Davison shrugged. ‘She may have been nabbed by some random sex-starved pervert. Ever thought it might be that simple?’
‘Then he’s the most careful sex-starved pervert in criminal history,’ answered Brook. Davison actually laughed at this. ‘What about travel? Could she have simply upped sticks and left?’
‘That would be more likely. She loved travel and new places. You should check the airports and ferry ports.’
‘Good idea,’ said Brook. He held up a hand to forestall another protest. ‘Lowest form of humour – I heard you the first time. Anywhere she might go in Britain if she wanted to get away?’
Davison narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you saying she hasn’t left the country?’
‘I’m not saying anything. I’m asking you a question.’
‘I guess her top destination would be London.’ Brook prompted him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Bright lights, big city. Streets paved with gold and all that.’
‘Alone?’
‘Kitty’s self-reliant, and if she wanted to go somewhere badly enough, she’d drop everything and go. I assume that could apply to some man she met, but I have no idea who that might be.’
‘She sounds very trusting,’ said Brook.
‘There’s no side to her,’ said Davison. ‘She takes people as she finds them, but she can handle herself. Depend on it.’
‘How did she handle herself with you?’ Davison emitted a short laugh. ‘Something you want to share?’
The young man sighed. ‘We broke up. Was Caitlin happy I dumped her? No. But she was too level-headed to let it worry her for more than a second. She was never clingy or jealous, because she knew how uncool that was. She took the rough with the smooth and didn’t hold grudges. And there were no regrets on either side when we split.’
‘Final question – can you confirm where you were on the night of March twentieth?’
Five
Brook sipped team from his flask as he looked out across the lights of Derby’s dark horizon. Light rain dotted the windows.
Noble closed the door of the office and flopped down on his chair, hands stretched behind his head. ‘That’s one day I’ll never get back. I don’t know why we bother nicking burglars. They never get locked up.’ He sighed, opting to jettison the rest of the well-worn conversation, flicked on the kettle and stole a quick glance at Caitlin’s photograph. ‘What about you?’
‘I spoke to Laurie,’ answered Brook. ‘The boyfriend too.’
‘And did Davison push your buttons?’ Brook gave him a fleeting glance but didn’t answer. ‘I knew it,’ grinned Noble. ‘Did you like him for it?’
‘There is no
it
, John. And no, I didn’t
like
him for it. Roland Davison doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Not enough to commit murder.’
‘But someone that arrogant . . .’
‘Luckily for him, arrogance isn’t a crime.’ A second later, Brook added, ‘Lucky for me too, I guess.’
‘Ooh, self-analysis,’ teased Noble. ‘I’m trembling. Course you know where he gets his arrogance from.’
‘Should I?’
‘His father is
Councillor
Davison – upstanding member of the Police Liaison Committee.’
‘So that’s who Roland was threatening to unleash on me,’ said Brook.
‘I assumed you knew him.’
‘I’ve met him . . .’ Brook smiled suddenly, taking Noble’s meaning, ‘but he’s never sat on any of my disciplinary panels. He owned that derelict building on Whitaker Road where young Joshua Stapleton was murdered. Remember?’
Noble lapsed into silence, his mind’s eye staring at the pathetic corpse of a boy, barely a teenager, humiliated and killed before life had begun, enduring pain he’d never known and suffering he didn’t deserve. ‘I remember,’ he mumbled, the memory lowering his voice. He roused himself to change the subject. ‘Well, sad to say, you’re right. Davison’s alibi checked out. March twentieth he was drinking with half a dozen friends and went back to student halls on Agard Street with a Miss Polly Cooke. Together all night. She confirmed it.’
‘You sound disappointed,’ said Brook.
‘I am. He treated me like something he’d wiped off his shoe.’
‘That I’m used to,’ said Brook. ‘What depressed me more was his total indifference towards someone with whom he’d recently had a relationship – someone who may be in trouble, even dead.’
‘So he got to you too.’
Brook turned back to stare at the night. ‘People get to me, John. Especially the young. They seem to think it weakens them if they care for anyone but themselves. What about Laurie Teague’s alibi?’
‘Cast in bronze,’ said Noble, surprised. ‘She stayed at the pub until her boyfriend arrived, then took a cab to his place. Barman, boyfriend and cabbie confirm. You didn’t really . . .’
‘No,’ said Brook. ‘But now we don’t need to take it on trust, do we?’
