Savage Moon

by Chris Simms

'I keep back what I know, you give me an exclusive interview with the family of this morning's victim.'

  'I said in my briefing, we haven't identified him yet.'

  She gave him a look and Jon knew she didn't believe his lie. He weighed up the offer, knowing he was in a corner. 'OK, you're on.' He reached for the door.

  'Hang on,' she said. 'When do I get it?'

  'At a time to be determined by me.'

  'Tomorrow.'

  He stopped. 'You what?'

  'Tomorrow.'

  Christ, she was hard. 'The guy's just had to take a long look at what was left of his brother. He's with a counsellor as we speak.'

  Her eyes gleamed. 'That bad, was it?'

  'That bad. You're not talking to him tomorrow. He's been instructed not to deal with anyone from the press and I intend to post an officer at his house to make sure of it. When the time's right you get your interview, OK?'

  She held up a finger. 'But it's got to be morning. Lunch time at the latest, so we have it for the morning edition the next day.'

  'Fine.' Jon opened the door, feeling that he'd just been fleeced. She pressed a card into his hand and marched off down the corridor.

  'Well, I've seen better dealings with the press,' Edwards sighed, up in Summerby's office.

  Jon could feel that his face was still flushed from the encounter. He looked at Edwards, thinking, you don't even know about the exclusive interview I've just promised. 'OK, I underestimated how desperate they were for information. Promising to keep them in the loop has worked for me before.'

  'With the local press, yes. This lot aren't so easy to deal with,' Edwards said.

  I realise that now, Jon thought. 'What do you reckon they'll be saying tomorrow morning?'

  Edwards crossed his legs and tipped his head back, drawing out the moment. 'Hard to say. You tried to palm them off and they won't like that. Depends on the editor in charge of each paper, but it's best we assume the worst. The Monster slays another, that sort of thing. Maybe even, Panther slays, police delays.'

  Jon fired a glance at him, looking for any visible signs he was being sarcastic, but Edwards kept a straight face and Jon turned to Summerby who was looking far from amused. 'OK. So it's a case of damage limitation. Jon, there's no point hoping this panther theory is going away. It could even divert attention away from Peterson's car park liaisons if the press are marching around up on the moors. Maybe we mention this Hobson fellow, say he's advising us on the possibility of it being an ABC, to use the correct terminology.' He gave a quick cough at Jon's inquisitive glance. 'Alien Big Cat. I've been on the web, there's certainly a load of stuff about the things.'

  Jon looked down at his knuckles. 'I'm reluctant to involve the man. He seems to be taking a strange delight in events, and I wouldn't mind betting he'll be raising the admission price at his zoo pretty damn soon.'

  'Be that as it may, we can't stop the press taking the most sensational approach possible. And assuming a person carried out the attacks, it could help us if he thinks we think it was a panther.'

  'Or it may encourage him to strike again,' Jon stated. 'He's obviously staging things to make it appear that way. We may feed his desire to repeat the performance.'

  Summerby shrugged. 'Anyway, we can't control the headlines. So, next steps?'

  Jon was about to answer when there was a knock at the door. Hearing it open, he looked over his shoulder. No, he thought. This is all I fucking need.

  McCloughlin stepped into the room. 'Gentlemen.' His eyes cut straight past Jon to Summerby. 'I gather we have quite an incident on our hands.'

  Summerby nodded. 'DI Spicer attended the crime scene this morning and has met with the officer in charge of the Sutton investigation out at Mossley Brow. He was just about to outline the next steps he was going to take.'

  McCloughlin was pacing up and down the side of the room, head lowered and tongue running across his lips. Jon thought of a hyena circling the kill. 'So, DI Spicer. What are you going to do next?'

  Jon sat upright and directed his answer at Summerby. 'Sir, the contents of all the bins have been seized and the collection of refuse from the area around Crime Lake has been suspended. Officers are searching the edge of the field for any sign of the weapon. A crime scene manager is overseeing a fingertip search of the car park and he'll be reporting back with any finds tomorrow morning. After this meeting, I'll initiate proceedings to obtain Peterson's bank, credit card and telephone details, and I've posted a uniform at the door of his house. First thing tomorrow we'll go in, search the premises and complete an inventory. We'll also talk to neighbours and friends to map out his last twenty-four hours.'

  'Yeah, yeah,' McCloughlin said. 'So you've covered off the standard first actions for a major incident. What about other stuff ?'

  Reluctantly, Jon turned to his former SIO. 'What other stuff ?'

  McCloughlin stopped in his tracks. 'Reacting to the particular circumstances of this case. The body was found by a frigging lake. Have you arranged for it to be dredged? What about divers? If you've just slashed somebody up, a dirty great lake would be a pretty inviting place to throw your weapon.'

