A Killing Moon (3 page)

‘It wasn’t my place to tell you,’ mumbled Laurie. ‘She’s entitled to privacy. Besides, I thought Rollo would mention it.’

‘Well he didn’t.’ Brook looked at the bracketed note Noble had made next to Davison’s name.
Cocky slimeball
.

‘I don’t see what it has to do with anything.’

Brook stared at her. ‘You can’t be that naive. A traumatic event like an abortion, the stress of the decision, of the procedure . . .’ He sought a delicate path to the inference. ‘It could have triggered depression, which can lead—’

‘You think she killed herself? No, Kitty would never do that. It’s against her religion.’

‘So is aborting a foetus,’ pointed out Brook.

‘But she was upbeat in the pub, having a good time.’

‘Perhaps masking the emotional turmoil below,’ suggested Brook. ‘I’m sorry to put these possibilities to you, but such things do happen. You may not know this, but in a crowded country like England, it’s more difficult than you’d think to disappear, and when people do, more often than not it’s because they want to escape the life they’re living, either geographically or biologically.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘And depression is the most common trigger.’

Laurie stared into her cup. ‘So you think Kitty threw herself off the ferry or something.’ Brook said nothing; she narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Then why aren’t the police in Northern Ireland dealing with it?’

‘They are,’ said Brook. ‘But they’ve drawn a blank. If she’d jumped overboard from a daytime ferry, there’d be witnesses, maybe even CCTV from the boat. And a month later there would have been a body.’

‘She could’ve thrown herself off the train just as easily,’ said Laurie.

‘You’ll be pleased to know she didn’t do that either.’

‘Well what, then?’

‘It’s beginning to look like Caitlin never left Derby,’ said Brook softly. ‘Not on the advance ticket she booked, at least. It wasn’t used.’

Laurie’s face drained of blood. ‘She never left?’

Brook shrugged. ‘Unknown. But we do know she wasn’t picked up on any CCTV in the town centre or at Derby station on the day of travel. DS Noble checked. None of her friends gave her a lift to the station and no cab company took her.’

‘Couldn’t she have walked?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Brook. ‘But it’s nearly three miles and it was thick with snow that day.’

‘She’s very fit.’

‘You told Sergeant Noble she had luggage.’

‘Sure, but she liked to travel light,’ said Laurie, suddenly encouraged. ‘She’d packed her rucksack the day before and it wasn’t in her room when I got home on Saturday morning.’ She looked hard at Brook. ‘So she must have set off at least.’

Brook nodded thoughtfully. ‘That seems to be indicated, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s no record of her taking the train. If we assume the CCTV cameras at the station were having an off day, it’s
just
possible she lost her pre-paid ticket to Liverpool and was forced to buy a replacement on the day. With cash. It’s the only way she could have taken the train without her journey being recorded.’

‘That would have cost a fortune,’ said Laurie.

‘Nearly a hundred pounds,’ agreed Brook.

‘She wouldn’t pay that. She would’ve used her railcard,’ suggested Laurie.

‘But that purchase would have been logged,’ said Brook.

‘She has a credit card . . .’ began Laurie, stopping as soon as she realised the implication.

‘We’re going to need more details on that. Any spending with her plastic, especially after her departure date, would be significant. With that in mind, we’d like permission to do a more thorough search of your home, look through Caitlin’s room and speak to neighbours. We’ve got some of her financial details from the university, but old credit card and mobile phone statements would be useful.’ Seeing her hesitate, he added, ‘Of course, if we find anything incidental to the inquiry, it will be disregarded – within reason.’

‘Incidental?’

‘Small quantities of recreational drugs, for instance,’ explained Brook wearily.

Laurie seemed confused for a moment. ‘Search away, we don’t do drugs.’ She shook her head. ‘This is crazy. People can’t just disappear into thin air like this.’

‘Thousands of people do exactly that every year,’ said Brook. ‘They drop everything and walk out of their lives, never to be seen again. Nobody knows why, because there’s no sure way of knowing what’s going on inside somebody’s head. On the positive side, most of these disappearances are voluntary.’

‘You’re certain she wasn’t on the train?’ said Laurie. ‘When I go to Nottingham, I often don’t get my ticket punched.’

‘That can happen on shorter journeys, Laurie. But there’s no record of her getting on the ferry either, or arriving in Belfast. And Mersey police can find no sightings or film of her in Birkenhead station or at either ferry terminal on the day of travel. That’s fairly compelling.’

