A Killing Moon (28 page)

At that moment, a baby’s cries rent the air and Daniela staggered towards the only unopened door. ‘My baby!’ She lost her footing and fell to her knees, clawing at the door.

‘Your baby?’ exclaimed Caitlin, jumping back through the window. ‘Daniela. Wait.’

But Daniela scrabbled at the handle and pushed open the final door, forcing herself back to her feet and tottering into the room.

‘Daniela!’ Caitlin halted at the entrance, dumbstruck. The room was beautifully decorated in pale pink with a soft, luxuriant carpet and embroidered curtains. A young blond-haired boy, two or three years old, stared curiously at the pair of them from the security of a playpen. He was light-skinned with bright eyes and held one of the many toys from the pen up to his mouth. His tiny shorts and T-shirt were clean and of good quality.

Daniela ignored the boy and stumbled her way towards a lace-covered crib in the middle of the room, bursting into tears as she fell to her knees. She cooed at the olive-skinned child in Italian and reached in to pluck the infant from its swaddling, setting off a further volley of terrified screaming, deafening after the heavy silence of Caitlin’s captivity.

‘Take my baby,’ urged Daniela, holding out the child.

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ said Caitlin, glancing down at a shock of black hair poking out of a wrap. She sought a delicate way to break the bad news to Daniela, but failed. ‘Leave the baby, Daniela,’ she said. ‘It’ll be safe. Someone’s looking after it.’

It
. She had said the word twice and felt a pang of guilt. That was how she’d objectified her own offspring, the seed that had taken root inside her body, before destroying it – the only way to rationalise, the only way to get through.

‘Take my baby,’ pleaded Daniela, her eyes feasting on the child as she gathered it to her chest. ‘Please.’ She turned, beseeching Caitlin, her hollow cheeks determined. Then her mouth dropped open in horror.

Caitlin turned to follow Daniela’s gaze, briefly registering a mop of red hair before her head was yanked back and a blade pulled across her throat.

Brook walked down the centre aisle of the church, his footsteps booming like cannon fire in the tiny brick-built building with its functional square nave and cramped pews. To Brook it felt more like an electricity substation than a house of God.

From a side room a priest carrying a stack of hymnals appeared, his cropped salt-and-pepper head elevated to accommodate the books under his chin. ‘Damen,’ he grunted, levering the books on to the front pew.

‘Father Christopher.’ Brook shook the outstretched hand.

‘Come for confession?’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘I can do the express service, if you’d like,’ said Christopher. ‘Absolve you on the main bullet points.’

‘Funny,’ retorted Brook, trying not to smile.

‘Then what do you want?’

‘I need to pick your brains. Father Patrick O’Toole.’

Father Christopher sighed. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Nothing yet,’ said Brook, mildly surprised. ‘I’m looking into the protest group picketing the Rutherford Clinic, and he organises it.’

‘Important work,’ said Christopher. ‘Promoting the sanctity of human life.’

‘Can you tell me about the group?’

‘Why don’t you ask Father O’Toole?’

‘We will.’

‘But you expect him to lie.’

Brook hesitated. ‘I expect him to accentuate the positive.’

‘I saw you on the news,’ said Christopher. ‘Is this to do with the girl in the burning van?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ said Brook, in a tone that told its own story. ‘But I can say we have a string of missing young women from Catholic countries, all exercising their rights under the law to terminate a pregnancy and all patients at the Rutherford.’

‘And you think they’ve been targeted by Patrick’s band of religious zealots.’

‘It’s an angle we’re exploring.’

‘You’re a Catholic fifty years and more,’ said Christopher. ‘Surely you can fill in the blanks.’

‘I’m a long way from First Communion,’ replied Brook. ‘And I get lost around aspects of Church doctrine that are more . . .’ He paused, for once the right word evading him.

‘Crackpot?’ suggested Father Christopher drily.

‘I was going to say extreme,’ conceded Brook. ‘But let’s agree on passionate.’

Father Christopher beckoned him to sit on a pew beside him. ‘My only role is to advise you if there’s a conflict between your job and your faith.’

‘I have little faith, Father,’ answered Brook.

‘Then why come to me?’

‘We have laws . . .’

‘Those are men’s laws, Damen, not God’s.’

‘God maketh the men,’ said Brook.

