Free A Killing Moon by Steven Dunne

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