A Killing Moon (34 page)

Cowell looked absently across at her. ‘I knew.’

‘Jesus. What the hell were you thinking?’

‘I was thinking she was going to have an abortion,’ said Cowell, sounding out each word as though talking to an idiot.

‘That’s no reason to deviate from the process.’

‘What are we trying to do here but save innocent lives?’

‘Yeah, great,’ sneered Bernadette. ‘You give us the green light and now the shit’s hitting the fan. Mrs T’s already been on the phone.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She went ballistic when I told her.’

‘Anything else?’

Bernadette exchanged gimlet glances with Zeke. ‘She told us to be careful.’

‘Good advice,’ said Cowell, making for the stairs.

‘Another thing,’ said Bernadette. ‘She’s British.’

‘So what?’

‘So it’s one thing convincing foreigners they’ll be leaving the country after the birth, quite another to persuade a Brit. She’s got it into her head that once we have the baby, we’ll kill her.’

‘I’ll talk to her,’ said Cowell, disappearing up the stairwell. Zeke gave Bernadette the eyes and she hurried after the doctor. ‘It’s okay. I know the way.’

‘I need to collect her food tray.’

‘Got her eating already,’ smiled Cowell. ‘I’m impressed. Thought she’d be more stubborn.’ From the top of the stairs, she surveyed the corridor – the boarded window, the bare floor. ‘What happened to the carpet?’

‘It got a bit grubby,’ said Bernadette, pulling back the bolts on Banach’s door.

‘And the window?’

‘Passing kids,’ answered Bernadette, not meeting her eyes. She shrugged when Cowell raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Boredom.’

‘So much for the rural idyll,’ quipped Cowell, stepping through the door.

Coming to a junction, Brook made a right turn before heading over a crossroads. It was getting dark, so he turned on the headlights. The trees of Jobs Wood loomed on the right, and after passing a small pond, Brook came to a halt beside a rotting wooden sign – Jobs Wood Farm. He extinguished the headlights and pulled the car off the road into trees and on to a dirt track, rattling over a cattle grid and through a small stream.

He caught sight of the farmhouse through the trees. It was a good size, though not as large as the modern barn beyond. Both buildings were on higher ground, sitting above the surrounding fields with a clear view of cars approaching along the rough track.

Brook halted before the car broke cover and tried his mobile again, but three times the call failed. ‘Damn it,’ he muttered. The protocol was to wait for back-up, but he felt a paternal responsibility towards Banach after recruiting her to his squad. He put the car in first gear but stopped when he saw the lights of another car coming along the lane. He quickly reversed off the track and under the cover of a lush clump of overhanging ferns, turning off the engine and slipping out of the driver’s door in one movement.

He hurried back to the track and crouched behind bushes in time to see a sleek black Land Rover make short work of the uneven track and power up to the house. A familiar figure was behind the wheel.

‘You’re taking it well, Angie,’ said Cowell, cleaning her hands with an antibacterial wipe. Banach didn’t reply.

‘Anka is the name God gave her,’ said Bernadette.

‘So it is,’ said Cowell. ‘Sorry about the head, Anka, but we can’t risk chemicals in your condition.’ Banach sat perfectly still on the bed, her eyes following Cowell around the room.

‘Quite an appetite,’ said Bernadette, removing the dinner tray. Banach watched her take the plate, hoping she wouldn’t realise something was missing amidst the leftover steak gristle. She laid her hand obligingly over the open buckle to distract her captor and Bernadette abandoned the tray to fasten the strap around her wrist.

‘Isn’t one hand enough?’ asked Banach.

‘No,’ replied Bernadette.

‘She’s right,’ said Cowell. ‘We’ve been over this. You have to let the patient move around for the sake of circulation. She can’t get out and it’ll save you coming in all the time to let her use the toilet.’

Bernadette yanked the strap as tight as she could until Banach winced. ‘She’s a police officer, remember.’

‘What did I just say?’ said Cowell, approaching the bed. ‘You’ll cut off her blood.’

‘You worry about my circulation,’ said Banach, through gritted teeth, ‘but in six months, after I deliver your cash cow, you’ll let these fanatics butcher me.’

‘Shut up, you whore,’ snapped Bernadette.

‘Anka,’ said Cowell, shaking her head and shooting a fierce glance at Bernadette. ‘That’s not what this is about. Once we have your child safe and well, we offer you a new life. Mrs Trastevere is a wealthy woman and you can go anywhere . . .’

‘Bullshit,’ said Banach. ‘That fairy story might have worked with Caitlin and some of the others, but I’m a police officer. How naive do you think I am?’

