Savage Moon

Ten

The door opened on a small room that still smelled of old cardboard. A couple of notice boards had been wheeled in, one covered by a sheet. Jon scanned the other. Photos of dead sheep covered it. The limp corpses were stretched out on a variety of terrains — blood-stained grass, patches of forest floor, moss- covered banks. Clumps of fleece were dotted round the bodies. His eyes lingered on the animals. Intestines hanging out, milky eyes staring upwards, rumps partially missing.

In the middle of the room was a desk that took up almost all the available floor space. Sitting at its side was a man with a thick shock of ginger hair. As Jon stepped into the room he was struck by the pale blue eyes looking up at him.

'DI Spicer, from the Major Incident Team in Manchester.'

'Jeremy Hobson. I run the panther enclosure at Buxton Zoo.' He half stood to shake hands, revealing a pale green pair of canvas trousers below the darker green of his woollen jumper.

Jon spotted the zoo's logo on its breast.

Spread out across the table was an ordnance survey map. Jon recognised it immediately as Explorer OL1, the Peak District's dark peak area. He used the reverse of the same map for Sunday rambles around Edale. The map had been marked with a smattering of red crosses with dates beside them. Jon saw they stretched from the edge of Mossley Brow, across to Holmbridge and then south right down to Ringinglow.

'Sheep-kill locations farmers have reported to me in the last few years,' Hobson explained with a tilt of his head towards the notice board. 'The photos are mine. I've made it a bit of a hobby trying to track this fellow.'

'This fellow?'

Hobson looked at him as if he was a particularly slow school boy. 'The panther.'

Bloody hell, Jon thought. I wish everyone wouldn't take it for granted there's one out there. 'Ever actually seen it?'

'Not once.'

'What about tracks or hair or — what do you call it — droppings?'

'You mean spoor. No, I haven't found definitive proof yet.' Jon's eyes went to the black cross by the edge of Holme. 'That where Mrs Sutton was found?'

'Correct.'

Jon looked at the left-hand edge of the map. It ended at Mossley Brow. He tapped the air six inches to the side of the thick paper. 'A man was discovered around here this morning. He was in a car park at the edge of some fields.' Hobson didn't seem surprised. You already know, Jon thought. Clegg has told you.

'What sort of fields? Ones used for grazing sheep?'

'Yeah, I saw sheep in them.'

Hobson began clicking his tongue as he studied the map.

'There are swathes of field to the north and south of us. That land could comfortably allow the animal access to the fields you mentioned.'

Jon pointed to a pair of red lines running past Mossley Brow.

'That's the A635 and A670. You're saying, if there is a creature, it crossed both roads looking for food?'

'It's familiar with the presence of man. I imagine it's observed cars crossing the moors at night. As long as the roads were quiet, it could have done.'

'But why should an animal that's happily been hunting sheep in some of England's wildest terrain leave it for inhabited areas and roads?'

Hobson pursed his lips. 'I really don't know. What if it's no longer hunting sheep?'

There was silence in the room as Jon digested the implications of the comment. 'Had Mrs Sutton been, you know… fed on?' Clegg closed the door. 'See for yourself. We keep this board covered up because the woman's nephew is a constable here.' He yanked the sheet off, revealing the set of photographs below.

Jon was immediately struck by how similar the woman looked to the slaughtered sheep on the neighbouring board. Like so many of them, she was lying on a patch of wiry grass, clothing around her neck shredded to tatters. Like them, her limbs were slack and outstretched. Like them her wounds gaped open, red tissue below the skin no different to that of the sheep. A sense of alarm filled him. He'd seen countless bodies in the surroundings of Manchester. On pavements, in doorways, hallways, beds and baths. He'd seen the damage inflicted by guns, knives, baseball bats, bricks, machetes and razors. But this was different. This was someone who'd been savagely torn open, someone whose rain- soaked body had then lain on a dark moor, not touched by a streetlight, car light or any electric light at all. Only the moon had illuminated what took place that night.

His eyes focused on her wounds. 'Is any of her missing?'

'Some,' Clegg replied. 'Mainly from her throat. But there had been a lot of wildlife activity by the time Mr Sutton found her.' I'm not sure if I want to hear this, Jon thought. 'Meaning?'

'Mr Sutton was initially attracted to the body's location by the squabbling of crows. We also recovered a feather that has been identified by a park ranger as that of a Peregrine falcon. We think the bird of prey found her at first light, then was chased off the, er, kill, by the crows.'

