Savage Moon

Eleven

Trevor Kerrigan picked up the keys to his Mitsubishi Shogun. As he walked towards his front door the colours in the elaborate stained glass window at its centre were glowing and he felt a sense of personal satisfaction — as if the weather had brightened solely because he had willed it.

He turned his head and called out to the corridor behind him.

'Off to hit a few at the club, see you later, duck.'

'OK, see you later, love,' a female voice answered from the depths of the house.

Kerrigan opened the door and paused at the top of his steps. He liked to imagine how he must appear to the traffic passing on the main road in front of his house. Though he wasn't a tall man, he believed there was an air of authority about him. The kind that successful businessmen like him gave off. He adjusted the gold sovereign ring on his left hand, rotating it slowly back and forth. Up until a couple of years ago he'd sported several other rings too, but the infuriating craze for bling had forced their removal. There was no way he was looking like those ridiculous darkies, shouting their stupid hip-hop and grabbing their crutches like fucking apes. He surveyed the road for a moment longer, then looked down at the marble lions flanking him.

'Hello there lads.'

The lions gazed across the narrow garden with its manicured strip of lawn and collection of Greek style urns. As Kerrigan followed the path across the front of his house, he raised the fob on the collection of keys and pressed a button. The door to his double garage rose slowly, revealing the powerful-looking vehicle inside. He walked round it to the rear of the building where a high density foam sculpture of a male head and torso was mounted on a spring-loaded pole that, in turn, was connected to a barrel-sized base unit filled with water.

Kerrigan paused, breathed in, then slowly raised his head.

'You talkin' to me?' he murmured through barely parted lips.

'You are?' He stepped up to the figure, bowing his forehead so it came to within millimetres of the face. 'You fucking talkin' to me?' As if released from a catch, his head bobbed forward, connecting with the figure's nose, rocking it backwards. In the same movement, he bent his knees, dropped a left shoulder and brought a fist up toward the stomach area of the bag. Not wanting to risk his gold ring, he pulled the punch, conveying the sense of impact with a comic-book 'Kapow!' The torso quivered on its pole and Kerrigan gave it a mocking grin. 'Not so tough now, are you?'

Practising his technique of intimidation was a routine he liked to maintain before going anywhere. In his line of work it was best to stay sharp when dealing with employees or clients.

He released the central locking on his car, opened the boot, then hauled his bag of golf clubs off the shelves built into the side of the garage and placed them in the vehicle. Settling into the driver's seat of the Shogun, he watched the steady flow of cars passing by. He knew that living right next to a busy main road leading into Manchester city centre was unnecessary for some- one with his income. He also knew that his house was out of keeping with those on either side. But since he'd bought the semi adjoining his and knocked through, his home had suddenly become a six-bedroom detached. After that, some carefully chosen embellishments had served to further distinguish him from his neighbours, setting him apart and letting everyone know — in no uncertain terms — that he was a man of standing.

He liked to give this message out to the scum who surrounded him. After all, they generated his income and it was important they knew who was boss. Pointing his key fob at the road, he pressed another button and the wrought iron gates began to open. Kerrigan started up the engine, but didn't move the vehicle forward. He couldn't suffer the indignity of having to wait for a gap in the traffic before being able to pull out of his own driveway. Instead he waited for the traffic lights thirty metres down the road to change to red. Only once they had, forcing the stream of cars to slow down, did he put his vehicle in gear and move down the driveway. An approaching car, having to stop anyway, flashed him and Kerrigan was able to drive out on to the road without a problem.

The route to Brookvale Golf Course took him through the drab terraced streets of Droylsden, but the green of the fairways came into view within ten minutes of setting off from his house. He pulled into the club's entrance, the suspension on his Shogun barely registering the speed bumps as he cruised along the short drive to the car park. He got out of his vehicle and was walking round to the boot, when his mobile phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Milner. What did that idiot want?

Holding a hand up in greeting to a couple of men making their way to the clubhouse, he turned round and got back in his car, not wanting any other member to hear his conversation.

'John. What's up?' he snapped.

'Ah, hello, Trevor. You OK, boss?'

'Fine. What is it?'

'Erm, I'm at a house on Ackroyd Street.'

Immediately Kerrigan commenced a mental scan. He prided himself on his ability to recall the details of every late payer from memory. 'Skinny woman with shit teeth and a little kid. How much is she behind?'

'This week or all together?'

'This week, for starters.'

'Thirty-two quid just to cover the interest.'

Kerrigan started calculating. Allowing for the rates of interest he charged, she probably owed in excess of three hundred quid. Not a massive amount in itself, but when added to dozens and dozens of other amounts like it, it soon funded his leisurely lifestyle and two holidays in Barbados each year. He also knew that letting one late payer get away with it sent out completely the wrong signal. 'Are her curtains open?'

'Yeah.'

'So what's inside?'

Movement at the other end of the line. Kerrigan could picture Milner stepping across the patch of grass, in all probability having to pick his way past mangled toys, discarded nappies and dog shit.

'There's a TV on.'

'Widescreen?'

'Yup.'

'DVD underneath it?'

'Think so.'

'What else? Sofas, armchairs? Kids' toys?'

'No sofa. The kid is on the floor playing on a video game.'

'So she can afford Sony fucking Playstations can she?'

'Hang on, she's seen me looking in. She's coming across to the window.' The other man started speaking away from the phone. 'Come on love, you're well overdue. You know the score. Listen, if you… ' His voice came back on the line. 'No use, she's drawn the curtains. Said she's not opening the door to anyone.'

'You already tried telling her you were a registered bailiff?'

'Yeah, when I arrived. She was half out the door with the kid and a shopping bag on her arm. Stepped back inside, saying she knows her rights and I'm not coming in.'

Bollocks, Kerrigan thought. She must have been to the Citizen's Advice Bureau for help. 'She was going shopping, so she's got cash in there. Keep knocking. On her door and her windows. Make it loud. Let the neighbours hear. If she was going shopping, she needs food, especially for the kid. She'll open the door eventually.'

'How long do you want me to keep trying, boss?'

Kerrigan rolled his eyes. Did he have to hold every fuckwit's hand in this life? 'As long as you want to pick up your bonus this month, that's how long. You think I got to sit here at my golf club because I gave up every time some stupid bitch blew her giro on gin and then tried to close her curtains on me? Now don't bother me again until you've got the cash!'

He slammed the phone down on the passenger seat. Breathing deeply, he flicked the radio on, wanting to distract himself from the pond life he had to deal with. There was some sort of news flash going on. A woman was reporting that another body had been found with extensive injuries to the throat and upper chest.

Police refused to confirm or deny a connection with the woman found up on Saddleworth Moor. Kerrigan gave a low whistle. Now there was something to talk about in the members' bar.