Savage Moon

Twenty-Nine

Jon got there forty minutes later. A uniform waved him into a lay-by on the opposite side of the road to the ugly building. A barrier of blue construction site hoardings had been erected round the base of the derelict premises. Judging by the volume of graffiti covering them, they'd been there for quite some time. Rick stood waiting in the gap where one panel had been removed.

'You looked fucked, mate,' his partner cheerfully announced.

'Thanks.'

'How's Alice?'

Jon shook his head in reply. 'By the way, I've stepped down from trying to head up the investigation. Summerby's assuming responsibility.'

'Probably not a bad thing. You've got other things on your plate.'

'Yeah well, your position on the team is unaffected. I guess you're just lumped with me.'

'Perfect. We're still in the thick of it, but now the pressure's off.'

I wish, Jon thought, turning to the building that loomed over them. 'This looks a nice place to live.'

The overgrown grass surrounding the tower block was littered with debris. Segments of window frames, panels of formica, squares of plywood. Sprinkled over everything was a generous amount of broken glass. All the windows at ground level were covered by metal plates, those on the first and second floors by chipboard. But many had been kicked out and, from the third floor up, no windows or even frames existed.

Looking up, Jon could see the ceilings of the higher flats, only bare plaster and wires where lights had once hung. A sign on the side of the building announced, If any incident occurs in connection to this property, call Secure Holdings.

He read the phone number, wondering how long ago the company had gone out of business. 'People actually live in here?' he asked as Rick led him to a side door, the metal panel covering it bent back.

'Quite a few. They're all in the main foyer giving statements. According to the housing inspectors who found the body, the building was first taken over by a bunch of art students. There's no leccy or gas, but the water's still connected, so they weren't shitting in buckets. They held a few wild parties, then the local vermin cottoned on. It soon descended into crack dens and all the rest of it. The students were scared off a long time ago.'

'Where was Danny Gordon?'

'Sixteenth floor, corner flat. I don't think many could be arsed climbing up that high. The door to the flat was locked, but the smell gave it away.'

Squeezing through the gap between the door frame and protective panel, they entered a stairwell that reeked of urine. Jon was instantly reminded of the sharp aroma in the panthers' dens.

As they set off up the stairs Jon noted that the elaborate murals on the walls had been ruined by a covering of mindless graffiti. It was, he thought, a clear indication of the order in which the tower block had been colonised. Arty free-thinkers first, brain- dead no-thinkers second. As they reached each landing the view over the city became more impressive. To their right was Sportcity, site of the facilities built for the Commonwealth Games and now used by local teams, including Manchester City Football Club in the main stadium. He spotted the B of the Bang sculpture, a collection of metal spikes radiating outward from a central point that was meant to symbolise the explosion of energy from a starting pistol. Jon smiled when he thought of what the locals had named it: Kerplunk.

As soon as they stepped out into the corridor of the sixteenth floor the smell hit him. There it is, Jon said to himself. The unmistakeable aroma of rotting human. They paused at the door to flat while Rick took out a couple of white face masks from the scene of crime bag kindly left at the door by forensics.

Jon was looking at the splintered wood a third of the way up the door frame. 'What went on here?'

'The housing inspectors kicked it open, reckoned the smell was dead pigeons.'

'They didn't have keys?' Jon asked, mask held to his face.

'Not for the lower lock. Looks like Danny Gordon had fitted that one himself.'

Jon stepped through the door and turned around. At the top of the door was a bolt. 'That wasn't drawn?'

'Suppose not,' Rick replied. 'Is that significant?'

Jon shrugged. 'If he took the trouble to lock himself in, why not draw the bolt across too?'

'You're thinking someone else locked him in, from the outside?'

'Maybe. No doubt it's suicide?'

'It looks more or less certain, though there is something odd on the suicide note.'

Rick walked down the bare concrete corridor and into the front room. In an attempt to reduce the draught that must have blown in, Gordon had tacked plastic sheeting over the window frame, reducing the light from the outside. A few packing crates stood in one corner, clothes piled untidily on top. In the middle of the room a fold-out table was covered in empty tins. Soup, baked beans, ravioli.

In the other corner Danny Gordon's corpse lay on a bare mattress. Decomposition was well under way, but even the patches of black blossoming under the waxy skin couldn't mask the obvious injuries to his face. He was wearing a T-shirt and shell-suit trousers. The trainer and sock on his left foot were missing and sticking out from between his bare toes was a tarnished syringe.

'Look at his forearms, completely fucked,' Rick said from behind his mask as the white-suited forensics investigator moved to the side.

Jon examined the thick peppering of punctures that ran along them. 'So you think he's been here a good five days?'

'Yes, that's a good estimate,' the woman replied.

