Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 28

  “Cleaning house.”

  Further silence followed before a monotone beeping signified that the call had been disconnected. Caslin hurled his phone across the bonnet of the car where it bounced off and disappeared from view.

  “Bastard!”

  “Status on that chopper?” Frank Stephens asked.

  Caslin didn’t pick up the response as he was in a daze and stumbled away from the car. Closing his eyes, he sought to control his breathing, whilst taking in what was going on. The outlying units were approaching the scene. Quick statements were flying in as each reported their position and began the search. A voice requested the condition of Delta One but by this point, Caslin was on his knees, head cradled in his hands as a wave of nausea passed over him.

  The roar of the engine starting up snapped him back into focus and he swiftly clambered into the passenger seat. DCI Stephens glanced over as he floored the accelerator and they took off down the access road. They were on the scene within moments. The sound of the police helicopter came to their ears as they got out of the vehicle. A searchlight from above began scanning the area to the east. Caslin knew they would be using a thermal camera to try to pinpoint Na Honn’s position. The barking of an Alsatian announced the arrival of a dog handler and Caslin silently hoped that between the resources on the ground and in the air, they would have success. However, his instincts told him otherwise.

  Chapter 30

  The efforts of the previous evening left a hollow feeling within the unit. The atmosphere in the squad room was notably flat during the debriefing. Search teams were still out scouring the vicinity of the diner but no trace had been found of Lee Na Honn or his firing position. The suspect had vanished into the night. The apparent lack of speed to the search was reasonable under the circumstances. Pursuing an armed suspect under the veil of darkness was always precarious but the presence of the helicopter had given them some sense of security. No hits on the thermal camera implied he had fled the scene. Even so, the going was slow with caution key to their approach. With the benefit of hindsight that should have been the view they took to the whole operation. Hindsight truly was a wonderful thing.

  “When did you last get some sleep?”

  Caslin looked up at Kyle Broadfoot, not having heard his approach. A glance at the clock and a quick calculation later, he replied.

  “It’s been a while.”

  “You should go home, take a shower and get some rest. I’ve sent most of the others home too. We can pick things up first thing.”

  First thing, Caslin thought about it. That was only in a little over three hours’ time, what with it already ten to four in the morning. He didn’t reply and merely shook his head. Broadfoot shrugged and walked away. Caslin couldn’t help but wonder how the DCS was going to explain this debacle. His paranoia began to creep back in. Despite gaining approval for the operation, it was ultimately his plan that had failed and Caslin felt responsible. Accountability and responsibility were, however, two very different things. Sensing, rather than observing, people milling about he needed some space and left CID. The rest of the station was pretty much deserted but instead of going downstairs, he chose to head up. Pushing open the door at the top of the stairwell he walked out onto the roof.

  Picking his way around the vent covers he made his way across the flat roof. To the north lay York, its orange glow illuminating the sky above. Even without the cloud cover there would be precious few stars visible. The wind was getting up and the resulting chill caused him to shiver. Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, he pressed his arms to his side and stamped his feet to try and generate some much needed warmth. The bout of nausea that had struck him hours earlier had been replaced by a banging headache. That was a condition more familiar to him but one that basic painkillers failed to counter. Caslin had to consider the cause. Was it diet, general fitness, lifestyle or a reaction to stress? He found none of those answers palatable. Each would require some monumental effort on his part to tackle them. In truth, there was little motivation for that.

  Approaching the edge of the building he sat down on the surrounding ledge, side-on to the drop below. Ignoring the cold touch of the concrete beneath him, he drew one leg up and hugged his knee. A patrol car left from the rear of the station and engaged its blue lights, accelerating away in the direction of the city centre. Taking out his phone, latterly retrieved from where it lay a short distance from a boundary drainage ditch, he surveyed the damage. There were a couple of scuffs to the rear of the unit and a small scratch to the screen, much to his surprise it had held up well. The build quality was impressive, rightly so for the money. He typed out a text to Karen, nothing particularly insightful, asking after her and the children. He sent it knowing not to expect a reply until the morning.