Laurie hung her head. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Brook sincerely. ‘And there’s just as likely to be a reasonable explanation. She likes to travel, you said. Maybe she got a better offer, met the man of her dreams and left with him.’

‘If she did, she didn’t tell me about it.’

‘What about that last night at the pub. Did either of you speak to anyone else?’

‘Only the barman.’ Laurie raised her eyes to remember. ‘Jack.’

‘Jake,’ corrected Brook, reading Noble’s notes.

Four

Jake Tanner hung his jacket in the staff cloakroom and jogged up the back stairs into the half-finished upper lounge of Bar Polski. The stairs came out beside the plush new bar with its floor-to-ceiling mirrors and backlit optics. His fellow barman, Ashley, a wiry young man barely out of his teens, was already at work, unpacking boxes of glasses in the evening gloom.

The fitters had gone for the day and the two men were alone to do their work. Every conceivable glass for every possible drink had been ordered, and all had to be stacked carefully beneath the opulent curve of the bar, ready for the grand opening.

Jake opened a box of shot glasses and began to unload them.

‘You’re late,’ said Ashley. ‘Better get a shift on.’

Jake halted, dead-eyed. ‘Is the boss around?’

‘Mr Ostrowsky? Not yet.’

‘Then no harm done,’ said Jake.

‘You’ve only been here a week. You don’t know what he’s like.’

‘I can handle him,’ said Jake.

‘Don’t say you wasn’t warned,’ replied Ashley. ‘Hey, where’s your brother? Don’t he come with you no more?’

‘Nick?’ Jake’s lips tightened. ‘No, that’s not gonna work. What about Ostrowsky’s brother? The electrician.’

‘You mean Max?’

‘Max,’ said Jake, rolling the name around his mouth as though he’d eaten something bitter. ‘That’s the guy. You seen him?’ He looked up for Ashley’s reply, but it didn’t arrive. He followed Ashley’s hungry eyes to the cleaner who was unravelling the flex on a vacuum cleaner at the far end of the darkened room.

‘Hello, beautiful,’ called Ashley. Jake gave the pretty young Polish girl the once over. She had a fine figure and a lovely face, with big brown eyes. Feeling a pang of desire, he took satisfaction from her ignoring Ashley. ‘Hey, beautiful,’ persisted Ashley at higher volume.

When the girl looked up, Jake noticed something sad about the eyes, though her mouth was set hard, affecting toughness.

‘That’s not my name,’ she barked in her halting English.

‘Cassie, then,’ said Ashley, grinning at her, expecting her to be flattered that he knew.

Her mournful eyes belied her flinty expression. ‘Kassia,’ she corrected dismissively, and ignited the vacuum to end the conversation.

Jake watched Ashley watching Kassia.

A few seconds later, the girl glanced contemptuously back towards the younger man with the goofy look on his face, then towards Jake, brief and hostile, before returning her attention to her work.

As the sound of the vacuum dipped around the corner, Ashley winked at Jake. ‘Nice, eh?’

Jake aped the girl’s look of contempt. ‘In your dreams.’

‘Speak of the devil,’ mumbled Ashley with a swivel of the eyes.

Jake followed his glance to the staff door as it swung closed.

Max Ostrowsky was a scruffy, well-built man in his late thirties, who habitually wore dusty overalls and a five-day beard. He ignored the two barmen and headed around the alcove towards Kassia as she emerged with the Hoover. He leered at her and mouthed something in her direction, appearing also to grab his crotch for good measure.

‘What a charmer,’ said Ashley.

Kassia glanced malevolently back at Max. Under the noise of the vacuum cleaner, she mimed a return insult and continued her work. Max turned towards the bar with a big grin on his face. On seeing Jake, the grin disappeared and he slowed, dropping his elbows on to the bar.

‘Vodka,’ he spat out, unable to meet Jake’s glare.

You want vodka?
Jake’s face hardened and he plucked a sealed bottle from an opened box and advanced on Max holding it upside down by the neck.
I’ll give you vodka
.

As he raised the bottle to shoulder height, the door swung open again and a sharp-suited businessman appeared. He was a little older and slimmer than Max, but the facial similarity was unmistakable.

Seeing the raised bottle in Jake’s hand, Ashley stepped across him, placing two shot glasses on the bar with one hand and snatching the upturned vodka bottle from Jake with the other. He gave Jake a veiled
WTF
glare and, after screwing off the cap, poured out two full measures.

‘Leave the bottle,’ snapped the well-scrubbed businessman, downing his drink in one and refilling his glass. He began to talk to his younger brother in Polish above the noise of the vacuum.

