Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  Approaching the office of Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Sutherland, Caslin paused, acknowledging the welcome of his secretary. She reached for the phone but Caslin indicated for her to hold off on notifying the occupants of his arrival. She appeared slightly perplexed but smiled warmly as he took a deep breath, composing himself. With a brief nod, he returned her smile and she made the call. Moments later, he opened the door and passed through. Sutherland rose from behind his desk and greeted him.

  “Nathaniel,” he said stiffly, “thank you for joining us.”

  “Not at all, sir,” Caslin replied, taking a measure of those present. Angela Matheson nodded in his direction and even ACC Sinclair cracked the briefest of smiles in his direction.

  Another man sat alongside the Assistant Chief Constable but Caslin hadn’t come across him before. He was in his late fifties, immaculately attired and, evidently, not interested in conversing with the new arrival. He barely looked up from the paperwork he held before him in his lap. The notion that the latter represented the Crown Prosecution Service came to mind.

  “We need to have the conversation about this morning,” Sutherland said

  “I have my thoughts, sir,” Caslin began. “I would argue that it’s a little early to form any conclusions. Once I’ve been-”

  “Forgive me, for interrupting, Nathaniel,” DCI Matheson cut in. “I think we’re at cross purposes. We’ve called you in to speak about Nestor Kuznetsov.”

  “Oh… I see,” Caslin said, glancing around. ACC Sinclair was paying him no attention, scanning through some documentation. The man he didn’t know, now sat, watching him intently, casually chewing on the arm of his spectacles. Caslin found his curiosity piqued. He splayed his hands wide before him. “To what end, sir?” Sutherland stood from behind his desk and crossed to the window. From here, he could view the front entrance to the building, besieged with journalists who showed little sign of leaving.

  “You see that lot, down there?” he asked, rhetorically. “They came to our city because they can smell blood. There’s a curious situation arising in our society at present. The desire to suppress the voices of certain groups of people and then scream loudly at their lack of a platform. Thereby, creating a problem where there shouldn’t be one.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Caslin said, “but I don’t follow.”

  “What your Superintendent is saying, Inspector,” ACC Sinclair said, looking up from whatever he was reading, “is that our illustrious university, in what I believe to be a well-meaning policy of not allowing a voice for extremists, has sparked something of a backlash. The media have fuelled it and come here in their droves. After all, this isn’t Bradford or Oldham. Race relations here have always been somewhat harmonious.”

  “We’re not known for our large immigrant population, sir,” Caslin attested. “Largely because we don’t have any.”

  “And so, for this little enterprise, they’ve been shipping them in,” Sinclair added.

  Caslin was definitely confused, “Immigrants?”

  “No, Inspector. The extremists,” Sinclair stated.

  “The far-right campaigners,” Matheson offered. “Martin James, who I’m sure you’ll remember was due to be speaking at an event at the university this week has come anyway despite having his invitation withdrawn.

  It would appear, he has brought as many of his membership as he could muster along with him. They’ve descended on the city, several hundred strong and we’re led to understand that more are coming. James has tapped into the mood of the day, rebranding himself as something of a free-speech advocate. People are flocking to him as if he’s some kind of saviour to our democratic freedoms.

  Intelligence anticipates an increase in the arrival of counter protestors which will coincide over the course of the weekend, with them expected to number in their thousands. They’ve picked York as their battle ground and we’re stretched.”

  “Nothing that we can’t handle, sir,” Caslin said confidently.

  “I don’t doubt that for a second, Nathaniel,” Sutherland said. “We’ve cancelled all uniform rest days for the remainder of the week and South Yorkshire and Humberside have offered us support should we require it. No, the problem is the number of journalists present. They’ve stoked what was a decision made by the ruling body of the Students’ Union and turned it into a national conversation on free speech. As usual, they’re looking to amplify the story.”

  “Sir?” Caslin inquired, still none-the-wiser as to why he was standing there. “What’s this got to do with Kuznetsov?”

