A Killing Moon (32 page)

‘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.

‘Young, foreign, transient . . .’ persisted Charlton.

‘She fits the profile in all but the most vital aspect of this case, which Constable Banach herself pointed out,’ replied Brook. ‘Kassia Proch was pregnant when she was murdered. Significantly, the other women who sought to terminate their pregnancies at the Rutherford Clinic weren’t killed. They were targeted and abducted
because
they were pregnant.’

‘And held against their will until their babies were born,’ said Charlton. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Deadly serious,’ replied Brook. ‘Kassia decided to keep her baby. And according to her nurse, Mary Moran, the pro-life group CRI, who I believe are targeting these women, were made aware of that. For that reason, she was no longer of interest to them.’

‘Whoa,’ shouted Charlton. ‘You’re not suggesting Father O’Toole’s organisation is responsible for these kidnappings?’

‘Not the entire group,’ conceded Brook. ‘But someone connected to CRI is using its legitimate protests as a cover for drawing up a list of pregnant women to target and abduct. Constable Banach recently made an appointment at the clinic and put herself on that list.’

Charlton huffed. ‘You need to be very careful about wild allegations like—’

‘We only found out last night that Constable Banach is pregnant,’ interrupted Brook. ‘But Nurse Moran already knew because she saw Banach arrange a prelim at the clinic. She also saw someone take a picture of Banach. That’s how the girls were targeted. Rob.’

‘Last night Angie and I interviewed a Mrs Trastevere, who bankrolls this CRI mob,’ said Morton. ‘She admitted that her group takes pictures of all the pregnant girls visiting the clinic so they can ID them. They then put pressure on them by shopping them to their parents and priests. Mrs Trastevere knew Angie was pregnant and said the whole Polish community would be hearing about it the next day. Angie was in a state afterwards, as you can imagine.’

‘After that interview, Banach drove to the Royal to sit at PC Ryan’s bedside,’ said Brook. ‘When she left, she was attacked by the two assailants, one of them unknown, as you saw.’

‘We know one of them?’ said DC Read.

Brook held up a photograph. ‘Bernadette Murphy.’

There was another murmur of excited conversation.

‘One of your missing girls?’ said Charlton. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not a hundred per cent,’ replied Brook. ‘But she may have been seen on the pro-life picket at the Rutherford by Nurse Moran. She’s Bernadette’s aunt.’

‘So it’s not a coincidence, Bernadette targeting Rutherford patients,’ said Cooper.

‘Far from it,’ replied Brook. ‘The night before she dropped out of circulation, Bernadette and her aunt had a blazing row about abortion because Moran had applied to work at the clinic. And all the girls targeted were Moran’s patients. I’m guessing that was payback, though how Bernadette knew which patients were assigned to her aunt, I don’t yet know.’

‘Maybe the aunt’s in on it,’ said Morton.

‘We haven’t ruled it out.’

‘Bit young, isn’t she?’ said DC Smee. ‘Bernadette, I mean – not the profile of your run-of-the-mill religious fanatic.’ Brook shrugged.

‘But Caitlin Kinnear wasn’t pregnant when she disappeared, so how can she be part of the series?’ queried Charlton.

‘In Caitlin’s case, I think priorities had changed, though I don’t know why or how,’ said Brook. ‘Maybe she didn’t look guilty enough when she walked past the pickets, and I gather she gave them a piece of her mind, I don’t know. But these are fanatics and that’s their weakness. They think they’re doing God’s work and that makes them untouchable. It’s the kind of arrogance that allows them to kidnap a police officer even after their leader admits they took Angie’s picture to out her to her community.’

‘Maybe they’re punishing Caitlin for her sins,’ suggested Morton.

‘Possible,’ said Brook. ‘And if so, Caitlin’s in the most danger.’

‘Because she’s not pregnant,’ suggested Smee.

‘Exactly,’ said Brook. ‘She’s expendable.’

‘You think Banach is safe as long as she’s pregnant,’ said Gadd.

‘I’d say so,’ replied Brook. ‘But that doesn’t mean we have time to waste.’

‘No sign of Trastevere at home,’ called out Noble, entering the incident room. ‘Father O’Toole’s in Interview One.’

