Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 23

  “The scene has been processed in its entirety. I’ll have a summary written up for you by close of play Monday. But as for the finer detail, you can whistle. It’ll take months.”

  “Can you give me any of the headlines?”

  “You’re going to be busy, or at least I will continue to be. We have potentially twenty sets of prints to process through the system. Once duplicates are filtered out, it may be fewer. Many are historic and have degraded but the conditions in there have helped retain them. Likewise, we have DNA profiles. Some of which will require a great deal of study, down to cross contamination. However, with a fair wind and a bit of luck we may get hits on the database.”

  “Any further joy with the server?”

  “No, afraid not,” Robertson sounded dejected. “That was young Maxim’s work. I haven’t been able to get a techie to take that on yet. I’m sorry, it’s just—”

  “No need, Iain, I understand. That’s hit us in many ways.”

  “I’ll be there on Monday, for the funeral, but I’ll still get my findings to you beforehand. We could head over together if you like?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll make my own way, no offence.”

  “None taken.”

  “Any word on the bone fragments that you turned up in the woods?”

  “Not only in the woods, also in the furnace of the heating system.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, too right. By my reckoning we have at least four bodies buried in the woods, to be certain will take more time as they appear to have been scattered.”

  “Scattered?”

  “Dismembered, burnt and or scattered. It’s a misconception that human bones burn down to ashes, even in a crematorium. They dry out but need to be pulverised in order to achieve that result. My guess is that has been done rather crudely, in this case, and then strewn about to get shot of the evidence. Once we can assemble all the remnants, we will have a clearer idea.”

  “The child?”

  Robertson paused.

  “We will have a clearer idea once we assemble the…”

  “I understand,” Caslin said with a heavy heart.

  He had suspected for some time, that when Angela Horsvedt had asked what had become of her child, the reality was that he was already dead. Robertson was unofficially confirming that hypothesis. How the monstrous scenario of Radford Farm matched the general opinion that seemed widely held on Garry McNeil, did not sit well. How this man who was so easy going, fun to be around and an above average soldier with a largely unblemished military record, could inflict such evil on those around him was almost unfathomable. Almost. The only negative descriptions came from an unknown source, courtesy of an untrustworthy hack, and the deceased’s ex. The latter was not unusual in itself and coming from this particular ex, gave him further cause for concern.

  The skill of mirroring others was well documented in those with the propensity to kill. How many times had he heard someone state that their friend, or neighbour, was the last person that could ever be involved in such a horrendous act. That inherent ability to blend in, to operate in plain sight was something that few could learn, it was a natural talent. What Caslin often referred to as the “Divided House” of a person’s psyche, the public face versus the private reality. The more he thought about it, the more Garry McNeil fitted the criteria.

  The seemingly unproductive meeting in Catterick took a new twist when his phone rang. The car was warming up and Caslin, having fastened his seatbelt, was reversing from his parking bay when he stopped to answer the call. An irate Frank Stephens was at the other end.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing in Catterick?”

  Looking back towards the building that he had vacated only a quarter of an hour previously, Caslin exhaled heavily. Word certainly travelled fast.

  Chapter 25

  Dressed in dark blue, Caslin was able to blend into the shadows as he silently nursed the glass before him. The drink had been sitting on the table since he took his seat half an hour previously, but no scotch had passed his lips as yet.

  The smell of damp was once again present, not surprising considering he was seated well below the level of the Ouse, barely twenty feet away through the wall behind him. Once the heaters and dehumidifiers were fully engaged, the smell would soon dissipate. A couple descended the steps to the lower cellar of Lendal’s and occupied a booth at the other end, well away from the lone figure hunched in the far corner. The recessed lighting illuminated the vaulted ceiling but did little to bathe the patrons in revealing detail.

  It came as a great surprise to Caslin that he had no guilt for his vanishing act. Having risen in plenty of time, with every intention of making the service, he walked to his car only to divert his path back into the old town and head for the Cellars. Once beneath ground, the anxiety subsided to be replaced with an all too familiar apathy. He drained his glass in a single motion. Closing his eyes as the aftertaste bit, he replaced the empty glass on the table. Laughter permeated from the far end and he glanced across. The simple pleasure of lunch with a friend or loved one, he missed that. Not nearly enough to encourage him to make more friends but he felt sure that their day was infinitely better than his.

  A waitress walked past, a full-figured woman in her thirties. Caslin couldn’t remember her name. Noticing the empty glass, she scooped it up and placed it on her tray.

  “Same again, Nate?”

  “It’s a little early, probably shouldn’t.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  The waitress smiled as she made off, Caslin returning it with one of his own even though his was forced. At the far end the young man rose from the booth, with a menu in hand, and headed upstairs to the bar. His partner remained seated and quickly became engrossed in her phone. Apart from an odd sound emanating from the next level up of the Cellars, silence prevailed. Caslin retrieved the vial from his inner pocket and with one last furtive glance around he unscrewed the top. Tapping a little of the contents onto the reverse of his hand, he swiftly sniffed the powder. Wiping the remainder off his hand with his forefinger, he rubbed it along the length of his gums, secreting the vial back inside his coat as he did so. Today was not going to be a day of abstinence.

