Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  “And?” Caslin asked, not seeing an issue.

  “UK forces pulled out of combat operations back in 2014. Most of those who assisted our troops applied around then or before the withdrawal. Interpreters and the like - others who worked overtly with the occupying forces - were concerned about retaliation.”

  “From our former enemies, once our protection was removed. Yes, I know,” Caslin said. “Did Amin work for ISAF?”

  “That’s just it, sir,” Hunter continued. “I can find no record of him in the Home Office database. I can’t tell you when he arrived in the country or what the details surrounding his asylum application were. Likewise, there’s no confirmation of his status. No tax registration nor national insurance number has been issued in his name.”

  “Have you been on to the department?”

  Hunter affirmed, “Yes but, what with it being a Saturday afternoon I was brushed off. Apparently, I’ll need to speak to a case handler on Monday.”

  “Bank account or credit card?” Caslin queried, thinking hard. “He’ll have to be paying his way somehow.”

  “I spoke to Iain Robertson this morning. He’s finished cataloguing the contents of Amin’s flat and is shipping everything back to Fulford Road as we speak. We’ll be able to go through the paperwork there.” Caslin picked up a cinnamon swirl to go with his coffee and took a bite. Speaking through a mouthful, he waved the pastry in Hunter’s direction.

  “While I think about it,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of the same hand, “get some names for those at the demo yesterday. Particularly that one stirring it with the megaphone. Add those nearest him to the top of the list as well. If it is a racially motivated attack, then we have plenty of new faces floating about town to shake down.”

  “Will do, sir,” Hunter said, making a note.

  Caslin picked up his coffee and walked towards the living room, “I’ll take a shower and then we can head in. Make yourself comfortable.”

  ***

  Caslin surveyed the boxes, now stacked upon the desks in the CID squad room. Scanning through the nine-page inventory, he called out two box numbers. Indicating the first was for Terry Holt.

  “Yours contains the financials, Terry. We’re still none the wiser as to how this guy funds his existence,” he said, re-reading the list before him. “I know, by all accounts, he led a simple life but where did he get his income from? If he has a job where is it? Who did he work for and with? Once you know that, I want you following up on his colleagues, clients, delivery personnel, everything. Has he fallen out with anyone? Is there a grudge being brought to bear? Likewise, is there anyone in his circle who has form for violence, racially motivated or otherwise?”

  “What if he isn’t working, sir?” Holt queried, taking the lid off of his assigned archive-box and removing several large, sealed, plastic bags and placing them on the desk in front of him.

  “The man still had to eat, Terry. Find me who was picking up the tab,” Caslin said, returning his attention to the inventory. Scanning down, through the subsections detailing the contents he paused, hovering his finger over the description of a charger for a mobile phone. Resuming his search, he flipped through the following pages until he came across a list of the deceased’s reading matter. “No phone.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Hunter asked.

  “No mobile phone,” Caslin repeated.

  “Not that was found at the scene, no,” Hunter confirmed.

  “And yet, he had a charger stuck in the wall,” Caslin explained. “This guy liked reading. His books were focused on economics, science and the like.”

  Hunter nodded, “That’d be fair to say. So?”

  “That’s pretty heavy reading matter. I didn’t see anything else that he may have occupied his time with. No computer, stereo… He didn’t even have a television.”

  “And yet, he had a mobile phone?” Holt suggested. Caslin nodded. “Who doesn’t these days? You can barely get by without one.”

  “True,” Caslin agreed. “Still seems odd, mind you. At the very least, it’s missing so let’s find out as much as we can. Start chasing the providers and with a bit of luck it was a contract and we could get some joy with his call history. Something tells me this wasn’t a burglary gone wrong.”

  “The racial motive is pretty strong, sir,” Hunter said. “Judging by what we found at the scene.”

  Caslin nodded, “Undeniable. Particularly, bearing in mind the unrest we have in the city at the moment. Anybody else find it curious how the black shirts turned up when they did?”

