The briefing was underway as soon as Frank Stephens entered the room. He had met with the journalist in private, along with Kyle Broadfoot, and the information appeared to be solid. Hakim’s father passed away the previous year and his inheritance was to be split between his children. The rumours that were uncovered by the journalist were of a dispute over inherited land and property, both in England and in Libya, along with a bank account held in Switzerland. The source for this was a family friend and had been ratified by a business associate of Hakim’s.
“What business would that be, Guv?” Caslin interrupted.
“Hakim Al-Asadi worked for a company called GOS, registered in South London and primarily concerned with work in satellite observation.”
“What exactly do they observe?”
Stephens glanced across at DS Hunter, indicating for her to take it up.
“Global Observation Solutions. I spoke to their Executive Officer this morning. They use software to analyse imagery obtained via satellites.”
“Analysis of what and for whom?” DI Atwood asked.
“That was where she became a little vague. Mostly they carry out work for the airline industry but have delivered projects for marine studies, archaeologists, and the oil and gas sector. Apparently, the latter had been a significant growth area for them up until very recently.”
“What did Al-Asadi do for them?”
“Low level analysis on geology, rock formations and stuff like that.”
“People do that for a living? Who would want to kill this guy?” Atwood asked nobody in particular.
“It’s unlikely to be related to his work if that’s the case but even so, Sarah, check if he had any issues with colleagues, past or present. You never know,” DCI Stephens paused, scanning the information board that was beginning to piece the events of the day together, alongside the victims’ backgrounds and associations. “Michael,” he addressed DI Atwood, “I want you to see what you can find out about this inheritance. Search their house and get hold of the family solicitor. In the meantime, I want all ports and airports to have an eye out for Hakim’s brother. He’ll be back sharpish now the story is all over the press and we need to speak to him. He’d have to be under a rock to miss what happened. Even without releasing their names he should put it together. Any word on the son?”
“Yes, Sir,” DC Holt replied. “He’s on a flight back from New York at the moment, should land at Heathrow around three. Uniform will be waiting for him there to bring him up.”
“Good. Nathaniel, can you chase up Iain Robertson for an update on forensics and then have a look at Claire Skellon.” the DCI pointed at her picture on the board. “Let’s make sure she really doesn’t have a relative out there before we release her details to the press and get egg on our face.”
Caslin nodded, “Yes, Guv.”
He couldn’t help but think that his was a task that could be done by anyone on the team. He wanted to be heading to the family home and Atwood, looking decidedly smug, had the most promising line of enquiry on this one.
“Everyone else, I want you to keep digging on your current assignments.” Stephens stopped talking as Kyle Broadfoot entered the squad room, with another in tow. The newcomer was young, smartly dressed, and carried himself in a confident manner. The DCI addressed everyone, “Last point of business. The Chief Super has an announcement.”
“Thank you, Frank. This is DI Simon Baxter. He’s come up from Scotland Yard on an officer exchange initiative and will be assessing our procedures, with a view to recommending improvements. We may be able to learn something about how we do things around here. Don’t let it be a distraction. I’m sure you’ll bring him up to speed and help him settle in.”
Broadfoot left the room and there was a general murmur of welcome to Baxter who smiled politely, taking the hand of anyone nearby who offered it. Caslin acknowledged him with a handshake as the room began to empty. Those with telephone assignments started dialling and conversations began around the room. The noise level intensified so much that Caslin almost missed his phone ringing. It was Harman.
“Sir, I think I have something for you out at the farmhouse.”
Caslin knew that he should point out that he had his own work to do and was no longer supposed to be involved at Radford Farm, but Claire Skellon was going nowhere. Who cared if the press had to wait? He stepped out into the corridor where it was quiet.
“I’m all ears.”
A few minutes later, Caslin headed out to his car, acknowledging a couple of people in passing as he left the station. Once outside, he scrolled through his phonebook, selected a number and dialled it. The call was answered almost immediately.
“Well, well. It’s been a while, Nate.”
“It certainly has Sara. For that, I undoubtedly owe you an apology,” he paused and for a brief moment there was silence. “Listen, I know we haven’t spoken for a few months—”
“Try nearly eighteen.”
Caslin winced, “I know but it’s been difficult, what with—”
“Karen, the kids, your job, I realise that and I understand,” Sara said flatly. “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Nate. We’re both adults and know how these things work.”
Despite believing that she bore him no ill will, Caslin still felt a brief wave of relief pass over him as he formulated the best way to phrase the forthcoming question.
“You’ll probably think that this is a bit of a cheek but, bearing in mind your particular expertise, I need to ask a favour. Someone’s just turned up in the office and I was—”
“What’s the name?”
Chapter 13
His phone rang and Caslin pulled off the main road into a bus stop before answering. It was Iain Robertson.
“Nathaniel, I thought you would want to know as soon as I did.”
“Thanks, Iain. What do you have for me?”
“It’s as we thought. One shooter with a 9mm.”
Caslin paused, pondering on whether to ask the obvious. He did.
“Any chance of matching the bullets to a weapon?”
