by Chris Simms
'Hello there lads.'
The lions gazed across the narrow garden with its manicured strip of lawn and collection of Greek style urns. As Kerrigan followed the path across the front of his house, he raised the fob on the collection of keys and pressed a button. The door to his double garage rose slowly, revealing the powerful-looking vehicle inside. He walked round it to the rear of the building where a high density foam sculpture of a male head and torso was mounted on a spring-loaded pole that, in turn, was connected to a barrel-sized base unit filled with water.
Kerrigan paused, breathed in, then slowly raised his head.
'You talkin' to me?' he murmured through barely parted lips.
'You are?' He stepped up to the figure, bowing his forehead so it came to within millimetres of the face. 'You fucking talkin' to me?' As if released from a catch, his head bobbed forward, connecting with the figure's nose, rocking it backwards. In the same movement, he bent his knees, dropped a left shoulder and brought a fist up toward the stomach area of the bag. Not wanting to risk his gold ring, he pulled the punch, conveying the sense of impact with a comic-book 'Kapow!' The torso quivered on its pole and Kerrigan gave it a mocking grin. 'Not so tough now, are you?'
Practising his technique of intimidation was a routine he liked to maintain before going anywhere. In his line of work it was best to stay sharp when dealing with employees or clients.
He released the central locking on his car, opened the boot, then hauled his bag of golf clubs off the shelves built into the side of the garage and placed them in the vehicle. Settling into the driver's seat of the Shogun, he watched the steady flow of cars passing by. He knew that living right next to a busy main road leading into Manchester city centre was unnecessary for some- one with his income. He also knew that his house was out of keeping with those on either side. But since he'd bought the semi adjoining his and knocked through, his home had suddenly become a six-bedroom detached. After that, some carefully chosen embellishments had served to further distinguish him from his neighbours, setting him apart and letting everyone know – in no uncertain terms – that he was a man of standing.
He liked to give this message out to the scum who surrounded him. After all, they generated his income and it was important they knew who was boss. Pointing his key fob at the road, he pressed another button and the wrought iron gates began to open. Kerrigan started up the engine, but didn't move the vehicle forward. He couldn't suffer the indignity of having to wait for a gap in the traffic before being able to pull out of his own driveway. Instead he waited for the traffic lights thirty metres down the road to change to red. Only once they had, forcing the stream of cars to slow down, did he put his vehicle in gear and move down the driveway. An approaching car, having to stop anyway, flashed him and Kerrigan was able to drive out on to the road without a problem.
The route to Brookvale Golf Course took him through the drab terraced streets of Droylsden, but the green of the fairways came into view within ten minutes of setting off from his house. He pulled into the club's entrance, the suspension on his Shogun barely registering the speed bumps as he cruised along the short drive to the car park. He got out of his vehicle and was walking round to the boot, when his mobile phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Milner. What did that idiot want?
Holding a hand up in greeting to a couple of men making their way to the clubhouse, he turned round and got back in his car, not wanting any other member to hear his conversation.
'John. What's up?' he snapped.
'Ah, hello, Trevor. You OK, boss?'
'Fine. What is it?'
'Erm, I'm at a house on Ackroyd Street.'
Immediately Kerrigan commenced a mental scan. He prided himself on his ability to recall the details of every late payer from memory. 'Skinny woman with shit teeth and a little kid. How much is she behind?'
'This week or all together?'
'This week, for starters.'
'Thirty-two quid just to cover the interest.'
Kerrigan started calculating. Allowing for the rates of interest he charged, she probably owed in excess of three hundred quid. Not a massive amount in itself, but when added to dozens and dozens of other amounts like it, it soon funded his leisurely lifestyle and two holidays in Barbados each year. He also knew that letting one late payer get away with it sent out completely the wrong signal. 'Are her curtains open?'
'Yeah.'
'So what's inside?'
Movement at the other end of the line. Kerrigan could picture Milner stepping across the patch of grass, in all probability having to pick his way past mangled toys, discarded nappies and dog shit.
