The Dogs in the Street (Dark Yorkshire Book 3)

by J M Dalgliesh

  The door swung closed behind him and Caslin was greeted by three men, in his room. Two were standing at either end of the room, another was sitting on the end of his bed. The surprise was momentary as all three looked towards him.

  “Good evening, Inspector Caslin,” the seated man said, politely.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” Caslin replied. “I didn’t order room service.” He spun on his heel, making for the door. Unsure of whether the three were moving after him, he assumed the worst. Dragging the door open he glanced over his shoulder. A fateful misjudgement as he missed the man in the corridor, landing a blow to his midriff. Air exploded from his lungs and he crumpled to the floor. Bent double, on his knees, struggling for breath, Caslin felt like his chest was on fire and his eyes were about to pop out. Strong hands took a hold of his jacket, heaving him up off the floor, whether he was willing or not.

  Unceremoniously dumped back inside his hotel room, he fell against the wall. Seconds later he was able to draw breath, albeit with sharp pain accompanying every inhalation.

  “As I was saying,” the seated man said. “Good evening, Inspector Caslin.”

  “Fuck off,” Caslin replied, bitterly. Glancing over his shoulder, he recognised the man from the elevator. Steadying himself by bracing against the wall, he stood, assessing the group. Two of the three were evidently the muscle. Their attentive nature, physique, coupled with their general stance, defined them as such as they stood silently, awaiting instructions from their senior. A third was of slender build and seemed far more interested in the contents of the room, than in Caslin. The leader had a somewhat ascetic demeanour about him. The others hung on his every signal, be it even the slightest of intimations. They were well drilled.

  “Your phone, if you please?” he said. Caslin locked eyes with him, defiance burning brightly. The man looked away, bobbing his head. Caslin felt another blow, this time to his left side, a forceful kidney punch. He dropped, once again. Without waiting for permission, he was roughly shoved against the wall, enabling better access to his pockets. The briefest of searches returned his phone. A quick review of the handset then took place. The fingerprint scanner was noted and another silent instruction was given. Caslin felt someone grip his hand. Struggling, he managed to pull his arm free. Two swift kicks to his chest and stomach followed, all resistance evaporating as he coughed uncontrollably, spitting bile. His limp hand was used to unlock the phone before it was passed over. The man on the far side of the room came to collect the handset. He was young, possibly in his early twenties. Using another phone, he connected the two devices and began tapping away at one of the screens.

  Taking everything in from his position on the floor, Caslin now realised they had already opened the safe. The contents of his case file were strewn across the desk alongside his laptop. They’d hardwired it to another, presumably to bypass the security and download the data from the drive.

  “Is violence always necessary, Nathaniel? You could have saved yourself the pain and just given me the phone.” Caslin looked up, eyeing the man warily. He wasn’t Irish nor was the man from the elevator. With hindsight, he should’ve clocked that something was up when the porter spoke to him.

  “Forgive me. My brother always said I was never good at sharing,” Caslin replied, levering himself up into a kneeling position. “Who did you say you are?”

  The man grinned without any genuine humour, “What is it you hope to achieve by coming here, to Ireland, Inspector?”

  “See the sights, drink the Guinness,” Caslin replied with intended sarcasm. The man to his left tensed and he braced himself for another onslaught but was relieved when restraint was indicated.

  “How are you coming with the phone,” he asked over his shoulder.

  “I’m in. I’ll just need a minute to transfer everything over.”

  “Good.”

  “Who the hell are you people?” Caslin asked. The man on the bed stood up, facing him.

  “You’re in way over your head, Inspector Caslin,” he said in a casual manner. “From this moment on, Forsythe Holdings, Paraic Nelson and any other interest you hold in his business ventures, are off limits to you, permanently. Do you understand?”

  “You don’t work for Nelson, do you?” Caslin asked, standing up whilst gingerly touching his side.

  The man shook his head, “Certainly not. I serve a far higher authority.”

  “And who might that be…” Caslin questioned drawing yet another, enigmatic smile, “SIS, DIA…Special Branch?”

