Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1)

by J M Dalgliesh

  Locating the crime scene proved to be a simple task, it appeared that most of the Constabulary had turned out. Their car was stopped at a cordon a quarter of a mile away. It had been hastily arranged at the bottom of a steep slope, alongside a small caravan park and run of holiday cottages. They showed their warrant cards in order to gain access. Their destination was a car park at the crest of the rise, the eastern-most of two available in close proximity. They were sited yards from the television transmitter that stood out on the high point, visible for miles in all directions.

  Harman pulled off the road and parked up on the grass verge, positioning them awkwardly between a van and a patrol car. With Robin Hood’s Bay to their right, beyond the stone walling and the rolling moorland to their left, they made the walk uphill. Caslin was breathing heavily as they approached the top and took in the transmitter. It was located next to a small building, within a gravelled compound, encircled by an eight-foot high fence that ran the perimeter. Outside of the secure entrance he saw a charcoal blazer hanging on a concrete fence post, heavily stained with mud and well past its best, it was fraying at the seams of the shoulder. Looking around once more he considered it a strange find in such a remote location, confident that it would be so even under normal circumstances.

  DI Atwood was first to see them arrive and having finished directing some uniformed officers, picked his way through the frozen pot holes to greet them. His expression was grim and he dispensed with any pleasantries.

  “It’s as bad as you probably think,” he indicated the scene beyond him.

  Caslin looked past his colleague towards the scene, taking in what he could, which wasn’t much. Discounting the official police tape, the forensic officers in their disposable coveralls and the other uniforms milling around, there was nothing to indicate what had been described to him. Clearly, this was a major deployment. A police helicopter was circling above them and that added to his feeling of unease. He had never relished visiting crime scenes steeped in violence, particularly in circumstances such as this.

  Both car parks, neither able to accommodate more than six cars at best, were shrouded by trees and brush that masked them from the road. They were haphazardly created parking areas, roughly poured concrete that had begun to disintegrate long ago, allowing vegetation to grow through. The approaches were in a poor state of repair. Any driver would need to take great care to avoid damage to their vehicle.

  Michael Atwood led them through the massed ranks. There was the level of activity one would expect but a noticeable lack of banter that often accompanied a crime scene. Usually the mood, even at the most extreme, could be lifted by dark humour but not here. The main focus was on a silver Mercedes, an estate, which exact model Caslin couldn’t tell from the front but it was modern and in bad shape. As the others began pointing out details to one another, Caslin took a moment alone.

  The car was beached on the verge just beyond the entry point, its rear having perched itself on top of the bank within the overgrown brush, amongst the trees. The wheels beneath had driven themselves deep into a pile of gravel whilst trying to break free. The stones seemingly having been there for some time, Caslin guessed they were left over from a resurfacing job. Turning his attention to the car he observed the near side indicators were blinking. The windscreen had three distinct bullet holes sited in close proximity to the driver’s side and the remainder of the glass had shattered but had not been displaced.

  Caslin caught his breath, a sudden intake of cold air that froze his lungs, it was uncomfortable and somehow fitting for the occasion. Moving around to the offside he found the door open. Its window had also shattered and the glass had fallen in and around the driver who was slumped half out of the car. The body faced inward, almost as if he was seeking something underneath the vehicle, thereby obscuring his features.

  Caslin knelt as close as he dared without damaging any forensic evidence to get a better look, estimating that the dead man was well into middle age, most likely mid-to-late fifties. His hair was an oily black colour shot with grey, notably at the temples and in front of his ears. The cause of death would no doubt be linked to the solitary bullet hole in his forehead. The exit path of the round had removed a large part of the rear of the skull. If he wasn’t dead before that wound was inflicted, then it would have been more than capable of seeing him off. There were several other injuries to his lower back, potentially exit wounds Caslin guessed, judging by the size, angle and impacts into the seat behind. The shooter had most likely been aiming downwards from a standing position.