Jake backed away resentfully to continue unloading glasses. He looked up to see Kassia staring curiously at him until Max turned to face her, a lascivious grin deforming his face as he blew her a kiss. As she absorbed herself in the hoovering again, Max said something to his elder brother. The suited businessman glanced briefly at Kassia, then distastefully back at his brother. He downed his drink and strode away towards the stairs, beckoning Max to follow.

Brook finished his text to Noble in the darkened corridor as a tall young man with jet-black curly hair extracted a key from his pocket and prepared to unlock a door. ‘Mr Davison?’

The dark-eyed student turned to look quizzically at Brook, who held his warrant card towards him for inspection. The young man rested one bare foot on top of the other, ignoring Brook’s ID. ‘What do you want?’

‘Are you Roland Davison? I’m told this is his room.’

‘Rollo?’ said the young man, now deigning to inspect Brook’s warrant card. Scratching himself through his torn T-shirt, he came to a decision. ‘He’s my roomie. You just missed him.’ His voice was polished and measured, with that confidence derived from a life in which promise lay ahead, not behind.

‘Do you know where he is?’

‘Law lecture. He’ll be out in a couple of hours if you want to wait.’

‘Very kind of you.’ Brook found his way barred.

‘No, I mean here,’ smirked the young man. ‘Obviously I can’t let you into the apartment. Not without a warrant.’ He looked Brook up and down – the ill-fitting suit, the exhausted gait – his expression barely concealing the contempt he reserved for shoddily dressed public servants. ‘Is this about his ex?’

‘He’s going to be a lawyer, is he?’ In turn Brook made no effort to disguise the force’s de rigueur disdain for members of that profession.

‘A barrister, actually,’ sniffed the young man, hitting his stride.

‘A barrister?’ retorted Brook. ‘Tough racket.’

‘Racket?’ The student’s lip curled.

Brook’s one-note laugh contained an apology of sorts. ‘Figure of speech.’

‘Can I give Rollo a message?’ said the young man, his boredom reaching critical mass.

‘Please. Can you ask him if he knows what effect a conviction for obstruction would have on his ability to practise at the Bar?’ Brook smiled with that excessive politeness designed to annoy and unnerve. ‘Mr Davison.’

The effect was immediate and the young man’s eyes sought the floor. His mouth instantly desiccated, he licked his lips. ‘I . . . er, what did you want to speak to him about? I mean . . . Rollo, I mean . . .’

Brook took pity on his unprepared opponent. ‘We shouldn’t talk out here.’

Brook took a hearty sip of the tea his now attentive host had been only too pleased to provide. He looked around the apartment, the shelves lined ceiling to floor with books, apart from one eye-level shelf of compact discs with handwritten labels down the spine. He spotted an expensive-looking video camera on a tripod.

‘Film-maker, eh?’ he mused. He pulled out a case to examine one of the discs. The title on the label read
La Donna e immobile
. Brook stared at it, puzzled by the misspelt song title from
Rigoletto
.

‘Don’t touch that!’ snapped Davison, taking the case from him. He softened his tone to explain, ‘They’re in order.’ He replaced the disc and moved the camera before inviting Brook to sit. ‘You wanted to ask about the last time I saw Caitlin.’

‘Can you remember when it was?’

‘Not the exact date, no,’ replied Davison. ‘We broke up over a week before she went into the clinic.’ His iPhone beeped on his lap and his thumb jerked across the keypad. He grinned at a message.

‘Why did you break up?’

‘It was bound to happen sooner or later,’ he said as he texted. ‘When the silly cow told me she had one in the oven, that was it.’

Brook nodded as though he sympathised. He contemplated the young man studying his phone, wondering how much mental torture to inflict, before realising he was unable to dredge up the moral anger required. Roland Davison had all the hallmarks of a self-centred narcissist with an acute sense of entitlement, and as such was indistinguishable from thousands of other young people. Brook found it hard to summon the energy to rattle his cage.

Davison looked up, misreading Brook’s expression. ‘Don’t judge me. I never pretended I loved her.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said Brook.

‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour,’ retorted Davison.

‘And the most fun.’

‘Look, Inspector, the pregnancy was Caitlin’s fault. These days a guy has a right to expect precautions to be taken. And if the bitch ain’t doing it, she needs to say so or take the consequences.’

‘Bitch?’

‘Figure of speech,’ leered Davison, pleased to have extracted retribution so quickly.

