Fear the Past

by J M Dalgliesh

  Caslin glanced about them. They were very much alone in the corridor. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, sir.”

  “Thank you, Nathaniel,” Broadfoot said with gratitude before his expression clouded over in a show of apprehension. “And I know I’ve no right to ask this of you but-”

  “It will remain between us, sir,” Caslin said, understanding the fear. “Tell me, did Jody ever mention a new girlfriend to you? Perhaps, someone he may have met recently.”

  Broadfoot thought hard on it before shaking his head. “No. I’m sorry. He didn’t mention anyone. Was he seeing somebody?”

  “It would appear so, yes,” Caslin replied. “I’ll get on then, sir.”

  “By all means,” Broadfoot said, giving him his blessing to leave. “Oh… and, Nathaniel?” Caslin stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it, sir,” Caslin said, acknowledging the sentiment.

  Chapter Eleven

  The hinge on the refrigerator door creaked as it opened, the handle snapping shut once released. The sounds echoed throughout Dr Taylor’s pathology laboratory. Caslin shuddered, feeling the cold.

  “How do you spend all day in this?” he asked, referencing the artificial light and the somewhat sterile surroundings they were standing in. Alison Taylor laughed.

  “Some people surround themselves with the living,” she explained, “while others, prefer the peace and quiet.”

  “You don’t have children, do you?” Caslin asked playfully. She returned his smile.

  “It’s not only children that people like me choose to avoid. Some of the adults are more than irritating,” she said, inclining her head in his direction.

  “That’s cold,” he countered.

  “A lot like your friend here,” she said, pulling out the rack upon which Jody Wyer lay. Reaching over, she grasped the fastener and unzipped the bag drawing it down to just below his chest. Leaving Caslin to take his first look at the deceased since he was pulled from the water, she crossed to her desk and returned with her notes in hand.

  “How did he die?” Caslin asked, as she ordered her paperwork.

  “He suffered a low velocity impact to the back of his skull. A depressed fracture formed at the impact point leading to a severe contusion as the bone fragments ruptured the subcutaneous blood vessels. On the periphery, I found further fractures radiating out from the impact point,” she explained, producing x-rays from her file. “You’ll see here,” she passed him one of them. “The radiating fractures stop when they meet the sutures.”

  “You said it was low velocity?” Caslin asked, seeking clarification.

  “Yes. Human bone is relatively elastic in form, you’ll probably be surprised to know. The response of the bone to the strain, or load if you will, depends on the velocity and magnitude of the force. A slow load would lead to injuries consistent with a car accident, for example, falls from height or an assault. Whereas a rapid load, or higher velocity, is attributed to ballistic injuries, discharge of firearms, munitions or explosives and so on.”

  “Any chance of his death resulting from a fall?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Dr Taylor explained. “In general, specific types of load will produce characteristic fracture patterns. Low speed injuries involving a wide area typically produce linear fractures. When the force is applied over a wide surface such as with a fall from height it allows the kinetic energy to be absorbed and thus results in smaller injuries. Whereas a localised application of force is far more destructive. The shape and size of the object used to apply the load is highly associated with the resulting fracture pattern.”

  “So, he was definitely struck with an implement,” Caslin said, nodding gravely.

  “Without doubt. When the head is struck with or strikes an object with a broad flat surface area, the skull at the point of impact flattens out to conform to the shape of the surface against which it impacts.”

  “That elasticity you mentioned?” Caslin asked, she nodded. “How quickly did he die?”

  “I would have thought you’re looking at minutes rather than hours.”

  “We are working on the theory that he was assaulted in a car park in the town and then the body was later dumped in the water,” Caslin explained.

  “Yes, Iain Robertson was good enough to pass on his initial thoughts,” Dr Taylor said. “I think you are correct.”

  “Any suggestion of the type of weapon used?”

