A Killing Moon (14 page)

‘Thank you,’ said Brook, taking it without a glance. ‘But in the meantime we need a word with your brother. Where does he work?’

‘Who knows? He doesn’t tell me. Many different houses.’

‘He must be staying somewhere.’

‘Let me check,’ said Ostrowsky, looking round theatrically.

‘We need his mobile number too,’ said Noble.

‘Of course.’ Ostrowsky turned to rummage through a pile of documents on the raised bar and plucked out a card to give to Noble. ‘Max was staying in this boarding house while he looked for accommodations. He’s a very hard worker if you need . . . rewiring.’

‘Phone number?’

‘Tymon.’ Ostrowsky held out a hand for the big man’s phone without looking at the giant and flicked at a button to read out the number. Noble jotted it down. Brook was tempted to demand the phone to verify but he resisted. It would be simple enough to check.

‘Is that on a Polish network?’ asked Noble. The lead in his pencil snapped.

‘Bought in UK.’ Ostrowsky smiled. ‘Everything’s cheaper here. Except electricity. But that’s because you closed your mining industry and import Polish coal.’ He guffawed long and violently, stopping as suddenly as he’d begun. ‘You English.’ He reached for a pen. ‘A Bar Polski pen,’ he said, handing it to Noble. ‘With compliments.’

‘Normally we prefer pencils,’ said Brook. ‘It’s easier to alter our notes later.’

‘Ah, you have served with the PRP, I see,’ said Ostrowsky, grinning. ‘In Poland, the evidence is never settled until money changes hands.’

‘May I take a pen in case I want to book a table?’

‘Of course, Inspector.’ Ostrowsky was quick to oblige and Brook took the offered pen and slipped it into a breast pocket. ‘Naturally your first meal here with your lady friend is free.’

‘That’s very kind,’ said Brook, ignoring Noble’s sly glance. ‘Tell me, Mr Ostrowsky, how do you say
screw the police
in Polish?’

Ostrowsky’s smile faded and he contemplated Brook. He was about to respond when a workman called out and gestured towards a soberly dressed man carrying a battered briefcase, staring intently at the ceiling. The bar owner’s smile returned.

‘The inspector of buildings. Forgive me, officers, but I have a bigger fish to cook.’ He extended an arm to usher them away, eyes cold. ‘You know where you can reach me if you need.’

‘You didn’t push him very hard,’ said Noble, mobile phone held to his ear as soon as they were outside. Brook fished out his own antiquated mobile, switched it on with a huge depression of the thumb and called the number on Noble’s notepad.

‘No answer from the B and B,’ said Noble.

‘There wouldn’t be. Max lives in Arboretum Street.’

‘Then we should go back in and get a house number,’ said Noble.

‘Anything in the pack?’

Noble flicked through the wallet. ‘The attending officer took down the Pride Park address. Ostrowsky’s brother either didn’t understand or didn’t want us to know where he lived.’

‘The mobile number doesn’t exist,’ said Brook lowering his phone.

‘Honest mistake?’

‘Not a chance,’ said Brook.

‘To be fair, I’m not sure I’d hand over my brother’s contact details to a foreign police force.’

‘You haven’t got a brother.’

‘But if I did. Do we go back?’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that we were lied to,’ said Noble.

‘Everybody lies to us, John.’

‘Okay. On the grounds that we’ve got a young girl lying on a steel trolley who was dumped in one of his vans.’

‘Which was stolen,’ said Brook. He came to a decision. ‘He’s not under thirty or called Jake and he didn’t appear unduly worried about the theft of his van, so it’ll keep.’

‘I still don’t like being lied to.’

‘You should be used to it.’

‘I am. Doesn’t mean . . .’ Noble held up a hand as his phone rang. ‘No, go ahead,’ he said into the phone. He looked significantly at Brook.

‘Fingerprint?’ ventured Brook.

Noble nodded. ‘Got a current address?’ He looked at Brook and gave a thumbs-up. ‘Milton Flats. We’re ten minutes away.’

The building inspector shook Ostrowsky’s hand. ‘Everything seems fine, though I don’t know if you’ll be opening on time, Mr . . .’

