Table of Contents
The Dogs in the Street
For Jericho
“No evil can happen to a good man, either in life or in death”
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Enjoy this book? You could make a real difference.
Get exclusive Dark Yorkshire material
Also in the Dark Yorkshire series;
Blood Money Preview
Blacklight Preview
First published by Hamilton Press in 2018
The Dogs in the Street
Dark Yorkshire - Book 3
J M DALGLIESH
For Jericho
“No evil can happen to a good man, either in life or in death”
- Plato
Chapter 1
The thundering sound of the water filling the bathtub was barely audible over the shrieks of excitement emanating from the children. Nicola smiled at the irony. It would take nigh on thirty minutes to coax them away from the TV or their tablets and get them upstairs but once there, less than three, before impatience set in at the wait to get in the water. A frustrated voice cut through as the children’s mother filled their cups with squash. Chris was suffering. She felt his pain.
Leaving the kitchen, fingers looped through the handles of both cups, allowing her a free hand, she flicked off the light and nudged the dog out from under her feet. Passing through the dining room, scooping up Ethan’s reading book on the way, she made it to the bottom of the stairs before the chime of the doorbell brought her to a halt with one foot on the first tread. The sound of splashing and laughter came from upstairs and the initial intent to ignore the caller, was cast aside. Gently placing the cups on the adjacent window sill, alongside The Lion’s Paw, Nicola stepped over to the front door.
It was still light, mid-evening and a caller wasn’t unheard of, although unannounced was somewhat unusual. The suited figure, viewed through the obscured glass, waited patiently, hands clasped before him. Nicola unlatched the door and swung it open. Greeted with a smile, the caller addressed her.
“Mrs Fairchild?” he asked, she nodded. “Please accept my apologies for calling at this time but I have a letter for your husband. Is he home?” He indicated a manila envelope, clutched in his left hand.
“Yes, he is,” she glanced over her shoulder, up the stairs, considering whether to call out. Realising the kids would be unattended, she thought better of it. “Bear with me a moment, I’ll just have to swap with him. He’s upstairs, bathing the children.”
“Certainly. I don’t mind waiting.”
Pushing the door to but not closed, Nicola retreated. Leaving the bedtime offerings on the window sill, she trotted upstairs and eased the bathroom door open. Met with a barrage of joy from within, she broke into a smile as first Ethan, and then Molly, flicked bubbles at their unsuspecting father who chided them with fake fury. Leaning on the door and raising her voice to be heard, she got her husband’s attention.
“Chris, there’s someone to see you.” He looked up at her, from his kneeling position.
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. Someone from work, I think.”
“Okay. Take over here, would you?” Turning sideways, allowing him to pass, Nicola knelt alongside the bathtub as the door closed behind him. Molly threw her mother a cheeky glance before ducking her hands beneath the waves, created by a plunging Ethan, at the other end.
“Don’t even think about it, young lady,” she said firmly, albeit with a smile. Muffled voices came to ear, from downstairs but try as she might, the subject matter was unintelligible. Not that she was bothered. Ethan yelled as Molly launched a boat full of water in his direction, catching him off guard. “Behave, both of you,” she stated calmly, hoping to draw a line under the impending retaliation from the eldest.
“I didn’t do anything!” Ethan protested.
“You did!” Molly screamed back.
“Both of you, enough, please,” their mother stated evenly. The conversation downstairs had ceased. Chris would be coming back up and she could take him up on that offering of twenty minutes of peace, a well-earned break on a day like today. He had promised her at least that, after arriving home later than expected, from the office. Time passed but the door remained closed and with each minute, Nicola felt her patience ebb away. Whatever it was could wait until later, if not tomorrow, surely? Throughout the course of their nine-years of marriage, she had been conditioned to understand how the markets worked. Chris could, and notoriously did, work on well into the night but not today. He’d promised.
“I want daddy to wash my hair,” Molly whined. “You get water in my eyes.”
“Yeah, me too,” Ethan stated.
“Me three,” she replied. “I’ll duck out and see where your Father’s got to. Play nicely for a second.”
Leaving the bathroom door open, Nicola stepped out. Not wanting to interrupt his conversation, if the visitor was still present, she listened. Not hearing anything but feeling a breeze blow across her, from the open front-door, she moved over the landing to the top of the stairs.
“Chris,” she called out. No reply. “For Pete’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. Calling out over her shoulder as she descended, addressing the children, “Popping downstairs, kids. Look after each other, for a minute.”
“Okay!” came a double shout from the bathroom. Reaching the first turn on the staircase, she stopped. The front door rocked back and forth ever so gently. Chris sat on the floor, back against the wall, open-mouthed, staring straight ahead. He looked serene. All that was out of place were the two black marks on the front of his white shirt and another on his forehead, above the bridge of his nose. The sound of increasing rainfall, striking the mosaic tiles of the porch outside was accompanied by a drop in temperature, carried indoors on the breeze.
