“That is what we understand, yes.”
“What if I told you he was perfectly healthy, physically anyway.”
Caslin was very interested.
“Go on.”
“His last tour saw him stationed just outside of Basra, Iraq. At a detention centre for former military, insurgent types.”
“And?”
“My sources tell me that there was an incident at the prison, a number of inmates… how shall we say… came to an unfitting end.”
“As a result of actions by British personnel?”
“Systematic abuse, along the lines of the US at Abu Ghraib, is what has been alleged.”
“Alleged by whom?”
Sullivan smiled, “Now, now, Inspector. I must protect my sources. This is extremely sensitive information—”
“That you will publish at the first available opportunity. What has this to do with McNeil?”
“He was one of those involved… according to my source, anyway.”
Caslin thought for a moment. Sullivan was fishing, of that he had little doubt. There was enough in what he was saying however, to make Caslin have to consider this was a possibility, at the very least.
“A reliable source?”
“One of the best.”
“Was your source present?”
On that Caslin realised he had him. Sullivan didn’t want to play his hand but he couldn’t be emphatic. The journalist chose not to lie.
“That is what I am led to believe. Any of this ringing true with you?”
Caslin shrugged, “Sounds a lot like hearsay to me but if you want to submit your details to the relevant body, I’m sure they’ll look into your concerns.”
“Already been done, whitewashed and filed away. No doubt, in the bowels of the MOD for the next seventy-five years.”
“What are you expecting me to do with it?”
“Nothing Inspector, I am merely performing my civic duty.”
Caslin laughed with genuine humour. Sullivan headed for the front door.
“I’ll look forward to your next headline.”
Sullivan smiled, giving a wave as he descended the stairs.
“Should you wish to go on record, do please give me a call.”
Caslin let the door slam shut. Returning to the lounge he looked out onto Stonegate, watching the journalist exit the building, heading east. Sullivan looked over his shoulder, up at Caslin in the window and grinned before resuming his course, weaving his way amongst the pre-Christmas shoppers. The potential lead on Claire Skellon would have to wait a little longer. Coincidence or long shot, either way, it didn’t matter. Immediately, Caslin was concerned that he was seeing movement in the shadows where there wasn’t any. Sullivan had provided another more pressing avenue. Meeting the source would have been ideal but experience told him that those details would not be forthcoming. Despite knowing that anti-terror legislation gave police the power to seize such information from the press, he was reluctant to push that button, at least for now.
What the journalist proffered left him with an uneasy feeling. Watching the departing figure in the descending darkness, he couldn’t help but wonder how deep this particular rabbit hole went.
Chapter 24
The office was drab, even by the standards of Fulford Road. Three desks were in the room with only one currently occupied by a young corporal tapping away at his keyboard with frequent bursts before pausing to review his work. On the right of his desk were trays full of paper. Roughly a dozen manila folders were stacked to the left, three inches high, each tied with string. The white-painted walls were heavily marked, highlighting a need for a refresh. Several notice boards were mounted with even spacing between them, bearing a vast array of information from charts to lists. Behind each desk were large format calendars for the incumbents to keep track. Two of which had clear crossings out to mark the passing of the days but the third did not, remaining on the month of September.
The phone rang again, the fourth time since he had arrived, and was swiftly answered by the only person present. The call was put through. The typing began in earnest once more. The clock on the wall read 9:46 a.m. and Caslin checked his watch to find that they were more or less in sync. He waited a day to be granted this appointment, giving him ample time to consider his approach. That culminated in a decision to be direct without getting carried away.
Maxim’s funeral was set for Monday 27th November and was yet another reason for him to avoid the office. Anthony Harman tried to contact him twice the previous day but Caslin had ducked the calls, easy with a mobile but less so at Fulford Road. Having given the invitation to speak at the funeral serious consideration he had not wavered in his desire to avoid doing so. It didn’t feel right and he trusted his gut instincts. His attitude was certainly not garnered from a position of not caring. He just knew he would feel somewhat of a fraud. Strangely, he already did. The two were hardly close and Caslin had shared his colleagues’ view that Harman was a nice lad but sorely lacking in professional ability. Even so, he glimpsed a different side to the young DC while they worked together recently and that ensured a modicum of guilt over his stance. The fact that he hadn’t definitively said no to Maxim’s father meant the door remained open.
The word from the top was that all officers not required for urgent duty should attend the service in their dress uniform. Caslin was unsure if his would fit. That was a flippant thought and he chastised himself for it.
His decision to actively avoid the station in entirety saw him set off at the wrong time and catch the commuter traffic heading for Catterick. The approach roads seemed to be in perpetual contra flow whenever he needed to be in that part of the country. Arriving suitably early, despite the congestion, he was ushered through the main gate and directed to the fourth building on the right. Parking was set aside just in front. His request for an appointment welcomed with a customary military response, emotionless efficiency. Sadly, the meeting was not taking place with the punctuality that one would expect. Another glance at the clock. Eighteen minutes had now passed since he was due to meet with Colonel Edwards. Sitting back in his chair he yawned, looking to the ceiling as he did so, resisting the urge to count the tiles. The room was warm. The radiators were kicking out much needed heat this close to December. The draught drifting through from the single-glazed, Crittal-framed, windows was awful.
