Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 6

  Caslin’s absence from the station that morning, accompanying Chloe McNeil to the identification of her ex-husband, had kept him blissfully ignorant of the media scrum that had been developing outside. The interest continued to gather pace once it was announced that the dead man remained, for the time being at least, unidentified. Local news crews had been reinforced by advance teams from some of the national papers and, judging by how slow a news week it appeared to be, the national television press was expected to pick it up soon enough.

  The DCI shook his head. He indicated Atwood, “Michael, could you look into where McNeil got the cyanide from? Nathaniel is right. It can’t be easy to come by, so we may get a break there. Nathaniel—”

  Caslin looked up, he had been momentarily lost in thought, “Yes, Guv.”

  “You’ve already made a start. Get into this guy’s life, shake the tree and see what falls out. Find a link to this Daniel Horsvedt while you’re at it. So far it seems like he’s a ghost. I want to know that he exists and, if possible, where he is.”

  Harman glanced at Caslin but said nothing, the latter pretended not to notice.

  “Will do, perhaps Maxim could assist?” Caslin asked. “I’ll need help with phone records, bank accounts and such like.”

  DCI Stephens looked over at Harman who remained passive, for his part, “Okay, but I still want something on that online promo site that you’ve been working on, by the end of the week.”

  Harman nodded enthusiastically. Caslin felt a little guilty, for it was he who had been dominating the constable’s time in the past day or so. They agreed to meet again at 6 p.m. for a catch up, before the press conference. The room emptied as the group left their DCI to contemplate what he was going to say to the waiting media. If he could have wished for anything at that moment, it would have been for an announcement of a Royal wedding or a celebrity death, anything that the press would love, if only to take the pressure off for a day or two.

  Harman fell into step alongside Caslin and once sure that they were out of earshot of anyone else, he spoke.

  “Why didn’t you mention the photo of the Horsvedts that we found this morning?”

  Caslin steered the younger man into the gents, as they passed by, with a gentle hand on the shoulder. He quickly checked that the cubicles were as empty as the rest of the room.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Harman stammered, “Well… I—”

  “Because we picked it up on an illegal search.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, stupid question, right?” Harman nodded his agreement. Caslin continued, “With the IPCC hanging around we play it by the book, at least that’s how it’s written down.”

  “Yes, Sir. I understand.”

  Caslin read the expression on his colleague’s face. It was one that conveyed far more than merely concerns over their procedural misdemeanour.

  “What else is playing on your mind, Maxim?”

  “Is it that obvious?” Harman asked. Caslin nodded. “It’s that picture you found.”

  “What about it?”

  “The baby. Adults are one thing but…”

  “I know. I’m thinking the same. I want any information you can dig up on Horsvedt and McNeil’s bank accounts. Let’s find them, fast.”

  Harman was happy to oblige.

  Chapter 8

  “Anything?” Caslin asked.

  Harman glanced up, a frown etched on his brow that made him appear well beyond his years.

  “Depends on what you consider as useful.”

  “Give me something.”

  “I’ve got a couple of bank statements, one for each of them. They don’t show any significant balances or transactions, but we may get some financial history from the branches themselves.”

  “Well, that is something. You won’t have to phone around every branch in the high street asking if they were customers. What activity is there?”

  Harman slowly scanned the paper in his hand.

  “It looks like all the direct debits went out of Daniel’s account, TV licence, rent and utilities. Angela’s looks like a building society savings account, with sod all in it, I might add.”

  “That’s somewhere to start. Find out who they were paying their rent to, who owns this place? They should be able to put some more detail onto the Horsvedts. Is there enough in the account to cover the bills? I mean, we don’t know how long they’ve been missing. Unless there’s a bottomless pit of cash they’ll run out, if no-one’s earning.”

  “Are they missing now, then?”

  “Well they’re not here, so figuratively speaking, yes. But you’re right. They may only be missing to us. The balance?”

  “A little over £150 and no withdrawals in this statement, it’s dated July.”

  “That won’t go far. Did you find any red letters around the place?”

  Harman shook his head. Caslin hadn’t either, which set him thinking.

  “Any newer statements?”

  “Not that I’ve come across but we’ll see. Strange though, isn’t it? If he is around, then where are the more recent ones? He’s quite organised with the accounts of the business. Although that said, there’s nothing recent there either.”

  “And let’s not forget that the power’s still on. These days, they’re keen to kick your door in and fit prepayment meters if you don’t cough up regularly.”

  “Speaking from personal experience, Sir?”

  Caslin ignored the question and went out of the room, heading into the kitchen. His frustration was mounting. The longer they spent looking at this the more questions he seemed to be asking, but the answers were not forthcoming. He had been involved with similar cases in the past where every avenue appeared to be a dead end, or each door turned out to be locked. All he needed was a break and it didn’t need to be big. He just hoped that they would find it soon. Either that or the Horsvedts would turn up out of the blue, in a car packed with suitcases and a bucket and spade, then perhaps he could forget the whole thing.

