A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

  ‘That would be my assessment,’ said Higginbottom.

  ‘And she died elsewhere.’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘She’s been bashed about. There are blunt-force trauma wounds on the top and side of the skull. Also the chipped teeth are recent, as is the dislocated jaw. Could be a heavy object, or she could have been slammed against something with great force. Maybe even hit by a car or thrown out of a window. Hard to tell in these conditions.’

  ‘But the blunt-force trauma didn’t kill her?’

  Higginbottom raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re wasted in CID, Inspector.’

  ‘So everyone says.’

  ‘As a general rule, it’s hard to beat someone to death, and such attacks often end with stabbing or strangulation,’ said Higginbottom. ‘No knife involved, so I’d wager on strangulation. You’ll have to wait for the PM to be definitive, though.’

  ‘Dead for about forty-eight hours?’ said Brook.

  Higginbottom hesitated. ‘Look, it’s too early …’

  ‘I just need a working number,’ insisted Brook. ‘Until the post-mortem.’

  ‘Very well. Through the plastic I can see some discoloration of the abdomen, which is evidence that putrefaction has begun. So, ballpark, I’d say no more than forty-eight hours. But don’t quote me.’

  ‘I also won’t ask if you’re American.’

  Higginbottom’s smile was tight, remembering Brook’s aversion to transatlantic grammar. ‘That’s me done. You’ll have my report soonest.’ He bade them farewell and ambled back towards his car as Noble beckoned to an overweight man in a hoodie and tracksuit, waiting eagerly on the other side of the tape. He made his way over, clutching a white plastic bag in his flabby hands.

  ‘Norman Stansfield,’ said the man, before Noble could speak. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Inspector.’

  ‘Norman’s a security guard—’ began Noble.

  ‘Night security concierge,’ interrupted Stansfield. ‘It’s just to pay the bills, mind, before I can join the force. I know what you’re thinking …’ Grinning, he gripped a small portion of his flabby stomach between fingers and thumb. ‘My glands. But I’m getting help with that, and when I lose—’

  ‘You saw who dumped the van, Mr Stansfield?’ said Brook.

  ‘Better than that,’ beamed Stansfield, ‘I tackled the slippery fucker.’ Brook frowned and Stansfield looked guiltily at Noble. ‘Right. You said not to swear.’

  ‘It’s not the swearing,’ said Brook. ‘Your job is to protect property, not tackle criminals, Mr—’

  ‘Norman,’ insisted Stansfield. ‘And I’m sorry, but you can’t stand by and let these scumbags get away with it. Someone’s got to have a go, so I brought the bastard down … Sorry,’ he said with another apologetic glance at Noble. ‘The suspect, I mean.’ He thrust the white bag at Brook. ‘Here. He was on top of me for a minute as we wrestled.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Brook.

  ‘My uniform. You’ll need it for DNA. Dibs and dabs, as coppers say. I couldn’t get my nails under his skin ’cos I had gloves on, but I’ll bet there’s DNA and fibres from his clothes …’

  Brook handed the bag off to Noble. ‘Can you give us a description?’

  ‘There were two of them,’ said Stansfield, staring into space to remember. ‘One tall, one medium height, both slim build, both wearing hoodies. Both Caucasian – IC1 males,’ he added, grinning at Brook then Noble. ‘That’s the proper phrase for it. They were white, in other words.’

  ‘So that’s what it means,’ nodded Noble.

  ‘Age?’

  ‘One was young,’ said Stansfield. ‘Late teens maybe. The other was older, the one I tackled. Still young, mind. Mid twenties, no more than thirty.’

  ‘Anything we can’t get from the film?’ asked Brook. ‘Distinguishing features?’

  ‘You mean like …’

  ‘Tattoos, scars, limbs missing, extra heads.’

  ‘It was dark, Inspector,’ said Stansfield, for the first time crestfallen. ‘I had my torch but the older scumbag gave me the bum’s rush. Knocked me clean off my feet. I brought him to ground and I might have had him but for the explosion.’

  ‘Where was the young one while all this was going on?’ asked Brook.

  ‘He was already at the footbridge when I come out, but I nearly had the other one trapped.’ Stansfield beamed at the two detectives.

