Brook looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got a list of Caitlin’s courses?’
‘Lecturers, tutors, campus doctor, the works.’
‘It’ll be a slog,’ said Brook.
‘You mean you might have to take your own notes,’ teased Noble.
‘I mean we don’t want to repeat it. So let’s kill two birds with one stone. Tell me about the Italian girl Interpol mislaid – the one who was also at the university.’
Seven
‘Please,’ said the girl, searching for the English inflection as she shook the rain from her flimsy coat. The receptionist ignored her. The girl waited, holding her emotions in check, knowing a repetition would harm her cause. This was a familiar routine for Kassia Proch – interacting with resentful locals minded to communicate their disdain of the immigrant in their midst by making her wait. And those were the well-mannered ones.
The receptionist looked up from her computer screen a second later than was polite in case the pale girl standing before her had miscalculated the balance of power in their relationship. She blinked myopically at Kassia, raising spectacles to her face for a proper examination.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I come see Dr Fleming.’
‘Are you a private patient?’
‘Please?’
The receptionist’s expression hardened, her conclusion already drawn. ‘Are you pri-vate or N-H-S?’ she said, sounding out the words.
‘No, not private.’
‘NHS then,’ she said, tapping at her keyboard. ‘Name, please.’
‘I come before.’ The sensored main door swept open and Kassia looked nervously towards the noise of the picket line, singing their hymns and chanting their slogans. The door closed and the clamour was muffled until the next unfortunate tried to enter or leave the building.
‘Did they give you a hard time outside?’
Kassia looked back at the receptionist. ‘Please?’
The woman shook her head, reverting to her previous demeanour. ‘I need your name.’
Kassia gave it in a whisper, as though to broadcast her identity would be to invite further shame. But then the severe tone of her interrogator spoke to something deep within her – something hard, something resilient, something that all migrants needed. Suddenly she held the older woman’s judgemental gaze and glared back defiantly.
How dare this dried-up old
cipa
look down on me?
Then she thought of the name her mother had given her when she saw those big brown eyes blinking back from the swaddling, and her gaze found the floor again. Kassia. It meant purity.
‘Nationality?’
‘
Polska
,’ replied Kassia. When the
cipa
feigned ignorance, she added, ‘Poland.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘December twenty-five, nineteen hundred ninety-four.’
‘Christmas Day?’ The receptionist looked up briefly from her keyboard. ‘Married or single?’ Kassia didn’t answer. ‘Single,’ concluded the woman, checking the appropriate box. ‘Have you brought a doctor’s referral?’
‘I give letter before,’ answered Kassia. ‘Remember?’
The receptionist sighed. ‘Take a seat. Your nurse will be with you shortly.’
‘Kassia, isn’t it?’ said the nurse, pointing to her badge. ‘I’m Mary.’
Kassia stood, looked into the smiling face, and nodded in recognition. ‘Nurse Moran.’ She tried to smile back, but as so often when sympathy accrued, the tears followed and Kassia’s sangfroid evaporated. ‘No. I can’t do it. I can’t hurt my child.’
‘There, there,’ said the nurse, moving in to her, pulling her head on to a chubby shoulder and rubbing her back. ‘It’s all going to be fine, you’ll see. No need for all this upset. We’ll get you a cup of tea and Dr Fleming can have a word.’
‘No!’ said Kassia. ‘No talk. I don’t want.’
Moran guided Kassia towards a chair, eased her down and clasped her hands. ‘Child, your hands are like ice. I’m getting you a hot drink . . .’
‘No,’ said Kassia, standing. ‘Sorry. I go.’
Moran studied her. ‘Listen, Kassia. We know this is the most difficult choice you’ll ever have to make. But you must think about the child as well. It’s not just a question of love. Think about the kind of life you can give it.’
‘It?’
‘I know we’re talking about a human life, but ask yourself if you’re ready. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’ She shot a glance towards the reception desk, but the hard-faced woman’s attention moved back to her screen at once. ‘If you decide to go ahead, nobody here will judge you.’
