“Or my lack of?” Caslin countered.
“We all encounter moments of struggle. It is how we face them, that demonstrates character. The door here is always open, no matter how long since your last visit.”
“Another time, Father. Another time.”
Caslin deposited a ten-pound note into the donation box, as he passed through the vestibule and emerged onto Duncombe Place. Turning the collar of his coat up, against the rain, he made the short walk before taking the left onto High Petergate. Hunter was waiting for him. He got into the passenger side of the car.
“Well?” she asked expectantly as he wiped the rain from his face.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was as pure as the driven snow.”
“You think he’s withholding?”
Caslin sucked air through his teeth, “Definitely. He genuinely seemed surprised Coughlan was dead but…”
“Did he offer us anything?”
“The sanctity of the confessional,” Caslin said, shaking his head. “Coughlan wanted information on him, we know that. She approached him under the Marshall pseudonym or at least, that was the name Foley referred to her by. I wasn’t going to drop her actual name unless I had to. It’s possible she came here under a pretence and Foley’s genuinely unaware of her interest in him.”
“We need to find out what she knew-”
“Or thought she knew,” Caslin added. That was their problem. They didn’t know very much at all.
“Could he have killed her?”
Caslin’s brow furrowed, “He’s in his seventies. She is fifty years his junior. Could he? Yes, it’s possible. Coughlan could’ve walked herself into that clearing. If she was already dead, then I’m not so sure. He’s not exactly an aging powerhouse.”
“A strange way to live your life, if you’re into torturing young women,” Hunter said denoting her scepticism. She had a point but that didn’t rule him out. “What do you want us to do about Foley?”
“Let’s try and dig up whatever Coughlan’s investigation uncovered. I also want to find out who Sylvia Marshall is. If Coughlan has travelled on the passport, then she’s real. She might know something. Check with the Border Force and see what name she entered the UK under. In the meantime, we’ll put someone on Foley. Kim Hardy can make a start.”
Hunter exhaled deeply, “With the Fairchild case, we’re thin on the ground, Sir.”
“Better have a word with the DCI about seconding someone from uniform, then.”
Hunter laughed, turning the key in the ignition. Caslin cast an eye back towards the church as they set off to Fulford Road, his boyhood memories returning in flashes. The Benedictine monks and how they attempted to shape their charges couldn’t seem less relevant to him now, than ever.
It was 9:30 a.m. on Thursday. Emily Coughlan had been dead for three days and he was no closer to understanding why.
“Terry,” Caslin called, entering CID, “give me something on Coughlan’s phone.”
“It’s down with tech and they’re working on it. We can’t bypass the security and the manufacturers are not playing ball.”
“How do you mean?” Caslin asked.
“Their arguing the case for privacy.”
“What privacy? Coughlan’s dead.”
“To help us crack the security would set a precedent.”
“Bloody hell. Have they any idea what…” Caslin let the thought drop away.
“They’ll keep pushing, Sir but they’re optimistic-”
“Optimism doesn’t solve murders. Tell them to get a move on.”
“I’ll chase them up, Sir. However, I do have this,” he said, pointing to his screen. “CCTV from the lobby of the Lord Percy.”
Caslin was intrigued, “That was fast.”
“Lennon’s worried about the business’ reputation. What with rapidly approaching the end of the summer season, he doesn’t want next year’s bookings to be hit by some kind of stigma. He’s falling over himself to be helpful.”
“What am I looking at?” Caslin said, coming to stand over Holt’s shoulder.
The camera angle was from an elevated position, behind the reception desk, located at the midway point of the building. The entrance from the street served the lounge bar and restaurant, to the left and right, respectively. The camera gave a shot of the hallway, in the foreground, through to the main entrance and beyond. Holt moved the pointer forward. The desk was unmanned and no one was present. Holt pressed play and a figure crossed the entrance, from left to right, slowing as he went by, before stopping. He wore a dark baseball cap, tee-shirt and jeans. Assessing him, Caslin put him in the age range of thirty to forty with an athletic build. The man glanced towards the interior of the bar but didn’t enter. Casually appearing to observe the surroundings, he loitered for a minute or so, before disappearing from view.
