“Well, maybe you should return calls and then it wouldn’t have to go through the solicitors, would it?”
“Seriously, have you seen the running total? Mine’s astronomical. My guy drives a Porsche. It’s no bloody wonder, really.”
“Grow up, Nate.”
Caslin took a deep breath. He didn’t need this. There was a pause at the other end too. For a moment, all that each of them could hear was the other’s breathing.
“Does it have to be like this?”
Another pause before Karen replied, “No, it shouldn’t.”
“What train are they going to be on?”
“It gets in to York at 11:10. You will be there won’t you?”
Caslin bit his lip, as if I would leave them standing on the platform, he thought. “Yes, of course.”
There followed more silence, “Anything else, Karen?”
“When are you going to call your father?” her tone softened a little.
“Has he been badgering you again?”
“Yes, and I’m running out of things to say.”
“Can’t you just tell him?”
“He’s your bloody father, Nate!”
“I’ll get around to it.”
“When?”
“Soon. Look, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll have to speak to you later.”
“Nate…”
Caslin hung up. Eyeing a break in the early morning traffic, he thrust the car into gear and accelerated. His intention was to circumvent the city centre to the south. He was aiming to pick up the westbound A59. The route finder had indicated a journey of nearly an hour and a half. The words of Sullivan rang in his ears as he negotiated the pre-rush-hour traffic of York. Remembering the journalist’s appearance and marital status, Caslin knew Jimmy was certainly correct in part of what he had said, for they did have a lot in common.
The traffic flowed steadily, with the majority of commuters heading into York and not out of it. Caslin found his stomach groaning. With the benefit of hindsight, it may well have suited him to wait for the refectory to open before heading out. However, staying at Fulford Road for another hour or so increased the likelihood of being collared by DCI Stephens and having to stay put. Besides, he wanted the opportunity to follow up on Horsvedt’s address. Caslin got along with his boss, up to a point. Frank Stephens was looking to see out his time, comfortably at that, and the last thing he wanted was controversy but then again, who did?
As he sped past, he caught a glimpse of an advertising board for a roadside café four hundred yards ahead. The urge to pull over and grab something to eat tugged at him but he knew that pressing on was more important. He could eat later. The address he was heading to was somewhere within the Dales National Park. Passing through Pately Bridge a little after 8 a.m., he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of Radford Farm, the registered address of Daniel Horsvedt’s pickup. Once he hit Grassington, he knew he’d gone too far and made a U-turn. He was guessing that the building must be set back from the road as all those that he had seen were clearly marked. After driving for five minutes, he almost missed it for a second time. An unmade track left the highway, roughly three quarters of the way between the two towns, heading north. A large tree on one side and some sprawling undergrowth on the other shielded the turning, making it almost invisible from the main road.
The track had been laid with some form of hardcore to help maintain a continuity of the surface but nonetheless, was pitted and uneven. Caslin felt his car bottom-out in places. He wound his way along the side of a fallow field, with a thick hedge delineating the boundary. The other fields immediately adjacent or surrounding it had winter vegetable crops, which would soon need harvesting. Caslin figured that the house sat approximately a quarter of a mile off the main road, sited in a hollow and surrounded by a large copse of trees, thickest to the north and east. The house itself was no surprise, a traditional farmhouse of stone construction, two-up, two-down, with a clay pantile roof. At first glance it was clearly in need of some maintenance.
Caslin pulled the Volvo to a stop a short distance from the building so that he could take a better look, keeping the engine ticking over. The exterior pointing was crumbling around the stonework and the sash window frames were rotten. One upstairs pane was broken, with a triangular piece of glass missing from the corner. The roof tiles were heavily laden with vegetation, some were slipped or missing, and the guttering was coming away at various points. There were no vehicles in front of the house or in the car port to the side. Under the corrugated roof of which, there stood a well-stocked log store. Caslin parked up and walked to the front door, set within a makeshift porch that was a later bolt on. Little more than a single skin lean-to, it would provide scant protection from the harshness of a Yorkshire winter.
Rapping his knuckles on the door, he waited. A thick curtain draped across the inside made it difficult to see within but there was no movement as far as he could tell. He knocked again, this time more forcefully. Still there was no response. He tried the door handle but it was locked. Kneeling down, he propped open the letter box. There was no mail piled up on the floor and nor did any sound come to his ear. It appeared as if Horsvedt either lived alone or his cohabitants were out. Either way, Caslin wasn’t getting inside, not legitimately anyway.
Making his way around the side of the house, he noted that within the log store there was no mould or damp visible to the wood. It was clear that much of it had been cut recently by the pale hue of the inner edges and piles of sawdust lying at his feet. There were no tools left out to battle the elements. A toddler’s ride along car sat out in the open, off to his left.
The layout to the rear of the property was standard, with three windows at ground floor level. One of which was into the kitchen, with a door off to the left. Another was the same size, most likely the second reception room and the third was far smaller, set to the left of the door and opaque, perhaps a pantry or cloakroom. Caslin peered through each in turn but could ascertain nothing of note. The two windows to the upstairs were shrouded in net curtains and in a similar condition to those at the front. He tried the rear door but found it was also locked. Caslin’s phone trilled once again and he hoped it wasn’t Karen calling back for round two. It wasn’t, it was Fulford.
