Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Harman finished his sweep with a scout around outside. There were some fresh tyre tracks in an area of mud that wasn’t frozen solid by weeks of sub-zero nights, but little else of note. How could Caslin have missed another car parked outside? Returning inside, Harman came to stand before him and asked what he had on the table.

  “I found this embedded in the wall.”

  They both examined it closely. Although greatly compressed by the impact, its origin remained unquestionably obvious.

  “What is it, a .22?”

  Caslin nodded his agreement. A .22 calibre bullet was recognisable by its size in comparison to others, being far smaller. They were virtually impossible to confuse with larger calibre rounds, even in this condition.

  “It would be interesting to figure out its trajectory. Was it a bored tenant just shooting the breeze, pun intended, or…?”

  “Or?”

  “… something else entirely?” Caslin finished, rolling his tongue across his lower lip as he did so.

  “It’s certainly not normal to sit in your living room, putting bullets in the wall.”

  “You would be surprised at how people pass the time,” Caslin shrugged. “I know I was for the first ten years in this job. That’s not what’s troubling me, though.”

  “What is?”

  “Who was here tonight, and why?”

  “Clearing up?”

  Caslin nodded, “Possibly, but what for? We didn’t find anything incriminating, apart from this anyway,” he indicated the mashed bullet on the table.

  “Maybe we missed something?”

  “I fear that we’ve missed quite a lot.”

  “Should we get scenes of crime out here?”

  “Yes, first thing… or soon, seeing as first thing was several hours ago. We’ll have to go back over everything with a fine-toothed comb. A full fingerprint search, particularly there,” he indicated the rear door. “Let’s also see if we can get anything from this bullet. If we’re lucky, ballistics might get a match against something in the database. It could give us a break.”

  “Could we get any forensics off it, to see if it was used to wound someone, do you think?”

  Caslin shrugged, “Incredibly slim chance at best. A .22 has about as much stopping power as an asthmatic granny and roughly the equivalent in penetration. If this bullet hit anybody, it wouldn’t have passed through and certainly not embedded itself so far into that wall.”

  “Odd choice for a criminal then, as a weapon of choice, I mean.”

  “But for an amateur, or someone who doesn’t move in the right circles, it might be all they could get.”

  Harman hesitated before he spoke again.

  “Are we, potentially, looking at a murder here?”

  Caslin reflected for a moment before answering, choosing his words with great care.

  “I don’t know, if I’m honest. Although there’s definitely more going on.”

  “And your attacker?”

  “Maybe it was the Avon Lady, aggrieved because payment was late.”

  Caslin was irritated. Yet more questions, no more answers and a thumping headache to make it even harder to focus his thoughts. Reluctantly, and under extreme protest, he agreed to allow Harman to take him to the hospital to get his head checked. If only he had had a pound for every time someone had said that. They could call SOCO on the way and have them sent out to the house to make a start on the preliminaries. Caslin figured he could return to see them and pick up his car later.

  Harman’s car was in stark contrast to Caslin’s beaten up old Volvo. It was a nearly new hatchback. Close to top of the range, Caslin figured, by the built-in satellite navigation system, heated seats and numerous other gadgets whose purpose he could only guess at. Harman seemed to notice his DI checking out the interior as they drove through the early morning traffic.

  “Nice car for a DC?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Caslin asked.

  “Is that what you were thinking? Nice car, on a DC’s salary.”

  “Who can’t afford a nice car these days?”

  Harman took his eyes off the road and glanced across.

  “You?”

  “Something like that, yes. A present from your father, was it?”

  Harman smiled, it was a knowing smile. Caslin was taking the piss.

  “That’s what everyone thinks isn’t it? Daddy’s seeing me alright with everything, career, car, extra money to supplement my meagre wage.”

  Caslin didn’t reply. He didn’t need to confirm it. That was what the squad room thought, right or wrong.

  “It’s not true, you know,” Harman continued.

  “I know.”

  “You know what?” Harman said, taking a right turn onto the A59 towards York, heading for the hospital on Wiggington Road.

  “That it’s not true.”

  “But I never said—”

  “Look, I don’t think you’re here because of your father, okay. Irrespective of what anyone else says.”

  “They all think it. Maybe they’re right but if so, I’ve had nothing to do with it.”

  “It certainly won’t harm your career, him being your father. It will harm your workplace relations, though. There isn’t much you can do about that. Just like I can’t stop what they say about me.”

  “Which part?”

  Caslin laughed. True enough, which part do they talk about the most?

  He casually asked, “The demotion, my last case in Old London Town, or my links to the Masons?”

  Harman also smiled, “Any of it true?”

  Caslin blew out his cheeks, staring at some far-off point in the distance through the passenger window, declining to answer by way of his silence.

  “Sorry Guv”, I didn’t mean—”

  “You can’t stop people talking. Don’t add fuel to the flames and do your job, that’ll keep them quiet. If your luck holds, anyway. At least, that’s what I hope for. The degree of success it brings… well… if it doesn’t, then you’d best get promoted above them.”