There was silence for a moment, natural on Brook’s part but not so comfortable for Noble.
‘So what’s next?’ said Noble. ‘We can scale up and put a team together, canvass the entire campus . . .’
‘It’s been a month,’ said Brook. ‘You know what comes next.’
Noble was solemn. ‘We pass it along because there’s no mileage in it.’
‘Afraid so.’
‘There’d be mileage in it if she was from Derby and her family were sobbing on
East Midlands Today
every night.’
‘That’s unfair, John.’
‘Is it?’ Noble lowered his eyes. ‘Have you spoken to the Chief Super?’
‘I don’t need to. I know what he’d say.’
‘Since when did Charlton’s opinions carry any weight with you?’
‘When they agree with mine,’ replied Brook. He sighed and shook his flask. Empty. ‘John, Caitlin’s not local and the trail’s cold. All we can do is hope she’s gone walkabout and move on.’
‘And you a detective who closes fifty-year-old homicides.’
‘If she’d been murdered, I’d be all over it,’ argued Brook. ‘But Caitlin’s young, unattached and likes to travel – she could be anywhere.’
‘People who travel leave a trail,’ argued Noble. ‘You taught me that. And your text said she’d had an abortion. She could have been depressed, suicidal even.’
‘Then at least she’s making her own choices,’ said Brook.
‘Now who’s being unfair?’
Brook nodded in acceptance of Noble’s rebuke. ‘You’re right.’
Noble was suddenly quiet, and Brook knew what was coming. ‘What about the Deity killer?’
‘What about him?’
Noble sought the words. ‘Do you think he’s come back? That he’s started again with Caitlin.’
‘That case is closed,’ said Brook. ‘Officially. Deity is dead.’
‘You didn’t think he was dead at the time,’ said Noble.
‘Everyone else did.’
‘Even so, we should check . . .’
‘I did check,’ said Brook. ‘Before you got back. The Deity website is gone for good. There’s no connection, John.’
‘But Caitlin’s a student who disappeared without trace,’ insisted Noble. ‘Same as the others.’
‘It’s not the same,’ said Brook. ‘Caitlin left no message, no clue. The Deity students left artefacts to show they were leaving of their own volition.’ He raised a digit. ‘And they left as a group.’
Noble was encouraged, and seized his opportunity. ‘Aha, well, Caitlin’s not alone. I’ve been on to Interpol.’
‘Interpol?’ A smile pulled at the corner of Brook’s mouth. ‘Being a bit melodramatic, aren’t we?’
‘Maybe, but I remembered something – a case three years ago. Another Irish girl who went missing. So I checked with Interpol and found the names of
five
young women reported missing over the last three years by parents in Poland, Italy and Ireland.’
‘Students?’
‘A couple of them,’ retorted Noble defensively.
‘At Derby University?’
‘One was.’ Noble cast around his desk for the paperwork. ‘Daniela Cassetti from Perugia. She flew to East Midlands in August two years ago to enrol at the university but disappeared after two terms. Easter, this time last year! She was supposed to fly home for the holiday but never arrived and didn’t show up for the summer term. Exactly the same as Caitlin!’ He reached for a second sheet of paper. ‘And there was another Irish girl, a student teacher from Dublin visiting family in Derby. Bernadette Murphy. Also three young Polish girls vanished, all thought to have been in the area . . .’
‘
Thought
to have been,’ repeated Brook. Noble was quiet. ‘The Derby area?’
‘East Midlands,’ answered Noble, not looking up to catch Brook’s sceptical eye. He rustled for another piece of paper on his desk. ‘Adrianna Bakula—’
‘John, slow down,’ said Brook ‘Not only are those women not local, they’re foreign nationals. They could be travelling anywhere in the UK, even assuming they’re still here.’
‘But the similarities . . .’
‘Such as?’
‘They’re all young, single women from overseas. Like Caitlin.’
Brook finally trapped Noble’s wandering eye. ‘You do know there must be hundreds of thousands of young people wandering the globe at any one time, experiencing life. And they’re all effectively missing until they walk through their parents’ front doors again.’
‘Maybe,’ said Noble softly.
‘Definitely,’ said Brook. ‘It’s part of growing up and leaving the nest. Young people go out into the world, get a taste of freedom and forget they even have parents, never mind communicate with them. It’s called freedom. I was the same. I saw my parents as jailers, and when I finally left, getting in touch with them was as alien as . . .’
