Fear the Past Page 23

  “And what’s that?”

  “Don’t think that this settles everything and leaves us even. If you make this deal, you should know that it means more than just your father’s safety.”

  “Yeah, and what does that mean?”

  “After this you will be my man now,” Fuller said quietly, ensuring with his expression that Caslin knew exactly what he was implying. He lowered his right hand extending it across the table, palm up. Caslin looked at it and then into the eyes of the man offering it. Tentatively, he reached out and accepted the handshake. Immediately, Fuller took a firm grip and dragged Caslin towards him. At the same time, he threw himself forward and head butted Caslin square in the face. Caslin’s vision momentarily went dark as a searing pain shot upwards and into his brain, all awareness overcome by a wave of nausea that swept over him.

  Caslin struggled to break free from Fuller’s grip but the hold was too strong. No matter how much he tried to pull away, he couldn’t. Seconds passed that felt like minutes as he strained against Fuller’s iron grip. There was movement around them as the door burst open and two prison officers entered.

  Grunts and raised voices came to Caslin’s ear as his senses reasserted themselves. The officers were attempting to free him. Just as he thought he would never break loose - the hold was broken and Caslin’s momentum carried him backwards and he almost fell, recoiling from his attacker. Throwing out his arms, he braced against the wall to stop himself from slumping to the floor. Blinking furiously, lights danced before his eyes and something wet was running across his mouth. Steadying himself with one hand against the wall, he probed the area of his face with the other. Taking his hand away, he saw the fingers were covered in blood. It was pouring from his nose and further inspection made him think it might be broken. His mouth was wet and Caslin swallowed hard.

  The unmistakable taste of his own blood made him feel sick. Looking back across to the other side of the room, Fuller was grappling with the two prison officers as they unceremoniously attempted to drag him from the room.

  “Wait!” Caslin yelled and both men stopped. Fuller ceased his resistance. The bottom half of his body lay on the ground with his legs behind him, his torso supported in the air. Each officer had a firm grip under Fuller’s armpits. The inmate made their task harder by holding his manacled hands aloft, extending his arms fully to ensure they had as little purchase on his body as possible. His shirt was half pulled over his head. The struggle was certainly not over, not unless Fuller wanted it to be. Caslin stumbled over holding one hand against his nose in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.

  Fuller stared up at him. His face was flushed with all the exertion of the moment but his eyes shone with satisfaction.

  “Where will I find MacEwan?” Caslin asked, taking his hand away from his face and snorting up blood that threatened to flow. Fuller’s breath came in short ragged gasps.

  “White Hart Farm,” Fuller whispered in between breaths. “Just south of Reighton. You’ll never tie it to him… but that’s where it should be.”

  “Reighton,” Caslin repeated.

  Fuller nodded. “It’s a good deal, Inspector Caslin. You remember that.”

  “Get him out of here,” Caslin said and both the officers resumed their efforts. The prisoner offered no further resistance but did nothing to assist. Fuller was dragged from the room. All the while his eyes never diverted from Caslin.

  Watching on, Caslin felt a sense of shame that he had never previously experienced.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The village of Reighton sat on the cusp of the border between north Yorkshire and the East Riding, on the coast. With a population of fewer than five-hundred residents the assembling of an armed assault team would be sure to make waves amongst the locals. To that end, Caslin addressed his team in the relative obscurity of a yard owned by a small haulage firm in the nearby village of Grindale. The premises were located on the site of a former agricultural facility used for storing and processing grain. The silos were long gone and the concrete hard standing was being utilised by the current owners for trailer parking. There were no permanent offices on site and the route to the entrance along the access road took them far from the main highway. A line of trees was a bonus providing them with an extra screen to shield them from curious eyes.

  Caslin walked to the head of the group, each member was busy checking and rechecking their equipment was in order. They arrived under cover of darkness several hours before sunrise and would soon decamp in order to carry out their objective. The radio crackled and Caslin brought it up. Hunter was in situ several hundred metres away from the gated entrance to White Hart Farm where Pete Fuller had told them to expect to find MacEwan. A surveillance operation on MacEwan’s scrap metal business rewarded them with little information. There had been no activity there in the previous couple of days. Likewise, a check with the border force delivered no hits on his passport recording him leaving the UK. It would appear he was prepping for his departure. Either that or he was already gone.

  “Go ahead,” Caslin said, depressing the talk button.

  “It’s quiet,” Hunter told him in a calm and authoritative tone. “There’s been no movement since we’ve been here.”

  “Okay, keep me posted.”

  Caslin surveyed the men and women readying themselves to raid the farm. Twenty officers, specially trained in weapons and tactics, were preparing to advance on MacEwan’s location. The anticipation was building and so was the anxiety. The officer with operational control, Chas Freeman, approached alongside Assistant Chief Constable Broadfoot. Caslin knew the former quite well, a highly skilled and competent specialist. Caslin greeted both of them.

  “Any further word on the numbers we’re expecting to encounter?” Freeman asked.

  Caslin shook his head. “Not yet. There’s no sign of movement in or out according to my people on the ground.

  “So, we might encounter no resistance at all?”

