A Killing Moon

by Dunne, Steven

  ‘Could be coincidence.’

  ‘I’d agree, but there’s something else,’ said Noble. ‘I looked up Moran’s address on the staff list. She lives in Statham Street.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mary Finnegan, the nurse who used to work at the Royal – Bernadette Murphy’s aunt …’

  ‘The first girl to vanish,’ said Brook.

  ‘Right. Shortly after Bernadette fell off the radar, the Finnegans split up and Mary went to live in Statham Street. Mary Finnegan is Mary Moran.’

  ‘Only now she’s working at the Rutherford Clinic under her maiden name,’ said Brook. ‘Interesting.’

  ‘It is, but it doesn’t make sense after looking at the Rutherford’s patient database. There’s no mention of Bernadette, or of her ever being pregnant. If Bernadette had a termination, she didn’t have it there.’

  ‘That may be precisely the point, John.’

  Two hours later, Brook and Noble were driving through Derby as the rain fell softly from a grey sky. Rush hour hadn’t started in earnest and traffic was light. The two detectives were silent until Noble loosed off a huge yawn.

  ‘Trouble sleeping?’ asked Brook, amused.

  ‘You’re the expert,’ said Noble. ‘Anything from the control room?’

  ‘They’re emailing a copy of the call. What about Max?’

  ‘No news. He may be in the wind.’ Noble pulled the car into Statham Street to park outside Mary Finnegan/Moran’s house. ‘Maybe we should be looking locally.’

  ‘No. Ostrowsky sent him back to Poland.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Max is a liability – he’s the only one with a stake in contradicting Ostrowsky’s narrative about Kassia’s murder.’ Brook indicated a car parking in front of them, and opened the door. ‘There’s Jane.’

  ‘Morning,’ said Gadd, sleepy-eyed. ‘I’d forgotten the early starts on your team.’

  Brook smiled. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘As you said, it’s my case,’ replied Gadd. ‘How do you want to play it?’

  ‘She’ll be suspicious when she sees you, so drop in Caitlin’s name as soon as you can,’ said Brook. ‘Might throw her off the scent for a while.’

  Mary Moran pulled her thick towelling dressing gown tight across her chest to cover the half-inch of neck still visible. ‘Couldn’t it wait,’ she said, repeating her complaint for the third time. ‘I was on shift until midnight.’ She lifted the hastily brewed mug of coffee to her lips and glared at the three detectives in turn, registering the well-grooved regret on their faces.

  Sorry for your loss … of sleep.

  ‘Apologies again,’ soothed Jane Gadd. ‘We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important, Mrs Finnegan …’

  ‘Moran,’ snapped the portly woman. ‘I’m separated from my husband.’

  ‘But not divorced,’ chipped in Brook.

  ‘I’m Catholic,’ she replied, as though this was explanation enough. ‘What did you want to ask me about poor Caitlin?’

  ‘What can you tell us about her time at the clinic?’ said Gadd.

  ‘You’ll need to be more specific.’

  ‘We’d like to know if there was anything unusual about her procedure,’ said Brook.

  ‘Her termination was routine,’ said Moran. ‘I said all this the other night. Caitlin took it in her stride, which was unusual in itself. There’s always some upset somewhere along the line. It’s an emotional rollercoaster for most of the girls, even if they’re not religious. For the Catholic ones, it’s ten times worse.’ She drained her mug. ‘Are you sure I can’t make you a cup?’

  ‘We’re fine,’ said Noble. ‘Did Caitlin say anything unconnected to clinical matters?’

  ‘She talked about that gobshite of a boyfriend of hers. Ronald, was it?’

  ‘Roland,’ corrected Noble.

  ‘Spitting feathers every time she mentioned his name, she was, but it was more annoyance than anger. Said she was going to make him pay. When I asked her what she meant, she said, “Literally that. I’m going to make him pay.” I assumed she was talking about money.’

  ‘What did she think of Dr Fleming?’ asked Noble.

  ‘I don’t think she had an opinion one way or the other,’ answered Moran, glancing thoughtfully at Gadd.

  ‘And you?’ said Brook.

  Moran smiled. ‘How many surgeons do you know? Let me tell you, they have one vice above all others.’

