The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3) Page 23

  Broadfoot smiled awkwardly as the family gathered their coats and filed past him, Lizzie the last to leave after flinging herself at her father, for a farewell hug. Caslin winced but didn’t allow her to see his pain, turning it into a big smile to see her off.

  “How is your son…” Broadfoot paused, searching his mind for the name.

  “Sean,” Caslin offered.

  “Yes, sorry. How is he?”

  “Remarkably well,” Caslin said. “He’s resilient but…well, we’ve arranged some counselling for him. One step at a time.”

  “Good to hear,” Broadfoot responded. “And your surgery. How did that go?”

  “The prognosis is good, Sir. Thank you.” It was evident from his demeanour that Broadfoot wanted to move the conversation on to a business footing. There followed a brief period of silence between them, the minimum length of time to remain respectful.

  “There isn’t an easy way to tell you this, Nathaniel,” Broadfoot began, “your request to issue a European Arrest Warrant for Paraic Nelson has been declined.”

  Caslin put his head back against his pillow, “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “The evidence against him is largely circumstantial-”

  “So, he walks away from trying to kill me, my family?”

  “You can’t prove he was behind Sean’s abduction nor any instruction to have you killed either. Did anyone implicate Nelson, directly?” Broadfoot asked, pulling aside the chair vacated by Karen and sitting down.

  “No-one left alive, no, Sir,” Caslin replied. As much as he hated to admit it, the DCS was right. Knowing and proving, were very different things.

  “The Civil Aviation Authority is trying to track down the origins of the helicopter but none of the nomenclature is on file. It never existed. Nothing matching it is recorded taking off from any airfield within a hundred miles. The body count you left on the moor, significant as it was, has led us nowhere. None of them appear to have been carrying identification and their prints are not on file.”

  “How can that be possible?” Caslin asked.

  Broadfoot shook his head, “Based on Heinrich Schmidt’s background, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re being stonewalled by other agencies. Speaking of which, your mystery saviour has vanished into thin air. That strikes me as more than a little suspicious. Are you sure you didn’t recognise him?”

  Caslin shook his head, “No, Sir. I wish I had.”

  “Bottom line,” Broadfoot continued, “the investigation is to be handed over to the Serious Fraud Office. They, along with the NCA, will examine any role that Christopher Fairchild had in any insider dealing and act accordingly. I know it’s not the outcome you were after and, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You lost a lot, in this case…your friend…very nearly, your son.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Caslin replied, lying back and closing his eyes.

  “Speaking of which,” Broadfoot continued, in an amenable tone, unusual for him and one he was ill at ease with, “Aiden Reece’s funeral will take place in two days” time. He wasn’t survived by any family and judging by his chequered past, it will be a low-key affair. I thought you would want to attend.”

  “Not really, Sir,” Caslin replied. “I appreciate you thinking of me but I don’t feel the need.”

  “As you wish,” Broadfoot said with a raised eyebrow. “Several points of admin for you to be aware of, Nathaniel.”

  “Sir?”

  “Fulford Road will have a new DCI by the end of the month. You knew your appointment was only temporary but you equipped yourself admirably.” Caslin smiled in appreciation however, much to his own surprise, he was disheartened by the news. “Lastly my confirmation has come through. I’ll be taking up the lead role in Yorkshire’s Crime Directorate, from the beginning of November.”

  “Congratulations, Sir,” Caslin replied, eyeing movement in the corridor beyond as a figure approached the door only to veer off at the last moment.

  “We don’t have the luxuries of the Metropolitan Police. Here, in Yorkshire, resources are being centralised, Nathaniel. We have to be far more adaptable to the requirements of modern policing. I intend to restructure, build a new team. One with the ability to deploy at a moment’s notice…and I want you to run it for me.”

  “Me?” Caslin said with genuine surprise.

  “Your approach may be unorthodox but you know how to get results and that’s the important thing.”

  “I’m not sure I agree,” Caslin replied.

  “You’re wasted at Fulford Road, Nathaniel. You’re going nowhere-”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sir,” Caslin cut in without masking the sarcasm.

  “It’s a clean slate, Nathaniel,” Broadfoot said, standing and making to leave. “Think about it.”

  Broadfoot excused himself, leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Instinctively, Caslin felt he should remain where he was, at Fulford Road, but with so much change afoot, perhaps it was time to consider moving on. Moments later, the door reopened and Jimmy Sullivan entered, glancing behind him at the departing form of the DCS.

  “He doesn’t bite, Jimmy,” Caslin said grinning. The journalist shrugged.

  “Senior ranks don’t take to me,” Jimmy said in justification.

  “I know the feeling. Thanks for paying me a visit, Jimmy but there’s no need. I’ll be home soon.”

  “Aye, I thought I’d bring you some bits and pieces. You know? Seeing as hospital food is as it is.”

  Caslin eyed his empty hands, “And?”

