A Killing Moon (18 page)

Twenty-One

Banach woke with a start and the pain registered immediately. Her back ached, her head throbbed and her knuckles were clenched in anger. But the worst pain wasn’t physical. An unknown assailant had attacked her partner and she had let him get away, had disgraced herself in front of her colleagues. She raised a bloodless hand to her head in self-disgust.

‘Gotta get back out there.’ She swung her legs off the bed.

‘No you don’t,’ said a female voice. A practised hand guided her legs gently but firmly back on to the mattress. ‘You’re going nowhere. Doctor’s orders.’

Banach struggled to rise. ‘Where’s Mitch? I want to see Mitch.’

‘If Mitch is the other police officer, I gather he’s going to be fine.’

Banach stopped struggling and lay back, relieved. ‘Thank God.’

The doctor took out a pen light from her top pocket and, sitting on the edge of the bed, put a hand on Banach’s chin to hold her head steady. She shone the torch into her right eye and ordered her to turn her gaze in various directions before repeating the same procedure in her left eye.

‘Can I see him?’

‘He’s just out of theatre so he’ll be sleeping for a few hours yet. He should be coming round when we’re ready to discharge you, so get some rest now.’

‘He’s really going to be fine?’

‘A full recovery,’ smiled the doctor. ‘Promise.’

Placated, Banach relaxed on to the soft pillows and contemplated the attractive white-coated woman writing on her chart, her dark hair tied up in a ponytail to show off the smooth, pale skin of her neck. On her lapel, Banach made out the name tag: ‘Dr Cowell’.

A tall, middle-aged man in de rigueur white coat and stethoscope stepped through the dividing screen. His head was held high and he had a stern patrician air.

‘This is Dr Fleming, Anka,’ said Dr Cowell. ‘He’s a specialist.’

‘Anka,’ repeated Fleming. ‘Is that Slovenian?’

‘Polish on my father’s side,’ retorted Banach. ‘But I’m English. I prefer Angie.’

Fleming’s inscrutable grunt was emitted through sealed lips. ‘Lift, please,’ he said, nodding at her gown. Puzzled, Banach complied and Fleming’s stethoscope landed on her stomach. After listening to three areas, he stood back, nodding for her to lower the gown.

‘Well,
Ms
Banach,’ he said officiously. ‘The scan was fine and the womb is uninjured. As soon as Dr Cowell clears your head injury, you can go. The baby’s in fine fettle.’ He smiled at Banach, waiting for gratitude.

‘And you’ve just got bruising to your skull – no concussion,’ said Cowell. ‘You’ll have a headache for a day or two, and in your condition you should rest for a few days.’

‘Baby,’ mouthed Banach as though the word were alien. ‘I’m pregnant?’

‘Ah,’ said Fleming, glancing over at his colleague. ‘Over to you, Dr Cowell.’

‘You didn’t know,’ nodded Cowell. ‘It’s not unusual this early.’

‘I can’t be pregnant,’ muttered Banach, barely able to speak. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘An immaculate conception?’ chipped in Fleming, smiling for the first time. ‘I’ll call
The Times
.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ said Cowell. ‘You’re about eight weeks along. Didn’t you notice you were missing periods?’

‘I . . . I just thought I was late. I’ve been so busy.’ Banach stared into space. ‘You’re certain?’

‘There’s no doubt.’

‘And the foetus is fine,’ said Fleming. ‘Though I wouldn’t encourage you to tackle any more bad guys for a while.’

‘But I can’t have a baby,’ said Banach, shaking her head. ‘I just can’t.’

‘Many women with unplanned pregnancies feel the same way when they first hear the news,’ said Cowell. ‘Give yourself a few days to think about things, talk to the father . . .’

‘And for busy career girls like yourself, there are always options,’ added Fleming.

‘This isn’t the right time, Doctor,’ said Cowell, her face souring. ‘Angie needs a chance to come to terms with her news.’

‘Please don’t patronise the patients,’ said Fleming. He placed a card on the side table and tapped it with a finger. ‘My clinic.’

‘This is not the right time . . .’

‘Please,’ said Banach, holding up both hands and closing her eyes. ‘I’d like you both to leave me alone now.’

Fleming smiled. ‘Of course. And congratulations,’ he added without warmth. ‘Good day.’

Cowell took a deep breath after his departure. ‘Sorry about Dr Fleming. I’m afraid male consultants of a certain age have a tendency to play God.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Banach. ‘I’m a big girl. So when can I leave?’