  “Nestor Kuznetsov was a champion of free speech,” Sutherland stated.

  “He was?” Caslin asked, genuinely trying to refrain from laughing. To his mind, Kuznetsov was better described as a victim of the game of thrones that Russian oligarchs appeared to revel in.

  “At least, a self-proclaimed one,” Sinclair chimed in. “I understand your thinly veiled scepticism, Inspector. He was vocal about the state apparatus attempting to silence him both before, when he was in politics and since he came over to us. His death segues nicely into the media consciousness of the day.”

  “Are you aware of something that I’m not?” Caslin asked.

  Sutherland shook his head, “His suicide is far from welcome, particularly today.”

  “If indeed, it was a suicide, sir?” Caslin said.

  “And that is what you are being tasked to find out, Inspector,” Sinclair said.

  “Do what you do, Nathaniel. Only do it fast,” Sutherland added. Caslin attempted to read the expression of his Chief Superintendent. New to his current role, Caslin was yet to figure him out. His predecessor had been difficult, often self-serving and led to them having something of a strained relationship but Caslin knew where he stood most of the time. DCS Sutherland, on the other hand, was an entirely different character. One whom, Caslin hadn’t warmed to as of yet. Although nothing was ever said, the feeling appeared mutual. The present affability therefore, was unsettling. “We don’t want the speculation surrounding this case to gather pace. Once it’s rolling, an avalanche is unstoppable. Do you understand?”

  “It’s very clear, sir,” Caslin said.

  “Thank you, Inspector. DCI Matheson will require daily briefings which she will then bring to me,” Sutherland said before dismissing him. Caslin bid him farewell, doing the same to Sinclair and the other man who hadn’t made a sound throughout the entire meeting and made no attempt to rectify that.

  Leaving the office, Matheson fell into step alongside him. She didn’t speak until they were through the fire doors and into the stairwell, heading down towards CID.

  “Don’t let the pleasantries fool you, Nate,” she said, in a hushed tone, placing a restraining hand on his forearm. Caslin stopped on the stairs. Matheson glanced down, seeing they were alone. “They want this squared away, as soon as possible.”

  Caslin smiled but without genuine humour, “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “Take it seriously, Nate. They’ll be watching and this better not go the way-”

  “The way of what?” Caslin said, with more edge to his tone than he’d intended.

  Matheson took a deep breath, casting another eye around them to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard, “On another day, they’d be tearing strips off of you for what happened this morning in court.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning?” she repeated, “Meaning something else has come over the horizon to eclipse your debacle in court this morning.”

  “Difference of opinion,” Caslin countered.

  “And the weight of opinion is determined by your rank,” she replied, curtly. “Make no mistake, they’ll happily hang it around your neck and let you hang yourself should the need arise.”

  “There’s a thought,” Caslin replied. “Makes you wonder why they didn’t?”

  “Unwittingly or not, you trade on your past successes, Nathaniel. At the end of the day, they won’t protect you. Not without someone in your corner,”
she lowered her voice further, taking on a calmer tone, “It doesn’t matter how good you are nor what results you get.”

  “Who’s in my corner? You?” Caslin asked.

  Matheson locked eyes with him, “Yes. Until such time as I can’t be.”

  Caslin flicked his eyebrows. At least, she was being honest. Any other answer would’ve been a lie, “What’s with the hurry?”

  “Like it or not,” Matheson said, glancing over her shoulder to double-check she wouldn’t be overheard, “some cases come with a higher profile than we would like or than they might deserve. Just do your job efficiently and with minimal fuss.”

  “I won’t compromise the investigation.”

  “I know that. Nor am I asking you to.”

  “Then what are you asking of me?”

  “Just watch where you tread, Nathaniel. Ice can break, sometimes when you least expect it.”

  Footfalls on the polished stairs came to their ears and Caslin noted the approach of DS Hunter from below. They both fell silent as she made the final turn on the staircase, surprised to find her senior officers standing before her.