  Caslin glanced around as if trying to build up a mental picture of the events that had led up to this discovery. The car keys were in the ignition and a partially smoked cigar lay in the gravel a few feet away, amongst fragments of glass.

  No-one spoke as they continued their examination. In the rear seats of the car was another body, an elderly lady wearing a Hijab. Caslin’s best guess put her in her eighties. There was a great deal of blood within the car, sprayed both onto the passengers as well as around the rear of the inside of the vehicle. This woman appeared to have also suffered gunshot wounds both to the body and to the head.

  He moved around to the back of the car, noting bullet holes to the passenger windows as well as the headrests. The view of the front passenger seat brought a tightening of Caslin’s chest and he paused for a moment, eyes closed, almost having to instruct his body to breathe as he once again inhaled deeply. In the seat was another body, that of a female, little more than a girl and barely in her teens. Caslin’s son was possibly not much older. This girl had several wounds to her chest, presumably caused by gunshots but her clothing made it hard to tell and she appeared to have suffered no head injury. That fact did not give him any peace of mind. Considering her passage towards death, he felt that a relatively painless headshot would have been preferable to the agony of a chest wound. Couldn’t the killer stomach shooting a child in the head?

  “This is a mess, Gentlemen. What can you tell me?”

  The voice came from off to their left and Caslin didn’t recognise it. Turning, he saw a small group approaching and recognised DCS Kyle Broadfoot, head of the Basic Command Unit and the most senior CID officer in North Yorkshire.

  The wind was up and coming in off the North Sea in ever stronger gusts, giving Broadfoot’s usually neatly coiffed comb-over a mind of its own. The collar of his overcoat was turned up and he kept his hands deep within its pockets, bracing against the cold. Caslin had only met the man twice, both in passing at regional seminars, and had little on which to base an assessment of him. He had struck him as a fast-track career officer with designs on the Chief Constable’s position but that was okay, ambition was a necessary attribute in Caslin’s book.

  Caslin quickly figured that the question was not directed at him but open to everyone present. Broadfoot brought DCI Stephens with him, alongside two others whom Caslin didn’t know. One would undoubtedly be Broadfoot’s assistant, most likely the younger of the two, the man in his twenties sporting a green Barbour jacket and frameless glasses. The other would be another senior rank, probably out of the Scarborough or Whitby offices.

  Atwood didn’t speak and Harman looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Evidently, he had never seen anything like this but Caslin had to concede, who really had? Acknowledging Frank Stephens and taking the offered hand of the DCS, he replied.

  “You’re right. Messy, very messy.”

  “Early days I know, but what do you think?”

  Caslin held his breath and gave the vehicle another once over from where he stood. The thoughts running through his head came to him in a random fashion and, despite all that he had seen in his career, he felt sick to his stomach.

  “At least ten shots that I can count, maybe more.”

  “Closer to fourteen, by my reckoning, anyway,” the voice from behind heralded the arrival of Iain Robertson, the lead investigator amongst all the assembled scenes of crime officers. “Although, that may turn
out to be a conservative estimate. There appear to be shots from multiple angles. This will take some figuring out.”

  “Multiple shooters then?” DI Atwood offered.

  Robertson frowned, an expression that if truth be told was difficult to read for he was in his late fifties and known as “Bulldog”, as much for his heavily lined features as for his tenacity in piecing together a crime scene.

  “It’s a little early for a statement such as that,” he chided in his strong Glaswegian.

  “I just meant it as a possibility.”

  “No need to be defensive Inspector, you may well be right but I need time.”

  “Sadly, you may not have as much as you would like,” Broadfoot addressed Robertson directly. “We already have most of the nation’s media camped outside Fulford Road just itching for more sensationalism. We’ll not keep the lid on this for long and, once it gets out, they’ll be decamping here faster than you can say hold the front page.”

  Robertson grimaced but he knew the DCS was right. There would be pressure brought to bear on this one.

  “Aye, you’re probably right, Sir,” Robertson replied.

  “What do you make of it, Nathaniel?” Broadfoot asked.