Robertson made no effort to conceal a laugh, one of little genuine humour.
“Not a chance in hell, I’m afraid.”
“Thought not.”
“We haven’t found a single casing and believe me we’ve looked. Each round, which was either lodged in vehicle or victim, has been accounted for and none are in good shape. They all made contact with bone, or should I say bones, before the pathologist or my team got to them. It’ll be damned hard to match the rifling, even if we had the gun which we don’t.”
“Not yet, but if we did?” Caslin asked, hopefully.
Robertson waited as he mulled over his choice of words, always one to be exact.
“I have plenty of rounds to choose from. If you find me a weapon, I’ll do what I can.”
“Good enough. Any idea of the type of gun used?”
“Do you want me to do all your work for you?”
Caslin laughed, “That would be nice. I know, a 9mm but other than that, you can’t say.”
“You see, I don’t need to be everywhere. If I turn up anything else, then I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Iain,” Caslin said. He was about to hang up but Robertson stopped him.
“Have you had a word with Alison?”
“Alison?”
“Yes, Dr Taylor, the pathologist. She turned up some interesting thoughts on the victims. I left you a message.”
“Sorry, I didn’t get it. Such as?”
“You should speak with her directly, really. I know she’s in her office today. You could catch her if you’re quick.”
Caslin thanked him and ended the call. Glancing at the clock on his dashboard he sighed. Harman would have to wait. Restarting the engine, he swung out into traffic and headed back to York.
Mortuaries gave him the creeps. Ever since he had paid his respects to his grandfather as a child he had dreaded entering them. Now largely desensitised
to seeing dead people due to his professional capacity, he still preferred to read the report rather than view the body. Dr Taylor had insisted on this occasion. Reluctantly he had agreed.
“As you can see,” the pathologist said, pulling back the sheet covering the second body they were now looking at, “the wounds are still a close grouping, centre mass. But over here on this one...” she led Caslin to the other side of the room and drew back the sheet that hid Claire Skellon from view, pointing to the wounds to her head.
Caslin looked but still couldn’t see what she was getting at.
“I’m sorry, Doctor, could you treat me like an idiot?”
“Not necessary,” she smiled warmly and he found it attractive, wholly inappropriate under the circumstances. “This woman, two shots to the head and two to the sternum.”
“Like all the others,” he said, before adding, “apart from the girl. Are you suggesting that this was a professional hit? That is certainly what we’re—”
“I would say without doubt that the shooter has firearms training, you don’t need me to tell you that. Whether it’s a professional hit, or not, is beyond my sphere but that’s not what I’m getting at here. Take a look at her forehead.” Caslin leaned in, although at the same time trying to keep his distance. “The two to the body were from several yards away, as was the first to the head,” she indicated a wound slightly lower than another, “but the second was point blank.”
“The powder burns?”
“Exactly. I would think that the barrel, if not in direct contact, was almost touching her skin judging by the halo effect of the powder burns.”
“Well, I figured that from the crime scene. And this is significant in your eyes because?”
“One direct hit to the head and two in the chest. Similar to the Tsunami effect adopted by police marksmen,” Dr Taylor said, referring to their method of targeting. “The shock waves generated would kill the host if the bullets hadn’t already done so but why did the shooter feel the need for the second, close-up head shot?”
Caslin had to admit it, she had a point. Claire Skellon would have been dead before she hit the ground. Once the killer made up the distance on her, he would have seen that. The shooter had matched the professional standard for a kill already. The last shot, delivered at point blank range, seemed unnecessary.
“We’re considering that she may have run and he chased her down. Perhaps he was angry?”
“Well, I’ll leave the speculation to you, Inspector. I just found it odd. None of the others exhibited wounds of a similar nature.”
“They were in a car, she was on foot.”
Dr Taylor shrugged, “True enough.”
Caslin thanked her, requested her written report as soon as it was available and made to head out to the car. Dr Taylor called after him.
“Aren’t you the lead in the Garry McNeil case?”
Caslin stopped and looked back.
“Not exactly and anyway, that’s largely been turned over to another body. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, well, I finished up the post mortem report today, following the preliminary briefing that I attended over—”
“The phone,” Caslin finished. “I was there.”
“That’s right. I mentioned it to Iain earlier, in passing, and he said that you would be interested in anything that I uncovered.” She turned away and began packing her notes into a leather holdall. “I must have been confused, I’m sorry.”
Caslin found his curiosity piqued and came back to stand alongside her.
“What is it? I’m not technically on the case anymore but…”
“You would like to know anyway?” Caslin nodded. Dr Taylor smiled again. He still liked it and he noticed that she was not wearing a wedding ring. “It’s not actually pertinent to the cause of death, and barely gets a mention in the report, but Mr McNeil had quite an extensive brain injury.”
“Extensive? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Well it was above the hairline and received some years ago.”
“How extensive an injury and when did it occur?”
“He had severe damage to the frontal cortex. It would’ve required major reconstructive surgery. Probably well over a decade ago, maybe even longer. I’m basing that on the healing of the scar tissue.”
