A Killing Moon (13 page)

‘Good work, Col,’ said Noble, quick to provide a name for Brook. ‘Any prints soonest, please.’

‘Thanks, Col,’ Brook called after the SOCO with a weak smile, then returned his gaze to the van with the girl’s body still inside. The SOCOs had swarmed back round it on Higginbottom’s departure, so Brook walked past the burned-out wreck looking off into the scrub. ‘Bit of a dead end.’

‘We’ve got the film and possible prints,’ replied Noble, deadpan.

‘I meant this track . . .’ Brook looked round at him.

‘Sorry. I shouldn’t crack wise with a dead girl lying there.’

‘She won’t be complaining, John, so deal with it however you can, unless you want to end up like me. Did you know about this track?’

‘Never been down here,’ said Noble. ‘But it’s not on the way to anywhere. So whoever dumped the body must know it.’

‘That’s my thinking,’ said Brook, his eyes sweeping back over the
Telegraph
building. ‘And whoever knew it existed must once have had a reason for being here.’

‘Think our killers are journalists?’

‘I wouldn’t have said so, but not everyone who works in the building will be a professional,’ said Brook. ‘Get on to their personnel department and get details of any Jakes between twenty and thirty-five working at the building in any capacity. Ex-employees too. Go back at least five years . . .’

‘What about the bus depot? Maybe Jake was a driver.’

‘Good idea.’ Brook looked around. ‘And check the pub, too.’

They walked either side of the van. Both passenger doors were closed, but the glass from windows and windscreen had blown out. Brook and Noble crunched across the blackened shards to look into the cabin. There wasn’t much to see.

‘Not hot-wired,’ said Noble, gazing at the steering column.

‘And no keys in the ignition.’

‘Can we get in, Col?’ shouted Noble from the passenger side.

‘Not yet,’ replied Col through his face mask.

‘What about in the back? Anything?’

‘Besides the body, what looks like a canvas bag of tools for a tradesman of some kind. Oh, and a big bunch of keys,’ said Col.

‘For the van?’

‘Negative,’ said Col. ‘We also found an empty billycan in the bushes. Petrol,’ he added before being asked.

‘Anything capable of BFT in the toolbag?’

‘There’s a claw hammer that was next to the body instead of the canvas bag.’

Brook nodded. ‘Off to the lab as a priority.’

Seventeen

Later that morning, Brook hunched over a mug of tea as he watched a second showing of the CCTV footage of the van being dumped. Brook and Noble had opened a larger incident room appropriate to a murder inquiry, although without victim ID, they hadn’t moved in any of the materials from their smaller incident room.

Brook sat on a padded chair amongst the desks, terminals and phones staring at the whiteboard screen. Noble, DS Rob Morton and DCs Cooper, Read and Smee watched with him, sitting in silence, noting the odd question to ask the technician. Norman Stansfield had already watched the film and had left after one viewing, having talked all the way through. He’d been taken away to provide facial composites of the two suspects.

‘Can we get that any clearer, Gavin?’ Noble asked the technician.

‘I doubt it,’ replied Gavin.

‘What about other cameras?’ said Brook.

‘Other cameras?’

‘They ran across the footbridge,’ explained Noble. ‘We’ve got their timeline so we might be able to pick them up and track them through the city centre.’

‘If that’s where they went,’ said Morton.

‘I’ll get on it,’ said Gavin, standing. ‘All the business and public area cameras are in the centre, so
if
they walked through, we’ll find them. It’s unlikely to get you more than a general direction out of town, though – most people don’t live in the centre.’

‘Some people do,’ said Brook, having lived in a run-down city-centre flat before his move out to Hartington.

‘Maybe they were heading for a second vehicle stashed in a city car park,’ suggested Gavin.

‘Thanks, Gavin,’ said Brook, giving the technician his politest smile. ‘We’ll do the thinking on this one. DC Cooper will liaise with you.’

After the crestfallen technician had left, Morton said, ‘They’re not going to have another vehicle in a monitored car park if they’ve got a brain cell between them.’

‘Remind me when criminals had brain cells,’ said Cooper.

‘With or without brain cells, it’s unlikely with
two
suspects,’ said Brook. ‘Dumping a body in the city was a risk. If they had a second car, they’d drive both vehicles somewhere remote, dump the van and drive off into the sunset.’

‘Sunrise in this case,’ offered Noble.

‘Assuming the kid can drive,’ put in Morton.

Brook conceded with a lift of his tired eyes. ‘We’ll see when we have IDs.’

‘Shouldn’t take long,’ said Noble. ‘We’ve got clear prints from the lighter and I’m betting these two are in the system.’

‘I know that footbridge,’ said Morton. ‘It could have taken them away from the centre just as easily – on to the Pride Park cycle path or even to the railway station.’

‘There wouldn’t be any trains at half two in the morning,’ said Noble. ‘Not for passengers, at least.’

‘Make certain,’ said Brook. ‘But a train suggests out-of-towners while the dump site points to local killers. Nobody would know that track or how to get to it on the one-way system if they weren’t from Derby. I struggled to find it.’

