“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon,” Caslin said, noting the clock passing 9 p.m. as he spoke.
“No, I’ve not really started yet,” she said, “but I thought you’d want to know.”
“What have you found?”
“Iain Robertson gave me a heads up on his thoughts but he hadn’t mentioned the fingernails.”
“Go on.”
“In an enclosed space, with intense heat and prolonged exposure, they’d be consumed along with the rest of the body. Fingernails are basically keratin, the same as your hair, although obviously, thicker. In this instance, the outcome of the fire would cause dehydration and render them crispy but nevertheless, intact.”
“Your point?”
“They’re missing,” Dr Taylor replied. “The soft tissue of the extremities is badly damaged so I can’t be sure when this occurred-”
“I’m presuming you’re willing to hazard an educated guess?”
“Based on what’s been done to her, conceivably we’re looking at signs of torture. I’ll be able to confirm it once I’m done here.”
“You’re staying on tonight?”
“You asked for a swift turnaround.”
“Thanks, Alison,” Caslin said. “Listen…about earlier-”
“Got to go. Busy,” she said, hanging up. Caslin swore under his breath. Returning to the squad room, he processed what the pathologist had told him. If she was right, they were in a race against time. Whatever information the killer was trying to elicit from her, the chances were, he was already acting upon it.
“I have a hit, Sir,” Holt shouted. “A woman matching Coughlan’s description checked in on Friday, left the hotel Sunday afternoon and hasn’t returned.”
“Let’s get over there, Terry.”
The Lord Percy Inn was largely a pub and restaurant affair, with letting rooms above. Set within the Shambles, at the heart of York’s medieval quarter, it was a mere stone’s throw from both the Minster and Caslin’s apartment in Kleiser’s Court. They were met at reception by the owner, Thomas Lennon, who was keen to understand how the police had been brought to his door. Ushering them out of earshot of the guest lounge, he took them past reception towards the inner lobby.
“How sure are you this is your guest?” Caslin asked.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure, despite her registering under a different name than the one you enquired about.”
“What name did she give?”
“Sylvia Marshall,” Lennon confirmed.
“Did you see identification?”
“Absolutely, it’s policy. She had a passport.”
“Did you take a copy?”
“No, I didn’t think that was required.”
“But it was definitely her, in the photo, I mean?” Caslin pressed.
Lennon nodded, “I believe so, yes. Interesting young lady, from Northern Ireland, I understand.”
“She talked to you about her home?” Holt asked.
Lennon shook his head, “No. It said so on her passport. She made quite an impression on us, I must say.”
“How so?”
“Don’t get me wrong, she was polite enough but not particularly communicative. Most of our guests pick our brains about where to eat, what to see and do during their visit but not her. Fussy, too.”
“Fussy?” Holt asked.
“Yes, fussy. She was only here for a night, before requesting a room change.”
“Unusual?” Caslin asked.
“No, not in itself but to ask the following night to move again, was a little frustrating. Bear in mind we only have six guest rooms and you’ll understand the inconvenience.”
“What reasons did she give?” Caslin asked.
“The first time, she said she didn’t want to be at the front of the building, too noisy. She didn’t offer a reason for the second and I must admit, I didn’t ask. As I say, she was a nice girl so you make allowances, don’t you?”
“Can we see her room?”
Lennon took them up two flights of stairs, into the eaves of the building. There were two rooms located there and he led them to the one on the left. Taking out a set of keys, Caslin held up his hand. “If you don’t mind?” he asked.
“Not at all,” the man said, passing Caslin the set.
“You haven’t gone for a modern, keyless system?”
“Our guests stay here for the period authenticity,” he said, before adding, “provided they have an en-suite.” Caslin glanced to Holt, who frowned. They were nowhere with the key-card.
“And no-one has been in here, since she left?” Holt asked.
“No. She was quite insistent that she didn’t want housekeeping, unless requested.”