This sounded more and more like a bloody wildlife documentary. Something David Attenborough would narrate from the plains of Africa. 'So we don't know who or what was responsible for removing her flesh.'

'True,' Hobson answered. 'But if it was the panther, its fear of humans has been overcome. Was there any evidence of flesh having been removed from this morning's victim?'

'He's being taken for a post mortem as we speak. I'll let you know.' He waved a hand towards the images of partially consumed sheep. 'He didn't look like that though. The guy's throat was ripped out, that appeared to be all.' Jon watched as a glance bounced between Clegg and Hobson. 'What? How is that significant?'

Hobson placed his forearms on the table, lacing his fingers together. 'To answer your question, I'll need to describe the hunting techniques of the panther.'

This guy was itching to give a lecture. 'Go ahead, I'm all ears.'

'OK. You're aware black panthers and leopards are the same species, panthera pardus?'

Jon shook his head. 'But leopards are covered in spots.'

'Black panthers are actually melanistic leopards. That is to say, they have very dark coats in the same way as albino leopards have very white coats. The spots are just harder to see. Black panthers in their natural habitat are extremely rare, doing best hunting in the dense forests of Asia. The reason we've had several sightings of them in this country is because their exotic colouring makes them very attractive to lovers of unusual pets. It's highly likely that, in the past, individuals escaped from private collectors. Many also believe that when the 1976

Dangerous Wild Animals act made it illegal to keep them as pets, numerous animals were released into the wild.'

Sensing that the other man was only just getting started, Jon pulled a chair out and sat down. 'Any ever gone missing from your zoo?'

Hobson smiled. 'Never. The fence to their enclosure meas- ures thirty feet high and extends below the ground by another ten feet.'

'Go on.'

'A few basic facts. Leopards live for up to fifteen years and measure over two and half metres from nose to tip of tail. They're big, powerful animals.'

'So what do they prey on in the wild?'

'Gazelles, antelope, impala, monkeys, baboons, even young wildebeest. They'll also prey on snakes and peacocks if they're hungry enough. Of course, when their hunting territory overlaps with grazing land, they'll take sheep and goats too. The variety of their diet is due to the fact that leopards are highly adaptable, able to survive in almost any habitat that affords them cover. That includes savannah, forests, jungles and cold mountainous areas.'

Jon glanced at the map with its scattering of crosses. 'And how big is an individual leopard's territory?'

Hobson pulled up the sleeves of his jumper and placed his forearms on the table. Jon couldn't help noticing they were covered in white hairs. 'Anything up to forty square kilometres. They're solitary animals and very shy by nature. This reclusive- ness and their camouflage make them notoriously difficult to spot, as many disappointed customers on safari tours will tell you.'

Jon sat back, liking the sound of this less and less.

'Now, as regards hunting, they employ two techniques. First is the ambush, usually employed where cover is dense. The leopard will position itself overlooking an area used by its prey — cover could be ground foliage, rocks or the lowermost branches of a tree. When an animal comes within striking distance, the leopard pounces. If it is in a tree, it will almost always drop to the ground before attacking, though in some cases they've been observed launching themselves directly on to the back of their target. This method of attack is unique among the big cats as a result of a leopard's exceptional climbing ability.'

Jon recalled a scene from some distant documentary. 'Don't they then drag their prey back up into the tree?'

'Yes. Leopards can lift carcasses three times their own body weight up to a height of six metres if necessary. I once saw one in a Kenyan national park hefting a young giraffe up a trunk, remarkable sight. However, they'd have no need to do that in Britain since we have no predators big enough to drive them away from their kill.

'The second hunting technique is common to all cats, including domestic ones. It's called the stalk, run, pounce approach. The leopard will creep up on its prey, belly close to the ground, ears pointing forward. This phase of attack will usually be initiated using the cover of vegetation. Once within striking range the leopard transfers its weight on to its powerful hind legs and sprints towards the animal.'

He contracted his freckled fingers into hooks and pressed their tips against the map. 'From there it will use its claws to move up to the animal's head and bite through the base of the skull or, in some cases, latch on to the throat and suffocate the animal by crushing its windpipe.'

Hobson sat back and Jon couldn't help thinking that the man was enjoying himself. He glanced again at Rose Sutton's photos.

'Was she killed in that manner?'

'No.'

'Was the sheep?'

Hobson stood and pointed to a photo of the sheep's carcass. It lay on its side, eyes missing, mouth bloody, hind quarters eaten away, scraps of intestine littering the surrounding grass. 'I'm not sure. The crows had been ripping at the dead ewe. More so than Mrs Sutton. It's hard to say which wounds were caused by which animal.'

