Blacklight (Dark Yorkshire Book 2) Page 25

  “Here, with me.”

  “All day?” Caslin clarified.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  Caslin ignored her question, “Did Mark say where he was going?”

  Again, she shook her head, “No, he didn’t say but he never does. It’s all personal. You know, what with data protection and all that.”

  Caslin smiled and dipped his head, “Yes, of course.” Holt reappeared from upstairs, shaking his head as he descended the stairs.

  “No sign,” he offered in confirmation.

  “Do you work, Mrs Rabiot?” Caslin asked.

  “No, not since we had Jenna. Luckily with Mark’s pay, I don’t have to.”

  “Tell me, do you have your husband’s mobile number to hand?”

  “Only his personal phone. Not his work one.”

  “How comes?” Holt asked.

  “He says he’s not allowed to take personal calls on it, so I have to ring his own one.”

  “Can we have it?” Caslin asked. She nodded and went to retrieve her own. Returning from the kitchen, she was scrolling through the contacts as she spoke.

  “You won’t reach him, though. He never takes his personal phone with him to work. It’s not insured by the NHS so if it were broken, he’d not be able to claim. That’s why he leaves it here. It’s there, on the table.”

  Caslin glanced at the dining table. A smart phone lay upon it. Inclining his head, he asked, “May I?”

  Samantha shrugged, “I guess so.”

  Crossing over, Caslin lifted it up and turned it on. The pass-code screen came up and he looked to her again, “Do you know it?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. Look, what’s this all about and don’t tell me it’s routine because it bloody well isn’t.”

  Caslin put the phone down. Reaching into his pocket, he took out one of his contact cards and passed it to her. “When Mark comes home, please call me or have him do so.”

  Samantha took the card and cast her eyes over it with a wary glance, “Are you going to tell me what this is about, or not?”

  Caslin eyed the montage of photos on the mantel. They depicted family days out, not dissimilar to those he and Karen used to display at their home. “Good looking girl,” he said, pointing to one of which, he presumed, was their daughter. A sure-fire way to get onside with a parent was always to praise their offspring.

  Samantha smiled, “Thank you. We think so. She’ll be nine next month. Can’t believe it.”

  Caslin smiled, “I feel that way about mine. There don’t appear to be many here of her father.”

  “Mark hates being in pictures. He always insists on holding the camera. Taking photos is one of his things, you know but I still get him occasionally,” Samantha replied, crossing the room to stand before a bookcase, nestled into the alcove alongside the chimney breast. Reaching up to a high shelf, she took down a frame and passed it to him. It was a shot of Mark, his arms draped over their daughter’s shoulders, both smiling at the camera on a sunny day. Caslin’s blood ran cold. Momentarily stunned, he didn’t react as fear and then panic surged within him. The frame slipped from his fingers, clattering to the wooden floor at his feet.

  “Hey!” Samantha exclaimed but Caslin pushed past her.

  “Terry, the car, now!” he barked, hurrying to the door. Caslin didn’t register Holt’s surprise, for he was already passing through the front door and out into the pre-dawn light.

  “Sir?” Holt replied, pulling the door closed behind him and running to catch up, which he only managed when they reached the vehicle.

  “He’s there, Terry,” Caslin said as Holt unlocked the doors. Both men got in. Caslin met the questioning gaze as the key turned in the ignition. “He’s at the bloody hospital. I saw him there before you picked me up.”

  “Do you think he’s work-”

  “No,” Caslin cut him off, reaching for Holt’s radio on the dashboard, “my father’s there. Come on, Terry, punch it!” he ordered. Holt didn’t comprehend what was going on but accepted the conveyed urgency and accelerated away with a wail from the tyres, the engine straining its way up through the lower gears. Putting the radio to his lips, Caslin rattled off his identification, “This is DI Caslin, Fulford Road. I need urgent assistance at York Hospital ICU. I’m requesting an armed response vehicle. Suspect on scene, approach with caution. Individual is potentially armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Suspect is a white IC1 male, dark hair, approximately six-two and may well be posing as a member of medical staff.”