“Now, watch this, Sir,” Holt said, moving the footage on. Figures came and went. Judging by the time stamp, it was forty minutes later when Emily Coughlan walked into reception. Leaving her room key on the desk, she headed for the street, before hovering at the entrance.
“Looks like she’s waiting for something,” Caslin offered.
“Or someone,” Hunter added, appearing alongside.
“Funny you should say that,” Holt replied, pointing at the corner of the image. A man came into shot, at the doorway. The same man recorded earlier. The two seemingly faced off, roughly two metres separating them but the image was black and white, grainy and generally of poor quality.
“Are they talking?” Caslin said, frustration edging his tone.
“Can’t tell,” Hunter replied. The man stepped out of view again and within seconds, Coughlan left the building, walking in the same direction.
“They looked like they knew each other, to me,” Caslin stated. “It would make sense for her to hide her phone and notes, if she was meeting someone she didn’t trust. Otherwise she would have kept them with her. Her phone at the very least. Terry, any chance you can clean that up?”
Holt was noncommittal, “That’s going to be tough, Sir. Most CCTV systems worth their salt, these days, operate on a minimum of thirty frames per second. This one is only five. The problem I’m going to have is when I sharpen the image, all I’m going to do is amplify the distortion.”
“You mean it’ll get worse, not better?”
“Exactly,” Holt confirmed.
“What about other cameras?” Hunter asked.
“Already on it. The Lord Percy doesn’t have any others, unsurprisingly, seeing as this one is rubbish,” Holt stated as a matter of fact. “However, this is the Shambles. A lot of shops, pubs and restaurants. I reckon we could get some joy but it’ll take time to gather the footage.”
“Time, we do not have, Terry,” Caslin said. “Get on with it. That could be the only picture we have of our killer.”
“Hardy brought me up to speed on Father Foley, Sir,” Hunter said, as the two retreated to his office.
“What did she find out?”
“Not a great deal. He hasn’t come up in any investigation we are aware of. What he told you tallies with our records. He lived in Northern Ireland before being transferring to the Republic and then on to St Hilda’s, nine years ago.”
“Who arranged the transfer?”
“We’re not sure as yet, who initiated the move. However, it was arranged through the Diocese of Middlesbrough. I could chase them up tomorrow, although doing so might-”
“Tip our hand,” Caslin stated. “What about before, in Northern Ireland?”
“No mentions with the PSNI, Sir,” Hunter confirmed. Caslin slumped into his chair. Retrieving the evidence bag, containing Coughlan’s notepad from his desk drawer, he emptied it onto the table.
“To recap, all that we have is a mobile phone and these pages of code?” he thought aloud, flipping through the pad, as he had done several times already, that day. “I’m going back to Jimmy Sullivan. If he didn’t know what Coughlan was working on, maybe
he knows who she was working for?”
“What about Fairchild?” Hunter asked. “Broadfoot will want movement by the morning briefing.”
“Chase up the forensic accountants. We need them on board. They’re our best shot, seeing as Iain Robertson and his team have given us precious little to go on. Terry Holt is pretty good with tracking of finances. Get him on it until resources become available. How did we get on with door to door?”
“No one saw or heard anything, Sir. The entrances to those houses are some way up off the street, with little footfall on the path below. As you thought, the gunman used a suppressor. It’s looking more like a professional each time I assess it.”
“We only need a thread to pull on and it’ll all come apart,” Caslin said thoughtfully.
“Yes, Sir,” Hunter replied, leaving the room. Caslin refocused on the notepad.
