A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

  Brook couldn’t prevent a smile. It was a default reaction to suspects and witnesses trying too hard to exert control over a situation that was getting away from them. Control that Brook had. Control the other party wanted.

  He spoke softly, feeling no need to wield the big stick. ‘Do you think we’re here for our health, Doctor? I’m investigating a murder. I’m also looking for several young women who have disappeared in the last three years, all of them Catholics, from countries where access to the service you offer is either limited or non-existent. At the moment it’s just a theory and one that you can blow out of the water by checking your records. So I’d appreciate a bit less drama and a lot more cooperation, for which – let me remind you – we have a warrant.’

  Fleming stared at him, defiant at first until defeat began to register and he pulled his chair back under his legs, drawing the keyboard towards him. ‘Daniela … ?’

  ‘Cassetti.’

  A moment later Fleming stared saucer-eyed at the monitor. ‘Oh Lord.’ Lowering his gaze, he slapped the screen round towards them, and Brook and Noble sat forward to read details. Noble took out his Bar Polski pen and jotted down the essentials on a fresh page of his notebook.

  ‘It says here she was a private patient, but there’s no mention of further charges.’

  Fleming flipped the monitor back round. ‘Right,’ he sighed. ‘She paid a small deposit and came for the initial exam and blood test and to set up a schedule for the procedure but never came back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who knows?’ retorted Fleming, on safer ground now. ‘We don’t enquire. It happens. Girls change their minds, or are persuaded from their course. Especially Catholic girls, I imagine.’

  ‘And I guess being forced to cross a picket line doesn’t help,’ said Brook.

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ retorted Fleming fiercely. ‘We’ve put up with that mob for far too long and I’ve complained often enough to your superiors. They’ve cost me a small fortune.’ He hesitated, realising he’d prioritised poorly. ‘And of course the patients who decide to proceed can be very upset by it.’

  ‘As you’re being so obliging, Dr Fleming,’ smiled Brook, ‘remind me to show you a special handshake that might help you with that.’

  Fleming returned a tight smile before nodding at Noble. ‘I hesitate to ask, but you mentioned other names.’

  Noble glanced at his notes. ‘Nicola Serota?’

  The receptionist held out the appointment card and information leaflet but they remained uncollected while Banach looked furtively around for the return of her colleagues.

  ‘Miss Banach,’ said the woman, waggling the papers at her.

  Banach turned, almost snatching them and stuffing them hurriedly into a pocket.

  ‘Your first appointment will be a preliminary interview with a nurse,’ announced the receptionist.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Banach, keen to be away.

  ‘The leaflet will inform you of what will be discussed, what information we require and suitable clothes to wear on the day.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Banach, already backing away towards the double doors. She heard a door open on the corridor containing Dr Fleming’s office. Nurse Moran emerged, pulling on a coat.

  ‘Your colleagues are just finishing up, officer.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The mechanism on the double doors was triggered before Banach reached the sensor and she peered out into the gloom in time to see an indistinct figure in a hoodie, face hidden behind a smartphone. A second later, the camera flashed and the figure turned to run away from the building.

  ‘Oi,’ shouted Banach, briefly setting off in pursuit before halting outside the doors, straining to identify the photographer, now almost out of sight. Moran appeared, also looking after the mystery photographer, a hand shielding her eyes. She stared into the distance, then smiled uncertainly and cut across the grassy bank towards the car park.

  Banach followed to wait by Brook’s car, pleased now that the appointment was made and colleagues were none the wiser. She glanced across to where she’d moved the protesters. The gathering had dispersed for the night. She felt light-headed and moved a hand to her mouth in a rush of sudden nausea. After steadying herself, she felt beneath her blouse for her crucifix and held it briefly between her fingers.

  Brook and Noble walked briskly through the clinic’s brightly lit reception, Noble clutching a folder of still-warm printouts.

  ‘What now?’

  Brook glanced at a clock on a pastel-coloured wall. ‘Now I’m going to babysit the Chief Super through the media briefing, make sure he says as little as possible. You’re going to find as much information on the new girl as you can.’