'There's a TV on.'
'Widescreen?'
'Yup.'
'DVD underneath it?'
'Think so.'
'What else? Sofas, armchairs? Kids' toys?'
'No sofa. The kid is on the floor playing on a video game.'
'So she can afford Sony fucking Playstations can she?'
'Hang on, she's seen me looking in. She's coming across to the window.' The other man started speaking away from the phone. 'Come on love, you're well overdue. You know the score. Listen, if you... ' His voice came back on the line. 'No use, she's drawn the curtains. Said she's not opening the door to anyone.'
'You already tried telling her you were a registered bailiff ?'
'Yeah, when I arrived. She was half out the door with the kid and a shopping bag on her arm. Stepped back inside, saying she knows her rights and I'm not coming in.'
Bollocks, Kerrigan thought. She must have been to the Citizen's Advice Bureau for help. 'She was going shopping, so she's got cash in there. Keep knocking. On her door and her windows. Make it loud. Let the neighbours hear. If she was going shopping, she needs food, especially for the kid. She'll open the door eventually.'
'How long do you want me to keep trying, boss?'
Kerrigan rolled his eyes. Did he have to hold every fuckwit's hand in this life? 'As long as you want to pick up your bonus this month, that's how long. You think I got to sit here at my golf club because I gave up every time some stupid bitch blew her giro on gin and then tried to close her curtains on me? Now don't bother me again until you've got the cash!'
He slammed the phone down on the passenger seat. Breathing deeply, he flicked the radio on, wanting to distract himself from the pond life he had to deal with. There was some sort of news flash going on. A woman was reporting that another body had been found with extensive injuries to the throat and upper chest.
Police refused to confirm or deny a connection with the woman found up on Saddleworth Moor. Kerrigan gave a low whistle. Now there was something to talk about in the members' bar.
Twelve
Outside the rain had stopped and the cloud layer had started to break up, allowing a few shafts of sunlight through.
A light breeze was blowing as they walked to a cafe´ further down the small high street. Jon was surprised at how much less everything cost compared to the chains of sandwich shops that had slowly taken over the centre of Manchester.
'Can we eat on the way?' Jon asked when Adam gestured to the stools lined up along a narrow formica counter. 'I don't want to miss him.'
'Fair enough,' the other man replied, picking up his roll and opening the door.
At the car park Adam thought for a moment. 'I've got to visit my sister in Holme later. It might be easier if we go in separate cars.'
'No problem,' Jon answered, unlocking his. 'You lead the way.'
'OK. I'm parked round at the rear; back in two ticks. We'll take the Tintwhistle road, it's the most direct way to Sutton's farm.'
Jon had managed to bolt down half his barm before Adam reappeared in a four-wheel drive Nissan that was bright with police markings. He waved at Jon then pulled out of the car park. As they headed south along the main road Jon was aware of the greyish-brown hills rising up in the distance on his left. In the foreground buildings, lampposts and trees glided past, but the moors beyond didn't seem to move.
The land had a brooding stillness about it that hinted at how long it had existed, all but unchanged, over the centuries.
By the time the road led into Tintwhistle, Jon had noted several Land Rover Defenders passing them by, their wheel arches caked with mud, some with cages on the back for livestock or sheep dogs. As they passed a pub called The Shepherd's Rest, he noticed a road sign informing him that the A6024 was open.
The valley began to steepen and fir trees closed in on both sides, dimming the interior of the car. Then the road rose more sharply and suddenly they emerged from the trees. On his left the edge of the moor loomed over him, rising up so dramatically that almost all his view of the sky on that side of the car vanished. He looked at the long grass on its plunging slopes, broken by clumps of bracken, swathes of purple heather and gnarled branches of gorse. Behind the bushes he glimpsed the occasional white fleece of a sheep.