“Did that strike you as odd?” Caslin asked.
Lennon shrugged, “Believe me, some of the requests we get are bizarre. That wasn’t odd at all.”
Caslin asked him to step away as he unlocked the room. Donning a pair of latex gloves, Caslin eased the door open. Holt entered first, flicking on the switch to the main light. The room was high in quality but low on space. Scanning the room, there was a double bed, desk and chair, set alongside a large wardrobe. Upon inspection, they found the latter still had clothes hanging within. The bedding was dishevelled with a hairdryer lying atop the sheets. Caslin pushed open the bathroom door, pulling the cord and turning on the light. The extractor fan started up, whirring in the background as Caslin scanned the interior. Toiletries were spread around and the overall impression left was that of a young woman, preparing herself for the day ahead.
“Anything?” Caslin asked, returning to the bedroom and sliding the desk drawer out, revealing a handful of tourist information guides.
Holt shook his head, “I’ve got nothing. No sign of a phone or laptop, not even a paper pad.”
“It looks like she was expecting to return,” Caslin said, casting an eye around at her belongings. “She was tortured for something.” He was disappointed.
“Maybe it was for something she knew, rather than something she had?” suggested Holt.
Perching himself on the end of the bed, Caslin folded his arms and tried to imagine where he might put something that he didn’t want others to find. All the while he tried to avoid the thought that either Holt was right or they were too late and the killer had already sanitised the room. Glancing to his left, back out onto the landing, Thomas Lennon waited patiently. He was itching to know what was going on. Caslin’s focus moved beyond the proprietor, to an occasional table, opposite the stairs.
“Mr Lennon,” he called, “is that a router?”
Lennon glanced behind him, “No. It’s a booster. It’s connected to the router on the floor below. We find the signal weakens too much due to the thickness of the walls. The rooms on the higher floors require their own connection.”
“Terry, do you-”
“Leave it with me,” Holt interrupted him as he reached the same conclusion.
Twenty minutes later, Holt returned with a tablet in hand. He was smiling and Caslin assumed the idea had borne fruit.
“There are two devices connected to this router, at the moment, Sir. We’ve managed to eliminate the other guest rooms. Only two are occupied and they are connected via a separate connection, on the ground floor,” Holt explained. “Take away Mr Lennon’s computer and we have another that’s unaccounted for. It’s reasonable to assume it’s here, in this room.”
“Let’s find it,” Caslin said, beginning the search all over again. Only this time, they weren’t looking for the obvious. Holt closely examined the furniture, looking for loose panels or concealed spaces that could contain something small, a phone or tablet. He then moved to the carpets, checking to see if they had been lifted, giving access to the floorboards beneath.
Caslin disconnected the side panel, to the bath. Illuminating the underside with a torch, he saw nothing. The floorboards here, were exposed but securely fixed in place. Looking around, he noted the ceilings and walls were enclosed, giving no
access to a loft space or the eaves. Kneeling on the tiled floor, he sought inspiration. Holt appeared from the bedroom, an air of resignation shrouding him.
“Nothing,” he said flatly. Caslin sighed, leaning his shoulder against the wall. In his eyeline was the bathroom extractor fan. He stood up and crossed the room. Eyeing it suspiciously, he calculated it was barely fifteen centimetres in width. The extraction tube beyond, to vent moisture outside, would be even less than that.
Drawing the shower curtain away from the bathtub, Caslin stepped in, observed by the watchful DC. Indicating for Holt to turn off the light, thereby cutting power to the extractor as they were on the same circuit, Caslin took out his pocket torch. Passing it over to Holt, the beam was concentrated on the extractor as they stood in the darkness. Caslin felt around the wall unit and realised it wasn’t fixed to the wall. Easing the casing off, Caslin pulled the fan out as far as the power cable would allow. Holding the sealed unit in one hand and blindly reached into the ventilation tube, with the other, his eyes lit up as his fingers curled around a small block of tightly-wrapped plastic. Retrieving the package, sealed with tape, Caslin passed it down to Holt before replacing the extractor unit and stepping from the bath.
