A Killing Moon (35 page)

A second later, he jerked back into life. Wrapping a tea towel around his bleeding hand, he stumbled up the stairs. ‘Angie!’

He hurtled into three unlocked rooms and out again, then pulled back the bolts on the fourth and charged in. Cowell and Bernadette Murphy were unconscious on the floor. He refastened the door and stood to think.

He felt the breeze from the broken window and raced over to it. A posse of excited pigs looked up at him. Beyond, Brook saw the open door of the barn.

Zeke saw the barn door off the latch and touched the cattle prod to it, withdrawing it amid a shower of sparks. ‘I know you’re in there, copper.’ He heaved the door open and saw Caitlin’s inert body on the concrete where he’d left it. Beyond, the steel door of the unit stood ajar. Zeke grinned. ‘Thank you, officer – saved me the trouble of dragging your sorry carcass in for butchering.’

Cattle prod to the fore, he hurried through the darkened barn. Pulling the steel door back, he was hit by the cool air from the refrigeration unit, sweetened by the scent of old blood and bleached intestines. He never tired of it.

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ He leaned into the darkness and flicked on the light switch, blinking at brightness amplified by stark white tiles and whitewashed ceiling. ‘Dumb place to hide from the Lord’s wrath, you godless bitch,’ he said with a relish of pleasures to come. ‘In case you haven’t worked it out, the next time you leave this room, you’ll be a wheelie bin of guts and ground meat. And two or three days after that, you’ll be manure coating the ground in the pig pen.’

He stepped across the threshold, eyes flicking between possible hiding places – whitewashed brick columns, the scalding vat, the stainless-steel meat grinders, half a dozen fibre-glass wheelie bins for collecting blood and intestines from a freshly butchered carcass or minced meat from the grinder.

He glanced at the headless trunk maturing upside down on a chain over a drainage gutter and inched forward, his grin ever-present. ‘See your predecessor here,’ he shouted. ‘That’s how you’re gonna look in a few hours, bitch.’ He ducked behind a column, but Banach wasn’t there. ‘I’m gonna cut you into little pieces then boil your head, hands and feet before grinding you into a paste and feeding you to the pigs.

‘But first order of business, I’m gonna hack out that beautiful child you’ve been trying to murder. Might even let you watch.’ Another column. No Banach. ‘It’ll break my heart to do it, but you can rest assured that that child will have a Christian burial – unlike you. Hey, if you’ve got a name in mind, I might even get my uncle to conduct a baptism.’ He advanced slowly, methodically. ‘Your baby will bathe in God’s light while what’s left of you will be crapped out of a pig’s arse.’

He leapt behind one of the grinders, cattle prod at the ready, but to no avail. ‘Tell you what . . . Anka. Is that your name? Stop wasting time and step out now. I’ll kill you quick.’ He stood on his toes and spotted the cloth from a hospital gown over an inert arm. She was laying low in the farthest wheelie bin by the wall and he crept towards her, cupping a hand to throw his voice in the opposite direction. ‘That way we don’t stress the meat. Don’t want you all tough and stringy when I come to process you.

‘Something I meant to ask,’ he continued, creeping closer. ‘Food labelling laws are a bitch. Just in case we get a call from DEFRA about our feed . . . are you Polish or English?’

He jumped up to confront Banach cowering in the wheelie bin, face hidden by an arm, her nightgown barely covering her bare legs. She made no move to run or beg for mercy, and Zeke relaxed. As his gaze wandered across to her bare arm, he caught sight of the crucifix brand mark burned into it, and for a split second confusion creased his forehead.

‘Caitlin?’ His grin froze, but he turned too late.

Banach brought the branding iron crashing down on Zeke’s head. He groaned before flopping forward like a rag doll on to the wheelie bin, then down on to the damp concrete floor, his limbs flailing. Banach pushed the bin away with her foot and struck him again, this time on the temple, and a wound like a pot of fresh warm jam opened.

‘What are you going to do now, bitch?’ she screamed, and struck him again. ‘What are you going to do now?’

The distant sound of sirens turned her round and her eye was drawn again to the human remains hanging from the meat rack. She ran and unravelled one of the hoists connected to the overhead skinning rack and wrapped it round Zeke’s ankle, clipping it into place before hauling his motionless body along the cold ground and into the air. He swung a gentle arc through the air as blood dripped copiously on to the tiled floor from head wounds front and back. Securing the chain, Banach walked to a butcher’s block to pick up a cleaver before advancing on Zeke.

‘Angie!’ shouted Brook from the door.

