The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3)

by J M Dalgliesh

  “I’m all ears,” Caslin replied.

  “Sir,” Terry Holt called out, to get his attention above the throng.

  “What is it, Terry?” Caslin asked, seeing Holt with a handset resting against his chest.

  “You’ve got a visitor, down in reception, Sir.”

  “Alright. Sarah,” he turned to Hunter, “bring the car around and I’ll meet you out front as soon as I can.”

  Descending the stairs with the specific intention of getting rid of whoever wanted him as quickly as was politely possible, Caslin entered reception. Linda was on the desk, as usual, and pointed out a smartly dressed man, seated on a bench near to the main entrance. Not often was Caslin lost for words but the face waiting to greet him had exactly that effect.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he eventually managed to say, being utterly thrown.

  “It’s been a long time, Nate,” the man grinned as they warmly embraced. Stepping back, standing at arm’s length, the newcomer took in his old friend. “I’d say the years have been good to you but…I’d be stretching the truth.” Caslin brushed the comment aside, choosing not to respond in kind. Disappointingly, he couldn’t say similar. The man before him was in far better shape. Standing slightly over six-feet in height and evidently taking care of himself physically, the imposing form of his old friend made Caslin feel a shadow of his former, youthful self. Aiden Reece still carried the charisma and gravitas that made him the man everyone wanted to know, if not, to be. His hair was close cut, jet-black, just as Caslin remembered and unlike his own, bore no hint of grey. He hadn’t changed a bit.

  “What are you doing here?” Caslin asked.

  “Business, Nate. I wish it was purely social but…” he glanced around them, “is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Sure, I have a few minutes. Let’s take a walk.”

  The two men headed out of reception and took a short walk around the front of the building. The hum of traffic noise beyond the perimeter wall, carried to them. York, in summer, was never quiet.

  “This is probably a daft question but are you still in the service?” Caslin asked. Aiden Reece, sparking a cigarette as they walked, exhaled as he answered.

  “It was still the force when we signed up,” Reece replied.

  “To some it always will be.”

  “Nearly ten years, now,” Reece stated, returning the lighter to his pocket. “I don’t miss the daily grind. I have to say.”

  “Daily grind, you?” Caslin laughed. “You specialised the moment we graduated from Hendon. They had you marked early on-”

  “They wanted fresh faces. The bright and the bold. Sadly, that wasn’t you,” Reece grinned. “Happy days, weren’t they?”

  “What are you up to now?”

  “Nothing as socially rewarding. Private sector. Company car, expense account. Less in the way of paperwork but requiring more justification,” he said with a slight hint of sarcasm. “Still, the responsibility is to a balance sheet, rather than society.”

  “Happier?”

  “I sleep better,” Reece said, this time his tone was serious. “How about you?”

  Caslin ignored the question, “So what business brings you to York?” Reece stopped, took a deep drawer on his cigarette and turned to face him. Caslin got a whiff of smoke on the breeze and it smelt sweet.

  “Chris Fairchild,” Reece stated evenly. Caslin failed to conceal his surprise.

  “What’s your interest?”

  “Fairchild managed accounts on behalf of my employers.”

  “KL Global contacted you?” Caslin asked, Reece nodded. “Who is it you work for, then?”

  “Renton Sands,” Reece replied, acknowledging this meant nothing to Caslin. He elaborated, “Security consultancy, for private enterprise. We specialise in mitigating industrial sabotage, corporate hacks, overseas personal-security and the like. That’s why I’m here, to see if we have cause to be concerned. Do we?”

  “Should you?” Caslin countered. “Any reason to think Fairchild’s demise is related to your firm?”

  “As I said, that’s why they sent me. It’s standard protocol. Think what it’d do to our reputation if we, of all companies, were compromised?”

  Caslin noted that was a reasonable concern, “Why you?”

  “Have to put my hands up there, Nate,” Reece said with a smile. “When I saw you were the investigating officer, how could I pass up the trip? I flew in this morning and came straight to see you.”

  “Our history isn’t going to curry favour with me, you know that? I won’t compromise the integrity of the investigation.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” Reece defended himself. “Once we know this has nothing to do with Renton, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Not too soon, I hope,” Caslin said warmly. “It’d be great to have a proper catch up. Where are you staying?”

  “A hotel, in the city centre.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to head out somewhere,” Caslin said, eyeing Hunter pulling up at the kerbside in front of the station entrance. “Do you need me to get you a ride into town?”

  “No, thanks. I have it covered. Meet tonight, for a drink?”

  Caslin nodded, “If I have the time. You know how it is.”

  Reece passed him a business card. “Call me later.”

  They said their farewells and Caslin walked back to the station entrance, indicating for Hunter to wait there for a minute. Taking the stairs, two at a time, back up to CID, he walked in and collared Terry Holt.

  “Check out a security company called Renton Sands, would you? They should show up on Fairchild’s client list.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Exactly what I want to know,” he replied, passing him Aiden Reece’s business card, before turning and heading back downstairs to the waiting Hunter.

  “Well, I agree that there is precious little detail in this image,” Dr Malcolm Lawton said. “What exactly do you want from me?” Caslin was happy to defer to Hunter. He wasn’t convinced and wouldn’t seek to explain the idea.