  ‘Vanity?’

  She grinned. ‘He doesn’t hide it very well, does he? Dr Fleming’s got ice in his veins. And when it comes to dealing with staff and patients, his social skills aren’t the best.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But when you’re lying unconscious on that table, those are the people you want working on you, believe me.’

  There was an awkward silence beyond the absorption of Moran’s opinions. Brook raised an eyebrow at Gadd, but Moran caught it and stared at her.

  ‘Can we talk a little about Bernadette?’ asked Gadd.

  Moran looked at Brook and Noble, and back at Gadd. ‘What’s happened? Have you found her?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ said Gadd. ‘We’d like to go over details from the last time you saw her before she disappeared.’

  ‘I’ve been over all that too,’ said Moran.

  ‘Please,’ coaxed Gadd. ‘For the benefit of my colleagues.’ Moran’s head turned to Brook and Noble. ‘They want to help.’

  After a moment’s thought, ‘There’s nothing new to say. Bernie came to stay for a while. One morning she was there. By the evening she’d packed her bags and left. That was the fourth of July, near three years ago.’

  ‘Why so sudden?’ said Gadd. ‘And why leave without saying goodbye?’

  Moran stared into space. ‘You asked me that at the time and I still don’t know. Why would the answer have changed?’

  ‘Because three years have passed and Bernadette’s still missing,’ said Brook. ‘And now you might think the argument you had with her carries more significance than you thought at the time.’

  Moran glared at him fiercely, her lips pursed in anger. She stared blankly into her empty cup. ‘Bernie’s my niece,’ she said softly. ‘We were on good terms.’

  ‘That’s a phrase I might use about my bank manager,’ observed Brook. ‘Not a relative.’

  ‘She’s a relative on my husband’s side,’ said Moran. ‘Barry’s blood, not mine.’

  ‘And Barry’s side of the family see things differently to you.’

  ‘I have to get ready for work,’ said Moran.

  ‘Do you have access to the patient database at the clinic?’ asked Noble.

  ‘What does that mean?’ snapped Moran. ‘Of course I have access. I’m amending and creating records all the time. Why?’

  ‘So if you wanted, you could delete a patient’s records?’ said Brook.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘For example, if a female relative became pregnant and not only wanted a private termination but all records of the pregnancy and procedure expunged.’

  Moran jumped to her feet, her face contorted with anger. ‘What are you suggesting? Why are you here?’

  ‘Please sit down, Mary,’ said Gadd.

  Moran ignored her, panting in anger. ‘How dare you suggest I might tamper with records.’

  ‘We know these are tough questions,’ continued Gadd. ‘But we’re hunting a killer of young women and we have to follow lines of enquiry.’

  ‘Please,’ said Brook, indicating the chair. He nodded at Noble, who extracted a stack of photographs and placed them on a coffee table in front of the distraught nurse. The newly acquired photograph of Kassia Proch was first. Portraits of Caitlin Kinnear, Daniela Cassetti, Adrianna Bakula and the others followed. Moran put a hand over her mouth and her eyes began to fill with tears when Bernadette Murphy’s cheerful face stared out from the final snap. She began to shake.

  ‘Now that both families have been informed, I can tell you that the identity of
the dead girl in the papers is Kassia Proch,’ said Brook, tapping a finger on her likeness.

  Moran let out a whimper of recognition and a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Kassia. The poor little thing.’

  ‘The clinic’s records show she had a preliminary appointment with you to set up a termination a few days before she died,’ said Noble.

  Moran nodded, unable to take her tear-filled eyes from Kassia’s face. ‘Yes, but the night she was supposed to have the procedure, she changed her mind.’

  ‘We know,’ said Brook, lowering his head.

  Moran averted her eyes for a moment, before dropping her gaze on to Caitlin’s picture. ‘So Caitlin …’

  ‘May still be alive, yes.’ Brook saw her eyes drift across the row of pictures. ‘You recognise these other women?’ Moran nodded, her expression asking the question. ‘They’re all missing. Including your niece.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she breathed.

  ‘Mary, you’re the common denominator between all these women,’ said Gadd. ‘You examined them all, all except Bernadette. According to the records.’

