Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  The Kuznetsov case had more to it, his instinct told him so. More pressing though, was the spark of racial hatred threatening to set light to the city. His fear was such that the attack on the mosque was but the beginning and although on this occasion, no one had died any further escalation could well change matters. Fortunately, it transpired no one else was in the building when the fire was lit and the Imam was now in a stable condition, at least, when Caslin had left the hospital. Had he not been passing, Caslin was well aware they’d have another murder case on their hands rather than an arsonist to chase down.

  ***

  Caslin awoke with a start. It took a moment to get his bearings. Still dark outside, he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly four in the morning. He must’ve dozed off in the chair. There was a forceful knock on the door to his apartment. Figuring that was what had woken him, he dragged himself upright, ignoring the pain that screamed at him as a result of stiffened muscles. Crossing to the front windows overlooking the street, he cast a wary eye down onto Stonegate. Everything was still, without any movement in sight. There was another knock. Whoever was seeking his attention had already bypassed the security door to the communal entrance or had he left it open? He couldn’t remember. Whoever was so keen to see him would, in all likelihood, wake his landlady in the next apartment if they didn’t rein it in.

  Making his way into the hallway, he approached the door and peered through the spy hole. Two men stood on the landing, one in front of the door while the other waited a few steps to the rear, facing down the stairwell. He didn’t know them, of that he was sure but the first appeared somewhat familiar. Unhooking the latch, Caslin opened the door. The man standing before him was probably in his late fifties, smartly dressed in a well-tailored overcoat. His facial appearance was well manicured, clean-shaven and bearing frameless glasses. He smiled warmly, in greeting.

  “Inspector Caslin, I believe?” he said in a tone matching his smile. Caslin bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

  “You do know what time it is, don’t you?”

  “I apologise, Inspector. I’m still on Washington time,” he said sincerely. Caslin did a quick calculation in his head.

  “Still makes it late,” he said, wondering whether he was right.

  “Indeed, but some things just cannot wait,” he agreed. “My name is Walsh, Cory Walsh. May I come inside?” he asked, removing his gloves and offering Caslin his hand. Caslin took it and inclined his head to invite him inside.

  Caslin glanced beyond him as he stepped aside, allowing his visitor room to enter, towards the other man standing patiently in the background. As if aware of the attention, he glanced in Caslin’s direction but only for a fleeting moment. He was younger, focused. Caslin had seen the likes of him before, most likely ex-military, now working in the private sector. Walsh turned to see Caslin checking out his associate.

  “My friend will wait outside, Inspector Caslin. We are quite sure I am safe with you.”

  “Any reason you wouldn’t be safe anywhere else?” Caslin asked, pushing the door to and directing his guest into the living room.

  “One can never be too careful,” Walsh replied, eyeing the surroundings as he entered the room. Caslin followed, flicking on the nearest light. The lamp caused him to blink with it being far brighter than the light permeating the apartment from the street outside. Caslin offered a seat with an open hand, leaning his back against the wall and folding his arms before him.

  “What brings you to my door in the middle of the night, Mr Walsh?”

  “Forgive the clandestine approach, Mr Caslin. I know it appears a little cloak and dagger but I do have my reasons,” Walsh said, putting his gloves together and placing them neatly on the dining table alongside him. “I saw you the other day at the demonstration on Walmgate. The one that got out of hand. You saw me too, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Caslin recalled. Walsh had been the passenger in the Maybach. He hadn’t gotten around to following up on the licence plate. Presumably now, he no longer had the need. “Why were you there, Mr Walsh?”

  “Please, you can call me Cory,” Walsh replied.

  Caslin shrugged, “If you like.”

  “I was in the city for a meeting. A rallying call so to speak. That’s what I do these days, since I retired from my business activities.”

  “What kind of business did you do, Mr Walsh?”

  “Investments, brokerage. I ran my own firm, quite successfully I should add, for several decades.”

  “Financial securities?” Caslin clarified. Walsh nodded. “And now?”

