by Chris Simms
From outside the tent Jon heard the low rumble of thunder.
He glanced back at Peterson's bloody remains. 'What about that hand tucked under his armpit. Have you examined it yet?'
The pathologist shook his head. 'We called you in as soon as possible.'
'Could we take a quick look?'
The video recorder held up the camera as the pathologist pulled Peterson's hand out. The fingers were clamped together in a rigid grip. As the first droplets of rain begin to hit the tent roof Jon could clearly see several long black hairs caught between the dead man's fingers.
Nine
As he waited for Summerby to answer his phone, the rain drummed down on the roof of Jon's car. Memories stirred of childhood camping holidays spent near Southport, the hours huddled in a cramped tent, praying for the incessant patter of rain to cease. He grinned, recalling how his younger sister, Ellie, would quietly colour in her books while he fought over war comics with his younger brother Dave.
Our kid, Dave. Jesus, what a nightmare. What was he up to now, Jon wondered. If anyone deserved to be labelled the black sheep of the family, it was his younger brother. Despite all his dad's efforts, and later his own, they couldn't persuade him to get involved in sport. Didn't matter if it was rugby, football or even lacrosse if he fancied it – anything to divert his energy away from getting into trouble the whole time.
He shook his head. Complete waste. He knew his brother was far more intelligent than him, could have gone to university any day. But by his late teens he'd started to dabble in drugs and soon developed a nasty little liking for speed. Their dad had kicked him round the house the first time he was arrested for stealing cars. The second time he stopped speaking to him, and when he offended again he booted him out of the family home altogether. Dave had his bags already packed to move out anyway, claiming he was off to live in a squat.
Jon looked at the fingers of his left hand as they rested on the steering wheel, focusing on the nicks and scars that formed a cicatrix over his knuckles. If he hadn't channelled his aggression
– which seemed to be a genetic trait of his family – into rugby, there was a good chance he'd have gone the same way. He knew of his dad's reputation when he worked on the docks and drank in the pubs around Salford, but neither of them had gone off the rails like Dave.
'Come on, pick up,' Jon whispered, mobile phone pressed to his ear.
The line suddenly clicked. 'DCI Summerby speaking.'
'Boss, it's Jon Spicer here, I'm out at Daisy Nook Country
Park.'
'What's it looking like, Jon? You sound like there's an army marching past.'
Jon nodded. 'Just a touch of Manchester rain. It's looking grim, boss, very grim. The guy's throat has been ripped to shreds. Much more damage and you could have seen through to his spine.'
'Thanks for that. I'm trying to eat a piece of toast here.'
'Sorry, Sir, but I need you to understand the savagery of the attack. It's, well, I can only describe it as inhuman.' Silence at the other end of the line. 'Sir, are you still there?' Jon asked, wondering if he'd lost his signal.
'Yes, I can hear you. You're suggesting an animal killed him?'
'Well, it's certainly a strong possibility, Sir. There were hairs caught under his nails. Big black buggers. I gather there were similar ones found at the murder scene on Saddleworth Moor.'
'Anything else? Paw prints in the vicinity for instance?'
'We've got a tent over the body and the crime scene manager is here, so everything's pegged down, but a search of the surrounding woods won't reveal much. The rain has seen to that. I've called the coroner and he's given the green light for an autopsy. We'll get the body over to the MRI as soon as possible.'
'OK, that's all good. But if it is some sort of wild animal responsible for these attacks we're not, strictly speaking, talking about a murder investigation here.'
Jon picked at the steering wheel. 'Perhaps we should be talking to experts in other areas? People with experience in hunting and tracking for instance. I gather someone connected to Buxton Zoo is already giving advice. What do you think?'
'We can consider that at a later stage. But until we can conclusively prove otherwise, we should assume it's murder.'
'Fine with me, boss. I'd like to see the officer in charge of the Saddleworth Moor inquiry at the Mossley Brow nick. If a person's doing this, he had a major grudge against the farmer's wife and Derek Peterson. Find out what that is and we're a heck of a lot closer to finding the killer. Peterson worked with young offenders; maybe it'll turn out that victim number one did too.'