“Chris?” Nicola asked quietly, in a questioning tone. One of hope rather than expectation. The sounds of squabbling came from above and behind her, the children battling over something or other but the argument was lost to her. The spray of crimson on the wall above her husband, now beginning to run as the force of gravity exerted itself, had her transfixed. “Chris,” she said once more. This time, to herself.
Chapter 2
“I find myself standing in a river. The water is almost waist high. It’s fast moving but I’m steady and not in any danger. I know I should be cold but I’m not.”
“What are you doing in the river?”
“Nothing. Just standing.”
“Are you alone?”
“No. There are people…well, not people…bodies. They pass by, all around me, with the flow of the water.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps dozens?”
“Can you describe them?”
“Many are faceless or may as well be. Men, women…often children. Sometimes I’ll recognise one but most of them, I don’t. From time-to-time, they’ll speak but on the whole, they’re silent.”
/> “Those that speak, what do they say?”
Caslin stared at a non-existent point on the wall, as if seeing something in the distance, slowly shaking his head, “I can’t make it out. They mumble. The words are drowned out, by the noise.”
“Of the water?”
“No, the forest. The water makes no sound but the trees lining the riverbank, they whisper and it carries on the wind.
“What do they say?”
He thought on it, “I’m not sure they say anything, to be honest.” There was a pause while she waited to see if he had anything else to add. He didn’t.
“What do you think it all means?”
“Does it have to mean anything?”
“Usually, it does. Particularly if it’s frequent and similar each time,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. “Is it?”
“Always the same. Every time.”
“How often?”
“Every night.”
“I see.”
The ringing of his phone interrupted the moment of clarity his counsellor sought to attain, much to her obvious frustration. Despite her protestations, he answered.
“Caslin,” he said flatly, ignoring the stern gaze that set upon him. “I’ll be right there.” He said, hanging up on the caller and standing up. “Sorry. Duty calls.”
“Some might say that you arranged that, in order to get out of this session.”
“Now that’s grossly unfair,” he replied with a smile. “Particularly without evidence. Besides, you know me better than that.”
“I know you very well, Nathaniel Caslin. One session a week, for the last three months. Our relationship is probably as deep as yours is with your own father. I assure you.”
“I doubt that’s true,” Caslin said, plucking his coat from the stand and putting it on.
“Why ever not?”
“I’m here, talking to you and I can’t stand him,” Caslin replied. “Same time next week?” It was a rhetorical question. He would be there. After all, he had no choice.
“You will have to take this seriously, sooner or later, Nate,” she called after him. “I’m not going away.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Caslin said under his breath.
Getting into his car, he took the parking permit from the dashboard and put it back in the glove box, ready for next week. Ashleigh, his long-suffering counsellor, acknowledged his wave as he pulled away from the kerb, before she closed the door to her home. It was only a short drive across the city into The Mount. It wasn’t often he had professional cause to go there, not under circumstances such as these, anyway.
The four-storey, terraced, well-to-do townhouses that made up these tree-lined streets seldom had need of the police, with the notable exception of the odd burglary. Hence the reason he felt able to draw his session to an early close, running the risk of yet another black mark in his abnormally, chequered-book. The scene was easy to find. The number of uniform vehicles present alongside the cordon, hastily being set up, gave it away. Pulling in to park up, by the growing throng of people, a mixture of passers-by and neighbours alike, Caslin got out. Acknowledging those on crowd control, he noted the arrival of a local press truck and a couple of freelancers. Ducking under the tape, he followed the direction indicated. Mounting the stone steps to the front door, he was greeted by DS Hunter and Iain Robertson, head of the Fulford Road, Scenes of Crime team.
“Not often we find ourselves here, is it?” Caslin said to neither in particular.
“Sorry to call you, Sir but it-” Caslin waved Hunter’s apology away.
“What do we have here?” he asked, peering over her shoulder as the flash from a forensic officer’s camera, lit up the inner hallway.
“The home-owner, a Christopher Fairchild, has been shot dead on his doorstep, Sir.”
“I don’t suppose we’re fortunate enough to know who by?” Caslin asked.
“No, Sir. This one isn’t so straightforward. He had an unannounced caller, this evening. It would appear there was some kind of an altercation and the end result, left him dead.”
“Who found him?” Caslin asked, as Robertson led him inside, once he had donned the mandatory, forensic boot covers.
“His wife.”
“She here?”
“Upstairs, Sir. With the kids,” Hunter said, her tone changing at the last. In response to his unasked question, she continued, “Two, aged three and five. They’re with the mother, now. We can’t bring them down without passing the body…their father, so thought it best-”
“You’re right,” Caslin offered, kneeling before the still form of Christopher Fairchild. “What do we know about him?”
