Savage Moon

Twenty-Two

By the time Jon and Rick got back to Longsight, most of the Outside Enquiry Team were waiting for them. Summerby was also there, looking isolated and uncomfortable in a seat by Jon's desk.

'Sir,' Jon shrugged off his jacket. 'This is DS Rick Saville. We worked together earlier this year. I've brought him in because he's in between rotations at Chester House.'

Summerby shook Rick's hand. 'Accelerated promotion scheme?'

'Yes sir.'

'What did you graduate in?'

'History and Law. Exeter University.'

Jon saw Summerby beam. Here we go, time for a bit of university banter. He busied himself with a file, irked by the fact he could never join in such talks.

'My eldest son went there. Veterinary science.'

'Couldn't lure him into the job then?'

'No, he prefers working with animals,' Summerby replied. Jon's chin went up. 'He could have got a posting in Salford.' Summerby gave a light hearted tut. 'So, what developments have we got?'

Jon turned to his In tray. As requested, Danny Gordon's record was there. It ran to several sheets. Jon's hand paused before picking it up. Was now the time to express his doubts over heading the investigation? But with the discovery of Danny Gordon's DNA, things had really started moving. His fingers hovered in mid-air. If I get into tracking Danny Gordon, I know the thrill of the hunt will be impossible to resist. But then again, how long can it take to find him? There's a limit to the number of stones he can hide under.

'Oh, by the way,' Summerby's voice was little more than a whisper. 'I had a meeting this lunchtime with the Chief. He's following the media coverage on this and was anxious to know what progress was being made. I fended off McCloughlin's concerns.'

Jon looked up. 'McCloughlin was in the meeting?'

'Yes, it was a status meeting on current workloads for the Major Incident Team. McCloughlin was loud and clear about having spare capacity now he's wrapped up the post office raids.' Jon felt a flash of irritation. The bastard wasn't getting a crumb. He picked up the print-out. A photo of a sallow-faced male was at the top, shaved head tilted back, mouth hanging slightly open in a poor attempt at a sneer. 'Seems King Asbo here was the mystery assailant of Derek Peterson. One Danny Gordon, born nineteenth of March nineteen eighty-one. Cautions for shoplifting from eighty-eight. Moved on to burglary and joyriding, did time in juve centres, including the Silverdale. Finally made it to his natural abode — eighteen months in Strangeways in ninety-eight for possession of heroin, another two years in two thousand for the same thing, in and out since then.'

'How have you placed him as Derek Peterson's assailant?'

'The witness to the attack finally came forward and described what happened. Initially Gordon came at Peterson without warning, wielding an iron bar. Peterson managed to disarm him, then proceeded to sexually assault Gordon with the weapon.'

'I beg your pardon?'

Jon nodded. 'You heard right. The witness saw Peterson put the weapon under his car seat before fleeing the scene. The CSM recovered it, swabbed it and found Gordon's DNA.'

Summerby regarded his fingernails for a few moments. 'The things people do. So, you're thinking Gordon caught up with Peterson again in the car park at Crime Lake?'

'Only this time he didn't take any chances with his choice of weapon,' Rick added.

'Why was he after Peterson in the first place?'

'Gordon was in the Silverdale facility at the same time Peterson worked there,' answered Jon. 'From videos we recovered from his house, Peterson had a liking for younger men. And a record for gross indecency. My guess is he was abusing the kids at the care home while he had access to them.'

'And his motivation for killing Rose Sutton?'

Jon felt his lips tighten. 'I don't know. But it's just a matter of time before we find the link to both victims, I'm sure.'

'When are we bringing this Danny Gordon character in?' Jon dropped the print out on his desk. 'He's NFA. I'll contact his probation officer and put the word out, try the hostels, usual stuff.'

Summerby nodded. 'Anything interesting in Peterson's house?'

'Apart from the video collection, his computer. He was using a web site called Swinger's Haven to arrange his evening liaisons. Signing himself in as Mr P. There seem to be regular users of the site in this area. If Danny Gordon knew who Mr P was, he'd also know when and where Peterson was going to be on the nights he went out looking for sex.'

'Good work.' Summerby stood. 'I'll leave you to it.' Boosted by his senior officer's approval, Jon turned to the room. 'Listen up everyone. We have a prime suspect.' He'd just brought the team up to speed when DC Murray walked in with a folder.