‘My mother judge me.’ Kassia looked up, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I judge.’ She sobbed harder and cupped her freezing hands to her mouth.
‘Come on,’ Nurse Moran said. ‘Let’s get you that hot drink . . .’
Kassia pulled away, her decision made, drying the tears on her cheeks with a sleeve. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I can’t kill my child,’ she added with an involuntary grab of her stomach.
‘That’s your decision, my love,’ said Moran. ‘What about the father?’
‘The father can go to hell.’ She moved hesitantly towards the double doors, shrinking from the ordeal outside.
Moran marched to the reception desk and returned with a card. ‘Here.’ She pressed it into Kassia’s hand. ‘If you need to talk, you know where we are.’
Kassia turned back to the nurse, unable to meet her eyes, as though any further communication might dissuade her from her course. The automatic doors opened at her approach and she hesitated, the increased volume of a badly sung psalm giving her pause.
‘Come on,’ said Nurse Moran, appearing at her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you out.’
The nurse threw an arm behind the elfin figure and guided her out into the cold. The ground was damp underfoot and a stiffening wind persuaded Kassia to pull her too-thin coat tighter. Moran held her around the shoulder and Kassia braced herself as they approached the small gathering at the end of the path.
The assembled crowd were mostly elderly, huddled under umbrellas and clutching placards bearing an assortment of pro-life slogans.
HALF THE PATIENTS ENTERING AN ABORTION CLINIC NEVER COME OUT ALIVE!EQUAL RIGHTS FOR UNBORN WOMEN!
Kassia looked away, hoping not to be noticed. However, the psalm died on the lips of the protesters as all eyes in the group flashed towards her, and she found herself looking round for an alternative route. There wasn’t one.
Feeling her slow, Nurse Moran gripped her harder and walked her on. ‘To bring a child into this world takes so much love, my girl. You’ve already shown that love. Now your baby needs you to be brave for just a little longer and then you can get on with your life.’
The silence was broken by an elderly woman wearing an expensive fur hat and matching coat. ‘Baby killer!’ she screamed at Kassia in an American accent, a gloved finger raised to point. She moved towards the shivering girl but was restrained by the priest next to her.
‘We’re not allowed to intimidate, Mrs Trastevere,’ said the priest. ‘The police made that clear.’
‘Murderer!’ screamed Mrs Trastevere, ignoring him and wrestling for her freedom.
‘No,’ replied a sobbing Kassia, shaking her head to emphasise her innocence. ‘I not kill my child.’
‘The Lord is Life,’ continued the woman, not listening. She pushed against the priest again. Then, from the back of the knot of protesters, a camera flash briefly illuminated Kassia’s distraught face.
Moran’s head snapped round to scowl at the figure in the fading light. A man, his face hidden by a hoodie, lowered his hands to pocket his phone and turned away as Moran edged in his direction. ‘You, what do you think you’re doing?’ she shouted at his retreating frame. But Mrs Trastevere pushed towards Kassia once more, forcing the nurse to interpose herself, and in the fracas, he slipped away.
‘Murdering bitches!’ screamed Mrs Trastevere, looking from Kassia to the nurse.
The priest pulled her wiry frame back. ‘Constance, we can’t intimidate, or the police will move us on.’
‘Burn in hell, the pair of you,’ screamed the elderly woman, undeterred.
‘Like you’d know about hell, you pampered old bag,’ shouted Nurse Moran above the patter of light rain on umbrellas and coats. There was a shocked silence and everyone turned to listen to the fierce Irishwoman. ‘Hell is where these poor girls are. I bet you’ve never had to lift a finger in your life, and if you had someone at home that loved you, you wouldn’t be here now, causing grief to the troubled souls who pass through our doors.’
Hushed, the protesters watched the pair pass. Kassia looked furtively into the priest’s eyes and instinctively crossed herself. She eschewed a further denial and quickened her step, the tears turning to howls of pain.
‘Be safe, my child,’ whispered Moran into her ear when they’d cleared the picket. Then she let go of Kassia’s arms as though she was an injured bird being released back into the wild.
