A Killing Moon (22 page)

‘So let me get this straight,’ said Charlton. ‘We have a pair of fugitives connected to Caitlin Kinnear, who
is
missing, killing and dumping a corpse that
isn’t
Caitlin’s in a stolen van.’

‘Except we don’t have direct evidence that they committed the murder, just the body dump.’

‘God forbid we’d have a stone-cold fact,’ snarled Charlton.

‘It gets more complicated,’ said Brook. ‘Jake recently took up a position at a new bar that’s opening in Friargate – Bar Polski.’

Charlton narrowed his eyes. ‘Sounds Polish.’

Brook managed an acknowledging smile. ‘The stolen van belonged to the owner, Grzegorz Ostrowsky, a Polish businessman with a murky past in the Far East.’

‘How murky?’

‘Drug smuggling,’ said Noble. ‘Though it didn’t stick.’

‘Any connection with this . . . ?’ Charlton waved a hand towards Nicola Serota’s image.

‘None that we can see, but without a definitive ID, we haven’t asked him yet.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’

‘We’re feeling each other out,’ said Brook. ‘His brother Max is an electrician and used the stolen van for his work. He’d just moved into a flat in Arboretum Street a stone’s throw from Jake and Nick’s tower block, and that’s where the van was reported stolen.’

‘So maybe the victim was connected to these brothers,’ said Charlton.

‘It’s possible.’

‘But if Jake worked for this Ostrowsky, that would connect him to the victim as well,’ said Charlton, looking pleased with himself.

‘That’s true,’ admitted Brook.

‘The plot thickens.’ Charlton glanced at his watch. ‘So what can I tell the media?’

‘That we’re looking for Jake and Nick Tanner.’

‘What about Caitlin?’

Brook shook his head. ‘We’d prefer the family didn’t get it from the media, even though it’s qualified good news.’

‘Qualified?’

‘She’s still missing.’

‘I can mention Nicola Serota, right?’

Brook sighed. ‘Not until we’re sure. Her biog made no mention of a tattoo. It may not be her.’

‘Then we need to put the tattoo out there from the off,’ said Charlton.

‘At this stage, best we hold that back for confirmation, sir,’ said Noble.

Charlton nodded. ‘I suppose.’ Wearily he stood to leave. ‘I’m going to look like a right chump.’ He glared across at Brook, finally managing a smile. ‘But at least you’ll be sitting next to me.’

‘Something tells me you just flushed your goodwill down the toilet,’ said Noble, looking after Charlton.

‘Back in my comfort zone, then.’

‘So what now?’ asked Noble.

Brook glanced at Banach and beckoned her over. ‘I’ve had an idea. I want a warrant for the Rutherford Clinic, John. We need to go through their records. Constable, you’re a Catholic.’

Banach grinned. ‘I’m Polish – it’s the most Catholic country in Europe.’

‘More than Italy or Ireland?’

‘Absolutely – nearly ninety per cent of the population.’

‘Is this relevant?’ asked Noble.

‘And what can Catholic girls from those countries get in England that they can’t access so easily in Poland, Ireland and Italy?’ persisted Brook.

While Noble floundered, Banach’s eyes widened in sudden realisation. ‘Oh my God.’

Twenty-Five

Harsh light flooded the room. Unused to the brightness, Caitlin kept her eyes closed for a moment to make the adjustment. Then the music came, the sort of stuff her gran listened to on a sleepy Sunday afternoon after the Gaelic football had finished – non-threatening, easy-listening instrumentals. It sent a shudder down her spine. The phone buzzed in her hand.

Rule
5
. If spoken to u can say how was your day darling? Nod if u understand
.

Caitlin nodded, the fear rising in her.

Over the lush strings she heard a door close behind her and strained to see an elderly man walk in front of her, his eyes lighting up when he saw her, wrinkling in the effort of a smile.

