“Everybody, listen up,” he called above the general noise. A silence descended on the room. “I want two teams. Team One, I want you looking into Paraic Nelson. Hunter, you’ve already made a start so they’re yours. Emily Coughlan was digging into Nelson’s interests and we don’t know why. When we do, we’ll have a better idea of who killed her and why. Team Two, that’s yours, Terry,” he said, pointing to Holt. “I want to find the guy in the CCTV from the Lord Percy. He could be our killer and we’ve no reason to believe he’s left the city so let’s find him.
“What was Coughlan’s interest?” a voice asked from the back of the room. All turned to see Kyle Broadfoot entering.
“As yet, Sir, we don’t know,” Caslin replied. “Accusations of being a slum landlord were raised in the past but nothing came of them. We speculate she may have been following that line but in reality, we don’t know. We need to get into his affairs. From what we’re led to believe, she was repeatedly warned off.”
“How have you come across this information?” Broadfoot questioned, coming to the front of the room. Caslin glanced across at him, appearing momentarily unsure.
“A journalistic source, with ties to the area,” he answered.
Broadfoot nodded, “A word in your office?” Caslin dismissed the team, leaving Hunter to divide up their assignments and followed the DCS into his office. Closing the door behind him, he took a deep breath. “This source? It’s not James Sullivan, is it?”
“As it happens, yes, it is, Sir.”
“He’s not exactly been reliable in the past-”
“I know, Sir. However, on this occasion, his strong links to the deceased and her associations could prove useful.”
Broadfoot pursed his lips, appearing pensive, “It’s your investigation, Nathaniel. Just make sure you treat his information with a degree of caution.”
“Understood.”
“Now what headway have you made with the Fairchild inquiry?”
Caslin was crestfallen, “The crime scene has offered us little. Ballistics indicate we can match a bullet to the gun it was fired from, if we can locate the gun. There are no hits on the database tying it to other crimes.”
“So, the weapon was clean?”
“Apparently so,” Caslin stated. “No one has a bad word to say about Fairchild. Only the attitude of his employer, KL Global, has drawn attention. With the warrant, we’re into his accounts. I believe that’s the strongest line of inquiry.”
“Are they hiding something?”
“Couldn’t say at this time, Sir.”
“I want an update on this by the end of the day, Nathaniel,” Broadfoot said. “The Fairchild case appears to be stalling-”
“With respect, Sir, I disagree. The most likely scenario is that his business interests played a role and until we can get through the financials-”
“Sir?” Holt said apologetically, knocking on the door and entering unbidden, much to Broadfoot’s frustration.
“Can it not wait, Detective Constable?” Broadfoot said aggressively.
“Sorry, Sir. No, I don’t think it can.”
“What’s up, Terry?” Caslin asked.
“We’ve had a tip, regarding the man in the CCTV.”
“Already?” Caslin was surprised.
“I know,” Holt agreed, matching Caslin’s reaction. “We only started circulating the screenshot around yesterday.”
“Where?”
“A hotel in the city centre, the Ousebank,” Holt said, his eyes flicking between the two senior officers. Broadfoot exhaled heavily.
“You best get a move on then,” he stated, rising from his chair. “Update me as soon as you can.”
“Will do, Sir,” Caslin said as Broadfoot left. “Get your coat, Terry. Let’s go and kick someone’s door in.”
Holt smiled, “Or we could just ask the manager for a key?”
Caslin ushered him out of the office with a hand on the shoulder, “You take all the fun out of this job, Terry, you really do.”
The Ousebank Hotel was situated alongside the river, flowing through the heart of the city. A five-storey building, with over two hundred rooms, it could easily accommodate a guest seeking to be anonymous during their stay. Approaching the concierge, Caslin took out a copy of the printed screenshot and passed it across the reception desk whilst discreetly brandishing his warrant card. The concierge took it in his stride.
“I may have seen him but from this, it’s hard to say for certain,” he said, passing the image back.
“Who’s currently residing in room 423?” Holt asked. The concierge turned to the computer system and within a few moments found what he was searching for.
“Room 423 is occupied by Mr Schmidt,” he said. “He’s been with us for the last four nights.”
“When is he due to check out?” Caslin asked, glancing to Terry Holt.
“One second…he’s booked in until tomorrow.”
“Is he here now?” Caslin asked.
“As far as I know, yes,” the concierge said. “We don’t require our guests to leave us their keys. Would you like me to phone through?”
“No,” Caslin said, forcefully. “I’d like you to give us a key.”
“I’ll need to speak to the manager-”
“Please do,” Caslin said quietly. The duty manager was summoned and having been advised of the situation, led the policemen upstairs. Leaving the elevator on the fourth floor, the manager greeted some passing guests and waited until they were beyond earshot to raise an objection.
“I must say, this is highly unusual. If Mr Schmidt is not in his room, without a warrant I shouldn’t really unlock the room for you.”
“You don’t have to,” Caslin said as they walked, admiring the standard of finish in the décor, “we can always kick the door in, if you prefer.” Holt resisted the urge to laugh, bearing in mind their earlier conversation. The manager grumbled under his breath but didn’t voice his reservations again. “What do you make of Mr Schmidt?” Caslin asked the manager.
