Condemned Read online

  ‘What happened?’ said Charley, clearly unimpressed.

  ‘I eventually caught up with them one evening. I saw a light in the house one night as I was driving home. I stopped. Knocked on the door, and when no one answered, I looked through the one of the windows at the back and I could see them sitting together, watching the TV. I banged on the door again and when they didn’t answer, I rapped on the window. Mr Dixon came to the door eventually. He didn’t invite me in, instead he kept me on the doorstep. He told me that they intended to leave the next morning, and to be perfectly honest, I was glad to hear it. The last thing the owners wanted was squatters. They want the house sold, gone.’

  ‘What of all the money they owed? The owners of the property must have been expectant?’ said Charley.

  ‘Mr Dixon told me that if I wanted money, we would have to sue him because he didn’t have it. He became aggressive, and well—’ Raglan rubbed his neck, the tic was obviously disturbing him, too, ‘—he didn’t come across as the sort of man you’d want to argue with, if you know what I mean. Especially late at night. I told him that I would be back the next morning with a locksmith to change the locks, and they’d better be gone, and that’s how I left it.’

  ‘Where are the cheques now?’ asked Charley, holding his gaze.

  Raglan screwed up his face. ‘I wouldn’t know.’ His eyes dropped to the file, and with what appeared to be shaking hands, he rummaged through the paperwork, but the cheques were nowhere to be seen.

  Mike’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t believe that without further hassle they left, just like that,’ he said, ‘and you just let them?’

  ‘Well, they did.’ Mr Raglan mopped his forehead with the neatly-folded handkerchief which he had extracted from his shirt pocket.

  ‘Without any further arguments the Dixons left, just like that?’ repeated Mike. ‘Doesn’t that seem odd to you? Given Mr Dixon’s previous aggression and their evasiveness.’

  ‘Well it did, but then they’d had free accommodation for the time they were here, and lucky for us we had a new interest in Crownest from James Thomas, at JT Developments, who had heard that the planning permission that they had sought, and had previously been declined, had now been passed in principle. And, although the Dixons had done some damage inside the property, this didn’t matter to him because JT Developments had only one thing on their mind, and that was its demolition.’

  ‘How coincidental,’ said Charley.

  ‘You didn’t think to report the crime then?’ asked Mike.

  Raglan looked Mike straight in the eye. ‘What was the point? It would hardly be top priority for the police, would it? I didn’t want adverse publicity, and this time the purchase went through very quickly because it was a cash sale. I’ve learnt that sometimes it’s better to put certain things down to experience, move on, and learn from it. I’m sure you’ll learn that too, given time.’

  Charley ignored the remark, although she conceded it to be true. ‘The evening before the Dixons left, was this the last time you visited the house?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve had no reason to go to the house since. I have people who do the day-to-day stuff.’ Jonathan Raglan closed the file, sat back in his chair, took a deep breath, and sighed deeply again. ‘Now, is that all?’

  Mike shuffled to the edge of his chair, scratching his head. ‘There’s just one thing that is bugging me,’ he said.

  Raglan frowned.

  ‘I’ve heard you’re a shrewd businessman. You’ve been here for what, two decades?’

  Raglan nodded as he held himself stiffly.

  ‘When I’ve looked at Brad Dixon’s convictions, I can see that he was charged with burglary at these very business premises some years back, and yet you didn’t feel the need to mention this to us either?’

  Chapter 16

  Raglan straightened up and frowned. ‘I might be old, but I’m not senile yet. I can’t recall that incident. Are you certain?’

  Charley nodded her head, something akin to suspicion in her eyes. ‘Yes, we are. It’s strange that you can’t remember. You haven’t had a burglary since, have you? Or, if you have, it hasn’t been reported to the police.’