Banach became a statue, though her face turned to Brook, eyes pleading. She noticed the blood dripping from his hand. ‘Sir.’

‘You don’t need that,’ said Brook. She looked down at the cleaver in her hand almost in surprise. ‘Angie.’ Brook saw the stricken student in the wheelie bin. ‘Is Caitlin alive?’

‘Barely. Take her.’

‘We go together,’ said Brook. ‘Help me get her to the ambulance.’

Banach began to shake and her body seemed to shrink in on itself. ‘Please.’ She tried to express a thought, but it was so incoherent she could only wave a hand at Daniela’s remains to make her point. ‘Do you see?’

Brook walked slowly across to her. ‘I see.’

Getting her voice under control through the rising emotion, she managed, ‘He deserves to die.’

‘No doubt,’ said Brook softly. ‘But you don’t deserve to live with killing him.’

She stared at him through desperate eyes filling with tears, wiping them away with the sleeve of Caitlin’s bloodied sweatshirt.

Brook held out his hand for the cleaver. ‘Think of your career.’

‘Fuck my career,’ she said, strengthening her grip on the tool.

The sound of running feet drew nearer, and Banach recognised Noble’s voice.

‘Okay, Angie,’ said Brook, stepping back. ‘You want him dead? Do it. But be prepared to live with it every single day and every single night.’

She stared at him as though he was speaking in a foreign tongue. Then a light went out in her eyes and she dropped the cleaver at her feet.

‘In here, John,’ shouted Brook, putting his good hand on the wheelie bin and pushing it towards the door. He gathered in Banach with his wounded arm and held her against the bin until she raised her hands to push with him.

Thirty-Four

27 April

Three hours later, Brook watched the boiled head, hands and feet being photographed and then bagged. ‘There’s a fingernail in the pan.’

‘We know,’ said the SOCO without annoyance at Brook’s micromanagement. He raised the camera to take a final shot of the large pan before nodding to a colleague, who dipped a rubber glove into the filmy water to dredge up the fingernail. He held it for a couple of shots then dropped it in a bag. ‘We can manage.’

‘I know you can, Col.’

The SOCO registered his surprise from behind a face mask but said nothing. He pulled down the mask and indicated the fresh bandages on Brook’s hand and arm. ‘Go home, Inspector. You’ve done your bit.’ He raised the camera to his face before lowering it again. ‘And more.’

Brook trudged to the kitchen door, exhausted now the adrenalin of the chase was spent. ‘If they’re boiling body parts, there may not be much left.’

‘Understood.’

‘We’re looking at multiple victims, so you’re hunting for nails, teeth and hair.’

‘On it,’ said Col.

‘Make the pig pen a priority.’

‘Inspector . . .’ began Col, closing his eyes to keep patience. He smiled when he had control. ‘We will.’

Brook stepped outside, barely able to raise his feet. The lights of the second ambulance retreated towards the dark lane. Caitlin Kinnear and Banach had been rushed to hospital in the first ambulance, and Ezekiel O’Toole and Constance Trastevere were in the second, accompanied by three burly constables. A bloodied Bernadette Murphy and Helen Cowell, both groggy from the tranquilliser, sat in the back of a squad car. Cowell was in floods of tears after being marched in cuffs past the body parts on the kitchen floor. Noble banged on the roof and the car set off.

They’d discovered Samuel O’Toole sleeping happily on a sofa in the farmhouse and taken him into custody until mental competence and the extent of his involvement in events at the farm could be determined. Finally a social worker had arrived to take the two youngsters into temporary care. Brook was happy to see that the older boy was oblivious to the horrors being uncovered about them.

Brook made it across the courtyard to where Charlton and Noble were conversing in disbelieving low tones, organising a stream of scientific support officers walking back and forth to the barn. Several dog handlers had also arrived to begin scouring the premises with eager Alsatians, but it was clear to Brook that they’d need more sophisticated equipment to help in the search for human remains.

Chief Superintendent Charlton didn’t often experience the sharp end of man’s inhumanity to man from behind his desk, and Brook was pleased to see that his face was devoid of colour after witnessing horrors usually reserved for his detectives. He turned at Brook’s approach.

‘You should be in hospital.’

‘I’ve had painkillers, and the paramedics gave me a tetanus shot,’ said Brook.

‘Will you be okay to drive?’ asked Noble. Brook had that vacant look he’d seen before at the end of an exhausting case.

‘Fine.’

‘Then go home,’ said Noble.

