The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3)

by J M Dalgliesh

  “All that will come out in your investigation, Nathaniel. I am sure of that. In the meantime, I suggest you get a photo line-up including Heinrich Schmidt over to Mrs Fairchild and see if she can pick out her husband’s killer. Then, at least, you can be satisfied you do indeed, have your man.”

  “Why would someone, who died eight years ago, travel to the UK to randomly kill a financier and a journalist who, coincidentally, happened to arrive in the country around the same time?”

  “All questions for you to answer, in due course,” Broadfoot said, meeting Caslin’s gaze but not sharing the incredulity. “I’ll also need you to begin scaling back the investigation team. Beginning with your surveillance of the Catholic priest.”

  “What?” Caslin said forcefully. Too forcefully.

  “Your suspect is dead.”

  “In suspicious circumstances-”

  “Not according to Iain Robertson. His reading of the crime scene is that Schmidt’s death was accidental. He slipped and fell, knocking himself unconscious along the way. The bulk of his frame blocked the drain and he drowned.”

  “Well that’s bloody news to me,” Caslin said, rising from his chair.

  Broadfoot remained in his seat, “I had Iain report his findings directly to me.”

  “Is there something in the manner I’m handling this inquiry that you don’t like, Sir?”

  “I back you, Nathaniel, because you are damn good at what you do. I wouldn’t have boosted you to Acting DCI, if I didn’t have faith in you.”

  “However…”

  “It doesn’t matter how good you are or what you’ve achieved for me, in the past. We all answer to somebody and you know as well as I do, you receive more scrutiny than most. When you graduate from skipping out early, from your sessions, to blatantly failing to show up, questions get asked.”

  “Is this what it’s all about? I miss a session with my head doctor-”

  “Your position here depends on boxes being ticked. It might not be how you, or I for that matter, like it but it’s a fact. Without me, you’d have been gone some time ago. Get your head straight and get on with the game.”

  “Is that what it is to you, a game?”

  “A figure of speech, Nathaniel. Speak to Nicola Fairchild and get this squared away. With a fair wind, you’ll be able to sign off, barring all the loose ends you’ve mentioned. Having done all that, rearrange your session and make sure you attend,” Broadfoot said, standing up and heading for the door. “Another thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Why did you request access to the file of Aiden Reece?”

  Caslin was momentarily thrown but he hid it well, “His name came up, in an inquiry, Sir. Why do you ask?”

  “As I’m sure you found out, Reece’s file is restricted and your request was flagged. What’s your interest?”

  Caslin shrugged, a dismissive gesture, “It was passing. Entirely unrelated, as it turns out.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Why was the file restricted, Sir?”

  Broadfoot hesitated but only for a moment, “It’s beyond me, Nathaniel. Just thought I’d ask.”

  “Fair enough,” Caslin said, keeping a poker face.

  Broadfoot levelled a gaze at him, lingering in silence for a few seconds, “I will expect you to provide me with something for a press conference, by the close of play, today.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Caslin said, almost defiantly. Broadfoot turned and left.

  Hunter entered Caslin’s office, glancing over her shoulder at the departing DCS, noting that he was seething.

  “What was all that about?”

  Caslin rubbed at his face with both hands, drawing them away slowly, across his cheeks. “We’re done here, or he wants to believe so, anyway. Told me to pull the surveillance on Foley.”

  “But Sir, we don’t know what-” she stopped as he raised a hand.

  “I know,” Caslin agreed. “Apparently, Iain Robertson sees Schmidt’s demise as an accident.”

  “Since when?” Holt asked, joining the conversation as he entered.

  “Since he spoke to the Chief Superintendent. I’ll call him in a bit and get the full story.”

  “The bedlinen?” Holt persisted.

  “It’s on my list of questions, don’t worry. For now, I’ll have to pull the detail on Foley,” Caslin said. Hunter was about to object further but Holt, placing a hand on her forearm, halted her protest.