Once the slight girl had hurried off into the dark. Moran turned a blazing eye on the priest. ‘We’re throwing that one back, Father O’Toole, so spare me the homily.’
‘Praise the Lord . . .’
‘Don’t you dare mention the Lord!’ snapped the nurse, jabbing a finger towards his face. ‘And don’t think for a second that you and these other gobshites had anything to do with it. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,’ she added, stomping back towards the welcoming glow of the clinic.
Her expression didn’t soften as she marched towards reception, her eyes glued to the prim bespectacled woman behind her screen. ‘You’d better let Dr Fleming know his eight o’clock has changed her mind, Sally.’
The receptionist picked up the phone and Moran was about to move away but, settled on her choice of words, turned back. ‘You know, apart from our job being to help these poor girls, I know for a fact the Rutherford Group makes more money from NHS referrals than it does private. You’d do well to remember that.’
‘What do you mean?’ retorted Sally.
‘I mean best not let management see you putting off potential clients like that.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Moran. ‘Your face would sour milk.’ She smiled to soften the blow. ‘Why upset the poor girls when there’s plenty of other folk to do that? Show a little compassion.’
Sally depressed a button on the phone, her face like thunder.
Moran looked towards the double doors and managed a smile. ‘And thank goodness for one poor lass able to find her own path.’
Eight
‘Pretty girl,’ said the elderly round-faced man with the thick spectacles. ‘I read in the paper she was missing.’
Brook waited for more. It was the end of a long and frustrating day tramping around campus talking to wary students, bored lecturers and harassed tutors, all unable to offer any insights into Caitlin’s disappearance or state of mind. A picture of the Pope behind the doctor’s head caught Brook’s eye. Stiles followed his gaze.
‘We’d appreciate anything you can tell us, Doctor,’ said Brook. ‘In confidence, of course.’
‘Well, it’s a bit irregular,’ said Stiles, his voice suggesting that a little more persuasion would do the trick.
‘It’s important,’ said Noble, applying the final push. Both detectives knew that members of the doctor’s generation were more likely to bend protocols to accommodate the police.
Stiles weighed the gravity of their expressions before peering over his glasses at the computer screen. ‘Very well,’ he said, clicking the mouse. ‘Caitlin came to me last year with an infection. I won’t say where,’ he added with a suggestion of a smile. ‘I prescribed an anti-fungal cream. Job done.’ He beamed back at Brook and Noble.
‘We’d be more interested in her recent consultations, say the last two months, detailing her condition and how it affected her,’ said Brook.
Stiles returned his gaze to the screen. ‘The infection was her last appointment with me. That would be last October.’ He fixed Brook with a curious gaze. ‘What condition?’
‘Would she have seen another doctor?’ said Brook, ignoring the question.
‘Not without my knowledge, not on campus at least,’ said Stiles. ‘Of course, students are free to choose their campus doctor from the attending list, but she was assigned to me and if she wanted to transfer I’d have been notified. That’s the protocol. Now, as her doctor—’
‘Caitlin had an abortion,’ announced Noble, aware of Brook’s instant glare. ‘Just before she disappeared.’
The doctor’s surprise seemed genuine. ‘Indeed. I wasn’t aware she was pregnant.’
‘Any reason why she might not consult you about it?’ asked Brook, deciding he had little choice but to play the hand dealt him by Noble.
‘Many reasons,’ said Stiles. ‘Discretion, embarrassment . . .’
‘Fear of religious disapproval,’ suggested Brook.
Stiles smiled. ‘Yes, I am a Catholic, Inspector. Well spotted. Caitlin too. But do you really think I’d be in a position of trust at a university if I allowed my personal beliefs to influence my work?’ He glanced back at the screen. ‘I notice Ms Kinnear lived off campus. Perhaps she registered with a local practice.’
Brook shot a fleeting look at Noble, who answered with a shake of the head. ‘And if not?’