‘You know the Church’s position on free will. Our faith makes clear—’

‘It was a mistake coming here,’ said Brook, standing abruptly. ‘I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I’m sorry.’ He headed for the door.

‘Constance Trastevere,’ said Christopher at Brook’s retreating frame.

Brook turned. ‘I know her. She told me I’ll burn in hell.’

‘She might be right,’ retorted Christopher, only half joking. ‘She’s a wealthy woman, Italian-American from Arizona, widowed, I’m given to understand. Trastevere is her family name – it’s a suburb of Rome. She bankrolls the group and has contacts in the US bible belt. They’re called CRI. Citizens Resisting Infanticide. Her politics are extreme even by the Church’s standards – anti-contraception, anti-homosexual . . .’

‘How is that different to the Church?’

‘The Pope doesn’t advocate chemical castration for gays and confinement for single mothers, Damen.’ The priest looked around the church as though God was about to join the debate. He beckoned Brook into a tiny side chapel, a statue of St Francis beaming down at them, dusty woodland animals arranged around his bare feet.

‘I warned Patrick but he wouldn’t hear a word said against her. She’s hard as nails. There’s not an ounce of compassion in the woman and she walks all over him.’

‘How did she make her money?’

‘She married it and inherited from her third husband, Oliver Portland. He was English. She met him in the States and moved to Derbyshire when they married, though she kept her name for business reasons. He’d already amassed a fortune in property around the county and had a portfolio as far down as London, I believe. Left her a big house in Duffield and too much time on her hands, you ask me. That’s all I know.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘You can thank me by going easy on Patrick,’ said Christopher. ‘His sister-in-law had a difficult pregnancy and bled to death during childbirth, so he’s not posturing for a bishopric – he feels it personally.’

‘Pity she couldn’t have opted for a termination,’ said Brook.

‘She had the choice,’ said Christopher. ‘Abortion was legal. It’s just that some of us have principles and understand the need for personal sacrifice.’

‘Let me guess. Father O’Toole had the principles and his sister-in-law made the sacrifice,’ said Brook, making for the exit.

Christopher called after him. ‘Make time for your soul, Damen, or you’ll never know peace.’

Brook raised a hand in acknowledgement even as he extracted his mobile and a piece of paper. He dialled a number and threw the paper away. Much as it pained him, he knew he’d have to add DS Morton’s number to his speed dial.

‘Rob,’ he opened. ‘Constance Trastevere.’

‘We’re en route,’ answered Morton, hiding his shock at a direct call from the inspector.

‘Ask her about CRI – Citizens Resisting Infanticide,’ said Brook. ‘It’s a pro-life group she’s heavily involved with. Get Cooper to try and rustle up a membership or mailing list, but get as much background from the horse’s mouth as you can. Father O’Toole may be more open.’

‘Already spoken to him and CRI was the first thing he mentioned,’ said Morton. ‘He’s very proud of their work. He said Mrs Tras . . . whatever puts up the money and they run it jointly. I asked him about other members but he clammed up.’

‘So not that proud, then.’ Brook rang off but the phone vibrated straight away. ‘John.’

‘You better get back here. It’s Jake Tanner,’ said Noble on the other end of the line. Brook listened and walked quickly to his car.

Constance Trastevere ushered Banach and Morton into her living room, boarded on four walls by dark, almost black oak. The contrast with the chintzy tasselled furnishings was marked – a man’s room furnished by an elderly woman in an expensive floral dress. The only light came from an ornate standard lamp behind one armchair.

‘Would you like to sit?’ asked Mrs Trastevere, standing in front of the lamp, which cast its ethereal glow over her stern countenance. When the two officers declined, she remained upright, her hands clasped loosely in front of her.

‘We’ve come—’ began Morton.

‘Father O’Toole called me,’ she smiled, her eyes not leaving Banach’s face. ‘You could’ve saved yourselves the trip, officers. Like Father O’Toole, I’m immensely proud of our work but I won’t reveal the names of any supporters or give you access to our mailing lists.’

‘Sounds more like guilt than pride,’ remarked Banach.

It hardly seemed possible but Mrs Trastevere’s expression became even frostier. ‘And the little whore speaks.’

‘Excuse me?’ said Banach.

‘You heard me,’ retorted the old woman.