  ‘Kassia Proch?’ said Noble, peering at a printout.

  ‘Right. Check out the address she gave the clinic, and if it’s not a fake, get a team round there and get it processed. I’ll join you as soon as I can. If this is our victim, there’s a decent chance that’s where she died.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ said Noble, with a tired grin. ‘I was worried I might have to go home for a shower and a sleep.’

  ‘No stamina,’ quipped Brook. ‘You’ll be mentioning food next.’

  ‘Forget food,’ said Noble. ‘Another day in this shirt and they’re going to have to sandblast it off my body.’ His mobile rang and he held it to his ear.

  Leaving through the double doors, Brook spied Banach standing by the car, a hand held across her mouth. ‘You okay?’ he asked as they drew near.

  ‘Never liked that hospital smell.’ She smiled to reassure.

  ‘What happened to the priest and his merry band?’

  ‘Showed them my forked tail,’ replied Banach.

  ‘I don’t suppose you took any names?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Didn’t have to,’ replied Banach. ‘Why?’

  ‘In retrospect, it might have been useful,’ said Brook. Banach cocked her head. ‘We have our connection. The clinic is the common bond between the missing girls. We’re going to be doing background on all the staff.’

  ‘And you want names of demonstrators too,’ she concluded. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Get back to the incident room and give Cooper these staff and patient lists to photocopy for briefing tomorrow morning, then rustle up contact details for Father O’Toole and the old woman …’

  ‘Mrs Trastevere,’ said Banach.

  ‘Hopefully they can give us a list of parishioners and assorted activists who’ve taken part in pickets.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it after tonight,’ smiled Banach.

  Noble rang off. ‘That was Rob. The DNA in the glove doesn’t match Jake Tanner’s.’

  ‘Get the paperwork started for Max Ostrowsky’s DNA,’ said Brook. ‘I want a warrant in front of a magistrate as soon as possible.’

  Brook emerged from the briefing unscathed. Brian Burton was still on holiday, so he hadn’t had to face his sly criticisms dressed up as journalistic interest. Besides, Charlton had fielded most of the enquiries and had kept to the script, urging the public to be on the lookout for Jake and Nick Tanner and glossing over officially identifying the body as Caitlin Kinnear until the victim’s family have been informed.

  ‘The prayer group are meeting tonight if you want to join us, Brook?’ said Charlton, after the briefing. ‘I don’t know about you, but I could use a bit of inspiration.’

  Brook’s mobile vibrated and he pulled a face so devastated he feared he might have overdone it. ‘Sergeant Noble,’ he mouthed over his hand. ‘What is it, John?’

  ‘I’m in Kassia Proch’s flat on Vernon Street. It’s in the centre of town, just off Friargate.’

  ‘Convenient for Bar Polski. Tell me you’ve found a connection.’

  ‘No connection to the bar, but it’s her place all right. I just got off the phone with the managing agent.’

  ‘Was she killed there?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Noble. ‘SOCO are here and picked up blo
od spatter on the wall behind the bed, but other than that, the place has been stripped and cleaned from top to bottom. All surfaces. They needed luminol to find the blood. Bed linen has been taken and there are no clothes or any personals. If we didn’t know this was her place we’d be hard pressed to say she was ever here.’

  ‘Excellent news, John,’ said Brook loudly. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Number thirty-six,’ replied Noble. ‘But don’t bother. I’ll leave the SOCO team but I doubt they’ll find anything else. The rest will keep. I’m going home to sleep.’

  ‘Right. On my way,’ answered Brook, ringing off before Noble could question his hearing.

  ‘Developments?’ said Charlton.

  Brook walked away backwards at a brisk pace. ‘We might have an ID on our victim.’ He mimed his impatience to be away.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Charlton. ‘Go.’

  Brook looked around Kassia Proch’s apartment, watching the scene-of-crime officers doing their work. Noble was right. There was little to see with the naked eye. The blood spatter had been wiped clean but chemicals had reanimated its journey on to the wall behind the bed, clear indication that the victim had been struck forcibly, several times, while lying on it.

