“I don’t know when it started to happen. I used to look at stuff but it was never over the line—”
“The line gets blurred on the internet. You know that as well as I do. If you didn’t realise it before when Harman showed up you knew you’d crossed it. Your private reality was about to become public.”
“You know nothing about me!” Atwood bit back.
“What the hell happened to you, man?”
“Fuck you, Caslin! I wasn’t about to risk losing it all. I’ve come too far.”
“And therein lies the irony,” Caslin said. “Despite all that you’ve done, you still will.”
Atwood’s shoulders appeared to visibly sag. To Caslin it seemed as if the awareness of his situation had struck him. The breakthrough had been made.
“I never thought it would come to this,” Atwood said. He was looking to the floor, his free hand aggressively massaging his forehead.
Caslin tentatively took a step forward, gently reaching out with one hand.
“Come on, Michael. Give me the gun, it’s over now.”
Without warning, Atwood lunged, shoving Caslin forcefully away before retreating himself. Caught off guard, Caslin stumbled backwards, putting some distance between them. He offered up his hands in supplication as the gun was brought to bear. The fear he exhibited must have been recognisable because Atwood stopped to glare at him. He sneered as he almost spat his words out.
“You think you’re so bloody clever, Nathaniel. You’re not.”
Caslin had to agree and not just because he had a gun pointed at him. His own stupidity had put him in this position.
“Just take a moment, Michael. Think this through.”
“I have,” Atwood replied.
There was no emotion in his tone. Cocking the pistol, Atwood extended his arm and Caslin tensed.
“Wait!”
He made to turn and break for the hallway. The impact came like a hammer blow to his chest, spinning him like a top and sending him sprawling to the ground. He hadn’t heard the shot. Struggling to breathe, panic flashed through him and he tried to stand but his legs gave way. Slumping back, he fell against the wall, eyes wide as the onset of shock took hold. Atwood remained standing in the centre of the kitchen. He wasn’t looking at Caslin. He didn’t appear to be focusing on anything. The gun was at his side.
Atwood lifted his head and, after a moment, his eyes fell on the colleague now sitting on the floor before him. He stared at Caslin briefly before glancing at the weapon in his hand.
“How did it come to this?” he asked. Raising his arm in one fluid motion, he put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Caslin closed his eyes and swallowed hard, hearing Atwood’s body drop to the floor.
There he sat as an eerie silence descended on the room. His heart raced and the smell of cordite drifted over to him.
Time stood still. After a short while, although probably in reality, a few seconds, Caslin opened his eyes and his senses recoiled from the scene. Blood and brain fragments had been sprayed across the kitchen units, walls and ceiling. In places it was beginning to run. Suddenly he became anxious to know how bad his own wound was. Surely it should hurt more than it did? Reaching up, he found his hand was shaking uncontrollably. He willed it to stop but he couldn’t manage to, such was the adrenalin coursing through him. Forcing himself to take deep breaths helped and within a minute he felt better.
He winced as he put his hand inside his coat. Withdrawing it, he saw there was blood on his fingers but not as much as he would’ve expected. Upon a second inspection, his fingers brushed across something cold and sharp. Removing his phone from the pocket he found the screen had shattered. Flipping it over he saw that the aluminium casing was heavily damaged and twisted in a way he didn’t think possible. From nowhere he began to laugh, finding that painful, he soon stopped. Somehow, he doubted that the insurance company would see this as accidental damage. As the moments passed his left side began to burn, similar to a deep muscle injury, only far worse. With difficulty, Caslin raised himself up on his haunches and used the wall to brace himself as he stood. His legs were wobbly but he managed to stagger a few paces towards the hall, stopping briefly to cast an eye over the still form of Michael Atwood.
“You got off lightly,” he said aloud.
Moving into the hall, he paused at the mirror adjacent to the front door. Teasing aside his coat he took account of the dark patch soaking into his shirt. Probing the area gently brought a significant amount of pain. Instinctively, he felt that it wasn’t as serious as he had feared. The bullet had been deflected in a sideways trajectory and he hoped, hadn’t penetrated too deeply but had still managed to tear through muscle and quite possibly, bone. The force of the initial impact had done some damage but an initial search for an exit wound found nothing. His chest ached with every breath and any movement brought forth a wave of pain.
Picking up the landline he dialled Fulford Road. As the call connected, he realised that he had no idea what he was going to say.