  ‘Norman,’ said Noble patiently.

  ‘Oh right, yeah,’ spluttered Stansfield apologetically. ‘The one at the bridge tried to warn the one setting the fire. He called out a name. “Look out, Jake,” he shouted.’

  ‘You’re sure it was Jake?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Definite.’ Stansfield grinned. ‘I mean, how dumb are these scumbags?’

  ‘Did you pick up an accent?’

  ‘Local, I’d say,’ said Stansfield. ‘Yeah, definite.’

  ‘Thank you, Norman.’

  Noble beckoned over DC Cooper, who approached keeping his eyes on the van.

  ‘Dave, take … Are you all right?’

  Cooper nodded. ‘It’s that smell. Don’t think I’ll ever have a barbie again.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Noble. ‘Take Mr Stansfield to the station and tell DC Smee to get a full statement and see if he can’t rustle up an artist. And then get to work on the film they’re sending over.’

  ‘It’s Norman,’ said Stansfield to DC Cooper as they walked away. He turned back suddenly, waddling towards Brook. ‘Inspector, when I put in the application, can I put you down as a reference?’

  Noble pretended to look at his notes as Brook hesitated. Eventually Brook cracked. ‘Why not?’

  Stansfield left with DC Cooper, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Dave, is it?’

  Brook turned back to the van, avoiding Noble’s mocking smile. ‘Don’t bother, John.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘You didn’t need to. Let’s face it, if Ford can make it to DI, why the hell can’t Norman?’

  ‘He’s certainly keen.’

  ‘That he is,’ agreed Brook.

  A suited and masked SOCO approached, plastic evidence bag in hand. ‘Found this, Inspector. Looks like we’ve got smudges and maybe even blood.’

  The detectives peered at the cheap plastic lighter nestling in the bag. ‘The miracle of fire. Get it processed …’ Brook hesitated.

  ‘Good work, Col,’ said Noble, quick to provide a name for Brook. ‘Any prints soonest, please.’

  ‘Thanks, Col,’ Brook called after the SOCO with a weak smile, then returned his gaze to the van with the girl’s body still inside. The SOCOs had swarmed back round it on Higginbottom’s departure, so Brook walked past the burned-out wreck looking off into the scrub. ‘Bit of a dead end.’

  ‘We’ve got the film and possible prints,’ replied Noble, deadpan.

  ‘I meant this track …’ Brook looked round at him.

  ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t crack wise with a dead girl lying there.’

  ‘She won’t be complaining, John, so deal with it however you can, unless you want to end up like me. Did you know about this track?’

  ‘Never been down here,’ said Noble. ‘But it’s not on the way to anywhere. So whoever dumped the body must know it.’

  ‘That’s my thinking,’ said Brook, his eyes sweeping back over the Telegraph building. ‘And whoever knew it existed must once have had a reason for being here.’

  ‘Think our killers are journalists?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so, but not everyone who works in the building will be a professional,’ said Brook. ‘Get on to their personnel department and get details of any Jakes between twenty and thirty-five working at the building in any capacity. Ex-employees too. Go back at least five years …’

  ‘What about the bus depot? Maybe Jake was a driver.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Brook looked around. ‘And check the pub, too.’

  They walked either side of the
van. Both passenger doors were closed, but the glass from windows and windscreen had blown out. Brook and Noble crunched across the blackened shards to look into the cabin. There wasn’t much to see.

  ‘Not hot-wired,’ said Noble, gazing at the steering column.

  ‘And no keys in the ignition.’

  ‘Can we get in, Col?’ shouted Noble from the passenger side.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Col through his face mask.

  ‘What about in the back? Anything?’

  ‘Besides the body, what looks like a canvas bag of tools for a tradesman of some kind. Oh, and a big bunch of keys,’ said Col.

  ‘For the van?’

  ‘Negative,’ said Col. ‘We also found an empty billycan in the bushes. Petrol,’ he added before being asked.

  ‘Anything capable of BFT in the toolbag?’

  ‘There’s a claw hammer that was next to the body instead of the canvas bag.’

  Brook nodded. ‘Off to the lab as a priority.’

