A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘I wanna go down the Intu, look in the shops.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘I wanna go down the Intu,’ said Nick, louder. He glared at the string round Jake’s neck where the door key dangled.

  ‘You’re not leaving this flat to stare at shit you don’t need and can’t afford,’ answered Jake, patting his T-shirt and giving Nick the eyes. And I don’t want to have this conversation again.

  ‘I got money,’ replied Nick, sour-faced.

  ‘Yeah, and pigs shit bacon sandwiches,’ muttered Jake.

  Nick laughed and repeated the sentence. ‘Pigs shit bacon sandwiches.’ He laughed some more, his discontent temporarily forgotten. ‘What you reading?’

  Jake looked at the cover of his book as though unaware. ‘Agatha Christie. Death on the Nile.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s about all these rich people on a boat who don’t think they’re rich enough. They’ve been a bit dodgy so they might have to kill some richer woman to get her money and shut her up. Problem is, there’s some Frog detective on the boat who’s all over ’em like a rash.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Not bad.’ Jake looked off into space and smiled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Jake looked around at the room’s austerity – the ancient lightshade, the few drab furnishings, the mildew, the yellowing wallpaper beginning to peel. ‘I thought it was a recent thing, but this book was written in nineteen thirty-seven.’

  ‘Wow. When was that?’

  ‘A long time ago. But even then the rich pricks never knew when they had enough money.’

  Nick sniggered. ‘Rich pricks.’

  ‘Yeah, you laugh,’ smiled Jake. ‘It’s all there is to do when you see where we are.’ He stared blindly at the faded carpet. ‘Where we’ve always been.’ He looked back at Nick and shook his head. ‘I had plans, Nick. I’m sorry I couldn’t have given you a better life.’

  Nick smiled. ‘Rich pricks. They the ones gonna fuck us over?’ Jake laughed, which sent Nick into waves of hysteria.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Rich like Mr Ost …’ Nick tailed away, unable to find the pronunciation.

  Jake’s merriment dissipated rapidly. ‘Yeah, just like Ostrowsky.’

  ‘And like Max?’

  Jake glared malevolently at Nick, and the younger brother bowed his head. He’d said the wrong thing. Sulkily he picked up his inert PS2 and fiddled with the buttons, glanced over at his brother, an innocent expression on his face.

  ‘No,’ said Jake, not looking up.

  ‘I didn’t say nothing.’

  ‘You were going to ask me for the batteries.’

  ‘No I wasn’t.’ A pause. ‘But can I have them?’

  ‘After tea,’ said Jake.

  Nick sighed in frustration. ‘How come there’s no telly?’

  ‘There probably was, but someone took it.’

  ‘Time is it?’

  ‘You’ve got the watch,’ said Jake.

  ‘It’s stopped.’

  ‘Sorry. It was only cheap.’

  ‘If we went out, we could find out the time.’

  Jake took a breath. ‘I’ve told you we can’t do that. The police are looking for us.’

  ‘We can’t do nothing.’

  ‘Anything. We can’t do anything.’ Jake smiled at his pouting brother. ‘Why don’t you read a book?’

  ‘Can’t read.’

  Jake pulled a face and wandered over to the window to look through the crack in the curtain. ‘They’re still in and out of the Cream. Must have pulled it off my references.’ He turned, shaking his head. ‘Thank fuck I couldn’t find those keys.’

  Nick sniggered. ‘Thank fuck.’

  Jake smiled but then looked back towards the window. ‘Wonder where they went.’ He looked back at Nick, who suddenly picked up an old copy of Majesty magazine to flick through.

  Brook listened to the recording one more time before closing the lid of his laptop. He gulped down the last of his cold tea, then massaged his eyes, trying to ignore the musty odour beginning to envelop him. He yearned to get home and soak in the bath for an hour but knew that rest and recreation were some way off. At least the situation hadn’t escalated and turned into a spree, which was always a possibility with fleeing suspects.

  He finished his questions for interview and scribbled a few notes for the afternoon briefing before settling back in his chair to look around the incident room. A sudden burst of spring sunshine illuminated the mass of dust particles hovering in the air like distant galaxies in a NASA photograph, adding to the sense of time suspended.

