A Killing Moon Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Steven Dunne

  The right of Steven Dunne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain

  by Headline Publishing Group in 2015

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover photographs © Mark Owen/Arcangel Images (man) and Harvey Wood/Alamy (background)

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 1490 4

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Steven Dunne

  Praise

  Also by Steven Dunne

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  About Steven Dunne

  Steven Dunne was born in Bradford, Yorkshire but moved to London after attending Kent University and St Mary’s College in Twickenham. He became a freelance journalist writing for The Times and the Independent and, after co-writing a comedy pilot, wrote the book for The Latchmere Theatre’s award-winning pantomime Hansel and Gretel.

  Since moving to Derby he has written four highly acclaimed thrillers – THE REAPER, THE DISCIPLE, DEITY and THE UNQUIET GRAVE, all featuring DI Brook of Derby CID. He is also a part-time teacher in the city.

  Praise for Steven Dunne

  ‘The highest echelons of thriller writing’ Lancashire Evening Post

  ‘I was left reeling with shock’ victorialovesbooks.wordpress.com

  ‘Truly brilliant’ lizlovesbooks.com

  ‘Deeply unsettling and totally engrossing’ loiteringwithintent.wordpress.com

  By Steven Dunne

  The Reaper

  The Disciple

  Deity

  The Unquiet Grave

  A Killing Moon

  www.stevendunne.co.uk

  About the Book

  For the young woman kidnapped on her way home from the pub, the nightmare is about to begin …

  Weeks after Caitlin Kinnear goes missing, the police are unable to break her case. Worse they are not even certain harm has come to her. But determined to pursue all leads, DI Damen Brook and his team begin to trawl through the murky world of cheap migrant labour. Convinced that the answers lie hidden within its depths, Brook soon begins to realise Caitlin is in terrible danger.

  When the body of another young girl turns up it becomes clear that Caitlin’s abduction might not be an isolated incident and the race is on to save her. But with time running out, can Brook put the pieces together and find Caitlin before it’s too late?

  In loving memory

  Vincent ‘Vinny’ McKenna

  A fan, a friend, a brother

  Acknowledgements

  Love and thanks to my wife Carmel for her support and encouragement. To my sister Susan for the same. Jeff Fountain for his editorial comments that are always to the point and insightful.

  My vast team at Headline – too numerous to mention – whose skills have contributed so much to the DI Brook series, chiefly my indispensible editor Vicki Mellor and publicity bod (her words) Elizabeth Masters.

  Thanks to my agent, David Grossman, for continuing to believe in me and using his expertise to promote the series around the world. Also Joseph McDonald for his keen insights into modern policing procedure in addition to his excellent batting and fielding for The Weekenders.

  Finally a warm hug to my favourite book chain Waterstone’s for the passionate and knowledgeable people who comprise the staff who have welcomed me through their doors on many occasions to peddle my wares. A special mention for my local stores in Derby, Burton-on-Trent, Loughborough, Chesterfield and Nottingham.

  One

  20 March

  Caitlin downed the shot, slammed the glass on the counter and followed it with an urgent sip of ice-cold Guinness to dissipate the heat burning a path to an empty stomach. She revelled in the unfamiliar buzz of alcohol and grinned across at her disapproving friend.

  ‘What?’ she shouted above the pulse of the band thrashing out their unsubtle rhythm from the stage. ‘Another one over here, Jack.’ She waggled a hand at the barman to flag up her empty glass.

  After a brief hesitation to assess her condition, the barman swept up the glass for a refill and pointed at the name tag on the breast of his shirt. ‘I’ll serve you if you can read this.’

  Caitlin peered myopically at the badge. ‘Jake.’ The barman nodded and moved over to the optics.

  ‘Going at it a bit hard, aren’t you, Kitty?’ hissed Laurie.

  ‘Celebratin’,’ slurred Caitlin in return.

  ‘It’s something you celebrate, is it?’

  ‘I’m Oirish,’ giggled Caitlin. ‘I missed the craic on St Patrick’s so I’m making up for it.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Caitlin sighed. ‘Laurie, it’s Friday night, I’m having a drink. Tomorrow I’m away home to Belfast. That means I don’t have to endure another lecture for three weeks, and that includes yours.’

  ‘You don’t wanna talk about it,’ nodded Laurie. ‘I get that. But you don’t fool me.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning I know what it cost you,’ replied Laurie, her eyes burning into her friend’s. ‘So if you want to talk about it, I’m here.’

  Caitlin looked at the floor to find the words, then, wishing she hadn’t, managed to relocate Laurie’s face in the murk of the bar. ‘Look, it’s in the past. I’m grand now …’

  ‘But you—’

  ‘No more lectures, okay.’ Caitlin smiled. ‘I’m a free agent again – happy days.’ She took another long draught of Guinness.

