Savage Moon

Eight

Once Jon had fought through the traffic to get on to the M60, he flicked a switch on the dashboard of his unmarked car. Flashing lights and a siren came on behind the vehicle radiator grill. The cars in front jerked out of his way. This is more like it, Jon thought, not dropping below eighty until junction twenty- two appeared.

Racing on to the slip road, he forced his way across a busy roundabout then switched the siren off as he entered a residential area, vehicle lurching over a succession of speed bumps. After a quick glance at the open A to Z on the seat beside him he took a right turn and emerged at the junction for Coal Pit Lane, unkempt farm land directly in front. Beyond the fields was a hill, topped by a row of electricity pylons. Jon's eyes moved past the ugly structures to what rose up in the far distance: the muted browns of the moors.

He turned right, following the roughly surfaced road as it ran alongside fields dotted with sheep. He looked at the animals. Is there really some sort of a beast preying on you? For a second he could believe it — if any animal had the word victim stamped all over it, it was sheep.

Soon he spotted a small sign for Crime Lake and seconds later he was easing up by a tiny car park, lowering his window and holding up his identification as he did so. The uniformed officer standing in front of the police tape at the car park's entrance pointed him towards an Italian restaurant just down the road. The building stood on its own, a large expanse of tarmac to its side. 'Plenty of room in there, boss.'

He pulled up behind the major incident wagon. A couple of officers in white scene-of-crime suits were unloading equipment from the rear of the vehicle. Excellent, Jon thought, forensic recovery should be good. As he climbed out of his car he checked the sky. Grey and impassive, but no immediate sign of rain. Even better as far as collecting evidence was concerned.

A sergeant was talking to an old boy with a rucksack and narrow holdall at his feet. The fisherman who found the body. Jon went over, warrant card out. 'DI Spicer. How are you, Sir?' The elderly man turned towards him. When he spoke there was a fleck of spit on his lower lip. 'Norman Bell.' He smiled briefly. 'I've had better starts to a morning's fishing, that's for sure.'

Good on you, thought Jon. Still got your sense of humour. He glanced at the man's rucksack. 'Got a flask in there?'

The man nodded.

'Why not pour yourself a brew while I bother you with a few questions?'

The man squatted down and began opening the side pocket of the rucksack. Jon looked at the sergeant. 'Everything under control?'

'Yes, Sir. The boys have taped off the car park. I thought we'd set up the rendezvous point here. Pathologist and crime scene manager are on their way.'

'Good stuff. How long have you been here?'

'About twenty minutes.'

'OK. If any reporters show up later on, I want them referred on to me. No one is to say a thing, all right?'

'Sir.'

Jon nodded as the fisherman straightened up, a steaming cup now in his hands. 'There's a spare one if you want a drink.'

Jon shook his head. 'When did you get here, Mr Bell?'

'Seven-thirty. I'm secretary of the local fishing club. I get here before the other members arrive, and tidy the car park.' A look of disgust crossed his face. 'You know, from what gets left here from the night before. Someone's got to do it.'

Jon thought of Peterson being there. That bloody figured.

'And was there anyone else here when you arrived?'

'Not a soul. We get a few dog walkers using the area, but none were around this morning.'

The sergeant turned to Jon. 'Mr Bell didn't take a good look at the body, Sir. He saw the legs and blood, then immediately called nine-nine-nine.'

'I knew he was a goner straight away. I drove an ambulance for almost thirty years. Something about the way they lie.'

'You did the right thing not touching the body, Mr Bell. There's an amazing amount forensics can pick up nowadays if no one has contaminated the scene.'

'Oh aye, I've seen it on the telly.'

'Well, Sir, I'll leave you with the sergeant here, he'll make arrangements for you to give a statement.' He turned to the officer. 'Who's checked the body?'

The sergeant nodded towards a young officer sitting in a patrol car. His face looked white as a sheet. 'PC Evans. He's feeling a bit queasy.'

Jon's eyes went to the restaurant. 'Check with the people who live above this place. They may have heard something.'

Jon walked back round to the car park entrance, immediately noticing Peterson's dark blue Volvo parked to one side. After signing in with the officer he stepped towards the inner ring of tape. The car park was big enough for a dozen or so cars at the most. At the far end, under the overhanging branches of a tree, a white tent was already up, concealing the body and protecting vital evidence from the elements.