'Which means, though it's possible he killed Rose Sutton, he couldn't have been responsible for Peterson and Kerrigan,' murmured Jon.

'Looking at those skinny arms, I doubt he could have inflicted much damage on anyone, male or female,' Rick added.

'Where's the note?' Jon said, turning away from the pathetic sight.

'Here,' Rick nodded to the table. 'He points the finger squarely at Peterson, describing the abuse that went on in the Silverdale. Says that Peterson destroyed him and he can't go on any more.'

Jon skimmed over the childish writing with its embarrassing amount of spelling mistakes. What a life, he thought. That it ended like this, in a squalid tower block flat on a mattress probably dragged from some skip, seemed depressingly inevitable.

Jon reached the end of the note. Below Danny Gordon's signature was a single word. Kuririkana. The writing shifted out of focus as Jon looked inwards, searching his memory. Where have I seen that before? He tried to replay his movements over the last few days. Bollocks, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. 'Have you seen that word somewhere else? It looks familiar somehow.'

Rick shook his head. 'I thought you might know. What's that song the All Blacks do before rugby matches?'

'The Haka.'

'That's it. Could it be Maori? Looks like it might be to me.'

'You know, I've seen it performed so often, but I've no idea what the lyrics are.'

'DC Adlon has gone to the University, maybe they can help. Thing is, it doesn't appear to be Gordon's handwriting.'

Jon looked more closely. Rick was right. Though written with the same pen, the letters were regularly spaced and less spiky. 'Any sign of the pen?'

'No,' the woman in the white suit replied. 'Not so far anyway.'

Jon looked towards the corridor. 'Let's assume someone locked Danny Gordon into this flat on their way out. Could it be the same person who wrote that word?'

'You're saying someone helped him kill himself?' Rick replied.

'Not necessarily. They could have sat with him while he did it. Or maybe just found him after the event.'

'You mean a mate of some kind?'

'It's the sort of thing a mate might do.'

'The only mate he seemed to have was this Jammer.'

'Exactly. Any black guys with dreadlocks downstairs?'

'Let's take a look.'

The screens covering the main doors had been removed and the doors themselves opened. Despite this, the smell of unwashed bodies and musty clothes filled the air. All the squatters had retreated from the patch of daylight shining in, preferring to sit or lie in the shadows beyond. There were about twenty of them, all waiting in silence as several clipboard-wielding officers worked their way around.

Jon started at the right-hand corner. His eyes had only passed over three faces before they connected with his younger brother's. He was staring back at him through a haze of cigarette smoke. Jon's immediate reaction was to move his gaze on, but his mind was suddenly racing. Jesus Christ, that was our kid. What's he doing here? Please God, don't let him be connected to this mess. His eyes slowly moved back. Dave's hair was longer, and though the face was thinner it only seemed to emphasise the square features of the Spicer family.

'No black guys,' Rick said at his side.

Without replying, Jon walked across the foyer. 'Has this man been statemented?'

The nearest officer glanced back. 'Yeah. Andrew Adams, no fixed abode. Fake name if I ever heard one.'

Jon motioned with his fingers. 'A word outside please.' With a lazy grin, his younger brother got to his feet. As they headed for the doors, Rick started uncertainly over. Jon warded him off with a raised palm.

Once outside, Jon moved a good ten metres from the doors before turning round. His younger brother was dragging on a roll up, the smirk still on his face. Jon looked him up and down. Dirty jeans and battered trainers. Beneath a shapeless top the bones of his shoulders stuck out too sharply. He seemed to have regressed back to his teenage weight. 'What are you doing here?'

'Sorry officer?'

Jon realised he'd snapped the question out. He started again.

'All right, Dave?'

'Yeah, Jon. Fine. Just been rudely awoken by your colleagues, but other than that, I'm good. You?'

Jon nodded. 'You living here?'

His brother turned to the building, took a last drag on his roll up and dropped it into the grass. 'Only recently. I've been up in the Lakes over the summer. Enjoying the country life.'

Enjoying some poor bastard's empty holiday house, Jon thought. 'Why haven't you rung Mum? She's worried sick about you.'

Dave shrugged. 'The old man still alive?'

'Course he is.'

'There you go then.'

'Why punish Mum because you fell out with Dad?'

'Fell out? He threw me out.'

'You-' Jon stopped. This was heading in the usual direction. Who said that, who did what. He took out his pack of cigarettes, flipped the top open and held it out.

'Naughty, naughty,' Dave smirked, taking one. 'You never kicked the habit?'

Jon slid one out for himself and lit both up. 'I did for a bit. Listen, just call her will you? Tell her you're OK.'

'You've seen me, you can let her know.'

'But that's not the same. You know that.'