Caitlin stared in horror at his face, one side of which had slipped away, as though his head was a painting that had been partially left out in the rain until the right flank sagged like the stump of a used candle. When smiling, the left half of his mouth turned up while the right sank further towards his jaw, his tongue waving amidst the wreckage, peeping uncontrolled from the damp twist of his lips.

He had thick white hair swept back over his head and huge unkempt eyebrows. He was wearing a dark-green velvet dinner jacket over a white shirt with a green bow tie, and carried a dinner tray in his liver-spotted hands. The tray looked like it might fall from his quivering grasp at any moment as he approached her, dragging his right foot slightly. Caitlin guessed he’d suffered some kind of stroke.

He plopped the tray on her lap as gently as he could manage, moving in close to smell Caitlin’s hair. She in turn could smell the sharp aftershave splashed on the clean side of his face. The right side was shaggy and unshaven, though someone – she doubted it could have been the old man – had made an attempt to trim the patchy beard with scissors.

As she eased away from his sniffing nostrils, Caitlin’s gaze was fixed on the food and her own nostrils began to quiver. It looked like chicken breast in some kind of cream sauce with mashed potatoes and green beans – her dry mouth filled with saliva and she realised she was starving.

The man let go of the tray and the full aroma of hot food hit Caitlin, making her light-headed, almost nauseous. She’d read somewhere that when the Americans had first stumbled upon a concentration camp during the Second World War, they were forbidden to feed the skeletal inmates, fearing the damage solid food might do to their insides.

The old man shook out a blood-red napkin and shuffled behind her, humming along to the music as well as his disfigured mouth would allow, the chords translated into a series of gasps.

He moved out of her sight and Caitlin’s pulse quickened when she felt his breath on her neck. She shivered and closed her eyes as he tucked the napkin down the front of her shirt, lingering too long at the top curve of her breasts. Close to her ear, the old man tried to configure a couple of words, and she could feel his breath on her neck as he spoke. She couldn’t be sure but it sounded like ‘Our song,’ and she trembled from the combined effects of his words and the splash of spit on her skin.

She opened her eyes and fixed them on the food, tried to concentrate on the meal to come and swallowed a large gob of drool at the prospect.

When the man finished fixing the cloth around her neck, Caitlin felt his rough hands on her skin. They were trembling, though probably through infirmity rather than fear. As his fingers dragged across her soft skin, his nails hard as diamonds, he noticed her goose bumps and she shivered again, her breath quickening.

‘You’re cold,’ he gasped – barely coherent – into her ear. He gave her lobe a light peck, the tip of his dry tongue touching the skin, then drew his gnarled talons through her hair. She could feel him running strands between finger and thumb like the nit doctor her mam had told her about in school.

‘Darling?’ The man left a pause for her to answer. Caitlin tried to ask him about his day but the words wouldn’t come. Instead the old man continued. ‘You changed your hair.’

My hair?
Realisation flooded into Caitlin’s fevered mind.
Jesus! I’m not the first
. She could stand it no more and shook off the man’s hand, then tried to lever herself upright but in so doing propelled the dinner tray to earth with a crash of plates and cutlery.

The old man began to howl like a smacked child and covered his uncooperative mouth with shaking hands. ‘No-oooo,’ he wailed, though Caitlin failed to register that or anything else except the current flowing quick and hot through her body. And as she lost consciousness, she felt comforting warmth spread through her diaper.

Banach sat in the back seat of Brook’s BMW, her unease growing as he pulled into the small car park at the side of the Rutherford Clinic. She still had the clinic’s card, given her by Dr Fleming, nestling in her pocket, and if she encountered him in Brook’s company, beans might be spilled that could damage her career. If anyone at St Mary’s got to know about her pregnancy, then the whole station would know soon after. That was just how it was. Keeping secrets from colleagues you might rely upon in a life-threatening situation was frowned upon and the station’s gossip mill did all it could to enforce the policy.

Brook drew alongside a gleaming new Audi – private number plate TOP DR
01
– which nestled in a bay reserved for Dr Fleming. A sign sported not just the doctor’s name but two lines of medical qualifications.