  After exchanging a few words with the lead SOCO, Brook descended the steps, knocking on all the doors in turn. He paused at the entrance lobby and scanned the list of occupants, each announced on a sliver of card taped to a buzzer. Apart from the victim, at the top of the house, the other tenants were small businesses – a printer, a literary agent and a games designer – and they’d all departed for the day. It was possible that Kassia Proch was also running a business from her apartment, but there was no sign of anything except professional cleaning. No artefacts, and so far, no fingerprints or DNA. Even the shower trap had been removed and cleaned with bleach.

  Forty minutes later, Brook stood under his own shower at home in Hartington, letting the hot water soothe away the tensions of the last forty-eight hours. Later he sat with a cup of tea in front of the glowing woodburner, mulling over his brief visit to Vernon Street.

  The Tanner brothers didn’t clean Kassia’s flat, he’d texted Noble from the scene. Too thorough. Remember their place?

  Who then? replied Noble. Ostrowsky?

  That would be my guess. She’s Polish. Connected somehow. Suspect Max killed her and Greg’s covering for him again.

  He’s got history of violence okay. Thought you were going home to rest?

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ Brook muttered under his breath before going through to his office to spend a couple of hours trawling around various pro-life websites.

  ‘These people really mean it,’ he said, logging off finally. He returned to the dying embers of his fire and tapped out another text to Noble. Priority on picture and dental of KP.

  His head sagged and his eyelids closed. The vibration of Noble’s reply stirred him. Ye-ssssssssss. Now leave me alone.

  Brook lay on the sofa to compose further thoughts for the morning but failed to commit them to the digital ether before collapsing into a deep sleep.

  Twenty-Six

  25 April

  Jake woke with a groan. He had read long into the night, unable to rest on the spongy foam cushions. The fetid draught being sucked under the ill-fitting front door had given him a stiff neck, though it was preferable to the reek of old woman – decay and cheap perfume – stuck in his throat.

  No doubt Nick was sleeping like a baby in the next room: he could get a full night’s kip on a bed of nails. Knowing this, he had offered Jake first dibs on the soft bed, but Jake had let him have it, certain that the old woman had died on that mattress. Even ten years after his stint at the hospital laundry, he knew the smell of death. The way he’d known his mother was gone almost before he’d opened her bedroom door that last morning. The pungent, vinegary odour of burnt crack overwhelmed by the faecal smell of uncontrolled bowel and bladder, the first casualties of the dead brain’s inability to direct muscle function.

  He dragged himself upright, wondering why he couldn’t hear Nick moving about like a kid on Christmas morning. Every morning. Always out like a light, then first to rise, chivvying for breakfast or a PlayStation opponent. As Jake swung a foot to the floor, he felt the string fall away from his neck. It had been cut, and the key was gone.

  ‘Nick!’

  With one bound he was at the front door. It was unlocked, the key on the inside. He opened the door and popped out a wary head. The corridor, with its slick of permanent damp, was deserted. He stepped back into the flat and closed the door, then ran to the bedroom to confirm what he already knew. Nick was gone.

  He dressed, his mind racing. Where? The answer wasn’t long in coming – the Intu Centre. Nick loved it there. The bustle. The bright, colourful shops where he could window-lick, panting at all the things he couldn’t afford because his brother was a relief barman who wouldn’t even do the lottery.

  Jake zipped his top and pulled the hood in tight, a scarf covering his mouth. He stepped outside into the cool morning for the first time in days, locking the door behind him, and passed the neighbouring flat in time to see the door close on an old woman’s frightened gaze.

  Nick finished the large chocolate chip cookie, unaware of the brown glaze smeared around his mouth. As he walked, he gazed happily at the shops, smiling at the well-scrubbed faces rushing by, pleased that he could take time while others hurried.

  He passed the mobile phone store for the third time, trying not to look. Technology was calling but Nick had to resist temptation or a telling-off beckoned. He had enough money – he’d checked his stash inside Mr Ted – but Jake would be suspicious, and would demand to know how Nick had managed to afford a new phone.