  “You study images of deep space, here at the university, don’t you?”

  Dr Lawton nodded, “Yes, we have several courses relating to astrophysics within the faculty.” They were meeting with the head of the Physics Department at the University of York, in order to explore Hunter’s suggestion.

  “I understand even the most powerful of telescopes, earth or space-based, present images that require sharpening. I was hoping your software-”

  “We don’t use a software package, per se, DS Hunter,” Dr Lawton interrupted her. “We take multiple images of the same section of space and then layer them on top of each other, one after another. In doing so, we can build up the detail and dampen the noise…the distortion, of what we see.”

  “Could you do this with the footage we have here?” Caslin asked, seeking to quell the excitement rising within. Dr Lawton returned his gaze to the frozen footage of the CCTV, on the monitor before him. He raised his eyebrows in a thoughtful expression.

  “An unusual request for me, Inspector. We can certainly try,” he replied. Hunter grinned but the professor moved to curb her enthusiasm, “If you can provide us with more footage from the same camera…and if the angle of view has not been altered in the footage, then…we will improve it. I make no promises-”

  “That’s good enough for us, Doctor,” Caslin said cheerfully. “How soon could we get a result?”

  “Presumably, this is of some importance?”

  “Significant, yes,” Caslin responded.

  “Well, it’s the end of the week and fortuitously for you, my plans for the weekend have been curtailed by a friend’s illness. Bring me more footage, today and if we begin straight away…,” Dr Lawton said, turning his focus to the screen, “it’s a painstaking process but you’ll have something usable the day after tomorrow.”

  “Thank you for giving up your weekend,” Hunter said, smiling.

  Dr Lawton glanced up at her, “N
o sacrifice, I assure you. I enjoy a challenge.”

  Chapter 9

  Holt rapped his knuckles on the door, alerting Caslin to his presence. He beckoned him in.

  “What have you got for me, Terry?”

  “I’ve been working through Fairchild’s accounts, personal and professional.”

  “Give me the headlines of his own first, please,” asked Caslin.

  “On the surface, a very successful man with all the trappings to go with it. Scratch below that and it’s another story.”

  “Debts?”

  Holt shook his head, “The opposite. Fairchild’s sitting on assets worth millions. He has property in Spain, Italy and on the Adriatic coast of Croatia. Not to mention funds registered offshore that I’m still trying to pin down, let alone gain access to.”

  “We knew they had two holiday homes, on the continent.”

  Holt shook his head, “More than that. We’re talking entire apartment blocks, high end, beach-front real estate.”

  “I didn’t get the impression the Fairchilds were that wealthy. Inheritance?”

  Holt shook his head, “No, we’re looking at the archetypal working-class kid, made good. His wife also comes from a middle-income family. Now, a degree of wealth is expected in his line of work but this…this is exceptional.”

  “What’s the correlation between earnings and assets?”

  Holt bobbed his head enthusiastically, “Off the chart, Sir. Regarding his work at KL, he represents the investments of some serious clientele. Every one of those funds he manages easily hits seven-figures, annually, and then some.”

  “I’m aware of that. Anyone particularly stand out for greater scrutiny?”

  Holt shook his head, “No-one who would have an axe to grind. Fairchild is good, all of his calls have seen uplifts far in excess of the trend. Not only that, he’s managed it every year since he joined the firm. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “English, Terry,” Caslin admonished him.

  “This guy is either borrowing Da Vinci’s time machine or…”

  “He’s onto a sure thing?” Caslin finished for him.

  “Exactly right. It’s a winning streak, the likes of which I’ve never seen before and I’ve seen some.”

  “Can we prove it?”

  Holt shook his head, “Not so far but I’ll keep digging. He’s covered himself extremely well. Too well, if you ask me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s getting help.”

  Caslin thought for a moment, “Let’s look at it another way, then. Which of his accounts benefit the most and who owns them? Then look at what they’re investing in. Putting a light on them might explain some of this.”

  “I’m going to need someone with real knowledge of financial-”

  “I’m working on it, Terry.”

  Further discussion was interrupted by Hunter’s arrival, “Sir, we’ve had a call from Thomas Lennon, at the Lord Percy. He says he’s had a break in.”

  Twenty minutes later they were met in the reception of the Lord Percy Inn, by a flustered owner. He was pacing the area, wringing his hands as he waited.

  “You’ve had a break in?” Hunter asked. “Where?”

  “Upstairs. Ms Marshall’s room.”

  Caslin was stunned, “But that’s on the top floor.”

  “I know. Come and see. I’ll show you,” Lennon stated, ushering them forward. The proprietor babbled details at them, as they made their way up three flights of stairs. “No-one has been up there since your investigators left, the other day. The top floor has its own fire door on the level below, at the base of the stairs and I locked it so no-one could get up there.”

  The scenes of crime officers had inventoried the room and carried out a full forensic sweep, before sealing it off. Lennon unlocked the fire door and Caslin indicated for him to wait there, while they proceeded up to the landing of the attic floor. The police tape was still secured across the access point to Coughlan’s room and only when they looked up, did they see what had Lennon so spooked. Natural light was provided from an aperture in the pitch of the roof. The skylight was closed but a draught carried through a missing section of glass. Barely a hand span in width, the hole was just big enough for someone to reach through and unhook the latch.

