‘And how do you know that isn’t the case this time?’
‘I don’t,’ admitted Laurie. ‘Not for sure. I should have told the sergeant this, shouldn’t I?’
‘It might’ve helped,’ said Brook, closing the notebook with a snap.
‘I’m sorry. But I know something’s happened to her and I didn’t want him dismissing her as some flaky student. Her phone is still dead. It’s been a month without so much as a text.’
‘You said she may have met a man.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ insisted Laurie. ‘She wouldn’t. Not now.’
The force of Laurie’s rebuttal puzzled Brook. ‘What does that mean?’
Laurie hesitated. ‘Caitlin’s off men at the moment.’ She tried to avoid Brook’s searching gaze, then took a deep breath, casting around for a form of words before fixing him with a glare. ‘This has to stay between us.’
‘As far as I’m able to make that promise,’ said Brook, beginning to lose patience. ‘What happened? Boyfriend trouble?’
Laurie hesitated. ‘Caitlin had a … termination.’
‘She was pregnant?’ exclaimed Brook. A few heads turned at the raised voice.
‘No, I just said. She had a surgical abortion. A couple of weeks earlier and she could’ve taken a pill, but she missed it. We were at the Flowerpot celebrating …’ Laurie pulled up at her choice of words. ‘I don’t mean it like that. It was more like relief that it was sorted. Kitty was putting on a brave face, but I know she struggled with what she’d done because of her background.’
‘And the pregnancy was why she hadn’t been drinking,’ said Brook.
‘Yes.’
‘More facts we haven’t been given,’ said Brook, opening Noble’s notebook to write. He was beginning to feel annoyed. Worse, he was being forced to make his own notes.
‘It didn’t seem relevant at the time.’
‘Everything’s relevant,’ said Brook, squinting at a page. ‘She had an ex-boyfriend. Roland Davison. The father?’ Laurie nodded. ‘As far as you know.’
‘Kitty was no skank,’ protested Laurie.
‘You were the one who mentioned her passions,’ said Brook calmly.
‘That didn’t mean she slept around.’
‘So you say.’ Brook was stern now, assuming the position – push hard to get the best information. ‘According to your previous statement, she broke up with Mr Davison nearly two weeks before she disappeared.’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘Is that because he was opposed to the termination?’
‘The opposite,’ said Laurie. ‘He was all in favour. She broke up with him because he refused to get involved.’
‘Get involved?’ asked Brook. ‘How? Did she want money?’
‘No, nothing like that. Kitty took responsibility. That’s what she was like. She didn’t want a thing from Rollo except a little help and moral support, like go with her to the clinic and hold her hand, that sort of thing. But Rollo wouldn’t man up. He didn’t want to know. You know what men are like,’ she added with a waspish glare.
‘Vaguely,’ replied Brook. ‘Why didn’t you mention the termination to DS Noble? A seismic experience like that in a young girl’s life, a Catholic girl, at that. It’s what we call a stressor – an event that forces people to deviate from routine behaviour. Like now.’
‘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 dis
appearances 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 wan
t 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.’
A Killing Moon Page 3