Cowell’s face registered confusion. ‘Caitlin? That was the girl in the burned-out van, wasn’t it?’

‘Aaah.’ Banach smiled her understanding. ‘Need-to-know basis. Caitlin wasn’t pregnant so you didn’t need to know.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about your group abducting Caitlin Kinnear,’ said Banach.

‘Are you finished in here, Doc?’ said Bernadette. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

‘Better do as Bernadette says, Doc,’ said Banach. ‘Before you learn something.’

‘Let’s go,’ ordered Bernadette.

‘Or stay and ask me about Caitlin and how they took her to be a surrogate wife to Zeke’s dad.’ Banach’s fierce eye issued her challenge.

Cowell turned to Bernadette. ‘What’s she talking about, Bernie?’

Bernadette hesitated. ‘She’s a cop. She’s playing you.’

‘Ask her what they did with her,’ said Banach.

‘I don’t need to,’ said Cowell. ‘Caitlin Kinnear burned to death in a van in Derby. Two brothers kidnapped her and set fire to her. It was on the news and in all the papers.’

‘That’s what everyone assumed,’ said Banach. ‘But that was a young Polish girl called Kassia. Meanwhile Caitlin was abducted by this nutter and her psycho boyfriend and kept here as a concubine for his crippled father.’

‘That’s enough,’ ordered Bernadette, marching round to pull harder on the strap.

‘Seems she doled out a bit of lip at the clinic to God’s warriors,’ grimaced Banach through the pain.

‘I’m telling you to shut up, bitch.’

‘Bernie, stop.’ Cowell tried to pull the wiry redhead away. ‘You’ll damage her.’ Bernadette shoved her off and forced the prong into its tightest setting.

‘That hurts,’ cried Banach.

A powerful car roared up to the house and Bernadette ran to the window to look down into the gloomy cobbled yard. Father O’Toole and Mrs Trastevere climbed out of the Land Rover. Bernadette’s face fell.

She turned to see Helen Cowell unfastening the strap round Banach’s wrist.

‘Leave that!’ she ordered, marching back to the bed, pushing Cowell aside. ‘She’s a copper, you idiot.’

She bent back over the loose strap to refasten it, but quick as a flash, Banach produced the jagged T-bone in her fist and drove it ferociously into Bernadette’s eye. The shards of bone, broken and sharpened by Banach’s teeth, plunged into the socket and Bernadette let out an unholy howl of pain and staggered backwards clutching at her face.

Screaming, she lurched back towards the bed, where Banach flicked up her unbound legs and wrapped them around Bernadette’s neck, pulling her down against the bed and squeezing as hard as she could.

Cowell ran to pull Bernadette away, but Banach’s grip was too tight. Instead she fell on Banach, who dropped the T-bone and grabbed the doctor by her hair, twisting as hard as she could and ignoring the feeble connection from the doctor’s flailing fists. Soon Cowell was screaming as well, but Banach only twisted harder, feeling the satisfaction of Cowell’s roots giving way in her grip.

Cowell finally jerked her head from Banach’s grasp and lurched towards her bag, leaving a fistful of shiny black hair behind. Still bound by her right hand, Banach continued to squeeze the weakening redhead’s neck with her thighs; at the same time, no longer fighting off Cowell, she was able to claw at the strap restraining her right arm. It was stiff but hadn’t been fastened as tightly as her left, and as Cowell advanced on her with a hypodermic, she wrenched her stronger arm free and swung viciously at the doctor’s chin.

Banach could hear the snap of the jaw, and Cowell stood for a moment, frozen, before her arms dropped to her sides, her eyes rolled back and she fell like a demolished building. Banach jumped to her feet, releasing Bernadette to the floor, then fell on her with a fist brought from way behind her head.

Both women lay still, Banach’s heavy breathing the only noise. Barefoot, she stepped over Bernadette and plucked the hypodermic from Cowell’s hand, pumping half into the doctor’s neck with an unceremonious plunge of the fist. She withdrew the syringe and emptied it into Bernadette’s neck.

‘Sleep tight, girls,’ she panted.

In just her nightgown and underwear, she tiptoed to the window, seeing the priest and Mrs Trastevere disappear into the house. With little time to think, she rustled through Cowell’s bag for her phone, but if the doctor had one, she must have left it in the car.

Banach ran into the corridor, closed the door and eased the bolts across. She opened each door on the upper floor but was relieved to find them unoccupied, until the last one.

It was a playroom and contained two children, one little older than a baby. It was clear they’d been conceived by different mothers.

‘Hello,’ said the little boy from his playpen.

