Savage Moon

Thirty-Two

Jon nudged the car up his drive, bringing the front bumper to within inches of his house before pulling the handbrake on. He sank back in his seat. Thank Christ to be home. His mind was still twitching, settling momentarily on one aspect of what had happened on the moor before springing to another. When they'd got back to the car park at Crime Lake not a single word had passed between them. During the drive down off the moor Jon had glanced across at Nikki several times. She was hunched in her seat, knees, shoulders and elbows drawn in as she nibbled on the tip of a thumbnail. Occasionally the hand moved upwards to brush a tear from the corner of her eye.

He parked next to her car and she immediately got out, stepped over to the driver's door and got inside. The engine started and he had to quickly climb out and knock on her window. The noise startled her. 'Hang on, Nikki. I've got the Portascope.'

She nodded, then gestured to the back seat. As he placed the case inside, he quietly said, 'Do you want to talk about this?' She shook her head, hands clamped on the steering wheel.

'Nikki,' he watched her ponytail trembling. 'Maybe we should take five minutes to calm down.'

'Fuck off.' She was still staring ahead. 'You had no right to take me up there.' She shuddered. 'Just shut the door. I'm going home.'

He straightened up, then ducked his head back in for one last try. 'Nikki, I don't know what it was up there, but… '

The vehicle started to move and he had to step forwards to swing the door shut. She had accelerated down the road before remembering to turn her headlights on.

With a sigh, Jon looked at his house, hooking a finger into the inner curve of the steering wheel. He'd ring her tomorrow. What had really occurred up there? The primal terror that had come so close to engulfing him was skewing his perception of events. He tried to analyse things objectively. They'd heard a strange sound. In the darkness, their imaginations had supplied the image of what had made it. A huge black beast, a monster moving stealthily forward, yellow eyes able to see them clearly in the night.

But it was only a noise and, at one point, the faintest trace of a smell. It could easily have been a stag, a badger, someone with a tape of a big cat. The headrest seemed to be curling about his ears, gently cupping his skull. A tape recording. The sort of thing to scare off unwelcome visitors. Hobson. He could have recorded any number of those noises. Yeah, that wouldn't be any problem at all. An impact in his lap brought him awake. His hand had dropped off the steering wheel as sleep had relaxed his grip. With itchy eyes he regarded the glow at his front window. Hopefully she's relaxing in front of the telly, he thought.

He opened the front door to hear the tapping of computer keys. She was sitting at the computer in a tracksuit with an old cardigan over the top. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Strands bulged out at the side of her head, increasing her dishevelled look. He glimpsed a Portcullis logo at the top of the screen.

'Sorry I'm late back. I got delayed.'

'I didn't think you'd be home any earlier.' She didn't turn round.

'What are you up to?'

'There's these things called Hansard documents which let you see what's been debated in the House of Commons and I've been on Number Ten Downing Street's site. I can't find anything on civilian deaths in Iraq and I've been here for bloody hours.'

For fuck's sake, he thought, put another bloody record on will you? He knelt down and looked at Holly on her play mat.

'Hello, princess, how are you doing?'

Her head jerked at the sound of his voice and her arms began to wriggle back and forth. 'Daddy's home. You coming for a cuddle?'

He slid a hand under her nappy to lift her up. 'Ali, she's soaking wet.'

No reply.

He unbuttoned the base of her babygrow and was hit by a cloying smell. Brown stains were leaking out from the edge of her nappy. 'She's filthy. How long has she been lying here?'

He spotted the shadow of a frown as she glanced with tired eyes at their daughter. 'Well, change her then.'

'I will. But I'm asking how long she's been left here.'

'Since her last feed. I'm not sure. She wasn't crying.'

'Surely it's not a good idea for her to be lying in her own shit?'

The comment was intended to goad her, but all it provoked was another backward glance. 'When's the last time you changed her nappy?'

He opened his mouth, but said nothing.

'Exactly,' she answered, eyes on the screen once again. 'Do your fair share before having a go at me.'

But that's not the point, he thought. You should be concerned that Holly was being neglected. She clicked the mouse and another text-heavy page filled the screen. There was a detached air about her, as if attending to Holly was just another household chore. You're using this Iraq thing as a way to screen her out, he thought, remembering something about depressed mothers being unable to connect emotionally with their babies.