  “You’re booked on the first flight out of Dublin, back to Leeds, tomorrow morning. Your ticket is there,” the man indicated an envelope on the desk. “Be on it,” he added in a forceful tone, walking past Caslin to the door, which was duly opened for him. Across the room, the technical work was complete. Caslin’s phone was tossed onto the bed and his laptop was disconnected from the other.

  “And if I’m not?” he asked, without turning.

  “Your superiors are expecting you. I would strongly advise, for your own sake, you don’t disappoint them…or me…for that matter.”

  With that, he was gone. The remaining members of the team filed past him and out into the corridor. As the door was slammed shut by the auto-close mechanism, Caslin hurried over, flicking the latch to secure it. Knowing they were unlikely to come back he still sought that reassurance. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief.

  “And you reckon they were your intelligence services?” Hanlon queried. Caslin nodded. Every passing step made him wince. The bruising to his rib-cage was already starting to show. “Fair to say we’re not the only ones investigating Nelson, then.” Caslin snorted cynically, stopping to lean on the railings. They were on the quayside overlooking Dublin Port, with the contemporary Samuel Beckett Bridge in the foreground, lit in a stunning fashion by night, only slightly less impressive by day.

  “You have more faith in our agencies than I do, my friend,” Caslin said quietly.

  “You think they’re not?”

  Caslin shrugged, “Maybe. They might be using him or his operation. He could be unaware but-”

  “But?”

  “You said it yourself,” Caslin glanced over, flicking an inquisitive eyebrow, “Nelson always seems to be one step ahead. You ever wondered how he manages it?”

  Hanlon’s expression changed, “Well, they don’t have authority over me.”

  “See what happens if…when…you get close enough to damage him. From what he was saying in that meeting the other night, he isn’t worried about the police in the slightest.”

  “Throws up another scenario, for you,” Hanlon went on. Caslin encouraged him. “If Coughlan was getting close to exposing Nelson, it might not be him she should’ve been wary of.”

  “Now that’s something I hadn’t considered,” Caslin agreed. His thoughts shifted to Broadfoot and the indirect order to shut down his investigation. He chose not to share. “For a moment, I wondered how they got onto me so fast?”

  “And you thought of me?”

  “Only for a moment,” Caslin replied, honestly.

  “You didn’t like how Paraic and I were, with each other, did you?”

  “At first. You play a role well, Seamus.”

  “It’s cat and mouse between the two of us.”

  “Which is which?” Caslin asked, grinning. Hanlon returned it with one of his own before glancing at the waves lapping against the quayside below them. “Have you spoken to Brendan?”

  “Briefly. He’s on edge but he’s a decent guy, used to be military until he had an accident and they invalided him out. I’ll keep an eye out for him. What are you going to do now?”

  “You mean, other than go home?”

  Hanlon chuckled, “I know you’re not going to let this lie. For men like you, it’s not in your nature.”

  Caslin smiled but said nothing.

  Chapter 18

  “What the bloody hell do you think you were doing over there?” Broadfoot was yell
ing. Caslin sat in silence, feeling very much the schoolboy in the headmaster’s office. “You had no clearance-”

  “I didn’t know I needed it, Sir,” Caslin countered. “I’m heading up this investigation-”

  “No, you’re not,” Broadfoot stated, calming himself down and pulling up a chair. “Not anymore.”

  Caslin seethed, “You’re taking me off the case? On what grounds?”

  “How about breaking and entering, for starters?” Caslin sank back in his chair. The dossier on him was clearly substantial. “It’s lucky, for you, that we don’t want to turn this fiasco into an international incident. I expect the Irish would have a field day with this, if they chose to.”

  “But they’re not?” Caslin asked, hope edging into his voice.

  “No but I’ve had to do some serious arse-kissing. Not just to them but to the Chief-”

  “Probably going to mess with your promotion prospects-”

  “Whatever were you thinking?” Broadfoot hissed.

