The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3)

by J M Dalgliesh

  “Indeed,” Broadfoot said in his usual, but often misleading, disinterested tone, “I want you to bring me up to speed on this shooting, in a moment but first off, we have to discuss a point of admin.”

  “What’s that, Sir?”

  “DCI Mentorn.”

  “Sir?” Caslin asked.

  “Is on medical leave, effective immediately.”

  “I didn’t realise he was ill, Sir.”

  “Well, don’t expect him back any time soon,” Broadfoot said without elaborating further. “Which leaves me with a dilemma. Things as they are with budgets and the like, I haven’t anyone available to fill his role within the next few months. Long story, short, you’re doing it.”

  Caslin was blindsided. His career path had stabilised recently, having been on a downward trajectory for some time before that, “Me, Sir? I’m not sure about that.”

  “It’s not a request, Nathaniel. I know you have every right to knock it back… and after the last time, I can see why. That said, the chair was never coming back out for you, you are well aware of that fact. To put it another way, it won’t do so again, if you pass this up.”

  “With respect, Sir. My career aspirations are not-”

  “What they once were,” Broadfoot interrupted. “However, you’re getting another bite at it.”

  “Let’s be honest, Sir,” Caslin said, appearing uncomfortable, “If you had someone else available, you wouldn’t be asking me either.”

  Broadfoot fixed him with a gaze, “You’re a good detective, Nate. I’d go so far as to say bordering on the brilliant, if I didn’t think it’d go to your head. You’re also fallible. You’ve seen it go wrong and that makes you a safe pair of hands. As daft a logic as that may sound.”

  “Even so-”

  “I’ve gone out on a limb for you in the past year, Nate. You owe me.”

  Caslin glanced toward the window. Broadfoot was right. “I know that, Sir.”

  “I’ve read your counselor’s assessment and I understand your reservations but I need an experienced hand to run that squad. You’ve done it before. I’m calling in the favour. You understand?”

  Caslin nodded, “This will make us even?”

  “Not even close,” Broadfoot said without a hint of sarcasm, “and I still expect you to attend your sessions…and complete them.” Caslin guessed Ashleigh had already been in touch. He wasn’t angry, she was doing her job. “How are you progressing with your twelve steps?”

  Caslin shrugged, “It’s worked for millions…it will probably work for me.”

  “Good man,” Broadfoot said, “not quite a ringing endorsement but you’re ticking the boxes. We’ll get you there.”

  “You’re not concerned about adding to my workload, Sir?”

  “You won’t let me down, Nate. I know that. Now, what’s the latest on the Fairchild murder?”

  Caslin left Broadfoot’s office with more than the caseload churning over in his mind. It wasn’t the added pressure of being the Acting DCI, he could do the job standing on his head. Five years in the Met Police had proven that, despite the period ending in the disgrace of demotion, transfer and the subsequent failure of his marriage. Resources were tight. A temporary situation that had now lasted the better part of a decade and with rising crime figures, it was certainly not a good time to drop the ball. Particularly with someone as ambitious as Kyle Broadfoot. He was right to demand loyalty, having backed Caslin when most would have discarded him.

  Pushing the double doors into CID open, several faces looked to him. They knew something was afoot. Caslin didn’t like the politics of man-management, preferring a rapid, surgical strike. He brought his hands together in thunderous applause. Now all heads turned his way.

  “Listen up,” he said with authority, “DCI Mentorn will not be around for a while. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know. Long-story short, I’m Acting DCI and Hunter,” he nodded in her direction, “is Acting DI. Any questions?”

  Sarah Hunter remained open-mouthed for a brief moment before speaking up, “Since when?”

  “Since now,” Caslin stated. “Nothing else changes. Fairchild briefing in thirty minutes. Join me in your office?” he said to Hunter, walking into what was, until five minutes previously, his office. Hunter followed, closing the door behind them.

  “What’s the story?” she asked.