'Come on then, you,' he whispered, carrying Holly upstairs to the nursery. After bagging up the dirty nappy and wiping her clean, he wrapped a fresh nappy around her. 'We don't want a dirty bottom, do we?' he whispered. She grinned at the sensation and he wondered whether to call down that their daughter had just produced her biggest smile yet. Then he changed his mind, afraid Alice would just grunt a reply back up the stairs.

He gazed down at the tiny human before him. So totally helpless. She stared back, eyes fixed on his. He actually felt something shift in his chest as the realisation suddenly hit him. You're ours. Ours. The word was filled with new significance.

No one else will care for you in the same way because no one else is responsible for you in the same way. We created you. But now your mum doesn't seem able to cope with you. Which leaves me. I've got to take care of you until Alice is better.

He leaned down and brought his face so close to hers he could see his entire head captured in her unwavering pupils. There he was, as much a part of her as she was of him. He picked her up and held her close, waves of emotion flooding out. Then he bowed his head and held a kiss to the top of her skull, drinking in the delicious warmth coming from her soft skin.

The voice came and went, music drifting lazily over it. Then someone spoke over an urgent drumming. Words caught in Jon's semi conscious mind. Key 103 bulletin. Dramatic new theory. No official comment. River Medlock. Other world news. Attack on the Rashid Hotel, Baghdad. Paul Wolfowitz narrowly escapes.

He struggled to bring himself awake, eyes opening just as the newsreader announced, And now to our main story. This morning Manchester awakes to a dramatic new development in the hunt for the Monster of the Moor.

Jon looked to his left. Alice was sitting up in bed, Holly silently feeding at her breast.

Analysis shows that all three victims were attacked within a short distance of the Medlock, a river that rises on Saddleworth Moor and runs into the very heart of the city. What worries experts is the possibility that, if the Monster is following the river in its hunt for new victims, it will end up in the centre of Manchester itself. So far, no one from Greater Manchester Police has been available for comment.

'Christ!' He kicked the duvet off and looked at the clock. Seven. He should have been up an hour ago. Flipping open his mobile, he scrolled through to Carmel's number and pressed connect. 'Who fed you that information?'

'Sorry, is that DI Spicer?'

'Who was it? Do you realise the shit this story will stir up?'

'You know I can't tell you that.'

'No?' He stood up, walked over to the window. Grey drizzle was falling outside. 'You don't need to. I saw you yesterday at

Buxton Zoo. It was Hobson.'

'You're wrong actually.' Her voice had softened. Was it sympathy he heard? 'You need to look closer to home.'

Jon glanced at Alice who was staring back at him. He turned away. 'Piss off, Carmel.'

He threw the phone on the bed and set off for the shower. Alice's voice stopped him in the doorway. 'So much for keeping work and home lives separate.'

'Yeah, sorry,' he mumbled. 'What time did you come to bed last night?'

'Around midnight. You were fast asleep with Holly on your chest.'

'Was I?' Jon looked at his side of the bed. 'I remember changing out of my work clothes and then lying down with her. She was asleep?'

'You both were. They don't recommend it. If you'd rolled over-'

'I didn't mean to — Christ. I must have just nodded off. Did you sleep OK?'

'So-so. She needed feeding at around two, then again at four.'

'God, I didn't even hear that. You should have woken me, I could have given her a bottle.'

'I tried to. You were dead to the world.'

He felt a pang of guilt at having left his wife to get through the night feeds on her own. 'How are you feeling?'

'Fine.'

Jon tiptoed through his next comment. 'You seem so wrapped up in this research thing. I don't want you getting upset about it.' He lightened his tone and smiled. 'Don't forget we've got a little girl to look after too.'

She looked down. 'I'm feeding her now, aren't I?'

Yes, but that's about all you're doing with her. 'True. But go easy. The last thing you need to do is exhaust yourself stressing out over what's happening in Iraq.'

'Do I look tired?' He nodded.

She smiled. 'Well take a look at yourself. You're a complete wreck.'

Yeah, Jon thought. Nine hour's sleep and I still feel like shit. He grinned back, 'I'd better grab a shower then and make myself look beautiful.'

Summerby, McCloughlin and most of the incident room team were surrounding the centre table when Jon walked in. He spotted several copies of the Manchester Evening Chronicle dotted about.

'Morning, Jon, nice that you made it in,' Summerby said, before looking back at the front page. 'Just what we didn't want to happen.'