  “A hammer is my best guess,” she explained. “The effusion of blood into the surrounding tissue is such that the weapon was rounded and evidently packing a hefty weight. Blows from a stick, bat or some kind of rod will often leave parallel linear haemorrhages. These injuries are rounded and even though the end of a stick could also result in a similar pattern due to the length of those types of weapon, the edges would likely be irregular and the lengths greater as they come in contact with the skin.”

  “A hammer,” Caslin repeated almost to himself.

  “There are two reasons why I think he died shortly after the attack.”

  “Go on,” Caslin said.

  “Firstly, the extent of the bruising. Usually these injuries see a blue colouring appear within the first few hours and, as I’m sure you know, these colours change as the tissue reacts to the spread of the blood giving rise to some magnificent colouration.”

  “It has been known on occasion,” Caslin said with a wry smile.

  “You’ll see swelling, damage to the epithelium, extravasations and coagulation… to name but a few.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Alison.”

  “These occur within hours of the injury providing it happens ante-mortem and that’s why I can be confident he died almost immediately.”

  “There wasn’t much of that?”

  “Totally absent in this case,” she confirmed. “Secondly, if the victim had been alive when he was placed in the water, he would have ingested a significant level of sediment in doing so as he sought to breathe. Whether he was conscious or not is largely irrelevant. I would not necessarily expect to find indications of that in his stomach but certainly there would be large deposits within his lungs and there is no sign at all.”

  “He was dead when he went into the water,” Caslin stated.

  “Absolutely,” Dr Taylor nodded. “His lungs were clear of water, so he didn’t drown. Prior to death, he exhibited no signs of poor health. I would say he was above average in his general levels of diet and fitness. Toxicology reports came back as clear of any illicit substances.”

  “What about prescription drugs?” Caslin asked. “I came across a bottle of anti-depressants with his name on at his house.”

  “Yes, I picked up on that but they were low-level doses indicative of a mild approach to his treatment.”

  “Rather than?”

  “In all likelihood, a condition that was either being managed at an early stage or one not considered to be too debilitating, rather than one needing a sterner intervention,” Dr Taylor concluded. “However, his GP will be better placed to confirm his treatment.”

  “Great,” Caslin said, looking past Alison towards her autopsy area as if he was searching for something.

  “If you’re wondering how I’m getting on with the RTA victim, I haven’t started the procedure as yet,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “I was thinking about getting your initial thoughts,” Caslin said doing his best to mask his impatience. Dr Taylor’s face split a broad smile.

  “Well, it’s a good job I know you as well as I do then,” she said, zipping up Jody Wyer’s body bag. Caslin stepped back to allow her room to slide the tray back into the refrigerator. He closed the door ensuring the latch locked into place. “This way,” she said to him as he passed back the copies of the x-rays he was still holding.

  Leading him through to her office, she put Wyer’s file down and picked up another, handing it Caslin. He opened the manila folder and perused the contents.

&nbs
p; “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  “He was in a bit of a state once they managed to get him out of the wreck,” she said. “As I say, I’ve not begun the autopsy yet but when I assessed him upon arrival, I noted several surgical procedures had taken place. Nothing that looked particularly fresh but even so, clearly planned surgical procedures.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll have to wait for confirmation of that, I’m afraid. However, I do have a working theory,” she said. “Now, due to the delay in cutting him out of the vehicle, I set to work on some of the blood samples Iain’s team were able to provide. He sensed you were keen to get a move on with this one, so we thought we’d get ahead.”

  “And?”

  “Toxicological reports indicated a blood-alcohol level that proved definitively he hadn’t been drinking. Nor was he under the influence of any substance as far as I can tell. However, the tox screen did come back with some interesting results.”

  “Interesting how?” Caslin asked.

  “There are significant levels of a drug called Pembrolizumab in his system,” she said, pointing to a chart that Caslin had before him. “This is a relatively recent addition to the arsenal used to treat cancer, one of eleven new drugs approved by the European Medicines Agency last year. It is the first cancer immunotherapy drug that has shown, in some cases, a greater efficiency than chemotherapy in first-line treatment of non-small lung cancer.”

