A Killing Moon (19 page)

‘Likely?’

‘You can never know for certain how an assailant is going to utilise a blunt instrument,’ explained Petty before shrugging. ‘If it were just fists . . .’

‘But definitely a man?’ said Noble.

‘Very high probability given the stats on violence against women plus the strength needed to inflict such damage,’ said Petty. Noble nodded in a sad condemnation of his sex.

‘Sexual activity?’

‘None – consensual or otherwise – so no DNA from that source, I’m afraid.’

Brook shrugged. ‘She wasn’t raped, at least. Is it possible to determine paternity?’

‘If you have DNA to match to the foetal cells,’ said Petty. ‘All the father’s markers will be present. Do you?’

‘Not yet, given that we don’t know who she is,’ said Brook.

‘Higginbottom suggested she was strangled,’ said Noble.

‘He’s right. The killer got on top of her, cracking three of her ribs. She may have fought back, so the beating was to subdue her. There are depression marks on her throat and her hyoid bone was broken, which closed off the airway.’ She unfurled another picture, a close-up of one eye to show small blood spots.

‘Petechial haemorrhaging,’ said Noble.

‘Broken capillaries caused by asphyxiation. There would have been blood spots and discoloration all over her face, but the fire destroyed them. I’m guessing the blaze didn’t last long, otherwise the eyeballs would have boiled away completely.’

‘How long dead?’ asked Brook.

Petty checked her notes. ‘From the rate of decomp, I’d say between sixty and seventy-two hours . . .’

‘So murdered thirty-six to forty-eight hours before her body was dumped and torched,’ said Noble slowly.

‘Sounds right,’ answered Petty.

‘You said she fought,’ chipped in Brook.

‘Didn’t mean to get your hopes up,’ said Petty. ‘Sitting on the chest is a classic suppression technique and it works very well. No skin under her fingernails, and any hair she might have grabbed didn’t survive the fire.’ She produced a plastic evidence bag. ‘On the plus side, I’m fairly sure the killer wore fire-retardant gloves, because we found a couple of usable fibres in her mouth and underneath the tongue. They probably detached when he was strangling her.’

‘Fire-retardant?’

‘I’ve sent the sample off to EMSOU for confirmation. Suggests you’re looking for somebody who needs heavy-duty specialist gloves – a workman, a gardener, a fireman . . .’

‘Somebody with a trade like an electrician?’ said Brook.

‘Sounds reasonable,’ nodded Petty.

‘Even if we match fibres to the gloves in the van, the van was stolen,’ said Noble. ‘So whoever had access to it had access to the gloves.’

‘True. What about fingerprints, Doctor?’

‘Her prints are gone, and if I were a betting woman, I’d suggest they were burned off
before
she was set alight, because the blistering is extreme compared to the rest of her hands and arms.’ She showed Brook and Noble another photograph. ‘See how her right hand was partially protected from the flames but still the fingertips are incinerated.’

‘Post mortem?’ asked Brook, squinting.

‘Undoubtedly,’ nodded Petty. ‘I’m guessing he had time.’

‘Thorough,’ said Brook.

‘Cold would be a better word.’

‘Blowtorch? Acid?’ enquired Noble.

‘You’ll have to wait for more tests, but continuing the tradesman theme . . .’ Petty shrugged the rest.

‘Blowtorch,’ said Noble, arching an eyebrow at Brook.

‘I’ve been saving the best until last.’ Petty walked them over to a computer terminal. ‘The victim had a tattoo on her upper right arm. Whoever killed her must have believed it could lead to an ID, so instead of trusting the fire to get the job done, he blowtorched that as well.’ She tapped a key to bring up another colour close-up of the victim’s skin. ‘See anything?’

‘Burnt skin,’ said Noble.

‘Third-degree burnt skin to be precise,’ said Petty.

‘So it’s not superficial,’ said Brook.

‘No. The burn extends through all layers of the dermis. However, our killer reckoned without the latest forensic toys.’ Petty tapped a key for the next picture. ‘This is a shot taken with a video spectral comparator.’

‘I can see lines,’ said Noble, pointing. ‘And those are letters underneath.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ve read about this,’ said Brook. ‘Different pigments react differently under filtered lights.’

‘And will become luminescent under different parts of the light spectrum despite superficial attempts to obscure them,’ continued Petty.

‘Even after the skin is blowtorched?’ asked Noble.

‘As long as the ink is still present in the tissue, yes. You have to fool around with the filters. Some pigments react best to infrared, some to ultraviolet . . .’

‘All mod cons.’