Jon looked at Clegg. 'Where is the sheep's carcass? We should get a pathologist to conduct a proper examination.'

His colleague glanced at the ceiling, as if having trouble trying to recall the information. 'Er, it was disposed of, I think.'

Jon sat up. 'You think? What the hell does that mean?' Clegg's eyes dropped. 'Mr Sutton burnt it.'

Christ Almighty, Jon thought. 'That sheep was a vital part of the crime scene.'

'Well, the SOCO was satisfied there was no need to store it.' Jon shook his head. Whoever the SOCO was, he should be sent back to training college. And Clegg should have known better too. This whole investigation was a shambles.

Hobson sat down. 'My take on events is this. The panther had made its kill and then Mrs Sutton turned up as it was attempting to feed.'

'Maybe she even tried to shoo it away, Rose was a plucky woman,' Clegg added.

'Her throat injuries arose from the panther swiping at her to protect its kill,' Hobson concluded.

Jon shut his eyes. If it was a panther, this wouldn't be a case for the police much longer. And then it would be back to Summerby for the next mind-numbing case. He searched for ways to refute the theory. 'The man discovered this morning. He was no farmer protecting his sheep.'

'No,' Hobson agreed. 'But he was in a car park that bordered a field of sheep. Was there some sort of a hedge between this car park and the field?'

Jon thought for a second. 'Yes. A tree and a bramble patch.'

'A tree?' Hobson's white eyebrows were raised. Jon nodded.

'It should be checked for claw marks. Many of the attacks I've documented on livestock in this area take place close to woodland, scrub or dry stone walls. The panther uses this cover to stalk the sheep which, all too often, tuck themselves into these same spots for a bit of protection from the elements. Rose Sutton was found by an outcrop of rock.'

Shit. It was beginning to sound more and more like a horror film. Jon held up a finger. 'But our man this morning had driven to the car park. Surely you're not trying to claim a vehicle pulling up with its headlights on wouldn't scare the animal off?' Hobson shrugged. 'Do we know how long it was between him parking there and being attacked?'

'No.'

'What if he'd been sitting there a while?'

Knowing Peterson, he would have sat there half the night for the possibility of sex. 'OK, so our man could have been loitering there for a bit. Perhaps he needs a piss. He gets out of his vehicle, wanders too close to the undergrowth and bang, something attacks him. I still reckon any panther in the vicinity would have just run away.'

Hobson uncrossed his arms. 'As I mentioned earlier, perhaps this animal has conquered its fear of humans. If it has, we've got a major problem on our hands trying to catch it.'

Jon looked at him. 'How so?'

'Leopards are wickedly intelligent. Many who have studied them have commented that if lions shared the stealth and cunning of leopards, humans would have died in their thousands over the centuries. Have you ever heard of the Man-Eating Leopard of Rudraprayag?'

Here we go again, Jon thought. You're bloody relishing this.

'Over an eight-year period from nineteen eighteen to nineteen twenty-six a single leopard killed one hundred and twenty-six villagers in Nepal. The animal grew more and more bold, even climbing through windows and taking victims from their beds. A bounty of one thousand pounds — a small fortune in those days — attracted hunters from all over. None could get near the beast. Eventually a man called Jim Corbett was called in. Corbett was born in north India and had been a hunter all his life. Even he began to believe the animal had a sixth sense when it came to outwitting its pursuers. One time Corbett waited three weeks in a tower that overlooked a bridge the leopard was known to cross. The day after he gave up on that location, the animal crossed the bridge and claimed more villagers on the other side.' Once again Hobson sat back, a satisfied look on his face. Jon waited for him to carry on before realising the man had finished speaking. For fuck's sake. 'So what happened in the end?' Hobson flicked a hand. 'Oh, he got it eventually. But by then the animal was old and decrepit. My point is, catching the beast will be incredibly hard. Traps, poisoned carcasses, marksmen in hides — a leopard will sense them all a mile off.'

Jon tapped his fingers on the table. Hobson's unquestioning assumption that a leopard was responsible for the attacks rankled him. 'Inspector Clegg, is there any chance of speaking to Mr Sutton? There are still many more traditional angles of investiga- tion to cover before we assume this is the work of some phantom beast.' He shot a glance at Hobson. So you can stop drooling over your bloody maps. Hobson's eyelids flickered momentarily and a red spot appeared on each cheek. Good, Jon thought. I hope that stung.