Chapter 34
Caslin led the group from the confines of the small chapel, out into the afternoon sunshine. The breeze was gentle and, despite the cold of midwinter, the day was pleasant. Caslin could feel his toes were going numb. The service had been short, due in the most part to the lack of knowledge about the family. Much to the regret of Fulford Road CID and everyone else involved in the investigation, no-one had come forward to claim the Horsvedts as their own. Extensive contact with officials in the Czech Republic had failed to trace any living relatives. The family were destined to become a footnote in the local paper or worse still, a statistic in regional crime figures.
Reaching the grave, the pallbearers, made up of officers from the station, laid the casket in place. Caslin stood to the side as the priest came to stand before them to consecrate it and deliver the final blessing. The little that they had found out about the family was that they were Catholic and as such, they warranted a service in keeping with their faith. Protocol regarding burial under state control was forgotten on this occasion. The lack of any significant human remains had not deterred the team from arranging the casket. The symbolism of the act of laying them to rest was what mattered.
“I’m pleased, if that’s the correct word, that you pushed us to do this, Nathaniel,” DCI Stephens said, as the priest led the mourners away.
Caslin cast a glance sideways to the grave diggers waiting patiently, off to their left, for the signal to begin their next task.
“It’s a good turnout,” Caslin replied.
Stephens looked towards the vast crowd of locals who had answered the call made earlier in the week.
“Hunter did a good job there. The social media, local radio, and that interview she gave to your friend, Sullivan. I think there must be several hundred here, at least.”
“They deserve it.”
Caslin looked down at the grave marker, gold lettering inlaid on a slab of polished, black granite. The words were simple and honourable. He judged it to be a fitting epitaph for such a young family, known only to the people of York in death but sadly, not in life.
“Nice touch, by you,” Stephens said. “Arranging the marker.”
“I wanted a headstone but apparently, you can’t set it for a few months. I needed to do it in one go.”
“I understand.”
It was right that the Horsvedts had something to mark their passing that was a little grander than would otherwise have been. With the investigation complete and only Chloe’s forthcoming trial to provide closure, the coroner had released what little remained of the family, for burial. Other victims were still waiting to be identified. Whether or not that would prove to be possible was yet to be determined. Caslin indicated to the burial team that they could commence and the two men stepped forward, shovels in hand. With one last, solemn look at the casket, Caslin silently paid his respects. He then joined Frank Stephens on the path back to the car park.
“How are you feeling?�
�� the DCI asked.
Caslin frowned, “I’ve been better, but…”
“But?”
“I’ll be alright. The ribs are healing nicely and any pain that comes along with movement is bearable, these days. Painkillers help.”
“It took a lot out of you, I think.”
Stephens let the following moment of silence carry as they walked. A few of the CID team were lingering in the chapel grounds. Caslin spotted Iain Robertson amongst them. Of all involved, it was most probably Iain and his team who bore the psychological brunt of the investigation. After all, they had to pick over every detail of Radford Farm and unearth the grisly secrets contained within.
“I think it’s impacted on all of us,” Caslin said. He intimated towards the assembled group, standing a short distance away. “This is one that will be difficult to move on from.”
Stephens cast an eye over them while he thought on that. Touching Caslin’s forearm gently, he indicated they should stop walking.
“When do you want to come back?” he asked. “I’m presuming you want to. It’s been a month and, like you say… it’s going to be hard to leave this behind us.”
“We won’t.”
“No?”
“McNeil, Na Honn, the farmhouse, they were extreme but you can argue they come with the job,” Caslin said. Shaking his head, he continued, “Maxim, Hayley… Atwood. Get past it, maybe. But this will never leave us.”
“We stopped them, all of them. You must remember that.”
“I do. Every day,” Caslin said evenly.
“Are you still thinking about quitting? In my mind, you’d be making—”
“I’m not quitting, Frank. I’m not,” Caslin said, looking his boss square in the eye. “I just need a little time.”
Stephens accepted that with a nod. He appeared relieved. Caslin thought that was quite a turnaround, bearing in mind their complicated relationship during the past year.
“Take as much time as you need. I’ll clear it with Broadfoot. He’s as anxious to have you back as I am.”
Caslin thanked him. Excusing himself, he made his way back into the chapel to have a word with the priest. Emerging outside shortly afterwards, Caslin found the CID team waiting for him. He approached warily. He felt on edge having not seen many of them since the night of Atwood’s death.