  ‘But records can lie,’ said Noble.

  ‘Or be tampered with,’ added Gadd.

  ‘Am I a suspect?’ said Moran.

  ‘Until you tell us what happened between you and Bernadette, yes.’ Brook waited. The silence would be all the pressure required.

  Eventually Moran nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘You doctored her records?’

  Moran looked incredulous. ‘No. Not about that. I would never do that.’ She paused to compose herself. ‘But the night before she left, we had a terrible row. She was spouting off some nonsense about the abortion laws in this country and I made the mistake of challenging her, telling her some actual facts.’ She laughed without humour. ‘Big mistake. Barry’s family are feckin’ medieval, and facts cut no ice with their brand of religious dogma, I can tell you.’

  ‘So Bernadette disapproved of your work at the Rutherford.’

  ‘I was still working at the Royal then. It had just opened and I’d moved from the City Hospital three months previous. But something had happened the month before Bernie arrived to stay and I’d already applied for a job at the Rutherford.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was a patient,’ said Moran. ‘Clare. Thirteen years old, skinny, barely into puberty, and so innocent. Not the kind of girl you expect to be ten weeks pregnant.’ She took a deep breath. ‘She’d been admitted with internal haemorrhaging and I found out later she was being sexually abused by her elder brother. The father – of the family, I mean – was a strict Catholic. He’d decreed the baby would come to term and that was the end of the matter. With no thought for Clare or the baby’s future, the parents concocted some story about Clare’s loose morals to be told when the time came. And, of course, they threatened her with hell and damnation if she didn’t keep quiet.’

  ‘And did she keep quiet?’

  ‘She didn’t tell a living soul about what her family had done to her – I had to drag it out of her. How she became pregnant and quickly realised she was on her own. She decided to induce a miscarriage.’ Moran looked at the floor. When she resumed, she was barely audible. ‘A friend at school had told her it was done with knitting needles.’ She shook her head and another tear rolled down a cheek. ‘We saved her with the help of several blood transfusions. But she’ll never be able to conceive a child born of love. The day after we discharged her, I applied to the Rutherford.’

  ‘And you told Bernadette about Clare.’

  ‘Just to put her straight on some of the shite her family had poured into her. When that didn’t work, I told her I was applying to work at the clinic, yes. I might as well have said I’d crucified Jesus personally. Barry’s family were always so intense, so uncompromising. I still felt terrible when she left. Our last words were exchanged in anger.’

  ‘You did nothing wrong,’ said Gadd.

  ‘I know. But during the argument Bernie told me she couldn’t have children – some infection when she was younger – and she’d have to adopt … And she loved children. That’s why she trained as a teacher.’

  ‘What do you think happened to her?’

  Moran looked down at her lap. ‘I don’t know. But recently I thought I saw her, or someone who looked very much like her.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It was dark. I can’t be sure …’

  ‘Where?’ insisted Brook.

  ‘A few nights ago. She was at the clinic. The night you were there. She was taking a photograph of a young woman making an appointment …’

  Thirty-One

  Noble sped into St Mary’s Wharf car park and screeched to a halt in the nearest bay, glancing over at Brook, his ear glued to the phone. Brook returned the look and shook his head before ringing off.

  ‘Try Rob,’ said Noble. He leapt out of the car and jogged over to the doors of main reception, Brook trailing in his wake. ‘Wait. There he is.’

  ‘Glad I found you, sir,’ said Morton.

  ‘Where’s Banach?’ said Brook quickly.

  ‘She’s probably on her way.’

  ‘Her mobile’s unattainable,’ said Brook. ‘Do you have her landline?’

  ‘I don’t.’ Morton hesitated. ‘Sir, she didn’t want me to say anything, but I think she might be pulling a sickie for a day or two. You see—’

  ‘We know about the pregnancy,’ interrupted Brook. ‘Get on to Personnel and get her landline. Then text her mum’s address to DI Gadd. She’s on her way to Banach’s flat. Did you drop her at home last night?’

  ‘No, at her car,’ said Morton. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We know how the missing girls were targeted,’ said Noble. ‘And we think Angie may be next.’