  “You know as much as I do,” he said. An answer that didn’t seem to cut much ice. “Seriously. That’s what Broadfoot wanted me for. Now, you’ve passed your exams-”

  “Yes, I have,” Hunter cut him off, “and as you know, I’m starting next month, down in-”

  “You still will,” Caslin said. “As long as Steve goes with it. In the meantime, I need a DI and you get more experience here. Okay?”

  Hunter appeared slightly perplexed but pressed no further, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sir.”

  “Go on.”

  “Are you…up for this?” Caslin relaxed back into his chair. They had been through a lot together and he didn’t resent the question.

  “I know where you’re coming from but as I said, nothing’s changed. We won’t have Mentorn breathing down our necks, that’s all.”

  “No, we’ll have the Prince of Darkness, himself.”

  Caslin chuckled, “Broadfoot’s not that bad.”

  “You know he’s lining himself up for Yorkshire’s Crime Directorate?”

  “Is he?” Caslin said. He hadn’t heard that particular rumour. “One step closer to the Chief Constable’s chair. Better not screw up, then.”

  “What is it with Mentorn? He’s not been here five min-”

  Caslin’s phone began to ring. Glancing at the screen, he gave Hunter a nod and she left, closing the door behind her. He answered.

  “Hey, Jimmy. You’re going to have to wait for the press conference, same as every-”

  “No, it’s not about the shooting. Can we meet? I need to talk to you.” There was something in the journalist’s tone that struck him as odd. He’d never heard Jimmy Sullivan sound like that before.

  “I have a few things to do but…I’ll see you in the Cellars, around midday?” Caslin offered.

  “See you, then.”

  Chapter 4

  “What can I get you, a scotch?”

  “Not at lunchtime when I’m heading up a murder inquiry, no,” Caslin said. “A coffee will do fine.”

  “Bloody hell,” Sullivan said, “they’re changing you, aren’t they?” The barman said he’d bring the coffee over to them, so they descended into the lower section of Lendal Cellars, taking a table in a quieter section. The vaulted, brick ceilings gave no indication of the time of day nor the brilliant sunshine, above ground, illuminating York City centre with its summer warmth. Caslin hadn’t been in for a while. Temptation was best avoided altogether.

  “What do you need to see me about, Jimmy?” Caslin asked as they sat down.

  Sullivan looked around them nervously, “I need a favour, Nate. It’s personal.”

  “What have you got yourself into?”

  Sullivan shook his head, “Nothing like that. A colleague…a friend…may well have gotten in over her head and I’m…concerned.”

  “Go on.”

  “I know her from way back. She came to me for some local knowledge, you know the sort of thing, asking about a few names? Anyway, I helped her out as best I could.”

  “Alright, so what’s the problem?”

  “She was supposed to meet me for a drink, two nights ago and didn’t show. Not seen or heard from her, since.”

  “Jimmy-”

  “I know, Nate, I know. There are a million and one reasons why she bailed but I’m worried.” Caslin took the moment of the barman bringing over his coffee to think on it. Jimmy Sullivan wasn’t the type to make a mountain out of nothing. He was more likely to look into things on his own. That tenacity is what makes him such a strong story-hunter…and royal pain in the arse.

  “What is she to you, Jimmy? You and
her-”

  “No,” he snapped. “She’s the daughter of an old friend. She’s my Goddaughter.”

  “Does it run in the family, journalism?”

  “Aye, he is…or was. He’s dead now. A heart attack, years ago. I’m not the most heavily involved of Godparents but seriously, this isn’t like her.”

  “What was she working on?”

  “She was cryptic about it. Although, acting like a cat on a hot tin-roof, at the same time. Must’ve been something substantial. I took it that she didn’t want me, or anyone else, lifting the story off of her.”

  “She knows you well, then?” Caslin said with a smile before blowing on the top of his coffee and sipping at it. Sullivan’s brow furrowed.

  “She was asking about a Catholic Priest, here in York. Father Callum Foley. Have you come across him?”

  Caslin shook his head, “Should I?”

  Sullivan returned the gesture, “Well I hadn’t. I guessed she was working some historic child-abuse angle, what with him coming over from Ireland and all.”