There was a brief silence in which someone might once have pointed out that Brook wasn’t a local man either.

‘How long on the lighter?’

‘I put a rush on it with EMSOU,’ said Noble. ‘Should only be a few hours unless they’ve had another shoot-’em-up in Nottingham.’

‘And the van?’

‘It’s a Ford Transit
350
Jumbo –
2012
model. According to the database there have only been three possible thefts in the county this last month. But I’ve just picked one off the dailies – a van matching those plates and description was reported stolen in Arboretum Street this morning.’

‘Time?’ said Brook.

‘The owner noticed it gone around six thirty a.m. and phoned it in half an hour later,’ said Noble.

‘Half an hour?’ said Smee.

‘People often forget where they’ve parked their cars the night before and walk round the neighbourhood,’ said Brook. ‘Especially if they’d had a few drinks. Do we have a window?’

‘Better than that.’ Noble squinted at a piece of paper. ‘There was an anonymous call at eleven twenty-one last night. An upstanding citizen saw someone trying the van doors and called it in. Unfortunately it was chucking-out time, so by the time the response car got there an hour later, the van was gone.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Nothing they could do,’ said Noble. ‘There was no broken glass or any sign of a break-in. The van was registered to an address in Pride Park, so they assumed the owner had driven it away. Want me and Rob to follow up?’

Brook looked at his watch. ‘No, we’ll take it while we wait for the print and the forensics to unravel. Do we have a PM slot?’

‘Tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

Brook nodded, then wished he hadn’t. His head felt like it weighed a ton after a disturbed night. ‘Get the room set up, Rob,’ he said to Morton. ‘And when they’re done, get the composites on to the regional news for the lunchtime bulletin if you can, then off to the press. The
Derby Telegraph
is going to have plenty of pictures from their building so they’ll jump at some hard facts to run.’

‘What about transferring the Interpol display from the other incident room?’ ventured Noble. When heads turned in confusion, he explained. ‘A possible link to another inquiry.’

‘We don’t move on that without victim ID,’ said Brook. ‘Right now it’s a straightforward manhunt. The missing can wait.’

‘Tired?’ asked Noble, catching Brook stifling a yawn.

‘Tired of stupid crimes committed by stupid criminals, John.’

‘About that. I’m wondering if these two are our guys,’ said Noble, dropping his speed to scan buildings along Friargate. ‘A dump and run is a bit panicky for people who’ve lifted Caitlin without a trace and kept her for weeks.’

‘People don’t always behave logically under pressure.’ Brook snaked a glance at Noble. He was taking this personally. ‘And this may not be Caitlin.’

‘She’s the right age,’ said Noble.

Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘
She?
It’s a corpse now, John. Whoever it
was
is gone.’

Noble turned to reply but thought better of it.

‘There.’ Brook indicated an empty double-fronted unit with whitewashed ground-floor windows obscuring the interior. ‘Who’s the owner?’

Noble pulled up outside and reached for the freshly printed pack on the back seat. He flicked through the papers, extracting a log book photocopy, part of the stolen vehicle report.

‘A Mr Grzegorz Ostrowsky,’ he said with care. ‘He’s a Polish businessman in his early forties.’

‘No chance he’d have Jake for a nickname then,’ quipped Brook.

‘And a good job I don’t have a sore throat. The van is registered to a unit in Pride Park but Ostrowsky lives in Quarndon. Nice.’

‘Why was his van in Arboretum Street?’ When Noble shook his head, Brook considered for a moment. ‘We don’t mention the body or that we have a definite match to his van. Let’s see how he plays it.’

Brook and Noble stood outside the empty unit. Building work was in progress somewhere behind the glass facade, but it was hard to see where through the whitewash. Noble pushed at a glass door.

‘Locked.’

Brook stepped back to read the large banner hanging above the windows.

BAR POLSKI. GRAND OPENING
5
JUNE

He saw an open window on the second storey. ‘Hello!’ he shouted. After a louder hail, the window opened further and the sound of hammering and sawing increased. A handsome man with piercing blue eyes popped his head out.

‘Building inspector, yes?’ he shouted down.

‘Half right,’ mumbled Brook, nodding vigorously. The head disappeared and thirty seconds later a shadow appeared on the other side of the glass door.

‘Welcome to Bar Polski.’ The man was tall and lean with a tanned face and cropped blond hair with a tinge of grey at the short sideburns. He wore a sober, expensive-looking grey suit and carried a smartphone.

‘Mr Grzegorz Ostrowsky?’ said Brook.

‘You pronounce it perfectly.’ He beamed solicitously at Brook. ‘Please come in. The plans are inside. You’ll see—’

‘We’re police officers,’ interrupted Noble, brandishing his warrant card.

‘I thought . . .’

‘Detective Inspector Brook, Sergeant Noble,’ announced Brook. ‘Sorry about that little confusion.’

Ostrowsky stared at Brook, conspicuously failing to step aside. ‘What do you want?’

‘We have a report of a stolen van belonging to you.’

‘What van?’

‘A Mr Ostrowsky reported it stolen several hours ago,’ said Noble. ‘Not you?’