‘We will if we don’t employ any more British workers,’ replied Ostrowsky coldly. He showed the inspector the staircase. ‘You can find your way, no?’

When the man had left, Ostrowsky bellowed across at Tymon in Polish. ‘Go find Max and get him here. Now!’

Max took another long slug of vodka and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He slammed the near-empty bottle down on the cigarette-singed bureau beside the bed. To manage the feat he was required to stop stroking his genitalia under the thin nylon sheet that crackled every time he moved his rough hands across it.

Propping himself up against the flimsy velvet headboard, he gazed at the undernourished girl as she dressed, scratching at his bare stomach as he stared. She was barely out of school and had hardly any meat on her. Her breasts were little more than bumps and her arms and legs were like the thin branches of a sapling. Her flesh was white – apart from the line of dark red blemishes and bruises that marked her from shoulder to wrist.

‘What your name?’ enquired Max in his broken English.

The girl smiled nervously. ‘Are you a copper or summat?’

Max guffawed, nodding with amusement. ‘You think if I copper, I pay,
cipa. Idiota
.’

The girl pulled her slip over her head. No bra. Too time-consuming when some of the cheapskates just wanted a quick suck and tit-fuck. ‘Whatevs.’

Play ball, her mum had taught her. Keep talking but sort the money and get the fuck out asap
.

‘Tell me,’ insisted Max.

The girl stepped into her denim skirt and pulled it up to her tiny waist, buttoning it before swivelling it round the right way and brushing herself down. She slipped into her shoes. No tights – impossible in cars. ‘It’s Lola, if you must know.’

‘Lola?’ Max laughed again. ‘You lying
cipa
.’

His eyes pierced her and she reached into her clutch bag for a cigarette. ‘Whatever you say, lover.’

‘Cut your hair,’ said Max softly, still contemplating her.

‘You what?’ she replied hoarsely, turning her dead eyes to him as she fumbled for her lighter.

‘Cut your hair.’ He reached drunkenly for the bottle again and took another gulp of fire. ‘And then.
Ssij suko
.’

‘Come again?’

‘Exact,’ nodded Max, his eyes flashing, slurring, ‘Then you can suck my dick, bitch.’

She smiled nervously, her teeth already rotting under the assault of drugs, booze and smokes. She turned back to the cracked mirror for a last onceover, perhaps hastening her movements imperceptibly. ‘My, aren’t you the frisky one,’ she said, keeping her reply airy, unconcerned.

‘You don’t want suck my dick?’ asked Max plaintively, swinging his legs from under the cheap duvet to the music of ancient springs.

The girl thought of the money already in her clutch, nestling next to the nickel bag of
one-on-one
calling her to deaden the pain. The john had coughed fifty for anal and he didn’t look like no roller with his filthy overalls and scuffed boots. But another thirty and she might have enough left over to get chips for the kids . . . ‘That’s an extra thirty. You got that, lover?’

‘I got,’ smiled Max, walking naked towards her from the bed, his semi already preparing for her attentions. Quick as lightning, belying his thickset middleweight’s frame, he grabbed her arm.

‘You got to wash it first,’ said Lola. ‘I don’t know where it’s been.’

Max grinned at her, his eyes cold and black. ‘Yes you do,’ he whispered. He guided her across the threadbare carpet, noxious substances gripping the soles of his feet, and stopped near the chair. He put a hand down to his satchel, pulled out his wallet and took out a note. ‘Here is fifty.’

Lola eyed the money greedily, then grabbed the note and scuttled across to her tiny handbag and thrust it deep inside, as though the further down she drove the bill, the more certain it was that the money was hers.

When she turned back to him, rearranging her limbs into a more coquettish pose, she froze at the sight of the scissors in his hand.

‘What are you doing?’

‘First, cut hair. Short, like boy.’

‘What?’

‘So I can hold.’ He grinned at her, relishing his power over this weak, drug-addled girl; made a fist in front of his penis to make his meaning clear.

