by Chris Simms
Jon spotted Clegg by the station doors. The man's eyes were fixed on the spectacle, a huge smile on his face. 'What the hell is going on?' Jon demanded.
Clegg's eyes met his and his smile faltered. 'They've caught it, boss, it's over.' He nodded at the trailer. 'The blond guy bagged it in the field above Sutton's farm. He was waiting in a hide he'd built in a tree.'
Jon looked down the steps. 'Why do I appear to be the last person to be told about this?'
Clegg's eyes swept over the crowd of excited locals. 'Word travels fast. I called your station at Longsight.'
Yeah, and who else, Jon thought, glancing at the reporter from the Manchester Evening Chronicle. 'And the journalists? Who tipped them off ?'
'The guy in the trailer. He rang in for his reward.'
'And did you find out exactly who he is?'
'A relative of Sutton's apparently. I'm not sure of his name.'
'You were meant to be checking on his identity and firearms certificate.'
Clegg looked awkward. 'It was on my list, I just hadn't quite got round to it.'
Useless prick, Jon thought, turning towards the crowd. The photographer had cocked his camera so its lens pointed up at the orange sky. With his other arm he started to gesture again. 'Can you get it so its head is hanging over the side of the trailer? Yes, that's it, perfect. Just lift it up a shade.'
Blood started streaming over the metallic surface and the photographer focused in on it. Slowly he moved down the steps, finally crouching below the animal's head and shooting upwards for a more dramatic angle. Onlookers vied to get in at the edges of the shot, young lads holding their thumbs up. Jon was reminded of a photo of a lynching in America's deep south. The same cruel triumph shone in everyone's eyes.
The photographer stood up and looked at Carmel. 'I've got plenty.'
With an anxious glance at the cars pulling up on the main road, she walked over to the trailer. 'Andrew, we need to get a move on. We'll go in my car.'
As Andrew jumped down, Jon could see people with cameras climbing out of the cars. Rival journalists.
Carmel waved at Ken Sutton. 'Your tarpaulin. Can you pull it back over the animal?'
He nodded, and started to approach the trailer. Jon went down the steps and gripped the young man's upper arm. 'You shot that animal?'
'Yeah!' he beamed.
'Then I'd like to ask you a few questions.'
Carmel's arm shot out and her fingers curled round Andrew's other arm. 'He promised me an interview, it's a condition if he's claiming the reward money.' She glanced at the swarm of approaching reporters, then back at Jon. 'Can we discuss this somewhere more private?'
Jon gave the young man a little grin. 'Now you know what it feels like to be the quarry.'
'Eh?' he said, looking confused.
'Let's go to the station,' Jon replied, leading him up the stairs.
'Inspector Clegg, please secure the body of that animal. I don't want anyone to touch it.'
Now inside reception, Jon nodded at the woman behind the counter. 'Coming through please.'
She pressed the buzzer and they had just stepped through into the corridor beyond when the first reporter burst through the front doors. 'Excuse me! Excuse me! Daily Mail, could I speak with you please?'
Jon watched Carmel click the inner door shut, the middle finger of her right hand raised at the man on the other side of the glass. Jon couldn't help smirking with amusement. She turned round, professional front now restored. 'DI Spicer. That lead article wasn't my doing.'
Jon folded his arms. 'I don't remember inviting you through this door.'
Carmel looked dismayed. 'Please. You can't kick me back out there.' She glanced over her shoulder at the throng of faces pressed against the glass.
Jon turned on his heel. 'Come on.' He marched down the corridor towards Clegg's office. The kitchen was on his left and he veered inside. Thank Christ for caffeine. Grabbing three mugs, he said, 'Tea or coffee?'
Andrew spoke first. 'Tea please.'
Once the drinks were made, Jon led them into Clegg's office and pointed to a couple of chairs. He perched on the edge of a desk. 'You're giving her an interview?'
The young man nodded. 'Shit yeah. Fifty grand, I'll do the thing naked if she wants.'
Carmel gave a girly laugh that rang as totally fake to Jon. 'We could discuss that I, suppose.' She reached for a notebook and pen.