“Caslin,” he answered abruptly.
“Where are you?”
“Michael, good morning,” Caslin replied.
“Morning. Where are you? The Guv wants to know,” DI Atwood said, with open hostility in his tone.
“Just checking out the lay of the land. I’ll be back in the office later.”
“Later is not good enough, Nathaniel. He wants you here pronto and asked me to remind you that a report on last night’s incident is expected upstairs.”
Caslin winced.
“I’m on my way.”
He hung up. The events surrounding the death in custody didn’t seem quite right to him and the visit to this address was doing little to alter that feeling of unease. Perhaps this man lived alone but if so, choosing an isolated location such as this, struck him as an odd decision at his time of life. Caslin had learned to trust his instincts over the years. Doing so hadn’t always panned out but he couldn’t ignore the feeling. He walked casually back to his car. The sun was above the tree line and the copse gave him shelter from the wind. The little warmth offered felt pleasant on his skin. Giving one more thoughtful look in the direction of the house, he opened the car door and got in to begin the drive back to the station.
Without knowing why, his father suddenly came to mind. Caslin knew that he would have to call him. There was a limit to the number of excuses Karen could, and would, give before his father would get wind that something was up. She was right, it was his responsibility and his father only lived in Selby. There was no valid excuse. He decided to call him later that day and arrange to drop in for a chat. The parking permit came to mind and he thought he should probably make that call today as well.
Chapter 4
“The DCI’s on the warpath. The Super’s been chewing his backside about your report.”
“That’s unusual.”
“How so?”
Caslin smiled, “Usually they get annoyed after they read my reports.”
Hunter allowed herself a slight smile. Caslin looked around the office. DC Holt was nowhere to be seen. A quick glance at the coat stand told him that DCs Harman and Underwood were in the building. Both had easily identifiable fashion traits. Underwood dressed to impress with her professional attire, plucked from the most fashionable outlets on the high street. Her slender figure and chiselled features were well framed by fastidiously styled-hair and make-up. All of which certainly ensured that everyone saw her coming, which was most likely the intention. She certainly got his. He would check her out when he thought he could get away with it, almost a daily occurrence. DC Maxim Harman wore nothing but the best, tailored suits and Egyptian cotton. How either managed it on a constable’s salary, Caslin could only guess. As if reading his mind, Harman appeared at the doorway, making a beeline for him, notebook in hand, an eager expression on his face.
“What did you find out?”
Harman whipped a little elastic band off of the notebook and flicked through to the relevant page.
“Daniel Horsvedt. A thirty-three-year-old Czech national, relocated to England in 2009, as far as we can tell, anyway. The Border Force has him coming in and out of the country on a fairly regular basis from then on. His rig was registered around the same time, whereas the Toyota pickup came to him in early 2011,” Harman glanced down at his notebook. “March 15th, to be precise.”
“His rig?” Caslin enquired.
“Yes. It looks like he’s an independent haulier.”
“Strange.”
“What is?”
“I didn’t see a rig at the house. Might explain why the access track is so torn up, mind you. To be fair, I wasn’t looking for a truck but it’d be pretty hard to miss.”
“You would think,” DS Hunter chimed in. Turning to Harman, she frowned. “Is this what you’ve been doing all morning?”
Harman nodded as he went over to his desk and released his computer from hibernation. Soon they were both looking at the Companies House web portal.
“He registered himself as DH Haulage in the May of 2010, filed mandatory accounts when required, including this past April.”
“Anyone else listed on the file?”
“Yes,” Harman clicked a link to bring up the company details. “Here it is. An ‘Angela Horsvedt’ is down as Company Secretary. I figured it was his wife, so I checked out the electoral role and they share the same address. I could check to see if I can find when and where they were married. Not sure if it would be in the UK or not though.”
Caslin patted him on the shoulder.
“Yes, do it. Good work. It leaves me with more questions though.”
“Such as?”
“Well if we have Mr Horsvedt, then where is his rig and while we’re at it, where is Angela?”
“Driving the rig?” Hunter chipped in again.
Caslin shrugged, taking her comment more seriously than she had intended.
“Doubtful, but I guess we can’t rule anything out, just yet.”
“What do you want me to do?” Harman asked.
Caslin suggested that Harman look into Angela and see what else he could find. If she was married then where was she from, what was her maiden name? Daniel was a common European name but was Angela an anglicised variant of a continental name, or not? She may be more local. Caslin had no idea where this investigation was heading, but he was damn sure that it was worth his while to keep digging. Something was going on and he intended to find out what.
Caslin excused himself from the office and went to the men’s room. No-one else was present when he entered and pausing in front of a mirror, he reluctantly examined the reflection. His eyes were sunken and dark rimmed. What with that and the stubble growth, he had the appearance of a man who had been out on a bender for the last twenty-four hours. Running the cold tap, he threw some water over his face, giving it a fierce rub with his hands in a vain attempt at bringing back some colour. He found his thoughts drifting first to his father, and then to his wife. Deciding that he was inclined to think of neither, he pushed them from his mind.