'And you know she won't let me leave it at that.' He adopted a whining voice. 'What are you doing? Where are you living? Why don't you come home?'

Jon felt his shoulders tensing up. You're close to a fucking slap. 'What are you doing?'

Dave paused to drag on his cigarette. 'Meaning?'

Jon held a hand towards the tower block. 'This, for fuck's sake. Kipping in derelict buildings with a load of addicts. I don't suppose you're working.'

His brother laughed scornfully and Jon felt his resentment of him increase. 'Nice going, our kid. Some fucking life you've got here.'

His brother's lips curled, the prelude to countless childhood fights. 'Unlike yours? Look at you, the system's sucking you dry, pal. You look fifty, slaving to pay off your mortgage, putting aside a few hundred each year for your tedious week in Spain. No fucking thanks.'

Jon drew the fingers of one hand along his jaw and imagined how exhausted he must look. 'We've got a kid.'

His brother blinked. 'No shit! You're a dad?'

Jon nodded. 'Holly. She's three months old.' He saw the half smile appear on his brother's face. So family did matter, at least a little. Jon seized the opportunity. 'Will you call Mum?'

'OK, I'll try. Holly? That's cool. What does she look like?' Jon smiled back. 'Babies all look the same to me. Most people reckon she's got Alice's eyes in a Spicer face.' Dave laughed. 'Poor bitch.'

They remained silent for a few seconds. Jon glanced again at the empty building. 'Did you know the guy who died, Danny Gordon?'

Dave crossed his arms. 'Only to chat to. He was pretty fucked up.'

'Did he ever show up with a black guy?'

'Jammer? Yeah, they were good mates.'

'Who is this Jammer? What's his real name?'

'Just know him as Jammer. He'd look out for Danny when he got aggressive. Saved him from getting a kicking.'

'Why'd he get aggressive?'

'Who knows. The guy was a head case. He'd flip out sometimes, especially after drinking.'

'When did you last see Jammer?'

'A few days back. Maybe five. He was looking for Danny.'

'Where was Danny?'

'I don't know. No one had seen him for a bit. How long has he been dead up in that flat?'

'Around five days.'

'That explains why no one had seen him.'

'Where'll you go now?'

'There are other places near here.'

'So you'll call Mum?'

His brother put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. 'Can you lend me some cash?'

I understand, thought Jon. You'll call Mum if I pay you to. He felt dismay at how cheaply his younger brother must value their family. Jon reached for his wallet, glancing at his brother's sleeves as if he could see through them for signs of drug use. How far was Dave from Danny Gordon's fate? He had a glimpse of being called out to some boarded-up house to identify his brother's body, lying in a back room surrounded by a puddle of its own fluids. Reluctantly he removed two twenties and held them out. Dave's hands stayed in his pockets, eyes still on the wallet. Jon slid out the final twenty and extended the notes at waist level as if paying for something illicit.

The money disappeared into Dave's pocket. 'Cheers bro.'

A minute ago it was pal, Jon thought bitterly. Wallet still out, he removed a business card and held it up. 'My mobile's on this. Keep in touch, yeah?'

Dave winked in reply, turned on his heel and slunk off towards the gap in the hoardings. The uniformed officer blocked his exit and Jon was forced to call over that it was OK. Dave held up a thumb and then was gone.

Jon took a last drag of his cigarette and let it fall from his fingers. As he crushed it angrily underfoot he heard Rick's voice.

'Who was that scuzz-bucket? A snitch or something?'

'Yeah, something like that,' Jon sighed.

'Well, no one in there has seen Jammer for a few days. We'd better head back to Longsight I suppose. Summerby's called a briefing for five-thirty.'

They were crossing the road when Rick's mobile rang. 'DS Saville. Ah, excellent. Really? OK, thanks for letting me know. See you back at the station.' He rung off and looked at Jon.

'That was Joe Adlon. The word at the bottom of the suicide note means, “remember”.'

'Remember?' Jon mused. 'Why write the word remember?'

'You remember something that's been done in the past. Peterson's abuse of Danny Gordon?'

'But if someone else wrote that, what were they saying? I remember what he did to you. Some sort of a tribute or acknowledgement?'

'Or it's an instruction. To whoever finds the body.'

Jon pulled his car keys out. 'Summerby will need to get Dr Heath's opinion on this. Too psychological for me. Anyway, did he say what language it was in?'

'Yeah. A tribal dialect from Kenya. Kikuyu.'

'Kenya?' Jon said, immediately conducting a mental check of any previous time the country had cropped up in the investiga- tion. His mind halted at an image of Jeremy Hobson describing how he'd seen a leopard dragging the carcass of a young giraffe up a tree in Kenya. He removed the panther hairs from his pocket. 'We need to get a DNA test done, and fast.'