by Chris Simms
Shepherd's Rest, but that's hardly private.'
Jon soaked up the sudden rush of information – he hadn't got round to asking where she might meet her friends, male or female. 'I don't know, there must be plenty of quiet spots in the countryside nearby if you were looking for somewhere more private.'
Now she adjusted a pot of pens. 'I really couldn't say.' Don't worry, Jon thought, you're telling me enough as it is.
'Tell me about Jeremy Hobson. Didn't the two of them spend a lot of time together up on the moors?'
'Jeremy Hobson? The man from Buxton Zoo?' There was a note of disbelief in her voice.
'You think it impossible they could have been having an affair?'
She opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. 'That's not a question I can answer without implying she was having an affair with someone.'
'Was she?'
'I don't know! We didn't sit around discussing that sort of thing.'
Satisfied there was a can of worms waiting to be opened, Jon changed tack. 'Does the name Derek Peterson mean anything to you?'
'No.'
'He was the man discovered yesterday morning. There are some similarities to Rose's death.'
'Oh.'
'You're not interested in what those similarities are?'
She nodded at the radio. 'There was something on the news. They – you – aren't denying their injuries were similar.'
'Peterson trained as a care worker. Could he have met Rose at any sort of conference or training event?'
'I don't know. Rose didn't travel much outside the area. She did her nursery care course at the local school – the sixth form college nowadays. Was he from around here?'
No, Jon thought. And Rose was ten years older than
Peterson. 'OK, thanks for your time, Miss Clegg. If we need to ask you anything more, is it possible to call again during office hours?'
'Unless it's the weekend. It can get quite busy then.'
Jon thanked her again then crossed back to the door, Rick just behind. Once outside he rubbed his hands together. It was only just after three o'clock but the sun had already dropped below the jagged ridge that loomed over the village. Only the tops of chimneys on the houses set higher up on the opposite side of the valley were still bathed in light. At street level the gloom and cold were gathering in strength. He set off at a brisk pace towards their car. 'So, was Hobson slipping it to Rose Sutton? Someone definitely was.'
'Could have been Edith Clegg,' Rick said provocatively. 'I didn't notice any wedding ring on her finger.'
Jon glanced to his side. 'Could have been. I think a few more questions in these parts will turn something up.'
At the car Jon looked through the misty windows. 'Poor mutt. Fancy a walk round the car park while he stretches his legs?'
'No problem,' Rick replied.
Punch jumped out a little stiffly, had a good stretch, then trotted off, nose to the ground. Jon and Rick began a slow stroll along the car park's perimeter.
'What if an animal is doing this?' Rick stated in a neutral voice.
Jon breathed in, his eyes on the miniature ravine to his right, the sound of running water audible from the thick shadows at the bottom. 'It could have been if only one person was killed. But two? I don't believe it.'
'But how many sightings of mystery black cats are made in this country each year? How often are the remains of sheep and deer discovered? Jesus, in my mum and dad's village a pony was attacked. Great big claw marks down its flanks. I remember the photo on the front page of the local rag.'
'And how many panthers have been photographed, not to mention caught?'
'I've seen photos. And there are loads of credible witnesses.'
'And I've seen plenty of photos of the Loch Ness monster, UFOs and Bigfoot. Don't believe in any of them though.'
'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'
'You what?'
Rick smiled. 'Hamlet. What about the article in the Police Journal last year? How many coppers were on that golfing day? Ten, twelve? They all witnessed a large puma-like cat cross the fairway not fifty metres in front of them. I don't know in what kind of numbers, but these things are out there.'
'Yeah, I remember the piece too. But whatever they glimpsed, it didn't race up the fairway and start ripping chunks out of them, did it? The animal, and it was probably a big dog, raced off into the woods at the side of the golf course.'
By now they were standing at the corner of the supermarket. In the glow of the exterior lights Punch was exploring the deserted loading area by the side of the building, poking his snout into piles of empty boxes. A rat shot out from under an industrial-sized bin, heading straight towards them. Both men jumped back and it switched direction, streaking across the tarmac for the safety of the nearby stream.
