Reaching the back door, he found it locked. Tilting the flower pot with his left foot he saw the key was in situ. Withdrawing his phone from his pocket he dialled Harman again. As the phone rang, he shone the beam along the nearby tree line but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Again, the call passed to voicemail. Caslin swore. Taking the key, he unlocked the door and went inside, for a moment debating whether or not to put the lights on before flicking the switch. The fluorescent tube stuttered into life, the buzzing of which was the only sound that came to his ear. Confident that he was alone he progressed through the house. Initially he glanced through each room but, having found nothing untoward, then retraced his steps, only this time with a more methodical approach.
Disappointingly he came to the same conclusion, there was nothing new. Not prone to overreaction, he could feel a gnawing sensation building in the pit of his stomach. Making his way back through the house he thought he heard something, freezing at the entrance to the kitchen, he listened. Had he imagined it? The briefest flicker of movement outside was followed by footfalls on the gravel path. Caslin had a moment to choose his course of action. He took off through the kitchen and out of the back door like a man possessed. A figure glanced over its shoulder as it rounded the corner, giving up on a subtle retreat and taking flight. Caslin discarded the torch, making up the ground easily, almost too easily. Doubts set in just when they collided. The men came roughly to the ground together. The fleeing man letting out something of a whimper as the wind was knocked from his lungs.
Caslin swiftly found himself on top, one hand to the throat of his quarry and the other reaching for his handcuffs. The moon was partially obscured as they struggled in the darkness. Caslin secured one wrist, eliciting a howl of pain from his captive.
“Inspector, please!”
Caslin stopped. He recognised that voice. Torchlight illuminated the two men on the ground. Caslin, by now, up on his knees and breathing heavily. The struggle was over. The glare from the torch momentarily blinded him before it was cast onto the man at his feet.
“Sullivan, what the bloody hell are you doing here?”
The dishevelled journalist looked up, his breathing ragged, speech coming in short bursts as he sought to gather himself.
“Inspector Caslin… I have a nose for a story… you know that.”
Caslin shook his head and rubbed a weary hand across his face. Looking up beyond the torchlight, he thought better of asking Harman a similar question. That would have to wait. Fishing out the key to his handcuffs, he released Sullivan’s wrist. Both men stood and set about brushing themselves down.
“I could have you for trespassing on a crime scene.”
Sullivan cleared his throat, whilst rubbing an invisible mark on his freed wrist.
“What crime would that be?” he glanced around. “So, this place is linked to the Ravenscar killings.”
Caslin shook his head and smiled.
“You could not be wider of the mark, if you tried.”
“Oh, come on, Caslin. This could be the biggest case to hit Yorkshire since the Ripper. You can’t tell me you’re not working it.”
“I’m not bloody telling you anything at all, am I?”
“What are you doing out here at this time on a Saturday, if you’re not? Come on, you’ve got to give me something!”
Caslin turned and made to head off back to the house.
“Goodnight, Jimmy.”
“I’ll only keep digging,” Sullivan called after him. “I’ll make it up if I have to!”
Caslin spun on his heel and strode forward. The journalist took a step backwards and visibly shrank before the oncoming officer.
“I’ll tell you something. You’ve had a lucky break tonight. You could’ve been finding yourself spending a night in the cells but I don’t fancy the paperwork. So, I’ll put this in the nicest way possible, in a way that I think you’ll understand… fuck off!”
Caslin stalked away, Harman falling into step just behind.
“Can I quote you on that, Inspector?”
“Jesus Christ, Maxim. Where the hell have you been?”
Harman was taken aback, “I’ve been here, Sir.”
“Then why didn’t you answer your bloody phone?”
“No signal,” Harman replied apologetically. “Come with me and you’ll see why, but I’ll bet my pension that you’re not going to believe it.”
Harman led them back outside and, having first made sure that the journalist had left as instructed, followed their torchlight down the side of the house and around to the double doors of the workshop. They were of tongue-and-groove construction, painted blue, matching the shell of the building but in an equally poor state of repair. One of the two appeared to be locked in place and unmoved in years but the other swung open effortlessly. The hinges were well oiled. Caslin peered into the gloom. There was little light penetrating within. Glancing at Harman before putting the beam of his torch inside, Caslin stepped forward.
The room that he found himself in was roughly rectangular, two metres deep and twice as wide. There were two square windows at each end but the viable daylight introduced would be minimal, largely due to the hessian drapes hanging from rails before them. There was a fixed workbench at one end, an old vice clamped to the edge, its paint peeling. Beneath was a shelving area with an assortment of plastic tubs and glass jars holding screws, nails, and other odds and ends. Lining the rear were further shelving units housing old paint tins, buckets and assorted tools, as well as the general rubbish that accumulated over long periods of time. Uses for which, Caslin could only guess at. Aiming his torch up into the pitched roof void he noticed a solitary light bulb hanging from a length of flex, along with age-old cobwebs, gently swaying in the draught.