  The voice from control crackled an immediate response, “Received, all available units are being redirected. Please be advised that ETA on armed response will be fifteen minutes.”

  “Bugger,” Caslin said aloud, he knew they would be on the scene a full ten minutes before them. Pressing the transmit button, he acknowledged the information, “Understood. Please advise that two plain clothes officers will be on the scene.”

  “Received,” crackled the reply. Caslin dropped the radio into his lap, cursing himself as he did so.

  “I bloody knew there was something wrong with that guy,” he said. Holt glanced over but the comment was lost on him.

  “Maybe she’s right and I’m wrong and he is working at the hospital.”

  “He has no place on the Trauma Ward, Terry, no place at all.”

  “Why do you think he would be on the ward?” Holt asked, obviously confused by proceedings.

  “My father was attacked in his home, this afternoon.”

  Holt returned his attention to the drive, focusing on getting there as soon as possible. Taking out his phone, Caslin looked up the hospital’s number and once again, cursed himself for not making a note of the extension to the ICU. Telephoning the switchboard, his frustration grew as the automated service kicked in, offering him numbered options. Selecting the security office, he waited for the call to connect, murmuring his encouragement for them to answer. Choosing not to underplay his hand, he rapidly filled them in, “This is Detective Inspector Caslin from Fulford Road. You have a suspect on site, wanted for murder. He has been seen in and around the ICU and could potentially be targeting a patient in your care. You need to take all appropriate measures to secure the ICU. Police units are on their way. Do not approach and exercise extreme caution.”

  “We’ll be ready,” a startled voice replied. Caslin hung up the call.

  “Come on, Terry,” Caslin implored him. “Get us there.”

  “We’re not far off,” Holt reassured him, as they flew through a junction on the wrong side of the road, Caslin bracing himself against the dashboard. “We don’t know that it’s him-”

  “It’s him, Terry. I’m telling you. It’s the way he looked at me. He recognised me but I didn’t bloody see it.” Holt took the turn into the hospital and they screeched to a halt outside Accident and Emergency. Caslin was out of the car in a flash, Holt not far behind. There was no sign of a uniformed response and Caslin put a hand on the DC’s shoulder. “Wait for the others.”

  “No way,” Holt protested. “I’m coming.”

  “Wait, Terry. That’s an order. When they arrive, find the security office and bring up the CCTV. You might find him before I do.” The constable was about to protest further but Caslin cut him off, “He’s my father and I won’t put you at risk,” Caslin said, walking backwards before turning and taking off into the building, leaving Holt no option but to follow the instruction.

  “Damn you, Caslin,” he said under his breath, running both hands through his hair as he stared out towards the city, in the direction that assistance would come from.

  Caslin’s footfalls sounded heavily as he ran along the corridors, scanning the signage for directions to the Intensive Care Unit. Considering the stairs to be a less conspicuous approach, he took them two at a time. His progress slowed as he hit the third floor and the entrance to the ICU. The security door had been wedged open with a waste bin, negating the need for him to use the intercom to the nurses’ station. Peering
through the window, he could see nothing of note. His heart was beating rapidly and he was breathing heavily from the exertion of the run. Taking a moment to collect himself, Caslin removed the concealed Makarov. Easing the slide across, he ensured that a round was chambered and the safety was off.

  Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed the door open. The hinges squeaked. It sounded impossibly loud, in the silence of the corridor, and Caslin waited before passing through. There was no movement in response and a quick glance towards the nursing station, saw it unmanned. With both hands gripping the pistol before him, almost for comfort, he made his way over to the desk. His palms were sweating and he had to work hard to control his breathing. Not wishing to call out, he leaned over the desk, to see into the office beyond. On the floor lay a body, it was a woman and even from the rear, Caslin knew it was the nurse he had spoken to earlier. A flash of panic shot through him as he took in the pool of crimson liquid, spreading out from under her. Looking to left and right for a signal of the attacker, he saw none.