  Turning his thoughts back to the events of that evening he contemplated how they had got it so wrong, or more to the point, his complicity in the enterprise. They had discussed the potential pitfalls of the operation, the public place, as well as the nature of their suspect. Having considered virtually every conceivable factor they believed they could realistically contain him. No-one considered the scenario that played out.

  If he wanted Chloe dead then why hadn’t he killed her at her home, three days ago? Was it as simple as believing that she had betrayed him to the police or had he planned to kill her all along, perhaps in a different way? Why was Chloe the only victim, why not take down some police officers as well, just for good measure? All rational logic indicated to him that Lee was the most likely suspect in Hayley Underwood’s murder, so the precedent was there.

  So many questions and nowhere near enough answers. Lee Na Honn was intelligent, of that there was no denial. Reviewing his file, Caslin had read that he was an Oxbridge graduate, achieving an upper second, reading law. Not usually the qualification that leads one to a career in the RLC. Not without a commission at any rate. There still appeared to be no direct link to Garry McNeil either, which Caslin found an ongoing source of frustration.

  What Iain Robertson and his team had turned up on the first victim, uncovered at Radford Farm, indicated that McNeil somehow moved amongst those who either had little or nowhere else to go. The dead man, William Johnson, had been a homeless veteran with no family to miss him. The Horsvedts also appeared to have disappeared unnoticed from the radar. Likewise, Lee Na Honn was living off the grid. Was that how McNeil found his victims? That would certainly explain why he had gone undetected for so long but where the two men came together, and how their dynamic worked, escaped Caslin entirely.

  Not for the first time he considered his position. Having always believed that he was cut from the right cloth for this line of work, he now faced the reality that maybe he was falling short. If that was the case then lives may have been lost as a result. Tears welled in his eyes but he forced them back, along with the despair that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Reaching into his coat pocket he took out the vial that contained his release. The confidence that he had once held in such abundance, now reduced to little more than a craving for the contents within. Holding the tubular plastic in the palm of his hand, his attention passed to another liveried car making off from the station rear. The vehicle only engaging its lights as it reached the main road. Returning the vial unopened to an inner pocket, he rubbed at his face. His cheeks were cold and his nose stung with the pressure.

  The conversation kept repeating in his mind. Two words that were so simple and yet telling, or at least should be. Despite the little that they knew about him, it seemed that Lee Na Honn had a process, what appeared random was not so. He was organised and methodical, albeit in a brutal fashion. What had he meant by “cleaning house”? Initially, Caslin saw it as simply tying up a loose end, that being Chloe. However, the phrase kept returning over and over. Standing up, he headed back inside.

  Briefly ducking back into CID, he scanned through Na Honn’s file once more and made a note of what he was looking for. He then swiftly
headed downstairs and out into the car park. Getting into his car he took his phone from his pocket and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Thankful for the cloud cover so no ice had been able to form on the windscreen, he started the engine and drove off.

  The car appeared to stutter as he turned south onto Fulford Road, heading away from the city centre. He continued on until entering Barlby where he took a left, towards junction 37 of the eastbound M62. The motorway was empty with the exception of a few lorries, who were presumably aiming to depart for the continent from the docks of Hull. The slow-moving traffic, occupying the nearside lane, failed to slow his journey as he breezed past them.

  Long ago he came to the conclusion that once you had exhausted all possibilities and felt there was nowhere else to go, the best course of action was to start again at the beginning. In this case, he would go home, not his own but to the former of his chief suspect.

  Unfamiliar with the city, not to mention having become overly reliant on sat nav in the past few years, it was approaching 7 a.m. by the time Caslin finally pulled up outside the address. The residence was an imposing old Victorian terrace, located just beyond the pedestrianised high street, at the edge of a traffic-controlled area. The limited parking on the street was occupied. Multiple signs denoted designated timeslots for permit holders only. Waste collection must be due that day as blue wheelie bins lined the pavements.

