Savage Moon

Twenty-Seven

'That's your bloody phone.'

Jon's eyelids felt glued shut. He moved away from Alice's elbow as it jabbed him in the ribs. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, he grabbed his mobile.

'Spicer here.'

'Morning, Sir, it's Sergeant Innes at Longsight.' Jon managed to grunt in reply.

'Sorry for the early call.'

'What time is it?'

'Just after seven.'

He'd been asleep for what? Six hours. He felt like he needed sixty more. 'What's up?'

'A body has just been found on the Brookvale golf course. Severe lacerations to the face, neck and upper chest.'

Jon was on his feet and reaching for his trousers. 'I'm on my way.'

The sun was just clearing the trees by the time Jon arrived at the entrance to the golf course. The brightness would be short lived. Despite the weather forecast, a slab of grey cloud was moving across the sky and Jon thought it would be raining by lunch. His tyres made a drumming noise as he drove over the cattle grid and on to the gravel drive beyond. It rose up and, looking to his left, he saw the brown of the moors in the distance. To his right the chimneys, towers and cranes of Manchester were just visible.

As he pulled into the car park at the side of the clubhouse, he noted a green van, two police cars and a monstrous four-wheel drive already parked there. A sign to the side was headed by the words, Club rules. He read the first one. No trainers or shirts without collars allowed. Thinking how much he hated the petty rules and sad hierarchies of these places, he deliberately parked in the slot reserved for the President.

At the tee-off for the first hole three lines of footprints led across the still damp grass. They ended at a patch of sunlight that was creeping up the fairway, pushing back the shadows cast by the pine trees behind them.

'Who's been down there so far?' Jon asked, after introducing himself to the uniforms.

'The groundsman and the constable who first responded to the nine-nine-nine call.'

Jon's eyes went to the distant bushes. A bag of golf clubs and two arms, flung backwards, were just visible. He looked over his shoulder at the jeep. 'That his car?'

'Yes. Registered to a Trevor Kerrigan of The Beeches, Droylsden Road.'

'Have you run his details?'

'No need, Sir. Kerrigan's well known in this area.'

'Why?'

'He's a loan shark. Loads of reports linking him to intimidation of people owing him money. He's almost been collared for assault on several occasions, but either the victims won't testify or one of his thug employees owns up.'

'So no shortage of people bearing a grudge.' He looked back at the fairway. The crime scene manager was still fifteen minutes away. He didn't want to wait that long. 'I'm going to take a look.'

As he ducked under the blue and white ribbon of police tape stretching across the top of the car park, the sergeant said, 'Sir, is this another one?'

'Another what?' Jon waited, forcing the officer to say it.

'Another victim of a wild animal. Because if it is, the panther that was shot out on Saddleworth Moor can't have been the killer, can it?'

Jon took a step back towards the other man, his stomach pressing against the striped ribbon. 'Sergeant, we've got enough shit with what the press are stirring up. I will not have anyone referring to attacks by wild animals, is that understood?'

'Sir.'

Jon marched down the centre of the fairway, rolling his tongue round the inside of his mouth as he did so. Shit, I forgot to brush my teeth. He patted his jacket pockets searching for mints. Bollocks, forgot those too. He felt slightly unsteady as if he was walking on a layer of foam. Christ, I'm tired, he thought, glad to step into the sunlight and feel its faint warmth on the back of his neck.

When he'd left Alice she was sitting up in bed, Holly feeding at her breast. But his wife's head was hanging forward and he couldn't even tell if her eyes were open as he said that he'd be back soon. He checked his watch. Seven forty-eight. Give it until eight, then he'd ring his mum and see if she could go round and stay with Alice until he got back. Which would be when, he asked himself. Lunchtime, no later. I'll get things rolling here then phone Summerby and request that he take over the case.

He circled the far side of the green, glancing into a pair of bunkers as he passed them. A set of tiny footprints ran across the far one. A stoat or squirrel he thought, wondering if any tracks might remain where the body lay. With each step, more of the corpse came into view. Arms stretched out either side of a balding head that was peppered with droplets of blood. The guy was spread-eagled, cropped grass stained a dark crimson beneath his upper half.