Jon held up a forefinger. 'No you don't.'
She registered his expression and slid the notebook back in her handbag. He turned his attention to the younger man.
'What's your name?'
'Andrew Du Toit, Sir.'
The accent was unmistakable. 'South African?' He nodded, still smiling.
'What are you doing in the UK?'
His expression grew more serious, but his eyes radiated confidence. 'Staying on my uncle's farm.'
Jon remembered the farmer claiming that the younger man in the Land Rover was a neighbour. How many other lies was the old boy telling? 'Ken Sutton is your uncle?'
'Yes, my mum is his sister.'
'How long has she lived in South Africa?'
'She emigrated in the early sixties.'
'And you were born there?'
'Yup, nineteenth of July, nineteen eighty-one. It's all on my passport.'
'When did Ken Sutton contact you?'
'He called just after his wife's death. I've worked on game reserves around the Kruger since I was fifteen.'
'In what capacity?'
'Guide, tracker, all sorts.'
'Hunter?'
'Yeah, sometimes animals need to be culled.'
'I saw you at Sutton's farm the other day. Have you got a licence for the rifle you were carrying?'
He nodded, reaching into his jacket. Jon saw the blood smeared down its front. 'Licence and permission from customs to bring it into the country.'
Jon scanned the pieces of paper. They looked genuine enough, though he'd check later. 'May I keep these for the time being?'
'Sure.'
Jon relaxed a bit, more confident of the man's cooperation.
'What happened last night then?'
'At Ken's farm?'
'Yes.'
'I built a hide in the oak tree in the field above his farm, it borders the moor itself. Then I tethered a sheep a short distance away. I set up a spotlight, then waited for nature to take its course.'
'The sheep was attacked then?'
'Oh yeah. The cat approached the stake-out at about ten past four. The sheep started bleating like hell, so I knew it was out there. As soon as I heard it strike, I hit the light. She was on the sheep's back.' He clicked his fingers twice. 'Two shots, first hit its rear leg, second was a headshot. Bullet went straight through and ended up in the sheep. Two dead animals.'
'And it's a panther?'
He nodded. 'To be honest, I didn't think it would be that easy. Leopard is one of the most difficult animals to hunt. But that old girl? She's well past her prime.'
'You can tell its age?'
'I can tell she wasn't young. Overweight, a couple of teeth missing, eyes going rheumy. They suffer the same stuff we do in old age. Take a look at her kidneys when you open her up. They're one of the first things to go in big cats.'
'Was it capable of killing a human?'
He nodded without hesitation. 'She may have been old, but that doesn't pose a problem for hunting humans. We're easy prey. Compared to an impala and most other animals, our sight, hearing and sense of smell are non-existent. We can't run very fast and without a weapon, we have no real means of defence. Check what's in her stomach. Big cats' digestive systems are quite slow because, in the wild, they can go several days between feeds.'
Jon considered the advice, realising the dead cat could be a valuable source of forensic evidence. The memory of Derek Peterson's shredded neck made an unwelcome return. 'What about its claws? Could there be debris trapped there?'
'You mean like under human nails?'
'I suppose so.'
'I doubt it. Any kind of cat – big or small – is meticulously clean. Always washing and grooming. Plus their saliva is packed with powerful enzymes that break down scraps of food. Prevents the likelihood of infection.'
Jon wished he'd let Carmel take notes. He could have photocopied them. 'What do you propose doing now?'
Andrew shrugged. 'Not sure. I had planned to go straight home if I shot it. But I'm getting more used to your weather. Ken could do with a hand on the farm as well. Plus a couple of guys in the local pub asked if I wanted to run out for Glossop rugby club.'
'You play?'
'Yeah, fly half. You?'
'Flanker.'
'Ah right. You guys reckon you're gonna win the world cup this year?'
Jon knew he should resist the temptation of slipping into informality. He smiled, happy to fail for the moment. 'I think we could do it.'
Andrew tilted a hand. 'You're in with a shout if you protect
Wilkinson. He kicks anything.'
