A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

  Caitlin clambered on to the toilet seat and stood on tiptoes to examine the flush as best she could. Instead of a traditional handle and chain, a durable length of nylon rope hung down from the unreachable cistern, and she wondered how she might put it to use if she were able to detach it from the lofty handle. She grabbed the rope and tried to pull herself up but stopped immediately. If the cord couldn’t bear her weight, she might break the cistern, and if she damaged the flush before she had a plan, she might have no access to clean water.

  Instead she felt along the old lead pipe hugging the wall to the bulky cistern. It was embedded in the plaster with no way to get purchase or her hands round it. However, as she prepared to jump to the floor, her fingers alighted on something metallic that had been jammed between the wall and the pipe. It was a rusty nail. It wasn’t part of the pipe’s support structure so must have been forced into position for some reason. Maybe someone had hidden it there, though Caitlin couldn’t think why. Nevertheless, she prised it from behind the pipe and examined it.

  The nail was rusty apart from the point, which seemed a lot shinier, as though it had been used regularly. For what? Manoeuvring her cuffed wrists, she tried to force it into her plastic hand ties, but it was too difficult to get purchase and she gave up, replacing the nail behind the pipe until she could think of a better use for it. Frustrated, she jumped down from the seat, lost her balance and fell back against the wooden toilet-roll holder, which broke away from the wall bringing a pair of white tiles with it.

  ‘Shit.’

  She sank to her knees to pick up one of the tiles. It was broken in two and the white glaze felt sharp to the touch. She sucked her grazed finger, then picked up the broken tile and set to work, holding it between her knees and forcing her bound hands across the serrated edge.

  After a few misfires, the plastic cuffs fell apart and, feeling a mixture of elation and relief, Caitlin knelt to cool her sore wrists in the clean water of the toilet. As she soothed her bruises, she glanced across at the gap left by the tiles. A series of marks was gouged into the plaster in the manner of a Stone Age calendar – the sort of primitive timekeeping that prisoners might use to document captivity.

  ‘The nail.’

  She totted up twenty counting gates – six small vertical scratches in the plaster scored through with one diagonal. Her heart sank. If one counting gate equalled one week, someone had recorded twenty weeks of confinement in this tiny cubicle.

  Twenty weeks. Five months! She pressed herself closer to the makeshift calendar, flattening her palms against the wall, feeling for further scratches. She gritted her teeth and prised away another tile, relieved to see that there were no more counting gates. But there was something just as depressing. Letters. Now Caitlin could put a name to the previous inmate. She traced each letter with a forefinger to be sure.

  D-A-N-I-E-L-A.

  ‘Daniela.’ Caitlin was sombre. ‘What did the bastards do to you, girl?’ She looked up at the faint sunbeams, a yearning to be outside in the light overwhelming her.

  ‘Count your blessings, Kitty,’ she said, setting her jaw. ‘Daniela survived in here for five months. And if she could, so can I. And I promise you this, girl. If I get the chance, I’m going to hurt these cocksuckers real bad.’

  Nick wouldn’t linger in a store that sold old people’s clothes, so Jake walked quickly through Marks & Spencer at the corner of the Intu mall, not wanting to lower his hood but realising that to keep his head covered would arouse suspicion. Already a security guard had registered his presence and was following at a discreet distance, speaking into a radio on his epaulette.

  Jake hurried out of M&S into the anonymity of the crowded walkways, where hordes of Saturday shoppers wandered aimlessly, and made a beeline for likelier venues. There was no sign of Nick at any mobile phone stores, so he headed for Eat Central, where his brother would gorge himself for hours whenever Jake had money. No sign.

  He was about to head into a sports store when he saw two familiar figures outside on the pavement. One was holding open the door of an idling black Mercedes, sleek and long, while the other dipped into the cabin clutching a bag of cookies, a happy grin on his face.

  ‘Nick!’ shouted Jake, setting off at a lick towards the smoked-glass doors that drowned his appeal. ‘Nick!’ he repeated at the car already pulling away. He sprinted outside and towards the vehicle, which slammed on its brakes. The driver’s door opened and a man jumped out.

  Jake recognised Ostrowsky’s bodyguard grinning at him, and stared back, frozen. He glanced at Nick, happily munching away in the back seat, took a deep breath, then jogged reluctantly towards the waiting car.