  Cooper was busy downloading images from the post-mortem and pinning them up on the boards. Pride of place was given to the tattoo from the victim’s upper arm. DC Read was chasing Daniela Cassetti’s medical records from the university. Morton and Smee had brought through the display boards from the smaller incident room now that the victim’s nationality had been identified and a connection to Brook and Noble’s Interpol enquiry had been established.

  Banach was compiling a list of Bar Polski employees with the help of the Inland Revenue database and Noble was poring over his monitor, racing against time to get what information he could from foreign police forces before the Ostrowsky brothers arrived for interview.

  Considering the mayhem of the last thirty-six hours, the place was eerily quiet, as though the world had stopped on its axis for a few seconds. It seemed to Brook there was a moment like this in every investigation, where time appeared to slow and he felt the peace within the eye of the storm. It occurred after the initial flurry of activity, when the case had settled down into a bureaucratic chasing-up of all the leads. In these moments, Brook often wondered what would happen if he followed his instincts and just stepped away from the madness to go walk in the sunshine for a few hours.

  A glance at the happy faces of the three Polish girls on the photo array brought him back. One of them was doomed.

  ‘Sir.’ Brook’s reverie was broken by Morton brandishing a piece of paper. ‘The lab boys working the van found a fingernail inside one of the workman’s gloves. They’re working up the DNA and trying to match it to Jake Tanner.’

  ‘It could just as easily be Max’s,’ said Brook.

  ‘Which wouldn’t be much use as it’s his van.’

  ‘I know. Be nice to have his DNA on file, though. And his brother’s.’

  ‘We could ask for a sample when they get here,’ said Noble.

  ‘They’re not stupid enough to volunteer,’ said Brook. ‘If we could arrest Max for something …’

  ‘Take a drinks order when they arrive,’ suggested Morton. ‘Save jumping through all the hoops.’

  ‘That’s a little underhand,’ said Brook. ‘Did they check the gloves against the fibres in the victim’s throat?’

  ‘They’re a match.’

  ‘What about the hammer?’

  ‘Looks likely. They found blood, which they’re testing against the victim’s.’

  The phone disturbed Brook’s train of thought. He picked up the receiver. ‘Interview Three. On our way.’ He replaced the receiver on its cradle. ‘John.’

  Noble heaved his wheeled chair away from his desk, like a kid riding a supermarket trolley. Getting to his feet, the chair still moving, he brandished his notes, stumbling over the pronunciation again.

  ‘Grzegorz Ostrowsky. Businessman. Forty-three years old. Married in Warsaw, nineteen ninety-five. Wife and child died three years later during childbirth. Single ever since. He’s been an importer/exporter for fourteen years, so you can probably guess how the authorities know him.’

  ‘Smuggling?’ offered Brook.

  ‘Right. He used to trade in China and Hong Kong but now works exclusively in the UK, where he has three Polish minimarts – one in Derby, two in Nottingham. According to the PSTD – the Poli
sh arm of Interpol’s database network – he was arrested by the Polish national police in 2002 when a batch of heroin with a street value of two million pounds was discovered during a routine inspection of one of his containers arriving in Gdansk from Hong Kong.’

  ‘But he got off.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘If he’d served serious time, I doubt he’d be allowed to settle in the UK without his past being flagged up for us to pick over.’

  ‘You might be overestimating the Home Office and the Borders Agency, but you’re right,’ said Noble. ‘He was released two weeks later when an employee in his Hong Kong office confessed to illegally hiding the package in the container.’

  ‘Convenient.’

  ‘Very,’ agreed Noble. ‘The employee was sentenced to twenty years in a Hong Kong prison, though he only served half.’

  ‘Two million pounds?’

  ‘Not much in terms of weight,’ said Noble. ‘Barely fifty kilos at today’s prices, and it’s gotten cheaper. So in smuggling terms it’s a drop in the ocean. But that’s the clever bit. I had a friend on the narcotics squad in Liverpool who calculated that smugglers could fit over a billion quid’s worth of gear into one container if they wanted. But they never do, partly because of the losses involved if your container gets picked out for inspection and partly because smaller batches can be made to look like the work of one or two people …’

  ‘Instead of a cartel,’ nodded Brook. ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘And it’s more deniable in court,’ said Noble. ‘Easier to pass the buck on to a rogue employee trying to line his own pockets at the expense of a victimised employer.’

