“I don’t think I need confirmation of the cause of death,” Caslin said with dark humour. Dr Alison Taylor, smiled.
“You wouldn’t be much of a detective, if you did,” she countered. “Iain Robertson’s initial assessment proved accurate. The third shot killed him the moment it entered his skull. Even so, he would have died from massive internal injuries, caused by the second bullet. It struck Mother Nature’s bullet proof vest, his rib-cage, diverting it onto a downward trajectory, through the right lung. There it caused massive damage before nicking the aorta, where it connects with the left ventricle of the heart and lodging itself in his spinal column.”
“That sounds bad.”
“The aorta pumps the oxygenated blood, from the heart,” Dr Taylor clarified. “Yes, it’s as bad as it gets. The haemorrhaging from that injury alone would have killed him. He’d have bled out internally, in minutes.”
“Were you able to retrieve the bullets?”
“Yes, both have been sent to forensics,” she confirmed. “I’ve no idea how relevant this is but were you aware of his condition?”
“Condition?” Caslin asked. “His PA intimated that he might be ill. Why, what have you found?”
“Very ill, would be apt. Terminal, to be accurate,” Dr Taylor said. “I found multiple tumours on his pancreas. I’m not an oncologist but, judging by their size, I would set it at stage four. I also found widespread metastasis but I expect the pancreas was the primary cancer. Once I’ve retrieved his medical files, I’ll confirm the diagnosis.”
“How long do you think he had?”
“Impossible to say with any degree of accuracy but in all probability, we’re talking months, not years.”
Caslin drew a sharp intake of breath, “Do you think he was aware?”
“I fail to see how he couldn’t be,” Dr Taylor said stoically. “The stomach pain alone would have been excruciating, at times.”
“His wife never mentioned it.”
“He wouldn’t be the first to keep it to himself. It’s not unheard of to develop the disease relatively young…processing your mortality at that age, must be tough.”
“To take it on alone…” Caslin said, leaving the thought unfinished. “Thank you, Alison. You’ll send me your report as soon as it’s complete?”
“As soon as it’s ready,” she replied. She stepped away, picking up her file and walking back towards her workstation. Caslin watched. As if her sixth sense felt his eyes upon her, she turned. “Something else?” she enquired, in a tone he didn’t care for.
Caught without a coherent word to say, he stood open-mouthed, replying with a slight shake of the head. Alison Taylor returned to her desk, tossing the file into a work tray, pulling out her stool and sitting down. Caslin chewed his lower lip as she focused on her computer screen. Exhaling slowly, he thought better of initiating small talk and left pathology. Never one to shy away from taking responsibility for his actions, Caslin cut a dejected figure as he made his way along the corridors. Hiding behind work pressures, stress and children, lay the real cause of why he’d allowed their fledgling relationship to drop onto the backburner... fear. The reality of allowing another person to breach the hastily erected barriers he threw up after his divorce, struck fear into his very core. Alison was tired of waiting, tired of playing second fiddle to the ghosts of his past. He couldn’t blame her.
Walking out to his car, he pushed personal matters aside and focused on the case. Contemplating the physical and mental state of Christopher Fairchild, Caslin considered what bearing his condition might have had on his behaviour. Knowing his days were running short, why devote so much time to work? Financial security for family was a priority but early indicators showed they weren’t short of funds. Furthermore, the focus his PA said he put onto the accounts of the non-governmental organisations, countered the argument of money as primary motivation. By all accounts, those investments were charitable and minimal commission was earned. It struck him as a peculiar dichotomy. Nicola Fairchild could shed light on it. Starting the car, he planned to pay her a visit.
Barely had he moved off before his phone rang. Pulling over, he answered the call. It was DC Hardy.
“Sir, local police have found a body, a mile or so, east of Ampleforth. It looks like a suspicious death. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Why?”
“The initial description that came in on the wire is not dissimilar to that woman you asked me to look into.”
“Emily Coughlan?” Caslin asked. “Are you sure?”
