03-Savage Moon (29 page)

'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.