A Killing Moon (20 page)

Considering the mayhem of the last thirty-six hours, the place was eerily quiet, as though the world had stopped on its axis for a few seconds. It seemed to Brook there was a moment like this in every investigation, where time appeared to slow and he felt the peace within the eye of the storm. It occurred after the initial flurry of activity, when the case had settled down into a bureaucratic chasing-up of all the leads. In these moments, Brook often wondered what would happen if he followed his instincts and just stepped away from the madness to go walk in the sunshine for a few hours.

A glance at the happy faces of the three Polish girls on the photo array brought him back. One of them was doomed.

‘Sir.’ Brook’s reverie was broken by Morton brandishing a piece of paper. ‘The lab boys working the van found a fingernail inside one of the workman’s gloves. They’re working up the DNA and trying to match it to Jake Tanner.’

‘It could just as easily be Max’s,’ said Brook.

‘Which wouldn’t be much use as it’s his van.’

‘I know. Be nice to have his DNA on file, though. And his brother’s.’

‘We could ask for a sample when they get here,’ said Noble.

‘They’re not stupid enough to volunteer,’ said Brook. ‘If we could arrest Max for something . . .’

‘Take a drinks order when they arrive,’ suggested Morton. ‘Save jumping through all the hoops.’

‘That’s a little underhand,’ said Brook. ‘Did they check the gloves against the fibres in the victim’s throat?’

‘They’re a match.’

‘What about the hammer?’

‘Looks likely. They found blood, which they’re testing against the victim’s.’

The phone disturbed Brook’s train of thought. He picked up the receiver. ‘Interview Three. On our way.’ He replaced the receiver on its cradle. ‘John.’

Noble heaved his wheeled chair away from his desk, like a kid riding a supermarket trolley. Getting to his feet, the chair still moving, he brandished his notes, stumbling over the pronunciation again.

‘Grzegorz Ostrowsky. Businessman. Forty-three years old. Married in Warsaw, nineteen ninety-five. Wife and child died three years later during childbirth. Single ever since. He’s been an importer/exporter for fourteen years, so you can probably guess how the authorities know him.’

‘Smuggling?’ offered Brook.

‘Right. He used to trade in China and Hong Kong but now works exclusively in the UK, where he has three Polish minimarts – one in Derby, two in Nottingham. According to the PSTD – the Polish arm of Interpol’s database network – he was arrested by the Polish national police in
2002
when a batch of heroin with a street value of two million pounds was discovered during a routine inspection of one of his containers arriving in Gdansk from Hong Kong.’

‘But he got off.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘If he’d served serious time, I doubt he’d be allowed to settle in the UK without his past being flagged up for us to pick over.’

‘You might be overestimating the Home Office and the Borders Agency, but you’re right,’ said Noble. ‘He was released two weeks later when an employee in his Hong Kong office confessed to illegally hiding the package in the container.’

‘Convenient.’

‘Very,’ agreed Noble. ‘The employee was sentenced to twenty years in a Hong Kong prison, though he only served half.’

‘Two million pounds?’

‘Not much in terms of weight,’ said Noble. ‘Barely fifty kilos at today’s prices, and it’s gotten cheaper. So in smuggling terms it’s a drop in the ocean. But that’s the clever bit. I had a friend on the narcotics squad in Liverpool who calculated that smugglers could fit over a billion quid’s worth of gear into one container if they wanted. But they never do, partly because of the losses involved if your container gets picked out for inspection and partly because smaller batches can be made to look like the work of one or two people . . .’

‘Instead of a cartel,’ nodded Brook. ‘Makes sense.’

‘And it’s more deniable in court,’ said Noble. ‘Easier to pass the buck on to a rogue employee trying to line his own pockets at the expense of a victimised employer.’

‘You think Ostrowsky pulled the same scam?’

‘Seems plausible,’ said Noble.

Brook nodded towards the photographs of Nicola Serota, Valerie Gliszczynska and Adrianna Bakula. ‘Any mention of people-trafficking in his record?’

‘They were hardly trafficked,’ said Noble. ‘And we can forget Valerie and Adrianna for now,’ he added, tapping his pen on the first picture. ‘Nicola Serota is our new front-runner. She’s the right height according to Petty’s PM measurements. The other two are taller.’

‘Prioritise her dental records,’ said Brook. ‘But if that
is
Nicola in the mortuary, it means she’s been kept alive somewhere for over a year.’ He checked his watch as he reached for his jacket. ‘We’d better not leave them sweating too long. You haven’t mentioned Max.’