Hardy paused, “To be honest, it doesn’t sound like it’ll be that easy.”
Having collected Hunter from Fulford Road, the journey from York to Ampleforth took three quarters of an hour. The late-afternoon traffic delayed them as they made their way through the picture-postcard villages of the Howardian Hills. On the northern edge, where they merged with the North York Moors, Caslin picked up Jerry Carr Bank, a road skirting the boundary between the two. A uniform vehicle was waiting for them, directing them off to the right at a fork, onto a narrow lane that rapidly ascended into the hills. Half a mile from there, they reached a cordon.
With the road closed, the car remained where it stopped. They were led by a uniformed constable into the woods, that ran the length of the lane as far as the eye could see. Moments later, Iain Robertson hailed them. The grim expression on the Scot’s well-lined face, ensured the early reports were to be believed.
“Brace yourselves for this one,” he said, in his strong Glaswegian accent, indicating for them to follow.
In a small clearing, surrounded by a ring of chestnut trees, some forty feet from the road, lay a body. A more detailed description would have to wait, for it was barely identifiable as such. Moving towards it, Caslin could see the remains were blackened to the point where it was difficult to discern if it was a man or a woman. The soft tissue had completely disappeared from the face and the bone of the skull was exposed. Leaning in closer, Caslin could make out tiny heat fractures, crisscrossing the forehead.
“Judging by height and the slight build, I would suggest we have a female,” Robertson surmised. Hunter put a hand up to cover her nose, the smell of burnt flesh still lingered. Caslin surveyed the body. She lay on her back, almost as if she had thrown herself backwards, away from a fire. Her legs were bent at the knees, curled up to her waist and the hands were extended before her, fists clenched in a boxer’s pose.
“The hands?” he pointed to them.
“That’s typical of when a human body is set on fire. The coagulation of the proteins, combined with dehydration cause the muscles to contract. It’s quite natural,” Robertson offered. “It doesn’t indicate whether she was conscious or not.”
Caslin observed the face but it was barely recognisable as such. Her features had melted, now more reminiscent of a charred husk. He couldn’t imagine what she’d looked like before, the wisps of unburnt hair at the rear, protruding from the sides, all that offered any clue as to her previous appearance. Scanning the abdomen, Caslin saw her clothes had melted, blending with the organic matter. Robertson noted his interest.
“Synthetic material. They’ve fused with her skin, under the intensity of the heat.”
“Accelerant?”
“From the smell, I would say petrol is most likely,” Robertson confirmed. “You’ll see that her front has taken the damage but her back was largely untouched, by the flames. The rear of her head still has most of the hair intact. I’m optimistic that some of the accelerant will have seeped into the ground beneath her. If so, we can get a sample for confirmation.”
“Any ID?” Hunter asked, suppressing a gag reflex.
Robertson shook his head, “All we have is this. We found it in an internal pocket, in the rear of her walking trousers.” He lifted a transparent evidence bag. Inside appeared to be a white, credit-card sized piece of plastic. “It looks like an access key-card, probably to a hotel room.”
“Any name on it?” Caslin asked, movin
g to take a closer look. There wasn’t one but a gold logo was stencilled across the top. Embedded in the reverse was a chip. “Shouldn’t be too hard to trace, provided it’s local.”
“She wasn’t carrying a purse, mobile phone, car keys…” Robertson went on. “Nothing to suggest who she is or how she got here? Stripped clean.”
“What about her clothes? Synthetics suggest hiking gear,” Caslin mused openly.
“It certainly could be but she wasn’t hiking out here,” Robertson said with confidence. “Her shoes are casual wear but not suitable for fell-walking. The soles show no evidence of vegetation or detritus, collecting in the treads. The weather’s been fine the past couple of days but was wet, prior to that. We’re standing in a natural bowl which helps the ground here retain water, aided by the height of the trees, shielding it from the sun. That’s why the build-up of moss and fern, is so concentrated.” Caslin took in the area, Robertson was right. “She was either carried or didn’t have far to walk, before she wound up there,” he pointed to where the body lay.