The photo was an aerial view of the Greater Manchester area, the route of the Medlock highlighted in a lurid red. Big crosses marked where all three victims had been discovered, next to each was a panel giving estimated time and date of death. Hovering over the city centre itself was a large red question mark.

The headline read, River of Death.

Jon sat down. 'I know where this has come from. Hobson, the big cat expert at Buxton Zoo. I saw the crime reporter from the Chronicle arrive there yesterday for a briefing. The bastard is using this whole thing as a business promotion.'

DC Adlon spoke up. 'I didn't have time to find much on the bloke, but a company search threw up something interesting. Buxton Zoo is a public limited company and Hobson is the majority shareholder.'

Summerby sat back and looked at Jon. 'I gather the reason you missed my briefing yesterday was because you were back at Crime Lake.'

Jon nodded. 'The word Kuririkana is written on the notice board at the top of the car park and on the rocks by where Rose Sutton was found.'

'You've been up on the moors too?' Summerby demanded. Catching Rick's look of surprise, Jon coughed awkwardly. 'I went straight up there after I found the word on the notice board in the car park. It had been daubed on the rocks in blood.

Rose Sutton's at a guess. Someone had then done their best to remove the word. Only a sweep with a Portascope showed it up.'

Summerby stared back at him. 'What's your conclusion then?'

'I'm not sure. I know Jeremy Hobson has spent time in Kenya though, he told me himself.'

Summerby mulled on the conversation as officers began to speculate in whispers. 'Right, we'll come back to that. In the meantime, Gavin Edwards has some other developments you should all know about.'

The press officer ruffled his copy of the newspaper. 'I have a contact on the features desk at the Chronicle. They're doing an interview with a man who's booked into the Royal Hotel in Buxton for the next twenty-one days. He says that's how long he'll need to trap and kill the panther.'

'Who is he?' Jon asked.

'He runs an agency that organises bear shoots in Eastern

Europe, among other things. Quite a character apparently.' Jon rolled his eyes. 'Where's he from?'

'He's British.'

'And I presume he's armed with some sort of a weapon?'

'Yup. It's got a scope on it that would put a paparazzi photographer to shame. I understand they've already done a photo-shoot in the grounds of the hotel. He even wears a hunting hat with game feathers in it.'

Jon looked at Summerby. 'This is getting like the wild west.'

'Agreed. I've been on to the Chief Constable of Derbyshire. This hunter fellow's firearm certificate is up to date, so all they can do is warn him not to discharge it in unauthorised areas. If the farmers allow him on to their land, we can't stop him.'

'There's more from the local papers,' Edwards said reluctantly.

'I just heard a black Labrador was shot and killed early this morning in Tandle Hill Countryside Park near Oldham.'

'Shot with what?' DC Gardiner asked.

'A bolt from a crossbow. The owner said the animal was retrieving a ball from undergrowth. He heard a yelp and when he went to investigate he saw a person in full camouflage gear standing over the dog. He turned the dead animal over with his foot, then casually walked away.'

'Once he realised it wasn't a panther,' DC Gardiner concluded.

'How many panther sightings have we had from Saddleworth since news of Kerrigan's death broke?' Summerby asked.

'Twenty-seven at the last count,' Edwards replied. 'And not just Saddleworth. There's been calls from Stalybridge, Ashton-under-Lyne, Glossop, Whaley Bridge. Even Bury.'

'Bury?' Jon said. 'That's nowhere near Saddleworth.'

'People are terrified. It's certainly not a good time to be a black cat. The RSPCA have reported another one being killed in Levenshulme. Uniforms also recovered a carcass of one from a lock-up garage in Cheetham Hill. It had been clubbed to death. There are even reports of someone in a tower block in Gorton shooting crows with an airgun.'

'Crows? Why?' DC Gardiner asked.

Edwards shrugged. 'They're animals and they're black?' Jon saw he was serious. 'God, he's probably right.'

The phone on Jon's desk rang. Rick reached over and picked it up. 'DI Spicer's phone. Yes he is.' He held the phone out.

'Nikki Kingston. She says it's urgent.'

Jon walked over. 'Nikki, it's Jon here.' He turned slightly from the mass of listening officers. 'Everything all right?'

'I've got something important for you.'

Keeping it strictly business then, he thought. 'Go ahead.'

'I did the DNA test on those hairs you gave me. The ones from Buxton Zoo.'