‘A couple of arrests for drunkenness and fighting and three for sexual assault,’ said Noble. ‘No convictions, though.’

‘Interesting.’

Angie Banach walked over in her slim-fitting black trouser suit and handed Brook a sheet of paper. ‘Apart from Jake, the only other English employee is barman Ashley Devonshire. Tymon Symanski and Max Ostrowsky are the only others on the Bar Polski payroll. No female staff, officially at least.’

‘Thanks,’ said Brook. ‘Ready?’

‘I think so,’ she replied, taking a deep breath.

Brook walked with her, Noble following. ‘You’re not a DC, but the plain clothes will suggest it. So I’ll introduce you as Constable Banner. When you get in there, don’t speak or react to the interviewees or anything they say and don’t take notes. Just listen and remember.’

As Brook walked on, she fell into step with Noble. ‘Why Banner?’

‘He doesn’t want them to know you’re Polish,’ said Noble. ‘If they say something incriminating in Polish and claim entrapment later, he can say he mispronounced your name.’

‘But if we’re taping it, we could just as easily get it translated,’ said Banach. ‘Why would they risk incriminating themselves?’

‘They likely won’t,’ said Noble. ‘But it’s amazing how many people forget there’s a tape rolling.’

Twenty-Three

Taking a long breath, as though she’d just surfaced from a deep pool, Caitlin opened her eyes. She blinked to try and see, but all was darkness. The gag was back in her mouth, held by another plaster. It took her a second to realise she was no longer cold and damp, and that the background smell of manure and straw was gone.

She was not in the barn but indoors, warm and cosseted, sitting upright on soft cushions. And she was clothed. Her left side still ached from where she had been struck by the van, but it felt better away from the cold concrete. In fact, if it weren’t for her bonds, trussing her up like a chicken once more, she’d be almost comfortable, having only recently wished herself dead.

She tried to assess her situation calmly. Her hands were in front, held against her legs by stiff leather straps, firm and unyielding. Legs and feet were strapped too, unable to move more than a couple of inches, but at least she could support herself with her right elbow propped on the arm of the chair or sofa.

She tested her bonds and struggled to get more play for her legs, but the rubbing hurt her bare ankles. On her right hand was what felt like a stiff glove, which was too big for her hand. She was aware of something hard resting on her palm, but she couldn’t see what it was or feel it through the material.

She could hear background noise – water in the pipes, the hum of electricity and that sealed-off stillness of being indoors. Then something struck her. Sliding an inch along the sofa, her clothing felt wrong. When she wriggled again, she felt a strange sensation along her buttocks and groin. Her crotch felt damp and sweaty. She’d been dressed in some kind of padded nappy. Somebody had removed her knickers to re-dress her in a skirt with a diaper underneath. Why? Her brain juddered and images of being undressed filled her head.

She wanted to be sick and her breathing quickened, but with a gag in her mouth she feared choking, which would only generate more panic. And to vomit could prove fatal.

Get control, girl. Get control. You might finally be about to get screwed
.

Bizarrely, the possibility calmed Caitlin. At least that would normalise the pervert, show that the man was after the same thing all the other drooling wankers had ever wanted from her.

She flexed her shoulders as best she could and felt the comfort of material against her skin, the pressure of her bra. Whoever had removed her knickers hadn’t wanted to see her breasts. She remembered a joke about redirecting a new boyfriend’s hands from knickers up to bra.
Oi! Tits first! I’m no slag
.

The smile died a quick death and she hung her head as far as the strap holding it up would allow. She stared sightlessly at her bare legs in the darkness, feeling the cotton skirt on her thighs. Something she couldn’t put her finger on tried to penetrate her consciousness.

Before she could rack her brains, a sudden vibration distracted her. It was the small object in her gloved palm. She turned her hand over. With a pant of excitement she saw the glowing display of an old-style chunky mobile phone.

Flexing her wrist, she was able to use the pale green light to illuminate her situation. It only took a second. She was sitting on a sofa in a large room. The furnishings were stripped down and basic. Wooden floor. Traditional fireplace. A large TV on one wall and what must have been a window shrouded by heavy curtains.

Her body was held by a construction of thick leather straps, her constraints enforced by traditional belt buckles only bigger. The overall effect reminded her of prisoners on death row being strapped to the electric chair. The analogy dispatched another flutter of anxiety through her when she saw the cable winding its way around her waist.

She held the phone as close as she could manage, gripping it hard as her gloved thumb searched for the keys. They weren’t there. By the light of the LCD display, she could see that the bottom half of the phone was swathed in tape until any discernible contours from the keypad had been obliterated. The tape in turn attached the phone to the thick suede gardener’s glove on her hand. She probed for the seam of the tape to get to the keys but it was impossible to unpick it through the heavy material.