The detectives disgorged and were greeted by the sight and sound of around twenty people blocking the tarmac path to the main double doors of the clinic. The crowd were cheering and jeering as a tearful waif of a girl in a tracksuit hurried away from their taunts. As they approached, a portly nurse left the slab of a building and advanced from the other direction to remonstrate with the mob.

‘Father O’Toole, you know you have no right to be on this path,’ she shouted to answering heckles.

‘We have a right of lawful assembly,’ replied the priest, his dog collar hidden beneath a woollen scarf. A chorus of ‘Amen’ greeted his riposte.

‘Is there a problem, Father?’ asked Brook. All heads turned to him.

‘Not any more,’ said Father O’Toole, glancing beatifically at the heavens. ‘A sinner repents and the Lord’s will be done.’ More muttered Amens.

‘I’ll be the judge,’ said the nurse, folding her arms.

‘I asked if there was a problem,’ said Brook, holding up his warrant card.

‘No problem, Inspector Brook,’ said the priest, squinting at his ID and holding out a hand to shake. Taken unawares, Brook accepted the grip on a reflex. The old man’s hand was cold and clammy, his fingers bony. He pressed his thumb down on Brook’s knuckle, a gleam in his eye. ‘We’re doing God’s work protesting the taking of innocent lives.’

‘You’re abusing that right, Father, and you know it,’ said the nurse. ‘You’ve no right to block the path to the clinic to intimidate patients.’

‘Patients, you call them,’ snarled an elderly woman bedecked in expensive furs, stepping forward. Her American accent drew Brook’s attention. ‘They’re not patients. Ain’t a thing wrong with them that opening their hearts to the Lord wouldn’t up and cure.’

‘Amen,’ mumbled the rest of the group as one voice.

The priest beamed up at Brook, still holding the handshake. ‘I should mention that I’m a close friend of Chief Superintendent Charlton. We sometimes pray together and I’m always keen to support the division in my parish newsletter.’

Brook withdrew his hand, returning an icy smile. ‘I’m so pleased you mentioned that, Father. Constable, escort these good people away from this thoroughfare to an appropriate safe distance.’

‘Happy to,’ replied Banach.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ said the nurse, turning to glare triumphantly at the priest. Brook saw the name Moran on an ID badge on her chest.

‘You’ll burn in hell for this,’ snarled the American woman at Brook.

‘Already booked in,’ replied Brook. ‘But if you get there first, reserve me a room with a view, will you?’

‘Who in God’s name do you think you’re talking to?’

‘Mrs Trastevere, let me deal with this,’ said the priest. ‘Inspector, I don’t think you understand—’

‘No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand,’ said Brook. ‘The patients and staff at this clinic have the right to go about their business free from molestation, and all the Masonic handshakes in the world won’t undermine that right.’

‘We obey higher laws,’ spat Mrs Trastevere. ‘Make a note of the inspector’s name.’ The old woman glared malevolently at Brook as a young man took out an iPad. Brook watched him tap the keys and gestured to Banach who slipped behind the knot of protesters.

‘You’re making a mistake, Inspector,’ said Father O’Toole, his face pinching in judgement.

‘It wouldn’t be the first,’ said Brook. ‘Constable, take names and arrest anyone who resists. Call a wagon if you have to.’

‘Sir.’ Banach whipped the device from the young man’s gloved hands.

‘Hey, give that back,’ he ordered.

Banach held out an arm to show him the direction of travel. ‘Step this way, please.’

The burly young man seemed prepared to make a lunge for his iPad, but the elderly woman laid a gloved hand on his arm. ‘Turn the other cheek, Gabriel.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind turning it over in that direction,’ said Banach, gesturing at a pair of benches off to one side. ‘I’ll return your shit list when you’re off the path.’ There was silence and nobody moved.

Father O’Toole smiled into Brook’s tired eyes. ‘Well, perhaps our mission is accomplished for the evening, brethren.’ He gestured compliance and the throng moved off the path.

‘My iPad,’ growled the burly young man, holding out a hand.