‘I’ll pass on the haircut, if it’s all the same to you.’ Lola tried to keep her smile intact but her fear began to bite. She wasn’t a stranger to a punch. Sometimes she even took a more sustained beating but no-one had ever used a blade on her. No-one had ever cut her – except herself back in school. She backed slowly away, her phoney desire disappearing like heat haze on a road.

Max’s grin disappeared and he stalked after her at the same speed. ‘Not all right,’ he growled. ‘I give you bonus. You get short hair for free.’

‘Well I don’t want it cut,’ she said defiantly. ‘My old man—’

‘Fuck your old man,’ snarled Max. ‘And fuck you. Keep still or I cut you good.’

Lola gulped and her breathing quickened. At the wall she could retreat no further; she opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Not that anyone would have rushed to her aid in this scarcely furnished fleapit, where the noise of violence and discord rent the air at regular intervals.

Max pressed against her, rubbing his penis into her stomach with glee, watching her fear as he held the scissors to her face. Lola closed her eyes to them, the only self-defence mechanism in her pathetic armoury. At least not to see made it quicker. She’d learned as much in previous attacks. Look away so they can’t see the hurt. Then maybe they won’t linger, won’t take the pleasure from it.

‘You don’t want watch,’ he said, banging her head gently against the wall.

She gave out a little whimper and began to slide down to the floor, but Max pulled her up roughly by the hair and pushed her back against the mildewed wallpaper.

‘Keep still,’ he said, looking intently at her scalp. He grabbed a fistful of her lank brown hair, raised the scissors and cut a huge clump close to her head, discarding it on to the wafer-thin carpet. He grabbed another strand and yanked her head towards him.

In the corner of the room, a tinny rendition of the Ride of the Valkyries erupted – his brother’s call sign. Max cursed, let go of Lola’s hair and returned to the bedside bureau to inspect his phone.

The commotion of Lola gathering her courage and streaking for the door distracted him, and he threw the phone on the mattress and leapt after her.

‘Where you going,
cipa
?’ shouted Max.

‘Let me go,’ screamed Lola. She’d managed to get the door half open when Max arrived to block her path and push her back into the room.

He stood panting in front of her, his face angry, his erection waning. Gesturing with the scissors still in his hand, his grin returned and he moved to close the door, but a strong, pudgy hand prevented him.

‘Tymon,’ exclaimed Max, releasing the door.

‘You’re a hard man to find,’ said Tymon in Polish, stepping across the threshold. He looked distastefully around the seedy room. ‘Get dressed. Your brother wants you.’ He saw Lola cowering in a corner. ‘Get out, whore,’ he said, also in Polish, thumbing at the door to translate.

Slowly, like a cornered animal, Lola accepted her reprieve. After gathering her belongings, she moved warily around the room to the door, keeping her distance from Max. When she was closer to the door than her naked client, she darted up to him and spat in his face, screamed, ‘Fucking freak!’ and scuttled out.

Max made a move to grab her, but Tymon interposed himself between the naked man and the retreating girl. Tapping his watch, he grinned at Max. ‘Get dressed.’

Eighteen

Booted and suited, Brook watched as scene-of-crime officers went about their work, examining, photographing, bagging and tagging the few artefacts in the three-room flat. The real search would be for the small stuff – DNA, hair and skin samples, fibres and blood. If the girl had died before being dumped in the van, every site connected to the suspects was a potential murder scene, and what better place to find evidence of murder than a killer’s home. It was what the Crown Prosecution Service called a slam-dunk. The lawyers over there watched far too much American TV.

Brook gazed methodically around at the rudiments of comfort. There was a grubby sofa and a stained chipboard coffee table facing a massive TV on a stand – funny how poverty seemed to affect the size of the television in a home. The more deprived couldn’t afford to go out, so a serious investment in home entertainment seemed like money well borrowed. A hideous wrought-iron standard lamp with no shade completed the furnishings.

And that was it for the lounge. The kitchenette, on the other side of a token partition, contained a seriously dilapidated oven that didn’t look like it had roasted a chicken in decades. A dirty saucepan and frying pan on the hob suggested a life of fried meats and beans, though there were no supplies in the cupboard to confirm it, and no fridge either. The stainless-steel sink was only slightly cleaner, though the ancient worktop was rotting around it.

