A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

  ‘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?’

  Davison shrugged. ‘She may have been nabbed by some random sex-starved pervert. Ever thought it might be that simple?’

  ‘Then he’s the most careful sex-starved pervert in criminal history,’ answered Brook. Davison actually laughed at this. ‘What about travel? Could she have simply upped sticks and left?’

  ‘That would be more likely. She loved travel and new places. You should check the airports and ferry ports.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Brook. He held up a hand to forestall another protest. ‘Lowest form of humour – I heard you the first time. Anywhere she might go in Britain if she wanted to get away?’

  Davison narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you saying she hasn’t left the country?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m asking you a question.’

  ‘I guess her top destination would be London.’ Brook prompted him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Bright lights, big city. Streets paved with gold and all that.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Kitty’s self-reliant, and if she wanted to go somewhere badly enough, she’d drop everything and go. I assume that could apply to some man she met, but I have no idea who that might be.’

  ‘She sounds very trusting,’ said Brook.

  ‘There’s no side to her,’ said Davison. ‘She takes people as she finds them, but she can handle herself. Depend on it.’

  ‘How did she handle herself with you?’ Davison emitted a short laugh. ‘Something you want to share?’

  The young man sighed. ‘We broke up. Was Caitlin happy I dumped her? No. But she was too level-headed to let it worry her for more than a second. She was never clingy or jealous, because she knew how uncool that was. She took the rough with the smooth and didn’t hold grudges. And there were no regrets on either side when we split.’

  ‘Final question – can you confirm where you were on the night of March twentieth?’

  Five

  Brook sipped team from his flask as he looked out across the lights of Derby’s dark horizon. Light rain dotted the windows.

  Noble closed the door of the office and flopped down on his chair, hands stretched behind his head. ‘That’s one day I’ll never get back. I don’t know why we bother nicking burglars. They never get locked up.’ He sighed, opting to jettison the rest of the well-worn conversation, flicked on the kettle and stole a quick glance at Caitlin’s photograph. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I spoke to Laurie,’ answered Brook. ‘The boyfriend too.�
�

  ‘And did Davison push your buttons?’ Brook gave him a fleeting glance but didn’t answer. ‘I knew it,’ grinned Noble. ‘Did you like him for it?’

  ‘There is no it, John. And no, I didn’t like him for it. Roland Davison doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Not enough to commit murder.’

  ‘But someone that arrogant …’

  ‘Luckily for him, arrogance isn’t a crime.’ A second later, Brook added, ‘Lucky for me too, I guess.’

  ‘Ooh, self-analysis,’ teased Noble. ‘I’m trembling. Course you know where he gets his arrogance from.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘His father is Councillor Davison – upstanding member of the Police Liaison Committee.’

  ‘So that’s who Roland was threatening to unleash on me,’ said Brook.

  ‘I assumed you knew him.’

  ‘I’ve met him …’ Brook smiled suddenly, taking Noble’s meaning, ‘but he’s never sat on any of my disciplinary panels. He owned that derelict building on Whitaker Road where young Joshua Stapleton was murdered. Remember?’

  Noble lapsed into silence, his mind’s eye staring at the pathetic corpse of a boy, barely a teenager, humiliated and killed before life had begun, enduring pain he’d never known and suffering he didn’t deserve. ‘I remember,’ he mumbled, the memory lowering his voice. He roused himself to change the subject. ‘Well, sad to say, you’re right. Davison’s alibi checked out. March twentieth he was drinking with half a dozen friends and went back to student halls on Agard Street with a Miss Polly Cooke. Together all night. She confirmed it.’

  ‘You sound disappointed,’ said Brook.

  ‘I am. He treated me like something he’d wiped off his shoe.’

  ‘That I’m used to,’ said Brook. ‘What depressed me more was his total indifference towards someone with whom he’d recently had a relationship – someone who may be in trouble, even dead.’

  ‘So he got to you too.’

  Brook turned back to stare at the night. ‘People get to me, John. Especially the young. They seem to think it weakens them if they care for anyone but themselves. What about Laurie Teague’s alibi?’

  ‘Cast in bronze,’ said Noble, surprised. ‘She stayed at the pub until her boyfriend arrived, then took a cab to his place. Barman, boyfriend and cabbie confirm. You didn’t really …’

  ‘No,’ said Brook. ‘But now we don’t need to take it on trust, do we?’

  There was silence for a moment, natural on Brook’s part but not so comfortable for Noble.

  ‘So what’s next?’ said Noble. ‘We can scale up and put a team together, canvass the entire campus …’

  ‘It’s been a month,’ said Brook. ‘You know what comes next.’

  Noble was solemn. ‘We pass it along because there’s no mileage in it.’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘There’d be mileage in it if she was from Derby and her family were sobbing on East Midlands Today every night.’

  ‘That’s unfair, John.’

  ‘Is it?’ Noble lowered his eyes. ‘Have you spoken to the Chief Super?’

  ‘I don’t need to. I know what he’d say.’

  ‘Since when did Charlton’s opinions carry any weight with you?’

  ‘When they agree with mine,’ replied Brook. He sighed and shook his flask. Empty. ‘John, Caitlin’s not local and the trail’s cold. All we can do is hope she’s gone walkabout and move on.’

  ‘And you a detective who closes fifty-year-old homicides.’

  ‘If she’d been murdered, I’d be all over it,’ argued Brook. ‘But Caitlin’s young, unattached and likes to travel – she could be anywhere.’

  ‘People who travel leave a trail,’ argued Noble. ‘You taught me that. And your text said she’d had an abortion. She could have been depressed, suicidal even.’

  ‘Then at least she’s making her own choices,’ said Brook.

  ‘Now who’s being unfair?’