  “Speaking of which, I’ve come up against something more than a little intriguing,” Holt said. “What with finding that cutting about Fairchild in Schmidt’s room, you asked me to cross reference the two cases.”

  “In case we missed something, yes. Did we?” Caslin asked.

  “No, is the short answer but I did find this,” he stepped forward, passing Caslin a list of telephone numbers, alongside dates and call lengths.

  “What am I looking at here, Terry?” Caslin asked.

  “That’s a list of entries in the Fairchild’s telephone logs. Hunter has already crossed off the mundane calls to known friends, business calls and the like but it’s that one number, I marked there.” Caslin looked. There were three entries struck through with a blue highlighter.

  “And?”

  “It’s to a local church, Sir,” Holt stated as if it was the most obvious comment he could possibly make.

  “I know that,” Hunter said, sounding confused. “The Fairchilds are a religious family. It’s no secret.”

  “Quite so. Most of the calls into and out of their residence were to members of their congregation.”

  “And that one is to a church-”

  “Yes. A Catholic church,” Holt said, grinning. “The Fairchild’s were Anglicans, right?” he looked at Hunter first and then Caslin. “Why would they be calling a Catholic church?”

  “I don’t know, Terry,” Caslin said. “Not quite the breakthrough I was look-”

  “It’s Callum Foley’s church, Sir,” Holt clarified, excited at his find. Caslin sat back in his chair, rereading the list in front of him and passing it to Hunter. She also pored over the detail.

  “I can’t believe I missed that,” she said apologetically.

  “Now, we don’t know that it was Christopher Fairchild who called nor whether it was Foley he spoke to,” Holt explained his thinking, “but there’s a link for you.”

  “Let’s keep this between us, for the time being,” Caslin said thoughtfully. “I don’t want to pull the surveillance on Foley but I can’t see the record of a few phone calls turning Broadfoot’s head. We need more. The problem is, our leads have a habit of dying out before we get to them. There’ll be a delay on Schmidt’s post-mortem. Alison Taylor will be away for a time and they’re bringing someone else in. That gives us a couple of days to find a justification to keep this case fluid. You and I,” he indicated Hunter, “are going to see if Nicola Fairchild can identify Schmidt as her husband’s assassin. In the meantime, Terry, chase up the forensic accountants-”

  “The specialists have already been pulled, Sir,” Holt said. “I took a call just before I came back in.”

  Caslin wasn’t surprised, “In that case, find me something in Fairchild’s accounts that can keep us active. I don’t want his file being passed over to the Fraud Squad or whoever else fancies benefitting from our hard graft.”

  “What happens if Schmidt did kill Fairchild?” Holt asked.

  “Then Broadfoot has something to throw at the media during this evening’s press conference and we are right up against it. Did we get anywhere with the access card, the one that Coughlan had on her when she died?”

  Hunter shook her head, “Tech told me that they can’t trace it. It’s a generic type of card. Hotels usually have their data digitally stamped on them but this one has nothing, merely a serial number and another that could be a personal identifier. However, nothing that will tie it to a particular person, business or building.”

  “Alright. Maybe we can match it to somewhere that comes up i
n the course of the investigation. Put together a photo line-up and I’ll give the widow Fairchild a call, set up a meeting.”

  “That’s a bit callous, Sir,” Hunter said.

  Caslin shrugged, “She’s withholding. I’m almost certain and I don’t have the time for it. Not now.”

  Chapter 13

  Nicola Fairchild’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. The seconds developed into minutes as she stared at the photographic collage before her. Caslin waited in silence, allowing as much time as necessary for her to implicate her husband’s killer. When confident enough time had passed, he pressed.

  “It’s okay if you don’t recognise the m-”

  “That one,” she pointed to the third from the right.

  Caslin looked down at it and then back to her, “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely,” she said emphatically. “That’s the one.”

  “Have you seen him before the night he called on you and your husband?” Hunter asked. Nicola Fairchild shook her head, finally breaking off her gaze at Heinrich Schmidt’s photograph. “Not in passing, in the street or supermarket, perhaps?”