  The old man’s jaw clenched, emotion flared behind his eyes, he let out a long puff of air, and opened his eyes, blinking hard purposely it seemed, to clear his mind. Now, falling back heavily in his chair he appeared to be somewhat breathless. ‘No, no we haven’t. Well I must say, you’ve taken the wind right out of my sails. I didn’t make the connection. Who’d have thought it? There you go!’ He paused.

  At Mike’s look, he continued. ‘As you can appreciate, I have the reputation of the business to think of,’ he said, more quietly.

  ‘Yes, and you will appreciate, Mr Raglan, we have two murders to investigate at a property for which you are the sole agents. It goes without saying that we too have a reputation, but ours is for ascertaining the truth.’ Charley’s tone shifted. ‘If people deliberately lie to us, then that may be classed as an obstruction, and that’s extremely unhelpful in any enquiry, let alone something as serious as murder.’

  Raglan had the grace to look suitably ashamed. ‘I understand.’ The tic on his neck pulsed frantically. However, it didn’t appear to impair his speech, which was now stronger than the detective had expected, and he appeared to have no problem venting his feelings as he slapped a hand on his neck in what seemed like frustration, in an attempt to lessen his body’s reaction to the upset. With his other hand he made a balled fist and slammed it on the desk again.

  ‘What else are you not telling us, Mr Raglan?’ Charley asked.

  ‘I’m telling you what I do know,’ he said, picking up the property file and waving it fleetingly in the air. ‘Everything is duly, meticulously recorded here. The previous owners inherited Crownest. A property they neither needed nor desired to keep. Our instruction was to sell it, for as much as possible.’ Mr Raglan paused. In that moment his eyes lit up. ‘Ah, the Hayfields, that’s what I’ve been trying think of. The owners, I recall that they live on the south coast, in a little village called Milford-On-Sea, in Hampshire. I’ve never met them, but I have spoken from time to time over the years, to the gentleman on the telephone. He was happy to leave the sale in our hands, knowing it isn’t easy to market this type of property, especially one with such a lurid past.’

  Charley stood, and Mike followed her lead. She thanked Raglan for his time, told him not to get up, and reminded him that the missing cheques might play an important part in the investigation, and that she would await his response. And if there was an issue with obtaining the records of the bounced cheques from the bank, which she also wanted to see, then she would be happy to contact them direct. Mike Blake leaned across the desk to shake the old man’s hand. Swiftly, he picked up the empty cups and saucers, proffering a smile. ‘I used to be in the hospitality business,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Hate to see dirty pots lying around.’

  Charley waited for Mike to go through the office door that she held open for him. ‘By the way,’ she said, turning around, ‘We will need a copy of the Crownest file for our records.’

  Raglan looked taken aback. ‘It contains personal data.’

  ‘That’s okay. We will treat it as such. Unless you have a problem with that, and you would like us to obtain a warrant?’

  Raglan shook his head.

  ‘Good, I was hoping that you would want to co-operate.’

  Miss Finch accepted the crockery from Mike with a soft thank you and a weak smile. He had placed his calling card on the saucer. She eyed it suspiciously for a moment or two, but as Charley stopped at the glass front door on to the High Street, and opened it, she saw the receptionist spinning the card between her fingers, before she slipped it into her handbag, which was positioned at her feet near her desk.

  The main street seemed extra busy as they walked back to the Incident Room; everyone it seemed was heading in the opposite direction. Mike struggled to keep up with Charley’s long determined stride
and dodge the crowd at the same time.

  ‘What did you think?’ asked Charley.

  ‘To be honest, I wondered if, off the record JT has bunged Raglan a wedge to be able to buy the property, with the prospect of advertising the new builds for him?’

  ‘Mmm… You’re probably right. We’ll see if Raglan manages to produce the cheques. If the bank had returned them, you’d have thought they’d have been attached to the file. I reckon he might’ve also done a cash-in-hand deal with the Dixons to stay in the property, judging by his reaction to our questions. I’m going to get the intelligence unit to do some digging into his background and into the financial state of the company.’