  Sullivan stared blankly at him, before registering the unasked question, “Oh, right. Then, Karen told me you’d had a heart op so I thought chocolate, scotch and stuff wouldn’t be good for you-”

  “I didn’t have a heart attack…never mind,” Caslin said, shaking his head. “So, why are you here?”

  Sullivan glanced over his shoulder, as if worried someone would overhear, “To thank you, firstly.”

  “For what?”

  “Going as far as you did, for Emily. It means a lot to me,” Sullivan said, before continuing, “and also, to let you know I took a call earlier, from a mutual friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Seamus Hanlon,” Sullivan said, referencing the Gardaí detective with another nervous glance towards the door. “He sends you his best. Also, he wanted to give us the heads up before it becomes common knowledge.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They found Paraic Nelson, this morning, at the bottom of a multi-storey car park. Looks like he took a dive off the roof, sometime in the early hours. He made quite a mess, by all accounts.”

  Caslin exhaled slowly, “You think his conscience got the better of him?”

  Sullivan stifled a guttural laugh of contempt, “You reckon he ever had one?”

  “He had to move fast, before Nelson had a chance to react,” Caslin said aloud.

  “What’s that you say?” Sullivan queried with a puzzled look.

  “The dead don’t seek justice. That’s for the living to do, on their behalf,” Caslin said quietly, his thoughts turning to Aiden Reece.

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  Also in the Dark Yorkshire series;


  Divided House

  (DARK YORKSHIRE – BOOK 1)

  Terrifying, dark and complex. Divided House introduces us to DI Nathaniel Caslin, a man navigating both personal and professional nightmares against a backdrop of conspiracy, torture and murder.

  USA - www.amazon.com/dp/B07BHR8VXQ

  UK - www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BHR8VXQ

  Blacklight

  (DARK YORKSHIRE – BOOK 2)

  A frightening thriller that chills the soul. Kidnapping and murder come to York, where the lines between victim and suspect are increasingly blurred.

  USA - www.amazon.com/dp/B07BHZW2W3

  UK - www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BHZW2W3

  Blood Money

  (DARK YORKSHIRE – BOOK 4)

  A series of random deaths draws DI Caslin into the corrupt world of high finance and extremist ideology, directly threatening those who prefer to remain in the shadows.

  - Coming Late 2018

  www.jmdalgliesh.com

  Blood Money Preview

  Dark Yorkshire - Book 4

  Chapter One

  The Americano was drinkable, now. Sitting in the café, having watched the world go by for the past thirty minutes, had given the liquid a chance to cool. Putting the last piece of his meatball panini into his mouth, he wiped his fingers, then his lips, with a paper napkin, before scrunching it into a ball and tossing it onto the empty plate. The mad rush of custom at this time of the day was easing off. The establishment was still full. There were several families, corralling their children in the narrow passages between tables. Presumably they were off school, this week. Others, out for a dose of retail therapy, compared their purchases and discussed their next port-of-call. The general noise level was such that voices were often raised to be heard above the sound of the coffee grinder and steam wands, cutting across all other sounds. He didn’t care. His mind was a picture of calm, weeding out the unnecessary and focussing on the task at hand.

  The lack of direct sunlight, on this, an overcast day, leant the interior a darkness that it needn’t have been. The entrance door opened as three people came in. The first held the door for the others, allowing an unwelcome blast of cold air to be drawn through, across those already seated. Some glanced in the direction of the newcomers, conveying unspoken displeasure at the draught. The street beyond the full-height window he was sitting next to, was remarkably busy for a week day. The sound of a drum beating came to his ear and he turned his attention in that direction. Approaching from the east, was a mass of people. They stood out from the remainder of the throng, navigating York’s pedestrianised zone. Whistles blew in unison and those seated around him began to look also. Men and women of all ages and colours, marched past in a haphazard fashion. Those at the head of the column, clutching a banner before them, the ones who followed, brandishing placards or blowing into whistles, with fervour.

  His phone, set out on the table before him, vibrated. Glancing down, as the text message flashed up, he shot a brief look across the street, beyond the demonstrators and towards the figure directly opposite him, standing in the recess of a shop entrance. They made eye contact and he nodded, almost imperceptibly, unless you were watching for it. The movement was acknowledged and the man casually set off. The attention span of those within the café was limited. The notion came to him that these people cared little for the demonstration passing by, outside. They had better things to be doing; shopping, eating and chatting. If only they knew, he thought to himself, standing. Their lives were so simple, so superficial… so boring.

  Leaving the half-cup of coffee on the table, he slipped his phone into his pocket and picked his way through the people seated around him. Wrapping his scarf around his neck, he buttoned up his overcoat in preparation for the temperature drop as he went outside. Brushing against one woman, he uttered an apology but she didn’t hear it nor did she flinch, so engrossed was she, in her conversation. Stepping out into the street, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The brief spell of clement weather, the Indian summer, someone he’d overheard called it, was now a distant memory. The rain threatened to fall again, at any moment. This reminded him of home, although, it was still warmer. Two police officers strolled past, accompanying the stragglers waving their placards in the air, their breath sending clouds of vapour around them as they walked. No doubt, the higher concentration of resources would be found at the counter protest, that engineered by the nationalists, across the city. He admired the provocative nature of launching an anti-immigrant rally in a city with few migrants along with a high concentration of students. It was sure to draw attention, which, of course, was the intention.