  “No. I said I hadn’t,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Fairchild. I had to ask.”

  “Why?” she switched her focus to Hunter.

  “We initially believed that this man was a professional but as yet, we haven’t found a connection to Christopher, you, or your family. In many cases, the victim knows their assailant, either well or in passing.”

  “I do not know this man,” she repeated, tapping his picture to emphasise the point. “You said was. What does that mean?”

  “He was found dead, this morning,” Caslin stated. Nicola gasped.

  “How?”

  “We’re unsure. At this point, it is becoming difficult to ascertain a motive for his actions.”

  She paused, before looking at Caslin, “Who was he?”

  “A German national, by the name of Heinrich Schmidt. Does that name sound familiar? Perhaps Christopher mentioned him.”

  “No, I would remember, if that was the case.”

  “There is another matter we are trying to resolve,” Hunter said, changing tack. “Your faith. As a family, did you share it?”

  “Yes, of course,” Nicola said, her eyes flitting between Hunter and her friend. “We are all part of the congregation.”

  “You are Anglican, is that right?” Caslin asked, she nodded. “Can you think of any reason your husband would have, to be contacting a Catholic priest?” Nicola looked up in astonishment, open-mouthed.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Were his family Catholic, his parents, siblings?”

  She shook her head, “Christopher’s parents weren’t in the least bit religious and he was an only child. Why do you ask?”

  “We were going through your telephone records and there were a number of calls made recently to a local Catholic church.”

  Nicola shook her head, “I don’t know. Maybe someone borrowed his phone-”

  “The calls came from your home, Mrs Fairchild. The last was on Tuesday evening, around 9 o’clock,” Hunter offered.

  Nicola was taken aback, “I was out, last Tuesday. In fact, every Tuesday. It is the night of my ceramics class. Christopher didn’t mention it, though. Maybe he dialled the wrong number.”

  “Perhaps,” Caslin said, nodding and pursing his lips, “although, in my experience, calls placed to a wrong number don’t last for a duration of six minutes and are seldom repeated on different occasions.”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” she said, “I can’t help you. Is it relevant? A phone call to a church? Please tell me your investigation doesn’t hang on this.”

  Caslin shrugged, “Anything that seems unusual, out of character or routine, needs to be investigated. We’re being thorough, that’s all. What about the names Emily Coughlan or Sylvia Marshall, do they sound familiar?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Who are they?”

  “Names that have come up in our inquiries, that may or may not be related to the case.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve not heard of either of these people.”

  Caslin locked eyes with her for a brief moment before, accepting he wouldn’t be learning any more from her. Smiling gently, he closed off the conversation.

  “Okay, thank you for your time. If you recall any detail about this man, anything at all, please let us know,” Caslin said. “We will be making a statement to the press later on, this evening. I should imagine he will be named in connection with your husband’s death. We will ask the journalists to respect your privacy-”

  “Thank you, Inspector. You have been very kind.”

  “Did you notice that she couldn’t take her eyes off of his picture?” Hunter asked, as they made their way out to the car.

  “Yes. She clocked him straight away but didn’t say so.”

  “Nervous?”

  “Or she was surprised to see him.”

  “Picked up on your use of the past tense, though.”

  “Aye, she did. She’s either very sharp or the news didn’t faze her at all,” Caslin said, glancing back towards the house.

  “Do you still think she knows more than she’s letting on?”

  Caslin sighed, “If Christopher was as secretive about his work as she implies, then perhaps she didn’t know the details. Maybe wilful ignorance is bliss?”

  “She chose not to see what was going on?”

  Caslin nodded, “Perhaps.”

  “Where to now, back to Fulford Road?”

  “Not for me. Drop me off at Alison’s office. I want to try and catch her before she heads off.

