A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

  ‘Fucked over,’ laughed Nick, relishing the obscenity’s harshness in his throat.

  ‘Careful,’ repeated Jake. ‘Try remembering that word, Nick.’

  ‘Fucked over,’ repeated Nick, still chuckling.

  Jake sighed and continued briskly past the window of Marks & Spencer and on up the hill towards home, Nick keeping step beside him. He felt around for the cigarettes, his first pack in weeks courtesy of Mr Ostrowsky’s advance. He threw one into his mouth, able now to confront the kernel of self-reproach flourishing inside his gut. He looked hopefully across at his brother.

  ‘Got a light, Nick?’

  ‘I’m not allowed matches,’ said Nick gravely. ‘You said.’

  ‘That’s right, I did.’

  ‘And you said you’d stopped. Can’t afford smoking, you said.’

  ‘That’s right, I did.’ Jake returned the cigarette to the packet and threw it at a pile of blankets in a doorway, the image of the explosion and his collision with the security guard playing over in his mind.

  ‘Where’s your lighter, Jake?’ asked Nick.

  Jake exhaled deeply, remembered the sickening force with which he’d hurtled into the fat jobsworth standing in his path, remembered being on the ground, remembered the hand that had held the lighter as it opened.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Fifteen

  Brook woke with a shudder on the hard chair of his box-sized office at home. It was dark and deathly quiet outside – that massive, almost oppressive silence only to be found in the countryside once the night predators had gorged and fallen silent in their nests and burrows and before the dawn chorus had taken up the day.

  He sat up to massage his aching back, feeling clammy in his day-old clothes and stubble. The clock showed nearly four. His eye alighted on the chessboard, pieces black and white scattered in mid-struggle. The game had not progressed in a month though Brook had received his opponent’s move two weeks previously. He glanced at the unopened envelope that contained the gambit, its child-like scrawl inducing a shudder, then pulled it towards him and eased a thumb under one end of the seal. He’d made a promise to a beaten opponent now languishing in prison for the rest of his days, and it was time to deliver his end of the bargain, absorb his next move while trying to ignore the stab at his peace of mind.

  Pawn to King’s Rook 4, Inspector. Our game seems to be slowing. Are my moves that good? Or do I remind you of what you’ve done? The dead are always with us. Do you see them yet?

  Brook screwed up the handwritten note and launched it towards the blackened woodburner. He hesitated before advancing the black pawn, then marched through to the kitchen to flick on the kettle.

  ‘Leave that,’ commanded Jake, tearing around the flat throwing clothes into a case.

  Nick looked down at the tatty stuffed bear in his hand. ‘I can’t leave Mr Ted.’

  ‘You have to.’ Jake avoided eye contact or the edict wouldn’t take.

  ‘Why do I have to?’

  Jake closed the case and put it by the door, then began tipping all the tins bought the previous evening into a cardboard box. ‘He’ll be safer here.’ Having emptied the shelf, he pulled out a drawer and flung a few items of cutlery and a can opener into the box with a clatter. He tossed the chipboard drawer on the floor and looked around, irritated. ‘Where the hell are those damn keys?’

  ‘Safer?’ continued Nick, preparing to wail. ‘Why won’t he be safe with me?’

  ‘Because …’ Jake folded the box lid closed and contemplated his brother, his anger at their situation beginning to bubble over. He snatched Mr Ted from Nick and prepared to tear him limb from padded limb.

  ‘Nooooooo,’ screamed Nick, suddenly at Jake’s throat, grabbing at the air to reach his friend.

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Jake, holding the toy out of reach.

  ‘Give him back,’ screamed Nick, still clawing. ‘Give him back.’

  ‘Stop screaming!’

  ‘Give me Mr Ted then.’

  Exasperated, Jake heaved Nick backwards over the coffee table and down on to the floor. The wailing increased and Jake hung his head, closing his eyes to wish himself elsewhere. Finally the noise quietened a little, but only because Nick had graduated to that soundless, breathless grieving born of the truest despair.

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Jake dropped Mr Ted into Nick’s greedy hands, his brother enveloping the soiled bear in a tight embrace to shield him from his wicked sibling’s malice.