Jon continued round until he could see the entire body. Where the throat should have been was just a gaping great hole, glistening flaps of flesh hanging down. Twenty, even ten minutes ago, that wound would have still been bleeding, Jon thought. He scrutinised the dense grouping of gorse, the rims of his eyes feeling red and itchy. One bush had grown outwards, giving the clump a rough L shape. The attacker had obviously been concealed behind it, waiting for Kerrigan to approach. Was it a random attack or had it been planned? If it was premeditated, as Jon suspected, how did the killer know Kerrigan would be here, alone, at this precise time?

Jon's eyes moved slowly over the scene before him, desperately searching for any clue that may have been left behind. The bushes had grown into each other, forming an impenetrable barrier. There was no way the attacker could have retreated through them into the rough at the edge of the fairway. Which meant he'd have walked over the edge of the green. Shit, half an hour ago, this area would still have been in shadow; the attacker's footprints standing out in the damp grass. As Jon stared, he wondered whether four feet or only two would have made the trail.

'Get a grip,' he whispered, snuffing the thought out before it could take hold, but as he backed away from the scene he couldn't help glancing between the trees behind him. He set off towards the car park, pulling his mobile out as he did so.

'Mum, it's me. Sorry to call so early.'

'That's OK, love. What is it?'

'Mum, can you go over to ours and stay with Alice? She's not so good. I don't want her on her own and I won't be back for a bit.'

'The baby blues is it?'

'Baby blues? I think it's a bit more serious than that.'

'Is she expecting me?'

'No.'

'Is it right that I just turn up? On your doorstep unannounced?'

It's never bothered you before, he thought. 'Course. She won't mind. She should rest, Mum. She needs a bit of fussing over.'

'And when will you be home, then?'

The implication of the question was clear. This is your job, not mine. 'As soon as I can. Late morning, hopefully.'

'OK, but I can't stay too long. I have to be at Our Lady of the

Angels for mass at noon.'

Jon closed his eyes for an instant. The interminable hours you forced us to spend in that bloody church when we were kids. He remembered the little games he, Dave and Ellie would play to try and pass the time: searching the hymnbooks for lines they could couple with rude words, kicking the padded cushions away as they all had to kneel for prayers. 'I'll be back, don't worry.'

'Right, I'll get dressed then.'

As he got back to the car park a familiar red Mercedes was reversing into the corner. Collyer, the home office pathologist. Sure enough, the man unfolded his long limbs from the vehicle and walked round to his boot.

'Prompt as usual,' Jon said, feet crunching over the gravel. The pathologist turned his head. 'No flies on my corpses,' he replied.

Jon smiled, not able to quite manage a laugh. 'It's like the other one I'm afraid. Not pretty.'

'I didn't expect it to be,' he replied, climbing into a white body suit. He removed a large briefcase from the boot. 'Lead the way.'

Jon retraced his footsteps back down the fairway, coming to a halt at the edge of the green and extending a hand. 'It's all yours. I suspect the attack was launched from the cover of those bushes, so I've kept well away from that area.'

'Fine.' The pathologist pulled on white overshoes, a facemask and hair net. He then approached the body. After slowly circling it, he opened his briefcase and knelt down by the head for a closer look. He removed a thermometer and inserted the end into the wound. After that he examined the hands, taking more time over the man's right fingers. Next he retrieved the thermometer, checked it, then returned it to its case. Finally he took out another pair of overshoes and walked over to Jon. 'A couple of things you should see.'

Jon slipped them on, then followed the pathologist back across the green.

'Judging from the temperature inside the throat wound, the victim's been dead for an hour at the most. This attack was more ferocious than the last. He's really gone to town this time. Look at the flayed edges of the wounds. That suggests multiple strikes with the pronged weapon I described. He hasn't just torn the throat open, he's pretty much removed it. See here? That's the clavicle showing through.'

'Collar bone to me?' Jon asked, feeling the bile churning at the back of his throat.

'Collar bone to you. He's even damaged that. Look, can you see those four nicks in the bone? That's where the prongs made contact.'

Jon crouched down and leaned in close. The pathologist was right. Four chips to the bone, identical spaces in between. 'Can you look at those nicks under a microscope to see if any traces of the weapon have been left in the bone?'