  Every fibre in his being urged him to run to his father but his moral code forced him to hold back. Slipping behind the desk, Caslin got as close to the nurse as he dared, not wishing to step in her blood and knelt. Reaching for a pulse proved futile, she had been dead for a while. A wide-eyed stare, one that he had seen far too often, conveyed the fact that life had passed from her and not painlessly. Caslin stood, returning his focus to the surroundings. He listened intently but nothing untoward came to him. Fear gnawed away at his confidence and he moved slowly but with purpose, towards the recovery room.

  Approaching, Caslin could see the blinds were down, shrouding the interior. Coming to stand before the closed door, he paused. Crouching in order to give him an edge, he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. Reaffirming his grip on the pistol, in his right hand, he reached forward with his left and braced himself. Closing his eyes, he mouthed a silent prayer and shoved the door inwards. Hurling himself forward, firearm extended, he dived in. The dramatic entrance was met with silence. The room was empty. Everything was in order, with no evidence of a struggle.

  Stepping back out into the corridor, Caslin returned to the desk. A quick search located the ward list and he found his father’s name handwritten against Room Three. Resuming the search, he hugged the walls as he went. His progress was slow as he repeatedly checked around him, peering through each and every doorway that he came to. Reaching the room, he heard a sound from behind. Caslin froze. Taking a deep breath, he resolved to spin on his heel and bring the Makarov to bear, only catching himself at the last moment.

  “Armed police!” a booming voice shouted, “remain as you are. Do not move or I will shoot you.” Caslin followed the command. There was a moment of silence where the air seemed to crackle with tension. “Extend your right hand and release the weapon, or I will shoot you.” Caslin was in no doubt as to whether it was an idle threat and did as instructed.

  “I’m DI Caslin,” he offered, noting that his voice broke slightly when he spoke.

  “Turn around when I say…and do so…slowly,” was the next instruction. He complied, finding two Maglite beams, mounted on sub-machine guns, trained on him. Beyond the glare, he could make out the uniforms of the armed-response officers. From behind them came Terry Holt. Caslin was grateful to see him.

  “That’s Inspector Caslin, alright,” Holt said and with that, the officers made to continue with their sweep.

  “This is the target room,” Caslin said, stepping aside. Retrieving the Makarov, as the men, dressed in black combat fatigues, took their positions either side of the doorway, Caslin breathed a sigh of relief. They entered with him only a step behind. He was relieved to see his father lying somewhat peacefully in bed, monitors attached, and he was clearly breathing.

  “Sir,” Holt said softly. Caslin glanced up from his father and looked to where the DC was indicating. The relief, that had been palpable, evaporated in an instant. On the far side of the room, sitting in the visitor’s chair was a security guard, the very same man whom Caslin had encountered in the basement, earlier that night. Only now, he was sitting bolt upright, eyes open, with the handle of a hunting knife protruding from his chest. The blade had pierced his lungs and the victim had coughed up a great deal of blood, that had subsequently cascaded down to his chest.

  Caslin approached warily, spying a sheet of paper resting against the blade, on the dead man’s chest. Reaching out, he gently straightened it, so as to read what was upon it. There were two words, apparently written in the victim’s blood. They simply read “back soon”.

  “Fuck me,” Caslin said quietly, before casting a glance towards his father.

  Chapter 25

  “…and where the hell did you get the gun from?”

  Caslin hung his head, looking to the floor with thumbs pressed to his temples, hiding the grimace from the senior officers, standing before him. The headache was intense, with sharp pains pulsing through him every few seconds.

  “DC Holt brings you a fresh suspect and the two of you dive in, without adequate consideration of the consequences-”

  “What happened here tonight has nothing to do with us going to Rabiot’s house,” Caslin snapped.

  “Is that right?” DCS Broadfoot asked, his usually calm manner taking on an aggressive edge that Caslin was unfamiliar with. “And you know that, how? He may have seen you at his house and reacted.”

  “There’s no evidence for that, Sir. He was already at the hospital.”