  “Unlikely… If our source is correct then I would expect a handful but no more than ten. MacEwan has never been seen with a massive entourage. Besides, in this case, it’ll draw too much attention to them and he wants to leave unnoticed.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You still want to take them at the farm and not wait for them to leave?” Broadfoot asked. “They would be constrained by their vehicles.”

  “Once they’re on the move we’ll be into hard stop protocols,” Freeman explained. “Although my people can most likely control it multiple targets will add to the risk for both them and us. Not forgetting the members of the public. I’d rather strike at the farm where we can keep those risks to a minimum. Our surveillance of the site yesterday showed that the farmhouse itself is in such a state of disrepair that it’s unlikely they will be using it. In all likelihood, they will be housed in one of the outbuildings. We will take them there.”

  “Understood,” Broadfoot said.

  “My team are ready to deploy,” Freeman stated, adjusting his earpiece.

  “Let’s do it,” Caslin replied, glancing to Broadfoot who nodded. Freeman called out the order and en masse they clambered into vehicles, a mixture of unmarked saloons and SUVs.

  Caslin indicated in the direction of his car and Broadfoot fell into step alongside him. Caslin cast an eye skywards as they walked. Dawn was breaking and for the first time in days it promised to be a bright start. There were few clouds overhead. Today, he would have gladly embraced the darkness. The overcast mornings they’d been getting used to would have given them the added advantage of masking their approach. With a bit of luck, MacEwan would be caught completely unawares. Reaching the car and opening his door, he got in. Broadfoot went to the passenger side and joined him. The senior officer was nervous, too, Caslin could tell but his ability to hide his emotion was far superior to his own. Lifting the radio, he contacted Hunter.

  “Any change?”

  “None,” came the reply.

  “We’re inbound,” Cas
lin stated. “ETA is about five minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Hunter confirmed.

  Caslin felt his stomach churn. The last-minute doubts that always struck him whenever he rolled the dice were clear and present. If this proved to be an impulsive act based on poor intelligence, then he would be at fault. The responsibility lay with him and his assessment of Fuller’s credibility. As the minutes ticked past, he couldn’t help but wonder whether or not this was a gamble he should have initiated. If MacEwan evaded capture in this raid, then they would have shown their hand and alerted him to their interest. He hadn’t been seen in days and the fear that he’d already left the country was also chipping away at Caslin’s confidence. The only way they could tie him to any of this was to catch him in the act. There was no other material evidence. Should this day end empty handed then, in all likelihood, their shot at MacEwan would have passed. Going along with it would be Caslin’s chances of protecting his father.

  Starting the car, he selected first gear and accelerated away in pursuit of the strike team. They would carry out the raid and once the suspects were in custody and the scene secured, Caslin could then move in. Catching up to the rear of the convoy, he slowed the car down. They were less than two miles from the farm and the operation was expected to be over within minutes of them entering.

  “How confident are you with the accuracy of Fuller’s information?” Broadfoot asked for what must have been the fourth or fifth time.

  “As confident as I can be,” Caslin replied, following the lead of the cars in front as they were forced up onto the grass verge in order to pass a tractor they’d come upon on the narrow lane. “We searched the ownership of White Hart Farm and what Fuller told us certainly checked out. MacEwan is the proprietor. He purchased the farmhouse and all the ancillary buildings twenty-five years ago but has never run it as a going concern or listed it against any of his other businesses. The ownership is via a series of shell companies, all of which are registered outside of Europe. Without Fuller’s information, we would never have come across it. It stands to reason he has kept it off the books for a purpose we’re not aware of.”

  “If Fuller’s on the level, then we’re in for a big day,” Broadfoot said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me,” Broadfoot began, changing tone. “Where are we with identifying Jody’s killer?”

  Caslin didn’t doubt his commanding officer’s commitment to breaking this case but his personal angle was equally important to him if not more so. The murder of his Godson was an open wound that he wanted to close. “We are still unsure as to why he was killed, sir. By all accounts, he was following up on the inquiry his father worked in the 80s but as to why, or to what depth he reached in doing so, we still don’t know. We think we’ve identified his girlfriend and once we’ve tracked her down, she may be able to provide some answers.”

  “Yes, Louise. Scott Tarbet’s daughter. Hunter filled me in,” Broadfoot said. “You’ve had no joy in locating her?”

  “No, sir. Not so far. Because of the obvious association with her father, the lead witness in Bradley’s faked death, I’m reluctant to descend on her network with all of our resources. She’s disappeared from sight and is probably using friends or relatives to help keep her head down. We could pick her up at one of their addresses but equally we could miss her. If so, she might be spooked and take off. So far, she’s been quite adept at staying under the radar and when we have the chance, I don’t want her to slip past us.”

  “Hmm…” Broadfoot murmured, an indication tantamount to disagreement. Caslin glanced across at him.

  “She will be my next priority after we take down MacEwan, sir. You have my word.”

  Broadfoot remained silent for a few moments before cracking a thin smile. “I don’t doubt it. Thank you, Nathaniel.”

  They crossed over the main Scarborough Road bringing them to a point just south of the village of Reighton and within direct view of the sea. An orange glow spread as far as the eye could see as the sun crested the horizon.