  “I’m a lobbyist, you could say,” Walsh said, with a smile. To Caslin, he carried the confidence and assuredness of a successful man but also managed a quiet affability that made him come across as an instantly likeable figure. Which Caslin felt was odd, for he rarely liked anyone on their first meeting. “My work takes me all over the developed world. Sometimes I lose track of exactly where I am.”

  “And ensures you keep odd hours.”

  “Quite true, Nathaniel,” Walsh said grinning. “Do you mind if I call you, Nathaniel?”

  Caslin shrugged to indicate he didn’t mind, “What is it I can do for you?”

  “Am I to understand you are leading an investigation into the murder that occurred the other day. The one at the flat, Farzaad… I’m sorry, his name escapes me.”

  “Farzaad Amin,” Caslin offered. It wasn’t being withheld and had been splashed across the media over the previous few days. “What of it? Did you know him?”

  Walsh shook his head, “No, I’d never met the man. However,” he said, shaking an index finger pointedly, “I am led to believe that you are following this up as a racially motivated crime. Would this be correct?”

  Caslin grimaced, exaggerating his expression, “I’m sorry. There’s no way I can discuss an ongoing case with a civilian. I’m sure you understand. A couple of questions of my own spring to mind, though. How do you know that, hypothetically speaking and… why do you care enough to come to my door in the middle of the night? I have to tell you, pretty creepy, if you weren’t such a well-mannered guy.”

  Walsh smiled, “Let me just say, I move in influential circles. Sometimes, I come across information that’s not widely disseminated.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable, I have to say,” Caslin offered. “So, why are you here?”

  “I think you’re approaching this from the wrong angle,” Walsh said, fixing his gaze onto Caslin.

  “Is that so? Tell me why?” Caslin asked, intrigued. Walsh smiled. Reaching into an inner pocket of his overcoat, he retrieved a small notebook and pen. Placing the book on the table, he opened it up to a blank page and scribbled something. Tearing the page out and folding it in half, he returned both notebook and pen to the confines of his coat and stood up. Picking the paper up from the dining table, he crossed the room to stand before Caslin. Holding out the slip of paper, Caslin reached over and took a hold but Walsh didn’t release his own grip. Caslin met his eye.

  “If I were to tell you what I think I know, Inspector. You would probably have me sectioned,” he said, releasing his hold on the paper. Caslin took it but kept his gaze on the man standing over him. “I often find it better for someone to choose their own path with which to reach their destination. That way, the journey is far more rewarding. Perhaps then, we can speak again. Please don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

  Caslin broke eye contact as Walsh left the living room, turning his attention to the piece of paper. He casually opened it as the sound of the latch to his front door, clicking into place, came to his ear.

  There was a name written upon the paper, alongside a mobile phone number. The name was Alexander Nairn. Placing the paper on the side table next to him, Caslin stood and crossed the room. Coming to stand before one of the windows overlooking the street, he glanced down as Walsh and his minder exited Kleiser’s Court and set off along Stonegate. He watched them until they disappeared
from view a few seconds later.

  There was something about that name that chimed in Caslin’s memory but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why. Absolutely certain that he had never met the man nor come across him in an inquiry, Caslin left the window and returning to his seat, scooping up his phone. Accessing the internet, he typed in the name and hit return. Within moments a list of web links came up and then he realised. Alexander Nairn had been killed the previous year in York.

  Caslin vaguely remembered the incident but knew it was covered by colleagues based out of the Acomb Road Station. Refreshing his memory with detail from a local newspaper, Caslin read how the property financier had committed suicide by throwing himself in front of a train. It had been broad daylight on a hot summer’s day, witnessed by dozens of commuters. Nairn had died instantly. Scanning through several entries on the returned list, Caslin was none the wiser as to how the unequivocal suicide fitted into this case. Blowing out his cheeks, he brought his palms up to his face and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palms. Suddenly, he felt tired.

