Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Monday the 6th November was going to be a quiet night.

  Having devoured a starter of prawn toast, mini-spring rolls and seaweed, Caslin was setting about his Kung Pao Chicken when a head ducked around the door to the squad room, accompanied by a rapping of knuckles on the frame.

  “Got a sec?”

  Caslin nodded, wiping some sauce from his chin with the back of his hand. The uniformed officer entered. He was traffic. Caslin had seen him around but didn’t know him directly.

  “What can I do for you…?” Caslin enquired.

  “Thompson, Sir,” the newcomer proffered.

  “Of course, Thompson,” Caslin said. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve got a guy downstairs in custody, Daniel Horsvedt. The Sarge thinks you should take a look at him. We thought he was under the influence after we were called to a collision with a motorcyclist.”

  “Where is that name from, The Netherlands?”

  “I thought Germany.”

  “No matter. The accident, was it his fault?”

  “Not really, Sir. But that’s not what might interest you. No priors or anything outstanding against the identification, and the pickup itself was clean.”

  Caslin was instantly suspicious. A glance towards the clock saw that it was a little after a quarter to midnight. Was this uniform trying to offload a basic collar onto CID so they could go home on time?

  “And why would this interest me?”

  “He has some gear in the car that doesn’t quite add up.”

  House-breaking kit, Caslin thought. “Go on.”

  “He had a bag behind the driver’s seat containing some cable ties and a hammer. A can of pepper spray was also wedged in the crease of the driver’s seat.”

  “Hardly the Great Train Robbery though is it, anything else?”

  Thompson nodded, “The name he gave doesn’t ring true. It ties with the vehicle but describes a thirty-year-old male, 5’9 and heavy set, with dark hair. It’s not even close. He’s much older, 6’2, skinny as a rake and bald as a badger’s arse.”

  Caslin raised an eyebrow at the last.

  “Sir, sorry, Sir. He just isn’t right, particularly as he speaks with a Scottish accent. He apparently moved here from abroad in 2010 when his background in the UK begins but he’s got a hell of a strong accent. What with that and the registered name, it doesn’t scan.”

  “Still possible. If you learn English from scratch, you can take on the accent of those around you. Maybe he had a Scottish teacher at night-school or something.”

  Caslin was thoughtful for a moment as he processed the information. He could pass this one on to the day shift, Harman or DC Holt could endeavour to get to the bottom of it. On the other hand, he could show some interest, his meal could wait until later.

  “Come on then, let’s take a look at what you’ve netted.”

  Caslin followed PC Thompson down the corridor. He frowned and rubbed at his chest. The spring rolls were already repeating on him, he had eaten too fast as usual. They dropped down two flights of stairs and hung a left towards the custody suite. Caslin jumped. A high-pitched alarm sounded throughout the station, instantly setting his heart racing. Reacting first, he barged past Thompson and took off down the corridor. Another body stepped out of a doorway, only just managing to step aside as Caslin bellowed a warning. Crashing through the double doors to the custody suite, he arrived alongside two others entering from the yard. Confusion reigned as the custody sergeant was nowhere to be seen, the cell block was deserted. Shouts were going up from all over. Caslin headed for the interview rooms with the others close behind. An officer stood in a doorway and Caslin eased past him to get a look.

  A man in a polo shirt and blue jeans lay outstretched on the floor with Sergeant Allen kneeling alongside. A chair was upturned to the right. A shocked officer stood on the far side of the room watching events unfold. He looked over and met Caslin’s unasked question with an expression of bewilderment, spreading his hands wide and shaking his head.

  “He just… I didn’t…”

  The man on the floor appeared to be fitting, his arms and legs in spasm. Sgt Allen recoiled as the semi-conscious figure violently convulsed, eyes tightly shut, straining every muscle. He coughed involuntarily, yellow bile and vomit spewing from his mouth.

  “Jesus Christ!” Allen exclaimed, backing off.

  “Get an ambulance, fast,” Caslin shouted, at no-one in particular.

  Someone standing behind him made the call. Moments later the alarm was silenced, by whom Caslin didn’t know but he was thankful. It got your attention but also made it impossible to concentrate. Seconds passed that seemed like hours. Caslin felt a hand on his arm move him forcefully aside as another entered the room. It was the FME, the local doctor on call for the police that evening. Allen made way and the doctor knelt down. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he started by opening the man’s eyelids and passing a light over them. The convulsions had stopped, as had the fitting and from his viewpoint at the door, Caslin could see that the patient was unresponsive to the intense light of the torch. He wasn’t sure if he was still breathing.

  “How long has he been like this?” The doctor glanced up at all present, in turn. Caslin shrugged but another spoke up.

  “A minute, maybe two?”

  “What happened?”

  “I… I don’t know,” the constable stammered. “He was sitting there, and then he just… threw himself forward and collapsed over the table.”

  “He’s not breathing. Where’s that ambulance?” the doctor asked without looking up. He opened the unconscious man’s mouth and peered inside, running a gloved finger within.

  “On its way,” a voice announced, from behind. “Five minutes, tops.”