  ‘You think Ostrowsky pulled the same scam?’

  ‘Seems plausible,’ said Noble.

  Brook nodded towards the photographs of Nicola Serota, Valerie Gliszczynska and Adrianna Bakula. ‘Any mention of people-trafficking in his record?’

  ‘They were hardly trafficked,’ said Noble. ‘And we can forget Valerie and Adrianna for now,’ he added, tapping his pen on the first picture. ‘Nicola Serota is our new front-runner. She’s the right height according to Petty’s PM measurements. The other two are taller.’

  ‘Prioritise her dental records,’ said Brook. ‘But if that is Nicola in the mortuary, it means she’s been kept alive somewhere for over a year.’ He checked his watch as he reached for his jacket. ‘We’d better not leave them sweating too long. You haven’t mentioned Max.’

  ‘A couple of arrests for drunkenness and fighting and three for sexual assault,’ said Noble. ‘No convictions, though.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Angie Banach walked over in her slim-fitting black trouser suit and handed Brook a sheet of paper. ‘Apart from Jake, the only other English employee is barman Ashley Devonshire. Tymon Symanski and Max Ostrowsky are the only others on the Bar Polski payroll. No female staff, officially at least.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brook. ‘Ready?’

  ‘I think so,’ she replied, taking a deep breath.

  Brook walked with her, Noble following. ‘You’re not a DC, but the plain clothes will suggest it. So I’ll introduce you as Constable Banner. When you get in there, don’t speak or react to the interviewees or anything they say and don’t take notes. Just listen and remember.’

  As Brook walked on, she fell into step with Noble. ‘Why Banner?’

  ‘He doesn’t want them to know you’re Polish,’ said Noble. ‘If they say something incriminating in Polish and claim entrapment later, he can say he mispronounced your name.’

  ‘But if we’re taping it, we could just as easily get it translated,’ said Banach. ‘Why would they risk incriminating themselves?’

  ‘They likely won’t,’ said Noble. ‘But it’s amazing how many people forget there’s a tape rolling.’

  Twenty-Three

  Taking a long breath, as though she’d just surfaced from a deep pool, Caitlin opened her eyes. She blinked to try and see, but all was darkness. The gag was back in her mouth, held by another plaster. It took her a second to realise she was no longer cold and damp, and that the background smell of manure and straw was gone.

  She was not in the barn but indoors, warm and cosseted, sitting upright on soft cushions. And she was clothed. Her left side still ached from where she had been struck by the van, but it felt better away from the cold concrete. In fact, if it weren’t for her bonds, trussing her up like a chicken once more, she’d be almost comfortable, having only recently wished herself dead.

  She tried to assess her situation calmly. Her hands were in front, held against her legs by stiff leather straps, firm and unyielding. Legs and feet were strapped too, unable to move more than a couple of inches, but at least she could support herself with her right elbow propped on the arm of the chair or sofa.

  She tested her bonds and struggled to get more play for her legs, but the rubbing hurt her bare ankles. On her right hand was what felt like a stiff glove, which was too big for her hand. She was aware of something hard resting on her palm, but she couldn’t see what it was or feel it through the material.

  She could hear background noise – water in the pipes, the hum of electricity and that sealed-off stillness of being indoors. Then something struck her. Sliding an inch along the sofa, her clothing felt wrong. When she wriggled again, she felt a strange sensation along her buttocks and groin. Her crotch felt damp and sweaty. She’d been dressed in some kind of padded nappy. Somebody had removed her knickers to re-dress her in a skirt with a diaper underneath. Why? Her brain juddered and images of being undressed filled her head.

  She wanted to be sick and her breathing quickened, but with a gag in her mouth she feared choking, which would only generate more panic. And to vomit could prove fatal.

  Get control, girl. Get control. You might finally be about to get screwed.

  Bizarrely, the possibility calmed Caitlin. At least that would normalise the pervert, show that the man was after the same thing all the other drooling wankers had ever wanted from her.