  “Which is where you were supposed to be,” DCI Inglis said. “You should have called me immediately, when Holt brought you the information. Your judgement is clearly impaired and you’re not in a fit state of mind to be-”

  “I’m beginning to question if you’re fit to be on duty, at all,” Broadfoot blasted him, ensuring everyone fell silent. There was unarguable logic behind that point but Caslin chose not to offer his agreement. “We can discuss that later and perhaps then, you’ll have a decent explanation for carrying an illegal firearm. You were given dispensation to draw a weapon from the armoury and you knocked it back.”

  “I know,” Caslin replied wearily, rubbing at his face. A glance towards the clock on the wall saw the hands tick past 7 a.m. and he stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Further conversation was halted by a knock at the door. Hunter entered, casting a concerned look towards Caslin, before addressing the DCS.

  “We’ve carried out the second sweep of the building but there’s no sign. We have all the major intersections covered, in a three-mile radius, carrying out stop and search.”

  “Widen it,” Caslin offered. John Inglis shot him a dark look.

  “Do as he says. Increase the area to six miles,” Broadfoot stated, “and get his name, description and any other known information to the surrounding forces. I want a net thrown far and wide.”

  “He’s not running,” Caslin said, as a matter of fact.

  “And how have you come to that?” Broadfoot asked with a sneer, losing patience. “He’s managed to stay in the shadows so far.”

  “He’s already changed his MO,” Caslin replied, with little attempt to hide his own frustration, “and that implies he’s developing, moving on.”

  “Moving on?” Inglis asked, seating himself on the Registrar’s desk, whose office they had procured.

  “We’re assuming that he’s our killer and if so, he went for women, young women, usually prostitutes but not necessarily so. Whatever made him move for Natalie, I don’t know but maybe…that was a moment when this all changed for him. Somehow he’s taking an interest in me and…”

  “Your family?” Inglis finished.

  “Yes,” Caslin replied flatly.

  “He’s upping the ante?” Broadfoot suggested.

  “Perhaps?” Caslin answered. “Some of these head cases are itching to get caught, after a while. They want their footnote in history. Is this Rabiot? Or is he just bored and trying to inc
rease the thrill. Either way, how far he’s planning to take it is another matter. He’ll have to assume that we know who he is, by now. If he runs, he won’t get far. This guy strikes me as a planner, meticulous in detailing what he wants and how to go about getting it. He’s not about to walk away, let alone run. There’s an end goal and he’ll already have it in mind. We’re a step behind, at least one anyway. We need to think ahead and get there before him.”

  “Any suggestions on how we do that?” Broadfoot asked.

  Caslin appeared visually deflated, “No, I hadn’t got that far. Damn my head hurts,” he muttered, massaging his temples.

  “Your brother?” Inglis asked. Caslin opened his eyes, flicking them in the DCI’s direction.

  “I don’t know. Last night, I was so sure but now…the argument that was overheard…”

  “It could’ve been Rabiot?”

  “Yes, but if he’d managed to overpower Stefan, which wouldn’t have been easy unless he didn’t see him coming, where is he now?”

  “There was no evidence of another person’s blood at your father’s place, which would indicate that Stefan was not badly injured. Would he have gone willingly?”

  Caslin shook his head, “I doubt it but maybe, if he felt there was no other option? He must have been conscious.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Inglis asked.

  “An unconscious man may as well be twice as heavy, when you try to lift them. It’s not as easy as people think. Even a guy of Rabiot’s physique would have struggled to shift Stefan more than a few feet. Let alone into a car outside. Particularly without the nosey neighbour catching on. What’s bugging me is that if it wasn’t Rabiot who attacked my father at his home, then how did he know we would be here, at the hospital? It’s just not adding up.”

  “He’s been following you, we know that already. We’ll have to keep an open mind,” Inglis offered. “Iain Robertson can go back over your father’s place and see if we can shed some light on what happened. In the meantime, let’s see if our search offers anything up. Your brother’s description is out there so maybe we’ll get a break.”