‘Hello,’ said Banach. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sean.’

‘I’m Angie,’ said Banach. She took a step towards the pen but stopped before reversing for the door, smiling.
No way will I make it with kids in tow. And these kids are loved
. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘Bye, Angie,’ said Sean, waving.

Softly closing the door, Banach headed to the top of the stairs. She could hear voices from the room below and looked around for an escape route. Making her way to the boarded window at the far end of the corridor, she pulled away the panel and gazed out into the gathering night through the broken window.

Thirty-Three

Brook watched the land rover power up the hill and stepped into the clearing to follow. He’d be at the house in two minutes and without the car would at least have the advantage of surprise. A second later he stopped, a thought gripping him. He sprinted back over the cattle grid to the lane.

Fifty yards away DC Smee sat in an unmarked car, window open, talking on his radio.

Seeing Brook approach, he jumped out. ‘Sir, I was just trying to reach you.’

‘Pull off the road here and block the farm track,’ said Brook, sliding into the passenger seat. ‘No lights.’

Smee got back into the car, drove on to the track and killed the engine.

‘Get hold of DS Noble and the Chief Super and get them here. They might still be in Rodsley. And contact Ashbourne station too. All hands.’ He opened the passenger door. ‘Better get a couple of ambulances while you’re at it.’

‘We should wait for back-up, sir.’

‘Make sure you do. Don’t let anyone leave, and when the cavalry gets here, come hard and heavy.’ He turned and jogged towards the farmhouse.

‘Mrs T, Uncle Pat,’ said Zeke, eying the bucket, the tea towel still hiding its contents. ‘I was just going to feed the pigs.’

‘Zeke,’ said O’Toole. The priest turned to his disfigured brother seated in his corner chair. ‘How are you, Sam?’ Sam stood and approached for a hug, his tongue swaying inertly amidst the broken grin. ‘Hat tree.’
Patrick
.

‘Are the children ready?’ said Mrs Trastevere.

‘Red must be sorting them out,’ said Zeke, his expression darkening. ‘Listen . . .’

‘We’ve been over this, Ezekiel,’ said Trastevere. ‘You knew this day might come.’

‘But they’re our kids now,’ protested Zeke. ‘You said we could have them.’

‘They are
not
your kids,’ said Trastevere, her features stern.

‘We love them.’

‘Bring them down!’ barked Trastevere.

Defeated, Zeke shouted up the stairwell. ‘Red!’

The drop wasn’t too bad and the ground looked muddy and soft. Banach could see the reason. She’d be landing in the pig pen and the animals were feeding in the far corner, fighting for space around the trough. She squeezed out of the broken window, ignoring the tear of broken glass along her bare thigh, and launched herself, landing awkwardly. Feeling her ankle wrench, she let out a yelp of agony and stood, gingerly testing her weight on her injured foot.

‘Shit.’ She cursed at the pain shooting through her leg, and half hobbled, half hopped towards the fence, a trickle of blood dripping down her calf.

She could hear the pigs clearly now, and a terrible racket they were making, clambering over each other to get to the feed, screeching when obstructed from their meal. A second later, an even louder squeal drew her attention and she turned to see two very large pigs, unable to get their snouts in the trough, walking towards her. The larger of the two broke into a porcine gallop and the other followed, pounding at the ground.

With a tic of horror, she looked down at the rivulet of blood rolling past her ankle bone to pool in the mud. The fence was only yards away, but a quick glance over her shoulder told her the pigs were almost on her. Gritting her teeth, she drove her twisted ankle into the ground, biting down on the shard of pain, and launched herself at the stout wooden barrier.

She felt the heavy animals strike the fence a second after she had pulled herself over, and the collision dropped her in a heap on the other side. Her face was inches from a gap in the rails, and a second later, a hairy pink head shuddered into the opening, snout and teeth snapping and straining to get to her.

The pig bit down on a strand of her hair and Banach screamed as she felt herself being dragged towards the gap in the fence. Panic-stricken, she lashed out at its small pink eyes and the pig loosened its grip, allowing her to break free and roll to a safe distance. She lay on her back for a few seconds, panting hard.

A moment later, she hauled herself to her feet and approached the fence as the pigs wandered off, snuffling over the blood trail. ‘If I get out of this, I’m personally coming back to turn you fuckers into bacon sandwiches and a huge vat of
bigos
,’ she promised. The pigs turned to stare as she hobbled away.

Father O’Toole guided his brother on to the sofa. ‘There you go, Sam.’ His eye was drawn to the set of interlocking leather straps hanging from a wing of the sofa. He lifted the thick leather to examine them, eyebrows raised at the exposed wires glued to the inside of several of the straps.