‘Not when I was at school it wasn’t,’ retorted Brook, suddenly convinced that Davison hadn’t abducted or killed Caitlin Kinnear. He clearly didn’t care enough about her to summon up the necessary passion for such an enterprise. ‘Was she depressed about her condition?’

‘More pissed off than depressed.’

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Sure. She’d got herself in a jam and she had a problem to solve. It pissed her off. But she didn’t mope about it.’

‘And you approved of her solution?’

‘Hell, yeah,’ scoffed Davison.

‘So the termination was her decision.’

‘Once she’d factored in her options,’ said Davison, grinning.

‘Her options being to terminate or to raise the child on her own.’

‘Bang on. I wasn’t about to play happy families with a dumb Irish bitch and her bastard, no matter how good she was in the sack.’

Brook held on to a neutral expression – Davison and his ilk took delight in causing offence to older generations. ‘And did she seem at all conflicted about her decision?’ Davison prepared to object, so Brook qualified. ‘In the small amount of time you had to assess her mood.’

‘You’re asking me if she was capable of killing herself, aren’t you?’

‘Was she?’

‘God, no,’ said Davison, at least taking the trouble to think about it. ‘Kitty wasn’t the type. Always the optimist.’

‘So she never discussed suicide on an intellectual level, or revealed any unnatural fascination with famous people who had taken their own lives, say?’

Davison shook his head as though he’d been asked about a bus timetable.

‘Did she know anyone who’d committed suicide?’ continued Brook. ‘Here at the university, I mean.’

‘I don’t think so. Look, there are always suicides on campus around Easter, though they like to keep that quiet for obvious reasons. It’s the start of the exam season. Some people can’t handle the pressure.’

‘The majority of FE suicides are overseas students,’ said Brook. ‘Like Caitlin.’

‘Yeah, I heard that,’ said Davison. ‘They’re paying more so their fear of failure is greater. And they’re a long way from home. I get that. But Jesus, Belfast hardly counts as foreign. And Caitlin’s a pretty tough cookie.’

‘Do you know if she’d ever self-harmed?’

Davison’s iPhone buzzed and he looked down at the screen and smiled again.

Brook sighed before jerking out a hand and plucking away the black tablet.

‘Hey,’ protested the student, glaring at Brook and plotting a lunge towards his beloved phone. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I just did.’

‘I know my rights.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘I’m ringing my father,’ snorted Davison. ‘Do you have any idea who he is?’

‘I know you’ll be fishing your phone out of the toilet to ring him if you don’t listen to my questions,’ said Brook calmly. ‘Your ex-girlfriend is missing and your indifference is making me suspicious.’

Davison fell into brooding silence, lips pursed, glaring at his phone in Brook’s hand. A moment later, a dip of the eyes agreed to terms and conditions. ‘What was the question again?’

‘Did Caitlin ever . . .’

‘Self-harm, right,’ said Davison. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘You didn’t notice any cutting scars on her arms?’

‘No.’ With a lascivious grin he added, ‘But when we got down and dirty, I guess that’s the sort of thing that would be hard to miss, so I guess not.’

‘What about enemies?’

‘Enemies?’ laughed Davison. ‘No chance. Caitlin was an open-hearted country girl. She liked a drink and a good time. She got along with everyone.’

‘No students who took a dislike to her?’

‘Asked and answered.’

‘Nobody come to mind who behaved inappropriately towards her?’

‘Define inappropriate.’

‘Any male students being excessively attentive, perhaps using over-sexualised language in front of her, that sort of thing.’

‘Only me.’

‘What about other ex-boyfriends on campus?’

‘Nope.’ Davison pondered for a second. ‘She had a serious boyfriend back in Belfast, but she gave him the heave-ho before she left the bogs.’

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Paddy Something?’ He caught the current of Brook’s scepticism. ‘Seriously. But she only mentioned him the one time, and only because I asked. She was living a different life in Derby so she cut him loose.’

‘What about her tutors and lecturers? Any hint of sexual harassment?’

‘She never mentioned it to me if there was.’

‘What about her grades?’

‘What about them?’

‘They’re not spectacular. Did she ever complain that someone was marking her down?’

‘No. And Kitty’s grades are fine. She was happy enough. She wasn’t that bright and she certainly didn’t work too hard. She was overachieving, you ask me.’

‘Was?’

The young man shrugged. ‘She’s in the past. My past, at least. Are we done?’

Are we done?
Brook ignored the temptation to make his next question
Are you American?
‘What do
you
think happened to her?’