Jon looked over his shoulder. 'Who's the Crime Scene

Manager?'

The officer consulted his clipboard. 'Richard Matthews.'

No Nikki Kingston then. Jon felt disappointment tinged with relief. He reflected on their last encounter. It was at the height of the race to catch the Butcher of Belle Vue. He'd been in the pub, a couple of drinks the worse for wear when she'd showed up with a vital piece of evidence.

He wasn't quite sure how it happened. A grateful hug from him maybe, but they'd ended up kissing for a few seconds before he summoned the will to break it off. Still tempted, aren't you though, he thought, deciding it was best to steer well clear of her.

He looked around. The car park was circled by trees and he could hear the drone of traffic from the nearby ring road. No point in crossing the inner tape until he'd got the OK from Richard Matthews. Instead, he followed the tape round the edge of the tarmac to a small gate that led to a gravel pathway. A graffiti-covered sign said, Crime Lake. No motorbikes. His eyes flicked over the collection of signatures scrawled on the sign's edge. Didn't anyone have normal names any more? Half of these seemed to be in a foreign language.

Between the dying leaves still on the trees he could see the pale shine of water. Crime Lake. He lifted the striped ribbon and stepped through the gate, noticing that several paths branched off between the trees. Bloody great. It was going to be a nightmare trying to decide where to end the crime scene.

He took the path that led down to the dreary-looking expanse of muddy water and past another couple of signs that read, No fishing from the tow path.

The lake soon narrowed into a canal, and as he followed it along, a row of four eager geese paddled over. Jon held his palms out. No bread I'm afraid. He looked at the sullen sky. Winter's on its way, you lot are best getting the hell out of this country.

After a few minutes he reached a junction in the canal. He took the right hand fork and crossed an overflow, water trickling off through the undergrowth to run down the slope into the valley below. After a couple of stone steps the canal seemed to dry up and he found himself on an aqueduct. Blocks of stone that must each have weighed tons made up the ramparts and, looking over their edge, he saw that the construction spanned a river a good thirty feet below — evidence of the incredible effort spent on creating Manchester's industrial past. The banks of the river were wild and overgrown, the ground leading off into thickly wooded slopes. Plenty of cover for a killer, man or beast.

He retraced his steps to the junction where he spotted an information board beside a tree. The plastic cover was pock- marked with cigarette burns, making it hard to read the writing below.

Medlock Valley. Daisy Nook History Trail.

His eyes went to a small red square. You are here. A paragraph of writing told him that the aqueduct was built in the

1790s and used to carry a branch of the Hollinwood canal. Not any more, thought Jon. Heavy industry had died out in these parts decades ago.

He examined the blue band that marked the route of the river Medlock. Where did that flow from, Jon wondered, looking up the valley and settling his gaze on those brooding moors once again. He reached for the zipper of his jacket as a sudden chill went through him. Above the hill's curving outline, scraps of grey cloud were streaming across the sky. Shit, rain was on its way. He turned for the car park.

Back at the crime scene a couple more people in white suits were putting on gloves in preparation for entering the inner circle of tape. One he immediately recognised as Doctor Collyer, the home office pathologist.

Jon hurried over. 'Morning.'

The pathologist looked up, owl-like eyes accentuated by the white hood of the crime scene suit. 'Good morning, Detective.' A look passed between them that spoke of horrors mutually shared. The last time they'd met, they were standing over the remains of the Butcher of Belle Vue's third victim. Jon let his expression reflect the pathologist's. I remember, mate. How could I ever forget?

'Richard Matthews, good to meet you.'

Jon turned and saw the crime scene manager looking at him, eyebrows raised in anticipation of a response. He was a slightly overweight man of about forty.

'DI Jon Spicer, likewise.'

No one shook hands. It didn't really go with wearing latex gloves.

'Mind giving me a shout once it's OK to step inside?' Jon said to both of them

'Of course,' Matthews replied, beckoning to the video recorder chap who was approaching them from the car park's entrance. Jon glanced at him. A young man with a shaved head and a ring through his right nostril.