  Brook nodded in acceptance of Noble’s rebuke. ‘You’re right.’

  Noble was suddenly quiet, and Brook knew what was coming. ‘What about the Deity killer?’

  ‘What about him?’

  Noble sought the words. ‘Do you think he’s come back? That he’s started again with Caitlin.’

  ‘That case is closed,’ said Brook. ‘Officially. Deity is dead.’

  ‘You didn’t think he was dead at the time,’ said Noble.

  ‘Everyone else did.’

  ‘Even so, we should check …’

  ‘I did check,’ said Brook. ‘Before you got back. The Deity website is gone for good. There’s no connection, John.’

  ‘But Caitlin’s a student who disappeared without trace,’ insisted Noble. ‘Same as the others.’

  ‘It’s not the same,’ said Brook. ‘Caitlin left no message, no clue. The Deity students left artefacts to show they were leaving of their own volition.’ He raised a digit. ‘And they left as a group.’

  Noble was encouraged, and seized his opportunity. ‘Aha, well, Caitlin’s not alone. I’ve been on to Interpol.’

  ‘Interpol?’ A smile pulled at the corner of Brook’s mouth. ‘Being a bit melodramatic, aren’t we?’

  ‘Maybe, but I remembered something – a case three years ago. Another Irish girl who went missing. So I checked with Interpol and found the names of five young women reported missing over the last three years by parents in Poland, Italy and Ireland.’

  ‘Students?’

  ‘A couple of them,’ retorted Noble defensively.

  ‘At Derby University?’

  ‘One was.’ Noble cast around his desk for the paperwork. ‘Daniela Cassetti from Perugia. She flew to East Midlands in August two years ago to enrol at the university but disappeared after two terms. Easter, this time last year! She was supposed to fly home for the holiday but never arrived and didn’t show up for the summer term. Exactly the same as Caitlin!’ He reached for a second sheet of paper. ‘And there was another Irish girl, a student teacher from Dublin visiting family in Derby. Bernadette Murphy. Also three young Polish girls vanished, all thought to have been in the area …’

  ‘Thought to have been,’ repeated Brook. Noble was quiet. ‘The Derby area?’

  ‘East Midlands,’ answered Noble, not looking up to catch Brook’s sceptical eye. He rustled for another piece of paper on his desk. ‘Adrianna Bakula—’

  ‘John, slow down,’ said Brook ‘Not only are those women not local, they’re foreign nationals. They could be travelling anywhere in the UK, even assuming they’re still here.’

  ‘But the similarities …’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘They’re all young, single women from overseas. Like Caitlin.’

  Brook finally trapped Noble’s wandering eye. ‘You do know there must be hundreds of thousands of young people wandering the globe at any one time, experiencing life. And they’re all effectively missing until they walk through their parents’ front doors again.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Noble softly.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Brook. ‘It’s part of growing up and leaving the nest. Young people go out into the world, get a taste of freedom and forget they even have parents, never mind communicate with them. It’s called freedom. I was the same. I saw my parents as jailers, and when I finally left, getting in touch with them was as alien as …’

  ‘As paying attention to Interpol bulletins?’ suggested Noble.

  ‘Exactly,’ retorted Brook, unwilling to be embarrassed. ‘I’ve had all this with my own daughter. Throw a divorce into the mix, and unless you make a supreme effort to contact your kid, you might easily not speak to them for years. It’s a wonder more parents don’t report their children missing.’

  ‘How is Terri?’ asked Noble.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Brook, holding out his hands to make the point. ‘I assume.’

  ‘So that’s it, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry, John. With no evidence of a crime, we pass Caitlin’s file over to the Missi
ng Persons Bureau. They can work this nationally …’

  ‘While they look for thousands of other runaways and mis-pers.’

  ‘We’ve nothing to work with,’ insisted Brook. ‘No suspicious spending on her cards. No phone calls, no sightings. I’d suggest she spontaneously combusted, but that’s supposed to leave a residue.’

  ‘Then why do I get the impression you know there’s something wrong here?’

  Now it was Brook’s turn to avoid eye contact. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do. What is it? Gut instinct?’

  Brook looked up, an expression of derision on his face. ‘We’re not astrologers, John. We don’t read tea leaves. We work on evidence.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Noble. ‘And we don’t have any, so what is it?’

  Brook hesitated. ‘You said you searched her room.’

  ‘Apart from her rucksack being gone, everything was in order,’ replied Noble.

  ‘That there. That’s what worries me,’ said Brook. ‘It’s too tidy. Students are messy – messy in their relationships, messy in their personal lives. The unplanned pregnancy tells me Caitlin was no different. If she left of her own volition, she couldn’t have removed herself from the face of the earth more thoroughly. That’s either a fluke or takes careful planning.’

  ‘And Caitlin’s not that careful.’

  Brook rubbed his tired eyes. ‘It was just an impression. On the other hand, she did carefully compartmentalise her lives in Derby and Belfast, so maybe that tells us something.’

  ‘So are we passing this on or not?’ said Noble.

  Brook sighed. ‘We don’t have a choice. Without leads, sightings or any sign of foul play, the only thing left to do is put her picture on the drinks cartons and wait.’

  ‘You forgot to mention crossing our fingers,’ said Noble, trudging to the door, a hand reaching for his cigarettes. No answer from Brook. ‘We keep a copy of the file in case we get a chance to revisit, okay?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Brook drove home after midnight along the dark, empty roads, uncoupling his mind from the challenges of the day. He loved the night drive out of Derby along the A52 to Ashbourne and then on to his cottage in Hartington. It was a half-hour when he was forced to concentrate on the undemanding task of manoeuvring his aged car through the dark countryside of the Peak District.