  Caslin had stepped back to the front of the vehicle to examine some of the entry points for the bullets and almost didn’t hear the question.

  “Sorry Sir, I was thinking.”

  “Please think out loud, Inspector.”

  Caslin nodded, “Not wishing to pre-empt the doctor’s findings,” he pointed casually to Robertson who smiled, “but we’re looking at a large calibre weapon, most likely a 9mm.” Robertson appeared to agree with the assessment but chose neither to add nor contradict anything. “I’m not so sure that there were a number of shooters, though, but I could be wrong.”

  “Go on.”

  “The pattern of fire is not as random as the visual scene might suggest. Most of the wounds are from fairly close range. The hits to the abdomen of the occupants are closely grouped, centre mass and,” Caslin moved to the driver’s side of the car and indicated the rear passenger, “couple that with the head wounds... all hard to achieve with moving targets and the accuracy is—”

  “Could still be more than one,” Atwood spoke up, almost as if in justification of his earlier comment.

  “Yes, there might be but I don’t see it.”

  “I think Mr Caslin is correct,” Robertson said. Looking to Caslin he asked, “The positioning of the car, right?” Caslin nodded that he concurred but the logic was lost on the others.

  “The car?” Harman asked.

  “The car park is small,” Robertson explained, “tight turning circle. Easy to negotiate if no-one else is around and you want to do a U-turn without brushing the undergrowth or the banks. But to do so in a hurry, that’s a totally different scenario, altogether.”

  Caslin picked up where Robertson left off.

  “I would surmise that the driver was trying to get away from their attacker. Like Iain says, in a bit of a hurry. It’s an automatic gearbox and I imagine he put his foot down too hard, maybe in a panic, and who could blame him? The car shot backwards, beaching itself. The stick’s back in drive, so he was trying to flee. At some rate of knots too, judging by how deep the wheels are embedded. A rear wheel drive car, he couldn’t get away fast enough. Most likely he flicked on the indicators in error, or as he fell part-way out of the vehicle having been shot.”

  “The first person on the scene found the engine still running,” Broadfoot offered.

  “Who was that, Sir?” Caslin asked.

  Broadfoot gestured towards a couple who were talking to a uniformed officer nearby. They appeared to be hill walkers, judging by their all-weather clothes and the backpacks nestling near to their feet.

  “They were walking a well-known route by all accounts, skirting Brow Moor and bringing them here. The engine was running on the car but apart from that, the area was deserted. Arrived too late to be very useful, unfortunately.”

  The last word seemed to Caslin to be a contrived addition but he pushed it aside. What did it matter if this guy was already viewing the case as a career maker? He should be aware however that it could also be a breaker. A certain level of emotional detachment was to be expected, in fact necessary, but not always achievable. Caslin was still haunted by his past and he figured all sane people would be after reviewing scenes like this. Perhaps those better at reconciling the brutality within their own mind made better officers but he doubted it.

  “They must have come on the scene relatively soon after the attack. The victims were still warm when the first units responding to the 999 call, reached the scene,” Broadfoot continued. “We’re setting up checkpoints on all major routes within a fifteen-mile radius, so we might get a hit.”

  Caslin doubted it. Robertson indicated several places a few metres away where officers had marked points of evidence to be catalogued.

  “There’s broken glass over there. I’m guessing it will match up with the windows of the car.”

  “Shots fired at them as he was reversing?” Caslin inquired. Robertson agreed with him before Caslin continued his perception of events, “Then as he beached the car, the shooter most likely delivered several rounds through the windscreen, possibly incapacitating, if not killing, the driver. Then it was all but over.”

  “Pretty much my thinking also,” Broadfoot said evenly.

  “With the driver down, the shooter would have had plenty of time to be as accurate as he liked with the passengers. Did we get lucky with any witnesses?” Caslin asked.

  Broadfoot indicated for Frank Stephens to pick up the narrative.

  Stephens shook his head.