  The doctor began heart massage and requested Sergeant Allen to continue the compressions as he put a resuscitation kit over the unconscious man’s face. He hesitated for a moment before proceeding to blow air into his lungs. Caslin backed out of the room and into the corridor. The area was not wide and felt even more cramped by the number of people in attendance. Everyone in the station, barring the cleaning contractors, appeared to have answered the call.

  “Someone get out in the yard and direct the paramedics when they arrive.”

  A constable eased his way past everyone and ran outside. Caslin pushed his way through the throng. Gently gripping PC Thompson’s forearm as he passed, Caslin guided him away. They continued on until they were back in the custody suite and out of earshot. Another officer walked by and Caslin kept his voice low to ensure that they would not be overheard.

  “Concentrate.”

  “Sir?”

  “Is there anything you missed out?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The arrest. Come to think of it, from when you initially arrived on the scene to the moment that you left custody to speak to me. Anything at all?”

  “No,” Thompson replied, looking a little concerned. “You can’t think that we had—”

  “No,” Caslin was firm. “No, I’ve no reason to think anything at all. Just answer the question, are you sure?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “You need to do better than I think so,” Caslin snapped. “You need to be damn sure.”

  The constable looked back towards the interview rooms as a paramedic rushed past, escorted by a colleague, disappearing from view.

  “Is this the right time to discuss this?” he said, his voice wavering.

  “Look, there’s a distinct possibility that this guy isn’t going to make it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Caslin glanced over his shoulder, checking that they were still comfortably out of earshot of anyone else.

  “I don’t, not for sure but it’s not looking good, is it? This is probably the only time you’re going to have to get your story straight in your head. I want to know everything, every detail, however small and insignificant you might think it is. I’ll give you five mi
nutes to think.”

  Without waiting for a response, Caslin turned and walked back towards the interview room. The crowd was dispersing. He ran a hand through his hair and realised that he was sweating heavily. Sergeant Allen came out as he approached, the doctor slightly behind him. The ashen look on his face, and that of resignation on the doctor’s, confirmed what Caslin had already suspected. Neither of the men spoke. Drawing the doctor aside, Caslin ushered him away whilst Allen began directing proceedings.

  “I’m keen to hear your thoughts on cause of death, Brian.”

  Brian Frampton was an experienced local GP, working with the police for many years. In Caslin’s mind, that gave his opinion some weight. The doctor appeared reticent.

  “I’m not a pathologist. It would be pure speculation—”

  “And yet, you have an idea?”

  Frampton shrugged, his mouth opening as if to speak but merely shook his head.

  “I saw you hesitate before resuscitating him. I would understand without a resus kit but with one? What went through your mind?”

  “I really think that you should wait for—”

  “Look, I’m hardly going to quote you on it, am I?” Caslin reassured him. Frampton appeared to relax. “You have my word.” The last struck home and the doctor nodded his agreement. Before saying anything further, he took a last look beyond Caslin to ensure that no-one else was able to hear what he was about to say.

  Arriving at a side door to the yard, basically a fire exit from the main building, Caslin passed through and out into the night. He shivered against the cold and drew his coat tightly about him. It was well below freezing and a hard frost already lay on the cars. Looking around, he easily picked out the burgundy Toyota pickup on the far side, sparkling in the moonlight. Making his way over, he saw that it was actually a glaring red. A cursory check saw him survey the damage along the offside panels where the motorbike had delivered its glancing blow, the rider was exceptionally lucky by all accounts.

  The remainder of the bodywork threw up the usual dents and scratches that a vehicle would carry after two decades on the road. The tyres were in good shape with deep enough tread for the conditions. There was a great deal of mud, mixed with salt, ingrained on the tyre walls and all along the length of the vehicle. Caslin took a quick glance over his shoulder, as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Opening the passenger door and looking inside, he saw that the cabin was pretty Spartan. There was a small collection of assorted food containers on the passenger seat and in the footwell. The side pocket of the passenger door was stuffed with assorted rubbish, none of which was noteworthy.

  A second check that no-one else was in the yard and Caslin opened the glove box. He rooted around and found a couple of Ordnance Survey maps, one for the North East and another for the West Midlands. They were both a bit dog-eared around the edges. He found an old mobile phone that didn’t power up when he switched it on. Returning to the glove box, there was a small packet of replacement bulbs and a grey plastic box containing the socket piece, for the locking wheel nuts. There was also a black wallet that Caslin assumed held the service record. He opened it and a cluster of sheets of paper slipped out, one landing inside the car and the others dropping to the tarmac.

  Caslin scooped them up. The first was a printed receipt for an exhaust and wheel check from a garage in York. The next was a leaflet for a ramblers’ association and lastly, an electricity bill in the name of a “C McNeil”. It was dated for the March of that year. Caslin didn’t recognise the address but he could tell from the postcode that it was local to York City. He thought about it for a moment, then took out his notebook and a pen, jotting down the name and address before carefully putting the papers back in the wallet and replacing them in the glove box.

