‘Caitlin Kinnear is Northern Irish,’ argued Read.
‘But she’s from the Catholic community.’
‘So you think these girls were abortion tourists?’ said Charlton.
‘Not all of them came to Britain exclusively for that purpose,’ said Noble. ‘Valerie Gliszczynska was in the country for eighteen months before she disappeared.’
‘Then how … ?’
‘We paid a visit to the Rutherford Clinic last night,’ said Noble. ‘Spoke to a Dr Fleming. Four girls from the original Interpol inquiry were on record at the clinic. Caitlin Kinnear and Kassia Proch make six. They’d all made an appointment to arrange a termination. Some became pregnant while they were here, like Valerie and Caitlin, some journeyed to England with the sole objective of getting an abortion.’
‘Nicola Serota,’ said Read.
‘Right,’ agreed Noble. ‘She was only here for two days before she visited the clinic for an appointment.’
‘Why didn’t her sister tell me she was pregnant?’ asked Read.
‘Likely she wouldn’t have known,’ said Banach. ‘Unplanned pregnancies in Poland are kept secret. If the news gets out, I’ve heard about girls being sent to another part of the country to stay with relatives – sometimes never to return. Nicola’s safest option was to tell no one.’
‘I agree,’ said Brook. ‘To that end, all the girls found the money to pay for a no-frills private abortion so fewer people would know about their condition.’
‘But if Kassia Proch wasn’t on Interpol’s list,’ said Charlton, ‘how did you find her?’
‘As you pointed out, Nicola Serota disappeared sixteen months ago,’ said Brook. ‘That’s a long time in captivity, so I asked Fleming about young women from Catholic countries who’d registered recently but hadn’t gone through with the termination. Kassia Proch’s name came up.’
‘She visited the clinic thirty-six hours before we found her body,’ said Noble. ‘She was due to undergo the procedure that evening but pulled out. Apparently she had a change of heart, quite common in Catholic women.’
Charlton was thoughtful. ‘And you think someone at this clinic is targeting these girls on religious grounds?’
‘Might be racial,’ suggested Morton. ‘Nobody likes a health tourist.’
‘We’re ruling that out,’ said Brook. ‘All the girls on the clinic’s books, apart from Kassia, were willing to put up the money to ensure discretion.’
‘So race isn’t significant?’ queried Charlton.
‘Only insofar as whoever’s targeting these girls knows that foreigners are less likely to be missed until it’s too late to pick up their scent.’
‘And we think it’s somebody with a connection to the clinic?’
‘Either one of the staff or someone on the picket line,’ said Noble.
‘Picket line?’
‘Every girl who visits the clinic has to run the gauntlet of pro-life protesters persuading them to think again.’
‘Something they have every right to do,’ retorted Charlton.
‘As they’re not striking miners, yes,’ said Brook. Charlton shot him a glance. He sometimes forgot Brook’s past growing up near the Barnsley coalfields. ‘But when we visited, persuasion had spilled over into intimidation, which Dr Fleming complained was a daily ritual for staff and patients. We had to step in.’
Charlton sought the right words. ‘Some people find it hard to condone the taking of a human life.’
‘And some find the responsibility for another human life too much to contemplate when their own is spinning out of control,’ replied Brook.
‘Then these women should take care not to get pregnant.’
‘I’ll be sure to mention that on our next battered baby call.’
There was silence in the room and the assembled detectives looked between Brook and Charlton like a crowd at a tennis match.
Cooper’s face contorted in calculation. ‘Hang on. I make that seven missing girls in total – we’re missing one.’
Brook nodded at Noble, who reloaded the picture of the original girls. ‘We’ve eliminated the first girl, Bernadette Murphy. She wasn’t on the Rutherford database.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She didn’t have a termination and may be a separate case,’ said Brook.
‘So she might actually have gone off on her travels after all,’ said Charlton.
‘It’s possible.’
‘So what now?’
‘We’ve put together a list of staff at the clinic, from the director down to the cleaners,’ said Noble. ‘This includes staff members who have since left but were in post when Valerie Gliszczynska disappeared two years ago. I’ve divided the names up. We’re looking for anything that jumps out – extreme religious views, criminal record; the usual drill. But these are the caring professions, so we may have to dig deeper for other skeletons.’