There wasn’t much more to see. The space was tidy, but Brook put that down to the absence of furniture rather than a woman’s hand. Only the mess on the floor suggested a hasty departure – underwear, a sock, a cutlery drawer pulled out.

‘They packed,’ said Brook. ‘Which means they had a plan.’

‘Sorry?’ enquired a SOCO.

Brook shook his head.

‘Imagine living in a dump like this,’ said Noble, returning from the only bedroom.

Brook fancied he saw the sliver of a smile on Noble’s lips but didn’t react. It had been several years since Brook had lived in a similar hovel, immediately after his move up from London, and Noble occasionally made oblique reference to it.

Having taken the first accommodation offered, Brook didn’t care if it was comfortable or stylish, only that it had walls behind which he could retreat after his shift had ended. Walls that he’d stare at blankly as the demands of his new life in a strange city – post-breakdown – made themselves apparent. It had taken him three years to snap his addiction to the solitude offered by such lodgings; Noble’s appalled reaction on his first, and only, visit had been the chief catalyst.

‘Imagine,’ retorted Brook drily.

Noble’s smile found its fuel. He gestured to the source of daylight behind him. ‘Stunning view, though.’

‘Anything in the bedroom?’

‘Not even curtains. Two single mattresses. A chair.’

Brook nodded. ‘It’s easy to forget what life on the margins is like. What background do we have?’

‘There’s a gas bill in the name of Jake Tanner,’ said Noble.

‘Tanner?’ exclaimed Brook.

‘Lives here with his younger brother, Nick. The descriptions match our composites. And his prints are a match to the lighter.’

‘How do we know them?’

‘Jake’s got form, though he’s strictly Cat D. Or was until today. Cautions for theft and shoplifting. A couple of years ago he managed to get himself a short stay in Sudbury for an assault, but he’s no Moriarty.’

‘Open prison to abduction and murder suggests ambition at least,’ said Brook. ‘That should have shown up before now.’

‘You sound like you know him.’

‘Not as well as you, John. You met him.’

‘I met him?’ Noble’s eyes closed briefly before enlightenment arrived. ‘Jake Tanner was the barman at the Flowerpot the night Caitlin disappeared.’

‘He was. Maybe still is.’

‘No,’ said Noble. ‘He was a casual for a day or two, does temp work all over town apparently.’

‘So maybe he also did a few shifts at the Smithfield.’

Noble smiled. ‘And then he’d know the dump site. I’ll get Cooper to check.’ He hesitated, feeling a need to explain. ‘I didn’t dig any deeper on Tanner because he was in the clear on Caitlin. He didn’t leave the bar until lights out.’

‘Since we’re looking for two assailants, he wouldn’t have had to.’

‘Of course,’ nodded Noble. ‘He could just have tipped off his partner when Caitlin left – his brother, presumably.’

Morton marched in. ‘Neighbours say they saw them both yesterday. No hints about when they scarpered.’

‘As soon as they got back from torching the van, I’d say,’ said Noble. ‘When Jake realised he’d dropped the lighter, he must have known they’d have to run for it.’

‘Descriptions fit with our film and the security guard,’ said Morton. ‘It’s them.’

‘Neighbours share any insights?’ asked Noble.

‘No one has a clue about their personals or where they might have gone.’

‘Women? Visitors?’

‘They were inseparable according to everyone I spoke to,’ replied Morton. ‘And no one saw them with any guests or girlfriends. Jake was very protective of his brother. He’s got special needs.’

‘On the eleventh floor, I assume they’re educational and not physical,’ said Brook.

‘Right,’ said Morton. ‘Next door said the kid’s none too bright though nice enough with it.’

‘Any grumbles?’

‘I couldn’t find anyone with a grievance. Everyone says they were quiet, polite and helpful, kept to themselves. I’m not getting any vibe that they might have been killers.’ As Brook made to speak, Morton qualified his observation. ‘Which people always say about murderers who lived next door, I know.’

‘Vehicle?’ asked Brook.

‘Cooper says Jake passed his driving test five years ago but he’s never owned a vehicle,’ said Noble.

‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t keep an uninsured banger downstairs, although neighbours weren’t aware of one,’ said Morton.

‘Can Nick drive?’ asked Brook.

Noble shook his head. ‘Not qualified, at least.’

‘Check the car park. And better get on to local taxi firms,’ said Brook. ‘They left in a hurry, probably with baggage, so they couldn’t have got far on foot.’

‘Maybe they nicked another resident’s car,’ suggested Noble.

‘Easy enough to ask,’ agreed Brook, lifting an eyebrow to Morton. ‘Put uniform on it and circulate our suspects’ names. There are no photographs here, so make that a priority in Nick’s case. Check if he has form as well, then get his likeness released with his brother’s. Failing that, find next-of-kin and ask for a picture. John, tell Cooper I want chapter and verse on the pair of them.’

‘Already on it,’ said Noble. ‘We’ll know what they had for breakfast in two hours.’

‘I doubt they had time,’ said Brook, looking at his watch. The light was beginning to go. ‘Chief Super?’

‘I’ve made him aware,’ said Noble.

‘He’s going to want to brief local media,’ said Brook. ‘Better get Cooper to liaise with Corporate and put a statement together. We don’t have time.’

‘Charlton’s not going to like you ducking out of media briefings,’ teased Noble.

‘I know what Charlton doesn’t like, John.’

‘We’re clear in here if you want a closer look, Inspector,’ said a SOCO through a face mask.

Brook and Noble moved quickly around the small room, opening drawers and kitchen cupboards, examining artefacts in gloved hands before putting them back. Brook’s eye lingered on the old newspaper lining one cupboard’s shelves. It was marked by circles made by cans of food stored on top. He picked up a nearby waste bin, emptying the contents into the sink. With a pencil he moved bits of detritus around for a proper inspection – several empty cans of economy baked beans, a discarded wrapper for sausages, toast crusts. He examined a stained receipt before returning the empty bin to the floor and opened more drawers, poking keenly through the cutlery.

He called out to one of the SOCOs. ‘Can we have a look in the bathroom . . . er . . .’

‘Ben Shaw,’ said the officer, holding out his ID lanyard. Brook’s reputation for forgetting people’s names didn’t go down well with the rank and file.

‘Course.’ Brook smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry. Early start.’

‘You and me both,’ he retorted. ‘Inspector Brook.’

Brook caught Noble’s amused eye. ‘I asked about the bathroom.’

‘There’s nothing in there,’ said Shaw.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Just a bath, a bar of soap and a towel.’

‘No other toiletries?’ prompted Brook, unable to trust evidence unseen. ‘Things a woman might use,’ he continued, trying to recall the glut of products his daughter left behind after a visit to Hartington. ‘Tampons, shampoo, cotton buds, gels, hand creams . . .’

‘Hand cream?’ exclaimed Shaw, excitedly raising a finger.

‘Yes?’ said Brook.

‘No,’ continued Shaw, deadpan. ‘There’s a bath, a bar of soap and a towel,’ he repeated, speaking as though to an idiot. ‘Now can I get on with it?’

Brook nodded, glancing at the smiling Noble. ‘I didn’t get much sleep, John.’

‘You couldn’t delegate if you slept like a baby,’ observed Noble with a grin. Brook didn’t contest. ‘But there’s definitely nothing to suggest a woman was here for a month. No clothing, toiletries . . .’

‘Eleven flights of stairs and the lift out of order,’ said Brook, nodding. ‘They kept her somewhere else.’

‘I’d go further,’ said Noble. ‘Sounds patronising, but looking at this place doesn’t suggest they’re capable or organised enough to pluck a healthy young woman off the face of the earth and keep her hidden for four weeks.’

‘Agreed,’ conceded Brook. ‘And trusting a kid brother with special needs to abduct a teenager while you serve drinks . . .’ He left the rest unsaid. ‘But two things are certain, John. Somebody killed the girl, and the Tanners torched the van we found her in, so we shelve our reservations because they’re all we’ve got.’

‘Maybe Cooper can connect them to a lock-up or a garage,’ suggested Noble. ‘Somewhere private where they could take their time with her. And that’s where they are now.’