  Mike looked amused. ‘The Dixons don’t sound to me like the type of people who would have a bank account, never mind a cheque book, especially these days. Or at least not one they rightly own.’

  ‘Me neither. Make a note, we didn’t ask him if he had a firearm, but he’s not on the firearms register, I’ve checked.’

  * * *

  On their arrival at Peel Street Police Station, the great glass doors glided open. In Reception, Marty was dealing with an obnoxious ‘customer’, who was apparently late answering his bail. He lifted his head briefly, acknowledged their presence, and automatically pressed the button to allow them to enter the inner sanctum of the police station once the buzzer had sounded. Charley winked at the older man, and with a confident swagger marched through the door.

  ‘Is his daughter back at work now?’ Mike said, glancing at Marty through the glass partition.

  ‘Kristine? Yes, light duties only. She’s still in her wheelchair, but most importantly, she’s back in the saddle; something I never thought possible after the accident that killed Eddie.’

  ‘You’ve been friends with Kristine forever, right?’

  Charley nodded.

  ‘Is it true that you both joined up at the same time?’ he said.

  ‘Same time, same passion. Horses.’ The mention of horses, and the thought of her best friend Kristine and the hobby that they shared, caused a warm feeling to flush through Charley’s veins. Instinctively her hand went to the golden horseshoe hanging from a chain around her neck. It felt warm and reassuring to her touch.

  Charley stood on the first landing of the police station and looked down at Mike climbing the stairs, slowly, one step at a time. She would never tire of the view from this window which showed her the historic town buildings of Huddersfield, and the green rolling hills and valleys beyond. ‘However, circumstances out of my control took me on a very different path to Kristine,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s back working with the horses.’

  ‘Things happen for a reason, so they say,’ said Mike as he joined her.

  ‘Yes, so they say. If I hadn’t been sent on secondment to London, studied for my Inspector’s exams, and got promotion to take up the position of head of CID here, then maybe we wouldn’t have found out who was responsible for it,’ she said turning to face him briefly, before pushing through the door to see a windowless corridor. They walked past the management offices with their closed doors in silence, their conversation on the subject clearly over.

  Mike followed a hurrying Charley through the Incident Room into her office. ‘I get the impression that won’t be our only visit to Raglan’s estate agency.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. It’d be nice to find something to get under his skin so we could rattle his cage. Let’s face it, his going to the house to challenge the Dixons about the rent seems highly improbable. He’s unlikely to intimidate anyone, let alone a couple of armed robbers. They’d eat him alive!’

  ‘Unless he had something, or someone with him to intimidate, or frighten them?’ suggested Mike.

  ‘Or he was carrying a gun?’

  Inside Charley’s office there were papers and documents piled up on the SIO’s desk ready for her signature. Charley gave priority relating to items that Forensics had examined; then there was a visit to the mortuary to arrange to see what else could be gleaned from the sets of human remains.

  Charley was drawn to the formal report on the pagan dagger, and her instinct told her that it would be naive not to research more about the present-day local pagan following. Charley was well aware of the district’s annual Imbolc Gaelic festival, which marked St Brigid’s Day and the end of winter. The traditional event took place between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. When she was younger and had lived in the area, she had always enjoyed the community celebration, while being in awe of the fire-eaters and fire-dancers. The memory of being frightened by the sculptures when walking through the woods near the Standedge Tunnel made her smile. The festival embraced the turning of the year and celebrated the first stirrings of spring, and was imbued with the idea of growth and renewal.

  When she had policed the event as a young uniformed officer, she had taken a different viewpoint. Issues concerning health and safety were paramount at the event. Charley was conditioned to be an unbeliever, primarily because of her job, unless evidence was ever to prove otherwise. However, as she had been brought up by folklorists, she also tried to keep an open mind, as she had read too much compelling evidence that could not be explained rationally.