‘What sort of skeletons?’ asked Smee.
Brook shrugged. ‘People with moral and religious objections to the clinic’s work are unlikely to be working there, but there might be somebody who, for instance, has lost a child and, religious or not, might take a dim view of destroying a healthy foetus.’
‘But with that mindset you’re unlikely to murder a pregnant woman,’ said Banach.
‘That’s true,’ admitted Brook. ‘So Kassia may also be a separate case. But according to Dr Fleming, she changed her mind and cancelled the termination at the last minute.’
‘So maybe the killer didn’t know that,’ said Banach.
‘Who knows, but we’re groping in the dark here.’
‘Are we checking names against the Sex Offenders Register?’ asked Smee.
‘None of the staff are on the register,’ said Brook. ‘John and I already discussed the possibility of a pair of rapists operating, but we don’t think these crimes are sexual in nature. Kassia hadn’t engaged in sexual activity before her death.’
‘A pair?’ said Charlton.
‘It was a line of enquiry on Caitlin and Valerie,’ explained Brook. ‘Abduction is a lot easier with two pairs of hands.’
‘You mean like the Tanner brothers,’ observed Charlton drily. Brook prepared a reply but thought better of it.
Banach said, ‘I don’t have a staff list.’
‘No,’ said Brook. ‘I want you and Rob back to the clinic to check out the protesters. They may not be keen to cooperate, but do your best. We want a list of regular pickets, and when you get names, feed them back to Dave to run background.’
‘We have a pregnant murder victim,’ said Banach to Morton. ‘We can use that.’
‘Good idea,’ said Brook. ‘Start with Father O’Toole. He’s likely to know everyone and seemed to be in charge.’
‘Father Patrick O’Toole?’ exclaimed Charlton.
Brook eyed him. ‘He mentioned he knew you.’
Charlton nodded. ‘We’ve … met.’
‘Then you’ll know where can we find him,’ said Brook. ‘Sir.’
Charlton spent a few seconds hunting for offence in Brook’s tone. ‘I’ll get my address book when we’re done.’
‘One final thing, something we need to bear in mind,’ said Noble, his tone sombre. ‘We have one body so far.’
‘Two,’ insisted Charlton, stern at this second omission.
‘That’s the complication,’ said Brook softly. ‘Not all the girls were abducted at the same time.’
Charlton stared at Brook. ‘I can see that from the timeline.’
‘What Inspector Brook means is that apart from Caitlin, the three Polish girls and Daniela Cassetti were all abducted before their terminations took place,’ said Noble.
‘So?’
‘So if those women were abducted by pro-lifers …’ said Banach, leaving the rest unsaid.
Charlton took a second to grasp the full implication. ‘My God. You think these women …’
‘It’s possible that one or all of them may have been forcibly brought to term, yes,’ c
oncluded Brook. ‘In which case we could be looking for at least four children as well.’
‘Coerced childbirth?’ said Read.
‘It’s unheard of,’ said Charlton.
‘It’s unusual but there have been cases in the US,’ said Brook.
‘That wouldn’t be an easy operation to keep under wraps,’ said Read. ‘They’d need plenty of privacy and lots of room.’
‘Not if the mothers were killed after the birth and the babies trafficked,’ said Cooper. All heads turned to him. ‘They were taken one at a time.’ Expressions registered objections but no one was able to challenge his logic. ‘Just saying.’
The incident room door burst open and the portly figure of Sergeant Grey popped his head round. ‘There’s been a sighting of Nick Tanner. Thought you should know.’
‘Where?’
‘Wandering round the Intu like he’s Christmas shopping,’ grinned Grey. ‘Three units on the way. I’ve alerted Intu security, for what it’s worth.’
Brook nodded at Noble, who rushed out of the incident room, beckoning Smee and Read to join him.
Nick wiped his hands on several tissues and threw them into the empty burger box. He burped happily and slid out from the banquette to make his way to the escalator. He’d bought some cookies for Jake in case he came looking for him. Then maybe he won’t be so narked.