  “Sir,” Caslin began, “there’s more going on here than just Schmidt. Paraic Nelson has ties to both our victims. Coughlan was either on to something with Nelson, or he was feeding her information. Wilfully or not, I can’t say. Likewise, with Fairchild. He had links to the same firm as Nelson. There’s a circle here but I don’t know what’s at the centre of it. I know Dublin was a risky move but we needed to explore it and you wouldn’t have given permission, let alon-”

  “You’re damn right I wouldn’t have. Not with what you have, it’s circumstantial, at best.”

  “We can’t just look the other way.”

  “I’ve told you once before, we all have our masters, Nathaniel.”

  “None of whom outrank the oath we both took, when we signed on. Or have you forgotten that?” Caslin asked forcefully.

  “Get out of my sight,” Broadfoot said in an understated manner. “I don’t want to see you back in this station before the end of the week.”

  Caslin stood, taking a deep breath as he did so, “Am I on suspension, Sir?”

  Broadfoot stared at him, red-faced. “If the Irish government wanted to take issue with your actions, you wouldn’t be on a suspension. You’d be out of a job.”

  “Annual leave?” Caslin asked, slightly mocking and most certainly pushing his luck.

  “Out,” the DCS muttered.

  The door to Broadfoot’s office clicked as the latch dropped into place. Caslin exhaled, setting off for CID. He planned to make two stops, before leaving. Entering the squad room, several faces acknowledged his arrival but few appeared willing to talk. News had spread and everyone waited on tenterhooks to gauge the reaction to his dressing down. Caslin wasn’t bothered. It had happened before and he was confident it would certainly happen again. Entering his office, he began flicking through the various messages, left on post-its, stuck to his desk. Nothing was of significance.

  “Sir, got a sec?” Holt asked, standing at the doorway looking nervous.

  Caslin glanced over, “Of course, Terry. That’s about all I have, mind you. What can I do for you?” Holt hovered at the door, reluctant to enter. Caslin beckoned him in. “Come on, Terry. Spit it out.”

  Holt entered, glancing over his shoulder as he did so, “Thing is-” Another knock at the door saw Hunter walk in, Caslin greeted her with a wave.

  “Sorry, Terry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said.

  “Ah…no, it’s alright,” Holt mumbled. “It’s nothing, really. A personal matter, that’s all.”

  “Can it wait five days?” Caslin asked. “I’ll be back on Monday, Terry.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Holt left, shooting a nervous smile towards Hunter as he passed her. She returned the smile, shifting it to a frown once he was out of her sightline.

  “What was that about, do you reckon?” she asked.

  Caslin shook his head, “No idea. What can I do for you? You have one minute and then I am out of here.”

  “Going anywhere nice?”

  “There’s a bottle of Macallan with my name on it somewhere. I expect I’ll come across it on the way home,” he replied with a wry grin.

  “Nice,” Hunter said, “particularly at lunchtime.”

  “Time on my hands, Sarah. Time on my hands,” he replied. “What do you need?”

  “A couple of things. The temporary pathologist has ruled Schmidt’s death as accidental. He’s referred it to the coroner but sees no reason to investigate further.”

  “That’s not a shock,” Caslin said. “Who is he? Anyone we know?”

  Hunter shook her head, “Never come across him before. I think he’s on a secondment from the Ministry of Defence.”

  Caslin looked at her, chewing his lower lip, “That’s interesting.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  He shrugged, “Probably for the best if I make as little of it as possible. Did you get to the bottom of the missing bedsheets?”

  Hunter shook her head, “No. That’s bugging me.”

  “But no-one else, evidently,” Caslin said rhetorically. “What’s the other thing?”

  “Sir?”

  “You said you had two things?”

  “Oh, yes. Broadfoot called down. He says I’m to take the team for the remainder of the week. Presumably this is what’s prompted your plans for the day?”

  “For the week, my dear Hunter,” he said. “If you need me, you know where I’ll be. You’ll do just fine.”