  “What are you suggesting about the Irish Catholics?” Caslin teased.

  “No, I just mean it’s scandal after scandal in the Catholic Church these days. The same as with our social-care system, private schools and the Anglicans. They all tended to move them around a lot, sweep it under the carpet. Keep the shit flowing so no-one had the opportunity to smell it.”

  “You have a way with words, Jimmy, but you’re not wrong.”

  “It’s the profession,” Sullivan said, accompanied by the briefest of smiles. “Anyway, I couldn’t find anything on this priest but Emily was undeterred. She was excited. I remember how energetic I used to feel when I was about to break something huge.”

  “She was supposed to meet up with you the other night?”

  “Aye, Sunday. Didn’t show.”

  “You called her?”

  “Of course, I did but she hasn’t picked up. The phone cuts straight to voicemail.”

  “Where was she staying, here in the city?”

  “She didn’t say,” Sullivan met Caslin’s questioning look, his frustration flaring, “I asked but she wouldn’t say!”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Check it out, for me.”

  “It’s not a good time, Jimmy.”

  “Please, Nathaniel. You know I wouldn’t make a fuss. I owe it to her parents. Her father dying, orphaned her and I should’ve been around more back then, spent less time at the bottom of this,” he said, inclining his head towards his glass, as he drained the last of his pint.

  Caslin sighed, “Give me what you’ve got.”

  “Thanks, Nate-”

  “No promises, mind you,” he added as Sullivan pushed a piece of paper, torn from a notebook, across the table towards him. On it was a hand-written mobile number and a name, Emily Coughlan.

  “Where are we with Fairchild?” Caslin asked, now back in CID.

  “As our initial checks turned up, he has no priors. Not even a speeding ticket. Privately educated. A Cambridge graduate, in mathematics, who went straight into the city. He’s worked for various companies, from Lloyds through to several more niche financiers, including KL Global, where he is now,” Hunter offered.

  Terry Holt chipped in with results of his financial inquiries, “HMRC have nothing active on him. Fairchild submits everything on time. There’s never been any referral to the Ombudsman, either. The guy is as clean as a whistle. It will take some time to go through his work accounts, we’re still waiting on a warrant. KL Global aren’t playing ball.”

  “Hurry that along, Terry. I want a motive and where there’s money, I usually find one. Who’s looking at the family money?”

  “That’s me, Sir,” Detective Constable Kim Hardy spoke up. “He has a hefty life insurance policy, with his wife as the main beneficiary. As for their personal accounts, they have access to cash in their current account just north of half a million. They also own property in Spain and Croatia but I’m not done. This is going to take some time.”

  “Okay, maybe Terry can give you a hand with it. How did Nicola Fairchild react to us digging into their finances?”

  “No issues, Sir.”

  Caslin inclined his head, “Debts, gambling or otherwise? Anything that stands out?”

  Hardy shook her head, “Not that we’ve come across. The mortgage is affordable, bearing in mind his income levels. They have joint accounts but I’m not seeing anything unusual either coming in or going out.”

  Caslin felt his frustration building. Staring at the information board, there was scant lead generation to it. “Come on, guys. Somebody wanted this man dead. Popular people, not involved in crime or tied heavily to shady characters, do not get shot on their doorstep. What about his wife, known associates?”

  “We’re working through a list given to us by Mrs Fairchild, Sir. Attendees at their local church, for the most part. Again, no one has flagged up as a person of interest.”

  “Keep going with that. Perhaps one of the two Fairchilds were illicitly entwined with someone else and two doesn’t go into three, particularly well. Someone check Nicola Fairchild’s movements. Where does she go, who does she spend her time with? Maybe it’s nothing to do with his work. Is their marriage as perfect as it looks from the outside? It would be a first on me, if it is. Close-knit communities, religious or otherwise, always have malicious chatter. Some of it might even be accurate.”

  “Cynical,” Hunter offered, before adding, “fair comment, though.”