Another uniformed body knocked and came through the entrance, carrying some forms. She casually glanced at Caslin, seated to the left of the door, before handing the papers to the clerk. The two soldiers exchanged the briefest of pleasantries before the newcomer departed, Caslin smiling at her as she passed him, more out of courtesy than any desire to communicate. The desk clerk flicked his eyes in Caslin’s direction and swiftly away again, as the look was met. Twenty minutes. He was beginning to feel the delay was deliberate. The army was an institution that liked to keep its business internal. The police were begrudgingly welcomed only when protocol dictated it. At least that was his personal experience.
More time passed before the phone eventually rang and Caslin was shown through into the colonel’s office. Surprising as it was to him, the room beyond was similar to the last. Notably there was only the one desk but also a lack of the pomp and grandeur that he expected. Various metal filing cabinets lined two walls, which themselves carried pictures documenting the officer’s various spells abroad. The barren desert backdrops could well have been from any number of postings. The colonel kept a tidier desk than his subordinates though. Minimal paperwork was set alongside photos of his family.
Colonel Edwards came from behind his desk to greet him. He apologised for the delay as he offered his hand in welcome. Caslin was shown a seat which he took, as the clerk departed, closing the door behind him. Having dispensed with the pleasantries they got to the subject in hand.
“You were inquiring about a former serviceman, Rifleman McNeil.”
“Yes, I need to clear up some contradictions that have arisen
during an investigation.”
Colonel Edwards opened a drawer to retrieve a folder from within it, presumably McNeil’s service record.
“I had his file brought up following your telephone call on Wednesday. Having familiarised myself with it, I am happy to clear up any discrepancy that I can.”
“Could you clarify the cause of his release from the regiment?”
“That’s easy, medical grounds. He had an ongoing condition with his back that ultimately left him unfit for duty.”
“That was what I was led to believe, Sir. However, is there a possibility that he was faking it?”
The officer looked up and met Caslin’s gaze. He blew out his cheeks and glanced back at the file, appearing to scan a page before leafing through the next couple and shaking his head.
“He was assessed by the medical team at his last posting and again, by a specialist, here in the UK. Both came to the same conclusion, so I would have to say no.”
“And that was the only reason for his discharge? There wasn’t anything untoward?”
If the colonel was surprised by that question, he remained impassive.
“Forgive me. I don’t know what you are getting at.”
Caslin sat back in his chair. Taking his small notebook from his pocket, he also made a show of leafing through the pages. Stopping at a certain point, in truth, one completely unrelated to his line of questioning.
“Only I have made a note here that a witness suggested McNeil was involved in an incident in Iraq, facilitating his discharge.”
“What incident?”
“I would rather not go into the specifics. It is only a brief mention. I’m endeavouring to see if there is anything in it at all.”
“There is no mention of anything in his file.”
“Was he a decent soldier?”
“I would say he was solid, not the best but experienced. I never had cause to have him in front of me. His record was better than average.”
“And yet, he didn’t progress. For a man with such a length of time served that is unusual, is it not?”
“Not really,” Edwards shrugged. “Some soldiers are where they should be, at their level. Not everyone has leadership ability. Once you reach a certain age, how much more can you learn?”
“I see. We’ve also come across evidence of a historic brain injury, during his post mortem.”
“Right.”
“Do you know when, or indeed, how that may have been sustained?”
Colonel Edwards returned to his paperwork. Moments passed as he reread the information. Shaking his head, he replied, “There is nothing that warrants a specific mention of a brain injury. He did suffer a fall from height during a training exercise but subsequently, made a full recovery in a short space of time. That doesn’t imply a serious condition.”
“When was that, Sir?”
“July ’97.”
“And the nature of his injury?”
“I’m sorry. The details are not documented here. I could arrange for the full medical file to be released to you. I must say though. Should he have suffered an extensive brain injury during his service, I would find it difficult to comprehend how he could return in an active, frontline capacity, so soon. Perhaps it was before he enlisted.”
“Perhaps,” Caslin agreed. He was frustrated at that response, having hoped for something more. “It has been suggested that such an injury could have affected his personality. Wouldn’t that have shown up during the selection and training processes?”
“That would be impossible to say without knowledge of the injury sustained. I couldn’t possibly speculate.”
“I understand Rifleman McNeil was assigned to a detention centre in Basra.”
“I am not sure how you came by that but,” the officer consulted the file once again, “yes, he was part of a detachment. Is that significant?”
Now it was Caslin that shrugged, “There was nothing unusual that occurred there?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Would it be possible for me to speak with some of his former colleagues, or perhaps his platoon commander?”
“Certainly. Provided you can wait three months.”
Caslin frowned, “They are deployed?”
“Overseas. On active assignment.”