‘Make that an order,’ added Charlton, severely. ‘And for once, obey it.’

‘DC Banach, Angie, said the pigs—’

‘We know,’ said Charlton and Noble in unison.

‘They’ll be slaughtered tomorrow and off to the labs the day after,’ said Noble. ‘Go home, for God’s sake. We’re on top of this.’

Brook nodded and gathered his bloodied jacket from the bonnet of Dr Fleming’s Audi. He glanced at the open door of the Land Rover. O’Toole – he’d completely forgotten about him. At the rear of the vehicle, he heard a distressed cry.

‘
I can’t breathe
.’

He yanked the boot open with no thought for his injured hand. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded, as O’Toole sat up to suck in the night air. But before the priest could regain his breath to answer, Brook hauled him from the boot and dragged him along the muddied ground to the farmhouse. ‘What did you say?’

‘Please, I . . .’

‘What did you say?’ shouted Brook.

‘Can’t breathe,’ the priest panted.

Noble and Charlton turned in astonishment and ran towards the pair, O’Toole unable still to find his feet as Brook shoved him through the kitchen door. ‘Can’t breathe, did you say? Can’t breathe. Wrong.
She’s
the one who can’t breathe,’ bellowed Brook.

O’Toole tried to look away, but Brook roughly grabbed his ears, forcing him to face the body parts on the floor. The SOCOs looked round. ‘Her name was Daniela.’ O’Toole tried to break away, but Brook twisted his ears, eliciting a yell of pain. ‘Look upon your works, ye mighty, and despair. Look, I said.’

‘Please. I didn’t know.’

‘She was the mother of the baby, wasn’t she?’ He shook his captive violently. ‘Wasn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ sobbed O’Toole.

Noble arrived and prised the wriggling priest from Brook’s white knuckles, shoving him in the direction of Charlton, who passed him on to a nearby constable.

‘Are you all right, Brook?’ barked Charlton.

‘Never better,’ he mumbled.

‘Go home! That’s an order.’

Brook staggered out into the night, head resolutely down, stumbling along the dirt track towards his car. Twenty minutes later, he was home, though he remembered nothing of the journey. Slumped at the kitchen table, he poured himself a huge glass of Bruichladdich and drank it down in several large gulps before closing his eyes and resting his head on the table.

Brook slept what was left of the night and well into the evening, rising from his bed only when the pain from his hand and arm forced him to consciousness. He took two painkillers and made a flask of tea, then drove into Derby, stopping off at Jobs Wood Farm along the way.

The farm was lit up with arc lights as the shadows lengthened. Seeing no CID officers, Brook took a cursory look around the farmhouse, then left the army of scene-of-crime officers to do their work. On the way back to the main road, he passed a refrigerated truck bearing the livery of a local slaughterman.

Charlton blew out his cheeks and shook his head for the umpteenth time as he read the latest updates from the farm. Brook sat saucer-eyed, staring into space. Only Noble seemed to be operating normally.

‘There’s no doubt?’

‘None,’ said Noble. ‘The butchered carcass and head belonged to Daniela Cassetti. She had dental treatment while at the university and records confirmed. And we’ve found more remains, which we should be able to match to other missing women when we get dentals.’

‘I thought they fed everything to the pigs,’ said Charlton.

‘Flesh and organs, yes,’ said Noble. ‘But teeth, nails and hair are indigestible.’

‘Christ.’

Brook made as if to speak but remained silent.

‘On the positive side,’ continued Noble, ‘we’ve found no infant remains so far, so it seems the offspring were all removed.’

‘Where?’

‘Settled with families in North America, from what little sense I can get out of Dr Cowell.’

‘Can we trace them?’

‘Given time,’ said Noble. ‘And if we can follow the money. The only one who’s speaking doesn’t know about that side of things.’

‘Cowell?’

‘She says she was only involved in identifying potential mothers. Apparently she had access to the Rutherford’s patient database, having worked there briefly. Claims she did it on principle and not for money. She thought the mothers were being resettled in America with their babies.’

‘Do we believe her?’ asked Charlton, glancing over at Brook for signs of life.

‘When we showed her a picture of Daniela Cassetti’s remains, she threw up,’ said Noble.

‘What about the couple?’

‘Bernadette Murphy and Ezekiel O’Toole haven’t said a single word or shown any sign of remorse.’

‘And Patrick . . . Father O’Toole?’ said Charlton.

‘Not a word to us,’ said Noble. ‘Though he’s mumbling to God plenty.’

Charlton’s face tightened, preparing to protest, but he thought better of it.