  Leaving his office before Hunter had a chance to, he clapped her lightly on the shoulder as he passed. The sanguine demeanour left her visibly confused. Departing CID, Caslin took the stairs down but rather than make for the exit, via the lobby, he took a left, heading towards the evidence archive. Signing himself in, he went in search of both Emily Coughlan’s personal effects, such as they were, along with those of Fairchild. Once he had both boxes, he donned latex gloves and began rummaging through their contents until he found what he was looking for.

  Holding the transparent evidence bags up alongside each other, he silently chastised himself. Here he was, now able to confirm what had struck him whilst on the run from Nelson’s office, in Dublin. Having tried to match Coughlan’s key-card to a hotel room, they had wasted days in a fruitless search. Fairchild’s security pass for KL Global had been right there, all along. The two cards were identical. Coughlan knew Fairchild and both knew Foley. The question now foremost in his mind was the dynamic in which their relationship took. Was Fairchild a willing communicator or was she blackmailing him. The latter seemed unlikely. By all accounts, Coughlan was still pretty green when it came to this level of investigative journalism.

  Upon hearing someone else entering the archive room, Caslin quickly secreted the two cards inside his jacket. Replacing the lids on the evidence boxes, he returned them to their respective shelves. Signing himself out, he returned to the ground floor and this time, left the building through the main entrance. Crossing the car park, he glanced around as if unsure as to whether he was being followed. Unlocking his car, he drove out of Fulford Road, keeping a watchful eye in the rear-view mirror.

  The first stop he made was at a supermarket. Withdrawing cash from the ATM, he put it into his wallet and passed through the entrance. Once inside, Caslin went directly to the tech section, seeking out the mobile phones they had for sale. A member of staff approached him.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “I want your cheapest, pay as you go, phone,” Caslin replied, scanning the shelves.

  “We have some excellent contract options. Even for occasional use, they’re far cheaper than you think-”

  Caslin looked at the assistant, barely older than his son, Sean, “Non-contract.”

  “Okay, we have these-”

  “That one,” Caslin stated, indicating the cheapest, “and one of those,” he added, pointing to an in-car charger.

  Having parted with nearly fifty-pounds, in cash, Caslin returned to the car park. Not wasting any tim
e, he unpacked the phone on his way out, discarding the packaging into a waste bin at the entrance doors. Getting into his car, he plugged the charger into the auxiliary point of the central console and connected the phone. The screen lit up. Caslin started the car and set off for the city centre. Turning onto the ring road, he skirted the city and headed west. Rush-hour was building and where as it would usually frustrate, today it signalled he was on time.

  A little after six o’clock, he pulled off the main road, bringing the car to a halt. The spaces were already numerous but many staff hadn’t left for the day and so Caslin took up a position away from the offices, shrouded under the overhang of sprawling vegetation, strategically planted to improve the aesthetics of the car park. Lifting his recent purchase, he dialled Reece’s number, only to be advised, once again, that the number was unobtainable. Looking up his new contact at Renton Sands, Caslin called it. After a few rings, the call connected.

  “Martin Champion,” a polished voice said, answering.

  “Mr Champion. It’s Detective Inspector Caslin, from North Yorkshire Police. I’m sorry to trouble you, this late in the day.”

  “Not at all, Inspector,” he replied. “Forgive me for interrupting but…is everything okay?”

  Caslin was slightly taken aback, “Regarding what, Sir?”

  “Well, you’re phoning. Is my wife-”

  “Oh, no…please, everything is fine, I’m sure,” Caslin assured him. “I’m calling you regarding the Fairchild case.” There was a pause at the end of the line.

  “Fairchild case?”

  “Yes. The death of Christopher Fairchild. I’m the investigating officer, in his murder inquiry. I understand that you’re Mr Fairchild’s contact, at Renton Sands.”

  “I see. Yes, that’s true. What do you require from me?”

  “I’m trying to get in touch with one of your colleagues. He’s left town and I wanted to check a few things with him but can’t raise his mobile. I was wondering whether you would be able to point me in his direction.”