A violent seizure stiffened every sinew as an electric current passed through her, and she bit down on the gag and her tongue. When the current ceased a split second later, she opened her watering eyes to the phone displaying a message.

Don’t do that bitch or u get zapped we can staple it to ur hand if u prefer
.

Her head sagged on to her chest. The phone vibrated again.

These are the rules.

1. Don’t ever speak in this room. Ever. U get zapped and worse if u do.

2. When HE’s there u smile. Be nice.

3. Dinner bell goes and u sit upright like U R now. This is the dinner position. Sit still and smile.

4. If he wants to kiss u or touch your tits u smile like u like it. More later. PS Nice pussy Kitty. LOL.

Caitlin closed her eyes and sobbed quietly in the dark.

‘Detective Inspector Brook, Sergeant Noble and Constable Banner in the room,’ said Brook. He looked up at Ostrowsky reclining on his chair, cross-legged, gazing at Banach, then up to the camera in a corner of the room. ‘Please identify yourselves for the tape, gentlemen.’

Ostrowsky looked coolly back at Brook. ‘Grzegorz Ostrowsky.’ He glanced at his brother and, speaking briefly in Polish, nodded towards the tape.

‘Makszi Ostrowsky,’ said the younger man, half standing to lean into the machine. He was nervous and looked uncomfortable in a suit and white shirt, the pinkness of his blood-dappled cheeks testifying to a recent shave.

A uniformed officer arrived with a tray of hot drinks and set them down for the occupants of the room to help themselves. Both brothers eyed the cups but made no move to take one.

‘Jeremy Patterson, solicitor for both parties,’ said the smooth-looking man on the end chair. He opened a briefcase and took out a plastic wallet; held it out for Brook, who kept his arms folded. ‘I refer Inspector Brook to the documents pertaining to Mr Ostrowsky’s stolen vehicle while it was in the possession of his brother Max.’ Eventually Noble took the wallet, barely examining the contents, while Brook stared between Ostrowsky and Patterson. Max was too uncomfortable to maintain eye contact.

‘I’d like to hear details of the theft from Mr Ostrowsky,’ said Brook.

‘Max speaks poor English,’ said Ostrowsky.

‘If I may proceed on behalf of my client,’ continued Patterson, with a critical glance at Brook. ‘You’ll see the subsequent insurance claim for the vehicle, which is currently pending. The log book and insurance document were unfortunately in the van, but you’ll find a copy of both in the wallet plus the account of the theft given to the attending officer.’

Patterson had changed his position to engage with Noble, hoping for a more civil reception. He helped himself to a beaker of tea. ‘As you can see from the police report, the vehicle was left by my client in a public street at six p.m. on the evening of April twenty-second, near his new apartment on Arboretum Street, and he didn’t return to the vehicle until six thirty the following morning – a window of opportunity for the thief of over twelve hours. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the stats concerning theft of trade vehicles reflect a much higher attrition rate than those for private vehicles.’

Brook flicked a glance towards Patterson but said nothing.

‘I’ve also taken the liberty of noting down my clients’ movements on the night in question, as a formality. Mr Ostrowsky left—’

‘What happened when you discovered the van had been stolen?’ Brook asked Max directly.

The younger brother gazed at Brook, slowly realising he was being addressed. ‘
Nie rozumiem
.’ He drew out a packet of cigarettes and patted his jacket in vain for a lighter.

‘He doesn’t understand,’ said Patterson. ‘Please speak to me, Inspector . . .’

Max gestured at Noble’s lighter on the desk.

‘No smoking,’ said Noble.

‘
Nie rozumiem
,’ repeated Max.

‘He doesn’t understand, John,’ said Brook. He picked up Noble’s lighter and lobbed it in a gentle arc towards Max, who flicked up his left hand to catch it, then proceeded to light his cigarette.

Grzegorz’s thin smile disappeared and he snatched the lighter from his brother and plucked the cigarette from him, extinguishing it between his finger and thumb. He extracted a cigarette packet of his own and thrust in Max’s cigarette, turning to his brother. ‘
Idiota. Zakaz palenia
.’ He addressed the solicitor. ‘Hurry this up, please. I’ve got a business to run.’

‘Inspector Brook,’ said Patterson, ‘in your own news conference about the murdered girl, the men who stole my client’s van were clearly identified.’

‘One of whom was your client’s employee,’ said Brook.

‘Ex-employee,’ said Patterson.