“Any joy with a vehicle?” Hunter asked.
Robertson shook his head, “No tracks or impressions left on the verges.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky with a witness,” Caslin offered. “Who found her?”
“Local farmer. He saw a plume of smoke rising through the trees out in one of his fields, a couple of days ago.”
“Monday?” Caslin asked.
“Aye, mid-morning, I believe. Didn’t think much of it at the time but remembered today. On his way home, thought he’d check it out seeing as he was passing. I’ll bet now, he wishes he hadn’t.”
“Okay. We’re going to need to speak to him. Hunter,” Caslin indicated she should do that. A suggestion she was only too pleased to take up. “Iain, do you have a cause of death?”
“Are you asking if she was burned in order to kill her or to cover up how she died?”
Caslin nodded, “Could’ve been both.”
“I can’t tell you, is the honest answer. You see these lacerations, here on the arms and again, here?” he pointed to three distinct locations on her abdomen, where her arms attached to her shoulders and one localised on the stomach. Caslin nodded. “They could be inflicted with a blade but equally, intense heat can cause ruptures in the tissue, where the arms meet.”
“And the stomach?” Caslin asked.
“Gas expansion within the stomach can have the same effect and rupture the abdominal wall. However, I don’t see any other obvious signs of trauma to the body. Without an autopsy, it’d be pure speculation. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the brilliant Dr Taylor’s view on these things. How are the two of you getting on, these days, anyway?”
Caslin shook his head, “Not really the time or place, Iain.”
Robertson chuckled, “Is it ever?”
Caslin smiled but didn’t answer the question. Dispatching a uniformed constable to locate Jimmy Sullivan, Caslin, conscious of the time of day, spent the remainder of the time walking the immediate area with Hunter. A detailed forensic sweep would take place at first light on Thursday but they wanted to see if anything had been dropped nearby, by victim, perpetrator or anyone else. A frustrating hour passed as they found nothing of note.
Portable lights, rigged to a generator, fired up in the background, illuminating the scene. Darkness was now descending upon them, as the sun fell below the backdrop of the hill-line. The dense woodland surrounding them, brought on the gloom, rapidly. Caslin thought about the isolation of this place. There was little risk of exposure. A sparsely populated rural-area with infrequent through-traffic. If there was a good way with which to depart from this world, the fate of this poor soul was certainly not it. His thoughts turned to Jimmy Sullivan. They needed an identification and the facts were too coincidental to be ignored. He wasn’t looking forward to his friend’s arrival for Caslin was confident that they’d found his goddaughter, Emily Coughlan.
Taking out his phone, he saw there was no signal and headed back to the road. Once clear of the trees, he found two bars and immediately called Kim Hardy.
“How did you get on with Father Callum Foley?” he asked.
“He’s not known to us, Sir. He’s been resident here for the last eight years, since his arrival from the Republic of Ireland, following appointment to the pastoral team of St. Hilda’s Church, on High Petergate-”
“Cross reference where he lives and works with the known movements of Coughlan, would you?”
“It is her, then, out there with you?”
“We still don’t know but it’s likely. While you’re at it, I want to know where she’s been staying during her time, in York. Draw a perimeter in the city where her mobile got the most hits on the tower network. Probably we’ll find her at one of the hotels within it. I’m heading back soon, so you have an hour.” A uniformed constable caught his attention and Caslin hung up on Hardy.
“He’s here, Sir.”
Caslin went with the officer, back to the cordon. Jimmy Sullivan stood waiting for him, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat. The flickering lights from the roof of the nearby police car, highlighted his stone-faced appearance. He knew why he was there and was bracing himself for the worst.
“Jimmy,” Caslin called out, approaching. Coming to stand before him, he lowered his voice so only they could be heard. “I know this is unorthodox but…are you sure you’re up for this?”
Sullivan met his eye and nodded, “I’ll be alright.”