  Seventeen

  Later that morning, Brook hunched over a mug of tea as he watched a second showing of the CCTV footage of the van being dumped. Brook and Noble had opened a larger incident room appropriate to a murder inquiry, although without victim ID, they hadn’t moved in any of the materials from their smaller incident room.

  Brook sat on a padded chair amongst the desks, terminals and phones staring at the whiteboard screen. Noble, DS Rob Morton and DCs Cooper, Read and Smee watched with him, sitting in silence, noting the odd question to ask the technician. Norman Stansfield had already watched the film and had left after one viewing, having talked all the way through. He’d been taken away to provide facial composites of the two suspects.

  ‘Can we get that any clearer, Gavin?’ Noble asked the technician.

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Gavin.

  ‘What about other cameras?’ said Brook.

  ‘Other cameras?’

  ‘They ran across the footbridge,’ explained Noble. ‘We’ve got their timeline so we might be able to pick them up and track them through the city centre.’

  ‘If that’s where they went,’ said Morton.

  ‘I’ll get on it,’ said Gavin, standing. ‘All the business and public area cameras are in the centre, so if they walked through, we’ll find them. It’s unlikely to get you more than a general direction out of town, though – most people don’t live in the centre.’

  ‘Some people do,’ said Brook, having lived in a run-down city-centre flat before his move out to Hartington.

  ‘Maybe they were heading for a second vehicle stashed in a city car park,’ suggested Gavin.

  ‘Thanks, Gavin,’ said Brook, giving the technician his politest smile. ‘We’ll do the thinking on this one. DC Cooper will liaise with you.’

  After the crestfallen technician had left, Morton said, ‘They’re not going to have another vehicle in a monitored car park if they’ve got a brain cell between them.’

  ‘Remind me when criminals had brain cells,’ said Cooper.

  ‘With or without brain cells, it’s unlikely with two suspects,’ said Brook. ‘Dumping a body in the city was a risk. If they had a second car, they’d drive both vehicles somewhere remote, dump the van and drive off into the sunset.’

  ‘Sunrise in this case,’ offered Noble.

  ‘Assuming the kid can drive,’ put in Morton.

  Brook conceded with a lift of his tired eyes. ‘We’ll see when we have IDs.’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ said Noble. ‘We’ve got clear prints from the lighter and I’m betting these two are in the system.’

  ‘I know that footbridge,’ said Morton. ‘It could have taken them away from the centre just as easily – on to the Pride Park cycle path or even to the railway station.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be any trains at half two in the morning,’ said Noble. ‘Not for passengers, at least.’

  ‘Make certain,’ said Brook. ‘But a train suggests out-of-towners while the dump site points to local killers. Nobody would know that track or how to get to it on the one-way system if they weren’t from Derby. I struggled to find it.’

  There was a brief silence in which someone might once have pointed out that Brook wasn’t a local man either.

  ‘How long on the lighter?’

  ‘I put a rush on it with EMSOU,’ said Noble. ‘Should only be a few hours unless they’ve had another shoot-’em-up in Nottingham.’

  ‘And the van?’

  ‘It’s a Ford Transit 350 Jumbo – 2012 model. According to the database there have only been three possible thefts in the county this last month. But I’ve just picked one off the dailies – a van matching those plates and description was reported stolen in Arboretum Street this morning.’

  ‘Time?’ said Brook.

  ‘The owner noticed it gone around six thirty a.m. and phoned it in half an hour later,’ said Noble.

  ‘Half an hour?’ said Smee.

  ‘People often forget where they’ve parked their cars the night before and walk round the neighbourhood,’ said Brook. ‘Especially if they’d had a few drinks. Do we have a window?’

  ‘Better than that.’ Noble squinted at a piece of paper. ‘There was an anonymous call at eleven twenty-one last night. An upstanding citizen saw someone trying the van doors and called it in. Unfortunately it was chucking-out time, so by the time the response car got there an hour later, the van was gone.’

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Nothing they could do,’ said Noble. ‘There was no broken glass or any sign of a breakin. The van was registered to an address in Pride Park, so they assumed the owner had driven it away. Want me and Rob to follow up?’