‘Not at the time of the theft,’ said Brook. ‘Right now I want to know what happened when your client discovered his van missing.’

‘He called the police and reported the vehicle stolen,’ said Patterson, impatiently.

‘Before he rang his brother?’

Patterson hesitated, sensing a problem. ‘That’s right.’

‘With his poor command of English.’ No one spoke. Ostrowsky maintained eye contact with Brook. He seemed unconcerned. Brook opened his laptop and clicked on the touchpad, looking back at Ostrowsky.

‘
Emergency. Which service, please?
’

‘
Police
,’ answered a male voice, with a distinct foreign accent. When put through to the police call centre, he answered the opening question with ‘
My van stolen – in Arboretum Street
.’

‘
What’s your name, sir?
’

‘
My name is Max Ostrowsky
.’

‘That proves nothing, Inspector,’ interrupted Ostrowsky, still able to smile. ‘I told you. Max speaks a little English. He knows his street name.’

‘He can conjugate verbs,’ said Brook. ‘And I’m pleased to see you now know where your brother lives.’

‘Inspector Brook . . .’ began Patterson.

‘No,’ said Ostrowsky, putting a hand across the solicitor. ‘Let me speak. Inspector Brook, my brother and I are immigrants. I am sorry I lied to you about Max’s accommodations . . .’

‘His mobile phone too,’ added Noble.

‘It’s true,’ agreed Ostrowsky. ‘I was wary. My brother and I work in a foreign country and we are not wanted here. People give us filthy looks when they hear us talking. We take their jobs, they say, though I don’t see many British who work as hard. And we don’t know the police and how they take care of their business.’ He looked at Banach standing against the side wall. She moved to the wall behind the interviewees.

‘And to clear up a murder you think we’d pin it on the nearest immigrant?’ said Noble.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ostrowsky. ‘But when you came to Bar Polski, you were also not truthful with me.’

‘We may not have told you what we knew, but that’s normal procedure, and at least we didn’t lie,’ argued Noble.

‘I think I’d call pretending to be a building inspector somewhat of a deception,’ said Patterson.

Brook held up a pacifying hand. ‘I assume the upshot of all this is that your brother can speak for himself.’

‘Max will answer now,’ said Ostrowsky. ‘Tell them why you called the police before me.’

‘Yes, I call police,’ said Max.

‘The call didn’t come in until seven that morning,’ said Noble. ‘Yet you claim to have discovered the theft half an hour earlier.’

Max turned to his brother and received a quick translation. ‘Yes. I try to find van. I think my brother will be crazy with me. And I worry about insurance.’ He hung his head. ‘I leave tools in. I should take out but I was tired.’

‘There,’ said Ostrowsky.

‘When you parked the vehicle the previous evening, was there a dead body in the back?’ asked Noble.

‘Is that a serious question?’ said Patterson.

Noble smiled. ‘For the record.’

‘No,’ said Max, shaking his head. ‘No body.’

‘What exactly
was
in the van?’

Max threw his head back to think. ‘Tools for electrician. Some petrol. Boots. Gloves.’

‘A blowtorch,’ said Brook.

‘Yes.’

‘Why does an electrician need a blowtorch?’ asked Noble.

‘Sometimes we put wire into wall and find old pipes,’ explained Max. ‘We must take out.’

‘A hammer?’

Max nodded. ‘Yes. In my tool bag.’

‘A bunch of keys.’

Max hesitated, thinking. ‘Yes.’

‘And when did you tell your brother about the theft?’

‘Later,’ said Max. ‘Don’t know time.’

‘I managed to contact Max that afternoon – following your visit to Bar Polski,’ said Ostrowsky to Brook. ‘Then Max came to the bar to speak with me.’

‘So you didn’t know about the van until DS Noble and I told you?’

‘You know I didn’t.’

‘We only know you took the theft very lightly,’ said Noble.

Ostrowsky shrugged. ‘It’s a van. Obviously I had no idea someone had been killed. Or Jake was involved. You didn’t say or I wouldn’t take so lightly.’

‘Did you know Jake Tanner, your brother’s new barman?’ said Noble, addressing Max.

Max shook his head. ‘Not to speak but I see. I can say hello. No more. I don’t go to bar. I work hard.’

‘Jake had been at Bar Polski less than two weeks. I needed an experienced man to stock the bar,’ said Ostrowsky. ‘Jake applied. He was smart, knew about drinks. I gave him the job.’

‘Did he provide references?’

‘Testimonials? Yes, some. He was presentable, well-spoken. I hired him.’

‘Did he mention he had a criminal record?’