‘We aim to please. Watch.’ Petty tapped another key and the image on the burned flesh changed slightly.

‘It’s a flag,’ said Noble.

‘And that’s red ink, and I think that’s supposed to be a white eagle,’ said Petty, pointing.

‘P-O-L-S-K-I,’ said Brook, reading the six-letter word beneath the rectangular flag.

‘Poland,’ breathed Noble. ‘Interpol was right.’

‘Interpol?’ queried Petty.

‘We’d been working on a series of disappearances before this body turned up,’ said Brook.

‘I hope the tattoo narrows it down.’

‘Not nearly enough,’ sighed Brook, his mind now alive to the possibilities he’d so far managed to dismiss. The abduction and murder of young overseas females was no longer idle speculation.

‘We have three missing Polish YWFs on the books,’ explained Noble. Dr Petty’s head dropped, her pride at showing off her skills forgotten.

‘And now an actual Polish victim,’ said Brook.

‘Do you have to be Polish to have the flag tattooed on your arm?’ asked Noble. ‘I mean, Hell’s Angels walk round with the Confederate flag on their jackets. Doesn’t mean they whistle Dixie.’

‘He’s got a point,’ said Petty, pulling more photographs from the envelope. ‘She could have met a Polish boy on holiday and had it done.’ Brook and Noble looked at an image of the victim’s inner mouth, relatively undamaged by fire. ‘However, I’ve done dental shots for twenty years and I can usually recognise British work when I see it. And I think this is foreign.’

‘Thank you,’ said Brook, preparing to leave. ‘You’ll email your report? We might need basic physiognomy to compare against our missing girls, give us a nudge in the right direction.’

‘You’ll have it today.’ Petty smiled sympathetically. ‘You look exhausted, the pair of you. Get some rest.’

Two sets of bloodshot eyes returned the blankest of acknowledgements before Brook and Noble trudged out into the corridor.

Back in daylight, Brook squinted at his watch. ‘Get a taxi back to St Mary’s, John . . .’

‘You’re not coming?’

‘Not yet. Follow up your Interpol enquiry on Ostrowsky and widen it to include his brother. They’re coming in this afternoon, and if there’s anything we need to know, I’d like to know it before we talk to them. Criminal and arrest records a priority. And if you get time, go over the profiles on the three missing Polish girls. See if there’s any mention of tattoos; compare heights and hair colours from Dr Petty’s report when it lands.’

‘The profiles could pre-date the tattoo,’ said Noble.

‘I know,’ said Brook. ‘But check anyway. And get Cooper to start the ball rolling on dental records.’

‘In Europe?’ said Noble. ‘That could take weeks.’

Brook let his expression say
I know
for him. ‘Do it for all the missing women. The two Irish girls should be easier at least. That reminds me. The first Irish girl . . .’

‘Bernadette Murphy?’

‘Wasn’t her aunt a nurse here?’

‘Mary Finnegan?’ said Noble. ‘Three years ago, yes. What do I do about Caitlin’s family? And Laurie Teague?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s not Caitlin’s body in there,’ said Noble. ‘It’s the one thing we
do
know and I think they deserve to be told.’

Brook was silent for a moment. ‘Yes, they do, John. But not yet. We’re entitled to wait for confirmation. We’ve got the Ostrowskys coming in, and if the victim’s nationality
isn’t
a coincidence, we don’t want them on the defensive any more than they already will be.’

‘So let them think we have Caitlin’s body,’ nodded Noble.

‘Excuse me, Doctor. I’m looking for the two police officers who were brought in last night.’

The white-coated woman turned. ‘And you are?’

‘DI Brook, Derby CID.’ Brook flashed his warrant card, dropping his eyes to her ID tag and betraying recognition. ‘You’re Dr Cowell. You worked at the university.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘Your name came up in an investigation.’ The frost descended over her attractive face and Brook smiled to reassure. ‘You were Daniela Cassetti’s campus doctor last year.’

‘Daniela Cassetti,’ repeated Dr Cowell slowly. ‘I remember her. What of it?’

‘This is a bit off-the-cuff, but what can you tell me about her?’

Cowell glared at Brook. ‘Not a thing. Haven’t you heard of doctor–patient—’

‘She’s missing.’

‘Missing? Since when?’

‘We’re not sure,’ admitted Brook. ‘But she spent two terms at Derby University and never returned for the summer term.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Dr Cowell. ‘She went back to Italy, I believe.’

‘That may have been her intention, but according to her family, she never arrived,’ said Brook. ‘Interpol declared her a missing person a year later.’