Harman indicated to his right, over towards the far corner, beyond a petrol lawnmower and watering can that seemed to have not moved in years. Scanning the area with his torch, Caslin missed it with the first pass but caught it on the return. He edged closer, careful not to trip over the detritus that he found underfoot. Inspecting the rear wall, he found what Harman had been so excited about. Almost obscured from view was a hatch cut into the wall, little more than two feet square. It only came to waist level and was fitted with skeleton hinges, blending it in, making it almost imperceptible to the naked eye alongside the surrounding panelling. Illuminating the floor, Caslin could see that a shelving unit had been placed in front of the hatch. Repeated scratching to the floor boards and the variation in dust levels were evidence of its movement.
“Did you shift this?” Caslin asked, moving the beam onto his colleague. The angle of the light gave Harman a macabre appearance.
“No, Sir. I found it just like this. You have to see what Alice found down the rabbit hole.”
Caslin was intrigued and refocused his attention on the rear wall, instinctively donning the pair of latex gloves that Harman had told him that he might need. He inspected the area and was surprised to find that the hatch was on a push latch. A gentle press brought a click to his ear and it popped forward. Another glance at Harman saw the younger man nod his encouragement and Caslin eased it open. A gentle rush of cold air, with the slight hint of damp, washed over him as he directed his torch into the darkness.
In stark contrast to the workshop the walls here were lined with block work and the floor was a concrete screed. The latter had seen better days and was visibly crumbling in places. The beam of light hit a wall, he guessed it was about seven feet away, and Caslin could make out the shadows of a corridor disappearing off to both left and right. Ducking down, he made his way through and into the corridor. Pleased to find that it was full height as he stood, he made room for Harman to follow. The passage was only wide enough for one and Harman came to stand behind him. Together they moved forward.
“What is this place?” Caslin asked, as much a question for himself as for his colleague.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out this afternoon. The walls,” Harman
waved his arms in a circular motion around them, “are thick enough to block mobile signal.”
Their words seemed to echo as they were lost in the darkness. Reaching the end, Caslin lit up first left and then right. Harman answered the unspoken question and directed them to the left. Only a few steps along they reached a closed door. It was timber, made from ply and weighty with it. Caslin assumed it was a fire door. The surface was chipped, apparently well worn, and unfinished beyond its factory base coat. In this setting its presence seemed slightly surreal. A hasp had been fitted enabling the door to be secured, however, it was bent and the padlock that remained swung uselessly beneath. The frame bore the telltale scarring of having been crudely jimmied. Caslin twisted the handle and pushed it open.
The room beyond matched the passageway, narrow and windowless. Harman flicked a switch which Caslin had missed on entry, and two fluorescent tubes overhead spluttered into life. The brightness caused him to shield his eyes until they became adjusted to the setting. Inside the room was a desk, an office chair before it, blue-fabric covered and on castors. Upon the desk stood a modest flat-screen monitor with an assortment of cabling bunched at the base, dropping away from view at the rear. Beneath it stood what Caslin assumed was a PC base unit. Although it had several lines of flickering blue LEDs, running horizontally in layers across the front, the likes of which he had never seen before.
“That’s a server,” Harman offered.
“Serving what?”
“Good question. I don’t know. Not yet, at least.”
“No computer?”
“I’ve not found one.”
Caslin turned off his torch and returned it to his pocket, eyeing the rolled-shutter unit that was placed to the right of the desk as he did so. This stood three-foot high and was made of steel and, similarly to the entrance, had been secured at the base by a heavy-duty padlock. The cabinet had also been forced and recently, Caslin guessed, by the look of the damage. He examined it and glanced up at Harman who splayed his hands wide.
“Nothing to do with me. It’s all as I found it.”
“What’s inside?”
“I haven’t looked. I figured I’d come back to it.”
“There’s more?”
Harman nodded but he appeared to be less than enthusiastic.
“Much.”
With nothing else of note in the room, the two men left. The door had a self-closing mechanism and it swung shut behind them, closing with a deep thud that carried through the darkness. Harman led them forward via torchlight, past the entrance passage and off in the other direction. Their route turned first to the left and then took a sharp right, with a couple of steps down, before bearing left once again. Caslin cursed as he almost lost his footing. Reaching out, his fingers brushed against something plastic hanging in midair, giving him no purchase. Completely disorientated now, he stumbled into the back of Harman as they came before another door, identical to the last.
“Did you see that?” Harman asked as he angled his torch in the direction they had come from.
Caslin was surprised to see that he had walked blindly past a sink unit and what looked like a shower tray. The curtain of which he figured was what had failed to brace him. Beyond the shower was a toilet with no seat. They were confined to an impossibly small area, offset from the passage and slightly into the wall, once white but now in a filthy condition. The taps to the basin were covered in limescale with green runs stretching into the waste. Water dripped steadily. The gurgling noise, as it drained away, resonated in the darkness.
