Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Caslin opened the first and found some packets of rice and assorted dried pasta. The second had a few tins of vegetables and a can that had lost its label. He picked it up and noted the use by date stamped on the bottom. It read 11.02.09. Caslin opened the door to the fridge and recoiled at the smell. There was a flaky scum across one shelf. Caslin turned his attention elsewhere. The Belfast sink had scale residue beneath the dripping taps, offering up streaks of blue and green. He guessed that it had been installed long before the style came back into fashion in the utility rooms of the middle classes. A freestanding range was set at the end of the room, a flue rising from it, leading off at an angle. On the far wall there was a door leading to a reception room. To the left of that was another, Caslin assumed it was the pantry. A quick check and that was confirmed although it proved to be largely empty.

  Caslin made to leave the kitchen, progressing further into the house. Glancing over his shoulder as he went, he spoke to Harman.

  “Are you coming?”

  Without another word he moved on. Behind him, Harman shook his head and with a last glance over his own shoulder, tentatively followed. They found themselves in a sitting room that must have been decorated in the fifties. The flock wallpaper was an assault on the eyes. The colours had long since faded and been replaced by a yellow tan, lending the room a dreary, dated atmosphere. It felt oppressive and the small forward-facing window, shrouded in nets, did little to ease that. The room smelt musty and was sparsely furnished with a two-seater settee and armchair combination. The pattern on the stained fabric was of vertical stripes, faded blue and cream in colour, far from their glory days. The carpet was a motley concoction of dark colours, woven together in a repeating, hexagonal pattern. Taken as a whole, the person who had put this decorative ensemble together did not have an eye for complimentary furnishings.

  There were a few pictures hanging on the walls. Nondescript landscapes, copies of originals by artists that Caslin had never heard of, framed in overly ornate surrounds that did little to enhance the work. The open fire was the focal point that dominated the room. The hearth was made up of crazy-paving stonework with a matching surround. The chimney breast itself was clad in pine, maintaining a measure of continuity from the kitchen. A clock hung to the left of the window, the ticking of the hands resonating in the silence. Caslin was struck by the irony of marking time in a room where it had been forgotten.

  Crossing the room, Caslin looked out of the window to the front of the house. The single-glazed pane had a simple latch at the point where the sashes came together. A draught of cold air could be felt filtering through. There was farmland as far as the eye could see, the main road obscured by distance and foliage. If you hadn’t just driven off it, you would never know it was there. The old house gave out the odd creak and groan but despite this, Caslin was struck by the silence. This place was isolated.

  A copy of the Yorkshire Post lay folded on the floor to one side of the armchair, some unintelligible words scrawled across the page above the lead photograph. He scanned the paper in search of a date. It was from September. Caslin indicated that they should move on. As expected, they found two bedrooms upstairs, one of which was set out with a double bed and a small dressing table. There were two imposing wardrobes containing both male and female clothing. The second was a child’s room, with a cot and an assortment of games and toys piled in one corner. All the bedding was made up.

  Returning downstairs, they inspected the second reception room, a dining room that doubled as a store room cum office. Boxes were stacked at one end, black marker pen handwritten across them in a language that neither man could read. Underneath the front window was a small desk, a mass of papers scattered upon it. Multiple box files and folders were stacked to the left and right. There was a pedestal with three drawers. Caslin indicated that Harman should take a look while he continued on.

  Caslin found that the bathroom was nothing surprising, small and cramped, shoehorned in under the stairs. The usual toiletries that one would expect were present. Despite needing a good clean, the room was insignificant. He returned to where Harman was leafing through some papers in one of the box files.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Possibly,” Harman replied without looking up. “We’ve got copies of invoices here. It looks like our man did long haul stuff. You know, trans-European deliveries.”

  “Anything to suggest where he is now?”

  “You mean other than in the morgue, waiting on a pathologist?”

  “Yeah, that kind of thing.”

  “No, sorry. There isn’t anything dated recently that I can see. Although we’ve got a VAT file here for the last financial year. It may show up some recurring jobs. Maybe he has ongoing contracts.”

  “Maybe. When we get back to Fulford, give your new friends in the Border Force a call and have them keep a watch for his rig. You never know, he may turn up in Dover or Hull. When did you say they last recorded him coming or going?”

  Harman frowned, “I’m not sure that I asked, sorry.”

  “Ask.”

  “You don’t think it’s him, do you?”

  “Say again?” Caslin looked up.

  “The guy we have on a slab. You don’t think he’s Daniel Horsvedt.”

  Caslin’s eyes were scanning the room.

  “We’ll know soon enough. What do we have here?”

  He moved across the room and stood before three shelves that had been cobbled together out of mismatching off-cuts, largely supporting random items. An old shoe box full of receipts, a snow globe with a miniature Santa sitting in his sleigh, alongside an assortment of fishing publications. Caslin’s attention had been drawn to a loose photograph, that had lain flat, but whose corner was sticking out from beneath a couple of magazines. He reached up and took it down. The edges were creased and it had a small tear in the top right-hand corner. A family shot of a man with his arms wrapped around a woman, clutching a baby. The man was heavy set with dark hair and she was blonde, with curls that reached to her shoulders. Both parents were smiling and the sun shone brightly around them. It could have been taken in the garden outside.