‘Confession,’ said Brook, not looking up.

Both heads turned. ‘What was that?’

Brook looked up, thinking about what he’d said. ‘You need to put him with another priest. He’s confused right now and needs someone to tell him what God wants him to do. And without his confession, we’ll struggle to get murder convictions for anyone but Bernadette and her boyfriend.’

‘Anyone in mind, Inspector?’

Brook nodded minutely. ‘I’ll see to it.’

‘We can’t let Trastevere get away with it,’ said Noble. ‘She’s the brains behind this.’

‘We can charge her with attempted murder at least,’ said Brook, brandishing a bandaged hand.

‘How’s Constable Banach?’ said Charlton.

Brook looked up. ‘As well as can be expected.’

‘And Caitlin Kinnear?’

Noble smiled. ‘She’ll live.’

‘Thanks to your tenacity, John,’ said Brook. ‘And Banach’s quick thinking.’

‘You look done in,’ said Noble, once they were outside Charlton’s office. Brook returned a weak smile. ‘Are you sending in your priest friend against O’Toole?’

‘Father Christopher.’

‘If he can get O’Toole to play ball, it’ll give the CPS a slam-dunk against the others.’

Brook was uncertain what Noble had said for a moment. Then, ‘Are you American, John?’

‘I knew you were in there somewhere,’ crowed Noble.

‘You found me.’

‘By the way,’ said Noble. ‘You were right.’

‘Right?’

‘We got the DNA results back. A hair on that sleeping bag matched the DNA in the gloves. Max Ostrowsky was in the Cream and both are a match to samples from his flat.’

‘Any news?’ said Brook.

‘Max and Tymon took the Harwich-to-Amsterdam ferry that same night. They’re gone.’

‘Then the DNA hardly matters. Max will be safely in Poland at least until the trial is over.’

‘So you don’t want to know about the paternity test.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Max’s DNA wasn’t a match to Kassia’s foetus, but it’s close enough to suggest that a near relative is the father. Greg.’

Brook nodded. ‘Nice to know we were on the right lines. If only it were proof of something. If we could just speak to Jake . . .’

‘Forget it. He’s on remand and his solicitor says he’s refusing all requests for interviews. We’d have to go through Charlton . . .’

‘And we know how that ends.’

‘Anything else to eat, Inspector?’ said Mrs Banach, standing attentively over the laden table.

‘I’m stuffed, Mum,’ said Banach.

‘This is plenty, Mrs Banach,’ said Brook, indicating his untouched plate of
piernik
,
makowiec
and
paczki
.

‘Julianna, please,’ said Banach’s mother.

Brook nodded and drained his tea. Mrs Banach gathered the cups on to a tray. ‘You need to eat more, Inspector.’

‘I had a big breakfast,’ Brook lied.

‘Then I’ll put these in a bag for later.’

‘How’s Caitlin?’ said Banach, when her mother had scuttled towards the patio doors.

‘She’ll need some rehab and plastic surgery, but she should make a full recovery. Physically, at least.’

‘Poor girl,’ said Banach. ‘What an ordeal.’

‘She’s alive thanks to you and John,’ said Brook. ‘The pair of you saved her life.’ Banach looked away modestly but Brook could see she was pleased. ‘How are you?’

‘If that’s a half-assed way of asking if I’m keeping my child, the answer is yes.’

‘It wasn’t,’ said Brook. ‘But I’m happy for you.’

‘You don’t get off that easy.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m naming you the godfather, if that’s okay.’

‘Do I have to do anything?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m honoured.’

‘I’ve sent off the forms,’ said Banach. ‘I’ll be taking my CID exams on maternity. And if . . . when I pass, I’ll be looking to join a team on probation, if you know anyone who’ll have me.’

Brook put a hand to his chin, implying concentration. ‘I’ll certainly put the word out. There must be plenty of SIOs who’ll put up with Americanisms like
half-assed
from their squad members. I’ll let you know.’

Banach stared at him, waiting for some clue, but his expression remained blank. ‘Will you now?’ she said.

‘Depend on it,’ said Brook, rising from his patio chair, still keeping a straight face.

‘Inspector.’ Brook arched an eyebrow as Banach sought the right words. ‘I wanted to ask. In that barn, when I was ready to . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘You asked me if I was prepared to live with taking a life. Do you remember?’ Brook said nothing. ‘The thing is, you said it as though you knew what that was like.’

Brook stared into her eyes for a moment, then smiled. ‘No.’

‘No what?’

‘I don’t remember.’