  It was pushing half-past four, by the time they pulled up. Alison Taylor was already at her car, placing a briefcase and another bag in the boot, as Caslin called out to her. Bidding farewell to Hunter, she drove away and he covered the short distance across the car park to the waiting pathologist. Her raincoat was slung over her forearm and she placed that onto the passenger seat, along with her ID badge having removed it from around her neck.

  “You’d better make it fast, whatever it is, Nate. It’s been a terrible Monday and I’ve got one hell of a drive ahead of me.”

  “Where are you going in such a rush?” he asked, coming alongside her and catching his breath.

  “You’re out of shape,” she said with a smile.

  “Never been fitter,” he replied, knowing it to be false.

  “They want me to oversee operations, down in Torquay.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They’ve had a few procedural issues, recently,” she said with resignation. “The Home Office have asked for a senior pathologist to review their work practices.”

  “Short notice,” Caslin said, thinking aloud. “I mean, no disrespect, but it’s not like lives are at risk in your field of work. Why the sense of urgency?”

  Alison slammed the passenger door shut, “You’re right. It’s not like I have enough work to do here as it is, without having to dash across the country to carry out a job that any number of others can do.”

  “Why did they want you?” Caslin asked, immediately realising the unintended insinuation contained within it.

  “Who knows, Nate,” she said, an edge to her tone. “Maybe someone values my skills and thinks I’d be rather good at it.”

  Caslin checked himself, “I wasn’t implying otherwise. Only that it’s…well…happening so fast.”

  Alison walked around to the other side of the car and opened the driver’s door. Leaning against the roof of the vehicle, she put her palms down upon it, fixing him with a stare, “You’re right. Why on earth they’ve requested me to do this, I don’t know. Nor do I have a clue as to why it’s so bloody urgent. There, happy?”

  “I just…well…”

  “Is there something that you needed from me, before I go?” she asked, taking a deep breath.

  He felt awkward, “How long will you be away?”

  �
��A week, month, I don’t know. Miss me?”

  He wasn’t sure what the right answer should be, for that question, “Yes. Of course, I will.”

  “Anything else?” she said flatly, leaving him profoundly unsure of the validity of his response.

  “Who is coming in to take over your caseload?”

  Alison exhaled, “Buggered if I know.” With that said, she got into the car and slammed the door. Caslin swore under his breath, realising he’d made a mess of that conversation. The engine fired into life and he bent down, tapping the passenger window as she put the car into gear. Alison rolled her eyes, lowering the window. A withering look told him his assessment was accurate.

  “I hope you’re not away too long,” he said. The words were feeble and they sounded so.

  “Goodbye, Nathaniel,” she said, depressing the accelerator and moving off. Caslin cursed again, only this time, aloud as he watched her pull away. Taking out his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts and dialled Iain Robertson’s number. The call took a few moments to connect.

  “Iain, it’s Nate. What’s going on with Schmidt?”

  “Good afternoon to you, too, Nate,” Robertson replied curtly. “I take it you’re not too happy with something?”

  “Many things, Iain. Many things.”

  “Broadfoot was pissing in your pool, wasn’t he?” Robertson laughed as he spoke. “He came to-”

  “I get it, Iain. I know how it works. He said, by your reckoning, it’s accidental?”

  “Not quite how I put it, no. However, there isn’t enough forensic evidence present for me to see it any other way. The post-mortem examination could throw something up, mind you. If not, it’ll be on the coroner.”

  Caslin thought on it for a moment, Robertson waiting patiently, “What about the missing bedlinen? Terry Holt double-checked and housekeeping didn’t access the room before us.”

  “Aye, agreed. That’s why I mentioned about there not being enough evidence present for me to see foul play. If I were reading the crime scene, as is my job, I would want to know why the sheets were missing or at the very least, who removed them?”

  “How much did you take away for analysis?”

  “Not a great deal,” Robertson said. “There were no significant secretions or otherwise on the mattress protector and I’d have expected far more prints to come out of a hotel room but those cleaners are either incredibly efficient or…”