'You wanted to know about Danny Gordon?' he announced with a grin.

Jon waved him forwards. 'We're all ears, mate.'

Murray headed to the central meeting table and opened the folder. 'Danny Gordon's file from the Silverdale. Why we're kept so busy.'

John listened as the officer described how Gordon had absconded repeatedly from the facility, usually to be found sniffing glue or shoplifting in the city centre. He also had a history of violent outbursts, frequently attacking staff members and fellow offenders.

'We need to find him. Any pointers from the facility?' Jon asked.

'According to the director, if anyone will know, it's this lot,' Murray replied, producing a photograph of a group of lads crouching around a football on the unnatural green of an Astroturf pitch. 'They formed a five-a-side team, were top of the league the staff organised. The director made a few phone calls and got the whereabouts of the rest.'

He held a finger to the person at the right hand edge of the shot. 'Michael Close. Lives in Aberdeen and works on the rigs in the North Sea. He's our second least promising bet. Did his stint at the Silverdale and has kept his nose clean ever since.'

'Who's the least promising one?' Rick asked.

'Him,' Murray replied, pointing to the next youth. 'Kevin Russell. Died last year when the stolen BMW he was travelling in left the M60 somewhat prematurely with the junction for the M56. No loss to his queen and country. The next one in is our man, Danny Gordon. Crap at football apparently. The guy at his side is James Field. Car thief. Scored all their goals and completed a course in… wait for it, car mechanics, while at the facility. Now works in a garage near Ashbury. Last up is Lee Welch, has another four years to go in Strangeways for holding up a jeweller's in the city centre.'

Jon bent over to examine the photograph more closely. Five fairly ordinary looking teenage lads. Danny Gordon was smaller and thinner than Jon imagined him from his mug shot. He was in the middle, looking somehow vulnerable, one hand resting on the football, no smile on his face. Jon wondered exactly what Peterson had done to him. Michael Close was lanky with a mop of brown hair and a friendly expression. He moved to the last two members of the team who were still alive.

Lee Welch had narrowed his eyes to mean slits and was succeeding quite well in looking like a proper thief. Only stick-thin legs betrayed the intimidating look he was trying to achieve. Next to him was James Field. The name had a slightly posh ring to it, Jon thought, staring at the youth. Jon had played in enough rugby teams to know with a glance that the lad was a natural athlete. Fifteen or sixteen, but with a fully adult physique. He was clearly of mixed race, one parent either African or Caribbean.

Jon looked at his watch. Five-twenty. Most offices would be shutting. 'Right, I want each of these people interviewed face to face. It's too late now, but two of you can get started on the drive up to Aberdeen. Any takers?'

The eyes of every single team member slid towards the floor.

'That's a surprise. Well, using my right as boss, I'm giving it to you two, Ashford and Rhea. I'll phone ahead for you.' He turned to a relieved looking DC Murray. 'You're obviously on a roll. Lee Welch is yours to interview. Rick and I will visit James Field's place of work first thing in the morning. Gardiner, you get over to the young offenders' probation offices by the law courts. Find out who was in charge of Danny Gordon and see what he knows. Paul, start asking questions at the soup kitchens and hostels. He may be using them.'

Just before seven Jon got the opportunity to slip outside into the car park. Punch was asleep on the blanket and Jon's heart sank when he realised how long the dog had been stuck in the car. Waking him with a gentle tap on the window, Jon opened the boot. 'Coming for a walk?'

Punch scrabbled to get a firm footing on the loose blanket, then jumped down on to the asphalt. Clicking a lead on to his collar, Jon set off out of the car park, crossed the main road and headed along the other side towards Crowcroft Park.

The noisy rush of commuters driving home meant there was little point in trying to phone Alice until he was in the park itself. He let Punch off the lead, took a seat on a battered bench then got his phone out. How to play it?

'It's me,' he announced cautiously.

'Hi.'

The single word gave nothing away. 'How's things back home?'

'All right thanks.'

Now he detected the flatness in her voice. 'Was Holly good for you today?'

'Not so bad. We both got some sleep after lunch.'