‘Mrs Trastevere,’ said Morton. ‘We—’

‘You’ve got a nerve coming here after your performance at the clinic, lady, I’ll grant you that,’ said Mrs Trastevere to Banach.

‘Just doing my job,’ retorted Banach.

‘And is your job more important than the life growing inside you?’ snapped the old woman.

Banach’s mouth opened in shock and Morton turned to gaze at his stunned colleague. Trastevere laughed. ‘My dear girl, what do you think our organisation is for? CRI is not involved in an industrial dispute. We’re not a debating society. We’re involved in a struggle between life and death. The fight against abortion is a war against evil, and knowledge is power. Intelligence, if you will.’

Banach caught Morton staring at her. ‘I don’t know who told you I was pregnant, but they’re sorely mistaken.’

‘Then make a liar out of me, Constable,’ snarled Trastevere. ‘Empty your pockets. If you don’t have a leaflet about your prelim about your person, I’ll apologise.’

Banach lowered her head. ‘How . . . ?’

‘How do I know? You told me, Constable Banach, the moment you arranged an appointment at the clinic.’

Banach had a memory of the camera flashing in the reception area. ‘Someone photographed me.’

‘One of our supporters photographs every murdering bitch that crosses our picket,’ said Mrs Trastevere. ‘Do you think we just shrug our shoulders and wring our hands when one of you whores decides to kill a child? That’s not how you win a war.’

Banach couldn’t look at Trastevere any more. She felt faint. The old woman’s words, each one like a bullet, seemed to be launched at her with increasing venom, every syllable exploding in her brain.

‘And before you left the building, Anka Banach, we knew who you were. We sent your picture to our sympathisers, and members of your own parish identified you,’ she continued, taking pleasure in the assault. ‘And you a Polish Catholic, to contemplate the murder of your child – shameful. But then shame is something you know all about.’

‘Shut up,’ mumbled Banach.

‘You’re even ashamed of your heritage,’ continued Trastevere. ‘Unwilling to use the name your father gave you at baptism. I pity you. And I pity your family when our newsletter comes out.’

‘I need to leave,’ said Banach, putting a hand up to her head.

‘Are you all right, Angie?’ said Morton.

‘Course she’s not all right, Sergeant,’ laughed Trastevere. ‘She’s carrying a child she doesn’t want because her life is so much richer without it.’

Outside, Banach threw up long and loud while Morton stood by pulling on a cigarette. ‘Morning sickness?’ he ventured, trying his hand at a little humour. The quip froze on his face under Banach’s Medusa stare.

‘Give me some of that,’ she ordered, nodding at the cigarette.

‘Are you sure you should?’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ she said, snatching it from his grasp, taking a deep draw and exhaling smoke with her eyes closed.

‘You know I outrank you, right, Ange?’ said Morton, trying to get a smile out of her.

She handed the cigarette back but Morton gestured her to throw it away. ‘So I guess ordering you to keep quiet isn’t going to cut it?’

Morton laughed but knew he couldn’t answer. What Mrs Trastevere had revealed might be relevant to the inquiry.

‘Thought not.’

‘Come on, Angie, I’ll take you home.’

‘No,’ said Banach. ‘Drop me at my car. I need time to think.’

Back at St Mary’s Wharf fifteen minutes later, Banach got out of Morton’s car without a word. She slid into her dark blue Peugeot and roared out of the car park.

Twenty-Nine

‘Zeke. You in there?’ shouted the girl.

The young man jumped to his feet and banged on the toilet door with his undamaged hand. ‘I’m here. Get the bolts, Red. My hand’s broken.’

The sound of stiff bolts sliding back presaged the door opening.

‘Shit,’ said Red, seeing blood on his face. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Bitch slashed me,’ said Zeke, pushing past her, holding his left hand in his right. ‘We gotta find her . . .’

‘I cut her,’ said Red, showing him the bloodied knife in her hand, unsure what his reaction would be. ‘I think I killed her.’

‘You killed her?’

‘I’m not sure. She was getting away, Zeke. They were taking my baby.’

‘Where?’

‘She’s just a murdering whore, after all,’ said Red, deploying her final argument.

‘Where?’ he shouted. She raised her eyes to the ceiling. Zeke nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Red. You did good.’

