‘Daniela?’ enquired Caitlin, realising. She edged closer. ‘Daniela!’
The sleeping form, tucked into the foetal position, stirred, and eyes began to blink awake. ‘Adrianna,’ groaned the girl, barely able to part her dry lips. She rolled on to her back as though heavily sedated. ‘Is that you?’ Her Italian accent was pronounced.
Caitlin dropped to her knees and placed a hand on the girl’s bare shoulder. ‘Daniela.’
The girl’s face registered confusion as dazed dark eyes tried to focus on Caitlin. When she’d processed the question, she replied with a faint nod. ‘Si, Daniela.’
‘You’re Italian,’ said Caitlin.
‘Si. Yes. Who are you?’
‘I’m Caitlin.’
‘You must go, Caitlin.’
‘That’s the plan. Can you sit up?’ Caitlin grabbed the girl’s frail hands. Her skin was like paper and Daniela winced at her touch. ‘This could hurt.’
‘No,’ said the girl, pulling her bruised hands away. ‘You can’t let them find you here. You must go.’
‘Them? How many are there?’
‘Tre. Three. An old man, a younger man and a woman.’
‘A woman? Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Never mind, we’ve wasted enough time. We’re leaving.’
‘If they find you …’
‘Listen,’ hissed Caitlin. ‘Do you want to stay here?’ Daniela’s only answer was to lower her eyes, so Caitlin cut the leg tether with the knife and examined the lesions on her wrists and ankles. ‘Can you stand?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Daniela.
Holding her thin arms, Caitlin helped her to her feet, trying to take a sympathetic grip. Daniela was unsteady and held on to her.
‘Take a step.’ Caitlin winced with Daniela when she made to put her weight on her skinless heel. Daniela nodded to reassure but gazed around as though she had vertigo.
Caitlin gingerly withdrew her support and stepped backwards, watching the pathetic creature in front of her attempt to stabilise herself. ‘Wait there,’ she ordered superfluously and dashed out of the room. Daniela reached a hand out in terror and stumbled forward with a gasp of pain, but Caitlin ignored her and made for the bottom of the stairs, snatching up her rucksack on the way.
She poked her head into the kitchen to satisfy herself that the old man was where she’d left him. He was asleep in the chair. Her eye alighted on a solid-looking weight behind the kitchen door, used to wedge it open when unlocked. It was hard to lift, but she gathered it up and lumbered back up the stairs.
She left the weight outside the room, then flung the rucksack down and helped the stricken Daniela, encouraging her into a painful step. Then another and another until Caitlin was confident in her ability to stay upright while she emptied her rucksack. She pulled out a pair of jeans but realised the material would chafe too much. Instead she opted for khaki shorts and helped Daniela into them, the Italian girl’s thin arm around her neck. They were a little baggy, but there was a belt attached and Caitlin fastened it on the tightest notch for her.
Next she found a tube of Canestan in her toiletries bag – better than nothing. She dabbed some on Daniela’s heels and ankles, ignoring her moans of agony, before delicately cladding her feet in a pair of light cotton socks and plimsolls, tying them tight to prevent rubbing. She tossed a T-shirt at Daniela, who looked helplessly back. She saw the bedsores on Daniela’s elbow so cut the cheap nylon negligee off with the butcher’s knife and helped her drag the T-shirt painfully over her head.
‘Let’s go.’
Daniela took a tentative step, then another, emerging into the corridor, where she leant against a wall, panting. She smiled and shook her head, putting a hand to her mouth. ‘I won’t make it. I’m sick. Dizzy.’
‘You can’t stay here.’
‘Then go. Bring help.’
Caitlin lowered her head, accepting the inevitable. Picking up the doorstop, she advanced on the end window and hurled the weight through the glass, then ran back to the room to scoop up the blanket, returning to knock out as much glass as possible before draping it across the ledge. She lifted her leg over the sill, looking back at Daniela holding on to the wall. The exhausted girl raised a wasted arm, gesturing for Caitlin to leave. Caitlin swung her other leg over the sill and looked down from the ledge.