  Jake slumped on to the table. ‘Okay. We take Mr Ted. But Nick, look at me.’ He stared at Nick’s tear-streaked face, choosing his words with care. ‘Bad people are going to come for us. We have to be quick and we have to be quiet. We’re not going far but no one can know we’ve gone there. Are you listening?’ Nick gulped and nodded at the seriousness in Jake’s voice. ‘When we get there, we won’t have telly or radio because we can’t make any noise, and we have to stay there for a long time or we’re going to get …’ He tried to find the right words.

  ‘Fucked over?’ suggested Nick, remembering the phrase from earlier.

  Jake smiled and Nick giggled gleefully into the break of tension. ‘Fucked over,’ agreed Jake. He pulled Nick’s head towards him and hugged it, fondling his greasy hair.

  ‘Have you seen those keys, Nick? The big bunch. They were in the drawer a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘What keys, Jake?’ Nick mumbled into his brother’s chest.

  Jake stared at the top of Nick’s head. Something in his voice. ‘Never mind.’ He jumped up to finish packing, then pulled on his coat and lifted the box of cans. Finally he picked up a screwdriver from the tangle of metal on the floor. ‘Come on. We don’t have much time.’

  Unable to sleep, Brook padded out into the darkness of his cottage garden with a fresh mug of tea, regular practice when the weather allowed. It eased the constant burden of his thoughts, whirring around his head like a hamster on a wheel, robbing him of all but the briefest slumber. The dreams had started again, as they always did when he was immersed in a case – dreams of rotting corpses and feeding rats.

  He warmed his hands around the mug and shifted his weight on the harsh garden bench. He heard a noise from the tree and turned to see a pair of cat’s eyes blinking at him, that other-worldly light shining back at him. Tigerbob, his neighbour’s tabby cat, lay still on the branch until Brook made a noise with his lips and the cat poured himself to the ground and came to nuzzle at his hand.

  ‘What a life you lead,’ said Brook, scratching at the white fur on the cat’s chin. He took a mouthful of tea and turned his face to the sky. The stars were starting to disappear behind a fast-moving grey canvas of cloud, now shedding a fitful spray of light rain and eating its way into the buttery moon until it was covered.

  His old boss in the Met, DCI Charlie Rowlands, had once warned him against looking to the night skies when the darkness enveloped the light. ‘It’s called a killing moon, Brooky. Nothing good comes of it, so best to look away.’ Brook splayed his hand, searching for the cat in the dark, but it had skittered away.

  An unwelcome sound invaded the brutal quiet and Brook trotted into the kitchen to answer the phone. Only his daughter and Noble ever rang him at home, and he knew Terri wouldn’t be awake at this hour.

  ‘John?’

  ‘You’re up,’ declared Noble at the other end of the line.

  Brook glanced at his watch – not yet five o’clock. Dawn was starting to rehearse over the eastern horizon. ‘I’m stirring,’ he answered, unwilling to explain his nocturnal vigil.

  ‘We’ve got a murder.’

  ‘Where?’ Brook knew the location that Noble reeled off, and began to plot the route in his head. ‘Do we have an ID?’

  ‘No,’ said Noble softly. ‘And it won’t be easy.’

  Brook’s heart rate headed up a notch. ‘Okay.’ He didn’t enquire further; he didn’t like to prejudge a crime scene before he’d seen it. ‘So much for our cold case.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be to
o sure,’ said Noble. ‘The victim is a young woman – late teens to early twenties by the look.’

  Brook drew the phone closer. ‘Caitlin?’

  ‘Hard to tell.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘No hurry. As you said, the dead aren’t going anywhere.’

  Jake opened the door and peered out into the dark passage. Everything was quiet, even the neighbouring flat that was often rocking and rolling into the small hours, when the young mum that lived there wasn’t screaming at her kids or their latest uncle.

  Stepping towards the stairwell carrying the box of tinned food under his arm and a holdall in each hand, he looked back and beckoned Nick out of the flat. ‘Close the door quietly,’ he hissed. ‘No need to lock it.’

  This time the door closed without noise and Nick looked eagerly for feedback. Jake nodded his approval and Nick swelled with pride. The pair walked swiftly and quietly to the stairwell and scampered down, Jake in the lead.