  The spell was broken by the arrival of a message on her screen, and her mind instantly switched to thoughts of Lily Pritchard, at St Anne’s Church. She wondered what she might know of local pagan history. She was intrigued to know what the church records might reveal, but with her eye on the clock, and the mortuary to visit, she knew that that line of enquiry would have to wait. Whilst murder investigations required energy, drive, passion and determination, they also needed a vast amount of patience.

  She hoped the examination of the bones and remnants of flesh that she was about to witness would reveal more to help them find the killers.

  And although the victims had died years apart, Charley had no idea if they were related or not. The DNA analysis would confirm it either way.

  Chapter 17

  The post-mortem examination of the female skeleton confirmed much of what the police already knew. ‘We’re very lucky, Inspector, to have the skeletal remains intact.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ said Charley, coffee mug in hand in the anteroom at the mortuary, as Professor Davis Chevelle prepared for the theatre.

  ‘The osseous labyrinth inside the petrous temporal bone has higher amounts of endogenous DNA than any other skeletal element. A minimally invasive cranial-base drilling method, called C.B.D.M, will enable us to access this area of the temporal bone, from the basal region of a complete skull without, you’ll be pleased to hear, causing damage to the anthropologically important cranial features.’

  ‘Sounds costly. In simple terms, tell me if I’m wrong, but, am I right in thinking that you intend to drill a small hole carefully, at the rear of the skull?’

  ‘Isn’t everything costly these days, Inspector?!’ replied the professor.

  ‘HQ will no doubt be on to me about expenditure, especially in these times of cutbacks, but how can you put a price tag on a murder investigation?’

  Annie was at Charley’s side, glad she was distanced from the odour associated with the dissection of bodies by the walls and the pane of glass of the viewing room.

  ‘There’s a suggestion that there was some discussion about the woman having stabbed herself,’ Charley said.

  Professor Chevelle’s eyes found hers. ‘Certainly not. It’s more likely that stabbing yourself in the chest would result in a small, moderately painful wound, minor blood loss, and possible infection, but that’s all.’

  Annie stood and demonstrated the action. ‘Even if she used both hands, with force, like this?’

  ‘It’s actually incredibly difficult to kill yourself by stabbing yourself in the chest hard enough and accurately enough, against your pain and reflexes, to do any real damage. Unless of course you happened to drop dead from the shock, in which case you might succeed.’

  ‘I guess even if it was possible, we’d h
ave to ask ourselves who laid her out, and built the secondary wall to hide her remains, if it wasn’t the murderer.’ Annie turned to Charley. ‘An accomplice, maybe?’

  ‘If it was suicide there’d be no need for concealment,’ said Charley, ‘so I think we can safely say she was murdered, but by whom and why, that’s the question. Once we know who she is, then we might have possible suspects by association.’

  ‘Find out how she lived, and we’ll find out how she died?’ concluded Annie.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Charley.

  ‘I guess we can safely say that the murderer is dead by now too, judging by the estimated age of the corpse, so it would seem whoever the killer was, they lived their life without retribution,’ suggested Annie.

  ‘Maybe so, but it won’t stop us discovering who it was. I want a clean slate on my record. Undetected murders don’t look good on the CV.’

  * * *

  The second, male corpse offered more by way of evidence. Charley was hopefully that the teeth and metal plate screwed to the left tibia would lead to the early identification of the male. With gloved hands, the professor, fully dressed in protective clothing under the bright lights of his operation theatre was ready to make a start. CSI Neal Rylatt was at hand with his camera to take photographs as required. DC Ricky-Lee, exhibits officer, was in the viewing room with Charley and Annie waiting for exhibits to be passed to him via the internal drawer from the examination room. Chevelle peered over his face mask and briefly found Charley’s face a few feet away behind the glass, where she stood with Annie, tentatively watching the dissection of the body through the viewing-room window. It might not suit some, but, similar to Annie, the isolation was far more agreeable to the Senior Investigative Officer today than being at the pathologist’s side at the edge of the post-mortem table.