  “Lung cancer,” Caslin said.

  “But that’s not all,” Dr Taylor continued. “Although considered a clinical breakthrough and widely available it is not one that we use in a large capacity here in the UK. So, that got me thinking.”

  “Where does he undergo his treatment?”

  “Exactly,” she explained. “I ran a check in our database and found no hits under his name in the UK. Your understanding is that he is resident in Spain, is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “Stands to reason. Spain is one of the medical tourism hotspots when it comes to cancer treatments,” she said. “Their clinics have excellent ties with research institutes and their pricing structure and success rates often makes them an excellent choice in comparison to travelling to the US or Israel, for example.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” Caslin said. “This is all very fascinating but how does this move us along?”

  “I was surprised that a UK citizen with such a condition has no medical history whatsoever in their home nation. I would have expected to be able to locate some medical history of some description.”

  “Good point,” Caslin agreed. “We only have him appearing on the Spanish radar a few years ago. He must have lived somewhere and it doesn’t appear to be here.”

  “I suppose he could have been living previously almost anywhere,” Dr Taylor continued. “On a hunch, I explored the idea further by looking for some of the telltale signs that give away where medical treatment takes place.

  “What type of signs?” Caslin asked, finding his curiosity piqued.

  “Dental work is one of the most common. The amalgam fillings we use are of a different composition to that used on the continent for example.”

  “I would never have known,” Caslin said. “Any luck?”

  “Yes. His teeth showed many signs of decay and I can spot our fillings quite easily. Some of the work was done many years ago, so he was certainly treated in the UK. I took his prints and ran them through the system.”

  “We’ve already done that,” Caslin said. “We didn’t get a hit.”

  “Not through a PNC check, no,” she interrupted him. “But you didn’t run it through the Ministry of Defence files, did you?”

  “No, we didn’t,” Caslin said. “Did you find a match?”

  Alison Taylor nodded, “Yes. Royal Navy. He served twelve years.”

  “Go on,” Caslin said, captivated. He knew her well enough to know when she was holding back.

  “His real name is Philip Bradley. He was a Lieutenant but that’s not all.”

  “Well?” Caslin asked, fostering his impatience.

  “He was recorded as having died two years ago,” she said, reaching across and leafing through a couple of pages in the file Caslin was holding and only stopping when she reached a copy of the official death certificate. Caslin scanned the document. A brief inspection revealed the dates corresponded more or less with Brian Jack’s appearance in southern Spain.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Caslin mumbled.

  ***

  “Philip Bradley,” Hunter said, approaching the noticeboard and attaching his MoD photograph next to a shot of David MacEwan, taken the day before when they observed the meeting at the scrap yard. “He served in the Royal Navy on a succession of deployments. He was present on HMS Invincible when she was sent to the Falklands.”

  “Any issues with his record?” Caslin asked. Hunter shook her head.

  “No, his record was clean. I have his performance reviews here and he is described as both competent and diligent. However, his final appraisal back in 1983 stated he wasn’t considered as having the necessary potential for further advancement. He left the navy eighteen months later.”

  “He wasn’t going anywhere,” Caslin said. “Where did he go next?”

  “You’ll not believe it, sir,” Hunter said. “He came to us.”

  “The police?”

  Hunter nodded, “Yes. He was originally from Leeds, growing up in Chapel Allerton in the north east of the city. He joined North Yorkshire Constabulary straight from his time with the navy and remained there until he transferred over to Greater Manchester in the late 1980s. He served with them reaching the level of Detective Chief Inspector until his registered time of death two years ago.”

  “Well, yesterday he was looking good for a guy who’s been dead for two years,” Caslin said, staring intently at the photograph on the board. “How was his demise reported at the time?”

  “He was apparently killed aboard a yacht in an accident sailing in the North Sea,” Hunter read out from her notes.