  Laurie relented with her own smile. ‘Okay. And as a bonus, I suppose you found out what a shit Rollo is.’

  ‘Don’t think there was ever much doubt about that, was there?’ Caitlin hiccuped and threw a hand to her mouth, feeling the first peep of vomit at
the back of her throat.

  ‘You okay, Kitty?’

  ‘Never better,’ mumbled Caitlin, trying to persuade herself. No, she wasn’t okay. She hadn’t had a serious drink in weeks and now the alcohol was biting back hard. The room was beginning to sway and her head felt like it was bobbing around on a stick.

  Suddenly, instead of enveloping her in a hubbub of dark contentment, the pub began to crowd in on Caitlin and details began to grate – the music, the crush of bodies, the sudden heat in her chest and the dots of sweat appearing on her forehead. She splashed her pint glass on to the bar and pushed through bodies for the exit. ‘Toilet,’ she garbled over her shoulder.

  A moment later she slithered out into the cold Derby night as the first rush of vomit heaved its way out of her mouth and on to trampled snow on the pavement. She groaned with self-loathing and propped her hands on her knees to wait for more. After a second expulsion, she was finally able to stand upright and wipe her watering eyes, feeling better now the poison was out of her system. She took a few deep breaths, enjoying the bite of winter after the dank perspiration of the pub. About her, snow was falling in fists, throwing its gentle veil over the city’s customary bustle.

  Recovered, she pushed at the black and white door of the Flowerpot, but hesitated at the wall of bodies in front of her, all nodding to the rudimentary music crashing over them from the stage. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled out her phone and thumbed out a message to Laurie.

  I’m done. Heading off. Coming?

  Caitlin walked briskly along King Street, feeling the cold leave her bones as her strong young legs bounced her along, crunching through the snow. At Five Lamps, she turned on to Kedleston Road, heading towards the university and, half a mile beyond that, the small down-at-heel bungalow she rented with Laurie. Although it was a Friday night, the hum of the city was numbed by the curtain of snow falling across her vision. Only the occasional crescendo of cars tearing past on the A38 ahead and the buzz of approaching and receding street lights broke the silence. The harsh weather had deterred all but the hardiest travellers.

  Her phone vibrated. Where R U?

  On Ked. Halfway home.

  U OK?

  Caitlin stopped on the bridge over the A38, tapped out a smiley face. She leaned on the rail to get her breath. A passing white van slowed as it approached the bridge, and she turned disinterestedly towards it. Having worked out which road to take, the van driver sped past her, spraying slush on to her shins.

  ‘Asshole,’ she shouted after it.

  She let out a quick laugh and returned her gaze to the four lanes below, feeling a glow of anticipation. People going places. It raised her spirits. She felt tranquil for the first time in weeks. She’d be on the train to Liverpool tomorrow, then the boat to Belfast to see her sister, Mairead. Travel was good. It soothed her, gave her time to think, time to stare out of the window or down at the timeless water to mull over her life.

  She stood upright. Well, her life was going just fine again, and now she wanted to get on with it. Another text from Laurie. Tommo’s here, getting a cab to his. Sure U R OK?

  Caitlin sent a final reassuring message – Never better – and continued on her way, tramping through the snow, which squeaked underfoot, enjoying the solitude and the pale light of the leaden sky. She glanced to the university buildings looming large up the hill on her right, and at the shadows of Markeaton Park on her left.

  She’d walked a further hundred yards down the road when she became aware of a sudden movement and rustling of leaves in the bushes to her left.

  Something crashing around the park in this weather? Must be a stray.

  She cocked an ear for subsequent noise, but heard nothing. No barking, no panting. ‘Here, boy,’ she called. No reaction. A second later she resumed her journey but almost immediately came to a halt, her head snapping round at the low voice calling from the blackness of the park.

  ‘Kit-ty!’

  Frozen in shock, she stared towards the dark holly bush from where the voice had seemed to emanate. Was that a human shape crouched in the foliage? Snow fell in her eyes and she blinked furiously to keep her vision clear. She stared on, aware only of the falling snow, her beating heart, and the vapour exhaled from her mouth.

  The darkness in the bush didn’t move. If it was a human shadow, it was incredibly still. Embarrassment invaded her features and she turned to move away.

  ‘Guinness and vodka,’ she muttered, falling into step once more. ‘Lethal combo.’

  ‘Kit-ty!’ The voice again, muffled yet urgent, demanding attention.