  ‘How did you find out about the pregnancy?’ said Brook, seeing Charlton walking along the corridor towards them.

  ‘The Trastevere woman knew all about it,’ said Morton.

  ‘Did she now?’ nodded Brook, his expression hardening. ‘How did Banach take it?’

  ‘Badly. She swore me to secrecy.’

  ‘Well the cat’s out of the bag now,’ said Brook. ‘But that might be the least of her problems. Get Cooper to circulate her vehicle details to Traffic. Hurry.’ Morton headed off. ‘John, send a couple of cars to pick up Constance Trastevere and Father O’Toole and get search warrants for all their property in the pipeline. And I mean all. Trastevere has extensive interests so get Cooper on to the Land Registry for a comprehensive list and make sure they all fall under the warrant. Go.’

  ‘Ready for the press conference, Brook?’ said Charlton, perplexed, as first Morton then Noble nodded a curt greeting as they ran past. ‘Something wrong?’

  Banach registered birdsong and her eyes flickered into life. Immediately she noticed the whitewashed ceiling and was puzzled by its unfamiliarity. Her head was pounding and she tried to move her hands to feel it but they wouldn’t obey.

  She looked down to see that she was in bed, a clean white sheet pulled up to her throat. Using her teeth, she pulled the sheet aside to reveal a pair of leather straps binding both wrists to the bed. Try as she might, she couldn’t move her arms, and she kicked out to be sure her legs were unfettered. They were bare, which struck her as odd, but at least she could move them. Somebody had removed her trouser suit and dressed her in a stiff white cotton nightdress.

  ‘What the hell. Where am I?’

  She shouted a hello into the spacious room, but no one came running. It was sparse but spotless and had bars on the window. On one wall was a rack of assorted women’s clothes on hangers. Her suit was neatly hung on the end. Shelves on the far wall were filled with laundered white towels and bedlinen. On the external wall, under the window, was a sink and, bizarrely, a toilet set back in the corner. From the marks on wall and ceiling, it appeared that someone had knocked through to the stall to create a rough and ready en suite. Apart from that there was just the bed and a bedside cabinet. A bible lay on
the cabinet next to a carafe of water and a bowl of apples and oranges, none of which she could reach.

  Hospital or prison?

  ‘Then where is she?’ demanded Brook.

  ‘Unknown,’ said Noble. ‘She’s not at home or her mum’s, and no sightings of her car as yet.’

  ‘She looked pretty shook up after last night,’ said Morton. ‘Maybe she went away for a couple of days to clear her head.’

  ‘And maybe she’s been abducted like the others,’ argued Noble. ‘She was targeted when she made an appointment at the Rutherford, Rob.’

  Morton shook his head. ‘What about her father? Is he around?’

  Noble shook his head. ‘Divorced ten years ago. He moved back to Poland.’

  ‘Father,’ said Brook softly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The baby’s father,’ continued Brook, deep in thought. ‘Maybe Constable Ryan …’

  ‘The Royal,’ said Noble, running for the door.

  Ninety minutes later, Brook stood in front of the display of missing girls. Before him, the assembled detectives were sombre and hushed. Charlton was looking on anxiously, having cancelled the press conference to announce the charging of Jake Tanner.

  Brook wasted no time. ‘In the course of enquiries, DS Noble and I have come to believe that two people are responsible for the abductions of six women – Valerie Gliszczynska, Nicola Serota, Adrianna Bakula, Daniela Cassetti, Caitlin Kinnear …’ Brook pointed to each likeness in turn before pausing to face colleagues. ‘And now Constable Anka Banach.’

  A murmur rippled round the room as Morton hit the lights. Cooper flicked at his mouse and the packed incident room watched CCTV images of Banach’s abduction at the Royal Derby Hospital in the early hours of the morning as she returned to her car. After she’d been attacked by two assailants and bundled into a white van, both vehicles were driven away.

  ‘Do you know where they went?’ said Charlton when the lights came up.

  ‘Short answer, no,’ said Cooper. ‘Long answer, we’re working on it.’

  ‘See that you are. And commit any and all resources if need be.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t mention Kassia Proch.’

  ‘Kassia Proch isn’t part of the series,’ said Brook.