He came to a halt as he turned the corner at Starbucks, a familiar figure standing in front of him. Nick smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Hiya, Max.’
Max took a moment to consider before returning the smile.
Twenty-Seven
Caitlin woke to the sound of blood throbbing in her eardrums. Everything was black. She took a breath, inhaled cloth, and after a brief moment of panic snatched a thick bag from her head and sucked in oxygen.
She examined the black cotton bag. There was a scrap of paper attached. New rule. Bag on head when u r moved. 3 knocks to warn u. Don’t forget bitch.
‘Bastards,’ spat Caitlin, looking around her cramped and gloomy new cell. She was on her back, her legs bent and knees up to her chin, head and neck contorted by lack of space, cheek jammed up against something cold. Her hands were cuffed in front by the kind of plastic restraints she’d seen in movies, but the rest of her fetters were off, including the heavy glove with phone attached.
Slowly she stretched her aching legs to the cold tile wall and pushed herself upright until she reclined against another wall, wedged tight between it and cold, hard china. She was in a cramped toilet closet with an old-fashioned toilet bowl and could hear the trickle of the cistern high on the wall.
She flexed her legs like a newborn foal. On the ground was a small plastic food bag smeared with a creamy substance. She examined it with distaste before realising it was the chicken breast from her abortive meal with the deformed old man.
She tore open the plastic. The chicken was covered in carpet fibres, but Caitlin didn’t care and, after picking off the worst of the debris, tore the meat apart, devouring it in seconds before running a finger around the bag to lick up the creamy sauce.
In the faint light, she saw the box jammed into the space on the other side of the toilet. On top was a small bottle of water. She twisted off the cap and drank down the entire bottle with no thought of rationing. When it was empty, she retained it for a refill and read the writing on the box.
Belted Diapers for Incontinent Seniors.
‘Jesus.’
At the same time, she registered the squelch of human waste in her own diaper and her eyes filled with tears, which she quickly blinked away.
‘No,’ she spat. ‘I’ve cried enough,’ she added quietly, taking calming breaths. ‘You perverts don’t get the satisfaction.’
She stood with as much dignity as she could muster and reached under her dress to remove her soiled diaper. With bound hands it was fiddly work, but eventually she released the garment with an unholy squelch and scrunched it tightly to incarcerate the fumes before flushing it away.
She sat on the cold white china of the toilet bowl, leaving the seat up, and stared down at the water. It seemed fresh. With a grimace, she set about washing herself as best she could, reaching back under herself with her bound hands. Eventually she was satisfied she’d done her best and dabbed herself dry with toilet paper which at least was soft.
After flushing, she knelt over the bowl to rinse her hands as thoroughly as possible. The crucifix-shaped burn on her forearm began to sting, so she bathed her arm in the fresh water. This time she didn’t dry off. Then she reached reluctantly into the box and took out a fresh diaper.
In the dim light she read the leaflet from the nappy box. ‘Suitable for both urinal and faecal incontinence. No mention of electric shock therapy. Maybe I should sue.’ She threw the flyer and diaper back into the box. ‘Going commando,’ she mumbled.
Gazing down at her dress, her expression contorted with confusion. ‘I was wearing jeans in the barn. This dress was in my rucksack, in my room,’ she said slowly. Her eyes widened. ‘So if my rucksack is here … Shit! I’m not even missing. People will think I’m in Belfast and Mairead will think I’m in Derby.’
She hung her head. ‘Kitty. They knew my name, where I lived. Jesus. They came for me. They wanted me.’ Her lip wobbled but the tears refused to flow. She remembered the old man stroking her hair. ‘I’m not the first.’ She raised her face to the sky to shout. ‘Laurie! They get you too? Are you here? Can you hear me?’ No answer. ‘Looks like you’re on your own, girl.’
She slumped on to the toilet seat and looked up the high whitewashed walls. Small rays of sunshine were illuminating the rusting metal cistern through a ventilation grille embedded high in the wall. It was an old-fashioned duct, built into the brickwork, and through it she could hear the sound of distant birdsong, which ignited a sudden pining to be outside.