“We’re all going for a drink,” Sarah Hunter said. “You coming?”
Caslin smiled.
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Dark Yorkshire – Book 2
Chapter One
The overnight storm had left the car park treacherous in places. The pooled water at certain points highlighted where not to stop, or walk, once beyond the confines of the interior. The distinctive crunch of hiking boots on gravel carried as he climbed out and made his way to the rear, dropping the tailgate. Pulling the red and black rucksack out and slipping it over his shoulders, he locked the vehicle and cast his eyes skyward. The day was still overcast but held some promise as shafts of light split the grey, changing the landscape beneath from grim to stunning. Far off to the west was an ominous sight. Swathes of rain lashed the distant hillside and he was thankful that the wind direction was favourable.
The pack on his back felt strange, being nigh on empty, an unnecessary addition to the all-weather gear that he wore. Surprisingly to him, there was another car parked up already. This early in the morning, he found that unusual. Granted, he had only been here twice before, once scouting and once to leave his kit but nonetheless, he had never come across another soul. That was the reason he had chosen the location. There were so many better, no, not better - more travelled places that drew in the tourists and locals alike. Leaving the car park from the east side, he set off on the well-worn trail.
Starting out in a valley, the path trekked east before changing direction and tacking north, his destination point would never see him leave the confines of the hills to either side. On a dreary day, such as this, there was always the likelihood that a walker would barely see the sun, let alone the views that Yorkshire was famous for. The going was tough as the trail narrowed and the gravel passed into mud. The water drained into the valley, leaving the soil wet and sticky underfoot, slowing his progress. Despite this, his destination was well within a fifteen-minute walk. He knew that to be almost exact. The need to make notes was never required that was his gift. The ability to commit details to memory, even trivial ones, that would slip the mind of lesser people in moments. He knew where to make the turn from the trail; after the boulder, one hundred yards beyond the sprawling gorse ahead.
The sound of voices came to ear and he stopped. The first was young, a girl, and after that an adult male, her father? Their chatter carried to him on the light breeze. Another, a young boy was complaining about his feet getting stuck in the mud. A shriek followed as someone presumably lost their footing. Resuming his course, he clocked them rounding the forthcoming turn in the track, the boy now being led by his mother. The man was at the head of the party, a furrowed brow, born of frustration, upon his face. They were equipped for a hike, judging by their gear but none of them looked comfortable.
“Good morning,” the father said, glancing up from the OS map, enclosed within a transparent case, hanging by a cord from his neck.
“Having trouble?” he asked, reading the look of concentration on the man before him. The group had all stopped behind the two men, the children’s expressions one of hope and expectation.
“Is it that obvious? We wanted to visit the bird sanctuary at dawn but we’ve taken a wrong turn on the way back to the car.”
That wasn’t surprising. He knew the sanctuary, a well-tended area returned to its natural habitat by a wil
derness group over the past eight years. It was easy to get disorientated there, not for him but certainly for the general public. The group were good on nature, bad on signage. They planned to not only reintroduce native tree species but also the indigenous animals, wolves and lynx, to national parks in the future. That is, if they managed to overcome the objections of local landowners.
It would be easy. Too easy. He dismissed the thought. Stepping forward, he located their point on the map before tracing a line with his index finger, walking them through the route back to the car park. Even with the children in tow, it would take them under twenty minutes. With many spoken thanks and smiles of gratitude, the family moved on. Once again, he was alone. Picking up the pace the sense of excitement rose within him as it had done at this time in each of the previous three years. He left the trail where he remembered to, skirting the heather and jogging up a shallow incline before coming to a stop alongside a solitary silver birch. For some reason this species loved the landscape here and was one of the few managing to thrive.
Looking around, he was struck by the isolation of where he stood. There was nothing to indicate an urban presence, no roads, artificial light or noise, beyond the breeze passing through the nearby foliage. He was most definitely alone.
Removing the backpack, he put it on the ground before him and dropped to his knees. From inside he took out the only item contained within. The collapsible shovel was assembled in moments and with one last look around, he set about digging. Barely five inches beneath the surface, he found the rim and within a minute of that he had unearthed the top. Clearing more space around it, he put the shovel down and used his fingers to pry off the lid to the orange plastic tub, breaking the airtight seal.
Divided House (Dark Yorkshire Book 1) Page 33