  “Sorry, Ma’am,” Hunter said, appearing awkward. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant. We’re done here,” she said, making to head back through the doors, towards her own office.

  Caslin took a couple of steps back up to the landing, calling after her, “Who was that, in the Super’s office? You know, silent Stan, sitting on his own?”

  Matheson stopped, holding the door open with one hand and looking over her shoulder at him, inclining her head slightly, “Watch your footing, Inspector.”

  He nodded, “I always do.” With that, Matheson walked through, allowing the door to swing closed behind her. Caslin sucked air through his teeth, eyeing the departing figure of his DCI through the glass window of the door. Further down the corridor, he saw her meet up with the senior officers as they left Sutherland’s office. Caslin took out his phone. Holding it up to the glass, he used his camera to zoom in and snap a shot of the group whilst they said their farewells in the narrow corridor.

  “What was all that about?” Hunter asked.

  “Not sure,” he replied, not wishing to elaborate further and putting his phone away. Turning to face her, he asked, “What did you want me for?”

  “Raisa Kuznetsova is downstairs, sir.”

  “The daughter?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s driven up from London.”

  “Has Iain Robertson removed her father’s body, from the scene?”

  Hunter nodded, “We just need the identification to take place and then Dr Taylor can begin the autopsy.”

  “You’ve spoken to Alison?”

  “She called me, sir, to see if I knew when the next of kin would arrive. From what I can gather, she’s been asked to fast-track it.”

  “That’s becoming a recurring theme, today.”

  “Sir?” Hunter asked. He shook his head, indicating for them to head downstairs.

  ***

  This was one of his least favourite aspects of the job. Caslin took a step back as Dr Taylor pulled the sheet back to reveal the face of Nestor Kuznetsov to his daughter, Raisa. In one movement, she expertly folded the sheet back beneath the chin, thereby masking the marks left by the ligature, on his throat.

  Raisa gasped almost inaudibly. That was the first time where she had offered any reaction to the events of the day, having barely spoken a word since they met back at Fulford Road. Up to this point, Raisa Kuznetsova had maintained an impassive stance. This left Caslin to consider whether she was either in shock or managing her composure with a personal strength far in excess of most bereaved relatives, in his experience.

  Raisa nodded almost imperceptibly, unable to take her eyes away from her father. At that moment, her eyes welled up and a solitary tear escaped to run the length of her cheek. Her face cracking, she stepped forward and reached out to touch her father’s face only for Caslin to step forward and place a reassuring hand on hers.

  “I am sorry, Miss,” Caslin said softly, as she turned her anguished expression towards him. “I’m sorry.”

  She understood, or at least drew back her hand, accepting she wasn’t able to make contact. Until certain there had been no foul play, they couldn’t allow any potential contamination of the evidence. It was cold but necessary. Guiding her away from the mortuary table, Alison Taylor recovered the body while Caslin led Raisa back out of the room. No matter who had died, even when the deceased was someone Caslin figured society could do without, he always felt for the relatives. Everyone was someone’s parent, child or loved one.

  Hunter closed the door behind them once they reached the corridor. Caslin offered Raisa one of the chairs off to their left. She declined. Withdrawing a tissue from her handbag, she wiped away the tears gathered in her eyes and attempted to correct the run of mascara she figured had now smudged. Despite her best efforts, she failed. Caslin was impressed. He judged her to be in her early twenties but carried herself as he would expect someone of greater years. Nor did she dress as he expected, being clothed in high-quality garments more befitting of an executive rather than a student. She met his eye and Caslin had the notion that she was assessing him just as much as he was her.

  “Who did this to my father?” she asked, in only slightly accented but otherwise perfect English. Caslin was momentarily taken aback.

  “We are keeping an open mind,” he replied, “but… we have to concede the possibility that he took his own life.”

  “No,” she retorted. “Not my father.”