  There was little else to draw his attention to, so he closed the door to the pickup. Walking around to the front, he took down the registration number. Finally, he opened the driver’s door for a closer look at the contents of the side pocket, amongst the broken glass from the window above. There were bits of cellophane, scrunched up crisp packets and confectionery wrappers, along with some used tissues and what looked like fuel receipts. From the date range of the latter, it was clear that this vehicle covered some miles. Satisfied that there was nothing else to see of any value, he shut the door and returned to the office, thankful to be out of the cold. All of a sudden, he felt like he was crashing. Leaning his back against the wall of the deserted squad room, he took a moment to gather himself. He should have called in sick tonight.

  Once seated behind his desk, Caslin picked up the phone and put in a call to the control room. He requested the details of the registered keeper for the pickup and noted them down. As soon as he replaced the receiver, he had the thought to run a check on the name and address from the utility bill as well. He would follow that up later. In the meantime, he was going to check out Horsvedt’s home address.

  The address was out in the sticks, a name and a postcode. He went online and brought up a map showing the location. The pin on the map put it somewhere off the B6265 between Pately Bridge and Grassington. Caslin remembered the former from his childhood. His father had once taken them to a farm nearby on a shoot. Tearing a page from a note pad, Caslin jotted down a few words before neatly folding the paper and placing it on Maxim Harman’s desk for the DC to find when he started his shift.

  It was 5:56 a.m. on Tuesday 7th November.

  Chapter 3

  Caslin picked up the pace as he made his way down to the rear yard, deciding to leave from there, rather than run the gauntlet of bumping into any senior officers, roused early due to the events of the night. The rear gate opened as a Transit pulled into the yard and he slipped out. The sun had risen and it was looking like a beautiful day. There was barely a cloud in the sky and the gentle easterly breeze was cold but not stinging as it had been recently.

  Caslin buttoned up his coat anyway and headed for his Volvo. He pressed the fob in the hope that it might come back to life but it didn’t. Putting the key in the lock he wrestled with the frozen mechanism before the click brought a smile to his face. Dropping into the seat, he turned the key in the ignition and after a few attempts. The engine fired up. He flipped on the rear-view demister, set the heater and blowers to maximum and got out of the car, leaving the door ajar. He set about raking the ice from the windscreen with a credit card when a recognisable voice called to him. His heart sank.

  “Good morning, Detective Inspector.”

  “No comment, Mr Sullivan,” Caslin replied, without looking over.

  “Oh, come on, that’s just mean on such a fine day as this. You must have something to say, especially knowing that your colleagues from the IPCC will be due in at some point today. It’ll be something of a reunion for you, won’t it?”

  “You’re up early, Jimmy. Did the wife turf you out again?”

  “She left a long time ago, living down in London with the kids. How’s yours, by the way?”

  Caslin stopped scraping and took a measure of the man alongside him. Sullivan was in his forties. His clothes appeared to have been thrown on in something of a rush and his hair was unkempt. The journalist cut a feeble first impression. For a fleeting moment, Caslin remembered looking at himself in the mirror and thought the unthinkable.

  “She’s keeping well, thank you for asking. Please excuse me, I have to be somewhere.”

  Caslin thought that he could see through the windscreen well enough, at least to get out of the car park and away from the unwanted attention. He got back into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut. Sullivan tapped gently on the window. Begrudgingly, Caslin pushed the button and after sticking for a moment, the window cracked open.

  “You and I have a lot more in common than you think, Inspector,” Sullivan offered up a business card through the two-inch gap, Caslin took it. “We could be of mutual use to each other you know.”

  “There are laws about that sort of thing, Jimmy.”

  Sullivan
spread his hands wide, “Not suggesting anything untoward, Inspector. Just keep it in mind.”

  Caslin put the car in gear and reversed out from his space. He turned on his wipers to clear the residue of the melting ice and made his way across the car park towards the exit. The question came to mind, and was instantly dismissed, of how the journalist was so quickly in the know. Sullivan was a shark with contacts everywhere; apparently also within the walls of Fulford Road. He was about to pull out onto the main road just as his phone rang. Fishing around inside his jacket, he drew out his mobile and was surprised to find that it wasn’t anyone from Fulford. Tapping the screen, he answered the call.

  “Oh,” said a familiar voice. “I figured you wouldn’t be up and I’d get your voicemail.”

  “Hi Karen. No, I was already up. New number?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’re you?”

  “Really well, very well.”

  “That’s nice,” Caslin lied.

  “I hadn’t heard from you about the weekend.”

  “The weekend?”

  “Yes, please don’t tell me you’ve forgotten? I’ve left you several messages.”

  “Ahh…”

  “The kids. Coming to you on Saturday…”

  “Oh, yes, yes.”

  “You had forgotten, hadn’t you?” Karen said, her tone accusatory. “For crying out loud, Nate, when are you going to start taking an interest in anything apart from yourself? It’s not good—”

  “Maybe you should’ve got your solicitor to tell mine. That’s how I usually hear from you. It would make the most of them. We’re paying enough, after all.”