A Killing Moon (23 page)

Finally he went to work with the cleaning fluids on surfaces, light switches and door handles to remove prints and any obvious blood spatter. It would be as though Kassia Proch had never set foot in the place.

‘As I said, there were no complications, Inspector Brook. Everything went smoothly and Ms Kinnear spent the night with us before leaving the next morning.’ Dr Fleming smiled as he returned Brook’s warrant card.

‘Something funny?’

‘You’ve not heard of Brook Advisory Centres?’ said Fleming. ‘They provide advice and information on a range of sexual health matters.’

‘Now you mention it,’ answered Brook, unmoved.

‘Did Caitlin have any visitors while she was here?’ asked Noble.

Fleming raised his chained glasses to his nose to glare at the monitor. ‘It’s not always recorded, but according to this, a young lady called Laurie Teague paid her a visit.’

‘No men?’

‘None.’ Fleming shrugged. ‘That’s normal. Even supportive male partners are uncomfortable in the clinic.’

‘What was Caitlin’s mood while she was here?’ asked Noble.

‘I can’t be expected to remember every patient I treat, Sergeant,’ said Fleming. ‘I’ve got a job to do and my patients wouldn’t thank me for worrying about how they’re feeling. And depending on length of pregnancy, patients are often anaesthetised – some local, some general, depending on the stage of the pregnancy – so even when conscious, their mood can be altered by the drugs.’

‘Isn’t there an initial appointment to interview the patient before the procedure?’ said Brook.

‘Of course,’ retorted Fleming. ‘But a lot of that work is beneath my skills. We do a blood test for anaemia and check for STIs, have them sign the consent form. And sometimes a vaginal examination or an ultrasound is required so it’s preferable to have a female nurse run the appointment. The patients are often young and uncomfortable about their bodies being probed by a man other than their sexual partner.’ His eyes creased in thin amusement.

‘Does the clinic do any counselling?’ asked Noble.

‘Again, yes but that’s not my strong suit, I’ll freely admit,’ said Fleming. ‘My nurses are experienced and sympathetic enough to take the patient through her options and counsel accordingly.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘I’m a surgeon, Inspector,’ replied Fleming with a hint of irritation. ‘And a bloody good one. That’s what I do. One mistake and people die, so I keep the emotion out of it because the buck stops right here.’

‘Nurse Moran says Caitlin was very sure of herself,’ said Noble. ‘She thought it unusual.’

‘I didn’t notice, but if she told you that, I’d say she’s right,’ said Fleming. ‘Most patients are, at best, reflective. To be expected.’

‘Especially for a Catholic,’ said Brook.

‘Indeed.’

‘You knew Caitlin was Catholic?’

Fleming pondered for a second before nodding at the monitor. ‘It says here on her record.’

‘Is it policy to record religious affiliations?’

‘We ask for denomination so that it might inform our counselling,’ replied Fleming. ‘The fact that she was a Catholic is neither here nor there when it comes to
my
role.’

‘Was?’ said Noble.

Fleming was confused. ‘It said in the papers that she died. In that van by the river.’

‘We haven’t formally identified the victim,’ said Brook.

‘These things take time, I’m sure,’ said Fleming. He held out his hands to draw a line. ‘Well. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’

‘Don’t be sorry, we’re not finished yet,’ said Brook, glancing across at Noble. ‘We have other names.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Fleming. ‘What other names?’

‘Did you have occasion to operate on someone called Daniela Cassetti?’ asked Noble. ‘It would be about a year ago.’

Fleming stared between Noble and Brook. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

‘She’s missing,’ explained Brook, leaving the rest unsaid.

Fleming’s brow creased as he felt his way around the implication. ‘Are you suggesting there’s a link between the Rutherford and the disappearances of Caitlin Kinnear and this . . . ?’

‘Daniela Cassetti,’ repeated Noble. ‘And we’re not suggesting, we’re asking.’

‘That’s monstrous,’ brayed Fleming. He stood aggressively, shooting his leather chair from under him. ‘I’d like you both to leave.’ Neither detective reacted. ‘Did you hear me, Inspector?’

Brook couldn’t prevent a smile. It was a default reaction to suspects and witnesses trying too hard to exert control over a situation that was getting away from them. Control that Brook had. Control the other party wanted.