Jon spotted Carmel's eyes glazing over and he stood up. 'I'll send an officer in to take a full statement. And could I request that you don't leave the area without letting Inspector Clegg know first? This is an ongoing murder enquiry.'
'Can I take him to our offices in Manchester?' Carmel asked. Jon directed his answer at Andrew. 'Yes. Don't say a word until she's given you a signed contract, understand?'
Carmel widened her eyes, as if surprised by his insinuation.
'When can we expect another statement, DI Spicer?'
Jon held a hand to his ear, thumb and little finger extended.
'Contact the press office.'
He headed for the back door of the station, crossing the car park to where Sutton's trailer was parked. Clegg and a couple of other officers were standing by it. Jon went over and lifted up the tarpaulin. The coppery smell of blood hit him. He looked at the panther for a few seconds, taking in the massive paws and imagining the size of the claws sheathed inside them. Even stretched out in death with blood matting its coat, the animal was magnificent. It must have measured six feet in length and he couldn't guess how much it weighed. The same as an adult human, easily. With a twinge of sadness, he let the cover fall back. His eyes settled on the semi-congealed drips of blood on the trailer's side. 'We'll need a DNA test to confirm it matches the hairs recovered from both victims. And we'll need an autopsy. See if there's any human tissue floating around in her stomach.'
Twenty-Four
'DCI Summerby.'
'Morning, boss, it's DI Spicer.'
'Jon, where are you?'
'At Mossley Brow nick. I assume you've heard?'
'Yes, is this for real?'
'Afraid so. I've seen the carcass myself. A bloody great panther.'
'Ye gods!'
'I'm arranging for an analysis of its stomach contents and we're getting a DNA profile too. See if there's a match to the hairs found on Peterson and Sutton.'
'You think there will be?'
Jon hooked a finger into the telephone cord and stretched the coils taut. The panther was a major development but, in his view, nothing more than a distraction. Danny Gordon still needed to be caught. 'Not really.' He twisted his finger free and the length of plastic sprang back into shape.
'How so?'
'I questioned the guy who shot it. South African called Du Toit, nephew of Ken Sutton. He's worked on game reserves all his life and he reckons the animal was a geriatric. I'm still very much of the opinion Danny Gordon is our killer.'
'It would make things a damn sight simpler if it turns out to have been that cat.'
'True, but I'm not convinced.'
'What's the progress with finding Gordon?'
'He's of no fixed abode, but we'll get scent of him soon. If not we could consider naming him in an appeal for information.'
'Talking of which,' Summerby replied, 'we need to get a statement out about this panther straight away, the phones are going mad here.'
Jon nodded. 'I'll get on to Gavin Edwards.'
'Fine, I'll relay your news to the incident room. Will you be heading back soon yourself ?'
'I'll be there in an hour.'
Jon was about to call the press office when his finger hesitated over the buttons. He called home instead, a slight sense of unease mounting with each unanswered ring. Bollocks, he cursed as the answer phone clicked in. She's probably upstairs feeding. 'Ali, it's me. Sorry to miss you this morning. Give us a call on my mobile.' He replayed the message in his head. Too unemotional.
'I love you, babe,' he quickly added, before hanging up.
The incident room at Longsight was subdued and Jon sensed the news about the panther had sucked the urgency away. Why bust a gut until it was confirmed the cat wasn't a man-eater? Time to dispel that notion, he decided, clapping his hands together.
'Right! Let's have some fucking action.' He started firing questions about. 'What's going on with the door-to-doors? Have Rhea and Ashford got to Aberdeen yet? Is DC Murray at Strangeways? What's the news from the team dredging Crime Lake? Any responses to our appeal for witnesses? Sergeant Biggs, a progress report on the interviews taking place around Mossley Brow.'
As activity broke out across the room, he dropped the evidence bag with the sample of panther blood on his desk. Rick caught his eye from his desk alongside. 'You look halfway through an exercise in sleep deprivation.'
Jon took in his colleague's immaculately styled hair and crisp pale blue shirt. He managed a quick smile. 'Probably because I am.'