  Caslin was surprised how light he found the traffic to be at that time of day and decided to leave his car double parked. He assessed that the width of the road was sufficient to allow free movement of vehicles. Locking the car, he approached the house. The white-painted exterior stood out against the red brick façade of its neighbours. The house was in need of some maintenance. The paintwork around the windows was peeling and plants grew from the guttering that edged the roof. Net curtains hung in the bay windows, obscuring what was within. Even if the darkness beyond had been illuminated, the detail would remain masked.

  No lights appeared to be on inside. After walking up the hedge-lined path he took a quick peek through the letter box. All that achieved was to give the impression that the inside was as dated as the out. The hallway was carpeted with a pattern that Caslin found vile and the walls were adorned with pictures hanging from the original rail. Standing up he rang the bell. Three short bursts and he stepped back to enable him to see if a light came on in any of the upstairs windows. Nothing happened.

  Squatting down, he peered through the letter box for a longer spell, only to catch a glimpse of movement beyond. Looking more intently, he tried to make out what he had seen. In the gloom of the hallway and kitchen beyond, he saw and heard nothing. He waited patiently to no avail. Writing it off as a trick of the mind, he stood up once more and walked back along the path. Reaching the car, he turned to face the house for a final time. He had his keys in his hand and was about to unlock the door when he glanced off to his right, away from the high street.

  Putting the keys back in his pocket, he stepped onto the pavement and set off down the street just as a bus negotiated his obstructively parked car. The driver first gave Caslin a frown, followed by a gesticulation when he was ignored. It only took a minute and Caslin found himself passing through a side passage running adjacent to the terrace. Making his way around to the rear, he struggled to identify the Na Honn house. It wasn’t painted in the same fashion as at the front. Each building appeared much like any other. Rubbish bags were piled high in places within the confines of the narrow alleyway. He had to pick his way past them. Remnants of discarded takeaways and broken bottles littered the area, having been cast aside at frequent intervals. A dog barked as he passed by one yard. The animal hurled itself against the boundary fence as he approached.

  Selecting what he guessed to be the right house, he tried the rear gate. It was locked and a quick shake confirmed he wasn’t getting through. The fence alongside was six feet high but he judged the structure should support his weight. With a quick glance to either side of him he hoisted himself up and over into the yard beyond. Landing with a thump, he braced himself against a brick out-building to get his balance. The floor beneath his feet was paved with concrete and there were some raised planters off to one side. The contents of which had long since died. The house was still in darkness. Several of the neighbouring buildings now had lights on upstairs.

  Carefully, he made his way to the rear entrance. Stepping over upturned plant pots and catching his foot on a patio set, obscured in the darkness, he nearly tripped over. The resulting screech, as the leg of the chair scraped across the concrete, sounded loud at that time of day. What did he think he was achieving here?

  Moving on to the back door which was located in an extended dog-leg to the building, incorporating the old coal shed, he made to peer through into the kitchen. He stopped dead in his tracks. The rear door was ajar. The jamb showed signs of fresh damage as if the door had recently been forced. Caslin’s heart rate increased and he rapidly considered his options. Almost instinctively he nudged the door further. It squeaked on its hinges but opened effortlessly. Caslin waited outside. No sounds emanated from within and he chanced a look through the doorway. With nothing to deter him, he cautiously looked to both left and right as he entered. Reaching into his pocket for his mobile, he found it missing. A frantic search of his coat revealed he didn’t have it. Silently, he cursed himself as he remembered it was still in the car. Proceed or retreat?