‘It would have to be close. They’re on foot and they packed – after a fashion. Some clothes, I think, and supplies for a longer stay.’

‘Supplies?’

‘The larder’s empty,’ said Brook, showing him the cupboard. ‘They cleared out all the canned food. Tin opener too.’

‘Maybe they didn’t have any cans to start with.’

‘They’d just stocked up,’ said Brook, showing him the receipt itemising food items bought the previous evening.

‘So maybe they’re lying low instead of running,’ said Noble, yawning as he spoke.

‘Maybe,’ said Brook on his way to the door. ‘Come on. We need tea.’

‘You buying?’ said Noble, following into the corridor and ducking under the police tape. Brook gave him the arched eyebrow.
Don’t I always?

They trotted down eleven flights of crumbling concrete stairs, breathing shallow to defeat the omnipresent stench of urine. It was nearly dark when they emerged from the block, and a light drizzle insinuated itself on to their faces.

‘Jake Tanner,’ purred Chief Superintendent Mark Charlton, as though he’d cracked the case himself. Noble and Brook exchanged a lazy glance. Charlton stroked his chin, swivelling his executive chair as he contemplated the documents in hand. ‘How old is this picture of Nick Tanner?’

‘Fifteen when it was taken,’ replied Brook.

‘A school photo? How old is he now?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘A murder suspect and this is the best we can do?’

‘Working on it, sir,’ said Noble. ‘He may be an adult, but he’s pretty much a dependent, from what we can gather.’

‘No form? No DVLA photo? No passport?’ Brook smiled with his lips to confirm. Charlton brandished Nick’s picture. ‘You’ll never catch him with this.’

‘We’re checking social media for something more recent,’ said Brook, looking at the clock behind Charlton’s head. ‘But as John said, he’s dependent. They don’t appear to own a computer, which means no email, no Facebook . . .’

‘And neither of them has a mobile phone on a contract,’ added Noble.

‘So we find Nick when we find his brother,’ concluded Brook. ‘They’re a pair.’

‘And not the sharpest knives in the box,’ said Charlton. ‘We’ll have them inside twelve hours.’

Another glance from Brook to his DS. A quick result was always
we
, but if things turned sour, collective responsibility quickly mutated to
you
.

Charlton stood and took his own glance at the clock, the media briefing fifteen minutes away. ‘Is this everything?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No ID on the body yet?’

‘No, sir.’

‘It may come down to dental,’ added Noble.

‘But prime candidate is this Caitlin Kinnear.’

‘She’s missing and the right age,’ allowed Brook.

‘And she encountered Jake Tanner on the night of her disappearance, sir,’ said Noble.

‘Anything at the Tanners’ last-known?’

‘Cleared out, sir,’ said Brook wearily. ‘SOCO are on it, but no sign the girl was ever there.’

‘And she wasn’t killed at the scene?’

‘No, sir,’ answered Noble. ‘Post-mortem results tomorrow.’

Charlton nodded and checked his appearance in the full-length mirror in his office. He pulled down his tunic, half turning left and right to assure sartorial precision. He identified a stray piece of lint on his thigh and brushed it away. ‘Better remind me about Caitlin Kinnear in case I’m asked.’

Ostrowsky sat on a stool in the darkened bar, illuminated only by the lights behind the optics, a fresh bottle of vodka and a full shot glass beside him. He lit a cigarette and contemplated his brother. Tymon loomed behind Max, a giant in the shadows.

‘Look at yourself,’ said Ostrowsky in Polish, running his gaze up and down his dishevelled brother in disgust.

‘I need a drink,’ said Max, eyeing the bottle.

‘You need a shower, little brother.’

‘I’ve been working,’ protested Max.

‘You’ve been whoring,’ shouted Ostrowsky, standing off the stool. He glanced briefly at Tymon’s impassive features for a contradiction. It didn’t arrive. He slipped off his jacket, draped it over the bar stool, loosened his silk tie and moved to stand face to face with his brother. Max looked away, so Ostrowsky leaned in close to ensure his undivided attention. ‘And while you’ve been throwing your money away on whores, I’ve had the police here.’