  Caslin held the photo up for Harman to see.

  “Looks like we found our Mr Horsvedt, anyway.”

  “Matches the description but he’s certainly not who we have in the mortuary.”

  Caslin turned the image over and was disappointed not to find a printed date.

  “Pity we don’t know when this was taken, though. We still don’t know for sure it is him.”

  Harman reached for the picture, Caslin relinquished it.

  “I could help with that.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “My guess is this past summer.”

  Caslin narrowed his gaze, “Explain.”

  Harman pointed at the photo, “The T-shirt he’s wearing was only printed this year.”

  Caslin squinted as he looked more closely, making out the partial lettering “Spar” and “sea” written in red on the front. He looked quizzically at Harman, who smiled.

  “Sparta Prague played Chelsea in the Europa League, this year. It’s a T-shirt commemorating the match. Sparta’s name is printed first, so they were at home and that leg was played early in the year, after the group stages were over. The weather looks warm and the shirt has faded a bit, probably in the wash. Cheap print.”

  Caslin had to admit he was impressed.

  “I want you to get a list together of local GP surgeries, vaccination clinics, that sort of thing. Then start phoning around. Babies need their boosters. Speak to the local Health Visitor team as well. You never know that could give us more of an insight. Families with young children don’t tend to drop off the face of the earth, not unless they want to or…”

  “They get help,” Harman finished.

  “Exactly. Perhaps, if we’re really lucky, someone might give us a lead on the parents.”

  Caslin took the photo back and slipped it into his inner breast pocket
. Harman didn’t comment. They returned to the kitchen. Caslin leant on the back of one of the chairs and let out a deep sigh, glancing over to Harman, who frowned.

  “What do you think?”

  Caslin shook his head slightly, “Well lived in but also, not. If that makes any sense?”

  “I think so. Their clothes, toiletries, kid’s toys are here but basics like food aren’t. And where are the other family pictures? You tend to take more than one, if you have a camera, don’t you?”

  Caslin thought about his own house back in London but chose not to comment further. He changed tack.

  “And what about the day-to-day stuff that we all accumulate? Unless they’re just really tidy. Let’s go and see if we can find that rig.”

  They went outside, Caslin locking the door behind them and returning the key to its rightful place beneath the pot. There was no sign of Horsvedt’s rig anywhere in sight of the house. There was a dilapidated shed, or workshop, built against a hillock at the edge of the copse of trees to the north but the cab of a lorry would never have fitted in there. Caslin looked at the time. It was 2:15 p.m., the middle of the day, and he was dead on his feet. Tossing his car keys to Harman, he decided to try and get some sleep on their way back to the station.

  That didn’t happen.

  Chapter 5

  DCI Stephens rose from behind the desk, the low winter sun behind him silhouetting his ample frame. It was standing room only for Caslin and DC Harman.

  “Nice of you to put in an appearance, Nathaniel.”

  “Just working the case, Guv.”

  “Yes, so I’m told. May I introduce Gerry Trent.” Stephens indicated the man before him, seated alongside Atwood. Both men turned their heads to those standing. “Gerry has been assigned to investigate the unfortunate incident last night.”

  “Unfortunate is a description that is yet to be determined,” Trent said softly, rising to greet Caslin with a smile. His brow furrowing as he spoke.

  Trent was an officious looking man, well into his fifties with greying hair which had long since departed the crown of his head. He wore half-moon spectacles and the impression they gave, settled on his angular nose, was that of an academic. He lifted himself to his full height as he stepped towards Caslin. The folds of his charcoal suit were well creased and the material didn’t settle as he adjusted his jacket. He was certainly not one who spent his salary on his wardrobe.

  Stephens cleared his throat, “Well yes, of course. It was a turn of phrase that’s all.”

  “Never mind, Sir,” Caslin spoke before anyone else. “Our friends at the Commission are particularly finicky over the detail.”

  Trent smiled again but it didn’t reach his eyes, “We do tend to follow the letter of the law, to its fullest. A virtue in our business, I think all here would agree?” he glanced at Caslin. “Well, almost all.”

  Caslin returned the smile. It was as if an arctic blast had passed through the room. Stephens still stood, quietly observing, whereas Harman and Atwood flatly refused to make eye contact with anyone. For his part, Caslin seemed more than content to meet the gaze of the newcomer from the Independent Police Complaints Commission.

  “And we will provide any assistance that you should need in your investigation,” DCI Stephens piped up, breaking the silence that clung to the air.

  “I understand that your officers have already been doing so?” Trent indicated Atwood with a flick of his hand, the latter looked away momentarily.

  “We’ve been trying to locate next of kin,” Caslin said, mentally noting that his fellow DI was prone to chatter. “Sadly, without any success, thus far.”

  “Is that so?”

  “DC Harman?” Stephens asked.

  The constable hesitated for the briefest of moments.