‘Just waiting for some more bloods.’ Cowell picked up Fleming’s card. ‘Get some rest and before you know it you’ll be chatting with your colleague.’

‘Thanks. And Doctor,’ she added as Cowell turned to go, ‘I do want to know about my options.’ She paused so that she was fully understood. ‘All of them.’

Cowell held her eyes for a few seconds, then acknowledged with a curt nod and returned Fleming’s card to the table. ‘Whatever you need.’

Brook woke to the smell of coffee and lifted his head from the desk.

Noble was gnawing on a chocolate bar, a mug of coffee in his other hand. Morton was stirring sugar into his cup. He flicked the kettle back on for Brook.

‘Anything?’ croaked Brook, lifting himself out of his chair, grimacing as his back straightened.

‘Not a sniff,’ said Noble. ‘Of the Tanners or anyone else.’

‘We’re still going door-to-door?’

Noble pushed the end of the chocolate into his mouth, chewing furiously. ‘For now.’ He took a long slurp of coffee. ‘Still worried about a home invasion?’

‘Desperate men, desperate deeds.’ Brook stood to stretch. ‘They’re still in the neighbourhood somewhere. I’m sure of it.’

‘Thought you weren’t convinced the Tanners attacked Ryan and Banach.’

‘I’m convinced they’re on the run and potentially dangerous,
whoever
attacked our officers,’ said Brook, squeezing hot water from a tea bag. A moment later, he took a life-affirming sip. ‘Any news on Ryan?’

‘Stone says he’s unconscious but stable. They’re hopeful.’

‘Good,’ said Brook, moving around to get the circulation going. ‘Reminds me. Was I a bit hard on what’s-her-name last night?’

‘Banach? I don’t think so,’ said Noble. ‘She shouldn’t have gone mountaineering around like that when the cavalry was across the road. Showed a lack of judgement.’

Brook took another long sip of tea. ‘But plenty of mettle.’

‘Metal?’ queried Morton.

‘She didn’t hesitate,’ explained Brook. ‘She was first into that building, no thought for her own safety.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘It’s admirable, at least,’ said Brook. ‘Banach. Sounds Eastern European.’

‘I think her father is Polish,’ said Noble.

Brook paused mid sip. ‘Is that so?’

The door opened and Charlton marched in, expression like thunder. Even before seven in the morning his uniform was crisp and his face carefully scraped. He halted in the face of superior numbers, bridling at his lack of height next to three tall detectives. ‘Busy night.’

Brook smiled at Charlton’s pussyfooting, tempted just to dive in and save time. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Progress?’

‘We’re making all the moves,’ said Brook. ‘Nothing yet.’

‘I see.’ Charlton couldn’t meet eyes. ‘How’s Ryan?’

‘Still unconscious, sir,’ said Brook, sombre. ‘But stable.’

‘Good.’ Charlton hesitated, realising that the budget was not a suitable topic of conversation at that precise moment.

Brook sensed an opportunity. ‘I’m afraid I took a bite out of the budget last night trying to bring the perpetrators to book. My shout, sir. Seeing our officers in that state . . .’ He shook his head, his approximation of dismay hitting the right notes. Noble prepared to speak but was silenced by Brook’s warning glare.

Charlton nodded, his frustration equal to Brook’s. ‘One of our own,’ he conceded. ‘Keep me informed.’ He departed with an air of defeat hanging over him.

‘
My shout?
’ said Noble. ‘You don’t need to run interference for me.’ Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘No, I’m not American and I can justify my own decisions to the Chief Super.’

‘I didn’t say anything,’ smiled Brook, pulling on his jacket. ‘I’m not allowed.’

‘Then why take the hit for the budget?’

‘Because I’m in Charlton’s good books, John, and no matter how uncomfortable that makes me, I’m going to draw water from that well until it’s bone dry.’

‘But it was my decision.’

‘And you were only doing what I would have done. Come on. A bacon sandwich beckons.’

‘Before the mortuary?’

‘The mortuary?’ said Brook. ‘I get queasier talking to Charlton.’

‘Brook. Sergeant Noble.’ Dr Ann Petty turned from the stainless-steel sink, deep inside the Royal Derby Hospital’s sprawling complex, and turned off the tap. She tore a yard of disposable hand towel from a dispenser and carefully dried her hands before squirting disinfectant gel on to her palms and rubbing it through her fingers. ‘Hope you don’t mind forgoing a handshake?’

‘We’ll survive,’ said Brook absently, oblivious to the implied insult. Petty lingered over his answer and shot a fleeting look towards Noble.