'OK, I'll ring ahead to the station at Mossley Brow and let them know you're on your way. See you back here later.'
Jon turned to his A to Z. The police station at Mossley Brow was on page eighty-nine, the last one covered by the map. After that was the green expanse of the Peak District National Park. The most direct way to the station was along a road that twisted through the fields he'd seen from Coal Pit Lane before eventually emerging at Mossley Brow itself.
Jon was just putting his car in gear when there was a knock on his window.
In the shadow cast by a large umbrella stood a figure. The raindrops clustered on the glass prevented Jon from making out if it was male or female. He pressed a button and his window lowered.
'Detective Inspector Spicer? Carmel Todd, Manchester Evening
Chronicle.'
She was well spoken, no trace of Mancunian accent in her voice. Cheshire set, perhaps? Jon took in her long blonde hair and minimalist designer glasses. She was attractive, but not in the delicate and pretty sense of the pampered individuals who swanned around the city in their little sports cars. Attractive as in strong, straight features and a little make-up.
'The officer at the car park entrance said you were in charge.' Jesus Christ, how did you get here so fast, Jon thought, giving a slight nod, inviting her to carry on. He could sense her assessing him, weighing up his cropped hair, scar over his eyebrow and lump where his nose had been broken. Am I a grunt or do I just look like one? What will you go for, charming or pushy? I know you'll be desperate to get something out ahead of the nationals.
She leaned forwards and a gap opened up at the top of her white blouse. It took all his effort to keep his eyes on her face.
'I gather there's a body in there with extensive mutilations.' Jon rubbed his fingers across his chin. 'You gather? How have you gathered?'
Her lips tightened in response, expression saying my business, not yours.
He breathed in. 'The body of a middle-aged man was discovered at first light this morning. Until his family has been contacted and a formal identification made, I can't comment further.'
Her eyes had lost their sparkle. Just a business-like determina- tion remained as she scrabbled for more information before the window went back up. 'This place is well known as a meeting spot for gay men. Is there some sort of a connection?'
Jon returned the tight-lipped expression. My business, not yours.
'Is it true his injuries bear a remarkable similarity to those of the woman found up on Saddleworth Moor?'
The window stopped and Jon looked through the three inch gap at her blue eyes. Who the fuck fed her that?
'I'll be issuing another statement later today.' The crack closed and he pulled out of the restaurant car park. With windscreen wipers moving steadily back and forth, he followed the rough road across the swathe of fields. Bedraggled groups of sheep stood about, some grazing, others just standing with heads bowed as they waited for the rain to pass. Soon the potholes got worse and, as the road narrowed to little more than a single lane track, he began to regret his decision to go cross country. At one point the dry-stone wall on his left had collapsed and, steering round the pile of stones, he wondered how often cars actually passed this way.
After almost fifteen minutes, houses started to appear on either side of the road and he emerged at the junction in Mossley Brow. The sloping roads and stee
p terraces of houses gave the town a crooked feel. Jon soon found the police station, an austere building constructed from the same rough blocks of dark grey stone that had been used for the neighbouring buildings.
He parked in a space at the front, crossed the puddle-strewn car park and went up the glistening stone steps. One of the blue double doors of the station entrance was slightly ajar and he stepped into a foyer whose walls were lined with numerous posters and notices.
A woman behind the counter smiled pleasantly at him. Jon thought of the battle-hardened stares of the staff at his station in Longsight. Not too many robbing scallies, violent drunks and scowling prostitutes around here then. He returned her smile then held out his warrant card. 'DI Spicer. Hopefully the officer running the Rose Sutton case is expecting me.'
Her face flinched slightly at the mention of Rose's name. 'Oh, right, I'll just make a call.'
She swivelled in her seat, dialled a number, and relayed the message in hushed tones before turning back to face him.
'Inspector Clegg will be with you shortly.'
'Thanks.' Jon put his hands in his pockets and turned to study the walls around him.