'Punch! See it off !' Jon waved in the direction of the fleeing rodent. 'There, there!'
His dog tensed, then started looking up at the sides of the building.
'Not squirrels, a rat. There!' Jon pointed in its direction again, but it had disappeared over the wall. 'Stupid dog.'
Punch was still excitedly examining the gutters, stumpy tail wagging back and forth as Jon's mobile started to ring. He examined the outer screen and looked at Rick. 'It's the CSM from Crime Lake.' He flicked the phone open. 'Richard, how's things?'
'Fine, thanks. I have a result from that iron bar. It matches a Danny Gordon. I'd fax his record over, only I'd run out of paper if I did.'
Jon grinned. 'What's he been up to?'
'Shoplifting, burglary, joyriding, drunk and disorderly, ABH. He started young, been in and out of homes since a teenager, then juvenile detention facilities and finally graduated to
Strangeways itself.'
'Music to my ears,' Jon said. Knowing the answer already, he then asked, 'Is the Silverdale one of the places we've had the pleasure of putting him up in?'
'Yes. Two stints there. One in nineteen ninety-five, then another in ninety-seven.'
'Is there an address for him?'
'Last court appearance he was NFA.'
No fixed address. Minor setback, Jon thought. Scrotes like him rarely stray far from their usual areas. 'Cheers for doing that so quickly Richard.' He hung up and looked at Rick, triumph dancing in his eyes. 'Forget black bloody panthers. The youth Peterson assaulted with that iron bar is called Danny Gordon. He was inside the Silverdale same time Peterson was on the staff there. It was a revenge attack, I'm certain.'
'And Rose Sutton?'
Jon shrugged. 'We'll uncover her connection to Danny Gordon soon enough.' He rang DC Murray's number. 'Hugh, you at the Silverdale facility yet?'
'Yes, boss, I'm with the director right now.'
'We need the records on a Danny Gordon. He did a couple of stints there. One in nineteen ninety-five, another in ninety-seven. Understood?'
'Boss.'
Twenty-One
Jeremy Hobson put on a pair of latex gloves then opened the fridge marked Not for human use. All the shelves had been removed to make room for a large plastic crate. Hobson picked it up and placed it on a cutting board next to a metal sink.
He peeled back greaseproof paper to reveal a pile of dead chickens, their claws poked out at awkward angles, necks and feathers bent to the side. After extricating the uppermost bird, he dropped its partially plucked carcass on to the cutting board. As he reached for a serrated knife sticking to the magnetic strip above the sink he looked into the adjoining office.
A young man was standing in front of a TV monitor, flicking between the views from various cameras mounted within the panther enclosure. 'Martin, isn't it?' Hobson asked.
The youth didn't look round. ''S right.'
'I asked you to put those carrots in the water vole runs. Could you do it please?'
'Yeah.'
Shaking his head, Hobson pierced the bird's stomach, then drew the blade up to its breast. Placing the knife to the side, he reached in and tugged
out the animal's entrails before dropping them into the washing up bowl in the sink. Then he removed a cleaver from the collection of butcher's implements and brought it down on the bird's neck. After sweeping the decapitated head into the washing up bowl, he rotated the bird, then brought the cleaver down again, chopping it in half. He repeated the procedure with the next bird, then looked down. Lined up on the concrete floor were three stainless steel buckets. He dropped the four chicken halves in to the first bucket.
After dividing up the remaining birds and placing them in the other buckets he reached for a pot of powder on the windowsill.
The label said Vionate, vitamin mineral supplement. He dusted the contents of each bucket in a layer of yellowish powder.
Next he lifted up the bowl of innards and stepped over to a large bin in the corner. On the wall above a laminated notice read, All bones and waste meat must be double bagged in heavy duty bin liners.
He tipped the bowl up and the chickens' innards slid with a wet plop into the bin. After peeling off his gloves, he dropped them into the bin too then replaced the lid.
'Right,' he said under his breath, surveying the row of buckets. 'Mweru and Mara first.' As he bent down to pick up two buckets, the young man spoke from the office.
'Can I help feed the panthers?'