  Choosing one of the chairs at the kitchen table, Caslin reversed it and, having first tossed his notebook to the table, sat down. He crossed his arms on the rim before him and leaned forward, resting his chin. He was confident that he had covered the basics but even so, the Horsvedts were still a blank which felt wrong to him. The couple had a son. As best as they could figure he was not even of pre-school age yet and had slipped under the radar of the local health visitors. That in itself was an indication that the family were relatively new to the area and perhaps ignorant of UK childcare procedures. Unless they wanted it that way. Caslin had no reason to think so but it was a consideration, nonetheless.

  There appeared to be barely a trace of them in Yorkshire, which was adding to his frustration. Caslin had been working this case solidly now for several days and felt that he should be further along than he was. Two adults going missing was a common enough occurrence in his profession, but the idea of a toddler vanishing without a trace was a major concern for him.

  DI Atwood had failed thus far to come up with anything productive on the cyanide. It was of significant strength but, as Alison Taylor predicted, had no chemical marker that could lead them back to a supplier. This was a mystery in itself. The poison had been encased in glass, a throwback to the days of the Cold War, which made for interesting trivia but useless in terms of their investigation as it led them nowhere. The specialist forensics lab in Leeds had promised to examine it further but they had implied that no-one should get their hopes up.

  A request had gone out to Europol to see if any of the names were under investigation, or even suspicion, but that too had drawn a blank. The vain hope that a lack of information would encourage the press to find another story to lead with had evaporated quickly. It appeared that no news only led them to greater and greater speculation. The latest from the red tops listed McNeil as MI5 with links to counter-terrorist investigations. That one had made Caslin smile. He guessed that they would have him charged with th
e Kennedy assassination by the end of the week if something juicier didn’t turn up.

  He glanced around the room, vainly hoping to see something that he had missed. A note pinned to a cupboard that had fallen and been swept under the cabinets, or perhaps a scrape or scuff to the furniture that didn’t seem quite right, anything that could spark his imagination. He threw his head back and looked to the ceiling, exhaling a deep sigh as he did so. The clear head that he had been working with was clouding over as the minutes ticked by. Caslin closed his eyes and returned his chin to the comfort of his forearms.

  How long he sat there like that he didn’t know but Harman clearing his throat, snapped him from his thought process. The DC held an archive box before him and indicated it with a nod of his head.

  “This should keep me busy for a while. I’ve got financials for the business as well as their personal accounts. With a bit of luck, we should be able to track where they’ve been, if not where they are.”

  Caslin nodded but something told him that the break they were looking for wouldn’t come from the contents of that box. Instinctively, he felt that the financials would be a cold lead and would probably only throw up more questions.

  “I’ll head back to Fulford with these.”

  “Good lad,” Caslin said, feigning interest but saying nothing more.

  Harman shuffled past and as he reached the threshold of the door he paused, propping it open with his shoulder. Glancing back at Caslin, he looked about to say something but changed his mind and left, the door swinging shut behind him. Caslin was once again alone with his thoughts.

  He decided to leave, needing to put some distance between himself and the case, having had enough of sitting there asking the same questions over and over. He had thought of little else for days and that had the effect of creating a form of tunnel vision, analysing the same thoughts time and again. For the life of him he could only come up with two plausible explanations, either the family had fled from something in a hurry, leaving their possessions behind, or they had been caught up in something altogether more sinister. The former seemed more likely as they had no evidence for the latter. If that was the case though, some trace of them should have surfaced by now, a cash withdrawal, ferry tickets, a child’s prescription, something. They still knew very little about the family and it was bugging him.

  Caslin had flicked out the kitchen light and was pulling the door to behind him when his phone began to ring. He answered the call and continued on to where his car was parked at the front. It was DC Holt. The two exchanged pleasantries.

  “I’ve got the info on the registered owner of the farmhouse from the Land Registry.”

  “Go on.”

  “They had to search their archives. Apparently, it hasn’t changed hands for decades, so had never migrated onto the computer, hence why we couldn’t bring it up sooner. Who’d have thought that, eh? Usually it’s only those grand houses that stay in families for generations, until the relatives can’t afford the inheritance tax and grant the house to the National Trust instead.”

  Holt was not only the office comedian but also the chatterbox. Caslin grew impatient.

  “So, who owns it, Terry?”

  Holt didn’t notice his irritation.

  “Oh yeah, hang on. It’s here someplace.”

  Caslin had reached his car and unlocked it before he got an answer, shaking his head as he heard the shuffling of papers in the background whilst the DC rummaged around on his desk.

  “Here it is, a Sylvia Vickers.”

  “And who is she?”

  “Good question. The title deed was transferred to her name back in the summer of 1938, presumably an inheritance. I guess it was from her father, a Gordon Tremell, who died that same year.”

  Caslin thought for a moment before speaking, “I imagine that would probably make Sylvia quite old.”