'Yes, that's a good idea. Now, the reason why this attack was more savage could be this.' He moved down to Kerrigan's right hand. 'You see the sovereign ring? It's been dented and there's a black hair caught in the rim.'

'He punched his attacker?' Jon bent forwards. 'That hair. It looks horribly similar to the ones recovered from Sutton and Peterson.'

'But there's more. Look closely at the ring and you'll see some other matter caught there. I'd hazard a guess that's some of your attacker's epidermis.'

'Skin? We can test for DNA?'

'Correct.'

Jon slapped a fist into his palm. 'Brilliant. Can I leave you to it? I need to get over to the victim's house.'

'OK. I'll speak to you soon.'

'And can you make that DNA test a top priority?' Jon called over his shoulder, halfway across the green.

Up above him the cloud had closed in on the sun, snuffing out its welcome glow.

It was mid-morning before he got a chance to make it to Summerby's office. He was about to knock on the door when his mobile rang. 'Hi Mum, everything all right?'

'She's not here. I'm outside your house, but no one's in.' Alarm bells rang in his head. 'Have you brought your key?'

'Yes.'

'Then open the door, she's probably asleep.'

'OK, I'll call you back.'

He stood in the corridor, nervously jiggling the phone in his cupped hand. Probably nipped out to the shops. Yeah, we needed some coffee. Or maybe in the back yard. It had just started to drizzle, she was probably getting the washing in before it got wet.

His phone went again and he'd answered it before the end of the first ring. 'Hi.'

'She's not here.' Faint irritation was in her voice.

He wanted to demand that she search the whole house, but he knew it would sound melodramatic. 'Not upstairs then?'

'The buggy's gone, she must be out.'

'Hang on then, I'll try her mobile.' He hung up and speed dialled Alice's number. Her recorded voice asked him to leave her a message. 'Ali, it's me. Call me when you pick this up. OK, speak to you soon.'

He rang his mum back. 'It's on answer phone. Can you stick around and call me as soon as she turns up?'

'But I'm expected at-'

'Mum, I'm sure your church will survive if you miss just one bloody service. Alice isn't very well.'

'All right,' she finally replied. 'I'll do a spot of vacuuming.'

'Thanks, Mum.'

He knocked on Summerby's door and went in. Gavin Edwards was there by the window, eyes directed to the sky as if he could gauge the coming media storm by the greyness of the clouds outside.

'So,' his senior officer announced, hands crossed on the desk before him. 'Same hallmarks as the other two?'

'More than that,' Jon sat down, the taste of a hastily gulped can of Red Bull still in his mouth. His heart rate was slightly up and he could feel the press of blood behind his eyes. 'The pathologist found a hair on the victim's right hand. I'm getting used to recognising panther hairs and it looked identical to the ones from Sutton and Peterson.'

'Hairs caught under the victim's nails again? Isn't that a bit too convenient?' Summerby demanded.

'Not under the nails, sir. It was snagged in the rim of a sovereign ring he was wearing. There was also what appeared to be a scrape of skin caught there. It could be that Kerrigan struck back at his attacker and took off some of his skin in the process.'

'What is he, an ex-boxer or something?' Gavin Edwards asked from the corner.

'He was known to be violent. I think we can assume he knew how to throw a retaliatory punch.'

'So who was he?' Summerby asked, eyes on the notes in Jon's lap.

'Trevor Kerrigan, lived in a house called The Beeches on

Droylsden Road.'

'The Beeches? That sounds a bit grand, isn't it just terraced houses along there?'

'He was the area's biggest loan shark. Nasty piece of work according to the local officers. Got a record that stretches back over thirty years. Early stuff on tax evasion and fraud. He rented bed-sits. Seems he packed that in during the recession of the eighties to focus solely on money lending. Plenty to suggest he uses intimidation and low level violence to collect what's owed him, but nothing has ever resulted in a conviction.'

'A man with many enemies,' Summerby leaned back. 'You think that Danny Gordon will feature on his list of debtors?'

'That's my guess.'

'Still no sign of him?'

'Unfortunately not.' He turned to Edwards. 'You issued his name and description?'

'Yes, the release went out yesterday evening. Too late for the first editions to major on it, but local radio have picked it up. No calls through to the incident room then?'