Hobson straightened back up. 'Feeding the panthers is a privilege that is earned. Seeing as you haven't done anything I've asked of you, no, you can't. In fact, you haven't even earned the right to watch it on the CCTV. Now, if you don't start doing some work you can go back to the Silverdale. There's plenty of others there who'd jump at the chance of a work placement like this.'
Twenty-Two
By the time Jon and Rick got back to Longsight, most of the Outside Enquiry Team were waiting for them. Summerby was also there, looking isolated and uncomfortable in a seat by Jon's desk.
'Sir,' Jon shrugged off his jacket. 'This is DS Rick Saville. We worked together earlier this year. I've brought him in because he's in between rotations at Chester House.'
Summerby shook Rick's hand. 'Accelerated promotion scheme?'
'Yes sir.'
'What did you graduate in?'
'History and Law. Exeter University.'
Jon saw Summerby beam. Here we go, time for a bit of university banter. He busied himself with a file, irked by the fact he could never join in such talks.
'My eldest son went there. Veterinary science.'
'Couldn't lure him into the job then?'
'No, he prefers working with animals,' Summerby replied. Jon's chin went up. 'He could have got a posting in Salford.' Summerby gave a light hearted tut. 'So, what developments have we got?'
Jon turned to his In tray. As requested, Danny Gordon's record was there. It ran to several sheets. Jon's hand paused before picking it up. Was now the time to express his doubts over heading the investigation? But with the discovery of Danny Gordon's DNA, things had really started moving. His fingers hovered in mid-air. If I get into tracking Danny Gordon, I know the thrill of the hunt will be impossible to resist. But then again, how long can it take to find him? There's a limit to the number of stones he can hide under.
'Oh, by the way,' Summerby's voice was little more than a whisper. 'I had a meeting this lunchtime with the Chief. He's following the media coverage on this and was anxious to know what progress was being made. I fended off McCloughlin's concerns.'
Jon looked up. 'McCloughlin was in the meeting?'
'Yes, it was a status meeting on current workloads for the Major Incident Team. McCloughlin was loud and clear about having spare capacity now he's wrapped up the post office raids.' Jon felt a flash of irritation. The bastard wasn't getting a crumb. He picked up the print-out. A photo of a sallow-faced male was at the top, shaved head tilted back, mouth hanging slightly open in a poor attempt at a sneer. 'Seems King Asbo here was the mystery assailant of Derek Peterson. One Danny Gordon, born nineteenth of March nineteen eighty-one. Cautions for shoplifting from eighty-eight. Moved on to burglary and joyriding, did time in juve centres, including the Silverdale. Finally made it to his natural abode – eighteen months in Strangeways in ninety-eight for possession of heroin, another two years in two thousand for the same thing, in and out since then.'
'How have you placed him as Derek Peterson's assailant?'
'The witness to the attack finally came forward and described what happened. Initially Gordon came at Peterson without warning, wielding an iron bar. Peterson managed to disarm him, then proceeded to sexually assault Gordon with the weapon.'
'I beg your pardon?'
Jon nodded. 'You heard right. The witness saw Peterson put the weapon under his car seat before fleeing the scene. The CSM recovered it, swabbed it and found Gordon's DNA.'
Summerby regarded his fingernails for a few moments. 'The things people do. So, you're thinking Gordon caught up with Peterson again in the car park at Crime Lake?'
'Only this time he didn't take any chances with his choice of weapon,' Rick added.
'Why was he after Peterson in the first place?'
'Gordon was in the Silverdale facility at the same time Peterson worked there,' answered Jon. 'From videos we recovered from his house, Peterson had a liking for younger men. And a record for gross indecency. My guess is he was abusing the kids at the care home while he had access to them.'
'And his motivation for killing Rose Sutton?'
Jon felt his lips tighten. 'I don't know. But it's just a matter of time before we find the link to both victims, I'm sure.'
'When are we bringing this Danny Gordon character in?' Jon dropped the print out on his desk. 'He's NFA. I'll contact his probation officer and put the word out, try the hostels, usual stuff.'
Summerby nodded. 'Anything interesting in Peterson's house?'