Daniela crouched over Caitlin’s rasping body and tried to drag her into the corridor but gave up at the door, instead kneeling to comfort her. Caitlin’s chest was moving but her throat was awash with blood. Bubbles burst from the laceration in her windpipe as she struggled to inflate her lungs. But it was the shocked expression on her face that brought tears even to Daniela’s chronically dehydrated eyes.

‘
Mi dispiace
,’ said Daniela, squeezing Caitlin’s hand and staring at the panic in the stricken girl’s eyes. ‘
Mi dispiace
.’

She grabbed Caitlin’s butcher’s knife and picked up the baby, then scuttled painfully over to the smashed window. Hearing pounding on the stairs behind her, she tried to lift her injured heel but failed to get her foot as high as the sill.

‘Where you going, bitch?’ shouted Zeke, Red in his slipstream. They paused at Caitlin’s prostrate form bleeding over the threadbare landing carpet. ‘Sheesh, what a mess.’ Zeke stepped over the expanding pool of blood towards Daniela, who raised the knife in self-defence, her teeth clamped in determination.

‘She’s got my baby, Zeke,’ shouted Red. ‘Do something.’

‘No,’ shouted Daniela, the violence of her emotion belying the frailty of her body. ‘He’s mine.’

‘You don’t deserve him, you whore,’ snarled Red. ‘You were gonna kill him.’

Zeke held an arm out to quiet her. ‘Where are you going to go, Daniela?’ His voice tried to soothe, his steps small but inexorable. ‘There’s nowhere to run.’

Daniela’s resolve gave way to fear. She darted an eye out of the window, then back at Zeke.

‘You jump, you could kill the child,’ implored Zeke, inching forward. ‘You don’t want that, do you?’

The baby wriggled in Daniela’s arms and her face softened into a smile. Zeke was only five yards away.

‘Give me the baby,’ he said, holding out his arms for the child.

Daniela’s smile vanished and she lifted the knife to the baby’s throat. ‘Go back,’ she shouted, nodding to the stairs.

Red lunged towards mother and child. ‘My baby.’

‘Red!’ Zeke stood across her path. ‘Let me handle this.’ He smiled at Daniela, splaying his empty hands to signal good intentions. ‘You’re not going to kill your child, Daniela. We didn’t let you before and we’re not about to start now.’

‘Back!’ ordered Daniela.

Zeke halted but didn’t step back. ‘You won’t do it. The Lord gave him to you. To us. He put love in your heart for the child. We’re a family.’

Daniela looked helplessly round at the window, out to the gathering darkness, resignation flooding into her. She turned back towards Zeke, a bitter smile playing around her chapped lips, then she raised the baby to her face and kissed him on the forehead.

‘
Ti voglio molto bene
,’ she said, tears rolling down her face. ‘
Molte bene
.’ She took a shuddering breath and placed the wrapped child on the floor, then before Zeke could react, she sliced deeply across the vein of her left wrist. Blood gushed from the wound but it didn’t stop her transferring the knife to cut her other wrist, though she only had strength for a shallow slash before slithering down the wall.

Zeke stepped over the baby and kicked the knife away as Red pounced on the child and held him to her chest, tears in her eyes. As she hurried him away to the nursery, Zeke lowered himself to sit beside Daniela and examined her wounds. He placed an arm round her. Her head was bowed – resigned – her breathing shallow, but she opened her eyes at the embrace, a bloody hand feeling for the absent crucifix around her neck.

‘Here,’ said Zeke, unhooking his own necklace to place in her hands, which tightened briefly around the cross. ‘Shush now. Your work is done. You didn’t kill your child. You will sit beside the Lord. He forgives you.’

Red emerged empty-handed from the nursery. ‘How is she?’

Zeke shook his head. ‘There’s no fixing that wound.’

Red began to sing. ‘
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
.’

‘Go to him,’ whispered Zeke in Daniela’s ear. ‘He’s waiting.’

‘
That saved a wretch like me
.’

Zeke disentangled himself from Daniela’s ebbing life force, taking up the song.

‘
I once was lost, but now am found
.’ He tensed his arms around her neck, shushing her as he got the best grip he could with his damaged hand.

‘
Was blind but now I see
.’

He wrenched her neck sharply round until it snapped before standing up, head bowed in brief prayer. ‘She’s gone.’