  Setting off in the opposite direction, he felt his phone vibrate, once again. Taking it out of his pocket he registered the text and increased his pace. The last time he had walked the route, it took him twelve minutes but today, he had some ground to make up so would be quicker. Central York had an abundance of cut-throughs and passages that could assist in traversing the city, if you knew where they led and how to find them. Another message came through. This one brought a smile to his face. They had stopped briefly, either due to being easily distracted or their presence had been noted. No matter. Everything was well in hand.

  Leaving the hub of the merchant’s quarter behind, he had to step from the narrow pavement into oncoming traffic, in order to navigate past a gaggle of people, window shopping. Eyeing a break, he sprinted across the road, raising a hand to the nearest driver who braked in order to give him space to cross. Taking a right onto Fossgate, he headed further out of the centre. The crowds rapidly began to thin as popular shops were replaced with niche establishments, once he passed over the river. Fossgate became Walmgate and business premises intermingled with small, modern residential blocks, brick façades, uninspiring in comparison to anything less than two hundred yards in the direction he’d come from.

  Upon reaching his destination, he stopped, eyeing the communal entrances to each block. No-one was coming or going, so the opportunity to slip through was unavailable. Knowing that the security doors were not fit for purpose, certainly not for someone of his own skill-set anyway, he acknowledged to himself they were nothing if not time-consuming. Of an evening, it would certainly be workable to enter that way but in broad daylight, a little too brazen, even for him. Further along were the gated entrances, giving access to the gardens at the rear. Approaching, he found them to be locked, as expected. They were of metal construction, six feet high, and cast with spikes at the top. Decorative but not effective against anything but an opportunist.

  A quick glance around to ensure he would pass unnoticed and within seconds, he had scaled the railings, hoisted himself over the top and dropped to the other side, unobserved. Casually walking to the rear, he cut to his left and found himself in a grassed courtyard area, overlooked only by the residential flats of the block. Nothing stirred. The uniform small, square windows, adorning every flat, were shrouded with net curtains or dropped blinds. People here valued their privacy, even if it came at the cost of natural light. Moving with purpose, he walked to the fourth window along, on the ground floor.

  One last look around and he withdrew a slim metal strip, concealed within his coat. An inch wide, smooth and incredibly slim, he slipped it between window and frame, jockeying it into position. Once happy, he thrust it upwards and felt the reassuring sensation of the latch moving away. The window cracked open and he eased it out towards him. Putting his tool away, he brushed aside the curtain and clambered in, pulling the window closed behind him. The process had taken only the briefest of moments.

  The room was as he had found previously, spartanly furnished and stale, desperately in need of some fresh air. Inspecting the dining table, he scanned a magazine that had been left open upon it, this month’s National Geographic. Alongside that was a book on the fundamentals of economics. The ticking of the clock, mounted on the wall in the narrow kitchen, set off the multi-function living space, carried thro
ugh to where he stood. Movement in the corner of his eye saw him turn to see a cat stretching out, on the sofa, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously. He ignored it and walked towards the hallway. Off to the left was the bathroom and another door, to the one and only bedroom. To the right, three metres away, was the front door, accessed from the communal entrance. Glancing at his watch, he knew there wouldn’t be long to wait.

  As if on cue, a key was inserted into the lock, apparently in somewhat of a rush as the bearer struggled to get it into place. A vision of a flustered man, came to mind as the latch disengaged and the door flew open. Taking a step back from view, he held his breath so as not to make his presence known, becoming one with the wall. The adrenalin coursed through him, as always but externally, his outward appearance was a picture of measured calm. The sound of someone entering and swiftly closing the door behind, dropping the latch and hastily attaching the security chain, assured him that their quarry was indeed, aware of his colleagues’ attention.

  Reaching into his coat, he withdrew the weapon, no more than six inches in length and easy to conceal. Depressing the power button, he allowed it a moment to activate. Stepping back into the hall, the resident was startled to find a man standing before him, gun raised. The red laser, levelled a dot directly to the centre of his midriff. He raised a hand in supplication.

  “No, wait-”

  The request was never completed. The barbed probes were deployed, punching through his heavy, winter clothing and delivering their burst of energy. Both sensory and motor nervous-systems were overwhelmed and he dropped to his knees, with a barely audible grunt, wide-eyed and straining every visible muscle. Covering the distance between them with speed, he pressed the Taser against the bare skin of the man’s neck. Deploying the second charge incapacitated him yet further. He slumped sideways to the floor, losing consciousness.