  She flexed her shoulders as best she could and felt the comfort of material against her skin, the pressure of her bra. Whoever had removed her knickers hadn’t wanted to see her breasts. She remembered a joke about redirecting a new boyfriend’s hands from knickers up to bra. Oi! Tits first! I’m no slag.

  The smile died a quick death and she hung her head as far as the strap holding it up would allow. She stared sightlessly at her bare legs in the darkness, feeling the cotton skirt on her thighs. Something she couldn’t put her finger on tried to penetrate her consciousness.

  Before she could rack her brains, a sudden vibration distracted her. It was the small object in her gloved palm. She turned her hand over. With a pant of excitement she saw the glowing display of an old-style chunky mobile phone.

  Flexing her wrist, she was able to use the pale green light to illuminate her situation. It only took a second. She was sitting on a sofa in a large room. The furnishings were stripped down and basic. Wooden floor. Traditional fireplace. A large TV on one wall and what must have been a window shrouded by heavy curtains.

  Her body was held by a construction of thick leather straps, her constraints enforced by traditional belt buckles only bigger. The overall effect reminded her of prisoners on death row being strapped to the electric chair. The analogy dispatched another flutter of anxiety through her when she saw the cable winding its way around her waist.

  She held the phone as close as she could manage, gripping it hard as her gloved thumb searched for the keys. They weren’t there. By the light of the LCD display, she could see that the bottom half of the phone was swathed in tape until any discernible contours from the keypad had been obliterated. The tape in turn attached the phone to the thick suede gardener’s glove on her hand. She probed for the seam of the tape to get to the keys but it was impossible to unpick it through the heavy material.

  A violent seizure stiffened every sinew as an electric current passed through her, and she bit down on the ga
g and her tongue. When the current ceased a split second later, she opened her watering eyes to the phone displaying a message.

  Don’t do that bitch or u get zapped we can staple it to ur hand if u prefer.

  Her head sagged on to her chest. The phone vibrated again.

  These are the rules.

  1. Don’t ever speak in this room. Ever. U get zapped and worse if u do.

  2. When HE’s there u smile. Be nice.

  3. Dinner bell goes and u sit upright like U R now. This is the dinner position. Sit still and smile.

  4. If he wants to kiss u or touch your tits u smile like u like it. More later. PS Nice pussy Kitty. LOL.

  Caitlin closed her eyes and sobbed quietly in the dark.

  ‘Detective Inspector Brook, Sergeant Noble and Constable Banner in the room,’ said Brook. He looked up at Ostrowsky reclining on his chair, cross-legged, gazing at Banach, then up to the camera in a corner of the room. ‘Please identify yourselves for the tape, gentlemen.’

  Ostrowsky looked coolly back at Brook. ‘Grzegorz Ostrowsky.’ He glanced at his brother and, speaking briefly in Polish, nodded towards the tape.

  ‘Makszi Ostrowsky,’ said the younger man, half standing to lean into the machine. He was nervous and looked uncomfortable in a suit and white shirt, the pinkness of his blood-dappled cheeks testifying to a recent shave.

  A uniformed officer arrived with a tray of hot drinks and set them down for the occupants of the room to help themselves. Both brothers eyed the cups but made no move to take one.

  ‘Jeremy Patterson, solicitor for both parties,’ said the smooth-looking man on the end chair. He opened a briefcase and took out a plastic wallet; held it out for Brook, who kept his arms folded. ‘I refer Inspector Brook to the documents pertaining to Mr Ostrowsky’s stolen vehicle while it was in the possession of his brother Max.’ Eventually Noble took the wallet, barely examining the contents, while Brook stared between Ostrowsky and Patterson. Max was too uncomfortable to maintain eye contact.

  ‘I’d like to hear details of the theft from Mr Ostrowsky,’ said Brook.

  ‘Max speaks poor English,’ said Ostrowsky.

  ‘If I may proceed on behalf of my client,’ continued Patterson, with a critical glance at Brook. ‘You’ll see the subsequent insurance claim for the vehicle, which is currently pending. The log book and insurance document were unfortunately in the van, but you’ll find a copy of both in the wallet plus the account of the theft given to the attending officer.’