At that moment, a baby’s cries rent the air and Daniela staggered towards the only unopened door. ‘My baby!’ She lost her footing and fell to her knees, clawing at the door.
‘Your baby?’ exclaimed Caitlin, jumping back through the window. ‘Daniela. Wait.’
But Daniela scrabbled at the handle and pushed open the final door, forcing herself back to her feet and tottering into the room.
‘Daniela!’ Caitlin halted at the entrance, dumbstruck. The room was beautifully decorated in pale pink with a soft, luxuriant carpet and embroidered curtains. A young blond-haired boy, two or three years old, stared curiously at the pair of them from the security of a playpen. He was light-skinned with bright eyes and held one of the many toys from the pen up to his mouth. His tiny shorts and T-shirt were clean and of good quality.
Daniela ignored the boy and stumbled her way towards a lace-covered crib in the middle of the room, bursting into tears as she fell to her knees. She cooed at the olive-skinned child in Italian and reached in to pluck the infant from its swaddling, setting off a further volley of terrified screaming, deafening after the heavy silence of Caitlin’s captivity.
‘Take my baby,’ urged Daniela, holding out the child.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ said Caitlin, glancing down at a shock of black hair poking out of a wrap. She sought a delicate way to break the bad news to Daniela, but failed. ‘Leave the baby, Daniela,’ she said. ‘It’ll be safe. Someone’s looking after it.’
It. She had said the word twice and felt a pang of guilt. That was how she’d objectified her own offspring, the seed that had taken root inside her body, before destroying it – the only way to rationalise, the only way to get through.
‘Take my baby,’ pleaded Daniela, her eyes feasting on the child as she gathered it to her chest. ‘Please.’ She turned, beseeching Caitlin, her hollow cheeks determined. Then her mouth dropped open in horror.
Caitlin turned to follow Daniela’s gaze, briefly registering a mop of red hair before her head was yanked back and a blade pulled across her throat.
Brook walked down the centre aisle of the church, his footsteps booming like cannon fire in the tiny brick-built building with its functional square nave and cramped pews. To Brook it felt more like an electricity substation than a house of God.
From a side room a priest carrying a stack of hymnals appeared, his cropped salt-and-pepper head elevated to accommodate the books under his chin. ‘Damen,’ he grunted, levering the books on to the front pew.
‘Father Christopher.’ Brook shook the outstretched hand.
‘Come for confession?’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘I can do the express service, if you’d like,’ said Christopher. ‘Absolve you on the main bullet points.’
‘Funny,’ retorted Brook, trying not to smile.
‘Then what do you want?’
‘I need to pick your brains. Father Patrick O’Toole.’
Father Christopher sighed. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘Nothing yet,’ said Brook, mildly surprised. ‘I’m looking into the protest group picketing the Rutherford Clinic, and he organises it.’
‘Important work,’ said Christopher. ‘Promoting the sanctity of human life.’
‘Can you tell me about the group?’
‘Why don’t you ask Father O’Toole?’
‘We will.’
‘But you expect him to lie.’
Brook hesitated. ‘I expect him to accentuate the positive.’
‘I saw you on the news,’ said Christopher. ‘Is this to do with the girl in the burning van?’
>
‘I can’t answer that,’ said Brook, in a tone that told its own story. ‘But I can say we have a string of missing young women from Catholic countries, all exercising their rights under the law to terminate a pregnancy and all patients at the Rutherford.’
‘And you think they’ve been targeted by Patrick’s band of religious zealots.’
‘It’s an angle we’re exploring.’
‘You’re a Catholic fifty years and more,’ said Christopher. ‘Surely you can fill in the blanks.’
‘I’m a long way from First Communion,’ replied Brook. ‘And I get lost around aspects of Church doctrine that are more …’ He paused, for once the right word evading him.
‘Crackpot?’ suggested Father Christopher drily.
‘I was going to say extreme,’ conceded Brook. ‘But let’s agree on passionate.’