‘A year?’ exclaimed Cowell.

Brook shrugged. ‘People travelling abroad tend not to be missed straight away. So if you have any information about her health or state of mind, it would—’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Cowell. ‘But there are rules and you’ll need some kind of warrant. And even if I wanted to help, I don’t have my records here.’

Brook held her eye for a moment. Pushed for time, he decided not to argue and the doctor made to walk away. ‘What about my officers?’

Cowell turned and nodded beyond Brook. ‘Last cubicle on the right. The head injury is out of danger and should make a full recovery.’

‘One more thing. I know it’s a big hospital, but you wouldn’t happen to know a Nurse Finnegan, would you?’

‘Mary Finnegan?’

‘That’s right.’

‘She left two or three years ago,’ said Cowell.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know where . . . ?’

‘Right again,’ said Cowell, her voice clipped, already walking away. ‘I wouldn’t. But feel free to speak to Personnel.’

Twenty-Two

Caitlin woke to the shock of cold water hitting her. She was lying on the rough concrete floor of the barn, being hosed down. The water was freezing and she could barely move, so tightly was she bound, but she knew she had to stop the powerful jet choking her or she might drown right there and then. She found she could get a little purchase with her feet, and managed to push her soaking body round a few degrees to take the full force on the back of her neck.

A few seconds later, the water stopped.

‘Getting your head right?’

Unable to speak through the gasps for breath, she nodded as best she could. ‘Getting . . .’ she spluttered. The jet started again.

A few minutes later, the barrage stopped and the barn door closed on its smooth rail, taking the light with it. Every fibre of her body screamed in pain from her collision with the van. Worse, it was impossible to adjust her position to ease her aching muscles.

‘Getting my head right,’ she screamed.

But her head wasn’t right. None of her was. Her left side was bruised and battered, her feet were cold, her hair felt dank and itchy on her scalp and she stank to high heaven, despite her daily soaking. Not surprisingly, she’d started to sneeze, her nose running and her throat sore. Having lost all track of time, she felt alone and powerless.

At that moment, she began to wish for death. And why shouldn’t she? Her God had abandoned her, had been vengeful and guided her back into the path of her abductor, and it wasn’t hard to guess why.

‘Kill me now,’ she whispered.

Weak from hunger, her mouth and lips sealed by dehydration, Caitlin woke as usual to the shock of cold water hitting her. She peeled her lips apart and gulped at the spray to moisturise her parched mouth. But something had changed. When she tried to shield herself against the jet with her hands, she found that they moved. Her legs too.

‘Stand up,’ came the barked command.

With no little difficulty, caused by light-headedness and lack of exercise, she managed to comply. To her shock, she discovered she was in bra and knickers, her clothes cut off and dropped in a heap beside her. Unconscious, she’d been unbound and stripped, and now freezing water was blinding her.

She felt something hit her in the midriff and looked down to see a large tablet of soap.

‘Wash!’ said the man.

Caitlin reached down and picked up the rough soap and began to rub it over her body, slowly at first but then with mounting enthusiasm – her hair, her face, her sticky underarms and what her mum referred to as the
nether regions
. She tore off the grubby plaster and gingerly washed her damaged arm, then gratefully cleansed her soiled crotch with her back to the hose.

When she was finished, she faced her abductor and dropped the soap behind her, dimly aware that it might make an effective cosh if only she had a sock to swing it in.

‘Turn round.’

Caitlin obliged, and a few seconds later, after a pounding between the shoulder blades, the cascade ended. A towel hit her head and she grabbed at it greedily, drying herself down, scouring her skin with the rough material. When she’d finished, she held it to her face and revelled in the fragrance of cleanliness.

She heard the door roll closed and turned to see it fastened, her captor gone. A towelling dressing gown hung on a hook on the wall, a plastic bag with it.

Caitlin pulled on the robe. There was a packet of tissues in each pocket. She tore one open, blew her nose. She emptied the plastic bag – water and more cooked chicken. She took a gulp of water, then tore the chicken apart, trying to eat delicately, knowing that days without food might result in her throwing up if she ate too fast. She finished the food and took another satisfying draught of water. Within seconds her vision began to play tricks and it seemed the world before her eyes was made of melting wax, which was being poured into a very deep, dark box.

Caitlin held up the bottle, her last sight the white residue in the bottom.

‘Bastard,’ she mumbled, dropping the bottle, and, head swimming, staggered towards the pens and the ease of a soft landing. She didn’t make it.