  Brook looked at his watch. ‘No, we’ll take it while we wait for the print and the forensics to unravel. Do we have a PM slot?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

  Brook nodded, then wished he hadn’t. His head felt like it weighed a ton after a disturbed night. ‘Get the room set up, Rob,’ he said to Morton. ‘And when they’re done, get the composites on to the regional news for the lunchtime bulletin if you can, then off to the press. The Derby Telegraph is going to have plenty of pictures from their building so they’ll jump at some hard facts to run.’

  ‘What about transferring the Interpol display from the other incident room?’ ventured Noble. When heads turned in confusion, he explained. ‘A possible link to another inquiry.’

  ‘We don’t move on that without victim ID,’ said Brook. ‘Right now it’s a straightforward manhunt. The missing can wait.’

  ‘Tired?’ asked Noble, catching Brook stifling a yawn.

  ‘Tired of stupid crimes committed by stupid criminals, John.’

  ‘About that. I’m wondering if these two are our guys,’ said Noble, dropping his speed to scan buildings along Friargate. ‘A dump and run is a bit panicky for people who’ve lifted Caitlin without a trace and kept her for weeks.’

  ‘People don’t always behave logically under pressure.’ Brook snaked a glance at Noble. He was taking this personally. ‘And this may not be Caitlin.’

  ‘She’s the right age,’ said Noble.

  Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘She? It’s a corpse now, John. Whoever it was is gone.’

  Noble turned to reply but thought better of it.

  ‘There.’ Brook indicated an empty double-fronted unit with whitewashed ground-floor windows obscuring the interior. ‘Who’s the owner?’

  Noble pulled up outside and reached for the freshly printed pack on the back seat. He flicked through the papers, extracting a log book photocopy, part of the stolen vehicle report.

  ‘A Mr Grzegorz Ostrowsky,’ he said with care. ‘He’s a Polish businessman in his early forties.’

  ‘No chance he’d have Jake for a nickname then,’ quipped Brook.

  ‘And a good job I don’t have a sore throat. The van is registered to a unit in Pride Park but Ostrowsky lives in Quarndon. Nice.’

  ‘Why was his van in Arboretum Stree
t?’ When Noble shook his head, Brook considered for a moment. ‘We don’t mention the body or that we have a definite match to his van. Let’s see how he plays it.’

  Brook and Noble stood outside the empty unit. Building work was in progress somewhere behind the glass facade, but it was hard to see where through the whitewash. Noble pushed at a glass door.

  ‘Locked.’

  Brook stepped back to read the large banner hanging above the windows.

  BAR POLSKI. GRAND OPENING 5 JUNE

  He saw an open window on the second storey. ‘Hello!’ he shouted. After a louder hail, the window opened further and the sound of hammering and sawing increased. A handsome man with piercing blue eyes popped his head out.

  ‘Building inspector, yes?’ he shouted down.

  ‘Half right,’ mumbled Brook, nodding vigorously. The head disappeared and thirty seconds later a shadow appeared on the other side of the glass door.

  ‘Welcome to Bar Polski.’ The man was tall and lean with a tanned face and cropped blond hair with a tinge of grey at the short sideburns. He wore a sober, expensive-looking grey suit and carried a smartphone.

  ‘Mr Grzegorz Ostrowsky?’ said Brook.

  ‘You pronounce it perfectly.’ He beamed solicitously at Brook. ‘Please come in. The plans are inside. You’ll see—’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ interrupted Noble, brandishing his warrant card.

  ‘I thought …’

  ‘Detective Inspector Brook, Sergeant Noble,’ announced Brook. ‘Sorry about that little confusion.’

  Ostrowsky stared at Brook, conspicuously failing to step aside. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We have a report of a stolen van belonging to you.’

  ‘What van?’

  ‘A Mr Ostrowsky reported it stolen several hours ago,’ said Noble. ‘Not you?’

  ‘My brother Max uses one of my vans for his work. Stolen, you say?’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘I did not,’ he said slowly. ‘Max doesn’t care to tell me. But you’ve found it?’

  ‘We’ve found a van matching the make and model,’ said Brook. ‘But we’re having difficulty reading the plates.’

  ‘Difficulty?’

  ‘The van was …’