'A few,' Jon replied. 'Just vague sightings in the city centre. Nothing solid as yet. I gather there's already been quite a reaction to this latest killing.'

Summerby laughed. 'A reaction? People are getting bloody hysterical. We've got sightings of panthers being called in from all over the place. People won't walk in parks. The council has had to issue an appeal for calm. I've never experienced anything like it.' He picked up his phone. 'Let's meet again at four.'

Taking the cue, Gavin made for the door. Jon stayed in his seat. 'Sir, could I have a word?'

Summerby met his eyes, then glanced at the press officer who was hovering at the door. 'That's all Gavin, thanks.'

The door closed and Summerby replaced the phone. 'What's up, Jon?'

Jon took a breath in. 'I'm not sure I can continue being SIO on this case.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'It's my wife, Sir. Things have gone a bit downhill at home.' He found himself flicking the fingers of his hand, as if warding off an irritating insect. Christ, Jon, this is Alice you're talking about. 'Since having the baby she's got more and more stressed. That and being tired. She's not coping too well.'

'You mean she's depressed?'

He couldn't bring himself to agree. Somehow it felt like he was betraying her. 'Not depressed, but she needs support. I'm never there for her.'

He watched Summerby thinking it over. 'When this case kicked off, I asked you whether it was a good idea for you to take it on. You assured me that it was. As I remember, you mentioned there was plenty of help from members of your family and hers.'

Jon recalled his blithe assurance. What a prick you were, he told himself. 'I did, yes. But the case isn't what it first appeared.'

'Few cases are. Now we're in the thick of it and you want to walk away? I've got the Chief breathing down my neck, DI Spicer.'

You also don't want to jeopardise the holiday you've no doubt booked the day after you retire, Jon thought. 'Sir, you also reserved the right that, if things got out of hand, you'd step in to take command.' Admitting defeat was not something Jon ever permitted himself to do. He searched for the words. 'I feel that point has been reached.'

'Do you realise how I've fought your corner with McClough- lin? This will make me look a complete fool.'

Jon felt himself shrivelling in the chair. He tried to sit up.

'What can I say? Alice isn't well. She's… ' What? He thought. On some motorway flyover contemplating jumping off? Is Holly in her arms? He squeezed his eyes shut. 'She's struggling.'

'Has she seen a GP?'

'No.'

'Maybe that should be your first priority. It would help put things in perspective. Perhaps it's just a case of some medication.'

Jon sighed. 'I can't head this thing up. It's too big. I'll work as part of the team no problem, but I don't know how to run the whole show.'

Summerby rolled a pen back and forth with the tip of one finger. 'Fine. You'll need to take me through your policy book. I want to know about all of your decisions so far, the reasoning behind them, what is being currently actioned. I'm assuming you've got everyone trying to locate Danny Gordon?'

'Not everyone, no. I've got people looking into Jeremy

Hobson's past, others asking questions out at Mossley Brow.'

'Sod that. Who are those officers kicking their heels up in

Aberdeen?'

'Rhea and Ashford.'

'Fly them back down here if necessary. I'll see the Chief about getting some more men on the case.'

Halfway down the stairs Jon paused on a landing and rang his mum again.

'No, she's not back yet. Jon, you sound very uptight.'

'Things are really busy here, that's all. Don't forget to call me-'

'I know, I know. Now can I get on with this cleaning?'

He felt as though everything he cared about was under threat. Scrolling down through his phone book, he called Senior's number. 'It's Jon. Everything OK, mate? Punch not being too much bother?'

'The dog's fine. They've been tearing round the park like a couple of nutters.'

'Great. I'll try and pop round later.'

He carried on down the stairs, aware that the can of Red Bull had added a coating of fur to his teeth. 'Toothbrush,' he muttered, hurrying past the incident room to the car park. Minutes later he was pulling up on the garage forecourt. Inside he headed for the toiletries section. Seven quid for a toothbrush and toothpaste? Cursing the fact he was being ripped off, he placed the items on the counter.

'I bet you're living in that police station, aren't you?'

He looked up, realising it was the same attendant from the other night. 'Not far wrong.' He removed a ten-pound note from his wallet.

'Or do you prefer not to be travelling the roads at night? Safer to stay in the cop shop?'