At the turning for the A6024 the road rose more steeply still. Dropping into a lower gear, Jon noticed the landscape was dominated by a coarse brownish grass, not a single tree in sight. Apart from scar-like grooves cut by small streams, the only break in the monotony of the moor was the drystone walls. He looked again at the undulating contours of the land. Jesus, it resembled the bunched muscles of an enormous animal, ready to rise up at any moment and shake itself free of the tiresome little constructions of rock built across its back. This, Jon realised, was a place that merely tolerated man: in no way had it been tamed by his presence.
They finally reached the summit of the moor. Towering above him was a radio mast, struts of wire leading off at diagonal angles down to the ground. Glancing in his rear view mirror he saw the plains of Cheshire and Lancashire framed there for an instant. As he crossed the plateau he was aware of the strength of the wind as it buffeted his car. Before long the road started its descent and a sign announced 13% gradient. Use low gear!
The road curled round, giving a bird's-eye view of sheep- dotted fields, dense patches of woodland and darkly glistening reservoirs. Nestled at the head of the valley was the village of Holme. He'd stopped there for lunch with Alice once. As in many of the places on this side of the moors, the local people had been weavers before the industrial revolution swept their cottage industry into the cold and imposing mills. He remembered the tea-room pamphlet informing him that this region was where the Luddites smashed the shearing frames that threatened their way of life.
They hadn't descended far when Clegg's vehicle began to indicate left; it then slowed at the entrance to a narrow lane. A boulder was carved with the words Far Gethen Farm.
Jon followed Clegg on to a rough road that twisted down towards a cluster of stone buildings just visible in the distance. After a couple of minutes the road turned sharply to the left, entering a courtyard made up of a ramshackle assortment of barns with a large farmhouse at the end. Heavy slabs of moss- covered stone made up its roof and small windows were set far back into the thick walls, giving the house a beady-eyed appearance.
The courtyard was littered with dirty straw and oily puddles. Jon opened his car door. The smell of manure mixed with sharper chemical notes hit him. A chorus of bleats was coming from the barn to his side. Looking for a relatively clean patch of ground, Jon placed his feet on the bumpy surface. Immediately he noticed a row of dead rats neatly lined up by a mound of broken tiles. A cat with half-closed eyes observed him from the top of the pile. My work, its expression said. By the tiles was a row of white plastic containers. Jon peered at the labels. Twenty-five litres of formaldehyde liquid. That's the sharp tang in the air then, Jon thought, as memories of the first autopsies he'd witnessed made an unwelcome return.
As Adam picked his way across to the front door of the farmhouse, Jon continued to look around. By a red McConnel tractor with an aluminium trailer attached to the back was a line of sharpened stake posts and rolls of wire. He made his way over to where he could hear the sheep bleating. The corner barns were open ended, both containing pens that were crammed with animals, many with long straggly tails matted with excrement.
Turning back to the courtyard, he spotted a quad bike through the open doors of the barn opposite. Adam was trudging over. 'He's not in, but I imagine he can't be far away.' Jon turned to watch a chicken as it raked the barn floor before expertly pecking out seeds from the strands of straw at its feet.
The sound of an engine grew louder before a Land Rover bounced into view at the other side of the fields bordering the farm.
'This'll be him,' said Adam.
Seconds later the vehicle pulled up before them. The silver- haired driver assessed them for a moment before muttering something to the man in the passenger seat. Then he pushed open the door of the battered jeep. A border collie that was caked in mud immediately jumped down, eyes flashing at the two strangers. Jon crouched down and held out a hand.
'Here boy, come here.' The animal looked at him warily before slinking off towards the farmhouse, body close to the ground. Not your friendly household pet then, Jon thought, straightening up as the driver approached them with a stiff- legged walk. He was wearing what appeared to be a pair of waterproof dungarees, the legs merging into rubber boots just below his knees. The garment was totally covered in grime.
Christ, the bloke must be over seventy, Jon realised. I've seen younger men driving to the shops in electric buggies, and this old boy is still out working the fields.
'Ken, this is DI Spicer. He's from the Major Investigation
Team in Manchester,' Adam announced.