Stiles shrugged. ‘Then I’d suggest she wanted as few people to know as possible. It doesn’t take a gynaecologist to flag up your condition if you’re missing periods. And any chemist will sell you a pregnancy kit, so self-diagnosis is a simple matter. As for the rest, you’ll have to ask her.’
Noble was preparing an acerbic response, so Brook jumped in. ‘If you were her only doctor, could she get an abortion without your referral?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Stiles. ‘It’s not supposed to happen without one, but things have become very lax these days. A referral clears away the major obstacles – at least within the NHS – but in my experience, it’s not unknown for women with a Catholic background to remove that layer of bureaucracy and meet the higher price of secrecy.’
‘You think she may have gone private?’
‘It can be an affordable option,’ said Stiles.
‘How much?’ asked Noble.
‘It depends. Surgical procedure or pill?’
‘Surgical,’ said Brook.
‘Well, again depending on her circumstances and how far along she was, you can get the basic procedure for between five and seven hundred pounds,’ said Stiles. ‘The earlier the procedure, the cheaper it is, and if you’re prepared to dispense with unnecessary sedation and other incidentals . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Not cheap . . .’
‘But not out of reach,’ concluded Brook.
‘Exactly,’ said Stiles. ‘Do you know where?’
‘The Rutherford Clinic,’ said Noble.
Stiles nodded. ‘It’s local, very reputable. Like most clinics, they’ll perform a mixture of procedures depending on the stage of a patient’s pregnancy – private and NHS. Rafe Fleming is the top man there – very good in his field. He does a lot of consultancy work at the Royal Derby.’ He splayed his hands to suggest closure.
‘Could you check your records to see if a Daniela Cassetti was one of your patients?’ said Noble, holding a photograph in front of the doctor’s face.
‘Pretty girl,’ said Stiles again, tapping at the keyboard. Brook and Noble exchanged a fleeting glance. ‘When was she a student?’
‘The first two terms of the last academic year,’ said Noble.
‘Cassetti,’ Stiles sounded out as he typed. ‘No, not one of mine, I’m afraid.’
‘But you have access to her records,’ suggested Brook.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stiles. ‘It’s one thing to bend the rules for my patients; quite another to do it for somebody else’s.’
‘But you can tell us who her campus doctor was, at least,’ said Noble.
‘Dr Helen Cowell,’ said Miles. ‘But don’t waste your time looking for her office; she no longer works on campus. University practice was far too dull for her. She consults at the Royal as well.’
‘One more question, Doctor,’ said Brook. ‘It’s just procedure. Where were you on the night of March twentieth?’
Stiles stared at Brook, then reached for his diary. ‘I left Derby on the eighteenth to attend a medical conference in Northampton for four nights to learn about new drugs coming on to the market.’
‘John . . .’ began Brook when they were walking to the car park through the rain.
‘I know,’ said Noble, pulling out his cigarettes. ‘We shouldn’t dish out confidential information unless absolutely necessary.’
‘Especially when it might colour the information we get back,’ added Brook.
‘Sorry,’ said Noble. ‘But with no leads, I think we need to lob in the odd hand grenade.’
‘That’s not your call,’ continued Brook, softening a little.
‘Maybe not,’ admitted Noble. ‘But it’s given us an angle.’
‘I won’t deny it,’ said Brook. ‘We should have looked into the termination earlier. I assumed that being a student, she’d had the procedure on the NHS.’
‘Seven hundred pounds is big money for someone with no income,’ said Noble.
‘And unless my eyes are gone, not a sign of it in her financials.’
The black skies had opened when Kassia turned on to Vernon Street, and she reached her building out of breath. The whole property was in darkness and she shook the rain from her coat, fumbling sightlessly for her key.
A few minutes later, she’d climbed the three flights of stairs to the bedsit at the top of her building and hung her coat on the back of the door. She ate the remaining
faworki
from her paper bag and licked the sugar from her fingers, then lay back on the single bed, propping herself upright with a pillow. She reached for the bottle of vodka on the floor and, after spinning off the cap, raised it to her lips, then paused in contemplation. A moment later she smiled and replaced the cap on the bottle without taking a drink.