'Good. There's still more to do here, but I shouldn't be that much longer… ' He let the sentence trail off, testing the water.

She sighed. 'So I'll just do tea on my own?'

'Probably best. I'll grab something here.' He watched as Punch circled round on the grass in front of him, before squatting down and curling off a spindly turd. 'Great,' Jon groaned, realising he'd come out without any plastic bags.

'What's great?' Alice asked.

'Punch has just crapped on the grass,' he replied, patting his pockets and finding a latex glove.

'Oh.'

This is as good a time as any, he thought. 'How do you feel if

Punch-'

'I've said. We can't have the dog in our house. It's too risky.' Anger flared. 'My mum can't look after him.'

Nothing from his wife, just a faint squawking in the background.

'Ali, did you hear?'

'Holly's starting up.' Her voice sounded leaden. 'Probably needs changing.'

Nice, he thought. Making your priorities clear then. He pressed the red button, unsure if she'd hung up on him first. How could she be such a fucking cow? Surely being depressed didn't excuse that? Well, if she expected him to hurry back to help out, she was in for a long wait. He had plenty to do earning the money needed for the mountain of nappies, baby milk, clothes and other stuff she so happily took for granted.

He snapped the glove on, reached down and gingerly hooked his fingers under the warm sausage Punch had left, all the while picturing Alice wiping Holly's dirty bottom back home. The lump hit the bottom of the bin with a quiet thud and Jon's phone started ringing again. Hope reared up. Maybe she was ringing to apologise. He removed the glove and looked at the screen. Senior's name glowed there, the ex-Marine who coached at the rugby club. 'Senior, how's it going?'

'You training tonight or what, Slicer?'

Short and to the point as usual, Jon thought. 'No mate. I'm stuck in a big case.'

'Yeah, I saw your ugly mug on my telly. Did your mother never teach you how to knot a tie?'

That's rich, Jon thought with a smile, picturing the moth-eaten jumper, tracksuit trousers and slip-on shoes Senior favoured in the club bar. 'Saturday's looking out too, sorry.'

'Bloody useless you are, Slicer. What's more important? Getting out and playing a match with the boys or getting your face on the bloody telly? You'll be wearing fucking make-up next. Not that it'll do you any good, I've seen better looking arses on the monkeys down at the zoo.'

Jon heard him start to chuckle at his own joke and he couldn't help but grin. He was about to reply when he heard an anxious barking in the background. Senior's labrador, Bess. She'd been badly affected when the household's other dog, an Alsatian called Arthur, had died a couple of months ago. He glanced towards Punch as a thought suddenly occurred. 'Senior, could Bess do with some company?'

'The dog could do with bloody tranquillisers.'

'I need somewhere for Punch to stay.'

'What's wrong with your own house?'

'Problems with the missus.'

There was a pause and Jon knew the implications of his answer were sinking in. 'You'd better bring him round, then. Not that you'd remember, but training finishes about eight-thirty. Any time after that.'

Jon pulled up outside Senior's house just before ten. The lights were on downstairs and in the corner of the front garden was the usual pile of tackling bags and training bollards. It always amazed Jon how the things were never stolen — but every kid on the nearby estate knew not to aggravate the Sullivans. If Senior didn't find you, one of his two equally stocky sons would.

Jon opened the boot of his car. 'Come on boy, got a new place for you to stay. Just for a bit.'

He could see Punch had sensed the fake cheer in his voice. The dog didn't move. 'Come on, you can kip next to Bess tonight. You remember Bess? You play around with her on the touchline.'

Punch sat up and looked at the house.

'That's it. Come on.' He patted his hand against his thigh. Warily, Punch jumped down. Jon scooped up the dog bowl and biscuits, folded up the blanket and carried it all up to Senior's front door. It was opened by Judith, Senior's wife. A neatly dressed woman in her late fifties, she ruled the Sullivan household with a rod of iron. The fact that Senior, who used a non-stop stream of profanities in the rugby club, didn't dare swear in his own house was testimony to that.

'Come in, Jon,' she said, drying her hands on a flowery apron.

'He's in the telly room.'

Jon stepped inside, Punch sticking close to his heels.

'Have you eaten? There's some cheese and biscuits out.'

'No, I'm fine thanks,' said Jon, placing Punch's things on the mat.