  “Backing it up a bit. The family apparently didn’t hear the gunshots, so that means the shooter used a suppressor. In all likelihood, a professional, perhaps ex-military so put that alongside the list of friends and associates. Maybe we’ll get a break there. Once you’ve exhausted the direct links, spread the circle wider and go for known associates of associates. Anything further on the letter?”

  “Nothing found at the scene, Sir. We expanded the search to include neighbouring streets, bins, gardens and so on but found nothing,” Hunter said flatly.

  “If the contents were related, it’ll most likely revolve around his business dealings, Sir,” Holt stated. “I’ll see what I can get out of his files as soon as I’m in.”

  “Good, Terry. Sarah,” he looked to Hunter, “chase up Iain Robertson as well. I’ve read his preliminary report but we need something to get us going. Perhaps the ammunition used was in some way special? Keep shaking the tree, something will fall, it always does. I want some movement on this and I want it now,” he emphasised the last, before turning and heading into his office. Almost as an afterthought, he beckoned DC Hardy over. Lowering his voice so no-one would overhear, he took the notepaper, Sullivan had given him earlier, out of his pocket and passed it to her.

  “Can you run this number for me? See what turns up.”

  “Sure. What is it I’m looking for?”

  “Whatever you find. Quick as you can, yes?” he said, turning away and retreating into his office.

  If she had any concerns, Hardy didn’t raise them. No doubt he’d move into DCI Mentorn’s in due course, if the acting role became more than temporary but for now, he was comfortable in the thick of it.

  Seating himself, Caslin pored over the information they had accumulated thus far, in his mind. His gut told him they’d find the strongest leads related to Fairchild’s work life. His death carried the hallmarks of a professional hit, not those left by a jealous husband or a rival love interest. Unable to discount anything until they knew more, Caslin was hopeful that this case would be solvable. Bringing the perpetrator in front of a court, on the other hand, could prove trickier. Kim Hardy appeared in the doorway.

  “Got a sec, Sir?” she asked quietly, unsure of whether to interrupt. A new addition to the team, Hardy had developed far in advance of his expectations since coming out of uniform. He beckoned her in.

  “What is it, Kim?”

  “Emily Coughlan, Sir. You asked me to check her out.”
r />   “What have you got?” he asked.

  “Resident of Northern Ireland, Sir. Born in Belfast, raised in Coleraine but returned to live in Belfast, three years ago. Freelance journalist, her bio has her writing pieces for the Irish Times, along with several other broadsheets, here in the UK. I can’t find any record of her here, in York, though.”

  “She’s only visiting, not been here long, so I’m led to understand.”

  “I ran the mobile number through the networks,” Hardy said, looking at the notes held in her hand. “I’m presuming it’s hers because it isn’t registered to anyone. Based on connections with the towers, she’s largely concentrated her time in an area north-east of the city, around Huntington.”

  “Any significant call activity, in the log?”

  Hardy shook her head, “Nothing that jumps out. Although she hasn’t made a call since Sunday morning, which does seem unusual regarding her call patterns prior to that.”

  “That’s over two days, now,” Caslin mused, glancing at the clock, “What about two nights ago?”

  “Let me have a look,” Hardy said, bringing the call logs to the top of her clutch of papers and scanning down the entries. There weren’t many. “She was in York before heading out of town. The last time her phone showed movement on the network, it pinged off of a tower near Marton Abbey, before another, fifteen minutes later, placing her in Yearsley. After that, nothing at all.”

  “She was heading north. When was that?”

  “Early yesterday, in the direction of the Hambleton Hills. After that, who knows? There hasn’t been a connection since then. Either she’s passed out of coverage, which is very likely up there, or her phone’s run out of power. It might help if I knew what I was looking for, or even why I’m looking,” she added without malice.

  “Not sure,” was all Caslin added. Hardy stood silently as he thought about it. Looking back to her, he said, “Alright. Have a look into Callum Foley, would you? He’s a local priest.” Reading her quizzical expression, he smiled, “Just check him out. Don’t spend too long on it, though.”