Mitch lay in the bed a few feet from her chair, his head swathed in bandages, his arm attached to tubes. He seemed to be breathing rhythmically, which comforted her as much as the brief word and thumbs-up he’d given her before succumbing to the medication.

Angie Banach finished her prayer and crossed herself before resting her hands on her stomach. The thought of the young life growing in her womb overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and released a huge sigh.
Things had been going so well
.

‘That explains the dizzy spell at least,’ she mumbled as she stretched.

Opening her eyes again, she was shocked to see DI Brook standing at the other side of the cubicle.

‘Feeling better?’

Banach scanned his expression for any loading in the question. There didn’t seem to be any hint that he knew.
I’m being stupid. Why would the doctors tell him? There’s a protocol. They wouldn’t give out medical information without consent
.

‘A little dizzy maybe,’ she replied to cover her tracks.

‘But no concussion.’

‘No. Sir.’

‘The surgeon tells me the prognosis for Constable Ryan is good.’ Brook turned his gaze on the stricken officer.

‘No thanks to me. Sir.’ Banach felt distinctly uncomfortable in bare feet and flimsy hospital pyjamas. Brook considered her and smiled.

‘Something funny?’ she demanded, remembering their battle of wills the previous evening.

Unfazed, Brook’s smile widened. ‘People are funny.’

‘You mean me?’ she replied, anger catching in her throat.

‘Yes, I mean you,’ replied Brook, a sharper edge to his weary voice.

‘I’m glad you’re getting a laugh,’ she dared to reply, unable to look at him, expecting the rebuke she was earning.

‘So am I.’

She fumbled for the right words. ‘If this is about me climbing into that building before calling it in . . .’

‘See that,’ said Brook, holding out his right hand for inspection.

Banach stared at Brook’s outstretched hand then back at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Skin graft,’ explained Brook. ‘I was laid up for five months after a car fire. You see, I thought my daughter might be inside, so I tried to get it open.’

‘And was she?’

‘No, thankfully. But I was injured in the line of duty nonetheless. Like you.’

‘Okay,’ she said uncertainly.

‘But if I hadn’t thought she was in that burning car, I wouldn’t have gone near it. You, however, with no thought for your own safety, and no personal profit, climbed into that building.’ Banach looked down at her bare feet. ‘You’re the thin blue line, Constable, and I’m in awe.’ She looked up into the inspector’s eyes. ‘
Huj w dupe policji
,’ said Brook, grimacing at his poor impersonation of Ostrowsky’s giant bodyguard.

Banach’s half-smile disappeared. ‘Screw the police?’

‘You speak Polish,’ said Brook.

‘You too. Almost.’

‘Just a phrase I picked up.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Your personnel file says you want to move over to CID – eventually.’

‘Maybe.’

‘When will you be ready for duty?’

‘My uniform was bagged.’

‘But you have civilian clothes in your locker.’

‘My mum brought some in, yes.’

‘Good. When are you discharged?’

‘Two hours ago,’ she said. ‘But I wanted to be here for—’

‘Constable Ryan will be fine,’ said Brook. ‘Gather your belongings and let’s go and get a decent cup of tea.’

‘Go where?’

‘You’re joining my squad until you’re reassigned.’ Brook watched for her reaction. ‘If that appeals.’

She took a moment to answer. ‘Okay,’ she said uncertainly.

‘Don’t hurt yourself turning any cartwheels.’

‘Sorry.’ For the first time she smiled in his presence. ‘I’m flattered, of course, it’s just the last ten hours have been a bit . . . full on.’

‘I can imagine. I hope your clothes are suitable.’ Brook paused as she ran the rule over his shapeless worn suit and faded overcoat. She arched an eyebrow.

‘We could always stop at an Oxfam shop on the way,’ she muttered, leaving the cubicle.

‘You and DS Noble will get on like a house on fire,’ mumbled Brook as she passed.

‘I’m bored.’

Nick’s monotone gave Jake pause but he didn’t look up. ‘Read a book.’ He was sitting with his feet up on the tasselled sofa, unable to get comfortable on the cheap foam cushions.

‘I can’t read.’

‘You’re not in school now, Nick.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I know you
can
read when it suits you.’

‘No I can’t.’

Jake looked up.
I’m not going to argue with you
. ‘There are magazines.’

‘Yeah, about knitting and the royal family,’ snapped Nick.

‘Suit yourself.’

‘I wanna go down the Intu, look in the shops.’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘I wanna go down the Intu,’ said Nick, louder. He glared at the string round Jake’s neck where the door key dangled.