'What did you find?'

'I'm still bloody furious with you. Do you realise that?'

'I was hoping we might talk… '

'Save it. I don't want to hear your bullshit apologies. The hairs from Rose Sutton and Derek Peterson match some of the hairs from the sample you gave me. There was a Y chromosome present, so it came from a male animal.'

Jon felt his grip on the receiver tighten. Samburu. 'You're certain? No chance of it just being the same species or something? How big is the gene pool for panthers? There could be-'

'Don't try and lecture me on DNA analysis, Jon. It's a match. Now I'm sending you the hairs back. You'll need a proper lab test to make it official.'

She hung up without another word. Jon cradled the handset in his palm, eyes on the floor.

'Well? Don't keep us in suspense man.'

Summerby's voice. Jon replaced the phone and turned to face him. 'I think we have a breakthrough. The hairs from Sutton and Peterson belong to a male panther called Samburu. It currently resides in the enclosure at Buxton Zoo.'

Gavin Edwards frowned. 'I don't understand.'

'I believe Jeremy Hobson killed all three victims and left the hairs to whip up this frenzy about panthers.'

'Here we go,' McCloughlin muttered. 'Spicer going off with all guns blazing. Why would he do that?'

Jon shrugged. 'The usual. Money. Possibly revenge in the case of Rose Sutton. It's likely they were having an affair.'

McCloughlin scowled. 'Couldn't any visitor in the zoo grab a few hairs from the bars of the panther's cage?'

Jon shook his head. 'You can't get anywhere near the animals. The viewing gallery is made up of plate glass windows and the outer part of the enclosure is double fenced. There is no way a member of the public can get within touching distance.'

'How did you get the hairs then?'

'Hobson let me watch him putting their food out. I got the hairs from the point staff get access to the enclosure.'

'So any staff member could have taken them.'

'Possible, I suppose. But who else has got the motive apart from Hobson? Plus he has the know-how on a panther's attack techniques. He'd be able to stage it so the injuries were convincing.'

Summerby laced his fingers. 'I'm not convinced, Jon. But bring him in for questioning. God knows we need this thing wrapped up before all hell breaks loose.'

Jon and Rick clicked through the zoo's turnstile, warrant cards still in their hands. The zoo seemed quiet, just a young boy with a bunch of balloons standing in front of the monkeys' cage.

'I know where everyone will be.' Jon led Rick towards the panther enclosure. Despite the droplets of rain carried on the chill breeze, a large crowd was gathered at the railings to the outer part of the enclosure. Hobson was in the centre of the throng, midway through one of his lectures. A young male assistant stood to his side.

'Look at him,' said Jon, coming to a halt. 'I said he was loving this.'

'So this is Samburu, a fully grown adult male,' Hobson announced. He'd placed a foot on the lowermost rail and was resting his forearms on his knee. It looked like he was posing for an imaginary camera. Below him, Samburu paced impatiently to and fro.

'How heavy is he?' asked a man with a toddler perched on his shoulders.

'Just under ninety kilos.'

'What's that in stones?'

'Fourteen.'

'Jeez, that's more than me,' another man said to the woman at his side.

'Do they like water?' someone else asked.

'They don't mind it at all. Here, I'll show you.' Hobson lifted out a hunk of pork and tossed it into the shallows of the muddy brown pond in the corner. Samburu shot him a baleful look before gingerly stepping in and sinking his head below the surface. His face reappeared, meat held firmly in his jaws. The crowd clapped as he turned and waded out. After flicking his paws dry, he walked behind a clump of exotic looking grass.

I don't blame you, thought Jon. It can't be fun being made to perform for this bunch of idiots.

'He always eats there,' Hobson continued. 'Now, I'll be feeding Mara and Mweru next.' He picked up the empty pail and began to make his way through the audience, nodding to appreciative comments as he went.

Time to burst your bubble mate, Jon thought, stepping forwards to block his way. 'Mr Hobson. Could I have a word?'

Hobson tried to step past, chest still puffed out. 'Certainly. After I've fed the other two cats.'

Jon leaned a shoulder in his way. 'Now. If you don't mind.' Irritation showed in Hobson's eyes. People at the outer edge of the crowd were turning round, sensing a more interesting spectacle unfolding behind them.

'Detective, I have work to do. Now, I'm willing to assist you, but you'll have to wait.'