'What about you?' she addressed Punch, whose stump of a tail finally began to wag. 'Have you had your supper?'

Jon thought guiltily about the chip shop saveloy he'd tossed to him earlier. 'That would be great, Judith. I'll bring some tins round tomorrow.'

'No need,' she replied, still looking at Punch. 'We've got crates of the stuff. Come on then, Bess is in the kitchen.'

Jon watched as she led Punch away. Bess appeared in the kitchen doorway and the two dogs touched noses, then squeezed past to sniff each other's rear end. Feeling a lot happier, Jon pushed the door open on his right.

Senior was in his armchair, slippers on in place of his shoes, stumpy legs stretched out before him.

'All right, Senior?' Jon asked, placing his mobile phone on the coffee table before slumping on to the sofa.

'Yes,' Senior replied, reaching for the remote and killing the TV's volume. His bull neck swivelled round and he looked at Jon. 'Getting the overtime in then? Hoping for that promotion?' Jon slid his fingers along the armrest. 'Hoping to get a good night's sleep.'

'What about this case? You're not seriously after some wild animal, are you?'

Jon shook his head. 'We've got someone in mind, don't worry.'

Seeing that was all the information he was going to get, Senior harumphed. 'So, Punch needs a crash pad then?'

Jon sighed. 'It would be a massive favour, believe me.' Senior glanced to the door. 'She hasn't kicked your sorry arse out too?' he said, deciding it was safe to swear.

'Not yet.'

'Any reason for all this?'

From his tone, Jon knew that Senior meant was there any rational reason, something that a male brain could understand. How to answer? Somehow he didn't think Senior would have much time for words like hormones or depression. 'She's been feeling down recently. Tired out as much as anything.'

'What, too tired to walk the dog?'

'No, the dog thing's different. She thinks that Punch could be, well, sort of a threat, you know? To Holly.'

'Come again?'

Judith stepped into the room with two cups of tea.

'Cheers,' Jon said, sitting up to take one. He cleared his throat before continuing. 'Punch was licking Holly on the head. Alice was, I mean is, afraid the dog's jealous. Basically, she's worried Punch might bite the baby.'

Judith and Senior touched glances.

'Our kids used to ride around on our boxer dog's back. Remember Bruno, Judith? Lovely breed boxers, no threat at all.' Judith crossed her arms. 'That's hardly a help to Jon and Alice is it? How are you both finding it with the baby?'

'Well, hard work. But we knew it would be. Alice is feeling pretty exhausted to be honest.'

'Is she sleeping all right? It's not easy being a mother.'

Jon thought about her raising her two boys. Junior and Rob. They both played for Ironsides and were enough of a handful on the pitch. 'You're right,' he answered, feeling himself opening up. 'She's not herself. A colleague with some experience of this mentioned post-natal depression.'

'Oh, you poor loves,' Judith said, a concerned expression on her face. 'You must make sure she has plenty of company, people to do things for her. Can I help out? Maybe do the shopping or clean the house?'

Jon smiled. 'That's really kind, but looking after Punch is help enough. Both our mums are around; at least Alice's will be back from holiday soon.'

'Well, you just say. I'll cook you some meals, that's always a help.' She left the room, apparently to start straightaway.

Senior waited for a second before leaning over to Jon. 'What's she depressed about?' he asked suspiciously.

Jon sipped at his tea. 'Nothing in particular. She feels anxious all the time. Now I look back, I can see how odd she's been. She was going on about Iraq the other night. Worrying about the fact civilians are being killed.'

'Jesus Christ,' Senior stated ominously.

Jon gave him a questioning glance but Senior shook his head.

'Come on Senior, what?'

The other man glanced at the door again. Keeping his voice low, he said, 'There's going to be some shit hitting the fan soon.'

'What do you mean?'

'I was at a regimental dinner the other day. There was a lot of chat about what's going on over there. Stuff that won't do your missus any good when it makes the news.'

'Go on.'

'They've been getting a bit too rough with a lot of prisoners.'

'Too rough?'

Senior hunched a shoulder. 'It goes on during any conflict. The problem is those bloody things.' He directed his gaze to Jon's mobile phone. 'They've been photographing it, and now images are leaking out.'

'From where?'