Jon put the money on the counter, sensing a wild theory on how to solve the case coming his way.

'I wouldn't worry. The Medlock flows into town a good mile north of here.'

Jon looked at the attendant. 'Say again?'

The man gave a knowing wink. 'The Medlock. I've been looking at the city centre map too.' He opened a large format A to Z and pointed to the page. 'The beast is following the river, right? It killed the woman first, now it's crept down off the moors and killed that guy by Crime Lake. Now it's got another on the Brookvale golf course. Look, the Medlock runs off the moor and passes through both spots. The animal is probably heading towards the city centre as we speak. Am I right, or am I right?'

Jon managed a tight-lipped smile. That was the half-formed thought that had occurred to him on the moor, as he was sitting on the back of Sutton's quad bike looking down towards Manchester. What had Adam Clegg called it? The Mersey basin. And the Medlock flowed right into the heart of the city before emptying into the Manchester Ship Canal. Jesus Christ, it'll be mayhem if people start believing that.

'Good imagination, mate.'

The man laughed. 'That's what my teachers said at school. Didn't get me far though, did it?'

Jon drove round the corner then immediately parked up. He took his own A to Z of Manchester from the glove box and turned to the overall map at the front. There was Saddleworth Moor, a near blank expanse just beyond the right-hand edge of the map's grid. He looked at the square nearest to it, then turned to that page and studied the main features there. Saddleworth Moor golf course. Moorgate Quarry, Ladcastle Quarry (disused). He turned to the page before. An empty area called High Moor dominated it. A patch of blue caught his eye. Lower Strinesdale Reservoir. And there, above it, was the thinnest of black lines. The River Medlock.

The area below was covered by page seventy-four. More details filled that page and he had to scan a swarm of words before finally finding the ones he was looking for. The Medlock. Still just a black line, it emerged by Sun Hill, disappeared again, then popped up further down the page at Lees Cemetery. It had widened considerably by the time it meandered past Oldham Golf Course. He turned to page seventy-three. Now it was marked as a blue line, making it easier to pick out as it trailed off the corner to continue on page eighty-seven. He saw the words Daisy Nook Country Park and Crime Lake. He remembered looking down at the river from the bridge, noting how the overgrown banks would have provided cover for an attacker. The river branched away, passing beneath the M60 ring road and on to page eighty-five. Brookvale Golf Course. Shit, the thing ran right past where Kerrigan's body had shown up. Jon looked down the page. Now it was just above Droylsden. Next was page ninety-seven. There it was again, meandering innocently through an area that was crowded with residential streets and industrial properties. At Philips Park it disappeared, emerging to the left of Beswick in a Public Open Area. Now he was on the red grid of enlarged squares that detailed the city centre itself. Familiar names sprang out at him. The Town Hall and Library. Piccadilly Gardens. The Arndale Shopping Centre. Bridgewater Hall. Granada TV Centre.

The river ran right through the heart of Manchester. Could an animal seriously be following it into the centre of the city? And if it was, what sort of panic would that create?

He drove straight back to the station and, A to Z in hand, bounded up the stairs to Summerby's office. 'Sir, I know this sounds strange but… ' he stopped. There on the other side of his senior officer's desk sat McCloughlin.

They locked eyes for an instant before McCloughlin turned back round.

'Jon, come in. I was just explaining to DCI McCloughlin about how we're restructuring the investigation. He's kindly agreed to give us some officers to follow up the lines of enquiry created by Kerrigan's death.'

Jon eased himself into a chair, saying nothing.

'What were you about to tell us?' McCloughlin said, a look of amusement in his eyes.

Jon cleared his throat. Summerby's arched eyebrows indicated he should carry on. Self-consciously, Jon placed the A to Z on the table. 'There is something that links all three murders.'

Summerby leaned forward. 'What?'

With a glance at McCloughlin, Jon said, 'Rose Sutton died up on Saddleworth Moor. It's where various springs rise up, merge together and form the start of the River Medlock. The river then flows straight towards the city; Derek Peterson was found by Crime Lake which adjoins the Medlock valley. Trevor Kerrigan was killed on Brookvale golf course, which is bisected by the Medlock.'

The two men were staring at the map.

