A Killing Moon (31 page)

‘Catching Ostrowsky in a lie would be a start, at least. And with Jake’s testimony we could link Kassia to Bar Polski . . .’

‘Which just ties her closer to Max or Jake,’ said Brook. ‘We need Max and Tymon.’

‘Which is why Ostrowsky wants them out of the country,’ said Noble. ‘Wait. Why do we need evidence that Ostrowsky killed Kassia when we could put him away for kidnapping Nick?’

‘Always assuming Nick knows he’s been kidnapped.’

‘Jake knows.’

‘But Jake’s not telling. He seems to have another agenda.’

‘He’s afraid for his brother.’

‘Maybe. But when I offered to charge him until we found Nick, he still refused to come clean. There’s something else going on there.’ Brook stood in the darkened office and pulled on his jacket.

‘So that’s it? We go home and leave Nick to Ostrowsky’s mercy?’

‘That’s the one blessing about Jake’s confession. If Ostrowsky harms Nick, Jake is free to retract – at least until the trial.’

‘I suppose.’ Noble gathered a pile of papers under his arm to follow.

Brook nodded at them. ‘Where are you going with all that?’

‘I didn’t get a chance to go through the clinic’s list.’

‘Go home and get a couple of hours’ sleep, John.’

‘You first,’ said Noble, pulling out his cigarettes. Brook stepped out of the office and they walked to the stairs. ‘One thing.’ Brook turned a bleary eye towards him. ‘I get that Tymon leaves the van unlocked to make it easier to discover Kassia’s body.’

‘Right.’

‘But how can he be sure it won’t be Max that finds her?’

Brook stopped in his tracks and stared at Noble. A second later he sprinted back to the office and leafed furiously through Tanner’s statement. ‘After midnight. After midnight.’ He tossed the sheaf of papers down. ‘Where’s the stolen vehicle report?’

Noble took a plastic wallet from his desk. Brook snatched the wallet and pulled out all the documents, reading frantically. A big smile broke out on his face.

‘John. You’re a genius.’

Banach pulled on her coat and left the ward, her footfall echoing around the deserted corridors of the hospital. She paid for her parking ticket and trudged across the access road that ringed the hospital, towards the car park. The bright moon bestowed an undeserved lustre on the pale concrete walls of the new hospital, and the ground shimmered as she walked.

She passed a top-of-the-range Audi that looked familiar. At the same moment she noticed a figure hidden beneath a black hoodie trying the handle of her Peugeot, parked in splendid isolation by the bushes.

Cheeky sod
. Banach hurried her step, quietly slipping her hand into her bag for the Mace and reaching for the handcuffs on her belt. The thief didn’t look much taller than her, but Banach was taking no chances. A growing number of car thieves were drug addicts, looking to fund their habit by plundering the cars of medical staff, on the ridiculous assumption that the boot would be chock full of narcotics. While such offenders might be deluded, they were also desperate and often violent.

When Banach was only a few yards away, the thief knelt down to peer into the car, continuing to work at the door, half a tennis ball in hand, trying to create enough suction to force up the old-fashioned lock.

As Banach approached, she caught sight of her reflection in the driver’s window and realised the thief would see it too. Sure enough, the diminutive figure dropped the mangled tennis ball and pivoted to face her, arms raised in self-defence. Although police work had taught her to expect the unexpected, Banach was shocked to see it was a young woman.

‘Police officer. Face the car, hands on the roof,’ she ordered, bristling with all the aggression her training had bestowed. ‘Face the car!’ she barked again.

The young woman’s face, framed by the oval hood, was contorted with hate, eyes blazing. She seemed far removed from the run-of-the-mill drug addict or twoccer.

‘Last chance,’ said Banach, brandishing the Mace. After a beat, the girl turned and placed her palms on the car. Banach stepped forward and tapped the inside of the girl’s ankle with her toe to make her spread her legs, before giving her a quick frisk. Then she pulled the girl’s right arm behind her back and snapped on a cuff before doing the same to her left.

Then she pulled out her mobile and swivelled her round. ‘Tough luck, soldier. You picked the wrong car to boost.’

‘You can say that again, copper.’

Banach gazed at the young woman’s freckled face, a memory gnawing at her. ‘I know you.’ She reached out a hand to pull down the hood, and long red hair cascaded on to the girl’s shoulders. ‘My God. You’re Bernadette Murphy.’

The prisoner stared back malevolently. ‘Well aren’t you the clever one, Constable Banach.’

‘You know me?’ Banach’s peripheral vision registered a darkening shadow in the driver’s window behind her, but she reacted too late to avoid the blow from behind. Her legs buckled and twitched before turning to jelly, and she fell into the waiting arms.

‘She’s a copper, Zeke,’ hissed Bernadette.

‘What?’ he answered, holding Banach upright.

‘You heard me. She was at the clinic the other night. I took her picture for the newsletter.’

‘Shit. What do we do?’

The girl considered for a few seconds. ‘Not much we can do. She knows me.’

‘You’re not suggesting . . .’

‘She’s got a child inside her, hasn’t she? Get the keys and get these off.’

Zeke picked up the keys from the ground and unlocked the handcuffs before hoisting the police officer over his shoulder. Unfettered, Bernadette ran to open the van doors, then took Banach’s car keys from her handbag before throwing cuffs and bag in the van. Zeke lowered Banach carefully in after them and closed the double doors.

‘Plenty of cameras,’ he said, nodding at a nearby building.

‘Yeah, but if no one knows she was here, they’ve no reason to look at the film,’ said Bernadette. ‘You take the van. I’ll follow in the car.’

Brook got home in the early hours and dragged his exhausted body to the shower to wash away the trials of the day. He slept for an hour before a grumbling stomach woke him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten but knew he had to take fuel on board, so he trotted downstairs at five o’clock and ate four slices of toast.

Sipping on his mug of tea, he heard the muffled buzz from his coat pocket. It was a text from Noble, sent half an hour before.

Ring me urgent when you get up
.

‘Would it kill you to use good grammar?’ he mumbled, suspecting that Noble did it deliberately to annoy. He dialled and Noble picked up immediately. ‘What?’

‘I found something going over the Rutherford’s staff list. Every missing girl had the same nurse.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that. A senior nurse runs the preliminary appointment for all prospective patients. And if the patient proceeds, she’s assigned that nurse until discharge.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘For continuity, right,’ answered Noble. ‘That’s just it. All the missing girls were seen by the same nurse. Even Kassia Proch.’

‘Who?’

‘Mary Moran. We met her the other night, complaining about the picket . . .’

‘I remember,’ said Brook. He took another sip of tea. ‘How many nurses run the appointments?’

‘Four.’

‘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?’