'Is he?' the man replied, eyes on Jon.
Even though his answer was abrupt, Jon heard the clipped tones of a Yorkshire accent. He stepped forward with his hand held out. 'Pleased to meet you.'
The farmer regarded his hand for a moment before grasping it briefly. His skin felt like dry leather and, given his age, Jon was surprised by the strength of his grip.
'I'm sorry about your wife, Mr Sutton.' The comment elicited a curt nod.
Jon coughed in order to put a space between his condolences and his next comment. 'I understand the attack occurred after you lost a number of sheep.'
'I have. And I assume your job is to try and solve the problem.'
In the background Jon saw the younger man climb out of the vehicle. He had sandy-coloured hair and wore combat fatigues and army boots. Under his arm was a rifle-shaped carry case and in each hand a heavy-duty walkie-talkie. Jon watched as he walked silently across the courtyard to disappear into the farmhouse. Obviously Sutton and his friends had their own ideas about how to solve the problem. His eyes shifted back to the old man. 'I'm here to add what I can to the investigation.'
The farmer grunted at his politician's response.
Let's move the conversation away from this, Jon thought. 'So, how long have you owned the farm?'
'Been in the family for generations.'
'What breeds of sheep do you have?'
'Just Swales.'
Swaledales. The only breed of hill sheep he'd ever heard of.
'The ones in that barn look like they're ready for shearing.' Sutton's eyes went to the animals. 'Only if I want a field of stiffs once winter sets in.'
You idiot, thought Jon, realising the sheep would need all the protection they could get out on the moors. Sutton moved past him, entering the nearest barn and then climbing into the pen. The animals shied away from him, jostling with each other to get into the opposite corner. Keeping his legs wide, he stepped across the layer of straw, arms held out. He allowed four animals to squeeze past, then, as the fifth tried to get round, his hand shot out to grab the animal by the back of the neck.
He dragged it into the centre of the pen and lifted a leg over its back. Gripping the animal's shoulders between his knees, he yanked its head back and inserted his fingers into its mouth. Jon was shocked at how roughly the man treated the animal. But then it dawned on him that, to the farmer, it was merely an investment that he aimed to profit from. He thought of the collection of fluffy sheep that dangled from the
mobile above Holly's cot. Reality suddenly seemed a lot harsher.
'So why have you rounded this lot up?' Jon asked.
'I've fetched them down for tupping.'
At last, a bit of information in return, Jon coaxed the conversation on. 'That's when you put a ram in with them?'
'Yes. Though I need to check their teeth, worm them and prepare their feet first.'
'What does that involve?'
'Dipping their hooves in formaldehyde solution to stop foot rot, clipping them if they're overgrown. Some of this lot need burling as well.'
'Burling?'
'Trimming the tops of their tails, so the tup takes to them a bit easier.'
'And once they're all pregnant, what do you do with them?'
'Turn this lot out into the lower fields. They're a bit lean. I need to get them on better grass. Then, come the spring, they'll lamb.'
Satisfied the animal was OK, he released it from between his knees. It moved unsteadily forward and he slapped it hard across its rump to get it out of his way. The animal staggered under the force of the blow before running back to join the rest of the flock.
'Do you bring all your sheep off the moors for winter?' Sutton shook his head. 'We leave some out on top, I take bales up for them, but these breeding ewes need a bit of looking after.'
'What about the lot in the next barn?' Jon looked over to the pen across the courtyard.
'Them? Misfits they are. I've pulled them in so they can go for slaughter.' He climbed back out. 'Are you here to learn about hill farming?'
'No.' Jon saw his attempt at breaking the ice had amounted to nothing. 'I'd like to talk to you about your wife, Rose.'
The man's eyelids gave the slightest flutter, but stopped short of a blink. 'I've given a statement. Have you not read it?'
'I have a few questions of my own. You won't be aware of this, but we found another body this morning. The man had very similar injuries to those of your wife.' Now he had the farmer's attention. 'I'd like to see where you found her if possible.'