'It's Detective Inspector, Sir, and I'm afraid we can't wait. You'll come with us now.'

Hobson's pale eyes shifted to Jon's side as Rick stepped forwards too. The bluster disappeared from his voice. 'What's this about?'

'Guess.'

Hobson turned to his young assistant. 'Martin, get Mr O'Brien to feed Mara and Mweru.' He handed the empty bucket over. 'Don't forget their vitamin supplement.'

Once they were out of earshot of the crowd, Hobson said,

'Am I under arrest?'

'No,' Jon replied. 'But you would have been if you didn't agree to come with us.'

'I don't understand. This is to do with the attacks, isn't it?'

'Let's just leave it until we get to the station.'

With Hobson in the back of the car, they set off for the A624, aiming for the motorway back into Manchester. Jon kept an eye on Hobson in the rear view mirror. The man was silent. Too silent. He's thinking through his options, thought Jon. Suddenly he wanted to get the interview going. A traffic bulletin announced big delays on the M67 so Jon turned towards Mossley Brow instead. Ten minutes later they were escorting him into the station's reception.

'Is Inspector Clegg here?' Jon asked. 'We need an interview room.'

Clegg appeared seconds later, shock showing on his face when he spotted Hobson. 'DI Spicer. You need an interview room?' He glanced at Hobson again.

'Yes, thanks. Where can we go?'

He led them through into the corridor and opened the first door they came to. Jon ushered Hobson inside then said to Rick,

'Stay with him, I'll be two minutes.'

Once the door was shut, he turned to Clegg. 'We'll need blank tapes.'

Clegg looked at the door. 'Why have you brought him in?'

'There's a lot of circumstantial evidence tying him in with this whole mess.'

'He's a suspect?'

'More than that. I think he could be our man. I'm keen to get the interview started as quickly as possible.'

Clegg lumbered off to his office, returning with two blank tapes. 'Mind if I sit in?'

'Be my guest,' Jon replied, peeling the cellophane off. Once the machine was recording, Jon explained to Hobson he wasn't being formally charged with anything but, in the interests of the investigation, it would be helpful if he could clarify a few points.

Once Hobson gave his assent, Jon leaned forward. Rick was sitting on one side while Clegg leaned against the wall in the opposite corner. 'Where were you between six and ten last night, Mr Hobson?'

'At home.'

'What were you doing?'

'Watching telly.'

'What did you watch?'

'The usual stuff. A few soaps. There was a film on with Sean Connery. The one about the prison where he has a white wig.' Fine, Jon thought. You've got last night's television schedule worked out. Doesn't mean you weren't up on that moor with a tape recorder. 'And the morning of Trevor Kerrigan's death?'

'That was yesterday?'

'Correct.'

'I was opening the zoo up.'

'At dawn?'

'Well, I usually get up at six-thirty and sign for the food delivery at the main gates at seven-thirty.'

'Anyone help you with that?'

'Yes, Mr O'Brien. He is often there before me.'

'You saw him yesterday morning?'

'Yes, he was there.'

'And that was when?'

'I said. Seven-thirty, maybe just after.'

Kerrigan was found just before seven. Could Hobson have made it from the Brookvale golf course to his zoo in half an hour? If the roads were quiet, yes. But he would have also needed to remove a lot of blood from his person before signing for any deliveries of meat. 'Tell me a bit about your time in Kenya.'

'Sorry?'

'You mentioned to me that you'd seen a leopard drag the carcass of a baby giraffe up a tree in a Kenyan game park.'

'Oh that. Yes, I've been to Kenya on three occasions.'

'Holidays?'

'And research. I stayed for a few weeks each time.'

'Does everyone speak English over there?'

'Mostly, yes.'

'What do they speak if it's not English?'

'There are a variety of tribal dialects. I'm not sure what they are.'

'You've no idea at all? Surely it helped to have a few words? Please, thank you, that sort of thing.'

'Afraid not.'

Jon regarded him, wondering if it was a mocking look he'd caught in those pale blue eyes. 'I take it you've seen the papers this morning?'

'Yes. I was surprised you released the story about the

Medlock. Won't that cause a fair amount of alarm?'

'It already has. And I didn't release that information. Someone else did.'

'By the way you're staring, I take it you think it was me?'

'Do you ever have dealings with Manchester Evening Chronicle reporters?'

'No. Other than with people in their promotions department, or if we have any interesting new births to report.'