  At that moment, a police car pulled up behind the Mercedes and four uniformed officers poured out and headed towards him. Jake stopped cold and turned on his heel back towards the mall, pulling his hood tighter as he marched away, listening for signs he’d been recognised.

  Tymon’s smile faded as he calmly got back into the driver’s seat and pulled away at low speed until subsumed into the cover of other slow-moving cars crawling along Traffic Street towards Pride Park.

  ‘That was Jake,’ said Nick from the back seat through a mouthful of cookie.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ said Ostrowsky beside him. He relaxed on to the tan leather to contemplate Nick.

  ‘Why didn’t he get in?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t want a lift home,’ smiled the businessman.

  ‘Well it’s not far …’ Nick stopped, realising he’d said too much.

  ‘Not far?’ demanded Max gruffly from the front seat. ‘Where do you live now, Nick?’

  ‘I can’t tell,’ said Nick, a little puzzled. ‘Jake says we might get fucked over.’ He grinned at the sound in his throat and looked round for approval. Ostrowsky smiled his encouragement.

  ‘He’s right,’ growled Max, reaching an arm over the seat to grab at Nick.

  His wrist was caught by his brother and held in a vice-like grip. ‘Calm down, little brother,’ said Ostrowsky. He smiled, but there was flint in his eye. He barked an order at Tymon, then let go of Max with an accompanying flick, addressing him in Polish. ‘We’re civilised men, Max. Violence is a last resort.’

  ‘We must get to Jake before the police do,’ retorted Max. ‘We don’t know what he’ll say to them.’

  ‘On the contrary, I know exactly what he’s going to tell the police,’ said Ostrowsky.

  Max turned to stare at his brother. ‘You do?’

  Ostrowsky gazed back inscrutably. ‘I sometimes wonder if we’re from the same family, braciszek.’

  Charlton handed DS Morton a note. ‘That’s his home address. It’s next to Our Lady of Lourdes.’ Morton accepted the paper and gestured Banach to the door. ‘Sergeant!’ said Charlton, halting the detectives in their tracks. ‘He’s a man of the cloth. Tread lightly.’ Morton glanced across at Brook, who didn’t countermand.

  ‘A member of the station prayer group?’ asked Brook, when Morton and Banach had left.

  ‘No,’ replied Charlton, testily. ‘But then you wouldn’t know, would you, never having attended?’

  ‘Would that I could,’ said Brook.

  ‘I’ll bet,’ sneered Charlton. ‘You know you should cross your fingers that whoever’s behind these abductions is religious.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because when you have faith in the Lord, you value human life,’ said Charlton, making his way to the door. Brook decided against cataloguing all the wars fought to defend or impose a faith. ‘Under any other scenario,’ continued Charlton, pompously, ‘I’d expect these babies to turn up dead.’

  Brook turned to the photograph, the dead girl’s smile still beaming hopefully from the whiteboard. ‘Then why is Kassia Proch’s baby dead?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ retorted Charlton. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Let me talk to him,’ said Max. ‘I know him better than you.’

  ‘I thought you only knew him to say hello,’ said Ostrowsky, lighting a
cigarette.

  ‘That’s more than you.’

  After brief consideration, Ostrowsky shook his head. ‘No.’ He turned to Tymon. ‘I’m expecting a container. Keep an eye.’ Tymon pushed through the heavy-duty plastic sheeting out on to the delivery concourse, itself set apart from the small suite of offices and, beyond, the warehouse. Ostrowsky tossed the pack of cigarettes to Max. ‘Both of you.’ Max stood his ground, turning to follow only when his elder brother raised an impatient eyebrow. Tymon held the plastic door until Max preceded him out towards the loading bay.

  Ostrowsky went into the unlocked office. Nick was seated at the computer terminal absorbed in an online game of pool. ‘Boom,’ he yelled as he pocketed a ball.

  ‘You like games, Nick.’

  ‘Love ’em,’ said Nick, barely shifting his gaze from the monitor. ‘Especially on a high-res machine like this.’

  Ostrowsky smiled. ‘Do you have a phone, Nick? I want to let Jake know you’re okay.’

  ‘Not allowed phones,’ said Nick. He lined up another shot.