Banach depressed the off button and held it out to the young man who opened his mouth to complain further, but Mrs Trastevere squeezed his bicep again. ‘I’ll pray for your soul, officer . . .’ she prompted with a raised eyebrow.

Banach’s smile disappeared. ‘Thank you.’

‘Much appreciated, Inspector,’ said Nurse Moran, preceding Brook and Noble through the automatic doors. ‘Lucky you were passing.’

‘We’re not passing,’ said Noble. ‘We’re here to see Dr Fleming.’

‘This would be about poor Caitlin, would it?’ said Moran, her face grim.

‘You remember her?’ said Brook.

‘When I saw her picture in the papers . . . terrible,’ answered Moran in her soft Irish brogue. ‘A young girl like that, her whole life ahead of her.’

‘You’d notice the Irish girls, I suppose,’ said Brook.

‘I do, and it was only recently she was here,’ said Moran. ‘We get a fair sprinkling of desperate women from Dublin, as you can imagine, what with the direct flights to East Midlands and all.’

‘Caitlin’s from Belfast,’ said Noble. Moran looked puzzled at his use of the present tense.

‘She
was
from Belfast, Sergeant,’ corrected Brook, deciding deception was easier than explanation.

‘So she was,’ nodded Moran. ‘But a Catholic nonetheless. And she certainly stood out from the crowd.’

‘Really? How?’

Moran considered. ‘Caitlin wasn’t like a lot of the girls who pass through our doors. Even the more mature ladies that come for a termination are at least a little . . .’

‘Conflicted?’ suggested Brook.

‘Conflicted,’ agreed Moran. ‘But not Caitlin. She was very sure of herself for one so young. Said she wasn’t going to waste her life
pushing out babies
. That’s how she put it. Some might have called her hard-faced, but honestly, I prefer that to the awful vulnerability most of them carry. Sure it was probably a bit of an act, but it showed strength of character.’ Moran smiled. ‘Gave those fanatics out there a taste of their own medicine, I can tell you – the language on her.’ Her smile disappeared. ‘I had no idea the poor girl was even missing.’

‘No one did,’ said Noble.

‘We may need to interview you further,’ said Brook.

‘Tonight?’ said Moran.

Brook registered Noble’s expression of exhausted dismay. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

‘You know where I am,’ said Moran, approaching the reception desk to address the thin-lipped woman behind. ‘Sally, is he free?’

Tymon looked around to check he was unobserved. He examined the door before pulling on bright yellow washing-up gloves from a black holdall, then drew out the keys he’d used at the building’s entrance. He turned a Yale in the flimsy lock, pushed open the door and reached for a light. Once illuminated, he scanned the apartment, a small and functional one-room studio that aped the characteristics of its tenant. The pungent smell of death hung like a shroud in the air, and Tymon placed the holdall on the floor and quickly opened the high skylight on the sloping roof to freshen the atmosphere. Then he extracted two bottles of cleaning fluid, a large bottle of strong bleach and a pack of J Cloths.

Having located a plug-in air freshener, he tore off the packaging and pushed the device into a socket before moving quietly round the room removing anything that might carry fingerprints or DNA – a bottle of cheap perfume, a clean ashtray full of cheap earrings, a picture frame showing a young girl flanked by her parents, the mother an older version of her and the proud father in full camouflage gear. Tymon recognised the insignia of the Polish Special Forces but barely paused before tossing the frame into the holdall.

He spun the cap off a half-finished bottle of vodka on a cabinet and took a long swig, examining the label as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat. There was a blood spot on the white label. He resealed the bottle and placed it carefully in the bag.

Next he emptied the waste baskets into a carrier bag, not bothering to examine the contents, and after tying them up, threw those into the holdall as well. He shook out a large plastic refuse sack and rolled up the bloodstained bedding, bagging the duvet, sheet and pillow cases before setting the sack by the door. Into another refuse sack he emptied the wardrobe of the few items of clothing and shoes, then threw the toiletries next to the sink and shower on top.