'No one in their crime section?'

Hobson blinked, white lashes creating a haze at the edges of his eyes. 'Someone did come to visit me yesterday. She was asking about panthers. In fact, she was asking about you, DI Spicer.'

'How do you mean?'

'She wanted to know if I'd spoken to you. She seemed to have caught wind of the river theory. I suggested that she contact you directly.'

Something niggled at the back of Jon's mind. How did Carmel know he'd be there? His visit was unannounced, so Hobson didn't know he was on his way. Jon laid his palms on the table. 'When I last saw you, we spoke briefly about your relationship with Rose Sutton. I'd like to ask you a few more questions about that now.'

Hobson remained still, but Jon saw Clegg shift as he transferred his weight to the other foot.

'You're a bachelor, Mr Hobson?'

'I am.'

'Could I ask if you're romantically linked to anyone?'

'You mean girlfriends?' he asked in a patronising tone. Jon nodded.

'No.'

'Boyfriends then?' Jon watched Hobson with amusement. He'd thought that that would wipe the smile off his face.

'I'm not a… I'm not interested in other men.'

'As I mentioned before, Ken Sutton seemed to believe his wife was having an affair.' From the corner of his eye, he saw Clegg raise a hand and adjust his collar. 'Were you seeing her in that context?' he continued.

Hobson crossed his arms. 'I told you I wasn't.'

Jon tapped a forefinger against his chin. 'Thing is, Mr Hobson, some of her friends say she spoke very highly of you. Almost like she was a little bit in awe. You obviously shared an interest in panthers.'

'So therefore we were frolicking together amongst the heather?'

'She was seen once or twice crossing fields to a car park at the edge of Holme. No one was quite sure what she was up to.' Clegg fidgeted again and Jon almost asked him if he had anything to say. 'In my experience of murder cases, sex usually plays some sort of role. Especially when the victim is a woman.'

'I've had enough of this,' Hobson said, getting to his feet. Clegg extended a hand. 'Jeremy, sit down. DI Spicer? I need a word outside.'

Jon looked up, clocking the pained expression on the Inspector's face. 'OK. DS Saville, can you turn the tapes off while I consult with my colleague outside.'

Jon moved down the corridor before saying, 'You better have a damn good reason for butting in like that.'

The colour had risen in Clegg's cheeks and he struggled with his words. 'Hobson wasn't seeing Rose Sutton. I was.'

'Say that again.'

Clegg looked down, suddenly interested in the nails of his beefy hand. 'Rose and I had been seeing each other for the last few years.' He looked up. 'It was the extension of a friendship that went back ages. Far longer than Ken Sutton had known her.'

Jon stepped forward and thrust a finger into Clegg's face.

'I asked you that time at the top of Sutton's drive to come clean.'

Clegg's eyes flashed and he raised a hand to brush Jon's finger away.

Go on, you fat fuck, Jon thought, I'll drop you, whatever your size. Their eyes connected and Clegg changed his mind. He stepped back and his hand lowered. 'How could I ever have known it would escalate into this?'

'Maybe it wouldn't have if you'd been straight with me,' Jon muttered, turning away. Shit! He tried to integrate this new piece of information into the scheme of things. His immediate thought was that it placed Clegg firmly on the list of suspects. And Sutton. The farmer's suspicion about his wife were correct. Had he come across actual proof and killed her as a result? Glaring at Clegg, he said in a little more than a growl, 'What sort of a man is Sutton?'

'You mean, could he have killed Rose?'

'Full marks for intuition.'

'He didn't know about us.'

Jon slammed a palm against the wall. 'That wasn't my fucking question! Besides, how do you know he didn't find out?'

'Because he would have come for me. There's something in him. Something cold.'

Jon felt his fingers curling up. I would so love to throttle you.

'You didn't tell me this because you were afraid of what Sutton might do? Don't you think your opinion of Sutton would have been of some use earlier in this investigation? Why is he so cold? Give me an example. Did he treat Rose badly?'

'Not physically, but emotionally. There was no affection, no love. It was just a partnership. They ran the farm together, that was it.'

'Why does that make him capable of violence?'

'It doesn't. That dog he shot. The one that was worrying his sheep. He didn't shoot it once. He winged it with one barrel, then emptied the other into it at point blank range. After that, he tied it to the rear bumper of his Land Rover and dragged its carcass across the field to the couple. I could tell he'd relished it. There was something in his eyes as he described doing it, a sadistic look. I thought, you could do that to any living thing, animal or human.'