“What were you up to, Ms Coughlan?” he asked himself quietly, gently scanning through the combinations. The coded notepad was proving troublesome. Forwarding a copy to the National Crime Agency, he was hopeful their cryptographers would come up with something but it was a shot in the dark. Even the simplest of codes, tying numbers to pages and letters, using a given novel as a key, were uncrackable without the key itself. It was simple Cold War practice but very effective.
The sequences were entered over a period of days, weeks or even months. Slight variations in the handwriting indicated entries on the move and changing ink colours, suggested different pens and therefore most likely, different times. Caslin theorised this was a journal of some kind, kept over a significant period, the code recording the passage of events, either destinations or meetings that took place during those times. The detail of what Coughlan was doing however, escaped him. Picking up his mobile, Caslin dialled Sullivan. The journalist answered on the third ring.
“Pint?” Caslin asked.
“Way ahead of you,” Sullivan replied.
Caslin found Sullivan in Lendal Cellars, absently dropping coins into a fruit machine. He took a full glass from a table alongside him, passing it to Caslin before they even greeted one another.
“And don’t give me any bull about being dry,” Sullivan muttered, as his latest play swallowed yet another pound, “I’ll not tell your sponsor.” Caslin ignored the remark, accepting the drink.
“Good health,” Caslin offered, taking a mouthful.
“Bollocks,” Sullivan said, abandoning the machine. “Let’s sit down.”
The journalist was steady on his feet but evidently, he had been going at it for a while. He brought two whisky chasers with him to the booth. Pushing one out to Caslin, he drained the other in a single, fluid motion, slamming the glass down once he’d done so.
“I would say to take it easy but I’m the last person to judge,” Caslin said quietly, following suit with his scotch. Placing the glass down, he gritted his teeth as the spirit bit through. It had been a while.
“They still piss-testing you?” Sullivan asked.
“Aye,” Caslin confirmed, “but not for the booze.”
“They’ve not sucked all the life out of you, then?”
Caslin smiled, “I need to know who Emily was working for, Jimmy.”
“No luck there, Nate. She was strictly freelance, on this one,” Sullivan stated.
Caslin thought on it, “I need something to go on. You’ve been asking around?”
“Yeah. I’ve been digging in the old country,” he said, referencing his roots. “Emily was rattling some cages, over there. Tenacious, that one. Just like Bernadette, her mother.”
“Her mother?”
“She was a union rep,” Sullivan said. “Died some years ago, car crash, on her morning commute to the factory.”
“So, whose particular cage was Emily rattling?”
“I’m still working on that. Although, the word is, she was making contacts with those in and around the Provos,” Sullivan said. “Worrying really, with it being a little off her usual patch.”
“The Provos,” Caslin was taken aback. “The Provisional IRA? What business could she have with them?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Let’s face it, the list of things she could’ve been writing a story about go on and on. Historic terrorism isn’t really her thing, though, you know? Street level drug-dealing or bribing local officials is probably closer to it.”
“Doesn’t explain what brought her to York.”
“No, it certainly doesn’t.”
“Can you narrow it down?”
Sullivan scoffed, “You’re the policeman.”
“They’re far more likely to talk to you, than me,” Caslin countered.
“On that, you have a point. Leave it with me,” Sullivan replied, draining the remainder of his pint and pushing the glass across to the centre of the table and pointing at it. “Your round.”
Chapter 8
“The burns were antemortem, without doubt,” Dr Taylor stated.
“She was alive when she was set on fire. You’re certain?” Caslin sought confirmation.
“The presence of smoke particles in her lungs, along with the high concentration of carbon monoxide in her blood confirm it. Whether she was conscious or not, I can’t say. However,” Dr Taylor ushered him around to the other side of the mortuary slab, tilting the overhanging light to aid the inspection, “see this bruise covering the base of the lower skull and upper neck?”
Caslin looked, “Untouched by the flames.”
Dr Taylor nodded her agreement, “Judging by the colouration, it had time to manifest itself before death.”
“How much time?”
“Two to three hours,” she confirmed. “It isn’t an exact science, more of a considered opinion. The blow would have been enough to render her unconscious.”