‘As paying attention to Interpol bulletins?’ suggested Noble.
‘Exactly,’ retorted Brook, unwilling to be embarrassed. ‘I’ve had all this with my own daughter. Throw a divorce into the mix, and unless you make a supreme effort to contact your kid, you might easily not speak to them for years. It’s a wonder more parents don’t report their children missing.’
‘How is Terri?’ asked Noble.
‘She’s fine,’ said Brook, holding out his hands to make the point. ‘I assume.’
‘So that’s it, then?’
‘I’m sorry, John. With no evidence of a crime, we pass Caitlin’s file over to the Missing Persons Bureau. They can work this nationally . . .’
‘While they look for thousands of other runaways and mis-pers.’
‘We’ve nothing to work with,’ insisted Brook. ‘No suspicious spending on her cards. No phone calls, no sightings. I’d suggest she spontaneously combusted, but that’s supposed to leave a residue.’
‘Then why do I get the impression you know there’s something wrong here?’
Now it was Brook’s turn to avoid eye contact. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. What is it? Gut instinct?’
Brook looked up, an expression of derision on his face. ‘We’re not astrologers, John. We don’t read tea leaves. We work on evidence.’
‘Agreed,’ said Noble. ‘And we don’t have any, so what is it?’
Brook hesitated. ‘You said you searched her room.’
‘Apart from her rucksack being gone, everything was in order,’ replied Noble.
‘That there. That’s what worries me,’ said Brook. ‘It’s too tidy. Students are messy – messy in their relationships, messy in their personal lives. The unplanned pregnancy tells me Caitlin was no different. If she left of her own volition, she couldn’t have removed herself from the face of the earth more thoroughly. That’s either a fluke or takes careful planning.’
‘And Caitlin’s not that careful.’
Brook rubbed his tired eyes. ‘It was just an impression. On the other hand, she did carefully compartmentalise her lives in Derby and Belfast, so maybe that tells us something.’
‘So are we passing this on or not?’ said Noble.
Brook sighed. ‘We don’t have a choice. Without leads, sightings or any sign of foul play, the only thing left to do is put her picture on the drinks cartons and wait.’
‘You forgot to mention crossing our fingers,’ said Noble, trudging to the door, a hand reaching for his cigarettes. No answer from Brook. ‘We keep a copy of the file in case we get a chance to revisit, okay?’
‘Absolutely.’
Brook drove home after midnight along the dark, empty roads, uncoupling his mind from the challenges of the day. He loved the night drive out of Derby along the A
52
to Ashbourne and then on to his cottage in Hartington. It was a half-hour when he was forced to concentrate on the undemanding task of manoeuvring his aged car through the dark countryside of the Peak District.
Spring had arrived and the promise of a few months walking around the hills after and sometimes before work was a great comfort to Brook. The prospect soothed his overworked brain, and made sleep possible at the end of the journey, if only for a couple of hours before insomnia took over and he rose in the small hours for his first tea of the day.
Thirty minutes later, he dropped his laptop case on the kitchen table and opened the fridge almost as a reflex. For a detective who prided himself on evidence and logic, it was an odd thing to do, as the shelves were just as bare as they had been that same morning when he had reached in for the last pint of milk.
He made a mug of tea and sat at the table, fumbling for his antiquated mobile phone. He hovered over his daughter’s number – one of only two on speed-dial – before thinking better of it. A phone call from a parent was bad news at any time, but after midnight it might induce panic. Instead he thumbed out a text –
Not heard from you. How are you?
– being scrupulous to punctuate and avoid text shorthand.
A minute later, the briefest reply.
I’m good
. Brook frowned. A moment later, another message.
Got U. No, I’m not a Yank. LOL. Wassup? Another victim remind you of me? Don’t deny it
.
Brook smiled as he tapped the keys.
Am I so predictable? Actually victim not dead, just missing, and reminds me of me as a student
.
Who is he?
He’s a she.
V metrosexual ;)
Brook was unsure of her meaning.
Any chance of a visit?
Rain check on the visit. I’m in Italy
.
‘Italy?’ said Brook frowning. ‘I rest my case, John.’ He tapped out,
Well thanks for letting me know
. Not enamoured of the nagging tone, he deleted it, instead texted
Ciao x
, drank his tea and trudged upstairs to bed.