  There was silence for the next few minutes, Harman effortlessly negotiating the early morning traffic. The younger man seemed lost in thought. Caslin didn’t mind. His head was banging and the peace gave him a chance to try and think.

  “Just do the job. I’m not too sure I’m cut out for it, if I’m totally honest,” Harman stated, clearly having spent time mulling over the advice.

  “It’s a bit early to think that, Maxim. You’ve only been in the job five minutes.”

  “Why did you sign up?”

  Caslin returned his gaze to the fields that were flashing by at speed, his answer not as quick to come to mind. At different times over the years he had been asked that by an array of people in multiple scenarios, be it his wife, colleagues or an interview panel. At first thought he knew that each time he had given a different answer, they may even have contradicted each other if laid out for scrutiny. To his wife he argued the case for a strong career, to his colleagues, the action and as for the interview boards, they got the stock answers of “to make a difference where it counts” or “to uphold the principles of the justice system”. Was there a grain of truth to any of them?

  Caslin had, over the years, reconciled his decision to join by presuming that all of his reasoning was relevant, perhaps his motivations were changeable, like the shifting sands of Morecambe Bay. His father had walked them out there as kids, explaining the dangers as the tide came in. Perhaps he hadn’t found his understanding of why he had made his choice just yet. Maybe one day it would come to him in an epiphany. He had never been one for acting on impulse but furthermore, he had never had long-term goals that he had focused on from childhood. That was Stefan but not him. His brother had spoken of joining the army aged nine and never once deviated from that course. At sixteen, with the agreement of their parents, he signed up and a week after his eighteenth birthday was deployed in the Balkans. A choice that Stefan never voiced regret about, could Caslin honestly say the same
?

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Caslin said softly in reply.

  Harman took that response as an indication of not wanting to discuss it further and answered his own question regarding himself.

  “It wasn’t expected of me. If anything, my father was a little disappointed when I told him I wanted to follow in his footsteps. Not that I used those words, mind you.” Caslin glanced over but said nothing. “I read Computer Science at university and I was darn good at it too.”

  “Then why?”

  Harman shrugged, “I may have been good with computers but I couldn’t see myself at it for years. My father has had a great career and we had a good life when I was growing up. It’s an important job, a real challenge.”

  “It certainly is. You should remember though, not everyone makes Chief Constable.”

  “I know that,” Harman smiled. It made his appearance seem even more youthful than he was. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

  Caslin glanced across at him and nodded slowly.

  “Why do you drive such a crappy car?”

  Caslin laughed. It was genuine.

  “On a DI’s salary?”

  “Exactly.”

  He sighed, “Give it a few years, get married and bang out a couple of kids. Then get yourself a decent divorce solicitor and you’ll know why, soon enough.”

  “Did you have to sell it, your last car?”

  “The wife’s got the car,” Caslin smiled ruefully. “The kids, the house, even the bloody dog and soon enough, what’s left of my pension… provided I can stay in the job until I hit my thirty.”

  Both men were laughing as they pulled up outside Accident and Emergency.

  Chapter 11

  Fourteen green ones, three in matching blue and, for some inexplicable reason, one solitary brown chair, were all arranged in a square, facing inwardly towards a low level table supporting a stack of assorted magazines. As if the mind-numbing boredom of the wait wasn’t excruciating enough, everyone had to endure staring at each other forlornly. They were all participating in an undesired competition, each hoping that they would be seen next. However, there were no numbers here, no queue that served those waiting the longest first. Just a screen on the wall running a looped recording of a rescue services documentary, no doubt an effort to reassure the viewers they were in safe hands. Caslin hoped that the crew of “Heli-med 6” would be available if he was ever rear-ended by a lorry on the M62.

  Taking out his phone, he remembered that he had been told to turn it off earlier and thought better of switching it on. Glancing at the clock on the wall he saw that it was 9:32 a.m., almost three hours since his arrival with Harman. On reflection he shouldn’t be too annoyed, his initial triage assessment had been within twenty minutes, seeing a doctor within the hour and dispatched to x-ray soon after. That was where the time had begun to drag. How long could it take to produce the images?

  A nurse strolled by. It occurred to Caslin that she was in no particular hurry to get where she was going and she proceeded to give him a stern look as he held his mobile before him, reminding him somewhat of his aunt Bethany. With an exaggerated cough and a nod towards a laminated sign prohibiting mobile use, she waited until Caslin returned the phone to his pocket with an accompanying, sarcastic smile. Therein she resumed her course, an indignant expression upon her face.

  Turning his attention back to the motley crew seated around him, he sighed. There were four people present and he passed the time attempting to determine their injuries and likely causes. Caslin felt a bit of a fraud as his appeared the most basic. There was a pensioner who must have had a fall. He sat in silence, clutching his left arm with his right, resignation written all over his face. A younger lady had sat with him, presumably his daughter or perhaps a carer, but she had left him there some time ago, possibly heading for the canteen to get some coffee and had not yet returned.