Harman pushed open the door and Caslin was relieved to see him flick another switch, bathing the room beyond in light. The passageway was unsettling and claustrophobic for him and peering into the gloom did little to alleviate those feelings. Inside the next room, along the adjacent wall to the corridor, was a run of units that encompassed a sink, microwave and some shelving. The latter was piled high with pans and mismatching crockery. The sink held a number of plates and cups, stacked high in foul smelling water. At the end of the run stood a counter-top fridge, barely large enough to be practical in a caravan let alone to facilitate any domestic environment. Was this such a place? Caslin had yet to comprehend what they were looking through, let alone what it all meant.
Opening the fridge, he found a half-empty pint carton of milk that had gone off, alongside a box of eggs and an unopened pack of cheddar cheese. Something unidentifiable had turned black and decomposed within its plastic bag and he chose to leave it well alone. Against the opposite wall was a single camp bed, with a red sleeping bag lying atop it. Beneath that was a jumble of clothing, none of which looked clean, along with some newspapers that were scattered across the floor. In the far corner, there was a small table with two occasional chairs tucked underneath to the right of a second door. A glance at the table revealed a newspaper and a haphazardly arranged selection of travel guides for the North West as well as a partially completed crossword. The date in the corner of the paper was the 31st October.
Crossing over to the far door, Caslin eased it open, noting as he did so that this one had a traditional locking mechanism to it but no key. There was a light switch just inside but despite repeatedly pressing it, he remained in darkness. In yet another windowless room he had to rely on the torch once more. Scanning the ceiling he found the light fitting had had the bulb removed. Less than two metres in width and barely three in length, the room was narrow. In one corner lay an old mattress with no visible bedding, heavily stained and reeking of filth. The air was stale and the vent, nestling high in the corner, appeared ineffective. The mixture of grime and damp smelt offensive. Both men endeavoured to hold their breath in order to minimise the impact.
In another corner was a bucket and upon closer inspection, Caslin recoiled from it. Judging from the odour that it gave off, it had recently contained excrement. Off to one side stood a solitary chair, terracotta in colour and of the type common in care homes, rigid arms with a high back. The floor was again concrete and he observed the level of large stones in the mix, figuring it to be an industrial compound and therefore relatively cheap. Noting the patches of heavy disintegration and uneven areas, it had certainly been laid many years previously with a basic approach.
“Check that out,” Harman said, aiming his own torch to the foot of the far wall.
Caslin turned his attention to what was illuminated, an iron ringlet attached to a metal base which in turn was bolted to the floor. A heavy link chain ran through it, rusty and approximately two metres in length with thick iron clasps attached to each end. Caslin exhaled deeply. Pursing his lips, he repeated his earlier question.
“What is this place?”
“Do you think we’ve found the home, if we can stretch to calling it that, of the enigmatic Mr McNeil?”
“Let’s have a look in that first room. See if we can find out something useful that goes someway to explaining all this.”
Harman nodded and Caslin led the way.
“Did the DCI have a problem with me not being there? I haven’t phoned in.”
Caslin felt bad. For the first time he was grateful for the darkness that encircled them, so Maxim wouldn’t have been able to read his facial expression. No-one had even questioned where he might have been all day, let alone shown any frustration at his absence.
“No, not that I’m aware of,” Caslin lied. “Everyone’s pretty busy you know?”
Harman acknowledged the answer with an almost inaudible grunt. Caslin had his back to the younger man as they walked but he could tell that the latter had hoped to be missed and quietly suspected that he hadn’t been. It was true though. The squad room was intense. Caslin thought Harman should get over himself.
Back where they had begun, Caslin moved the chair aside, the castors squeaking as they ran across the concrete floor. The forced cabinet was the logical, and in fact only, place to start. The shutter was so badly bent at the base that it restricted one of the runners, and it took a few moments of struggle be
fore brute force had the desired effect and they eased it upwards. The cabinet contained a rack of shelves. Two of which had neatly stacked VHS tapes in plain black cases, bearing white labels on the spine. Handwritten dates were all that distinguished one from the next. There was a further shelf with a clutch of DVD cases and an assortment of padded folders, immediately recognisable as photo albums. These too, had homemade labels on the side. Caslin picked one at random and leafed through its contents. Many of the photos were of poor quality, taken in bad light and in an amateurish fashion but were nonetheless, still striking. Both men took a sharp intake of breath.
Harman opened his mouth but could find no words, not that Caslin noticed as he slowly turned the pages.
“It looks like that degree of yours is going to come in useful in this job, after all.”
Harman happily averted his eyes from the images before them and indicated the server, Caslin nodded.
“I’ll need to get a laptop to wire in.”
“What is this place?” Caslin asked quietly. Harman didn’t have an answer.
Chapter 15
The room felt a little cold. The house was draughty and the curtains were lightweight. The material moved with the breeze, giving partial glimpses of moonlight beyond. The duvet however was thick, well suited for winter and covered Lizzie, tucked up to just below her chin. Her breathing was shallow as she slept. Karen always said she looked more like her father when she was asleep, Caslin couldn’t see it but he had never voiced the thought. Confident that all was well, he retreated from the room. Only the squeaking of the floorboards gave away his presence as he gently pulled the door closed behind him.
Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 12