Clegg moved towards the door. 'We can try him from the phone in my office.'

Jon nodded to Hobson. 'Thanks for your talk. It was very illuminating.'

'No problem,' Hobson replied, pale blue eyes dropping to the table as he reached for a pen.

Once they were further down the corridor Jon said quietly,

'What's the score with that Hobson?'

Clegg glanced over his shoulder at Jon. 'He's an acknowl- edged authority on the behaviour of big cats. At the moment he's trying to plot the animal's territorial movements by time and place of attack.'

'I don't like him. He's got some sort of agenda.'

Clegg paused in the doorway to his office. 'He's been nothing less than helpful, Sir.' Jon registered the unnecessary emphasis on the word sir. 'All his time and effort is given voluntarily.'

Exactly, thought Jon. There's something in it for him. 'The media is already reporting that a black panther carried out the attack on Saddleworth Moor. If they start writing that the animal has killed again, what do you think will happen to visitor numbers to the panther enclosure at his zoo?'

Clegg's jaw set a fraction tighter. 'If you don't mind me saying, that seems a very cynical approach to take.'

You haven't worked the cases I have, Jon thought. 'Maybe. But I want Hobson's access to this investigation limited strictly to his area of expertise. Which means not leaving him unsupervised in an office where there are documents and reports about the investigation. Now, you said back there Mrs Sutton was a plucky woman. You knew her?'

'Yes, she was a good friend of my elder sister. Use to help out on our farm when we were younger.'

Jon groaned inwardly. The guy's got a personal stake in this.

'Are you happy being involved on the case?'

'More than happy. I requested it, in fact.'

Jon could see Clegg's jaw was firmly set again. I won't argue the toss — at least, not yet. 'What sort of a person was she then?'

'Salt of the earth, to use a cliche´. She went to school here in the village, then got a qualification in child care.'

Jon's eyes locked on the other man's 'Child care? You mean she went into further education?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Where did she study?'

'At the local sixth form college.'

'When?'

'Must have been back in the late sixties. Why?'

'This morning's victim completed a course in Health and Social Welfare at Salford Polytechnic in nineteen eighty-eight. I was hoping they might have been students on the same course. Did she work in any city centre facility for young people?'

'No. She worked as a nursery nurse just round the corner until she married Ken Sutton.'

'When was that?'

'The late eighties. I remember because my sister was a bridesmaid.'

'And then she moved to Sutton's sheep farm?'

'That's right, across on the Holme side of the moor.'

Jon mulled over the information. 'The victim this morning was a forty-seven-year-old named Derek Peterson. He lived in Clayton and worked in a care home for young offenders until convicted for gross indecency in ninety-three. He was attacked in a car park used as a meeting spot for gay men last Thursday. Anything I've just said could link him to Rose Sutton?'

Clegg was slowly shaking his head. 'I don't think so.'

Jon sighed. 'What about the crime scene itself? Did forensics recover anything?'

'Forensics? We took a pathologist up there and he had a good look around.'

'What about the Scene Of Crime Officer?' Jon said incredulously.

'Oh yes, he poked around after he'd filmed the body.'

'I assume before poking around, he taped the scene off?' Clegg's eyebrows lowered. 'No point. What would he seal off? A few miles of open moor? The body had lain there all night, during which time there'd been a major storm. She may as well have been hosed down before we got there.'

'Jesus,' Jon cursed under his breath.

'Don't treat us like bumpkins, Sir.'

Jon looked at the other man, seeing his cheeks were flushed red.

'I saw the expression on your face as you were looking at the posters in reception. We might lack the sophisticated training and ample resources you lot enjoy in the Major Incident Team, but we did all we could at the time. The pathologist was happy, as was the coroner.'

Jon held up a hand. 'I'm not questioning your ability, Adam. But I would have expected this SOCO to have conducted a thorough search. I'd appreciate a look at the reports later on.'

Clegg still looked a bit cross. 'I think it might put things into perspective if you see for yourself where she was found.'

'Fine by me,' said Jon. 'Let's go over there now. Give the farmer a call, I'd like to speak with him too.'

Clegg sat down, opened a file and dialled the number written on the inside page. After waiting for a good minute he hung up.

'No one at home.'

'Has he got a mobile?'

'No. There's no reception at the farmhouse and the signal is extremely patchy on the moors.' He looked at his watch. 'Best we drive over there and see if we can catch him when he comes down for lunch.'

Jon realised his own stomach was uncomfortably empty. 'Is there somewhere I can grab a sandwich before we head over?'