  Ostrowsky considered Nick, deciding he was telling the truth. The boy was like a child and deceit didn’t come easy. Trying a different tack, he produced his wallet and pulled out a fifty-pound note, held it in front of Nick, who finally managed to turn his head from the monitor. ‘Then why don’t I order a taxi for you? Give me your address and take this to pay for it.’

  ‘That’s too much,’ said Nick cautiously, eyeing the note, thinking of the dwindling funds inside his teddy.

  ‘That’s okay,’ smiled Ostrowsky. ‘Treat yourself.’

  Nick held out a hand and took the money. He nodded before looking around the office. ‘Have you got a cushion?’

  Brook worked through his list of Rutherford Clinic staff but could find no compelling background that required a more in-depth examination. Only he and Cooper remained in the incident room, checking through names against various databases. As the resident IT expert, Cooper had been given a longer list, with the most prominent names; from the silence behind Cooper’s monitor, Brook knew that nobody had yet caught his eye.

  On his way to the kettle, Cooper handed over his labours on Dr Fleming. The shake of the head hadn’t lifted Brook’s spirits.

  Brook read the information. Rafe Fleming was a wealthy surgeon and consultant, and on top of his high earnings and brilliant reputation he was one of the pillars of the county’s social elite, judging from his frequent appearances in Derbyshire Life’s society pages. Married to a woman twenty years his junior, he enjoyed the good things in life, living in a large house on the edge of Ashbourne, when he wasn’t holidaying in his Provençal villa. His two teenage sons studied at Queen Elizabeth’s Grammar School, one of the county’s top schools. If Fleming had a motive for abducting his patients, neither Cooper nor Brook could come up with it.

  For something to do, Brook clicked on one of the icons on his toolbar to look again at the home page of the last pro-life group he’d loaded. The night before, he had pored over dozens of sites for organisations across the world, some extreme, some less so. One article in particular had caught his eye. An American religious group called Abolish All Abortions were advocating the kidnapping of ‘abortion-minded women’, who would be held while being lectured about the sin they were contemplating. After a suitable period for re-education, they would be released and dropped off at a local church.

  After making a cup of tea, Brook loaded his email account and was reading the results of forensic examinations when his mobile vibrated on the desk.

  ‘John.’

  ‘We missed him,’ said Noble. ‘Apparently he was eating at Burger King and wandering around like he didn’t have a care in the world.’

  ‘Maybe he hasn’t,’ replied Brook. ‘Any sign of Jake?’

  ‘None. The brothers seem to have separated.’

  ‘What about security?’

  ‘They were keeping an eye. They noticed some guy in a hoodie behaving suspiciously in M and S but they lost him.’

  ‘Inspector Gadget would be appalled,’ said Brook. ‘Get them to send over film. It could give us an up-to-date likeness at least. By the way, EMSOU confirms the hammer as the blunt instrument, used post mortem.’

  ‘DNA?’

  ‘They tested Tanner’s DNA against the foetus. No match and no sign of his DNA on the gloves.’

  ‘That doesn’t prove he didn’t wear them to kill Kassia Proch,’ said Noble.

  ‘But we’ve only got Max Ostrowsky’s DNA in the glove.’

  ‘Which we can’t confirm unless he agrees to a sample.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Brook. ‘How soon for that warrant?’

  ‘I can hurry it up, but even if we prove it’s Max’s DNA, his brief will say it’s where it’s supposed to be. In his glove, in his van. We need a matching sample from Kassia’s flat or the body.’

  ‘There’s nothing on the body and the flat’s clean. What about the vodka bottle?’

  ‘From the Cream Bar?’ said Noble. ‘It wasn’t prioritised. No telling how long it was there or who put it—’

  ‘Have you ever seen that brand of vodka before?’

  ‘Only at Bar Polski.’

  ‘Then maybe it’s their exclusive brand and somebody connected to Ostrowsky left it there.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a stretch,’ said Noble.

  ‘Test it anyway, John. If either Max or Ostrowsky’s bodyguard was there, we’d have a line on who attacked Banach and Ryan.’

  ‘Max or the bodyguard? In other words, you haven’t a clue,’ said Noble. ‘Charlton’s going to love you when he gets the bill.’