A poster about rural crime and how best to guard against burglary in isolated properties.
A notice about the need to record the chassis numbers of all agricultural vehicles, even those not registered for use on the public highways.
What would it be next? Posters on sheep rustling? He heard the lock click on the door at the side of the reception desk. 'DI Spicer, through here.'
Jon turned round. An officer with brown curly hair and slightly red cheeks was standing there. Probably late forties, Jon thought, and easily my height. His eyes dropped momentarily to the man's outstretched arm as it held the door open. Fingers like sausages, rolled up sleeves and a forearm that resembled a large leg of ham. The bloke was big and not through pumping iron in any gym.
Jon walked over. 'Good to meet you. I'm called Jon.'
Their hands connected and Jon's fingers were crushed momentarily in the other man's grip. He looked into his eyes, wondering if it was a deliberate ploy. Some sort of signal to the city copper about how things were done around here.
'Inspector Adam Clegg, Sir. Would you like a brew before we get started?'
'Sounds good.'
Clegg led the way to a small kitchen and took two mugs from a cupboard. 'Tea or coffee?'
'Black coffee, cheers.'
The other officer tipped a heaped spoonful into each cup, then filled both from a stainless steel urn on the side. Jon looked at the object and was reminded of the kitchen at Cheadle Ironsides rugby club before they got the wall-mounted water heater installed. It had been several years before. 'Don't see many of those nowadays.'
Clegg paused, a bottle of milk in his hand. It was a glass pint, not a plastic litre carton. 'What's that?'
Jon's eyes wavered between the bottle and the urn. Take your pick, he thought. 'The urn.'
'Oh that. Well, it serves our needs well enough. Terrible news about this morning.'
Jon nodded. 'I don't think lacerations describe his injuries. His throat was pretty much ripped out.'
Inspector Clegg crossed his massive arms. 'Sounds like Rose. Her throat had been opened right up too.'
Jon noted his use of the woman's Christian name. 'And you think she was attacked by an animal?'
Clegg raised one shoulder and let it fall. 'The hairs caught under her nails belonged to a panther. I understand some were recovered on the victim this morning too.'
'Yup. They've gone for analysis.'
'Well, if it is a person doing this, they don't deserve to be classed as human. Ripping apart man and beast without distinction. The rear legs of the ewe found by Rose's body had been almost stripped to the bone. Are we saying a person did that? Ate the meat raw up on that godforsaken moor?'
Jon looked away from the man's stare. Feelings were obviously running high on this one. 'I heard you've been talking to the guy who runs the black panther enclosure at Buxton Zoo.'
'Jeremy Hobson? Yes, he's here right now as a matter of fact. An expert in the behaviour of big cats. He's giving advice on how the bloody hell we're going to trap this thing.'
'But if it killed this morning's victim, it's come down off the moors. Stand in the car park by Crime Lake and you can hear traffic on the city's ring road zooming past.'
'From what Mr Hobson tells me, a panther's hunting range can cover many miles.'
'And this Hobson bloke, you're happy letting him know all the details of the investigation?'
'Yes. He understands everything is strictly confidential,' Clegg replied, carrying on down the corridor.
'So are you local to here?' Jon asked.
'I am. Born just down the road, schooled in the village.'
'Been in the job long?'
'Fourteen years.'
That means you joined at around thirty, Jon thought. 'So what did you do for a living before this?'
'My family owned a cattle farm. We gave up when milk prices got too ridiculous. The bloody supermarkets are killing off small scale farming in this country.'
Jon thought about the glass bottle of milk. Purchased locally and probably produced the same way.
'So you weren't tempted to turn your hand to farming sheep up on the hills?'
Clegg let out a guffaw. 'Now that is a bloody hard life. Besides, the price for lamb is even worse than for milk.'
They'd reached a closed door at the end of the corridor and Clegg paused, one hand on the brass door knob. 'I'll apologise now. This isn't the biggest room to work in. We were using it just for storage.'
'Why not somewhere bigger?' Jon asked.