  “We have someone else who was present but she’s not got a lot to say, either.”

  Caslin was puzzled but allowed Stephens to take him aside. At the far end of the car park was a trail that led off parallel with the coastline. On a beautiful summer’s day, he guessed it would be a great spot to set out on a walk and even in the bleak winter, it still held a rugged charm. The track led onto Brow Moor and they picked their way along before taking a left hand fork, proceeding for a few hundred metres until they then had to push aside some overgrown gorse blocking the path. Caslin noted a way marker as they passed it before cutting across another track and continuing on.

  Further onto the moor they went, the water always to their right, heading steadily downwards. In places the ground was boggy underfoot and Caslin wondered where they were going. His footwear was inappropriate for the terrain and he had to tread carefully to avoid falling. In the distance he could see three figures clad in white, a little way off the track, with the backdrop of the bay behind them. The moorland dropped steeply away towards the sea.

  The further they advanced through the heather he could make out a small cairn overlooking the water in the near distance. Caslin tasted the salt in the air as he took in the dark patches of ground around them, marking the controlled-burning phase of autumn. Another post, a carved number denoting it as point five on the “Stoup Brow Trail”, was where they were directed off the path towards the cairn. A little over eight metres away, and propped up against the stack of rocks, lay another body. Two scenes of crime officers were erecting a tent to be placed over it, which was no mean feat in the wind, whilst another was setting up her camera.

  At first glance, Caslin wondered if a passenger from the car had made a run for it and been chased down but quickly realised that the theory was highly unlikely. She was dressed in hiking clothes, a red full-weather coat, walking trousers and solid leather boots. Had she stopped at this viewpoint and come across the killer in full flight across the moor, or had he chased her from the car park, wishing to leave no witnesses? If it was the latter, it seemed an awfully long way for a pursuit and didn’t fit with the pattern of the scene. Perhaps she just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, not the only one either, Caslin thought as he looked her over. He was struck by something that seemed odd.
There was a familiarity that surprised him and gave him pause for thought. Although he was confident that they had never met, still the feeling wouldn’t fade.

  “Any identification?” he asked.

  Stephens shook his head in the negative.

  “I’m betting the keys she has on her fit the hatchback in the second car park, though. No-one else has claimed it. The car is registered to Claire Skellon, a resident of York. The age range is a match but we’re trying to verify her particulars at the moment. Uniform are on the way to her address as we speak.”

  Caslin noted her injuries. These were of a frighteningly similar fashion to the others, apparent gunshot wounds to her chest and a further two to the forehead. Her expression was one of deep shock. A permanent look etched into her features that would sadly go with her to the grave.

  The victim was in her forties, with sandy brown hair that was noticeably greying, although she had clearly taken care to colour it to offset the aged look. A cursory examination of her boots and clothes indicated, from the signs of wear, that she was a frequent walker. That supposition was reinforced by her athletic build. She wasn’t wearing gloves and Caslin, seeing no wedding ring, found himself wondering if she had anyone at home waiting for her. A journey that now, she would not complete.

  Caslin knelt down. Her eyes were staring straight at him, blank and lifeless. Her body position was awkward due to the backpack wedged between her and the rocks. Her feet were crossed and her arms lay wide to either side of her. The wounds to her forehead carried traces of powder burns at the edge of one entry point, the killer had been close. The gun must have been pressed against the skin or close enough to it, to allow the propellant to mark. That concerned him. Usually killers opted for guns to give themselves distance from their victim, enabling them a degree of detachment from the violence. Those that preferred closer experiences often chose knives or strangulation.

  “What did you see?” he asked her softly.

  Confident that he had nothing else to assess, Caslin stepped away, allowing his colleagues to cover the area with the tent. He walked to the other side of the cairn and stood for a moment. Gently buffeted by the wind, he admired the view encompassing Robin Hood’s Bay from its northernmost tip and sweeping down as far as Ravenscar, a little over a mile away. The clouds out at sea were ominously dark and he could just make out several cargo ships on the horizon.