  Scrolling through his contacts on his phone, Caslin reached the CID telephone number for the Acomb Road Police Station. Dialling it, he waited patiently for the call to be answered. It wasn’t long.

  “CID,” an abrupt voice, answered.

  “DI Caslin, Fulford Road,” he said.

  “Hello, sir. It’s Mark Sampson. Trouble sleeping? What can I do for you?”

  “Hi Mark. I know it’s going back a bit but do you recollect the Nairn suicide from last year? The guy threw himself-”

  “In front of a train,” Detective Sergeant Sampson finished for him. “Aye, I do. What of it?”

  “Who was the investigating officer?” Caslin asked.

  “Oh… you’ve got me there. I’d have to look it up. Why do you ask… at four-thirty in the morning?”

  Caslin laughed, “You know me, Mark. I couldn’t sleep. Any chance you could fish out the file for me? I’ll be over to yours first thing to have a look.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s been a quiet one tonight. Only the little matter of the fire-bombing over your way that’s put everyone on edge. It’s mental. Did you hear about that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard something about it,” Caslin said.

  “Leave it with me and I’ll dig out what I can. I’m not sure how much there will be, though. It was a pretty clean suicide, investigation wise anyway.”

  “Thanks, Mark. I’ll see you,” Caslin said, hanging up.

  Rising from his seat, Caslin tossed his phone aside and headed into the bedroom. Not bothering to get undressed, he sank onto the bed and closed his eyes. However, sleep would not come.

  ***

  The sound of the car horn caught his attention. Checking for a break in the traffic, Caslin trotted between two cars and crossed to the other side of the road. Hunter leant across and opened the passenger door for him. Caslin levered it further open with his foot and slid into the seat. Passing Hunter one of the coffees he had just purchased while waiting for her, he placed his own precariously onto the dashboard as he attached his seatbelt.

  “How are you, after last night?” Hunter enquired.

  “I’ll be grand, don’t worry,” he replied, retrieving his coffee cup before Hunter pulled back out into the commuter traffic. The car behind flashed their lights, Caslin caught a glimpse in the side mirror unsure of whether it was an act of aggression or not. Hunter didn’t comment so nor did he. Hunter negotiated the traffic of the ring road like a professional. A professional racing driver anyway. She never used to drive in such a manner, always being measured and methodical. Much like her approach to life in general.

  “So, are you going to tell me why we’re heading to Acomb Road?” she asked, tapping her steering wheel and sounding the horn to encourage a car in front to edge forward and allow her to take the next left turn. The car did so and she accelerated through the gap, the nearside front tyre sliding along the kerb.

  “The station isn’t going anywhere you know?” Caslin said. Hunter flicked a glance in his direction but said nothing. “Do you remember a suicide from last year? A guy killed himself by jumping in front of a train?”

  “Vaguely,” Hunter said. “What of it?”

  “That’s exactly what I intend for us to find out,” Caslin replied, looking over at her. He considered taking the lid off his coffee cup, preferring not to drink through the slot but, as Hunter took another turn and he braced one arm against the door to steady himself, he thought better of it.

  They pulled into the car park of the station ten minutes later. Far smaller than Fulford Road, largely due to the size of the area they policed, the officers based at Acomb Road were responsible for covering the western side of the city. Getting out of the car, Caslin finished what remained of his coffee while Hunter brought hers inside with them. They signed in at the front desk and were buzzed through into the back offices. They had both been here many times, Hunter in particular was greeted warmly by every face they came across. Having been stationed there in her first role within CID, as a Detective Constable, six years previously she was a popular member of the team and most hadn’t seen her since her enforced absence from the job.

  On the way up the stairs they came across DS Sampson on the half-landing, presumably on his way home following the night shift.

  “Sir,” he said, shaking Caslin’s hand. Hunter got a quick embrace bringing a big smile to her face. “It was DC Watkins who investigated your man, Nairn. He’s upstairs,” Sampson said, indicating over his shoulder, “I told him you were coming.”