Returning to the light of the bedroom, Holt sliced through the tape with a pocketknife and unfurled what turned out to be an airtight, zip-up plastic bag.
“She’s got a second mobile,” he said, taking out a smartphone and showing it to Caslin.
“I wonder why she felt the need to,” Caslin said aloud. Holt glanced at him.
“The other wasn’t registered. Perhaps she decided to use a burner, whilst in the UK?”
Caslin appeared thoughtful, “Only reason to do that is if you’re concerned about someone tracking you.” Holt examined the remaining contents of the bag, pulling out a small notebook and offering a wry smile.
“Modern tech alongside old school,” he said, passing it to Caslin. The latter could barely contain his enthusiasm as he leafed through the pages of content contained within. The optimism however, quickly faded. The notes appeared to be written in some manner of code. Flicking through to the final entry, he read the last line in the series aloud.
“M22-24D, M24DM, M25Y RF,” he said, glancing over and acknowledging Holt’s blank expression.
“What on earth does all that mean?”
“I’ve no idea but there are pages of similar entries. It has to mean something,” Caslin said softly, scanning back through the pad. “Any joy with the phone?”
“Password protected, Sir,” Holt confirmed, having brought it out of hibernation.
“Can you crack it?” Caslin asked expectantly.
“Anything can be cracked, Sir,” Holt replied, with a grin. “Well, almost anything. It’ll depend on the level of encryption and even once we’re in, if she uses encryption software for her communications, we could be stuffed.”
“That’s positive thinking, Terry.”
“I need to get it back to Fulford Road.”
Chapter 7
Eyeing a break in the traffic, Caslin trotted across the road, raising a hand in appreciation to the one driver slowing in order to avoid him. Rain was falling, this morning. A marked contrast to the previous few days. Taking refuge in the vestibule of the Gothic Revival inspired, St Hilda’s Catholic Church. Caslin shook his sodden coat free of water.
“Quite the morning, isn’t it?” a voice spoke to him, echoing in the vast space of the nave. Caslin turned to look through the open door, to see who was addressing him. His eyes fell on an approaching priest, greeting him with a smile.
“It is that,” he replied. “I’m looking for Father Foley. Is he around?”
“I certainly am,” the priest replied, encouraging him to enter. “As you can see, the rain is keeping the visitors at bay. How may I help you?”
Caslin withdrew his warrant card, “DI Caslin, from Fulford Road. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all, Inspector. Whatever can I do for you?” he said, inclining his head and with an open palm, encouraged Caslin to accompany him.
“Just routine, Father,” Caslin replied, as the two men walked into the nave. The church was almost empty, two figures stood within the eastern transept were the only others present. Upon reaching the crossover, the priest suggested they take a pew. Sitting down, Caslin glanced into the chancel. Open mouthed, he admired the majesty of the painted depictions of Christ, hanging beyond the altar.
“It has been some time, since you revisited your faith, is it not?” Father Foley asked.
Caslin broke his gaze, offering the priest a wry smile, “Is it that obvious?”
“I have served my faith for nearly four decades, Inspector. Experience teaches you much in life. How to read others is one of those skills, paramount to my role. May I ask, why have you lapsed?”
Caslin’s smile broadened as he shook his head, looking away, “I left school a long time ago. Probably a conversation for another day, Father,” Caslin said, shifting the focus of his thoughts to the reason he was there. “I would like to ask you about some visitors you may have had. It would’ve been last week, maybe Thursday or Friday. Young ladies, perhaps only one.”
Father Foley’s expression didn’t change in the least, “I may need a little more than that, Inspector,” he said with a smile.
“Of course,” Caslin accepted. “In her twenties. A compatriot of yours, I understand you are originally from Northern Ireland, is that right?”