  “What type of accident?” Caslin asked.

  “The boat caught fire. There was an explosion,” Hunter said. “The crew managed to issue a mayday call and the coastguard dispatched a helicopter along with a crew from the nearest RNLI station. When they located the ship, it was burnt out with the survivors having decamped into a lifeboat.”

  “And Bradley?”

  “Killed in the initial explosion,” Hunter said.

  “At least, that’s what was recorded,” Caslin stated the obvious. “Witnesses?”

  “Yes, sir. There were three others crewing the ship including the captain and owner of the vessel.”

  “If Bradley was declared dead, they must have recovered his body,” Caslin said. Hunter nodded.

  “Yes, the RNLI attempted to recover the vessel but it sank as they towed it back to port. What they thought was Bradley’s body was fished out of the water and later identified as his.”

  “Well, we know that wasn’t the case,” Caslin said. “Who identified the body?”

  Hunter returned to her notes, “Scott Tarbet. The boat’s captain. He was Bradley’s cousin and so was taken at his word. The other two witnesses confirmed seeing the boat go up in the explosion with Bradley aboard.”

  “And they were?”

  “Greg Tower and Toby Ford,” Hunter said.

  “What do we know about them?”

  “Greg Tower is deceased. Died in a car crash last year,” Hunter confirmed.

  “Are we sure of that?” Caslin asked with no intended sarcasm.

  “I’ll look into it, sir.”

  “And the other… what was it… Ford?”

  “Toby Ford, sir,” Hunter said, hesitantly. Caslin picked up on it as did Holt, lifting his head from the notes he was making. “Chief Superintendent Toby Ford is still serving with Greater Manchester Police, sir.”

  “Now that does make things interesting, doesn’t it?” Caslin said with a smile
. The other two failed to see anything amusing about it. “Terry, I want you to go through Bradley’s time with GMP. See what his career highlights were. By all means take a look at his time with us as well but Manchester is more likely to be relevant. It’s interesting that our friend Tony Mason also served with the same constabulary. I wonder if you’ll find an overlap between the two. Did they work together or have any affiliations with each other? It’s a bit of a coincidence for them to be moving in this circle without having some sort of shared past. Let’s see how far it goes back but be discreet. Sarah,” he said, turning to Hunter, “any idea of where the captain of the boat is now?”

  Hunter returned to her notes, “Tarbet is registered at an address in Whitby.”

  “Good,” Caslin said. “I love a trip to the coast.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Passing out through the last remaining suburb of the north-eastern edge of Whitby, Caslin looked over his right shoulder as the water came into view. He could see the ruined remains of Whitby Abbey standing proudly on the point overlooking the town commanding as much attention now as it would have done over the previous centuries. As the coastal road descended closer to sea level, the white caps of the waves on the North Sea appeared ominous. The car was buffeted by the wind and although the skies were clear of the brooding storm clouds of recent days, there was no guarantee it would remain so.

  They were heading to Sandsend, a couple of miles out of Whitby. A small village located along the route of the three-mile beach running all the way to Whitby’s harbour. The approach road had a large hotel and golf course to one side with the sand and sea to the other. Along the length of the final mile of the descent were parking facilities, only a car’s width but running top to tail down to the village. For most of the year space would be at a premium, however, currently in the off-season and with the weather cutting, many people were driven inland and away from the coast.

  Turning his gaze out to sea, Caslin expected to see windsurfers, kayaks and the like. Today, the sea was empty beyond the cargo ships passing by in their designated lanes, hugging the coast for its safety and security. Hunter pulled off the road near to the base of the hill parking as close as she could get to the village. Caslin could see their destination. Getting out of the car, he drew his coat around him as the sanctuary of the interior was traded for the bitter easterly wind. The red flags were up along the shoreline denoting the water was off limits, deemed far too dangerous, hence the lack of activity. A few dog walkers braved the conditions, enjoying their time when the animals were permitted on the sand.