  Taking another couple of steps, he cast his eyes about the kitchen. Scanning the worktops, he didn’t see anything that he had hoped to. There were a few dirty saucepans, a microwave with some occasional trays stacked on top and what looked like unsorted mail, piled alongside. The draining board had a few cups and plates sitting on it, with a half filled washing-up bowl in the sink, containing dirty water. Coming to a drawer unit next to the cooker, he opened the top one. It was full of assorted cutlery. The second had tea towels and long boxes, most likely cling film and tin foil. The third had something more useful to him, a wooden rolling pin, roughly an inch-and-a-half thick. Caslin hefted it. The solidity gave him a reassuring sense that boosted his confidence. Resuming his search, he looked for a telephone but there was no extension in the kitchen.

  There was only one exit from the room. One that went into the main body of the building and he edged his way towards it. The adrenalin surged and he sought to remain calm. Breathing deeply through his mouth, he tried to get oxygen into his system faster. Reaching the threshold to the rear reception room he stopped. Taking another deep breath, he leaned around the corner, ready to react to anything untoward. There was nothing. Once again, he moved forward. The ticking of a clock above the fireplace was the only sound that carried to him.

  On the far side of the room were two doors. One opened into the hallway and the other was in the opposing corner. That door was closed. Caslin thought the second was either a cupboard or gave access to the cellar, the latter was more likely. The room had an antique dining table and chairs positioned at its centre with a matching sideboard, adorned with ornaments, running adjacent to the kitchen wall. The furnishings conspired to make the room appear far smaller than it was. The varnished floorboards creaked under foot as he progressed but there was nothing he could do about that.

  The hall was as Caslin had seen through the letter box. Spartanly furnished, with an occasional table set just within the front door, he saw a telephone upon it. He considered phoning for support but all of a sudden, he had a crisis of confidence. Could he afford to make two bad calls in one twenty-four-hour period? Choosing to wait, he turned his attention to the sitting room. Smaller than the room he had just vacated, it also appeared to be inappropriately furnished for the space available. An oversized leather sofa and two non-matching chairs dominated the space before the period fireplace. A small television stood in one corner, upon a unit with shelving above, which was rammed full of books. Outside the dawn was breaking. The darkness gradually passing into daylight but Caslin did not as yet, receive any be
nefit.

  Increased traffic noise came to his ear, followed by something else. He stopped and listened intently, trying to ascertain what it was he had heard. Remaining motionless for at least two minutes, he faced the doorway. Nothing could now be heard above and beyond the noise outside. He moved back out to the hall and made his way around to the stairs. Taking the first three steps quickly, he stopped once more and strained to see into the darkness above him. The balustrade was open and he resumed his course at a slower pace. Ascending sideways and remaining vigilant to any movement on the landing above, he progressed.

  The landing had four doors off it. The first was open and evidently led to the bathroom. Edging forward, he looked through the crack between door and frame to see nothing unusual. Of the remaining three doors, two were closed and the third, the front room with the bay window, was pulled to. The landing had a creased runner and he caught his foot, stumbling forward. At that moment he heard what he thought was a muffled sound. Gently testing the first door he came to, he found it firmly shut. Moving on, he went to the open door, feeling sure that the sound had originated from there. Gently, he touched the door and it swung open into the room. In the grey of the dawn light beyond, he could see the outline of a person sitting in the centre of the room. Even without the lights on, Caslin could tell the man was bound, arms behind him and ankles to the chair legs.

  The figure appeared to turn slightly as if in recognition of his arrival but the head listed from left to right. Now Caslin wished he had made that call. The adrenalin surge reached new heights. Instinctively looking over his shoulder, before stepping into the room he moved forward, expecting an attack that never came. Hugging the interior wall, he observed the restrained man. He was elderly and of Asian origin, with receding hair. This was thinning and predominantly grey. He was clearly in a bad way, with only an irregular murmur to confirm that he was alive but barely conscious. Blood was seeping from a wound to his forehead. A closer inspection saw much of his features were barely distinguishable due to the mass of swelling and damage. All were consistent with a severe beating.