'What's in the evidence bag?'
'Panther blood. We need to get it tested.' He picked up the phone, noticing the file at the top of his in-tray. It was a report from Richard Matthews, the CSM for the car park where Peterson was found. He replaced the handset. 'Shit, he's already finished up?' The report listed various findings from the spot, confirming that the dredging of the lake and fingertip search of the surrounding fields had failed to find the murder weapon. 'I was hoping he'd run this test for me.'
He sat down, his mind going over who else could ensure that the blood sample would be treated as a genuine priority over samples from other investigations that also would have been filed as urgent. Nikki Kingston. She'd never failed him before. Then again, that was before she'd made a pass that he'd turned down. He dialled her number. 'Nikki, it's Jon Spicer.'
'DI Spicer, what a pleasure.'
He heard the note of reservation in her voice. 'How's it going? You keeping busy?'
'It's not too manic at the moment.'
Great, he thought. Deciding it was too early to come out with his request, he continued with the small talk. 'Where are you?'
'At the scene of a rape in Openshaw. The carpet in the front room where it happened is infested with fleas and I've just been crawling about swabbing for semen. Some people live like bloody animals. Anyway, I'm sure that's not why you're ringing. A favour, is it?'
'Well, yeah. A DNA test on a sample of panther blood.'
'Really?' Enthusiasm now flooded her voice. 'Of course, you're on that case, there was stuff on the news. What was the creature like? Big as a tiger?'
'Not far off. You wouldn't like to have met it in a dark alley, put it that way. Beautiful animal. Shame it got shot really.'
'I'd love to see it up close.'
'Well, I'm trying to arrange an autopsy for it. We're storing it in the morgue at the MRI until a vet with the necessary experience can be found. I'll see if you can pop in.'
'So you need to see if its blood matches the samples of hair recovered from the victims?'
'You got it,' he replied, always impressed with her sharpness.
'How easy will that be?'
'Should be straightforward, as long as the hairs contained sufficient DNA for a profile.'
'They did,' Jon replied, recalling the report. The hairs themselves had been scored into wafer thin slices, mounted on glass slides and analysed under a microscope. Characteristics on the cuticle, cor
tex and medulla had led to their being identified as those of a panther. But, crucially, a DNA profile had also been obtained from the keratin proteins that forms the hairs themselves.
'Listen, I've got a kit in my car outside. It's not acceptable to use as evidence in court, but it'll do until the lab can give you an official result. How's that?'
'I'll get it biked over.' After taking her address, he replaced the receiver and looked up, the smile still on his face. Rick was staring at him accusingly. 'That was the Nikki you said you'd be steering clear of ?'
'It's only a DNA test.'
'How's Alice?'
If the question was designed to bring him back down to earth, it worked. 'I haven't had time to speak with her. I'll try calling her again.' He looked for Rick's reaction and got a silent stare.
'Don't look at me like that. When am I meant to find time?'
'How about now?'
'I could if you'd stop frigging well nagging me like an old woman. Anyway, we need to get over to James Field's place of work, remember?'
'Jon, it's your wife's health we're talking about here.'
Rick was right, and he shouldn't let the fact she'd been a complete bitch about Punch interfere with his judgement. But the seed of resentment was there. 'I'll try her, OK?' He dialled home. Still no answer. 'How about we drop in later today? You haven't seen her for a few weeks. It would be useful to know what you reckon.'
Rick stood up. 'No problem.'
They drove towards Piccadilly station, followed the road to the Apollo then turned left at the roundabout leading to Temper- ance Street. The road was narrow, lying in the shadow of a series of arches that carried the train line connecting Manchester to Sheffield.
Jon regarded the countless red bricks that formed the huge spans, marvelling at the effort involved in their construction.
The number of men who'd laboured to create the world's first industrial city always fascinated him – almost twenty thousand navvies were needed to dig the Manchester Ship Canal alone. Some of those were his relatives from Ireland who went on to settle in the city.
The space below each arch had been utilised by a series of garages. Cars in various states of repair clogged the street and what little pavement there was.