  A few minutes later, the brothers stood on the ground floor, panting under the burden of their luggage.

  ‘I’m tired, Jake,’ said Nick. ‘I want to go to bed.’

  ‘Quiet,’ hissed Jake, moving to the communal exit, which was thankfully cloaked in darkness. The sensored light on the ceiling had been vandalised so many times that it was no longer replaced, and more vulnerable residents knew to get behind their doors before the sun dipped.

  He followed a passage that led towards the back of the flats and out into the car park, with its shabby population of rusting, scuffed vehicles. There wasn’t a car less than ten years old, and each represented if not the limit of the residents’ income then at least their tolerance for having their property coveted and vandalised. New cars were a magnet for crime at Milton Flats, so nobody owned one.

  ‘Are we boosting a car?’ asked Nick.

  Jake put down his bags and box of tins and pulled out the large screwdriver from his back pocket, brandishing it at his brother.

  Sixteen

  Brook guided his battered BMW around the tricky one-way system, trying to get his bearings in the faint morning light. He knew the area around Exeter Bridge and the weir well enough – it had been a crime scene in the Deity case a year or so before, when a missing student had been recovered from the Derwent – but Terri had driven him to the scene that day because Brook had been suffering from concussion.

  He located the Exeter Street underpass and drove past a line of cars parked along the length of its double yellow lines, then turned right at a small roundabout, gliding past the Meadow Lane bus depot on his left, its forecourt also jammed with cars. On his right, he passed a brightly painted pub called the Smithfield, before coming to a halt at the police tape. A uniformed female officer was directing cars and pedestrians away from the crime scene. She squinted at Brook in recognition, then lifted the tape for him to drive under and park.

  ‘Morning, Constable,’ said Brook, locking the car, not even making the attempt to remember her name, if he’d ever known it. As usual, without Noble there to quietly slip him the information, he was adrift in a sea of anonymous faces.

  ‘Inspector,’ replied the female officer, returning the compliment.

  ‘Everything under control?’ ventured Brook, risking a line of small talk.

  ‘The bus drivers have started their routes, so most of the crowd control is outside the Telegraph building.’

  Brook realised that in all his years in Derby division, he’d never assigned a location to the home of the Derby Telegraph and his tormentor-in-chief, crime correspondent Brian Burton. He surveyed the crowd, looking for his familiar pinched face. Maybe the chilly morning and poor view was forcing Burton to rubberneck from behind the tinted windows.

  ‘And the cars?’

  ‘Telegraph employees who can’t get to their car park.’

  Brook nodded, unsure how to proceed. His bag of conversational tools was light at the best of times. ‘Carry on,’ he said over his shoulder, feeling foolish.

  He strode past the squat building looking out across the swollen river towards the huddle of police and CID standing by a footbridge a hundred yards away. Like driving past a cricket match, it was possible to believe that absolutely nothing ever happened at a crime scene. And if it weren’t for scene-of-crime officers and the duty police surgeon, nothing much did.

  Brook snaked a glance across at the few onlookers, struck by how mobile phone technology had changed bystanders’ behaviour down the years. Once they would have directed their gaze towards unfolding events; now faces were hidden behind camera phones, pausing only to send images to excited friends or disinterested social media.

  Noble broke away from the throng and marched towards him. ‘He’s on holiday,’ he said, seeing Brook scanning the area.

  ‘Result.’ Brook’s smile was heartfelt. ‘Be nice to do our work without his toxic presence. What have we got, John?’

  ‘IC1 female, late teens to early twenties, found in the back of a burned-out van – no ID.’

  ‘Cause of death?’

  ‘Unknown – though probably not the fire.’

  ‘Do we know how long dead?’ said Brook.

  ‘Higginbottom thinks around forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Two days,’ mumbled Brook, absorbing the implication.

  ‘So if it is Caitlin …’

  ‘She’s been held somewhere for more than a month until the killer had no more use for her.’

  ‘Killers,’ corrected Noble. ‘Two men in a van. Just like Valerie G.’

  Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ve got witnesses?’

  ‘A security guard disturbed the body dump. We’ve got film too.’ Noble indicated the cameras above the empty car park.