'Because of the very fact it's a river, the Medlock is bordered by uncultivated land. I looked down on it in the Daisy Nook Country Park. Wide, steep banks, covered with trees and bushes. What if Danny Gordon is using this cover to creep up on his victims?'

'So you're saying they are just random attacks?' Summerby murmured.

'Not necessarily. He could have been stalking them before the attacks, working out the best place to strike.'

'You make him sound like a predatory animal,' McCloughlin said.

The derisory note in his voice rankled with Jon. God, I'd like to lamp this arsehole. 'Maybe that's what he thinks he is,' Jon replied, looking at the map. 'Isn't that what the whole werewolf thing is about? People who believe so strongly they're a wolf, they start to behave like one.'

'So what does that make Danny Gordon, a werepanther?' McCloughlin smirked.

'Danny Gordon is obviously extremely disturbed, that much is obvious,' Jon replied. 'Who's to say he hasn't become delusional in his beliefs?'

'How does this assist the enquiry?' Summerby asked.

'If he's following the river, we could start searching the land bordering it at the very least.'

Summerby didn't sound convinced. 'Do panthers follow rivers? Working on your theory of Gordon pretending that he is one, we need to know.'

'I'd guess Jeremy Hobson could tell us that.'

'Get on to him immediately then.'

Jon left the room with the impression Summerby was humouring him. He could almost hear his senior officer's thoughts. If DI Spicer wants to relinquish his lead role and chase shadows, so be it. In the corridor he glanced at his mobile in the vain hope a message from his wife might be there. The screen was blank. He rang home. His mum picked up. 'Still no sign of her?'

'No.'

Jon weighed up his options. 'Are you OK to stay a little longer? I've got to nip out on a visit.'

She sighed. 'Go on then, but I can't just wait here all day.'

Five minutes later DCI McCloughlin walked back down the corridor to his office and shut the door. After sitting down he extracted a mobile from his pocket, leaving the desk phone untouched. After selecting a number from his phonebook, he swivelled round so his back was to the door. His call was answered immediately.

'Carmel Todd, crime desk.'

'Hello Carmel, can you talk?'

'DCI McCloughlin? Absolutely.'

'Good, I have something for your next edition.'

'Fire away.'

'You're aware another body's been found?'

'Yes. We just received a fax from your press office. Is there another panther out there? My editor is tearing his hair out.'

McCloughlin smiled. 'Just don't give the reward money out quite yet. This morning's victim was a loan shark operating in the Droylsden area, name of Trevor Kerrigan.'

'Any connection to Sutton or Peterson?'

'Unsure as yet. Which is no surprise given the way the investigation has been handled so far. You'll love the latest theory. I recommend you give it a “clutching at straws” kind of slant.'

'I'm all ears.'

'Plot the locations of the killings on a map and you'll see they've all taken place within the vicinity of the River Medlock. They're now wondering if a panther. . '

'Hang on, I thought Danny Gordon is the prime suspect?'

'Yes. But now they think he believes he's a panther.' A laugh of disbelief escaped Carmel. 'You're joking.'

'I wish I was. They're thinking Danny Gordon is creeping along the banks of the Medlock, using it as a kind of hunting territory.'

'Where does the river lead?'

'Look at your map, Miss Todd. Directly into the city centre.' She let out a low whistle. 'Now that is a good story.'

'I thought you'd like it.'

'Can I ask you a question, DCI McCloughlin?'

'Yes.'

'Why are you doing this?'

'Doing what?'

'Feeding me this information.'

McCloughlin thought about how, until quarter of an hour ago, the biggest incident to hit Manchester in God knew how long didn't involve him. Worse than that, DI Spicer, a man who had defied his orders on two previous investigations, was heading it up. But now a new hand of cards had been dealt. He had been asked by Summerby to help out and Spicer was actually requesting a lesser role. Once the Chronicle printed the man's latest theory, he would be marginalised completely. 'Do you want this help or not?'

'Oh yes, don't get me wrong. I couldn't appreciate it more. It's confusing me, that's all. DI Spicer seems like a decent officer. He's doing his best. Surely these tip-offs just undermine all his efforts?'

'Miss Todd, don't you worry yourself with details like that. I suggest you get over to Buxton Zoo. That's where you'll find Spicer pursuing his half-crazed line of enquiry.'