He shrugged. “I don’t recall ever having met him. Although, I’ve no doubt seen him at some point.”
They came to the room and Caslin noted the Do Not Disturb Sign, hanging on the handle. Indicating for the manager to stand at a safe distance, he and Holt took a position either side of the door. Holt glanced at his boss, meeting his eye.
“I’m starting to wonder whether we should have come mob-handed, Sir,” he said, referencing his doubts at there being just the two of them. Caslin grinned, rapping his knuckles on the door.
“Some of that fun, I was telling you about,” Caslin said, lowering his voice. There was no response from within, so Caslin knocked again, only this time more forcefully. “Police!” he barked but again, there was no reply. Beckoning the manager forward, he was passed a key card. Putting it in the slot, he caught Holt’s eye, “Ready?”
“Do it,” Holt answered. Caslin unlocked the door and pushed it inwards. Half expecting some movement from within, both men braced themselves. They edged forwards. The initial entranceway opened out into a large suite. The double bed was set to the left, a sofa at the foot of it with another recliner, underneath the window opposite them. Caslin could see a laptop computer on a desk, on the far side of the room, adjacent to the access to what Caslin figured was the bathroom. The door to which was cracked open. The sounds of running water, from a shower came to ear and steam was drifting out into the bedroom suite. Caslin indicated for them to proceed in that direction. Holt nodded his silent acceptance.
Glancing behind him, Caslin saw the hotel manager hovering at the doorway. With a flat palm, he told him to remain where he was. Caslin scanned the desk as he came to it. There were various sections, taken from newspapers, alongside a folded copy of an Ordnance Survey map of the North York Moors. Catching Holt’s attention, he pointed to it and using the end of a pen, he flipped the folded map over to view the reverse. The first names that leapt up at him were Ampleforth and Helmsley. A point in b
etween those two towns was where Emily Coughlan met her death. Inclining his head back towards the bathroom, Holt joined him at the threshold. Looking down, Caslin noted the carpet here, was sodden. Water was steadily seeping from the room beyond.
Gently easing the door further open, Caslin peered into the steam filled room. Stepping forward, they made their way through the pooled water. No dissent was levelled at them for breaching privacy and it soon became clear as to why. Curled up, face down in the water which was cascading over the top of the bath, with the shower still running overhead, was the man they were looking for. The tattooed arm was facing him and even a cursory inspection suggested they had found who they were looking for. Holt reached up towards the shower, only for Caslin to stop him.
“Prints, Terry,” he reminded him. Holt nodded and looked around. The shower was electric. Pulling the cord, he cut both the power and flow of water whilst leaving any prints on the shower unit intact. Caslin took in the man under water. Undoubtedly, he was deceased but Caslin checked for a pulse anyway. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t find one. The water was off colour. Blood had been flowing from a visible head wound but the red was so diluted due to the passage of water to, and from, the bath that it now had a brown tinge to it. The way in which he lay meant Caslin couldn’t tell whether or not the drain was blocked by the body or by a foreign object.
Holt pointed towards the taps. Caslin saw the residue of blood on them and looking around, he saw no signs of a struggle present elsewhere in the room. In contrast to the size of the bedroom suite, the bathroom was quite cramped, hence the presence of a shower-bath rather than a standalone.
“What are you thinking?” Holt asked.
Caslin shook his head, glancing around again before returning to the bedroom. Holt followed. Going over to the desk, Caslin inspected the newspapers. The first two were articles about Emily Coughlan’s murder, taken from copies of a local paper. The third, Caslin found incredibly curious. It was an article detailing the progress of the Fairchild murder inquiry. Both detectives donned latex gloves and began a search of the room. Caslin opened up the laptop and swiped his finger across the glide pad, bringing the machine out of hibernation. A password screen prompt came up and Caslin closed the lid back down.
Moving to the bed, he could tell it had been slept in but not made, although something about the set up piqued his interest. Gently lifting the duvet and rolling it back towards the foot of the bed, he saw the mattress protector but the bedlinen was missing. Addressing the manager, rooted to the doorway and curious to know what was happening, Caslin called out.
“Have housekeeping been through here, this morning?”
“No, I shouldn’t have thought so, not with the signage on the door.”
“You’re certain?” Caslin persisted as Holt came alongside, looking over his shoulder.
“I’ll have to check,” the manager replied. “Is something amiss?”
Caslin ignored the question as Holt drew his attention, “Over here, Sir.” Holt led him across the room, to the wardrobe. Holding the left-hand door open with one hand, he drew aside the clothes hanging on the rail, with the other. Caslin looked where Holt directed, towards the back of the wardrobe. Reaching in, Caslin withdrew a small, leather holdall. The zip was open and a semi-automatic pistol was tucked within. Caslin pulled on a pair of latex gloves and slid the weapon out, finding the safety was off. Making it safe, he then moved the slide and sniffed the chamber. The smell of cleaning fluid was strong but not overly so. If the weapon had been recently fired, he was unable to tell. Releasing the magazine, he saw it was fully loaded.