  Caitlin swivelled, all her senses supercharged. Her heart pounded in her chest and she flushed with heat in spite of the sub-zero temperatures. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.’

  A tingle ran down Caitlin’s spine and she picked up her pace again. Don’t run! Don’t panic! Walk quickly but calmly. She’d learned that in her women’s self-defence group. Self-control was everything. Fear was an aphrodisiac to some of the perverts out there.

  ‘Don’t turn round,’ she told herself as she walked briskly without breaking into a run. ‘Someone’s lost their cat, is all.’ But when she heard the crashing of undergrowth behind her, she broke into a trot.

  ‘Kit-ty!’ The voice was louder now, panting, on the move. She turned to look but, seeing nothing, kept moving.

  ‘Whoever the fuck this is, it’s not funny,’ she barked over her shoulder, without slowing.

  ‘Kit-ty!’

  Caitlin slithered to a halt and turned. Who would know my nickname, if not a friend? She gazed intently behind her, raising a hand against the flakes blurring her vision.

  ‘Rollo? Is that you?’ No reply. No movement and nothing to be seen. She was about to retrace her steps when, through the white curtain, she saw a burly figure appear some twenty feet away, standing perfectly still, breath steaming in the air, looming large. ‘If that’s you, Rollo, then say something, you stupid fecker. You’ve got a bloody nerve after what—’

  ‘Kit-ty!’ cried the voice, growling now, using her name like an accusation, the voice mournful but with an edge of hate.

  Caitlin wanted to run but was transfixed, staring through the blinding flurries for a clue to her tormentor’s identity. The snow confined her, cut her off from all but the distant lights of houses, the occupants safe and warm. She looked about for the comfort of other pedestrians, a car even, but there was no one to answer an appeal.

  ‘Jesus, this is so not funny. I mean it!’

  ‘Kitty.’ The voice was harsh and rasping, exuding aggression, confidence. ‘Here, puss-puss. Come to Daddy.’

  Finally Caitlin turned from the voice and broke into a sprint, keeping her eyes firmly on the path ahead but all the time listening for noise of pursuit behind her.

  ‘Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!’

  Again she slithered to a halt. The voice was in front of her now. The same voice? No, different. A higher pitch. Someone younger? A boy? Hard to be sure. What she couldn’t mistake was the malevolence, the mocking tone, taunting her. She hesitated before deciding to cross the road and make a run for it to the university. As she retreated, she saw another form emerge from the shadows ahead of her, and, letting out an involuntary whimper, she pivoted to run in the opposite direction.

  In the split second of consciousness remaining to her, Caitlin registered the large form with which she collided, as well as the crackle of electricity. There followed a searing pain that jolted through her body, robbing her muscles of function, and she collapsed to the ground with a crunch.

  Two

  16 April

  Detective Sergeant John Noble walked back through the light rain to his car and drove the short distance from the campus to Derby Constabulary Headquarters at St Mary’s Wharf. After parking his car, he lingered a while in the darkness, pulling out his cigarettes. He produced his notebook to peruse the few facts he’d gleaned from Caitlin Kinnear’s ex-boyfriend, a second-year under
graduate, recalling the scorn with which he’d been treated.

  With a pen he wrote Cocky slimeball next to the name Roland Davison. He would have liked to write something more abusive, but DI Brook might see his notes, and Noble imagined his response. Swearing is a symptom of a mind that’s not under control, John, he’d say, before adding, and control is what they pay us for.

  ‘I bet your self-control would’ve taken a pasting, dealing with that …’ Noble halted in mid-sentence and lit up. If there was ever a time he’d needed Brook to cut a witness down to size, today was it. A few puffs later, equilibrium returned and Noble threw away his butt to head for the smoked-glass entrance, feeling calmer after his tobacco hit.

  ‘Do the paperwork and pass it on to the Northern Irish police. The PSNI can handle their own missing persons.’

  He pushed through into the light and warmth. Seeing DI Frank Ford enjoying a joke with Sergeant Hendrickson at the reception desk brought him up short as they both turned towards him, their grins downgraded into mocking smiles. After a tough day, Noble needed to think, and hankered after the comfort of his office. But he knew from experience that Brook, the socially awkward outsider, scuttled away from these encounters, and Noble was determined not to feel uncomfortable in his own house.

  ‘John,’ said Ford, hailing him like a long-lost friend.

  ‘Sir,’ replied Noble, lingering to see if either of Brook’s most voluble critics had anything to impart besides abuse.

  ‘How’s life without the organ-grinder?’ grinned Ford, glancing at Hendrickson to register the desk sergeant’s approval.

  Noble smiled mechanically. ‘Are you calling me a monkey, sir?’