Father Christopher beckoned him to sit on a pew beside him. ‘My only role is to advise you if there’s a conflict between your job and your faith.’
‘I have little faith, Father,’ answered Brook.
‘Then why come to me?’
‘We have laws …’
‘Those are men’s laws, Damen, not God’s.’
‘God maketh the men,’ said Brook.
‘You know the Church’s position on free will. Our faith makes clear—’
‘It was a mistake coming here,’ said Brook, standing abruptly. ‘I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I’m sorry.’ He headed for the door.
‘Constance Trastevere,’ said Christopher at Brook’s retreating frame.
Brook turned. ‘I know her. She told me I’ll burn in hell.’
‘She might be right,’ retorted Christopher, only half joking. ‘She’s a wealthy woman, Italian-American from Arizona, widowed, I’m given to understand. Trastevere is her family name – it’s a suburb of Rome. She bankrolls the group and has contacts in the US bible belt. They’re called CRI. Citizens Resisting Infanticide. Her politics are extreme even by the Church’s standards – anti-contraception, anti-homosexual …’
‘How is that different to the Church?’
‘The Pope doesn’t advocate chemical castration for gays and confinement for single mothers, Damen.’ The priest looked around the church as though God was about to join the debate. He beckoned Brook into a tiny side chapel, a statue of St Francis beaming down at them, dusty woodland animals arranged around his bare feet.
‘I warned Patrick but he wouldn’t hear a word said against her. She’s hard as nails. There’s not an ounce of compassion in the woman and she walks all over him.’
‘How did she make her money?’
‘She married it and inherited from her third husband, Oliver Portland. He was English. She met him in the States and moved to Derbyshire when they married, though she kept her name for business reasons. He’d already amassed a fortune in property around the county and had a portfolio as far down as London, I believe. Left her a big house in Duffield and too much time on her hands, you ask me. That’s all I know.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘You can thank me by going easy on Patrick,’ said Christopher. ‘His sister-in-law had a difficult pregnancy and bled to death during childbirth, so he’s not posturing for a bishopric – he feels it personally.’
‘Pity she couldn’t have opted for a termination,’ said Brook.
‘She had the choice,’ said Christopher. ‘Abortion was legal. It’s just that some of us have principles and understand the need for personal sacrifice.’
‘Let me guess. Father O’Toole had the principles and his sister-in-law made the sacrifice,’ said Brook, making for the exit.
Christopher called after him. ‘Make time for your soul, Damen, or you’ll never know peace.’
Brook raised a hand in acknowledgement even as he extracted his mobile and a piece of paper. He dialled a number and threw the paper away. Much as it pained him, he knew he’d have to add DS Morton’s number to his speed dial.
‘Rob,’ he opened. ‘Constance Trastevere.’
‘We’re en route,’ answered Morton, hiding his shock at a direct call from the inspector.
‘Ask her about CRI – Citizens Resisting Infanticide,’ said Brook. ‘It’s a pro-life group she’s heavily involved with. Get Cooper to try and rustle up a membership or mailing list, but get as much background from the horse’s mouth as you can. Father O’Toole may be more open.’
‘Already spoken to him and CRI was the first thing he mentioned,’ said Morton. ‘He’s very proud of their work. He said Mrs Tras … whatever puts up the money and they run it jointly. I asked him about other members but he clammed up.’
‘So not that proud, then.’ Brook rang off but the phone vibrated straight away. ‘John.’
‘You better get back here. It’s Jake Tanner,’ said Noble on the other end of the line. Brook listened and walked quickly to his car.
Constance Trastevere ushered Banach and Morton into her living room, boarded on four walls by dark, almost black oak. The contrast with the chintzy tasselled furnishings was marked – a man’s room furnished by an elderly woman in an expensive floral dress. The only light came from an ornate standard lamp behind one armchair.
‘Would you like to sit?’ asked Mrs Trastevere, standing in front of the lamp, which cast its ethereal glow over her stern countenance. When the two officers declined, she remained upright, her hands clasped loosely in front of her.