‘Something to share, Brook?’ demanded Charlton.

‘DC Cooper was drawing up a list of target properties for warrants . . .’

‘Warrants?’ said Charlton.

‘Father O’Toole founded CRI with Connie Trastevere’s money,’ said Brook. ‘She’s a widow with ties to militant pro-life groups in the US. She also inherited extensive properties . . .’

‘What has that got to do with anything?’

‘It’s likely that whoever abducted these girls is going to need space and privacy,’ said Noble.

‘That is speculative at best.’

‘It’s not speculation that we have an officer in danger, sir,’ said Noble.

‘You have no evidence of an indictable offence against anyone connected with CRI, Sergeant,’ said Charlton. ‘No magistrate will issue a search warrant for a fishing expedition like that.’

‘Then we’ll go in without one,’ snapped Noble. ‘Would you like to see the abduction again, sir?’ he demanded, the aggression in his voice giving Charlton pause.

For once Brook was the peacemaker. ‘Sir,’ he said, stepping in front of Noble. ‘Perhaps you can use your influence with Father O’Toole, get him to cooperate.’

‘He’s under arrest?’

‘Here at our invitation, sir.’

‘Do you realise how insane that sounds?’ protested Father O’Toole. ‘Kidnapping young women and holding them until they deliver their babies.’

‘We do, Patrick,’ said Charlton.

‘Citizens Resisting Infanticide is a legitimate charity,’ continued O’Toole.

‘We have to ask,’ continued Charlton. ‘One of our colleagues was abducted last night. A Constable Banach. I believe you met her.’

Brook and Noble exchanged a despairing look.

‘Good Lord,’ said O’Toole, genuinely surprised. ‘Are you serious? That nice young policewoman abducted?’

‘We haven’t confirmed it,’ said Brook. ‘And putting aside how insane it sounds, can you tell us whether Mrs Trastevere ever mentioned such a tactic, even in passing?’ Brook saw O’Toole hesitate. ‘Father?’

‘I really don’t think talking about something means you believe in it,’ said O’Toole.

‘If you have something to say, spit it out, Patrick,’ implored Charlton.

There was silence while O’Toole wrangled with himself. Charlton was about to speak again but Brook caught his eye with a minute shake of the head.

A moment later, O’Toole’s expression betrayed a mind made up.

‘Well?’ said Brook.

‘She once told me about a group in America she was connected with years ago. Children of the Lord Jesus Christ, they were called. They used to abduct women going into the clinic. But it wasn’t really kidnapping, Inspector – more of an intervention. You see, a lot of these girls feel pressured into having abortions by friends, parents, even a society that holds motherhood in contempt—’

‘Patrick!’

O’Toole took a deep breath. ‘Connie said they would . . . intercept the girl for a few hours, take her to a secret location and talk through the relevant scriptures with her. They’d pray with her until she saw the error of her ways.’ He looked down. ‘Or not. Then they’d take her home or to a church.’

‘Did Connie approve?’ said Charlton. O’Toole’s lips were firmly sealed. ‘Patrick.’

‘Broadly, yes, but that doesn’t mean . . .’

‘Where is she now?’ asked Noble.

‘If she’s not at home, I don’t know,’ replied O’Toole.

‘Do you know anything about Mrs Trastevere’s property interests?’

‘I know she has them,’ said O’Toole. ‘Nothing more.’

‘But you’re not familiar with anywhere specific she likes to spend time. Somewhere out in the country, away from it all.’

‘As far as I know, she spends her time in her Duffield home. It’s semi-rural, nice area – very pleasant garden. All her other properties are tenanted.’

‘Do
you
own any property, Father?’ asked Noble.

‘No.’

‘Not even a place to live.’

‘The parish provides accommodation,’ said O’Toole. ‘A small house in Littleover behind the church. It meets my needs.’

‘Does the church own property around the county to which you have access?’ asked Brook.

‘I really don’t see the relevance, Brook,’ said Charlton. Brook’s glare spoke volumes.

‘Father,’ prompted Brook, turning back to the priest.

‘There’s a small hall in the church grounds,’ said O’Toole. ‘We use it for the youth club.’