“What could have caused that?”
Dr Taylor shook her head.
“Impossible to say but it was a heavy trauma. A fall from height or a traffic accident, perhaps. His chances of recovery would have been slight at the time.”
“Would he have been impaired?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so, not in the longer term. At least not physically.”
“Mentally, then?”
“Well, that area of the brain deals with judgement, mental analysis and those sorts of processes.”
“Morality?”
Dr Taylor nodded, “I guess so, yes. I would need to review his medical history, to make a determination as to what extent that may have impaired him, but…” she paused in reflection, “it is certainly possible.”
Caslin thanked her again and, as he left, was considering how he could engineer another meeting with the pathologist at a later date. The chill in the air had messed with the estimated time of death in Ravenscar and had now been set at between seven and ten, in the morning. The sun rose late however, and Caslin found it hard to believe the hiker was walking in the dark with no head torch, so he favoured a later time. He was unsure whether this information aided them in the least. Usually times of death offered up leads to potential witnesses or lines of inquiry but this case was different, the isolated scene giving up little.
He turned on his phone and it beeped twice in rapid succession. The first text was from Lizzie to say that she was helping set up a new track for an A4. Caslin guessed it was a locomotive and smiled, she was enjoying it more than he ever did. The second was to remind him of a briefing to be held in Fulford at 2 p.m., he made a quick calculation in his head. There was no way he could get out to meet Harman and back in time.
He called Harman to give him the bad news. The rain had ceased but it was still cold. The winter was going to be a long one, he thought, as the phone buzzed in his ear. Eventually it went to voicemail and Caslin hung up without leaving a message. He got into the car and set off back to Fulford.
The atmosphere in the squad room was intense. Everyone was busy researching their assignments but evidently no-one felt that they had struck the right chord. DS Hunter argued strongly that she was on to something with the angle of an honour killing. Friends of the dead schoolgirl intimated that she was due to spend the following summer abroad and furthermore that she had voiced concerns as to whether she would return next term. Hunter saw that as an arranged, or forced, marriage situation that required closer scrutiny. DCI Stephens agreed.
DI Atwood notified them that he was on his way to speak to the brother of Hakim Al-Asadi, who had been detained voluntarily at Gatwick Airport upon his return to the UK. The team eagerly anticipated his response to the suggestion of a family feud. This was certainly the DCI’s preferred lead in the absence of anything concrete, although for Caslin, it still left too many unanswered questions. If the brother planned to inherit, then he hadn’t factored in the son, studying abroad, who remained as a block to that end. Moreover, there was little evidence, other than hearsay, to indicate that there was any feud at all.
“Nathaniel, what have you turned up on the hiker?” Stephens asked.
Caslin was snapped from his thoughts.
“Little, Guv. She spent a great portion of her time in a charitable profession, setting up and managing refuges for battered women. She was unmarried and a committed member of a local Baptist Church, by all accounts. Currently unattached, according to her colleagues, and she was devoted to her work. She didn’t have time for much else.”
“Have you contacted the next of kin?”
Caslin failed to hide his irritation at the suggestion. Such contact was seldom done by
anyone of his rank. The thought occurred that family members could shed light on her activities, or even be complicit in her death. That angle needed to be looked at but Caslin felt it was a nigh on certainty that there was nothing in it. The woman was as boring as a wet Sunday afternoon.
“We’ve not found any as of yet. Her associates were a bit sketchy on her background but are asking around for us.”
Stephens was unimpressed, “Since when does Joe Public carry out our investigations? I want to brief the papers as soon as possible. The more I give them the less they hassle us. When I say us, I really mean, me. I want the family informed today.”
Caslin accepted that. He knew he should be taking the task more seriously although he remained nonplussed.
Chapter 14
The sun had set by the time Caslin pulled up. After the briefing he made a swift exit from Fulford Road, heading west towards Grassington. He tried Harman again and once more got his voicemail. His sense of guilt ensured that he made the trip that late in the day although Claire Skellon was predominantly on his mind. He cursed himself for the belated thought that he should eat dinner with his children. They wouldn’t be with him much longer and he had seen precious little of them in the past few days if not months. The illuminated clock on his dashboard read 17:28 just before he switched the ignition key to off and the lights went out. With a bit of luck this wouldn’t take long and he could still salvage something of the evening.
Stepping from the car, he was momentarily struck by how dark it was inside the house. So preoccupied was he upon his approach that only now did he notice that no lights were visible, the area lit only by the moon that hung in a cloudless sky. Were it not for Harman’s car, Caslin would be forgiven for thinking he’d wasted his time. He retrieved the torch from the boot that he had recently acquired from stores. The metal casing felt cold to the touch as he tested the battery. The light reflected from the rapidly forming frost. He wanted to be prepared just in case the lights had tripped, or been tripped, once again. Could his attacker have returned? Caslin hoped not. Suddenly faced with that prospect, he quickened his pace to the rear of the house. Using the torch, he scanned the inside through the windows as he went but there was no discernable movement within.
Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 11