“When’s Iain Robertson and his CSI team getting here?” Caslin asked.
“Any moment, Sir,” Holt replied. Caslin put the gun back into the holdall but placed the magazine into a plastic evidence bag that Terry Holt provided him with.
“Have ballistics compare this weapon to the bullets that killed Fairchild,” Caslin said quietly.
“What’s the link?” Holt asked. Caslin pointed to the desk.
“So far? A newspaper clipping,” he said, pursing his lips. “Terry, the tip you received…”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Who called it in?”
“Didn’t leave their name, Sir. The Control Room tracked it back to a payphone.”
“The caller said they recognised Schmidt and he was here?”
“Yes,” Holt said. “They thought they’d seen the man we were looking for in and around this hotel and gave us the room number.”
Caslin’s brow furrowed as he looked around, searching for answers, “And yet, the concierge in the lobby couldn’t pick him out.”
“You were going to find out who dealt with Fairchild’s accounts, at your end.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m working on it,” Reece replied.
“What’s to work on? It’s a phone call, right?”
Reece chuckled down the phone line, “This myth of the private sector being efficient really has caught hold in society, hasn’t it? I’m on it. I’ll get back to you.” Caslin put the phone down. He sat in silence for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the desk before him, chewing his lower lip. Finding Schmidt had given them leads and simultaneously shut them down. Frustration was starting to gnaw away at him.
“Sir,” Holt said, standing at the entrance to his office. He beckoned him in. “Sorry to break your train of thought.”
“It’s okay. What is it?”
“I’ve pulled some info together, on Schmidt.”
“Is that his real name?”
“Yes, Sir. Heinrich Schmidt. The prints we took from him at the hotel match those on file with the Bundeswehr, the German Ministry of Defence. He was born, raised and educated near Heidelberg, took a role in the military for his national service and upon completion of that, was expected to go on to university. However, he signed on rather than returning to education. I’ve requested his full-service record but as of now, I only have the headlines. He served with distinction, several commendations for bravery and was highly regarded by his superiors. There’s no criminal record in Germany or lodged with Europol.”
“A first-class citizen,” Caslin mused openly. “When did he leave the forces?”
“That’s where it gets interesting, Sir. He didn’t.”
“He’s still serving?”
Holt shook his head, “No, Sir. Heinrich Schmidt died eight years ago.”
Caslin sat up in his chair, “How can that be? Where?”
“Apparently, he went missing on a climb, in the Alps. The weather deteriorated rapidly and avalanches were reported in the area in which he was last seen. Three members of the party didn’t return to base camp. Once the weather broke, a rescue team subsequently failed to locate any of them. They’ve been recorded as missing and presumed dead. The Germans are very keen to know just what is going on.”
“They’ll have to get in line. How have you got on with his computer?”
“I was into that pretty quickly, Sir. There’s not a great deal to tell you. Very little of the memory has been used and there’s no evidence that he has a cloud storage facility. Basically, it’s as if it’s just been plucked off the production line.”
“Anything useful at all?”
“His browser history is revealing,” Holt said, despondent. Answering Caslin’s raised eyebrow with a shake of his head, he continued, “Schmidt had an appetite for violent pornography. Rape-porn, in particular.”
“Gather as much information about him as you can, personal, intimate stuff so we can pass it on to Alison Taylor. I want definitive confirmation it’s him-”
“There’s going to be a delay on that,” DCS Broadfoot interrupted them, entering the room. “DC Holt, can you give us the room.” Body language and tone indicated it wasn’t a request. He acknowledged with a bob of the head.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Close the door on your way out,” Broadfoot stated, without looking towards him. Holt did as he was instructed on his way out.
>
“Is there a problem, Sir?” Caslin queried.
“Dr Taylor will be unavailable for the foreseeable, she’s required elsewhere. You have the remainder of the day to get whatever you might need from her.”
Caslin raised his eyebrows, “Okay. One of her colleagues can step in-”
“That won’t be necessary, Nathaniel. The Home Office are sending someone to cover for Dr Taylor. He’ll be in place within a couple of days.”
“A couple of days?” Caslin said, failing to mask his irritation. “With respect, Sir. This is a murder inquiry. I need this-”
“You have your man, Inspector, and he’s already dead, so I don’t think a few more days is going to put anyone at risk.”
“We think we have our man but until we’ve proved it, I’m not ready to tie it off.”
“And no-one’s asking you to. All the evidence indicates-”
“Exactly!” Caslin exclaimed. “All the evidence. How many cases have you investigated where the suspect drops dead, leaving you everything necessary to convict him post-mortem? I’ll hazard a guess at none.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“That it’s a little early to be closing the book on this. We still don’t have motive-”
“The pornography that Holt describes, demonstrates an attraction to violent sex-”
“Emily Coughlan wasn’t sexually assaulted, Sir. She was tortured for information and then killed.”
“Speculation,” Broadfoot countered. “His motivations could just as easily have been centred on power and control.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you for making my point, we don’t know, yet.”
“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.”
The Dogs in the Street Page 10