‘What now?’ asked Red.

Zeke opened his eyes and shrugged at her. ‘Now she’s just meat.’

‘The unit?’

‘The unit,’ agreed Zeke. ‘I’ll get her processed and in the pig trough tomorrow.’

‘She’s barely enough for a starter,’ said Red.

Zeke grabbed Daniela’s flayed heels and began dragging the emaciated body along the corridor. When he came level with Caitlin, he gestured towards the Irish girl.

‘Well if Kitty here doesn’t pull through, they’ll have a main course to follow.’

Zeke pounded back up the stairs from the barn. ‘Take her legs, Red,’ he ordered, putting his broken hand gingerly under Caitlin’s armpit. ‘This one’s got more meat on her.’

‘She’s still breathing.’

‘Maybe, but she’s not gonna make it.’

‘Maybe God wants her alive,’ said Red. ‘We should do something.’

Zeke grinned. ‘Should I call an ambulance?’

‘Be serious.’

‘What then?’

‘Get her to the barn,’ said Red. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Zeke lifted Caitlin’s shoulders. ‘Is it worth it? You saw the way she reacted to Dad. We should never have taken her. If my uncle finds out . . .’

‘He won’t find out,’ replied Red. ‘Besides, she’s a baby-killing whore, right?’

‘So?’

‘So the longer she lives, the more she suffers. And if, by God’s grace, we can get your Dad to seed her, there’s nothing your uncle
can
say.’

Zeke blew her a kiss. ‘Love you, Red.’

They carried Caitlin’s blood-spattered body down the stairs, through the house and out into the moonlit night. As they approached the pig pen, a loud squealing was taken up and several of the fat animals threw themselves at the sturdy fence, chewing aggressively at the posts, scrabbling over each other to get closer to Caitlin’s blood trail.

‘The boys are getting hungry.’

The bright moon disappeared behind a drifting cloud. At the barn, Red flicked a switch and the large building was flooded with pale light. They laid Caitlin next to Daniela. Zeke examined his hand and probed his bloodied cheek.

‘Heat the branding iron,’ said Red.

‘What for?’

She nodded at Caitlin. ‘I’m going to cauterise the wound.’

Noble handed hot drinks to Jake Tanner and Janet Gillstrap, the duty solicitor, while Brook listed those present for the tape.

‘You’ve had a chance to confer with counsel,’ said Brook. Tanner nodded. ‘Say yes or no for the tape, please.’

‘Yes,’ said Tanner, leaning towards the recorder, an attempt at flippancy in his voice.

‘A young girl is dead,’ said Brook.

Shamed, Tanner lowered his head to stare off into space. Brook glanced at Noble, who acknowledged with a lift of the eyebrows. This was not the detached expression of a hardened killer potentially responsible for the deaths of six young women. A single death, perhaps. Everyone was capable of taking a life under enough pressure.

‘And I killed her,’ said Tanner.

‘I knew you’d crack eventually,’ replied Brook.

Tanner shrugged. ‘I want this over.’

‘Murder’s quite a leap for someone with a single assault to his name.’

Tanner resurrected a little aggression. ‘Maybe I’ve been offing people all along without you noticing.’

‘Does your client understand the gravity of his situation?’ Brook asked Gillstrap, noting her tired expression.

‘Mr Tanner, we’ve been over this,’ she said with a sigh. ‘If Inspector Brook asks you a question, unless I advise against, you may answer. But don’t follow the inspector around the houses making comments that aren’t required and which may prove detrimental to your defence.’

‘I don’t need a defence,’ said Tanner. ‘I killed her. What more can I say?’

‘Why, where and how would be useful,’ said Noble.

‘And you can start by confirming the victim’s name,’ added Brook.

‘Don’t answer that,’ said Gillstrap.

Tanner was surprised. ‘You don’t know who she is?’

‘We have an idea,’ said Brook. ‘And we’ll confirm soon enough with or without your help.’

‘Without suits best,’ said Gillstrap. ‘My client isn’t here to do your job, Inspector.’

‘Her name was Kassia,’ said Tanner softly. Gillstrap sighed in frustration.

‘Surname?’

‘I only met her that night. She’s from Poland. Was.’ He seemed about to say more but thought better of it, smiling instead. ‘Do I win a prize?’