  “You mean, Martin James and his Free Templars?” Hunter clarified.

  Caslin nodded, “Is that who it was?”

  “Yes. Along with the Seventh Brigade of the Free Templars,” Holt added. “Or at least, the five of them holding their flags with that printed in the corner.”

  “What is it with these fascists and their suits and uniforms?” Caslin asked, scorn evident on his face.

  “If you want to preach hate, you’ve got to do it in decent threads,” Holt said with a cutting smile, “apparently.”

  “What do we know about them?” Caslin asked.

  Hunter flicked through her notes, “A substantial amount. Martin James, as he likes to be known these days, has also gone under the names Simon Brown and Gary Wilson previously. His real name is Peter James Osgood-Bellamy. Presumably, his birth name doesn’t fit the man of the people persona that he wants to put across. Book sales to think about and all that.”

  “Strewth, he can write?” Caslin asked.

  “Several books, sir. Although, you won’t find them on the high street. I’m also certain they won’t mention his two convictions for assault, one being a domestic attack on a former partner nor his nine-month sentence for fraud, three-years ago. He served six-months in Pentonville for the latter.”

  “And the assaults?” Caslin asked.

  “He was given a year-long suspended for the first and spent another, tagged on license, for the second. No subsequent arrests.”

  Caslin thought about it, “Motivations?”

  Hunter shook her head, “Nothing racial if that’s where you’re going?” Caslin frowned, indicating for her to continue. “As for his lieutenants, they’re a nasty bunch. Several of those present at the demo are well known to their local police. We’ve convictions ranging from ABH, possession of offensive weapons to burglary and incitement to commit racial violence. They’re definitely worth a thorough look at in this case.”

  “Okay. Get a dossier together and we’ll go one by one. See if we have intel on their movements prior to Saturday’s altercation. If any of them were in the vicinity of Amin’s place let’s get them in. Seems odd, though…” he said, the thought tailing off.

  “Sir?” Hunter asked.

  “That they were so vocal under the circumstances.”

  “They were on the scene quickly, weren’t they?” Hunter said. “Although, the word was out right enough and local gossip was rife about what was going on.”

  “Surprised you noticed,” Holt said to Hunter, without making eye contact.

  “Meaning?” she queried. Holt shook his head.

  “Well, you know. What with beings indoors,” he replied.

  “And just what do you mean by that?” she pressed.

  “Enough. The pair of you. The thing about word spreading, though…” Caslin said, raising an eyebrow as he coaxed out the thought from his mind, “is that James and his nationalist idiots aren’t local. Someone said we had a call about Amin’s welfare.”

  “That’s right,” Holt said, glancing up from a loose collection of utility statements.

  “Who called it in? Do we know yet?” Caslin asked.

  Holt shook his head, “It was anonymous, sir. I’ve got the recording from the log but they used a payphone.”

  “I’m amazed he found one that still worked. So, for all we know, it could’ve been the killer tipping us off?”

  “I guess that’s possible,”
Hunter agreed. “But why do that? It just puts us onto him sooner.”

  “Or distracts us, pointing the investigation away from him and towards the demonstrators,” Caslin countered.

  “I’ll see if I can locate any CCTV from the area around the phone box,” Holt said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Good idea, Terry. In the meantime, Sarah,” he indicated Hunter, “is there anyone local who might fit this particular bill? I’m thinking of anyone with a record of racially aggravated violence, affiliations to neo-Nazi groups or such? In the absence of anything direct let’s cover the obvious and take it from there.” Caslin stood and picked up his coat.

  “Where are you headed, sir?” Hunter asked.

  “I’m off to see Dr Taylor to get the preliminaries from her. The detail will follow tomorrow but I’m hoping she can give us a steer. Robertson’s promised his initial assessment of the crime scene in a couple of hours. I’ll be back for that. What’s the time in Kabul?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir,” Hunter said, sounding bemused. “Why?”