  Caslin realised then that he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the previous day, his stomach groaned. He could also have done with a coffee. Over to his left was a man in his twenties, his hair closely cut, slightly built and sporting several days of stubble growth. His coveralls gave him away as working with machinery, stained with oil and well worn. He was seated with his left ankle supported on a plastic stool. Using all of his powers of deduction, Caslin could work out what had brought him there.

  The remaining two people had been passengers in a car that collided with a van, on the morning commute. Caslin didn’t engage them in conversation but overheard them complaining bitterly about how working-class people didn’t know how to drive. They felt that such people should be given a sterner examination before being let loose on the roads. Caslin hoped that their suspected whiplash injuries were severe and painful for some time to come. However, he shared their view on tougher driving tests albeit regardless of background or social status.

  The clock on the wall now read 9:36 a.m., he felt the need to check that it was accurate and moved to pull out his phone, before realising that he was obsessing and changed his mind. How long does it take?

  “I thought you might need this.”

  A voice from behind snapped him from his reverie. It was Harman and he had coffee. Caslin gratefully took the foam cup and removed the plastic lid, sipping at the contents. It was hot and bitter but still tasted good.

  “How did you get on with SOCO?”

  Harman had left Caslin as soon as they made their way up to the x-ray department, stepping out to call in the request for the scenes of crime officers to head out to Radford Farm.

  “I couldn’t get through to anyone. I left a message for them to get back to me.”

  “That’s a little odd,” Caslin mused openly, gently blowing on the top of his cup.

  Harman nodded his agreement as he first wiped down the seat with the flat of his hand before sitting down next to Caslin, folding up his raincoat and placing it on the next chair along.

  “If I’ve not heard back in half an hour, I’ll try them again, maybe they’re having a briefing or something. Any word on your x-rays?” Caslin ignored the question, stifling a yawn. The headache was subsiding and the overwhelming feeling now was one of tiredness, perhaps caused by the waiting around but he felt it, nonetheless. “Any more thoughts on who attacked you last night? A burglar?”

  Caslin shrugged, “I don’t know. It could have been but...”

  “The place didn’t look like it had been hit by a burglar, did it?”

  “Agreed. If we weren’t sitting here, me with a bang to the head, I’d never have known anyone was there last night. Maybe I disturbed him. Is that clock, right?”

  Harman glanced over and then at the watch on his wrist.

  “Pretty much, yes. Are you getting bored?”

  Caslin breathed out, “I’ve had enough of this.”

  With that his treatment in the hospital was over and they were on the ground floor heading for the main exit within minutes. The daily press of those coming to work, heading to appointments or visiting patients, was in full swing and conversation was nigh on impossible as they manoeuvred against the flow. There was a small kiosk, well stocked with books, magazines and confectionery, opposite a cafeteria near to the entrance and as they approached, Caslin had a thought. He stopped in his tracks, catching Harman by surprise for he had made it to the exit before realising he was alone. Turning around with a quizzical look, he waited.

  Caslin stepped into the kiosk and, after queuing for a short time, emerged and rejoined his colleague. Once out in the car park he broke the seal on the cellophane, opened the box and took out a cigarette. Harman said nothing as Caslin struck the roller to the flint and lit his first smoke in six years. Taking a deep draw, it felt like he had never been away.

  “Long day,” he said, in response to the unanswered question.

  He took out his phone and switched it back on. Within moments the phone began to beep with a voicemail notification. Inhaling another draw, he dialled his inbox. Caslin coughed, the aftertaste wasn’t q
uite what he had remembered and he suddenly felt quite ill. It was hard to hear the message above the noise of the traffic. Harman pointed out the direction of the car and both men began to walk. Giving up on the call, Caslin hung up the phone. Almost immediately it began to ring.

  “Caslin,” he answered abruptly, blowing out smoke and discarding the cigarette long before he had to. A passer-by scowled at him for littering. He scowled back.

  “Are you on your way into Fulford Road?”

  Caslin was taken aback. It was Frank Stephens. His voice sounded distant and more than a little harassed. It was a bad line and he assumed the DCI was on a mobile.

  “I’ve got Harman with me, we’ll be in shortly. We had a development last night—”

  “That will have to wait.”

  Caslin ceased walking and listened patiently as Stephens went on. His ashen expression conveyed the gravity of the conversation as Harman glanced across and he also stopped. The call was over swiftly and Caslin reached for his newly purchased pack of smokes but instead of taking one out, he took aim and tossed them into a nearby litter bin. He felt sick.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Change of plan.”

  The journey took a little over an hour, in high season it would probably have taken much more. They caught sight of the transmitter in the distance, the landmark they had been advised to head for. Then the abandoned Beacon Windmill came into view with the bay off to their right, they were just over a kilometre west of Ravenscar, well into the North York Moors. Turning left onto Scarborough Road, heading in a northerly direction, they reached their destination.

  Neither man was familiar with the area. No doubt, like most Yorkshiremen, Caslin had holidayed near Whitby as a child but to his recollection Ravenscar was only ever a name on a road sign. His father had once called it “the town that never was” in reference to the expected expansion that for one reason or another, never happened.