‘My brother Max uses one of my vans for his work. Stolen, you say?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I did not,’ he said slowly. ‘Max doesn’t care to tell
me
. But you’ve found it?’

‘We’ve found a van matching the make and model,’ said Brook. ‘But we’re having difficulty reading the plates.’

‘Difficulty?’

‘The van was . . .’

‘Set alight,’ nodded Ostrowsky. ‘It’s okay. I have insurance . . .’

‘How do you know it was burned?’ asked Brook.

‘Inspector, I’m from Eastern Europe but I’m sure it’s the same here. You steal a car and when you don’t need, you burn to get rid of fingerprints, no?’

‘I suppose.’

He shrugged. ‘So where do I sign?’

‘It’s not that simple,’ replied Brook. ‘We’re going to need more details about the theft – whose possession it was in, when it was last seen, that sort of thing. Just routine.’

‘Just routine,’ echoed Ostrowsky, gazing at Brook. ‘In my country, inspectors don’t dirty their hands with stolen vehicles.’

‘No?’ Brook smiled into the gap the businessman left for elaboration.

‘You’d better come upstairs,’ said Ostrowsky.

Brook and Noble followed Ostrowsky past the gutted ground floor and up the wide staircase to a similar space that was much nearer completion. Even so, it was a hive of activity. Half a dozen men in dusty, stained overalls were hammering, sawing and drilling for all they were worth. One of them barked an instruction to a colleague in Polish.

A younger man in smart apparel stood behind a tarpaulin-covered bar stacking boxes. Unbidden, his eyes flicked solicitously towards Ostrowsky.

‘Espresso,’ said Ostrowsky, turning to Brook and Noble. ‘And whatever these officers want.’ Brook and Noble demurred with a swift shake of the head, and the barman headed for a door at the back of the bar. ‘Where are you going, Ashley?’ barked Ostrowsky.

The barman hesitated. ‘To make the espresso.’

‘Where is . . . ?’ Ostrowsky waved a hand in frustration.

‘He hasn’t shown up yet, sir,’ mumbled Ashley.

‘
Sukinsyn!
’ exclaimed Ostrowsky. ‘Fucking British workers,’ he continued without concern for the sensibilities of the nervous barman.

‘Do you still want the coffee, Mr O?’ Ashley asked timidly.

Ostrowsky nodded and the barman dutifully disappeared. The businessman plucked a burning cigarette from an ashtray and stubbed it out. A bottle of vodka and a half-full shot glass stood next to it. He took a sip and contemplated the two detectives, composure regained.

‘I hope you’re not planning to drive later, sir,’ said Noble.

Ostrowsky looked at the glass. ‘I never drive, Sergeant – one of the perks of success. Excuse me. Tymon,’ he shouted over the din of the workmen, beckoning to a large, bald-headed man who was clearly not involved in the building work because he wore an ill-fitting suit that looked like it had shrunk in the wash. Not that the suit was cheap, more that the man inside it was so muscle-bound that the material clung to his physique like skin, riding up over his wrists and ankles in search of a smaller man.

Tymon sidled over to them, unable to describe a straight line with his thick legs, which rotated in their sockets. His gimlet eyes flicked briefly up and down Brook and Noble with distaste.

‘
Gdzie jest Makszi?
’ Ostrowsky gestured at Brook. ‘
Policji
.’ Brook raised a discreet eyebrow.
Policji
– police.

Tymon shrugged at Ostrowsky in reply, his neck squeezing over his tight collar like a rubber ring. Ostrowsky made the international signal for a telephone and Tymon took out his mobile and depressed a flabby thumb on to the keypad as he made his way to a quieter part of the room.

‘Max is an electrician. We’re calling him.’

‘But you’re the registered owner,’ put in Noble.

Ostrowsky held out his hands. ‘I’m a businessman. I import goods. I have vehicles.’

‘Where did you keep the stolen van?’

‘Max kept it with him.’

Tymon returned and barked something in Polish at Ostrowsky. ‘
Huj w dupe policji
.’

Ostrowsky grimaced at Brook with theatrical regret. ‘Max isn’t answering his cell, I’m afraid.’

‘Do you know where he might be?’ asked Noble.

The businessman’s beaming smile returned. ‘Probably out on a job. I’d ask him to ring but his English isn’t very good.’

‘Then how did he manage to report the stolen van to the police?’ asked Brook.

‘He knows his name, also street names he needs,’ said Ostrowsky, without missing a beat.

‘Arboretum Street,’ said Noble. ‘Is that where he lives?’

‘Or it’s one of his jobs,’ shrugged Ostrowsky. ‘I don’t know. He’s looking for a place to live. He’s not long in your country.’

‘You say you have other vehicles,’ said Brook. ‘Where are they kept?’

‘They are delivered to my warehouse in Pride Park and my drivers pick them up from there.’

‘We went there first,’ said Brook. ‘What else do you keep in your warehouse besides vans you don’t drive?’

Ostrowsky picked up on the tone. ‘I import Polish goods for my bar. In a container. Twice a month. I have three Polish grocery shops also. I can show you invoice and paperwork for vans tomorrow if that helps.’ He handed Brook a business card from a hip pocket.