stunned at what followed.

  “I believe that I owe you an apology… of sorts,” Trent said evenly. He glanced over his shoulder and could read the expression on Caslin’s face, “No need to be concerned, Inspector. You’re not dreaming. I feel that despite my best intentions I may have allowed our past connection to, how should I put it, influence my approach to this current investigation.”

  “Prejudice you, you mean?”

  Trent turned and inclined his head ever so slightly, which was the closest Caslin would get to an acknowledgement. Both men took another sip before Trent continued.

  “I have read your report and although your investigation is yet to be concluded, mine on the other hand, is pretty clear and concise. The full publication will have to wait for the conclusion of all official protocols and so on, but I feel it only fair and prudent to indicate—”

  “Spit it out, Gerry.”

  “You are in the clear… well in the clear.”

  “I didn’t put a foot wrong.”

  Trent shook his head, “I will admit that was not the conclusion that I was expecting to reach, but no. Nor did any of your colleagues, I might add. Perhaps a better search procedure but let us be candid, who looks for ampoules of poison with a Road Traffic Accident? Strange business.”

  “Not a lot stranger, to be sure.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your colleague.”

  Caslin didn’t answer. He merely took on a distant look as he stared at nothing in particular.

  “Any idea what would drive him to such a rash action?”

  “Not really,” Caslin sighed. “Work stress, self-esteem issues, overbearing parental expectations… pick your cliché. Maybe all of them, maybe none.”

  “It is hard to ascribe rational thought to such an irrational act.”

  Caslin had to agree. It was an assessment that summed it up in a nutshell. However, he was still struggling to resolve Harman’s apparent suicide in his mind. Was that because of the burden to his conscience or was there really something else that he expected to find? If, as everyone kept telling him, it was self-inflicted, then the chances were that he would never know the reasoning behind it. That saddened him further still. Realising his glass was empty he rose and poured himself a refill, offering the same to his guest, who accepted. Ignoring the water this time, Caslin sipped at the neat scotch. The thought struck him how odd it was to be sharing this moment with a man whom he had hated with such a passion over the past two years.

  “Just thinking about our situation, were you?” Caslin shrugged off the question. Trent held up a hand, “No need to answer. I could read the look you just gave me. Believe me I didn’t think that I would be sharing a drink with you under the circumstances, either. It’s funny how things go sometimes, isn’t it?”

  Caslin smiled as he re-seated himself.

  “Seeing as we are breaking the moulds here, you should probably know that you were right.”

  Trent was intrigued, pulling out a dining chair. He sat down opposite Caslin and leaned forward, elbows to his knees.

  “How so, with what?”

  “I broke the rules and you punished me for it. Not saying that I agree with you. I had my reasons.”

  “You found the girl.”

  “Yes, I brought her home,” Caslin glanced into his glass before drinking from it. “I promised her mother I would do just that.”

  “And you did.”

  “I did and her family were grateful.”

  “So, it would appear but in doing so, you prejudiced a future trial and the killer will never face justice for that crime.”

  “He’s inside, he’ll never get out. I can live with that and more importantly, so can her family.”

  “But not the family of the previous—”

  “They had their day in court. He was found guilty and that’s why he’s never getting out.”

  “They wanted more.
”

  “They usually do,” Caslin said forlornly.

  “The family felt that he should have gone down for the second girl as well.”

  Caslin shrugged, “We can’t all have what we want, can we? They have no cause for complaint in my book.”

  Trent appeared rueful, “I did my job.”

  Caslin glanced up, his expression lightening, “And I did mine. It’s just a bloody pity that you’re so damn good at yours, though.”

  Both men laughed as they raised their glasses once more.

  Chapter 23

  Harman had both called and sent Caslin an email, the latter was under review again today. At no point was anything other than case-related material contained within it. There was no indication of a mercy call as far as he could tell. At least that was his conclusion until 10 a.m. that morning. Answering the phone, he was surprised to find the caller was Anthony Harman, Maxim’s father. Caught slightly off guard, Caslin didn’t know what to say apart from the standard condolences that one offered. The words appeared wholly inadequate to him as they came out. The reason for the contact quickly became apparent, making the conversation even more uncomfortable.

  “… my son admired you greatly,” Chief Constable Harman said. “You were making a great impression on him.”

  Caslin felt like a cheat.

  “… I don’t know what to say…”

  “There’s no need to say anything. Only that you would do as I wish.”

  “I’m not sure that I can. I mean no disrespect, merely that there must be someone more qualified, more suitable—”

  “I understand your concerns, Inspector. However, I must say that I had not seen my son so enthused with his work as he was in the past few weeks. This case, although disturbing to him, was inspirational. Much of which, I put down to you.”

  “I am still not sure, Sir.”

  “No need to make up your mind today. I appreciate that I’ve put you on the spot. Will you consider it over the next few days?”

  “I’ll do that, Sir.”

  “Perhaps I can come back to you once we have a date set?” Caslin agreed. Taking a role in Maxim’s funeral service struck a sense of dread into him. The passing of a few days would not make him change his mind, of that he was certain. The call left him questioning what he thought he knew about the young detective. Having worked with him briefly, Caslin did not feel a particular bond with the lad, nor did he feel that their relationship was anything other than basic at best. Evidently Harman held a different view, one conveyed to his father. This was unsettling. Had Maxim called for help that night?