He spoke softly, feeling no need to wield the big stick. ‘Do you think we’re here for our health, Doctor? I’m investigating a murder. I’m also looking for several young women who have disappeared in the last three years, all of them Catholics, from countries where access to the service you offer is either limited or non-existent. At the moment it’s just a theory and one that you can blow out of the water by checking your records. So I’d appreciate a bit less drama and a lot more cooperation, for which – let me remind you – we have a warrant.’

Fleming stared at him, defiant at first until defeat began to register and he pulled his chair back under his legs, drawing the keyboard towards him. ‘Daniela . . . ?’

‘Cassetti.’

A moment later Fleming stared saucer-eyed at the monitor. ‘Oh Lord.’ Lowering his gaze, he slapped the screen round towards them, and Brook and Noble sat forward to read details. Noble took out his Bar Polski pen and jotted down the essentials on a fresh page of his notebook.

‘It says here she was a private patient, but there’s no mention of further charges.’

Fleming flipped the monitor back round. ‘Right,’ he sighed. ‘She paid a small deposit and came for the initial exam and blood test and to set up a schedule for the procedure but never came back.’

‘Why?’

‘Who knows?’ retorted Fleming, on safer ground now. ‘We don’t enquire. It happens. Girls change their minds, or are persuaded from their course. Especially Catholic girls, I imagine.’

‘And I guess being forced to cross a picket line doesn’t help,’ said Brook.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ retorted Fleming fiercely. ‘We’ve put up with that mob for far too long and I’ve complained often enough to your superiors. They’ve cost me a small fortune.’ He hesitated, realising he’d prioritised poorly. ‘And of course the patients who decide to proceed can be very upset by it.’

‘As you’re being so obliging, Dr Fleming,’ smiled Brook, ‘remind me to show you a special handshake that might help you with that.’

Fleming returned a tight smile before nodding at Noble. ‘I hesitate to ask, but you mentioned other names.’

Noble glanced at his notes. ‘Nicola Serota?’

The receptionist held out the appointment card and information leaflet but they remained uncollected while Banach looked furtively around for the return of her colleagues.

‘Miss Banach,’ said the woman, waggling the papers at her.

Banach turned, almost snatching them and stuffing them hurriedly into a pocket.

‘Your first appointment will be a preliminary interview with a nurse,’ announced the receptionist.

‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Banach, keen to be away.

‘The leaflet will inform you of what will be discussed, what information we require and suitable clothes to wear on the day.’

‘I understand,’ said Banach, already backing away towards the double doors. She heard a door open on the corridor containing Dr Fleming’s office. Nurse Moran emerged, pulling on a coat.

‘Your colleagues are just finishing up, officer.’

‘Thank you.’ The mechanism on the double doors was triggered before Banach reached the sensor and she peered out into the gloom in time to see an indistinct figure in a hoodie, face hidden behind a smartphone. A second later, the camera flashed and the figure turned to run away from the building.

‘Oi,’ shouted Banach, briefly setting off in pursuit before halting outside the doors, straining to identify the photographer, now almost out of sight. Moran appeared, also looking after the mystery photographer, a hand shielding her eyes. She stared into the distance, then smiled uncertainly and cut across the grassy bank towards the car park.

Banach followed to wait by Brook’s car, pleased now that the appointment was made and colleagues were none the wiser. She glanced across to where she’d moved the protesters. The gathering had dispersed for the night. She felt light-headed and moved a hand to her mouth in a rush of sudden nausea. After steadying herself, she felt beneath her blouse for her crucifix and held it briefly between her fingers.

Brook and Noble walked briskly through the clinic’s brightly lit reception, Noble clutching a folder of still-warm printouts.

‘What now?’

Brook glanced at a clock on a pastel-coloured wall. ‘Now I’m going to babysit the Chief Super through the media briefing, make sure he says as little as possible. You’re going to find as much information on the new girl as you can.’

‘Kassia Proch?’ said Noble, peering at a printout.

‘Right. Check out the address she gave the clinic, and if it’s not a fake, get a team round there and get it processed. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If this is our victim, there’s a decent chance that’s where she died.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Noble, with a tired grin. ‘I was worried I might have to go home for a shower and a sleep.’

‘No stamina,’ quipped Brook. ‘You’ll be mentioning food next.’