  “They can’t be much more than four or five hours ahead,” Caslin offered. “If the Home Office is rubbish on a Sunday, perhaps their Interior Ministry may be more useful?”

  Hunter smiled, “Can’t hurt to ask.”

  Caslin left CID, turned to the right and headed for the stairs. The skeleton team staffing the station on a Sunday meant he didn’t cross paths with anyone. Despite all scheduled rest days being cancelled, the majority of officers were out on patrol or beating the streets trying to ensure the demonstrators were kept apart from one another. His footfalls echoed in the corridor as he made his way to the front entrance. Passing out through the security door to the lobby, he noted the civilian staffer on the front desk. He didn’t recognise her, assuming she was new. Casting her a sideways glance, he smiled, one that she returned. Reaching the front door, the sound of voices came to his ear in far greater numbers than he’d anticipated.

  Stepping out into the brilliant sunshine, Caslin shielded his eyes whilst they adjusted. At the bottom of the steps, barely six-feet wide, he faced a bank of people perhaps twenty strong. They blocked his path. It didn’t take him long to realise who they represented. On either side of the front line stood two men. Both were dressed in black with matching military-style berets, sporting white gloves that covered much of their forearms. They held Union Flags aloft embroidered at the edges with gold thread. Behind them were others, hoisting black flags, each with their own golden trim.

  At the head of the group stood a man who Caslin recognised from the protests of the previous day. Martin James, self-styled advocate for free speech with his neatly trimmed hair and pin-striped suit, was standing front and centre. Observing Caslin exiting the police station, he stepped forward.

  “And here is one of those covering up for the paedophiles that our government insists on bringing into our country!” he called in as dramatic a fashion as he could.

  Several of the group backed up the comment with muted appreciation. Caslin took a deep breath. The urge to return inside and slip out via the back was tempting. Only then, did he notice the assembled journalists off to his right-hand side. Looking beyond the crowd, Caslin judged his car was a minimum of fifty yards away. Steeling himself, he walked forward descending the steps.

  “Anything to say in response to that accusation?” a voice came at him from the journalists. Caslin ignored it, pressing on. The crowd allowed him some space although not much.

  “Defenders of paedos and rapists,” James continued his verbal barrage as Caslin walked past him. “It makes me sick!” Caslin couldn’t check himself in time. He turned to face his accuser, finding himself up close and far too confrontational in his stance.

  “There is no cover up,” he countered. Turning to the journalist who asked the question, he sneered, “What’s being discussed is a blatant lie. No doubt fuelled by this idiot!”

  “It’s Rochdale all over again,” James argued, referring to a high-profile case of sexual-grooming of vulnerable children that’d occurred in the city.

  “There’s no evidence for that, none! You and your lot are the problem here. We’ve got no issues with immigrants in this city,” Caslin snapped, pointing an accusatory finger. Martin James smiled in return. “Any issue that’s raised, any suggestion of impropriety and people like you descend on it with your dog-whistle rhetoric. We’re investigating a murder. Nothing more.”

  “Free speech,” James countered to much applause and cheering from those around him. “And you’ve all heard it. They’re turning a blind eye… again!”

  Caslin turned away, with a shake of the head and resumed his walk to the car. A microphone was pushed in front of him and he brushed it aside scowling at the man holding it.

  “You lot aren’t much better,” Caslin stated, increasing his pace.

  Photographers were taking pictures of him and Caslin regretted his part in the entire altercation. With hindsight, he should never have engaged at all. He knew better than to do so.

  No-one followed him to his car and he was relieved to reach the sanctity of the interior. Pulling the door closed, he started the engine and pulled away as quickly as he dared. Once out of the car park, he turned right onto Fulford Road and travelled barely a hundred yards before pulling into the kerb. Putting his hazard lights on, he sank back in his seat and tilted his face skywards. Pressing into his eyes with the heel of his palms, he sought to calm down. Martin James was one hell of a self-publicist who knew how to keep himself relevant. Of that, Caslin had no doubt. Something told him, he hadn’t seen the last of him and his so-called Templars.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he eyed a break in the traffic. Pulling out, he resumed his drive across the city to Alison Taylor’s pathology lab.