  Brook had no answer and rang off. ‘In Max’s glove,’ he mumbled. ‘In Max’s van.’ He scrabbled around his desktop, locating the paper he required and scanning down the list. ‘Bag of tools, bunch of keys. In Max’s van.’ At Noble’s desk, he rummaged through drawers in the hope his sergeant hadn’t had time to book all the minor exhibits into evidence.

  He drew out the sealed plastic bag containing the large bunch of keys, blackened by smoke and silver-grey fingerprint powder but still recognisable.

  He pulled on his jacket, gesturing at Cooper. ‘If anyone wants me, I’m nipping out to a bar, and then I’m off to see a man about a God.’

  Ostrowsky emerged on to the loading bay, shaking out a cigarette and lighting up. His face was severe. ‘Tymon, get Ashley into the office to look after the boy. He’s to keep him here but he’s not a prisoner, make it understood. Keep him happy. Let him play on the computer and give him what he wants from the vending machines. We go back to Bar Polski to wait.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Max as Tymon lumbered away.

  Ostrowsky examined the blood-red sky, darkening by the moment. ‘Nothing.’ He smiled at Max to reassure. ‘He’s just a child.’

  ‘Let me talk to him,’ said Max, already on his way.

  Ostrowsky caught his brother’s arm. ‘No need. We have him and Jake knows we have him.’ He reached a hand behind Max’s head to hold his attention. ‘And if he behaves anything like an elder brother should, we’ll see him very soon.’

  Max nodded. ‘I need a drink.’

  Ostrowsky smiled at him, but as usual his eyes had trouble joining in. He walked over to an opened carton and withdrew a full bottle of vodka. ‘Here, braciszek.’

  ‘Dzieki,’ grinned Max, cracking the seal.

  Ostrowsky put a hand over the bottleneck. ‘No. It’s for the journey.’

  ‘Journey? Where am I going?’

  ‘Home to Poland,’ answered Ostrowsky. Max made to protest, but Ostrowsky talked over him. ‘Just until things calm down and this dead girl is forgotten. There’s a ferry leaving from Harwich tonight. Tymon will drive you.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A month, maybe two.’

  Max nodded. ‘If you think it’s best, brother.’

  ‘I do. Go home and pack. Wait for Tymon to pick you up. I’ll see you in a month.’ Max turned away. ‘Little brother,’ said
Ostrowsky, his arms extended. Max moved in for a hug and Ostrowsky held him tight, then pushed him away to look affectionately into his eyes.

  Jake hurried past Matalan without breaking into an attention-seeking run, but only breathed freely when under the damp pall cast by the tower block. It had taken a lot of serious walking and doubling back to get out of the Intu, which was now crawling with uniformed police. Fortunately there were plenty of exits, and Jake had been able to depart the complex on East Street, the farthest point from Milton Flats. Once out of the bright mall and on to the teeming streets, he had gradually begun to feel invisible again.

  He unlocked the door of the ground-floor flat and headed for the sofa, where he sat in silence for what seemed like hours, barely moving, breathing shallow. Finally he slid a hand under the foam cushion to extract a mobile phone. He pulled the SIM card from his pocket and recommissioned the phone before turning it on and scrolling down for the number, then depressed a thumb on to the speed dial and held it to his ear.

  A gruff foreign accent greeted his ears. ‘Bar Polski.’

  ‘It’s Jake.’

  No reply for a second as the phone was passed along, then a familiar voice. ‘Jake. How are you?’

  ‘Where’s Nick?’

  ‘Safe,’ said Ostrowsky.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Don’t waste his time or mine,’ said Ostrowsky. ‘The clock moves round. What time shall I expect you?’

  Jake took a deep breath to make the calculation.

  Brook extracted the bunch of keys from the clear plastic bag and examined them against the mortise lock of the Cream Bar’s front entrance. The door had been forced open the night Banach and Ryan had been assaulted, smashing the strike plate on the door jamb. However, Brook could see no reason why the locking mechanism shouldn’t work.

  He selected a key and tried to insert it into the lock, but it wouldn’t fit. Trying a thinner key, he managed to get it into the lock but it wouldn’t turn. His third selection worked, and the rectangular metal block emerged from the housing. Just to be sure, he walked into the building and tried other keys on other doors. They all worked.