“Thanks for coming,” Caslin said, lifting the tape and ushering him under it. “I’m sorry to put you through this. You know I wouldn’t if there was any oth-”
“Let’s get it done, yeah,” Sullivan said with resignation. Although an unusual method for an identification, Caslin knew time was precious. The witness gave them a timeline for how long she’d been there and the first forty-eight hours were critical. Caslin assessed their killer already had more than that for a head start. Although you can cover a lot of ground in that time, there was a chance he might still be close.
Caslin walked them down a freshly marked trail, drawn out by Robertson’s CSI team, and into the clearing. Under portable halogens, the crime scene bore an even more macabre appearance than previously. Sullivan tensed, visible even in the unearthly mixture of nightfall and artificial light. He stopped momentarily. Caslin encouraged him forward and they came to stand alongside Iain Robertson. Recoiling from the scene, Sullivan lifted the back of his hand up and across his mouth, suppressing a reflex.
“You okay?” Caslin asked, placing a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder. Sullivan closed his eyes, steadying himself. Casting a sideways glance at Caslin, he took a deep breath and nodded. Thankfully, a light breeze carried past them, diminishing the intensity of the odour somewhat as they got closer. That was a small blessing against the backdrop of such a traumatic experience, even for the trained officers, let alone for someone tied to the deceased. Two members of Robertson’s team waited off to the left, ephemeral in their white coveralls. Sullivan stared at the body, his expression unreadable.
“Are there any distinguishing marks that might help?” Caslin asked softly, anticipating Sullivan’s inability to recognise her from the front.
“She has a Celtic symbol tattooed on the back of her neck,” Sullivan said, remaining transfixed. Caslin looked to Robertson who moved closer, beckoning his team to join him. Between them, they carefully levered the body onto its side, exposing the rear. Robertson knelt, reached out and brushed the shock of auburn hair aside with his free hand. The action revealed a tattoo. Sullivan, guided forward by Caslin, gasped, almost inaudibly and only then, did he allow his head to drop. Turning away from the vision of horror in front of him, he glanced at Caslin. A simple bob of the head was enough. Caslin gripped his arm in a further show of support and inclined his head to indicate they could step away.
Neither man spoke until well beyond the clearing. Back in the blue-hue of the police cars lights, Sull
ivan was close to tears.
“I need to know everything you do, about what Emily was looking into, Jimmy,” Caslin said. Sullivan shook his head, casting his eyes to the ground.
“I told you the other night. She wouldn’t say,” Sullivan said quietly, shaking his head. Reading Caslin’s reaction as one of doubt, he emphasised his answer, “I swear. I don’t know!”
“And you don’t know where she was staying, either?
Again, Sullivan shook his head, “I didn’t even know she was coming over. I met her at a moment’s notice, one evening. She said she was at her hotel, so it must have been nearby, in the city.”
“Don’t worry, Jimmy. We’ll figure it out,” Caslin reassured him, glancing back in the direction of the clearing where Emily met her death, a sense of determination rising within him. “I’ll get to the bottom of it. I give you my word.”
Chapter 6
The Ordinance Survey map was pinned to the noticeboard. A circle, marked in red, was drawn upon it. Alongside was an annotated list, naming all of the hotels within. There were well over fifty residences. Several were struck through. Caslin cast a wary eye over the details.
“Make sure you go with her description and not only the name,” Caslin said loudly enough to be heard over the ambient noise level. “I want to know where Emily Coughlan’s been, since she arrived in York. I don’t want assumptions. Best guess, whatever she was investigating got her killed. To figure that out, we need to know where she’s been, who has she been talking to? I want to know what car she drives, what she spends her money on.”
The room was a hive of activity. Since Fairchild was murdered, they’d worked almost around the clock for two days and now they had Emily Coughlan. Caslin felt proud. Not one member of the team was asking to leave, all were determined to get a result. So focused was he, on the information board, rapidly being updated, that he almost missed the phone ringing, in his office. Running through to it, he answered before the caller rang off. It was Alison Taylor.
The Dogs in the Street Page 4