The three men walked across a series of footplates and entered the white tent. Jon had just climbed into a crime scene suit when Matthews poked his head out, face a shade more pale than when he went in. 'Whenever you're ready.'

Jon immediately padded across the footplates, stooping slightly as he stepped inside the tent. He sniffed the air. Blood. A smell that now set him on edge whenever he passed the open door of a butcher's shop.

The home office pathologist was looking at him, alarm showing in his usually impassive eyes. 'I've never seen anything like this before. Keep to the footplates, there's a lot of debris around his head.'

The video recorder stepped to one side. Oh shit, here we go, Jon thought. Breakfast, don't you dare come back up.

Derek Peterson was on his back, one arm pointing to the side, the other bent in on itself so the fingers were tucked under his armpit. For a moment it looked like he was frozen in some sort of bizarre dance move. Most of the left hand side of his face was hanging off, one eyeball sliced open, blood-smeared jelly bulging out. His throat was in a similar state, great furrows of flesh ripped out to expose the bony cartilage of what Jon assumed was his windpipe. He saw that the debris referred to by the pathologist was shreds of flesh.

'If he didn't die of shock, he'd have bled to death in a matter of seconds.' The pathologist pointed at Peterson's mutilated throat. 'I don't know what type of weapon could do this. Not only has it severed the exterior and interior jugular veins, it's gone through his carotid artery, taking out the surrounding muscles at the same time. And look at this.' He crouched down to extend a finger closer to the corpse's upper chest. 'See the lacerations to the cricoid cartilage?'

'His windpipe?' The bile was churning in Jon's stomach.

'Yes. I'd say the weapon was multi-pronged and fashioned from a very resilient material, metal being the obvious choice. Whoever wielded it was a very powerful man.'

Was no one going to say what seemed totally obvious? Jon gave a nervous laugh. 'I feel like I'm in a scene from American Werewolf in London.'

'I'm sorry?' the pathologist replied, but Jon caught the look of agreement on the video lad's face.

Sure enough, the younger man eagerly chipped in. 'You know, the scene on the moor when the American gets ripped to bits? The doctor in London was going on about the attacker having the strength of a madman.'

Christ, another aspiring horror film director, Jon thought.

'I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the film,' said the pathologist, standing up. 'Surely you're not suggesting a werewolf did this?' Jon held up his hands. 'God no, not at all. But these injuries and the ferocity of the attack… Could it have been some sort of wild animal, like they think killed the woman up on Saddleworth Moor? I mean, you're talking about a multi- pronged weapon. Surely that's another name for a claw?'

The pathologist crossed his arms, taking his time before he spoke. 'I'm afraid we're straying on to territory that is outside my expertise. Cause of death was from loss of blood, as a result of multiple lacerations to the throat. If you want a time of death, I'd say late last night. Once I get him back to the mortuary I'll provide a far more considered report.'

OK, no need to get so bloody touchy.

The video recorder coughed. 'The attack up on Saddleworth Moor. I saw the crime scene footage. It got, you know, e-mailed round.' The pathologist glared at him and Jon guessed some sort of morgue protocol had been broken. The video recorder stumbled awkwardly on. 'The injuries are startlingly similar.' He pressed his fingertips into his cheek. 'Where she was swiped, you could clearly see where the claws went in. A row of four.'

Jon glanced down at the tarmac, looking for footprints or other evidence of an animal. On the ground in the far corner of the tent was a set of car keys, a number marker already placed next to them. He looked questioningly at the crime scene manager.

'I presume they're the victim's. The key fob is for a Volvo.'

'Yes,' chipped in the video recorder. 'Probably flung from his hand during the attack.'

'Mind if I bag them up? We'll be needing to get into his house.'

Richard Matthews sucked in his cheeks. 'I'll get them dusted for prints, then you can be my guest.'

From outside the tent Jon heard the low rumble of thunder.

He glanced back at Peterson's bloody remains. 'What about that hand tucked under his armpit. Have you examined it yet?'

The pathologist shook his head. 'We called you in as soon as possible.'

'Could we take a quick look?'

The video recorder held up the camera as the pathologist pulled Peterson's hand out. The fingers were clamped together in a rigid grip. As the first droplets of rain begin to hit the tent roof Jon could clearly see several long black hairs caught between the dead man's fingers.