The entryphone buzzed and Kassia slid off the bed, dropping the vodka bottle to the floor.
‘Hello.’
Noble finished pinning the pictures of Daniela Cassetti – one from Interpol, one from the university – on to a display board in the smallest incident room in the station and stepped back to look at her. Long dark hair, dark brooding eyes set wide in her face, white teeth beaming out. He hoped it wasn’t the doomed image of another victim, another face to carry in his head.
The more cases Noble worked, the more he filed the last head shot, the front-page heart tug, in his memory. It was his personal charnel house, his book of the dead, and though not the healthiest compilation, it was at least preferable to the pictures loved ones never got to see, the snapshots of death, best left to the imagination of seasoned professionals.
He stood back to check his handiwork, drained his Styrofoam cup and stole a glance at Brook, who was poring over Caitlin’s file again. He was beginning to understand what robbed his DI of so much sleep, and felt sure Brook’s own compendium of death wasn’t as sanitised as his own. He’d taken it home far longer, seen much worse.
‘Nothing close on the bank statements,’ said Brook, picking up the phone. ‘And she didn’t withdraw enough cash to build up a reserve to pay the clinic. We should get young Davison in and ask him the question.’
‘You think he bankrolled the abortion? That’s not the impression he gave me.’
Brook squinted at a number on Caitlin’s phone records and dialled. ‘Nor me, but if he
was
the father and Caitlin didn’t pay for the procedure . . .’
‘Can he afford it?’
‘With a self-made man like Councillor Davison for a father . . . Rutherford Clinic?’ said Brook into the receiver. He asked to speak to someone in administration but had to be satisfied with a name to scribble down for the morning. He replaced the receiver, then looked at the display board. Noble had tacked an arrow between Caitlin and Daniela. ‘What’s the connection?’
‘They both went to Derby University,’ answered Noble. ‘And both are missing.’
‘Daniela was there the year before Caitlin arrived. They never met.’
‘Dr Stiles was there both years,’ said Noble.
‘And Daniela is a
pretty girl
,’ conceded Brook, mimicking the doctor’s leering tone. ‘Any word on his alibi?’
‘Still waiting on calls,’ said Noble.
‘Unless he’s told us a stupid lie, he’s in the clear,’ said Brook. ‘There must be dozens of fellow delegates to put him in Northampton for four days and nights.’
‘Schmoozing in five-star luxury – nice work if you can get it,’ said Noble.
Brook glanced at the clock. ‘We should wrap it up.’
‘I haven’t finished putting up all the girls,’ said Noble.
Brook’s smile was melancholic. ‘Take it from a cold-case veteran, there’s no hurry. The dead aren’t going anywhere.’
‘Caitlin’s not dead,’ replied Noble, as though offended. He looked away, stealing a glance at the enlarged photograph obtained from her student ID.
Brook stared at him. ‘You’re really feeling this one, John. Any particular reason?’
Noble paused for thought. ‘I’ll get back to you on that.’
‘No need,’ said Brook. ‘We never know when we’re vulnerable. Any case at any time can reach out and bite us, sometimes when we least expect it.’
‘Is that how it was with Laura Maples?’ asked Noble. He watched Brook stare off into space. Noble had no doubt he was picturing her corpse. Laura Maples – raped, killed with a beer bottle and left to rot in a rat-infested slum, her killer forever unidentified.
‘That’s how it was,’ mumbled Brook, rousing himself. ‘You’ve never asked me about my time in the Met before.’
‘And don’t start now, right?’
‘No, you can ask.’ Brook smiled. ‘Just don’t expect a reply.’
Noble reached for his jacket, realising he’d probably never learn the cause of Brook’s nervous breakdown in London all those years ago, investigating the serial killer known as the Reaper. His move to Derby CID had been the result, and his mental illness the reason Brook had once been universally unpopular with his colleagues.
‘Fancy a late drink?’ suggested Noble. Brook raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’
‘See you in the morning, John.’