‘You’re not leaving this flat to stare at shit you don’t need and can’t afford,’ answered Jake, patting his T-shirt and giving Nick the eyes.
And I don’t want to have this conversation again
.

‘I got money,’ replied Nick, sour-faced.

‘Yeah, and pigs shit bacon sandwiches,’ muttered Jake.

Nick laughed and repeated the sentence. ‘Pigs shit bacon sandwiches.’ He laughed some more, his discontent temporarily forgotten. ‘What you reading?’

Jake looked at the cover of his book as though unaware. ‘Agatha Christie.
Death on the Nile
.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s about all these rich people on a boat who don’t think they’re rich enough. They’ve been a bit dodgy so they might have to kill some richer woman to get her money and shut her up. Problem is, there’s some Frog detective on the boat who’s all over ’em like a rash.’

‘Any good?’

‘Not bad.’ Jake looked off into space and smiled.

‘What?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Tell me.’

Jake looked around at the room’s austerity – the ancient lightshade, the few drab furnishings, the mildew, the yellowing wallpaper beginning to peel. ‘I thought it was a recent thing, but this book was written in nineteen thirty-seven.’

‘Wow. When was that?’

‘A long time ago. But even then the rich pricks never knew when they had enough money.’

Nick sniggered. ‘Rich pricks.’

‘Yeah, you laugh,’ smiled Jake. ‘It’s all there is to do when you see where we are.’ He stared blindly at the faded carpet. ‘Where we’ve always been.’ He looked back at Nick and shook his head. ‘I had plans, Nick. I’m sorry I couldn’t have given you a better life.’

Nick smiled. ‘Rich pricks. They the ones gonna fuck us over?’ Jake laughed, which sent Nick into waves of hysteria.

‘Always.’

‘Rich like Mr Ost . . .’ Nick tailed away, unable to find the pronunciation.

Jake’s merriment dissipated rapidly. ‘Yeah, just like Ostrowsky.’

‘And like Max?’

Jake glared malevolently at Nick, and the younger brother bowed his head. He’d said the wrong thing. Sulkily he picked up his inert PS
2
and fiddled with the buttons, glanced over at his brother, an innocent expression on his face.

‘No,’ said Jake, not looking up.

‘I didn’t say nothing.’

‘You were going to ask me for the batteries.’

‘No I wasn’t.’ A pause. ‘But can I have them?’

‘After tea,’ said Jake.

Nick sighed in frustration. ‘How come there’s no telly?’

‘There probably was, but someone took it.’

‘Time is it?’

‘You’ve got the watch,’ said Jake.

‘It’s stopped.’

‘Sorry. It was only cheap.’

‘If we went out, we could find out the time.’

Jake took a breath. ‘I’ve told you we can’t do that. The police are looking for us.’

‘We can’t do nothing.’

‘Anything. We can’t do anything.’ Jake smiled at his pouting brother. ‘Why don’t you read a book?’

‘Can’t read.’

Jake pulled a face and wandered over to the window to look through the crack in the curtain. ‘They’re still in and out of the Cream. Must have pulled it off my references.’ He turned, shaking his head. ‘Thank fuck I couldn’t find those keys.’

Nick sniggered. ‘Thank
fuck
.’

Jake smiled but then looked back towards the window. ‘Wonder where they went.’ He looked back at Nick, who suddenly picked up an old copy of
Majesty
magazine to flick through.

Brook listened to the recording one more time before closing the lid of his laptop. He gulped down the last of his cold tea, then massaged his eyes, trying to ignore the musty odour beginning to envelop him. He yearned to get home and soak in the bath for an hour but knew that rest and recreation were some way off. At least the situation hadn’t escalated and turned into a spree, which was always a possibility with fleeing suspects.

He finished his questions for interview and scribbled a few notes for the afternoon briefing before settling back in his chair to look around the incident room. A sudden burst of spring sunshine illuminated the mass of dust particles hovering in the air like distant galaxies in a NASA photograph, adding to the sense of time suspended.

Cooper was busy downloading images from the post-mortem and pinning them up on the boards. Pride of place was given to the tattoo from the victim’s upper arm. DC Read was chasing Daniela Cassetti’s medical records from the university. Morton and Smee had brought through the display boards from the smaller incident room now that the victim’s nationality had been identified and a connection to Brook and Noble’s Interpol enquiry had been established.

Banach was compiling a list of Bar Polski employees with the help of the Inland Revenue database and Noble was poring over his monitor, racing against time to get what information he could from foreign police forces before the Ostrowsky brothers arrived for interview.