‘Dear Lord.’

He returned them to the sofa and made to leave.

‘Hat tree,’ said Sam, restraining him with a grasping hand.

O’Toole gripped his brother, managing to hold his eye to the ugliness, and patted the back of his hand. ‘Get some rest, Sam. I’ll see you soon.’ He resisted the urge to explore further and marched purposefully back to the kitchen as Mrs Trastevere replaced the tea towel over a large bucket.

‘I don’t know what the hell’s been going on,’ he said, ‘but I don’t like what I’m seeing. This is supposed to be an intervention, not a torture chamber.’

The elderly woman turned to him, her face set. ‘If you’re making an omelette, Patrick, you’re gonna break some eggs.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘We’re abducting young women against their will. They’re not all gonna play ball.’

‘Are you going to ask him about the Kinnear girl?’ demanded O’Toole.

‘Me? He’s your nephew.’

O’Toole had no comeback. He nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll do it.’

‘It hardly matters.’

O’Toole was incredulous. ‘We’re talking about a human life. If they took her without telling us, God knows what else they’ve been up to.’

‘Save your sympathy for someone who deserves it,’ snarled Trastevere. ‘We’re talking about a slut who destroyed her child.’

‘And what about abducting a police officer?’

‘Cowell overreached herself. I blame myself. I should have stayed on top of things.’

‘Constance . . .’

Zeke emerged from the stairwell carrying the two children draped along either arm. He reached the little boy down to the floor and handed a holdall to Mrs Trastevere while still juggling the baby up and down.

‘Are we going for a walk, Daddy?’ asked Sean.

Zeke’s eyes filled with tears, his voice hoarse. ‘No, Sean. You’re going on a trip. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.’

‘Where’s Bernadette?’ said Trastevere.

Zeke shook his head. ‘Thought she was in with the new girl, but the bolts are drawn.’ He gulped back more tears. ‘She must have gone to the barn.’ He glared at Trastevere. ‘Can’t face losing another child.’

‘About the new girl . . .’

Zeke put up a hand. ‘We didn’t know she was a copper. Cowell picked her out. She . . .’ His eyes narrowed.

‘What is it?’ demanded Trastevere.

‘Cowell was in with the new girl as well.’ He thrust the baby into O’Toole’s arms and ran up the stairs.

‘Put the children in the car,’ Trastevere barked.

‘I need to ask about the Kinnear girl,’ said O’Toole.

‘Do it!’ she shouted, following Zeke up the stairs.

O’Toole unlocked the Land Rover and helped Sean up into the back seat before placing the carrycot on the seat next to him. ‘Look after your brother, Sean. I won’t be long.’ He opened the window an inch to ensure fresh air and closed the door.

His hand was still on the door handle when a cuff was roughly clipped on to his wrist from behind. Then his left arm was yanked behind his back and wrist attached to wrist. The car keys were stripped from his inert hand.

‘Children of the damned, Father?’ said Brook, spinning him round.

‘Inspector Brook! I—’

‘Shut up.’ Brook grabbed his forearm and frogmarched him to the rear of the vehicle, flicking at the key fob. The boot opened. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you not to leave children in a car without supervision?’ He heaved the priest into the boot and slammed it closed before locking the vehicle.

‘They’re alive,’ said Zeke, his fingers registering the pulse in first Bernadette, then Dr Cowell. ‘Jesus, baby,’ he said, staring at the blood around Bernadette’s eye. ‘What did she do to you?’

‘Never mind that now, your patient’s gone,’ said Mrs Trastevere. ‘You bloody fool. Find her!’

‘Oh I’ll find her,’ growled Zeke, heading to the door. ‘And when I do . . .’ As he passed, Mrs Trastevere caught his arm, surprising him with her strength.

‘Anything else you want to tell me?’ she said. Zeke lowered his head. ‘So you did take the Kinnear girl.’

‘You heard the way she spoke to us. Like we were in the wrong.’

‘And you wanted to punish her.’ Trastevere shook her head. ‘We don’t have time to argue. Where is she?’

‘In the barn – what’s left of her.’

She let go of Zeke’s arm and pushed him out of the maternity room. In the corridor, Zeke turned at the noise of the old woman shooting the bolts across.

‘What are you doing?’

‘When the police get here, they can’t find any evidence. No bodies. Nothing.’ She nodded at the door. ‘That includes the good doctor. Understood?’

‘What about the copper?’ said Zeke.

‘Sacrifices have to be made for the greater good, Ezekiel.’

‘But she’s pregnant.’