'We wanted somewhere away from where we all work on a day-to-day basis. Somewhere private. These photographs aren't the nicest things you'll see.'
In the dank undergrowth, the golf ball seemed to glow with an unnatural brightness. The creature lowered its head and sniffed the dimpled surface. High above, the tail end of the rain cloud moved slowly towards the distant hills, pushed by a breeze that, at ground level, was laced with the scent of humans.
It stayed on its stomach, invisible among the plants that flourished beneath the tree. Drips fell steadily from the branches, some shattering on dying leaves of bracken, others absorbed instantly by the thick black hair covering the creature's back.
Out on the fairway a pair of multi-coloured umbrellas tilted, then collapsed to reveal the two golfers who had been sheltering beneath the taut nylon canopies. The men spoke, words indistinct. One then gestured towards the ancient looking oak that overhung the green, his hand see-sawing in uncertainty. The other glanced upwards, appraised the sky, then nodded. Umbrellas were slotted into golf bags and they began striding forward.
The creature watched them approach. Then, with a final sniff of the golf ball, it seemed to flow backwards, merging silently with the shadowy slope that led down to the river.
Ten
The door opened on a small room that still smelled of old cardboard. A couple of notice boards had been wheeled in, one covered by a sheet. Jon scanned the other. Photos of dead sheep covered it. The limp corpses were stretched out on a variety of terrains – blood-stained grass, patches of forest floor, moss- covered banks. Clumps of fleece were dotted round the bodies. His eyes lingered on the animals. Intestines hanging out, milky eyes staring upwards, rumps partially missing.
In the middle of the room was a desk that took up almost all the available floor space. Sitting at its side was a man with a thick shock of ginger hair. As Jon stepped into the room he was struck by the pale blue eyes looking up at him.
'DI Spicer, from the Major Incident Team in Manchester.'
'Jeremy Hobson. I run the panther enclosure at Buxton Zoo.' He half stood to shake hands, revealing a pale green pair of canvas trousers below the darker green of his woollen jumper.
Jon spotted the zoo's logo on its breast.
Spread out across the table was an ordnance surv
ey map. Jon recognised it immediately as Explorer OL1, the Peak District's dark peak area. He used the reverse of the same map for Sunday rambles around Edale. The map had been marked with a smattering of red crosses with dates beside them. Jon saw they stretched from the edge of Mossley Brow, across to Holmbridge and then south right down to Ringinglow.
'Sheep-kill locations farmers have reported to me in the last few years,' Hobson explained with a tilt of his head towards the notice board. 'The photos are mine. I've made it a bit of a hobby trying to track this fellow.'
'This fellow?'
Hobson looked at him as if he was a particularly slow school boy. 'The panther.'
Bloody hell, Jon thought. I wish everyone wouldn't take it for granted there's one out there. 'Ever actually seen it?'
'Not once.'
'What about tracks or hair or – what do you call it – droppings?'
'You mean spoor. No, I haven't found definitive proof yet.' Jon's eyes went to the black cross by the edge of Holme. 'That where Mrs Sutton was found?'
'Correct.'
Jon looked at the left-hand edge of the map. It ended at Mossley Brow. He tapped the air six inches to the side of the thick paper. 'A man was discovered around here this morning. He was in a car park at the edge of some fields.' Hobson didn't seem surprised. You already know, Jon thought. Clegg has told you.
'What sort of fields? Ones used for grazing sheep?'
'Yeah, I saw sheep in them.'
Hobson began clicking his tongue as he studied the map.
'There are swathes of field to the north and south of us. That land could comfortably allow the animal access to the fields you mentioned.'
Jon pointed to a pair of red lines running past Mossley Brow.
'That's the A635 and A670. You're saying, if there is a creature, it crossed both roads looking for food?'
'It's familiar with the presence of man. I imagine it's observed cars crossing the moors at night. As long as the roads were quiet, it could have done.'
'But why should an animal that's happily been hunting sheep in some of England's wildest terrain leave it for inhabited areas and roads?'