  “Agreed. I did a search and she hasn’t come up on file, but there is an S. Vickers on the electoral roll, living in North Yorkshire.”

  “Give me the address.”

  Caslin rooted around in his pocket with his free hand for his notebook, failing to hide his frustration at not finding it quickly.

  “I’ll text it to you, Sir,” Holt offered and Caslin gratefully accepted. The address was a residential care home in Goldsborough, which was east of Knaresborough. Realising that it was more or less on his way back to York, and he could make it there in about half an hour, Caslin decided he would stop by. “Do you want me to call ahead?” Holt asked.

  Caslin declined the offer and hung up, belatedly thanking the DC for his efforts as the phone touched the lining of his coat. Maybe he would get some answers today after all. With renewed optimism, he turned the car around and headed for the main road.

  Chapter 9

  It was a good twenty miles or so before Caslin took the turning left onto the Ripley Road, heading directly through Knaresborough and on towards his destination. The care home was based in an old Victorian building, possibly the original rectory for the village church located nearby. The car park was gravelled and set within well maintained grounds. Bringing the car to a crunching halt, he parked up next to a sign directing visitors to present themselves at reception upon arrival.

  There was a snap in the air and Caslin shivered as he crossed the short distance to the entrance, trying the door to the porch but finding it locked. Both the inner and outer doors were glazed, allowing an un-obscured view to the illuminated hallway within. What he perceived to be the original panelling on the walls stood out with its richly engraved detail, and Caslin considered how such features were sorely lacking in the buildings of the current day, which saddened him. The resounding chime of the doorbell echoed within and was answered shortly after. A rather ascetic and officious looking woman in a charcoal-grey business suit eyed him warily, as she turned the key in the lock and tugged violently at the door. Evidently severely warped, it eventually succumbed and juddered open, its edge scraping harshly on the tiled floor.

  “Visiting hours are eleven to three and then six until eight, with very few exceptions,” she said haughtily.

  “And this is one of those exceptions,” Caslin said, producing his warrant card.

  The office was set out in what had probably been the drawing room of the house. Once again, the panelling caught his eye amongst the period features on display. An imposing marble fireplace competed with the original sash windows to be the eye catching centrepiece. Caslin warmed his hands on the radiator while he waited. These houses were beautiful but they were draughty as hell. He concluded that the place must cost a small fortune to heat during the winter. The walls themselves were adorned with paintings of regal looking men and women, all depicted sitting or standing, perhaps documenting the familial inhabitants or owners of the house. Caslin couldn’t be sure as no names were detailed beneath them.

  Having been ushered into the office by the manager of the home, but not considering herself senior enough to deal with a police enquiry, she had left him to his own devices before disappearing to find one of the owners. After a wait of nearly half an hour, one of the oversized four-panel doors creaked open and a gentleman strode forward. In his early fifties, slightly built and carrying himself with confidence, he offered a warm hand to Caslin who took it.

  “I’m Dr Spencer Oliver, co-owner of Goldsborough Residential and you are?”

  “Detective Inspector Caslin, of York,” Caslin produced his warrant card again which the doctor examined closely.

  “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

  “I’m looking for a lady, Sylvia Vickers. I understand she is a resident here.”

  “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “Her name has come up in the course of an investigation. Any more than that, I should really say to her.”

  Dr Oliver frowned slightly, “I see. However, I cannot understand how that would be possible, at all.”

  “Well if I can speak with her, then we may be able to shed some light on
it.”

  “Patients are entitled to their privacy, Inspector. I’m not sure that I am able to give out any information, unless of course you have a warrant?”

  Now it was Caslin’s turn to frown, and he felt a sense of irritation creeping forward with the man before him.

  “I was unaware that this was an institution?”

  “It isn’t, Inspector, but nonetheless—”

  “Nonetheless my arse, Dr Oliver, is she a resident here or not?”

  Dr Oliver seemed taken aback but equally resolute in his stance on the matter. Caslin decided that a full-blown slanging match was not in his interest and adopted a gentler approach.

  “I can understand you wanting to protect the privacy of your patients. However, we are looking into the whereabouts of a family who have vanished without a trace. Their residence is owned by Mrs Vickers, I just need to ask her some questions about those people. Only to find out more information that’s all.”

  The man before him responded to the tactful line and his previous rigidity appeared to soften if only a little.

  “Well in that case, I will take you to her. I’m not entirely sure what you are expecting, though.”

  Caslin was led from the office, down a corridor to a set of stairs where they ascended to the first floor and turned right. There was little activity and Dr Oliver explained that most of the residents were downstairs having their evening meal. Only the bedridden, or more aggressive, residents ate in their rooms.

  They stopped by a corner at the rear of the house, the last door before the second flight of stairs, outside a room that was numbered 17 and was slightly ajar. The doctor held out his hand to indicate Caslin should enter. For some reason that would still escape him, even later that night, Caslin was hesitant as he gently knocked on the door and pushed it open.