  Fucked over, Nick remembered with glee from previous reprimands, shaking his head in wonder at the pleasure bestowed by a handful of harsh consonants.

  He wandered on past WH Smith towards the escalator for the first floor and the food court, aware of more than one person staring at him as they passed. He stepped smartly on to the moving steps and turned to see a woman following his progress.

  Nick pulled up his parka hood, mood darkening. Jake said we couldn’t go out. He’s gonna be real mad. He put his hand in his pocket to feel the comforting crinkle of the notes stuffed into his teddy, and smiled, his disquiet forgotten. Time for a burger.

  Noble and Brook finished explaining the background to their search for the missing girls to the packed incident room.

  ‘So now you’re saying the girl in the van wasn’t Caitlin Kinnear or Nicola Serota,’ said DC Smee.

  ‘The dead girl was pregnant,’ said Noble. ‘We confirmed last night that Caitlin had recently had an abortion. We haven’t ruled out Nicola Serota yet but we have a new front-runner.’ Noble flicked at the remote and the Interpol girls disappeared, to be replaced by a single new face. ‘This is Kassia Proch. She’s from Warsaw and has been in the UK for about a year, according to Immigration …’

  ‘Interpol again?’ said Charlton.

  ‘Actually we generated this lead ourselves,’ replied Brook. ‘John.’

  ‘Kassia has been renting a small flat in Vernon Street for six months. We spoke to the agent who showed her round the place. Kassia paid her deposit in cash, which leads us to believe she’s been earning regularly, but we’ve found nothing on the books.’

  ‘She’s not PAYE.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Prostitute?’

  ‘All things are possible.’

  ‘Benefits?’ queried Charlton.

  ‘Not claimed a penny,’ said Noble.

  ‘Cash-in-hand work,’ concluded Charlton through pursed lips. ‘This is why they come here. The black economy. Too many cracks to fall through—’

  ‘Sir,’ interrupted Brook. Charlton fell silent.

  ‘The agent remembers that Kassia had a tattoo of the Polish flag on her upper arm,’ continued Noble. ‘It’s not definitive and we’re waiting on dental records and
blood tests for final confirmation, but …’ He shrugged the rest.

  ‘How long on dental?’

  ‘It’ll take time, but at least we have a name.’

  ‘Killed in her flat?’ asked Charlton.

  ‘She was,’ said Brook. ‘SOCO found extensive blood spatter, though the place had been thoroughly cleaned. Sheets and fabrics have been removed, every surface wiped, scrubbed and bleached, where necessary. No prints or usable DNA yet. The SOCO team are still working it, and we’re canvassing, but the timeline’s a little vague and we’ve had nothing from neighbours so far.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘It’s not a residential building,’ said Noble. ‘Most of the units are small businesses and empty after six if not before, so she’d have the building to herself in the evenings.’

  ‘If she was a prostitute, maybe the Tanners were customers,’ speculated Charlton.

  ‘Again possible.’

  ‘CCTV?’ prompted Charlton.

  ‘Not installed and no record of visitors, though there is an entryphone system,’ said Cooper. ‘There are dozens of prints but we’ll keep trying to isolate anything useful.’

  ‘What about cameras?’

  ‘Vernon Street is off the main drag so no cameras pointing at the building. DC Cooper is looking for the stolen van travelling on nearby streets, but it’s a needle in a haystack without a time.’

  ‘Then assuming Kassia Proch is the girl in the van,’ Charlton continued carefully, ‘why brief us about Caitlin and the Interpol girls?’

  ‘Because we’ve found a link,’ said Brook.

  Charlton closed his eyes briefly. ‘A serial killer?’

  ‘As we only have one body, that’s overstating it at this point,’ said Brook.

  ‘Two bodies if you count the foetus,’ retorted Charlton.

  Brook lowered his head in agreement. ‘I put it together in the briefing when I mentioned the victim was pregnant. Constable Banach touched her crucifix and I knew. Bernadette Murphy is Irish, Daniela Cassetti is Italian and the other three girls are Polish. They’re all from devout Catholic countries where family planning is frowned upon and access to abortions is either restricted or non-existent.’