She clambered on to the toilet seat, but even standing, she couldn’t get close to the grille. Cocking an ear, she fancied she could pick up the noise of traffic. Not the all-pervasive drone of the city but the intermittent roar of a car hurtling along at speed. The farm must be near a main road.
I ran away from the road. Why didn’t I turn left? Jeez, if the Devil had sat at the Lord’s right hand, I might have made it.
She lifted her face towards the distant grille.
‘Help!’ she shouted, holding the word as long as her breath allowed. ‘Can anyone hear me?’
After ten minutes of increasingly desperate shouting, she jumped down, her mouth set, tamping down her despair. ‘You’re a rat in a trap, Kitty. Deal with it.’
She turned her attention to the solid wooden door and pushed, shoved and probed at it methodically, seeking weakness. It didn’t budge an inch and there was nothing to get hold of on her side to give her any play – no handle, no latch, nothing.
In fact the only weakness was a missing knot of wood leaving a hole, but something had been wedged over it from the other side so she couldn’t see out. In a rush of sudden anger, she banged and kicked at the door, screaming for help, feeling and hearing her voice crack under the strain. After two minutes of fruitless violence with feet and bound hands, she sat down again, appraising the walls of her prison.
It was like a public convenience, though Caitlin was sure it wasn’t cold enough to be in a separate outhouse and she didn’t remember being carried outside. Then again, she’d been unconscious. She winced at the memory of the electricity coursing through her, ran her teeth over the self-inflicted bite on her tongue.
‘Wait till I hook you up to a socket, cocksuckers. There won’t be enough juice left in the grid to boil a kettle.’
She slouched on the toilet, glancing resentfully up at the door. An eye blinked back at her through the peephole and Caitlin’s smile froze. Holding back her anger, she sneered towards her jailer. ‘See anything you like, needledick?’ She’d slipped back into her broadest Irish accent, knowing that some people found it intimidating.
Sh
e stood, lifting her bound hands under her breasts, and hefted them towards the peephole. ‘Nice tits as well, you pervert. Hey, freakshow!’ she screamed, jumping up to crash her bound hands against the door. ‘Try the internet. You can see the lot for free and you don’t need to jack off standing up.’
‘You scared my dad, bitch,’ shouted a male voice from the other side of the door.
Caitlin leaned into the wood. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. What about me?’
‘What about you, you tramp? You give yourself to men for free like the baby-killing whore you are while my dad’s all alone.’
‘I’m all alone,’ snarled Caitlin.
‘Then you’re made for each other,’ retorted the man. ‘And he wouldn’t have used you like those other men. A bit of hand-holding and a kiss on the cheek. Then maybe later see what develops. Was that too much to ask?’
‘See what develops?’ Caitlin’s mind was racing. ‘You fucking kidnapped me. You tortured me. And you think I’m gonna fall in love with your dad. You think we’re gonna have sex.’
‘Not sex,’ said the man. ‘Love.’
‘Love?’ screamed Caitlin. ‘He’s a fucking gargoyle.’
‘You baby-killing bitch. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be begging to spend time with my dad.’ The eye withdrew and the peephole closed.
‘Wait. Where are you going? Give me another chance.’ No reply. ‘Are you there? Please. Give me another chance.’
Caitlin woke and stretched out stiffly on the cold floor. Sunlight poured through the grille set high in the wall. It must be morning. After flexing her neck she began to agitate. She needed food and she needed exercise. She devised some simple stretches to keep herself occupied, which wasn’t easy as she could touch all four walls of the cubicle from the toilet seat. And, of course, any physical activity created a keener sense of hunger after she’d finished.
‘Hey, how about some food in here?’ She kicked out at the door in frustration.
Eventually she sat down panting, staring at her surroundings, searching for weaknesses in her cell. There had once been a bolt on the inside of the door – she could see the pilot holes for screws. There’d also been an old-fashioned round light switch but this had also been removed, judging by the circle of different-coloured paint, which continued in a line to the ceiling, suggesting an absent cable. The distant ceiling rose was still in place but was too high to reach and contained no bulb.
A Killing Moon Page 26