Jon also remembered the cruel delight in Sutton's voice as he'd recounted the event. 'And you approved his application for a high-powered hunting rifle. I can't believe you kept all this back. You're off the investigation, you understand? And I want a statement from you about all of this, along with your where- abouts on the night of each murder.'

'On the night of each murder?'

'Think about it, Clegg, you're right in the shit over this one. Now, where's your senior officer? You're going to tell all this to him.'

On the way back down from the Superintendent's office, Jon ran over Clegg's admission. It still didn't seal things up. Sutton had moved up on the list of suspects, true. But he'd a seemingly sound alibi for the night Rose died. In his gut, Jon didn't think Clegg could have done it either. The man had immense physical power, no doubt about that, but there was no motive Jon could think of for killing Peterson and Kerrigan too.

Hobson? Still in the picture, no doubt about it. But what was his connection to Peterson and Kerrigan? And how could he have known Danny Gordon? That would be a good place to start. He opened the door to the interview room and got an impatient glance off Rick.

'Sorry for the delay. Some new information just came to light.' He flicked the tape back on. 'Interview resuming at ten forty-six, now present in the room, DI Spicer, DS Saville and Jeremy Hobson.' He removed the photo of the Silverdale five-a- side team from his folder and slid it across to Hobson. 'The youth in the middle of the football team. Have you ever seen him before?'

Hobson regarded the photo for all of a second before looking up. Here we go, thought Jon. Never seen him. To his surprise, Hobson nodded. 'He worked briefly at the zoo.'

'Danny Gordon worked at your zoo?'

'That's Danny Gordon? My God, I didn't realise that was his name. As part of our community involvement, we accept lads from the Silverdale facility on work placements. The one helping me today, he's from there.' He turned to Jon. 'Only a fraction of any zoo staff are permanent. During holiday periods we need to double our numbers, so we take seasonal staff from many places. Students of zoology, animal behaviour and veterinary sciences, along with more casual workers.'

Jon glanced at Rick, who was looking equally surprised. Rick turned back to Hobson. 'So Danny Gordon did a stint at your zoo. When?'

'A few years back.'

'Doing what?'

'Cleaned tables in the cafe´. I offered to let him help with the animals, but he obviously didn't enjoy it. City lad through and through.'

Jon thought about how Samburu's hairs had turned up on all three victims. 'Did he ever help out with the panthers?'

'Once. He hated the smell though. Unlike his friend. He took a real shine to them.'

'Who?' Jon asked.

Hobson placed a finger over the head of James Field. 'Him. They arrived together. He was called James, I think. Far more enthusiastic. In fact, he was one of the best workers the Silverdale ever sent.'

Jon felt light-headed. He didn't know how it fitted together, yet, but he knew this was it. 'You're saying James Field had plenty of contact with the panthers?'

'Oh yes. I trusted him to feed them, clean them out. He took to studying their behaviour, learning their natural history, everything.'

'Hunting techniques?'

'Yes. I expected him to apply for a full time job to be honest. I would have taken him on too.'

'Gordon and Field were good mates?'

'Absolutely. They stuck together each break time, shared those roll-up cigarettes they all seem to smoke. James was stronger, more mature. I got the impression it was almost a big brother, younger brother kind of thing between them.'

Jon took a deep breath. Slow down, he thought. Keep your head clear. All that stuff James Field had said about hardly knowing Danny Gordon. What bullshit. 'Right, I'm concluding this interview at ten-fifty.' He clicked the tape off and looked at Hobson. 'One minute please, Rick and I need to talk.'

Out in the corridor he had an almost overpowering urge to leap into the air. 'It's Field. Am I right?'

Rick's eyes shone with excitement. 'How does it work? Field killed Sutton, Peterson, Kerrigan and his best mate?'

'No, Danny Gordon killed himself, unable to take it after Peterson humiliated him all over again. Field found his friend's body and decided to settle things with Peterson himself. He added the word to Gordon's suicide note. Simple revenge. Kuririkana. Remember. It was payback for what happened in the past.'

'So how do the other deaths fit in?'

'We'll find out soon. We've been concentrating on Danny Gordon. But if it's Field doing the killing, there's no wonder we haven't found any links between the victims. We need to get over to that garage straightaway.'