‘The Lord will understand,’ said Trastevere. ‘As he understands the contents of the bucket downstairs.’ Zeke looked away, but Trastevere grabbed his shirt and shook him. ‘Find Banach. She can’t have got far. Our work must continue, Ezekiel. Whatever it takes. The Lord’s will must prevail.’

Zeke nodded, his face set hard. ‘Amen.’

Banach hobbled to the large barn and flattened herself against the metal wall, thinking hard. She had little chance on one leg, especially with her feet sore and bloodied. At least there were no dogs.

She hobbled round to the barn’s entrance – a large sliding door – and dropped on to her stomach to peer through the tiny gap between door and concrete floor, hoping to find at least a bicycle. She was horrified to see a body laid out on the concrete. She lifted the lever and slipped inside.

‘Caitlin,’ she hissed, recognising the missing student despite the blood caked on her face and neck. She dropped to her knees and held her up by the shoulders. ‘Caitlin! Can you hear me?’

There was a blackened scar in the shape of a crucifix on Caitlin’s neck, another on her forearm. An air bubble of blood inflated through the scarring. Leaning closer, Banach could smell burned meat, then spotted the cross-shaped branding iron lying on the floor nearby. It looked like Caitlin’s throat had been slashed and someone had tried to cauterise the wound with the red-hot iron.

Having failed to rouse her, Banach placed Caitlin’s shoulders back on the floor and grabbed her wrist to find a pulse. It was very faint.

‘Caitlin,’ she said, through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t you die on me. Not in here.’ She lifted up the girl’s sweatshirt, tore open the dress beneath and tried to administer CPR, a mixture of chest compressions and the kiss of life. Blood bubbled through the wound in her windpipe but there was no sign of Caitlin inflating her own lungs.

With shame pulling on her stomach, Banach scrambled down to Caitlin’s feet. Same size. As she flipped off one of her training shoes, she heard a whisper.

She crouched over the girl’s face. ‘Caitlin?’

Caitlin’s eyes opened to a slit. Her right hand moved and Banach watched it pointing to a heavy stainless-steel door. She whispered again and Banach had to put an ear to her mouth to catch the words.

‘Daniela,’ breathed Caitlin. ‘Help her.’

Banach stared at Caitlin, then hurried to the steel door.

‘Angie,’ said Brook at the kitchen door. ‘Are you there?’ He picked his way quietly across the stone floor to the stairwell and peered up into the gloom of the staircase. A noise behind distracted him and he turned to see Mrs Trastevere flying out of the darkness towards him, a large butcher’s knife glinting above her head.

‘You devil!’ she screamed. He tried to move aside but had nowhere to go; raising an arm in self-protection, he felt the knife tear through his coat into the soft flesh above his elbow. He let out a yell, more surprise than pain, but as he went down he was able to pull her with him to limit her scope for another strike.

Surprisingly powerful, she managed to lever herself back to her feet and fell on him again, the knife this time heading for his eyes. Brook jerked his head out of the blade’s path and the knife connected with the stone floor, sending up a brief spark. Before she could draw back for another blow, he grabbed her knife hand, but she wriggled free and his palm closed around the blade.

He shouted in shock at the jagged pain and sudden dampness in his palm but couldn’t attend to the damage as she threw herself malevolently at him again. Rocking back, Brook bent both legs in the air and planted his feet in her bony chest to absorb her momentum while holding the knife arm away from his face. Then, straightening his legs with all his power, he launched her violently across the room into the wall with a clatter of dislodged pans.

He clambered to his feet and was upright just in time as Trastevere flew at him again. As she thrust the knife at him, Brook grabbed a warm pan lid from the hob and swung it into the old woman’s face as might a gladiator brandishing his shield in a Roman arena.

The old woman stopped in her tracks, a low moan of shock emanating from her pinched, wrinkled mouth, but she didn’t go down. Brook swung twice more with escalating fury until the knife fell, point first, from her hand and he could kick it away. Her knees buckled and blood flowed from her left eye, but though she sagged to her knees, her torso remained upright as if in prayer. Panting heavily, Brook staggered over to her stricken form.

‘You’re. Under. Arrest. Anything . . .’ Fumbling for handcuffs, he realised he’d already used them. ‘Damn.’ He planted his feet wide and swung the pan lid mightily across the side of Mrs Trastevere’s head one last time, and she finally obliged by slumping face first to the ground.

Brook dropped the lid, still breathless. With uncomprehending eyes he glimpsed the fingernail floating in the scummy water of the pan, and beyond, the bleached body parts scattered across the floor from the spilled bucket. He closed his eyes in horror.