  Withdrawing his own phone, he could see that he had no signal, which pleased him. One of the attractions of this pub was that very fact. Although others seemed to manage without issue, his network wasn’t strong enough to penetrate the brickwork. The couple at the booth were reunited and a quick conversation took place as the man sat down. A glance in Caslin’s direction from both of them made him realise it was time to leave. Putting his phone away he stood up and quickly pulled on his overcoat, concealing the uniform as he passed through the cellar. All of a sudden, he was sweating and his gums felt as if they were tingling. Ensuring that he didn’t make eye contact as he went, he climbed the stairs, crossed the upper bar to the exit and up out onto the street. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the daylight, albeit an overcast morning. The smell from the kitchens of the Italian restaurant next door drifted through the air, and he realised he was hungry. Two gulls landed on the railings of the balcony above, squawking at him in a demand for food. Drawing his coat tightly about him, he turned left up the cobbled street and headed into the city centre as the rain began to fall.

  Picking up a takeaway coffee and a ham sandwich from an independent café, he made his way back towards the river. The rain had turned out to be a light drizzle that soon passed off, leaving a brighter, yet cloudy sky. The towpath was relatively empty and he slowly walked the route, keeping within the tree line that edged the park alongside the river, as he ate.

  Frank Stephens had given him another three days to generate something useful from the surveillance on Chloe McNeil’s address before he had vowed to pull the plug on the operation. With Iain Robertson’s team completing their on-site investigation and little to associate her with active participation in the events, the DCI was keen to tie the case of
f.

  A successful conclusion would make good copy for the press and therefore relieve the burden of pressure on both CID and the management. Radford Farm and Ravenscar were proving damaging to the notion that law and order were being maintained. The cases had become a political issue, Ravenscar in particular, which was never a good development in an investigation. The team spent precious time attending briefings and answering telephone enquiries from councillors, as well as the office of the constituency MP, who all thought they should be kept aware of progress. In reality, they were tying up resources better utilised elsewhere. A quick win with the closure of the file on Garry McNeil would be advantageous, neat and tidy. He could even put a pretty bow on it for them if that was their desire.

  Caslin took out his phone and looked up Colin Brotherton, hitting the call tab as soon as he found the number. The phone rang for some time and he was about to hang up before the retired detective answered. They exchanged greetings before Caslin got to his motivation for the call.

  “Colin, can you tell me anything about a girl by the name of Vickers?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line and Caslin had to consider that the link was so insignificant that it may have escaped the detective altogether.

  “Vickers, Vickers… doesn’t ring a bell. Can you help me out a bit?”

  “Sure. She was interviewed in your investigation, not by yourself but a DC Flanaghan—”

  “Chloe Vickers,” Brotherton interrupted excitedly. “She knew Maxine.”

  “Excellent, do you remember any details taken in her statement?”

  “Oooh, vaguely but I don’t recall it being significant in any way. Why, what did she say?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m asking. Her statement isn’t in with all the evidence that you passed on to me.”

  “It can’t have been useful if that’s the case. Otherwise I would have taken… I mean, kept it all together.”

  “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  There was silence as Brotherton thought for a moment, not wishing to get himself mixed up with any of the dozens of others interviewed along the way. The rasping nature of his limited lung capacity was all that came to ear.

  “If memory serves, she knew Maxine. She was another girl from the care home.”

  “Chloe was in care also? I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, I think I’m remembering that right. Her mother had some mental condition, or another and struggled to cope.”

  “That certainly fits.”

  “And her father had some abuse allegations thrown at him as well. He was a teacher, I think, and so Chloe spent some time in care.”

  “Was he ever charged?”

  “No, not that I recall. The case never made it anywhere near trial. Thinking about it, he passed away at some point. Sorry, I can’t remember when exactly but that might have been why it never progressed. Not my case. I think he was much older than his wife.”

  “Anything else? Was she there at the same time as Lucy Stafford?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. At least Lucy never mentioned her as far as I know. Why are you so interested in her, have you turned something up?”

  “No, not at all. Just came across it and thought I would ask. I’ll let you know if and when I do, though.”

  The two men said their goodbyes and Caslin found himself sitting alone in the park once again. The wind whistled through the barren trees above his head as he considered his next move. A rustling sound caused him to look beneath the bench. The remnants of a discarded newspaper had been blown underneath and were currently flapping vigorously against a cast-iron leg. Caslin picked it up with the intention of putting it in the bin before it blew off across the open grass. As he made to deposit it, he caught a glimpse of the front. Opening out the page, whilst shielding it from the wind, he saw that it carried a black-and-white photo. A team of female pool players were huddled together, proudly displaying a trophy before them, their hands resting against the edges of the table. Caslin stared at the picture, he knew no-one within it or had any real idea of what the story was about but that wasn’t the point.

  He put the page into the bin and stood there for a moment, trying to tease the thought to the front of his mind. The feeling that had been nagging at him for weeks finally delivered something tangible. Turning around, he picked up his coffee and headed back into the city. He had to pay a visit to Fulford Road and another chat with Chloe could wait until later.