  “You seem certain,” Hunter said.

  “I am,” she replied, glancing at Hunter. “If you knew my father, you would also understand that what you suggest is not possible.”

  “Were you close? With your father, I mean,” Caslin asked. She inclined her head in his direction.

  “Not particularly,” she said. “He was… a difficult man. Driven, opinionated and decidedly arrogant. These characteristics made him a hard man to spend time with but I loved him, all the same.”

  “And yet, you’re certain he wouldn’t have taken his own life?” Caslin pressed. In most cases, he would give relatives space with which to find their feet following the death of a loved one. However, this time, Raisa seemed willing to talk.

  “Not him.”

  “When did you speak with him, last?” Hunter asked, taking out her pocketbook.

  She thought on it for a moment before answering, “Perhaps, three days ago.”

  “Was he concerned about anything?” Caslin asked, “Did he sound himself or depressed, anxious maybe?”

  “No!” she snapped. “I told you. This is not a path he would ever have chosen.”

  “He had a recent court case. Were you aware of that?” Caslin asked.

  Raisa nodded, “Yes, against that…” She left the thought unfinished. Locking eyes with Caslin, her expression changed to one of calm menace. He was startled but hid it well. “He was far from a perfect man, or father, and in business… well, he could play games as well as the next but he valued two things ahead of all else. His family and his country.”

  “Does he have any other family members?”

  She shook her head, “Not here but back home in Russia, we have many.”

  “He must have missed them, judging by what you say,” Hunter offered.

  “I know what you are suggesting but you are wrong,” Raisa countered. “My father has recently professed to a willingness for him to return home.”

  Caslin was surprised, “Was that even possible under the circumstances?”

  “He has been conversing with the Kremlin through intermediaries for some months now. My father knew it would be difficult but spoke positively about it with me. As much as your country welcomed him, it is not Russia. It is not home.”

  “How advanced were these discussions?” Caslin asked.

  “There are many who would rather he never returned or at least, only r
eturned to be imprisoned,” Raisa said with venom. “Perhaps, some of those got their wish.”

  “Can you give us any names, who you might con-” Hunter began but Raisa’s attention was drawn away, looking over her shoulder as the doors at the end of the corridor opened. Two men came through. All present recognised them as they approached. Grigory Vitsin smiled as he came to stand before them, acknowledging Caslin. Both officers returned a polite greeting but Raisa merely fixed him with a gaze that Caslin found hard to read.

  “Raisa,” Vitsin began, speaking to her in their native tongue.

  “You should speak English, Grigory,” she instructed him. Vitsin’s smile faded but his eyes didn’t leave her.

  “You should have called,” he began again. “We would have met you and brought you here. There was no need for you to go through this alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” she countered, flatly, indicating Caslin.

  “All the same,” Vitsin said, “you should have called. We will escort you now. Make sure you are safe.”

  “Like you did my father?” she asked with a measured belligerence. Vitsin seemed unfazed by her tone. The smile returned. Caslin didn’t like it.

  “We would be happy to take you wherever you wish to go, Miss Kuznetsova,” Caslin said, flicking his eyes towards Vitsin. She turned to him.

  “There’s no need, Inspector but thank you for the offer,” she said politely, glancing in his direction. Caslin took one of his contact cards, from his wallet.

  “We have your details but, in the meantime, should you have the need you can reach me on this number at any time,” he said. She took the offered card “If you ever want to talk.” Taking the card and placing it in her pocket, she smiled in appreciation.

  “Come, Grigory,” she said, pointing towards a large suitcase resting against the wall. “My bag is over there.” Before he could respond, she set off along the corridor. Caslin stifled a grin as Vitsin appeared to bristle. The latter turned to the other man he’d arrived with, gesturing towards the case. He scurried over and collected it. For his part, Vitsin was away, attempting to catch up with the departing Raisa without another word. They watched the three Russians leave in silence. Caslin exhaled a deep breath.