  “Thanks, Mark,” Caslin said. “Did you take a look yourself?”

  “I did, aye,” he replied. “I didn’t see anything odd about it, though. Why, what’s your interest?”

  “Only a passing one,” Caslin replied. Sampson acknowledged him, offered Hunter a wink and set off downstairs.

  They resumed their course up to CID, entering the compact squad-room moments later. DC Watkins noted their arrival and came over to greet them. He shook their hands in turn. Caslin hadn’t come across the young man before. He guessed he was new to the team seeing as Hunter appeared to have no connection with him either.

  “Tell me about Alexander Nairn,” Caslin asked, as he was passed the case file and opened it to examine the contents.

  “Relatively straightforward, sir,” Watkins began. “A property financier, cum-developer. Left his office one afternoon and made his way to the railway line, clambered over a security fence and stepped in front of the next passing train.”

  “Witnesses?” Caslin asked, without looking up from the file.

  “At least seven, sir,” Watkins said. “Two people reported seeing him standing behind the fence before scaling it to gain access to the line. The others watched as he casually walked onto the line as the train approached.”

  “Was there anyone nearby that he was communicating with or perhaps talking to on the phone?” Hunter asked.

  Watkins shook his head, “No. He was alone on the track. Witnesses reported he appeared very calm. He was a well-dressed businessman who looked out of place there but no one saw a cause for alarm until the approach of the train.”

  “Were you able to ascertain his state of mind? Any history of mental illness, anxiety?” Caslin said, glancing up.

  Again, Watkins shrugged in the negative, “Not at all. His colleagues stated he appeared quite normal. He had a stressful job but nothing that appeared to overburden him. I must say, his wife was shocked but, speaking with her later, she seemed to piece past behaviours together. Ultimately, she wasn’t surprised by what he did.”

  “The coroner ruled it as a suicide,” Caslin said, scanning the transcript of the coroner’s summation.

  “Yes. We couldn’t see it any other way.”

  “And there was nothing unusual. Nothing that struck you as odd or out of place?” Caslin asked.

  Watkins shook his head, “Not at all. It was my first case but, even refreshing it
in my mind this morning I don’t see I would have done anything differently. It was a slam dunk.”

  “Appears so,” Caslin replied.

  “Sir?” Watkins enquired. Caslin looked to him, raising his eyebrows. “Can I ask why you want to know? Did I miss something?” he asked, looking and sounding nervous. Caslin shook his head.

  “Not as far as I’m aware. It looks pretty concrete,” he reassured him and watched as a weight appeared to lift from the young man’s shoulders.

  “So, why are you looking into it?”

  “I’m not. Not really,” Caslin replied with a half-smile. “Nairn’s name has come up in an unrelated matter and we have to follow it up. That’s all. Can we borrow this?” he asked, indicating the file he held in his hands.

  “You’ll have to sign for it,” Watkins replied before realising he was stating the obvious.

  “Of course,” Caslin replied. Watkins turned to find a pen and Caslin passed the file to Hunter. She looked him in the eye with an inquisitive gaze. She knew there was something here but had no idea what Caslin was looking for. She started to leaf through the paperwork while Caslin signed the appropriate documentation. “There you go,” Caslin said, handing the sheet back to the detective constable.

  “You’ll let me know if I can help, won’t you?” Watkins asked. Caslin nodded. “Or, if you come across anything… you know, that…?”

  “We will, son. We will,” Caslin said, clapping him on the upper arm. With that said, they bid farewell and left CID. Hunter tucked the file under her arm as they descended the stairs back to the ground floor.

  “What’s going on, sir?” she asked quietly, once she was confident they’d not be overheard.

  “There’s one thing missing from that file,” Caslin said, lowering his own voice as they made their way along the corridor towards the front desk.

  “What’s that?”

  “A reason,” he replied.

  “C’mon, sir,” Hunter protested. “There isn’t always a reason someone does this.”

  “True,” he agreed. “But young Watkins up there didn’t have much cause to look for one.”