“I am, yes. Although, I’ve not lived there for many years. I used to live in the Republic more recently, County Kerry, prior to moving here. Now, who was it you are enquiring after?”
“Her name was Sylvia-”
“Marshall,” Foley finished for him. “Yes, I remember her. It was last Thursday evening, I believe.”
“You’re sure?”
“I recall the weather was far better than it is today,” he pointed towards the water dripping from Caslin’s coat, onto the pew.
“She came to see you?”
Foley shook his head, “No, no, not that I am aware. She was seated not far from us now, very much lost in thought. I spoke with her, she appeared somewhat troubled.”
Caslin was intrigued, “Regarding what?”
“I am sure a good Catholic boy, such as yourself, can understand I cannot break the covenant of the confessional, Inspector.”
“Is that why she was here, to take confession?”
“It is not unusual for someone, far from their home, to seek the familial comfort that our church provides,” Foley said, bringing himself upright. “Anyone travelling, tourists or businessmen alike, can experience loneliness.” Caslin gazed across towards the altar, his eyes travelling up, past the ornately carved stone of the windows and on towards the vaulted ceiling, far above. The architecture was truly stunning. It was often argued locally, that from distance and a certain direction of approach, the tower of St Hilda’s appeared to eclipse even York Minster, in its grandeur.
“Would the fact that she is dead, change your stance at all?” Caslin asked, lowering his eyes, back to the priest. The revelation appeared to throw him, if only for a moment. If Foley was aware of her death, he buried it well.
“That is dispiriting to hear,” Foley said. “What has taken one so young, from us?”
“Murder. In the most horrendous manner imaginable,” Caslin said quietly, leaving the words hanging, without offering more detail.
“There is great evil in this world, Inspector, and far fewer choosing to take up the fight, every day.”
“Some of us might disagree with that statement. You believe in the inherent good of mankind, surely?” Caslin countered.
“I do, very much,” Foley agreed. “And far be it from me to pour scorn on your profession, Inspector. However, I see God’s work is far from complete. We are routinely tested and, I fear, often we fail those tests. Sometimes I consider that may be part of the plan. As a society, we are be
coming obsessed with the accumulation of material goods and losing sight of what is truly important.”
“I can’t disagree with you there. What can you tell me about Sylvia?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid. We had a discussion around faith. Much like you, her faith had slipped in recent years. Apparently, events were conspiring to make her re-evaluate this.”
“Events?” Caslin asked.
“Regrettably, I can say no more, Inspector.”
“You’ll appreciate that she is dead. Murdered.”
“I do,” Foley said apologetically, lowering his head, “and that changes nothing. All that we discussed will remain between the two of us and our Heavenly Father. Thinking on it, though, I can see no relevance to what she told me.”
“With respect, Father. I’m the detective. Perhaps the supposition is best left to me?” Foley acknowledged the point with an apologetic flick of the hand. Caslin continued, “It is our understanding she came here specifically, in order to speak with you.”
“So, you say. If true, that certainly comes as news to me, Inspector,” Foley frowned. “She was here. She took confession and left. Although, thinking on it, she did receive a telephone call as we were bidding farewell.”
“Do you know who from?”
Foley shook his head, “No, I’m afraid not. She appeared agitated, though. That was very clear. Perhaps this information is of some use to you?” Caslin took one of his contact cards from his wallet, passing it across to the priest, who accepted it graciously. “What about the other one?”
Caslin looked at him, “The other one?”
“Yes, you mentioned there may have been more than one visitor. Who was the other one?”
Caslin shook his head, “I was merely being thorough. Sylvia was the one we knew had been to visit you. She came alone?”
“She did,” Foley confirmed.
“Just in case anything comes to mind, that I might be interested in. You can reach me on that number,” Caslin said, standing up.
“I still have half-an-hour before I lock up, Inspector. You and I could always discuss your faith-”
The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3) Page 5