  ‘Any good?’ said Brook.

  ‘Good enough to tell us we’re dealing with two suspects. It’s being sent over.’

  ‘Outstanding,’ said Brook with no evident enthusiasm. He looked around. ‘Odd spot for a body dump – so close to the Telegraph building.’

  ‘It’s better than it looks, especially at night,’ said Noble, nodding towards the footbridge as they passed. ‘It’s usually deserted and there’s an instant getaway into an empty park. From there you’re straight into the city centre.’

  ‘Check all CCTV,’ said Brook, not looking at his DS for a response. Noble knew the drill. He turned his gaze to the burned-out shell of the van as they approached. ‘Could it be her?’

  ‘Possible,’ said Noble. ‘I took a rough measure before you got here. It’s hard to tell with heat-stiffening, but she’s a reasonable match on height. No other indicators. She’s also naked, so no ID from clothing or contents, and the fire makes prints unlikely.’

  ‘Did we ever rustle up any DNA on Caitlin?’

  ‘We took a toothbrush and a hairbrush.’

  ‘Good,’ said Brook. ‘Whose van?’

  ‘We’re running the plates as we speak.’

  With a grown-up daughter, Brook was the more sombre as they stepped up to the charred van. The back doors were hanging off at an angle. Whether prised away by officers or blown apart by the exploding fuel tank, Brook didn’t have time to ask as the police surgeon stood upright at that moment and contemplated the two detectives before him. As he straightened, the smell reached Brook’s nostrils. Burned flesh. Not an odour with which he’d ever become comfortable.

  ‘Brook,’ said Dr Higginbottom. ‘You finally got here.’

  Brook sighed. ‘What have you got for us, Doc?’

  ‘Nice to see you too,’ retorted Higginbottom, arching an eyebrow across at Noble. He stepped away from the van and fumbled in a pocket to produce a small jar, which he threw at Brook. ‘Here. Better apply some of this. Cooked people’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Not without a dab of HP sauce at least.’

  If possible, Brook’s expression became even wearier. ‘Leave that observation out of your report,’ he said, unscrewing the jar and dabbing camphorated chest rub under each nostril before taking the PVC glov
es offered by Noble. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Not much I can tell you here, Inspector,’ continued Higginbottom. ‘Young white female – between eighteen and twenty-five years. She’s been wrapped in sturdy plastic sheeting, presumably for ease of carriage; naked underneath, so the fire has melted the plastic on to her skin, which means I can only comfortably get at the head and neck for now. There’s a little wisp of hair left at the root that suggests she was a brunette. See there.’

  ‘What was Caitlin?’ said Brook, squinting at the indicated section of charred skull.

  ‘Bottle blond,’ said Noble. ‘But a natural brunette.’

  Brook stepped nearer for a better view of the body, an odour of barbecued meat fighting its way past the camphor. The girl was laid on her back, arms and legs tight together inside the still faintly steaming plastic shroud, which had moulded to what was left of her contours like a second skin. Her mouth was closed, teeth jammed together, partially exposed by the shrinkage that occurred when fat and tissue were rendered by heat. A couple of teeth at the front were broken.

  ‘John tells me she didn’t burn to death,’ said Brook.

  ‘Trying to put me out of a job, Sergeant?’ quipped Higginbottom. ‘A blood test for carbon monoxide will be definitive, but I can’t see any telltale scarring in the airways. Also the blistering of the skin appears to be post mortem.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘If she was burned alive, the body’s defence mechanisms would have bombarded the injury site with white blood cells to begin the healing process. That results in inflammation and blisters full of fluid …’

  ‘And what blistering you can see contains little or no fluid because her body’s defences were dead,’ concluded Brook, staring at the blackened head. The eyes were closed and sunken and the nose tissue had partially burned away to expose cartilage.

  ‘Precisely. Also her teeth are clamped shut, which suggests her mouth was closed when she died. You see enough fire deaths, you never forget the contortions of the body. The hands clench and the mouth opens to fight for breath.’

  ‘Or scream in mortal agony.’ Brook was lost for a moment, a memory returning to unsettle. ‘So the fire’s a cover.’