  “Yes, Sir. There was no-one at home today. We think that he lives with his wife but no, there was no sign.”

  “And no-one has filed a MisPer?” Trent enquired.

  Stephens shook his head, “Not yet, but it’s still early.”

  It was a reasonable question. They all had experience of loved ones filing missing person reports when the relative in question had merely been on an extended night out, often turning up several days later than expected. By the same token, thousands of people went missing each year in the UK never to be heard from again. It was fair to say the majority vanished by choice rather than coming to any misfortune.

  “May I ask a question of you?” Caslin said to Trent, who indicated he could. “What are the boundaries of your investigation?”

  “There are no boundaries, you know that. I will determine the cause of death and what led to it. Nothing more, nothing less.” He took the measure of Caslin’s expression. “You expected a different answer?”

  Caslin shook his head, “Not at all. The IPCC have taken some kickings in the press in recent years, so I’m sure you’ll be keen to avoid another.”

  “We want to get this tied off as soon as possible.”

  “But not too soon. We wouldn’t want anyone accusing you of a sloppy investigation.”

  Trent’s demeanour shifted towards hostile, his tone matching it.

  “I have never led a shoddy investigation, I expose others’.”

  Caslin bristled, “This case is not as simple as you may think.”

  “Is that so? Perhaps you can enlighten us, Inspector.”

  “Do we have a preliminary result from the pathologist, yet?”

  Trent shook his head, “I’m hopeful that we will tomorrow.”

  “Well in all probability, I expect you’ll learn that he took his own life.” There was a stunned silence from all in the room.

  Stephens appeared the most surprised and more than a little irritated that he was only learning of this now, “Why would he do that?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to us?”

  “And with what evidence do you base that on?” Trent asked flatly. His expression appeared to be one of genuine interest and not the scepticism that Caslin had expected.

  Caslin thought for a moment, “Call it… a hunch.”

  “A hunch?” Trent replied. There was the scepticism.

  “Or good old-fashioned police instinct, if you would prefer?” Caslin replied defensively, the beginnings of an angry knot tightening in his chest.

  “Well if that is all you have, then I would recommend you get some rest, you look like you need it. May I remind you that a policeman was present throughout unless you’re telling me different? This man didn’t tie his shirt into a noose whilst alone in his cell. This isn’t South Africa in the ’80s.”

  “Perhaps you should wait for the report before dismissing it out of hand,” Caslin countered. “That is what policemen do, weigh up evidence and then form their conclusions. Of course, if you were a police—”

  DCI Stephens asserted himself and took control, “Gentlemen, the IPCC are here at our request having had this case referred to them, and we will offer our assistance in any way possible. Inspector Caslin has submitted his report, a copy of which I have here,” he pointed to a folder on his desk, “and should there be anything else, you only have to name it.” The last was said to Trent who nodded acceptance with good grace. “Now this investigation will run its course and maybe it would be best if we continued this conversation, should it be necessary, tomorrow. I’m sure we all have our own work to do. You—” Stephens pointed at Harman, “most certainly do. Where are you with ‘Ticketing Express’?”

  “Err… I’m working on it, Boss.”

  “Work faster, fewer distractions. Yes?”

  Harman nodded and within moments the impromptu meeting broke up and they all filed out, except for Caslin, who was requested to stay behind. As Atwood left, he almost imperceptibly glared at Caslin, closing the door behind him. Stephens offered him one of the vacated chairs but he declined.

  “Is he going to cause you a problem?”

  “In what way, Sir?”

  “Don’t piss me ab
out, Nathaniel. You and he have previous. You’d have to be a blind man not to see it.”

  Caslin sighed, his shoulders dropped a little but inside he could still feel the rage building, “He was the supervising officer that oversaw my last case, down south.”

  “The reason you ended up here, you mean?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “Well this time he’s not here for you, so make sure you stay well clear. I need his sort in my station like a hole in the head.”

  “Understood. May I go?”

  “Before you do, perhaps you could tell me why this suicide theory of yours is not mentioned in your report?” he tapped the folder on his desk.

  “You said it. It’s a theory. May I go?”

  Stephens nodded. Caslin guessed that the DCI now saw that potentially there was more to this than he had realised. Perhaps even more than Caslin was currently letting on. For now, the senior officer appeared happy to let it go, but sooner or later, it would need to be said. Stephens had always acknowledged that Caslin was a capable detective but had resisted when asked to accept him onto the team. It was no secret that he still didn’t want him there.

  Caslin knew his card was marked. The DCI was old school and saw people like him as career men who built reputations as swiftly as they destroyed them. At least Frank Stephens was upfront about his views. There was little room for career-minded officers in his team, only methodical, dogged police work. No glamour, no attention. Careers happened if you worked hard and were not processes to be managed. Caslin was sure that he could read his superior’s mind, seeing the question repeating over and over: ‘What becomes of a career man who has blown his career?’. Caslin sensed the perception of him was as a walking time bomb and no-one wanted to be near him when he went off. One thing was certain; Frank Stephens would be standing well clear.