  “That’s been cut, not broken,” Caslin said softly before turning and calling down to Lennon. “Has anything been taken or moved, as far as you’re aware?”

  “Not from the landing or the other room. I thought I shouldn’t go into Ms Marshall’s.”

  “You were right,” Caslin said. “What made you come up here in the first place?”

  “I found some roof slates in the courtyard, this morning. I thought they must have come off in the wind last night. I checked the roofline with my binoculars and found the slates were missing near to the skylight. When I saw the glass had been cut, I thought to call you.”

  Caslin and Hunter moved forward and gently eased the bedroom door open, not expecting to find anyone but concerned not to damage any forensic trace of the uninvited guest. Glancing through, they saw nothing of note. Caslin looked to Hunter.

  “Better get Robertson back down here. I want another fingerprint sweep and the inventory retaken. We need to know what was touched, moved or is missing.”

  “What would he be looking for, do you think?”

  Caslin lowered his voice, as if concerned someone might overhear, “I should imagine the phone and notebook. We haven’t released it to the press that we found them. The key to Coughlan’s movements are in there, I’m certain. Crack that code and we’ll know what the hell is going on.”

  “Do you think we’ll get lucky with prints?”

  “Maybe. I figured our guy was already in the wind but he’s not. Looks quite the opposite, in fact. Imagine the bottle needed to break into a crime scene, after the event. This is a real positive, for us. He’s close,” Caslin said with confidence, “and we’re going to have him.” Hunter didn’t comment. If she had, she would’ve done so with less conviction. In her mind, they were chasing shadows.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs Fairchild,” Caslin said, sipping at the coffee he had just been passed. Nicola Fairchild, seated opposite in a floral-print dress, looked every inch a broken woman. Her face was lined with the script of sleep deprivation, her shoulders sagging under the burden of loss. They were visiting the home of the family friend, the Fairchild residence remained an active crime scene.

  “That’s okay, Inspector. Whatever I can do to help,” she replied, with a weak smile.

  “I have to ask you about your husband’s illness, the cancer.”

  “With that, I cannot help you,” she replied, her tone embittered by the recently acquired knowledge. “He kept that from me.”

  “Can you imagine a reason why he would have done so?” he asked. Nicola met his eye briefly before focusing beyond him, out of the window.

  “I’ve no idea,” she said calmly. “I’ve told myself it was to protect me…us…but it doesn’t make any sense. He had such little time left, why he wouldn’t share as much with us as he could, I don’t know.”

  “You mean his hours at work?” Hunter asked, offering her a cup of tea provided by their host. She declined.

  “We had enough money. We didn’t need more. I could have sold the house. The mortgage needn’t have been a burden. I don’t understand any of this.” Caslin observed her for a minute while drinking his coffee, struggling to decide whether she was withholding or not.

  “Are you aware of your husband’s overseas investments?”

  Nicola looked up, meeting his eye with a wary gaze, “We have an apartment in Spain and we were thinking of investing in Croatia, if that’s what you’re referring to?”

  Caslin flipped through his pocketbook, “Four apartments in Marbella, a house in Tuscany, two further apartments in Rome-”

  “No, you are mistaken,” she challenged him, shaking her head.

  “More property in southern Italy, Dubrovnik…”

/>   “No, no. You’ve made a mistake,” Nicola insisted.

  “Do you have knowledge of accounts registered overseas, in the British Virgin Islands, for example?” Caslin pressed, aware that she was a witness and not a suspect. Not yet, at least.

  Shaking her head in apparent confusion, she stammered, “I’m sorry…I don’t know…what are you telling me?”

  Caslin looked up from his notes, “Your husband was sitting on assets worth in excess of six-million pounds, Mrs Fairchild, over and above what you have detailed in your domestic accounts. You didn’t know?” Nicola Fairchild’s lips moved but no words were forthcoming. “We are trying to understand how this came about. So far, it doesn’t tally with your lifestyle as presented to us or to Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.”

  “I…I…don’t know what you want me to say…” she mumbled. Her friend came over and knelt alongside, taking her hand, reassuringly.

  “Perhaps we’ll leave it there, for the time being, Mrs Fairchild but if you remember anything else, please call.”

  She agreed and they excused themselves. Once back in the car, Hunter started the engine. Caslin looked up at the house as they moved off. The curtain, hanging in the front room, twitched as they accelerated away. Someone was watching their departure.

  “What do you make of that?” Hunter asked him, before answering her own question. “She seems genuine.”

  “I don’t doubt she’s lost in how everything ties in with Christopher’s death but…”

  “But?”

  “The perfect family, the perfect life,” Caslin mused openly, “and yet, six-million quid’s been hidden away for a rainy day and she doesn’t know anything. Nothing at all.”

  “You’re not buying it?” Hunter asked. “One hell of an actor, if that’s the case.”

  “Academy Award, if I’m rig-” he was cut off by his phone ringing. Caslin answered it.