  Chapter 11

  If the station was considerably quieter on the weekend, then pathology was a ghost town in comparison. Caslin waited at the entrance for what seemed like twenty minutes but in reality, was less than ten, for Alison to come up from her laboratory and let him through.

  “If you could see your way clear to not delivering me a body for a couple of days, I’d appreciate it,” she said, with a warm smile, pulling the door open. “A weekend off would be nice.”

  Caslin grinned, “I’m sorry. Death waits for no-one.” Dr Taylor returned the smile and they set off back into the building. Despite being indoors, Caslin drew his coat about him. “I know you have to keep it cool for the bodies but any chance the rest of the place can be a bit warmer?”

  “The heating’s on a timer,” she explained. “It’s Sunday. No one is supposed to be here. I pulled an all-nighter with your man. So, once we’re through I won’t be here either.”

  At that point, Caslin noticed the dark rings under her eyes. He should’ve picked up on that earlier. Within a couple of minutes, they arrived in the mortuary. Dr Taylor crossed to her workstation in order to retrieve her notes. Caslin looked around for the body.

  “He’s in D4, if you want to pull him out,” she said, realising what he was thinking. Caslin scanned the numbering of the storage refrigerators where she indicated and located the unit. Pulling the handle, he swung the door open and pulled on the shelf. The metal tray slid out effortlessly on its runners. Farzaad Amin was enclosed in a black mortuary bag. Dr Taylor came alongside, passing him a small tub of nasal decongestant. Unscrewing the lid, he dabbed a little of the gel under his nostrils. The burning sensation began almost immediately, intensifying within seconds and bringing tears to his eyes. This was however, far more agreeable than the smell of a decomposing body.

  Caslin unzipped the bag, running it down to Amin’s waistline. Paradoxically, the body seemed in a far better condition than when he had last seen it at the crime scene. Despite the extra incisions, caused during the autopsy process and subsequent stitching, the wounds appeared less violent now what with the excess blood having been cleaned away.

  “You’ll need to unzip it further,” Alison said without l
ooking up, familiarising herself with her notes.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You’ll see,” she replied. Caslin did as instructed, running the zipper down. No further explanation was necessary as Caslin noted Amin’s penis had been removed approximately halfway up the shaft. Even to his untrained eye, the process was executed somewhat roughly. Caslin winced at the barbarity of the action.

  “Cause of death?” he asked.

  “A massive haemorrhage following a single cut to a carotid artery, in the throat,” Dr Taylor confirmed. Caslin moved to the victim’s head and inclined his own in order to get a better view. He could see several wounds whereas previously, he’d only noted the one. “I would suggest that the victim didn’t remain still to allow his throat to be cut. The wound itself, that caused the arterial rupture, is not large. As you can see, there are several other, shallow incisions above and below. That suggests the head was not sufficiently immobilised and there was a brief struggle.”

  “Why do you think it was brief?”

  “The number of other cuts tell me there was resistance but they are not random enough to indicate he was moving significantly.”

  “Someone was holding him?”

  “Probably,” she confirmed.

  “Two killers?” Caslin asked, casting a glance up to her.

  “Possibly. However, the other injuries he sustained prior to that would’ve left him weakened and so, that would require speculation on my part. Interestingly though, most homicides of this nature, where a throat is cut, produce similar results.

  The wound is usually located from just below the ear and then runs obliquely downward and medially across the throat, towards the other side. If the killer is right-handed, the cut is deeper on the victim’s left side and tails off as the blade comes across to the right, ending slightly lower than the starting point. The opposite being true with a left-handed individual.

  This is the norm if the killer is standing behind the victim and pulling back on the scalp in order to open up the target area. However, in this case, the killer was standing in front and towering over the victim.”