  The station was nigh on deserted, considering the time of day, and Caslin was able to slip in and down to the evidence room without having to make conversation with anybody. Signing himself in, he headed for the Radford Farm evidence boxes, hoping that Robertson and his team had already indexed the materials and placed them in storage. He was surprised to find as much as he did. Effectively two properties had been photographed, catalogued, and packed up for use in the ongoing investigation.

  With little to go on as to where he would find what he was looking for, he set about opening and scanning the index for the contents of each box. The third that he opened listed the items found in the living room of the farmhouse. Flicking past the ballistics report on the bullet lodged in the wall, he was looking for something far more mundane. Leafing through the photographs taken at the scene, he saw what he was looking for and cross-referenced the photo with the folders arranged before him. Moments later he had it in his hand, a folded copy of The Post that had lain on the floor beside the armchair.

  Caslin exhaled slowly as he read the cover story, a good news angle about a local woman who had turned down an OBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours. The grainy photo showed a face that seemed ill at ease with the attention. He was right. Sure enough, here was Claire Skellon looking out at him. Angry with himself for not having put it together sooner, he swiftly replaced the items in the archive box and returned it to the shelf. Signing out, he took the stairs two at a time and made for his car.

  The evening traffic was heavy with everyone heading out of work on the first day of the new week. A power cut affecting street and traffic lights did little to help. Whilst en route he called Terry Holt but there was no answer. Caslin hoped that the DCI hadn’t already pulled him off the surveillance. Assuming Chloe would be at home that was where he headed.

  The street was in darkness when he finally arrived. Cloud cover ensured that headlights and a few candlelit windows cast the only light. Pulling up outside Chloe’s house he turned off the engine, catching the briefest glimpse of a CID number plate parked up the road before finding himself in gloom. Getting out, he first cast his eyes towards Chloe’s front room which was also shrouded in darkness, before crossing the road. There was no movement from within the CID vehicle and Caslin found himself slowing as he approached it. The hairs were standing up on the back of his neck as he clocked the mist on both the driver’s window and the windscreen. The rest of the car was clear and as he stepped onto the verge alongside he could make out the dark splatter, through which a figure was slumped across the passenger seat. It was far too slight to be the stocky form of Terry Holt.

  Caslin opened the driver’s door. The body lay away from him, face down but clearly female. Stretching out a hand he found matted blood-soaked hair. Searching for a pulse proved fruitless as his fingers slipped into a wet opening and he recoiled at the sensation. Grasping a shoulder, he attempted to lever her up. The vacant, yet unmistakable face of DC Hayley Underwood stared up at him. Her body was warm but little blood emanated from the wound to her neck, which passed almost from one side to the other. The moment of shock was replaced by seething white-hot anger. Caslin retrieved his phone with his free hand, managing to unlock it and call an ambulance. Having seen many such incidents in his career he knew that it was a futile gesture. Hayley was never going to make it. Even with only the dim glow emitted by his mobile phone, he could see the wound was deep enough to almost sever her spinal cord.

  Laying down the still form of his colleague and stepping out from the
vehicle, he was suddenly aware of how vulnerable his position was. Alone in the dark, unsure of whether Underwood’s attacker was still present, watching him from the shadows. Knowing that waiting for support and preserving the crime scene was what protocol dictated, he knew he should remain where he was. However, anger flared within him. Potentially the only witness to the events at Radford Farm, Chloe was important to the case and the realisation that perhaps someone else thought similarly spurred him into action.

  He set off at a run back down the street and up to her house. Deciding that discretion was a better tactic, he listened outside for sounds from within but all that greeted him was silence. He moved slowly but with purpose around to the shared access alley. Tentatively he passed through the pitch black emerging to the rear moments later. Once again, he stopped and listened. Nothing came to his ear. Edging forward, he risked a glance into the first window he came to but the inside was in darkness. Ducking underneath the opening he approached the door to the kitchen and waited. Crouching, he reached up to the handle and gently twisted it, finding it unlocked. Taking a deep breath, he realised his hands were sweating despite the cold and he actively forced himself to calm down. His adrenalin surged.

  The possibility that there was a person waiting to ambush him with a weapon aimed directly at the door, poised to unleash a barrage as soon as he entered, worried him. Taking another deep breath and psyching himself up, he eased the door open a fraction and waited. Nothing happened, so he pushed it open just enough to peer through. Even in the gloom he could see there was no movement, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light.

  Slipping through into the kitchen there appeared to be nothing untoward. Everything looked as one might expect. His attention was drawn to a knife block on the worktop. Two blades were missing. Tiptoeing through the kitchen, he paused as he reached the threshold of the living room. He remembered that the room beyond was substantially wider than the kitchen. Therefore, an assailant had three locations in which to lie in wait, either side of the through entrance or in the hallway beyond. Caslin risked poking his head around the corner and once again saw nothing unusual. One more look and he was satisfied that it was safe to proceed. Checking the hall was clear he progressed through the house with greater urgency.