‘A lifetime’s holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure for starters,’ said Gillstrap.

Tanner sneered. ‘I told you I killed her. What do you care?’

Gillstrap crossed her arms, confirming his analysis.

‘Why?’ asked Noble.

‘She was fit and I fancied her.’ He shrugged. ‘It turned out she was a pro and I wasn’t about to pay for it.’

‘She was a prostitute?’

‘S’right.’

‘So you killed her. Where?’

‘In her flat.’ Brook prompted him with an eyebrow. ‘On Vernon Street.’ When Brook and Noble stared at him for more, Tanner said, ‘She took me back there. I don’t know the number. Big house, top room.’

‘But you had sex with her before you stabbed her, right?’ said Brook.

‘No,’ said Tanner quietly, his gaze steady. ‘I didn’t stab her and we didn’t have sex.’

‘Why not?’

‘I haven’t got a knife so I strangled her.’

‘No, why didn’t you have sex with her?’ said Noble. ‘I thought you fancied her . . .’

‘I wasn’t gonna pay.’

‘Who’s talking about paying?’ said Brook.

‘Once you’ve smacked her about, you can take what you want by force,’ added Noble. ‘It seems a natural progression.’ Tanner didn’t answer.

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘In a bar.’

‘Bar Polski?’

‘No.’

‘But that’s where you worked, isn’t it?’

‘I did. I was stocking the bar.’

‘So you met her there.’

‘No, Bar Polski’s not open yet. How would I meet her there?’

‘She worked there too.’

‘She didn’t,’ exclaimed Tanner. ‘I think I’d remember.’

‘But we spoke to your employer and he said Kassia worked there,’ continued Noble.

‘You’re lying.’

‘It’s academic,’ said Brook. ‘We’re getting a warrant to check the security cameras.’

‘Good luck,’ said Tanner. ‘The system’s not installed yet. I worked there, remember.’

Brook nodded. ‘You’ve thought of everything. Or someone has.’

Gillstrap turned to take an interest again. ‘What’s going on here, Inspector? Who is this
someone
?’

‘Kassia wasn’t really a prostitute, was she?’ continued Brook, ignoring the solicitor. ‘There were no needle marks on her arms, no signs of alcohol abuse, no clothing appropriate to prostitution in her wardrobe.’ He waited, the trap set. Someone had cleared and cleaned Kassia’s flat and removed all her clothes in case they’d picked up traces of DNA. If Jake Tanner had killed her, he’d have to know that.

‘That’s because I cleaned the place from top to bottom, then took all her clothes and stuff plus the sheets off her bed. Happy now?’

‘What did you do with them?’

‘Binned them.’

‘Where?’

‘A skip somewhere. I forget.’

‘You’re lying,’ said Noble.

‘It’s the truth.’

‘We’re police officers, Jake,’ said Brook. ‘Everyone lies. So where did you meet Kassia?’

‘In a bar. We had a few drinks and things went on from there.’

‘Did she pay for her own drinks?’

Tanner hesitated. ‘No, I paid.’

‘Living in that fleapit you shared with Nick,’ scoffed Noble. ‘You don’t have two pennies to rub together and you expect us to believe you stood for Kassia’s drinks and paid for sex . . .’

‘I didn’t pay for sex, that’s the point. And I had an advance on my wages – enough for drinks.’

‘Which bar?’ demanded Brook.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Convenient.’

Tanner didn’t rise to the sarcasm. ‘One of those student pubs off Ashbourne Road. They do cheap drinks, right. I can’t remember which one because I’d never been there before. Shouldn’t I be signing something?’

‘Somewhere to be?’ enquired Noble. Tanner closed his eyes in frustration. ‘Thought not.’

‘When did you leave the pub?’

‘Closing. We staggered back to her place and she started warming me up.’

‘And that’s when she asked for money.’

‘Right.’ He leered at Brook. ‘And I’m not about to pay for it – leastways until I’m your age.’

Brook raised an eyebrow at Noble’s sudden smile. ‘What happened when she asked for money?’

Tanner concentrated hard. ‘I . . . I was shocked. I thought she liked me. Then she laughed at me and I blew my stack. I was drunk. The next thing I knew, I had my hands round her throat.’