“The fingers?” Caslin asked, looking towards her extremities, still coiled like a pugilist.
“Forced extraction, is still my best guess,” she said flatly. “If the nails had been surgically removed for a given reason, the nail matrix would have remained but I see no evidence of that. Likewise, if the damage was present longer, I’d anticipate the formation of a pterygium, or wing of tissue, growing over the proximal nail fold. Although I concede, it would be harder to spot, due to the extent of the damage to the surrounding tissue. I don’t see one.”
“Anything else?”
“Her left knee-cap was broken. Caused by the impact of a blunt object rather than heat fractures. The damage is substantial.”
“Could she have walked into that clearing?”
“That depends on when the break occurred. Prior to going there, no. At least, not without assistance,” Dr Taylor assured him. Caslin pictured the scene in his mind’s eye, recoiling from it. Emily Coughlan’s last moments in this world were filled with immense pain and suffering. “She was tortured to death, Nate.”
Caslin looked up at her, “Yes. I know.”
“It takes a person with a particular psychology to do this kind of thing. Devoid of empathy, a sociopathic tendency and above all, determination.”
“Determination?” Caslin asked.
“None of this was quick, Nate,” she explained. “Extracting fingernails alone, is relatively time consuming. The level of commitment required to carry this out, shouldn’t be underestimated.”
“Perhaps he enjoyed it?”
“Always a possibility but think of the location, quiet, out of the way. The killer knew it would take a while, make a lot of noise and ultimately, needed the seclusion afforded him by the woods. I might also suggest the method of execution was as much to terrify as it was to consume evidence.”
“You think this was more borne out of pragmatism than entertainment?”
Dr Taylor nodded, “The lack of any indications towards sexual assault push me that way. Motivating factors are often rooted in power, as you know. The physical and mental domination of another fit this scenario but there’s more to it. That this happened where it did, the fact the petrol was
brought with them. This wasn’t spontaneous, it was well planned. He knew what he was doing.”
“A professional?”
“Very much so,” she confirmed. “Regarding inspiration or motivation, we’ll not only look at a killer’s actions but also consider what was done that they didn’t need to do. In this case, being doused in petrol is likely to be of equal encouragement to the actual, physical torture.”
“Brutality will only get you so far?”
“Exactly. The fear of burning alive would be motivation in itself.”
“You believe setting fire to her wasn’t necessary?” Caslin asked.
“Possibly not. After all, there are far easier, cleaner and…quieter ways of murdering someone. I don’t think this should be seen as a message to others, either.”
“Because the location was so isolated?” Caslin clarified.
“Yes. If he wanted to terrify others or announce his presence to the world, the choice of location would’ve been far more public. I see the petrol as a means to an end rather than the end itself.”
“A good way to hamper identification, though,” Caslin countered.
Dr Taylor inclined her head in agreement, “I can’t argue with that. However, she’s a foreign national. Were it not for your tip, we would’ve struggled in any event.”
“Without the tip, she may have been unknown forever. The killer most likely knew her or at least, of her,” Caslin said, acknowledging her thought process. “However, there will always be a trail that links the two of them. The time it takes to uncover it, puts more distance between him and her. Each and every person in between, becomes a suspect before he does. The most pressing question for me is, did he get what he was after from her?”
Caslin made his way back to the car, deep in thought. The prospect of having two killers executing contracts simultaneously, in York was troubling. The notion was statistically unlikely and nor was it corroborated by any of the evidence at hand. If both Iain Robertson and Dr Taylor were right however, then he had a far larger problem.
“We’ve drawn the best image we could from the CCTV at the Lord Percy but it’s not going to help us, Sir,” Hunter said, cutting a frustrated figure, back in the squad room of Fulford Road. “The quality is poor. A white man, most likely under fifty, in a baseball cap is about it. However, I’ve got an idea but we’ll have to go over to see someone at York University.”
The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3) Page 6