Returning to the office, he quickly typed up a report of the events as he saw them on the previous night. Having printed it out, signed and dated it, he hurried upstairs to hand it in. Returning to CID, he bumped into Harman on the stairs.
“The DCI is looking for you.”
Caslin smiled, “Of course he is.” He had been on his way back down with the intention of seeking out Frank Stephens himself, but changed his mind. “I’m popping out again and I want you to come with me.”
“Alright,” Harman replied, with a note of caution in his tone. “Where are we going?”
“I got pulled away from the Horsvedt’s house earlier before I was done. I don’t want to sit around waiting to see if anyone contacts us. I’ve got the urge to force the issue a little and a second pair of eyes wouldn’t go amiss. You up for it?”
“I feel like I know them already,” Harman smiled, falling into step.
The two of them made their way outside. Caslin felt the cold once more. The wind was up again and it tore through him. The thought occurred that it was going to be a long winter.
“My car or yours?” Harman asked, pointing to a little blue and white hatchback. Caslin considered it for a moment and elected to drive.
It was the afternoon before they made the turn on to the winding track, leading up to Radford Farm. The sky had clouded over and the promise of the early morning sunshine had been replaced by a thickening mass of grey. Somehow the day seemed colder and far more threatening than it had at sunrise. Very little had changed since Caslin’s morning visit. There were still no vehicles parked in front or to the side of the house and the nets continued to shroud the interior. The old house stood stoically in a foreboding, winter landscape. Caslin parked up and both officers got out, walking to the front door. Harman pointed towards a patch of hard standing out front, which Caslin hadn’t noticed on his previous visit. It was perfect for parking a rig on.
The breeze had stiffened and the bitter snap looked like it was settling in for a while. Maybe the early snow that they were talking about would come after all. Once again, the knocking produced no response from within.
“How old do you think this place is?” Caslin asked casually. He looked closely at the pane of the door, almost willing himself to see beyond the curtain.
Harman appeared thoughtful, “Turn of the last century, maybe earlier.”
Caslin didn’t reply but headed around the back as he had done that morning. The younger man followed, their footfalls crunching on the gravel beneath their feet. Once he was at the kitchen door, Caslin tried it again. As expected, it was still locked and his focus turned to the door frame, his gaze a picture of concentration. Harman was about to ask when Caslin began feeling along the top edge of the surround.
“There might just be…” Caslin said quietly, almost to himself. He withdrew his fingers and clapped his hands together to shake loose the debris.
“What are you looking for?”
Caslin ignored the question, his eyes scanning the immediate area around them. A small two-person bench was off to their left, in a poor state of repair. Either side of that stood two medium sized flower pots. Both had plants within that had not been cared for in some time. The same could be said for three hanging baskets with detritus hanging limply over the sides, indicating the contents were far from their best. It was hardly the season for outside cultivation but still they were there, swaying s
lightly in the cold easterly. Caslin’s eyes fell on the flower pots at their feet. There were lighter rings of dried mud ingrained in the concrete slabs laid beneath them. Surely it couldn’t be that simple? Kneeling down, he tilted the first pot and rolled it to the side. Sure enough, underneath lay a key.
Caslin picked it up and examined it, turning it in the palm of his hand. It was a standard Yale design and, despite a few rust spots, it slid into the lock of the kitchen door with ease.
“You’re not going to...” Harman exclaimed in a hushed tone, as if frightened that he would be overheard.
Caslin smiled, “Well we didn’t come all the way out here just to drive home again. Been there, done that.”
“But we can’t break in. We don’t have grounds or authorisation—”
“Ssshh,” Caslin raised a forefinger to his lips and lowered his own voice, in a mock conspiratorial manner. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Besides, who’s breaking in? We have a key.”
Caslin unlocked the door, his eyes widening as the reassuring click of the barrel turning came to ear. A smile, reminiscent of a naughty child breaking a parental rule, lit up his face as he eased open the door.
“Damn it,” Harman whispered.
“Tell you what. I’ll have a quick looksey inside, while you check that the rig isn’t parked around here someplace. Just in case I missed it earlier. That way, this is all on me.”
“Like that would cut it with the DCI.”
Caslin ignored the protestations and quietly walked into the kitchen. He was pretty certain that the place was empty but nevertheless, entered with caution. Harman stood at the doorway, shifting nervously and putting his weight first to the left, then the right. Caslin figured the lad would learn. A detective had to walk the line carefully but on occasion, when the need arose, he also had to know when to cross it.
The kitchen was a reasonable size and would be described as “rustic”. Not only the walls but also the ceiling, was clad in pine strips, varnished to a high sheen many years previously. Despite the gloss finish, the wood sapped the light from the room. Low level cabinets stood against two walls, arranged in an L-shape around a standalone table and three chairs. There were a handful of wall mounted cabinets. Several had doors whose hinges had dropped slightly, giving them a crooked appearance.
Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 3