‘We’ve been on the go two days straight,’ explained Noble, looking nervously past the small anteroom to the soulless post-mortem suite beyond, scanning the brushed-steel trolleys for human remains. A male cadaver lay on one, his chest flayed back like an unmade bed.

‘That must be it,’ said Petty, gathering her notes. ‘All the fuss on the news, I take it. Glad to hear you’re as overworked and underpaid as I am.’

Brook was examining the high-ceilinged window-free suite, lit by the jaundiced glow of artificial light. ‘How do you survive without daylight, Doctor?’

Petty shook her dyed-blond hair free from beneath her disposable cap. ‘I’m not confined in here, Inspector. I can walk out among the living between procedures. Besides, there are worse things to worry about down here than a light source.’

‘I suppose.’

‘And I’m pleased to see you back in the land of the living,’ said Petty. ‘Last I heard you were exiled to cold cases. Sentence commuted?’

‘Let’s just say I worked my passage,’ replied Brook.

‘And with one bound he was free,’ grinned Petty before her face morphed to a more serious expression. ‘I’m glad it’s you, Brook. A young girl brutally snatched from life just as it’s about to begin. Catching this bastard will make all women sleep easier, and though we’ve not worked together long, I know you’ll go the extra mile.’

Brook was taken aback by such appreciation and could only think to say, ‘I will.’

‘Pay me no attention,’ said Petty. ‘This line of work goes easier when you remove the emotion.’

‘Some things you never get used to seeing,’ concluded Brook.

‘No argument here. And a developing foetus in a dead mother’s womb is top of my list.’

‘Foetus?’ said Brook, glancing at Noble. ‘The victim was pregnant?’

‘That’s not possible,’ said Noble.

Petty looked askance at him, considering various put-downs before keeping it professional. ‘Take it from me, Sergeant, the victim brought to me from your crime scene was having a child.’

‘Sorry,’ said a sheepish Noble. ‘I didn’t mean . . . It’s just we know our missing person had undergone a recent termination.’

‘Is this the Irish girl on the front of last night’s paper?’ enquired Petty. ‘Caitlin . . .’

‘Kinnear.’

‘Right age range then,’ said Petty. ‘Your victim was approximately twenty years old. But if you’re certain this Caitlin Kinnear wasn’t pregnant, then the body next door is not hers. Sorry if that makes life harder.’

‘It is what it is,’ said Brook. ‘With a body we start the inquiry from scratch anyway to avoid misdirection.’

‘Misdirection?’ said Petty.

‘With a missing person, we chase shadows . . .’

‘You take your information where you can find it,’ said Petty, nodding. ‘I see that.’

‘. . . and with a body we chase the science,’ said Brook. ‘A murder inquiry is a time for hard facts.’

‘So Caitlin’s alive,’ said Noble, trying not to sound relieved that another father’s daughter had just taken her place.

‘She’s still missing, John,’ said Brook. ‘And she may still be dead. Sorry, Doc, we’re briefing on your time.’

‘Nice to know there’s a process,’ smiled Petty. ‘Sorry to throw a spanner in the works.’

‘You haven’t,’ said Brook. ‘Sadly, we’re not short of other candidates. How long had the victim been pregnant?’

‘I’d say between ten and twelve weeks.’

Brook nodded. ‘Cause of death? The mother, I mean.’

‘The fire didn’t kill her. Her blood was negative for carbon monoxide and there’s no scorching or scarring in her throat and lungs. The blaze was an afterthought to burn off trace, I assume. But we have other markers.’ She pulled photographs from a large brown envelope, then hesitated. ‘Unless you really want to see the body . . . We photographed all the essentials. It’s a bit of a stir fry.’

‘And I was so looking forward to it.’ Brook held out a hand for the first picture, a large colour head shot.

‘The victim was badly beaten about the head,’ began Petty. ‘Fists to start with, then a blunt instrument – although that was possibly post mortem. No clue as to what without further analysis from EMSOU.’

‘Hammer?’ said Noble.

‘If you recovered one from the scene, I’d say it’s a good bet judging by the indentations on the skull. Special Unit can rule on that for you. Suffice to say there’s plenty of damage. Blows post mortem were presumably to hide identity. You can see the ruptured nasal cartilage, which is consistent with a beating. Also the jaw. Both TMJs are dislocated, which is a classic signature for trauma to the lower face. Notice the teeth?’

‘All the damage is on the right side of her mouth,’ said Brook.

‘Correct,’ said Petty. ‘Combined with the direction of the cartilage rupture and the preponderance of blows to the right side of the head, it’s likely you’re looking for a left-handed male.’