'Apart from the video collection, his computer. He was using a web site called Swinger's Haven to arrange his evening liaisons. Signing himself in as Mr P. There seem to be regular users of the site in this area. If Danny Gordon knew who Mr P was, he'd also know when and where Peterson was going to be on the nights he went out looking for sex.'
'Good work.' Summerby stood. 'I'll leave you to it.' Boosted by his senior officer's approval, Jon turned to the room. 'Listen up everyone. We have a prime suspect.' He'd just brought the team up to speed when DC Murray walked in with a folder.
'You wanted to know about Danny Gordon?' he announced with a grin.
Jon waved him forwards. 'We're all ears, mate.'
Murray headed to the central meeting table and opened the folder. 'Danny Gordon's file from the Silverdale. Why we're kept so busy.'
John listened as the officer described how Gordon had absconded repeatedly from the facility, usually to be found sniffing glue or shoplifting in the city centre. He also had a history of violent outbursts, frequently attacking staff members and fellow offenders.
'We need to find him. Any pointers from the facility?' Jon asked.
'According to the director, if anyone will know, it's this lot,' Murray replied, producing a photograph of a group of lads crouching around a football on the unnatural green of an Astroturf pitch. 'They formed a five-a-side team, were top of the league the staff organised. The director made a few phone calls and got the whereabouts of the rest.'
He held a finger to the person at the right hand edge of the shot. 'Michael Close. Lives in Aberdeen and works on the rigs in the North Sea. He's our second least promising bet. Did his stint at the Silverdale and has kept his nose clean ever since.'
'Who's the least promising one?' Rick asked.
'Him,' Murray replied, pointing to the next youth. 'Kevin Russell. Died last year when the stolen BMW he was travelling in left the M60 somewhat prematurely with the junction for the M56. No loss to his queen and country. The next one in is our man, Danny Gordon. Crap at football apparently. The guy at his side is James Field. Car thief. Scored all their goals and completed a course in... wait for it, car mechanics, while at the facility. Now works in a garage
near Ashbury. Last up is Lee Welch, has another four years to go in Strangeways for holding up a jeweller's in the city centre.'
Jon bent over to examine the photograph more closely. Five fairly ordinary looking teenage lads. Danny Gordon was smaller and thinner than Jon imagined him from his mug shot. He was in the middle, looking somehow vulnerable, one hand resting on the football, no smile on his face. Jon wondered exactly what Peterson had done to him. Michael Close was lanky with a mop of brown hair and a friendly expression. He moved to the last two members of the team who were still alive.
Lee Welch had narrowed his eyes to mean slits and was succeeding quite well in looking like a proper thief. Only stick-thin legs betrayed the intimidating look he was trying to achieve. Next to him was James Field. The name had a slightly posh ring to it, Jon thought, staring at the youth. Jon had played in enough rugby teams to know with a glance that the lad was a natural athlete. Fifteen or sixteen, but with a fully adult physique. He was clearly of mixed race, one parent either African or Caribbean.
Jon looked at his watch. Five-twenty. Most offices would be shutting. 'Right, I want each of these people interviewed face to face. It's too late now, but two of you can get started on the drive up to Aberdeen. Any takers?'
The eyes of every single team member slid towards the floor.
'That's a surprise. Well, using my right as boss, I'm giving it to you two, Ashford and Rhea. I'll phone ahead for you.' He turned to a relieved looking DC Murray. 'You're obviously on a roll. Lee Welch is yours to interview. Rick and I will visit James Field's place of work first thing in the morning. Gardiner, you get over to the young offenders' probation offices by the law courts. Find out who was in charge of Danny Gordon and see what he knows. Paul, start asking questions at the soup kitchens and hostels. He may be using them.'
Just before seven Jon got the opportunity to slip outside into the car park. Punch was asleep on the blanket and Jon's heart sank when he realised how long the dog had been stuck in the car. Waking him with a gentle tap on the window, Jon opened the boot. 'Coming for a walk?'
Punch scrabbled to get a firm footing on the loose blanket, then jumped down on to the asphalt. Clicking a lead on to his collar, Jon set off out of the car park, crossed the main road and headed along the other side towards Crowcroft Park.