  Caslin brought his radio up to his mouth, “You should be seeing us any moment.” The convoy took the next right and soon came upon Hunter sitting in her car in a layby screened from the main road by overgrown foliage. As they passed, she started the engine and pulled out behind Caslin picking up the rear. “We’ll hang back and let Freeman lead the assault. Once we have the all clear, we’ll go in and bring out our guy.”

  “Can’t wait,” Hunter replied.

  The target area had been reconnoitred in great detail on the previous evening but no one managed to get close enough to observe any movement on the site. Vehicles were present parked under cover in one of the barns and light was visible from within another.

  The convoy took the turn off the highway and onto the farm’s approach road at speed. A more clandestine approach was proposed, considered, and roundly rejected due to the topography of the surrounding farmland. In every direction the terrain was flat giving rise to concerns that the assault team would be too exposed to mount a successful operation. The suspects would potentially have a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view with which to spot their arrival. The access road to the farm was both the one way in and out. A high-speed assault along with the element of surprise was determined to yield the greatest chance of success.

  They sped up the access road and into the complex of agricultural buildings, a horseshoe set up of brick barns behind the dilapidated farmhouse. The incumbents within each car were aware of their individual tasks and had their feet on the ground before any of the vehicles came to a full stop. The first team moved on the farmhouse and the remainder fanned out with the intention of sweeping the adjoining buildings. Caslin and Hunter pulled up outside of the yard parking their cars horizontally across the access road in an attempt to cut off any escape route. Hunter got out of her car and joined Caslin and Broadfoot as they took cover behind their vehicles. The three of them waited patiently, listening to the discussion of the assault team as they relayed their progress via an open communication link. Caslin looked around, showing concern.

  “What is it?” Broadfoot asked.

  “I don’t see their cars,” he replied.

  “No one left last night,” Hunter confirmed.

  The first minute of the assault seemed to pass slowly as the team battered in doors to gain entry but with the passing of each subsequent one, Caslin felt his confidence ebb. The assault team were split into five groups of four and were proceeding to sweep the interior, shouts sporadically coming their way through the speaker to indicate another room was successfully cleared. There were no shots and no apparent sign of resistance. A quick glance towards Hunter revealed her thoughts were similar to his. Caslin rubbed at his forehead. Those who entered the farmhouse appeared outside once again, making for the ancillary buildings to support their colleagues. Despite the absence of an opposition they moved as a unit with weapons at the ready to respond at any given moment. Until they knew the scene was secure, they would proceed with caution.

  “This isn’t good,” Caslin muttered under his breath. Broadfoot glanced at him but said nothing. The disappointment was etched into his face. Within moments their fears were realised as Chas Freeman’s voice came across the radio.

  “The scene is secure. Zero contact,” he said quietly. “They’re gone.”

  Caslin’s heart sank and he let out a deep sigh. He was gutted. “Shit.”

  “How is that possible?” Broadfoot asked.

  Caslin shook his head. “There must be another access to the farm that we missed. It was dark last night, a lot of cloud cover.”

  “There’s nothing on the map,” Hunter said, disappointed.

  Caslin inclined his head in the direction of the yard indicating they should go in. “It might not even be on the map. These farms have been here for centuries. Who knows when the paths were last documented?”

  They came out from behind the cars and headed for the yard. By the time the three of them entered, the
assault team were already coming out. The built-up tension of the previous fourteen hours had now dissipated to be replaced by a deep sense of frustration. Freeman appeared from the cart entrance to one of the barns crossing the uneven cobbles to meet them.

  “Well, someone’s been inside,” he said, looking to Broadfoot before Caslin and pointing to the building he’d just come from. “Someone’s dropped a bollock though because they’re definitely not here now.”

  “How long?” Caslin asked.

  “I’d say recently. Very recent, if I had to guess.”

  “Thanks, Chas,” Caslin said, walking past him. Freeman set about organising his team’s withdrawal. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”

  They entered the barn and looked around. There was nothing of note to set their eyes upon but in stark contrast to the attached farmhouse this section of the farm appeared to be better cared for. The floor was concrete, showing signs of cracking and breaking up in places but didn’t appear prone to damp. In fact the closed shutters hid windows that were in good condition and a brief inspection of the locks to them and the doors revealed they were relatively new and in perfect working order. At one end of the barn were a couple of tables and some casual chairs. Hunter crossed to the table and examined some discarded wrapping and plastic bags.

  “Interesting,” she said, rummaging through one of the bags.

  “What’s that?” Caslin asked. He went to join her while Broadfoot walked around scanning the interior for something, anything, to assist the investigation.

  “Takeaway containers,” Hunter said, focusing on the contents. She brought out a slip of paper that was scrunched into a ball. As she unfurled it, Caslin could see it was a receipt. “Dated yesterday,” she confirmed, passing it to him. Caslin took it and briefly read through what was listed on it.

  “What do you think? Four, maybe five people?” he asked. Hunter nodded.

  “That’s be my guess.”

  “It looks like Fuller sold you a pup,” Broadfoot stated, coming to stand with them.