‘Forget food,’ said Noble. ‘Another day in this shirt and they’re going to have to sandblast it off my body.’ His mobile rang and he held it to his ear.

Leaving through the double doors, Brook spied Banach standing by the car, a hand held across her mouth. ‘You okay?’ he asked as they drew near.

‘Never liked that hospital smell.’ She smiled to reassure.

‘What happened to the priest and his merry band?’

‘Showed them my forked tail,’ replied Banach.

‘I don’t suppose you took any names?’ asked Brook.

‘Didn’t have to,’ replied Banach. ‘Why?’

‘In retrospect, it might have been useful,’ said Brook. Banach cocked her head. ‘We have our connection. The clinic is the common bond between the missing girls. We’re going to be doing background on all the staff.’

‘And you want names of demonstrators too,’ she concluded. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Get back to the incident room and give Cooper these staff and patient lists to photocopy for briefing tomorrow morning, then rustle up contact details for Father O’Toole and the old woman . . .’

‘Mrs Trastevere,’ said Banach.

‘Hopefully they can give us a list of parishioners and assorted activists who’ve taken part in pickets.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it after tonight,’ smiled Banach.

Noble rang off. ‘That was Rob. The DNA in the glove doesn’t match Jake Tanner’s.’

‘Get the paperwork started for Max Ostrowsky’s DNA,’ said Brook. ‘I want a warrant in front of a magistrate as soon as possible.’

Brook emerged from the briefing unscathed. Brian Burton was still on holiday, so he hadn’t had to face his sly criticisms dressed up as journalistic interest. Besides, Charlton had fielded most of the enquiries and had kept to the script, urging the public to be on the lookout for Jake and Nick Tanner and glossing over officially identifying the body as Caitlin Kinnear
until the victim’s family have been informed
.

‘The prayer group are meeting tonight if you want to join us, Brook?’ said Charlton, after the briefing. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could use a bit of inspiration.’

Brook’s mobile vibrated and he pulled a face so devastated he feared he might have overdone it. ‘Sergeant Noble,’ he mouthed over his hand. ‘What is it, John?’

‘I’m in Kassia Proch’s flat on Vernon Street. It’s in the centre of town, just off Friargate.’

‘Convenient for Bar Polski. Tell me you’ve found a connection.’

‘No connection to the bar, but it’s her place all right. I just got off the phone with the managing agent.’

‘Was she killed there?’

‘I think so,’ said Noble. ‘SOCO are here and picked up blood spatter on the wall behind the bed, but other than that, the place has been stripped and cleaned from top to bottom. All surfaces. They needed luminol to find the blood. Bed linen has been taken and there are no clothes or any personals. If we didn’t know this was her place we’d be hard pressed to say she was ever here.’

‘Excellent news, John,’ said Brook loudly. ‘What’s the address?’

‘Number thirty-six,’ replied Noble. ‘But don’t bother. I’ll leave the SOCO team but I doubt they’ll find anything else. The rest will keep. I’m going home to sleep.’

‘Right. On my way,’ answered Brook, ringing off before Noble could question his hearing.

‘Developments?’ said Charlton.

Brook walked away backwards at a brisk pace. ‘We might have an ID on our victim.’ He mimed his impatience to be away.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Charlton. ‘Go.’

Brook looked around Kassia Proch’s apartment, watching the scene-of-crime officers doing their work. Noble was right. There was little to see with the naked eye. The blood spatter had been wiped clean but chemicals had reanimated its journey on to the wall behind the bed, clear indication that the victim had been struck forcibly, several times, while lying on it.

After exchanging a few words with the lead SOCO, Brook descended the steps, knocking on all the doors in turn. He paused at the entrance lobby and scanned the list of occupants, each announced on a sliver of card taped to a buzzer. Apart from the victim, at the top of the house, the other tenants were small businesses – a printer, a literary agent and a games designer – and they’d all departed for the day. It was possible that Kassia Proch was also running a business from her apartment, but there was no sign of anything except professional cleaning. No artefacts, and so far, no fingerprints or DNA. Even the shower trap had been removed and cleaned with bleach.

Forty minutes later, Brook stood under his own shower at home in Hartington, letting the hot water soothe away the tensions of the last forty-eight hours. Later he sat with a cup of tea in front of the glowing woodburner, mulling over his brief visit to Vernon Street.