“Forty-four years old, married, father of two, as I said. He’s a Senior Fund-Manager for KL Global, based here in York but with an office in the City.”
“Known to us, for any reason?”
Hunter shook her head, “No, Sir. I ran him. No hits.”
“Witnesses?”
“Just the wife…but she was upstairs when it happened. She initially answered the door to the caller and has given us a description of the attacker, albeit a vague one. We’ve put it out there. Do you want to speak with her?”
Caslin shook his head. Speaking with loved ones directly following an incident such as this, often proved fruitless, “Not yet. Let’s have a look at this chap first. Iain?” Robertson eased his photographer aside, enabling him to move past the body, sitting at a ninety-degree angle to the front door, back to the wall.
“From what I can ascertain,” Robertson surmised, “they engaged in conversation at the door. Whatever led to the attacker drawing a weapon, I can’t say but the first shot was into the chest, causing him to step backwards. The second is likely to be the chest wound, high and to the right,” he leaned over, indicating it with his index finger. Caslin knelt to get a better look. “That shot spun him the ninety-degrees and as he staggered or stumbled, back inside, I believe the gunman followed him in. There’s a fresh boot-scuff on the carpet runner, there behind you,” Caslin looked and nodded, “that doesn’t tie in with the victim or his wife’s footwear. Then the third and final shot to the forehead. Note the high-velocity splatter on the wall above and behind, indicating the shooter was standing directly before him. He then fell back, against the wall, sinking to the floor, where we find him now. I expect he was dead before he hit the ground.”
“Anything unusual about the wounds? Suggestions for the type of weapon or ammunition?”
“The first round passed through the victim, embedding itself in the wall at the end of the hall,” Robertson waved a hand in the general direction. Caslin looked and saw where it had been marked for analysis. “It looks like a 9mm to me but I’ll confirm it once we remove the bullet. Unlikely to be a hollow point, due to the size of the exit wound in the victim’s back. We levered him forward, before you arrived.”
“The others?”
“No. The second didn’t leave him. I expect it struck the rib-cage or shoulder blade, ricocheting around, doing as much damage as possible before it ran out of energy. The third was at pretty close range. You’ll note the five-point star burst pattern, that the round left upon entry.” Caslin turned his attention back to Fairchild and examined the head wound. “That’s commonly found in these cases. The bullet fractures the skull, forming the distinctive shape which translates to the outer surface of the skin. I must say that even without the headshot, he would’ve bled out before reaching a hospital. Your shooter’s certainly no chump, I’ll give him that.”
“Professional, you reckon?”
Robertson thought for a moment, “For starters, he policed the scene. Three shots and we’ve no casings. He wasn’t going to make it easy for us. If it’s a nine millimetre, and I’m not prone to being wrong, then it’s an automatic. I’ll leave speculation on motive and the emotional state of mind to you but from a forensic standpoint, your man knew how to ensure this poor sod never saw another sunrise.”
“How long until
you can move the body?” Caslin asked, thinking of the family upstairs.
“Give me another three quarters of an hour?”
“Okay, thanks,” Caslin said. Turning to DS Hunter, “Have them extend the cordon another thirty feet. The scene being this close to the front door, it won’t take long for the vultures outside to get access to a neighbour’s house. I don’t want this,” he waved his hand in a circular motion, “on the front pages tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll do it right away.”
“Before you go. What did you say he did for a living, hedge-fund manager?”
“Yes,” Hunter confirmed. “Judging by his home, successful at it, too.” Caslin nodded but always considered that appearances could be and often were, deceptive in his line of work. Hunter made to leave, through the front door.
“Where’s the DCI?” Caslin called after her. She stopped in the doorway and turned, “No idea, Sir. I’ve not seen him but Broadfoot’s asking to see you, when you get back to the station.”
With that, she was out of the door and descending the steps to the street below. Whatever the Detective Chief Superintendent wanted with him was but a fleeting thought as Caslin climbed the stairs to the first floor. Cresting the landing, he stopped to catch his breath. Not for the first time, he felt out of shape with no good reason. Finding the family in the furthermost bedroom to the rear of the building, Caslin beckoned the liaison officer over to him.
“How are they?” Caslin asked.
“Under the circumstances, they’re doing well, Sir,” PC Waterton said softly. Caslin knew her and respected her for the calm assuredness that she always carried when called upon. “As I understand it, Sir, the children were unaware of what happened. They were in the bath when it took place and are still none the wiser. Although clearly, they are shocked about what is going on. They know their father’s been hurt but nothing more.”
“And the wife?” Caslin asked under his breath, casting a glance over towards where she was sitting on an occasional sofa, one child snuggled under each arm.
Waterton exhaled slowly, “In a state of shock, I think. Trying to be strong for her children. Certainly nothing in her manner that strikes me as unusual.”
The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3) Page 1