“Do they have phones?”
He didn’t mean to sound sarcastic but it came naturally to him, and that was exactly how his question came across.
“I can relay your request. Once they are out of the field, I’m sure the men will be happy to give you a call during their limited, free time. Perhaps you can leave us with your contact numbers. I cannot guarantee the time of the call though. I hope you’re a light sleeper.”
“Where are they deployed?”
“I am afraid that theatres of combat are classified. I am sure you understand.”
Caslin didn’t. He considered asking to speak with the medical staff but quickly dismissed the idea. The chances that he would get a different response were slim.
“Would I be able to see a list of people who served with Rifleman McNeil? Not his entire career, I know that would be ridiculous, but his immediate surrounding group. For example, those on his last tour?”
The colonel returned to his file and rapidly flicked through a number of pages before drawing one out and passing it across the desk. Caslin was genuinely surprised. He imagined that such information would take some time to gather if it was at all possible.
“I pre-empted your request. Inspector, is this really the pressing matter that you came all the way over here to discuss? I was under the impression that you had more far-reaching inquiries, than this.”
Caslin thought for a moment about what Sullivan had told him as he scanned through the list of names before him, none of which struck a chord. Was there anything to the allegation? The colonel was giving very little away but in fairness, if there was no substance to it, what else would he be saying? Always having prided himself on an ability to read people, he had to admit that this was a scenario that left him wondering. What could he expect, a scandal to be admitted the moment he asked the question? Dare he ask the question? Yes, he dared.
“It is alleged that detainees were systematically abused and tortured by British personnel, at that detention centre. Furthermore, that Rifleman McNeil is implicated in those actions and also, that the incidents have been buried to avoid embarrassment.”
If there was any element of surprise at the allegation, then it remained well hidden, too well hidden. An experienced officer, shaped in the military tradition of holding firm, Caslin knew that he would get little reaction. Colonel Edwards fixed him with a stare that neither confirmed nor denied anything.
“I hope that your witness has evidence to corroborate such a wayward allegation. Were it to be true, then it would indeed be shocking. There was no such event to my knowledge and goodness knows there is enough scrutiny on our actions that something like that would not remain secret for long.”
“Perhaps it hasn’t.”
“No-one, I repeat no-one, under my command has knowledge of what you are saying. Whoever your witness is, they are at best mistaken and at worst, lying in the gravest of fashions. Have I made myself clear?”
The last was said in a controlled tone that seemed to only afflict officers of rank in the British armed forces.
“I understand.”
“Are we finished?”
Caslin realised that the question was more rhetorical than it sounded and he nodded. Rising from his chair, he took the offered hand and made to leave the office.
“May I keep this?” Caslin asked, indicating the typed list he held in his left hand.
“You may.”
Making his way out to the car, Caslin considered the meeting. The day was overcast with the constant threat of rain. The wind rattled through the camp throwing up the multitude of brown leaves that lay around. He braced against the cold until safely in his Volvo. The reality was that he hadn’t expected
a confirmation of the allegation. A denial, on the other hand, was a foregone conclusion. The real point of the exercise was to assess the man opposite and try to gauge the reaction. Had he gleaned anything from the brief encounter? Probably not. Without speaking to Sullivan’s source directly, there wasn’t going to be much mileage in this angle of the investigation.
Starting the car, he wiped down the interior windscreen with his sleeve, smearing rather than cleaning the mist away. Turning on the blowers he sat back, drawing his coat about him as the cold air blew through. Thoughts turned briefly to Chloe McNeil and Caslin considered calling DC Underwood, to check if Chloe had done anything that aroused suspicion. Dialling Hayley’s phone he found she answered within a couple of rings.
“Hayley?”
“Before you ask, yes, I am watching Chloe and no, there is nothing of note going on. She left home about twenty minutes ago and went to the supermarket. Nice lady. She waved to me from the end of her path. I thought about giving her a lift, seeing as I’m going her way.”
The response to his unasked question did little to veil her frustration at the surveillance detail. Caslin wasn’t annoyed. So far Underwood and Holt had produced nothing of note that aided them in moving the investigation forward. Spending a twelve-hour stint watching the policing equivalent of paint drying was a task that few relished. The operation was yielding so little that the resources were under threat if nothing turned up soon.
Caslin laughed, “Let me know if anything happens. You can never be sure when the big break will come.”
“If you weren’t my DI, then I would have a rant about your sarcasm.”
“… have a rant about my sarcasm, Sir,” Caslin admonished her, in mock seriousness.
“Oh yeah, sometimes I forget about that bit, Sir,” Hayley replied, her grin almost evident down the phone line.
Caslin smiled as he ended the call. Whether true or not, it did seem that he was the only one that found keeping a watchful eye on Chloe to be anything other than pointless. Her connection to the case at Radford Farm was clear but there was little to tie her to the crimes. With that in mind, he looked up Iain Robertson’s number and dialled it. The gruff Scot picked up almost as soon as the call connected and Caslin asked for an update.
Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 22