'The big prison in Baghdad. The one the Yanks took over from Saddam Hussain. Abu Ghraib. They're really laying into the prisoners they've got locked up in there. More than just scaring them with guard dogs.'

'Doing what then?'

'One photo had this hooded guy balancing on a stool. Wires hanging off him.'

'A prisoner?'

'Someone they'd pulled in. A terrorist probably. There was more. A few had died during interrogation. Wrapped up in cling film, probably suffocated.'

Jon stared at him in disbelief.

'Don't look so shocked, it's a war, Slicer. You can't pussyfoot around.'

'No, but aren't there conventions for this sort of thing?' Senior raised his eyebrows. 'Like the enemy'd stick to?

They're sawing people's heads off, remember?'

'Those gung-ho Yanks are a bloody liability.'

Senior fixed him with a cold stare. 'I gathered there are photos from Basra too. Our boys aren't blameless either. Anyway, don't tell me you've never got carried away with some little thief you've nicked.'

Jon pictured the times when he'd lost control. There'd been quite a few, but never amounting to more than a few bruises on the suspect. A broken tooth on one occasion. But then he thought of the politicians selling the reason for the invasion with smoothly delivered words. 'Yeah, but our whole approach over there is promising a change from Saddam, introduce peace, freedom, democracy. We're meant to be the good guys.'

Senior gave a dismissive wave. 'Slicer, I might be a bone-headed ex-Marine, but you don't really think I believe that's why we're over there?'

'No, but that's the official line the politicians spout. How does that square with torturing suspects?'

Again Senior shrugged. 'Give me a war where this stuff doesn't go on. The only difference with this one is the souvenir snaps they've been stupid enough to send to their mates back home. It'll reach the press soon, mark my words.'

Jon's eyes strayed to the clock display on his mobile. Ten-twenty. 'I've got to go. Holly will be wanting her bottle.'

He had reached the doorway when Senior said his name. He looked back into the room. The other man was sitting in his armchair, one finger raised to his lips. Jon returned the gesture with a nod.

Ten minutes later he unlocked his front door, eyes automatically moving to the end of the corridor in anticipation of Punch bounding delightedly towards him. All there was were a few dead leaves lying on the carpet. Their dry, lifeless forms made him feel uneasy and he found himself picking them up and tossing them out the door.

The house was quiet. He leaned into the front room. Empty. Kitchen lights were off. Hanging his jacket on the banister, he climbed the stairs. Little sucking sounds from the nursery. He looked in, just able to make Holly out in her cot, her eyes open and a dummy moving back and forth between her lips.

Just in time, he thought. He hurried down the stairs and flicked the kitchen light on. Alice's dinner stuff was all still out, plate lying on top of other dirty washing up in the sink. Opening the fridge, he saw she hadn't prepared a bottle. Shit. He touched the kettle, relieved it was only faintly warm. The water was about right for Holly's bottle. After washing his hands, he mixed up four ounces then climbed back up the stairs.

Once she was safely on his lap, he removed her dummy, instantly replacing it with the bottle's teat before she could start crying. She began sucking away and Jon was able to relax. The curtains weren't quite drawn and through the gap he was able to see a black cat sitting on their yard wall. It appeared to be sunning itself in the orange glow from the streetlamp above. After a minute the animal stood up and stretched. Then it looked into his yard before dropping silently down on to the concrete. Watching it, Jon wondered how a panther might compare. Was it five, ten, fifteen, times larger? What did a panther weigh? Six stone? Maybe more? And was that how it moved, cautious yet graceful? He craned his head to watch as the cat began to explore. It approached the patch of wall to the side of their back gate, sniffed, then turned round and sprayed the stone with urine. One day, Jon thought. Punch is missing for one day and already the bloody cats are claiming the yard as their own.

Holly's head slumped back, milk glistening on her chin. The bottle was almost empty so he returned it to the windowsill, burped her, then placed her gently back in the cot.

In the darkness of their bedroom he could see Alice's form curled beneath their duvet. Her breathing was slow and deep. She probably hadn't even woken when he unlocked the front door. Well, so much for talking things through with her tonight.

First thing in the morning, he told himself, as a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. Shedding his clothes as quickly as possible, he slipped beneath the covers and closed his eyes.