‘We’ve come—’ began Morton.
‘Father O’Toole called me,’ she smiled, her eyes not leaving Banach’s face. ‘You could’ve saved yourselves the trip, officers. Like Father O’Toole, I’m immensely proud of our work but I won’t reveal the names of any supporters or give you access to our mailing lists.’
‘Sounds more like guilt than pride,’ remarked Banach.
It hardly seemed possible but Mrs Trastevere’s expression became even frostier. ‘And the little whore speaks.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Banach.
‘You heard me,’ retorted the old woman.
‘Mrs Trastevere,’ said Morton. ‘We—’
‘You’ve got a nerve coming here after your performance at the clinic, lady, I’ll grant you that,’ said Mrs Trastevere to Banach.
‘Just doing my job,’ retorted Banach.
‘And is your job more important than the life growing inside you?’ snapped the old woman.
Banach’s mouth opened in shock and Morton turned to gaze at his stunned colleague. Trastevere laughed. ‘My dear girl, what do you think our organisation is for? CRI is not involved in an industrial dispute. We’re not a debating society. We’re involved in a struggle between life and death. The fight against abortion is a war against evil, and knowledge is power. Intelligence, if you will.’
Banach caught Morton staring at her. ‘I don’t know who told you I was pregnant, but they’re sorely mistaken.’
‘Then make a liar out of me, Constable,’ snarled Trastevere. ‘Empty your pockets. If you don’t have a leaflet about your prelim about your person, I’ll apologise.’
Banach lowered her head. ‘How … ?’
‘How do I know? You told me, Constable Banach, the moment you arranged an appointment at the clinic.’
Banach had a memory of the camera flashing in the reception area. ‘Someone photographed me.’
‘One of our supporters photographs every murdering bitch that crosses our picket,’ said Mrs Trastevere. ‘Do you think we just shrug our shoulders and wring our hands when one of you whores decides to kill a child? That’s not how you win a war.’
Banach couldn’t look at Trastevere any more. She felt faint. The old woman’s words, each one like a bullet, seemed to be launched at her with increasing venom, every syllable exploding in her brain.
‘And before you left the building, Anka Banach, we knew who you were. We sent your picture to our sympathisers, and members of your own parish identified you,’ she continued, taking pleasure in the assault. ‘And you a Polish
Catholic, to contemplate the murder of your child – shameful. But then shame is something you know all about.’
‘Shut up,’ mumbled Banach.
‘You’re even ashamed of your heritage,’ continued Trastevere. ‘Unwilling to use the name your father gave you at baptism. I pity you. And I pity your family when our newsletter comes out.’
‘I need to leave,’ said Banach, putting a hand up to her head.
‘Are you all right, Angie?’ said Morton.
‘Course she’s not all right, Sergeant,’ laughed Trastevere. ‘She’s carrying a child she doesn’t want because her life is so much richer without it.’
Outside, Banach threw up long and loud while Morton stood by pulling on a cigarette. ‘Morning sickness?’ he ventured, trying his hand at a little humour. The quip froze on his face under Banach’s Medusa stare.
‘Give me some of that,’ she ordered, nodding at the cigarette.
‘Are you sure you should?’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ she said, snatching it from his grasp, taking a deep draw and exhaling smoke with her eyes closed.
‘You know I outrank you, right, Ange?’ said Morton, trying to get a smile out of her.
She handed the cigarette back but Morton gestured her to throw it away. ‘So I guess ordering you to keep quiet isn’t going to cut it?’
Morton laughed but knew he couldn’t answer. What Mrs Trastevere had revealed might be relevant to the inquiry.
‘Thought not.’
‘Come on, Angie, I’ll take you home.’
‘No,’ said Banach. ‘Drop me at my car. I need time to think.’
Back at St Mary’s Wharf fifteen minutes later, Banach got out of Morton’s car without a word. She slid into her dark blue Peugeot and roared out of the car park.
Twenty-Nine
‘Zeke. You in there?’ shouted the girl.
A Killing Moon Page 29