  Shit, he's right, Jon thought, noticing Edwards nodding away in the periphery of his vision. 'I'll extend the perimeters of the crime scene to include the lake.'

  'And the moor,' McCloughlin continued. 'What sort of a search have you arranged for up there?'

  'It's already been searched. I'm getting the report tomorrow, but a crime scene manager attended and the site was signed off. To be honest, there's not a lot there apart from an outcrop of rocks. Any evidence was washed away long ago.'

  'It's a moor right? Thick grass? Clumps of peat?' McCloughlin demanded.

  Jon nodded. You're lining me up again, you bastard.

  'Disturbances to the soil? Signs of digging? What about a sweep of the area with metal detectors? You've just killed someone in what's effectively a bloody great field. How about just burying the weapon rather than risk carrying it back to the road. And talking of roads, how did the attacker get there? How did he leave the site of the murder? He would have been drenched in the victim's blood. I doubt he caught a sodding bus home.'

  Holding McCloughlin's stare, Jon unclenched his teeth with a conscious effort. 'I'll look into it.'

  Summerby cleared his throat. 'Thank you for those pointers. Now, if you could allow me to discuss the way forward with my officer?'

  McCloughlin broke eye contact with Jon and turned to Summerby. 'Come on, Edward, we can't afford any screw-ups on this.'

  Jon saw the fingers being waved dismissively in his direction. You're so close to having those broken, he thought.

  Summerby continued looking at McCloughlin and said nothing. A second passed before McCloughlin moved towards the door. 'I'll leave you to it then.'

  Gavin Edwards also got to his feet. 'I've got some stuff to clear too.'

  Once the door had shut behind him, Summerby looked at

  Jon. 'Still happy taking this on?'

  Anger boiled in his chest as he thought of McCloughlin's attempt to have him dismissed. He had to prove the bastard wrong. 'Of course, Sir. If I can count on your support when he tries to scupper me again.'

  Summerby gave a grim smile. 'To let you know a secret, I've never liked that abrasive prick. I'll keep him off your back, don't you worry.'

  It was almost eight-thirty before he got a chance to call Alice.

  'Jon! You were on the local news. Your mum was here when you were on. My family rang to let us know as well. How come you were giving a statement? I don't understand.'

  Reacting to the shrill note edging into her voice, Jon made his own words sound calm. 'Babe, things have blown up a bit in my face here. The case I'm on might be linked to the death of that woman up on Saddleworth Moor.'

  'What? You're involved on that? The report said there were similarities between both deaths. What did they mean?'

  Hating himself for bullshitting his own wife, he said, 'Alice, it's just repo
rters jumping to conclusions. Listen, I've got some more stuff to sort out. I'll be a while longer. How's my little girl?'

  'She's OK. When will you be home? I'm really tired.'

  'Has mum gone?'

  'Yeah, an hour or so ago.'

  Jon glanced at his desk. There was enough preparation work to keep him there half the night. 'I'll be back to do her bottle. Elevenish?'

  'Oh.'

  'Shall I pick up anything on the way home?'

  'Yes, we need more nappy sacks. Why have you got more stuff to sort out? You're not in charge of the case are you?'

  Just tell her you are, a voice said. Jon shut his eyes and shied away from the admission. 'Not really. It's just that I attended the crime scene, so it was me who gave the statement.'

  Silence on the other end of the phone.

  'Alice?' Nothing.

  'Alice, are you there?'

  'They can't dump that on you. Not now.'

  'It's all right, babe. There'll be a whole team on it, not just me.' He thought about the size of the workload hurtling his way. 'It won't be that bad.'

  'Really?'

  'Of course.'

  'Well, I'll see you later then.'

  Jon replaced the phone and lowered his head. You spineless prick, he cursed himself. Sooner or later, that lie is going to cost you. He spun in his seat, fished the cigarettes out of his coat pocket and headed for the car park.

  The match was still flaring in his cupped hands as he touched the tip of the cigarette against it. Angrily sucking the smoke back, he immediately regretted his eagerness as phosphorous-laced fumes ripped at the back of his throat.

  'Fuck!' He flicked the still burning match away and watched as it fell like a miniature comet towards the black tarmac.

  When he pulled up at the twenty-four hour garage on the A6, his dashboard clock read 10.27 p.m. Knowing the doors would be locked, he marched across to the attendant's booth where an elderly man was fumbling for change, bent over by a cough that seemed to bubble up from the bottom of his lungs.

  Tapping ash from a lit cigarette, the attendant reached to the side and the intercom came to life. 'Sounds like you need some fags to go with that cough.'

  'Aye, that's what I'm here for.'

  The two men burst out laughing, though whether at each other, themselves or death itself, Jon wasn't sure.

  'Forty Berkleys mate.' The old man slid a tenner through the gap under the window.

  He listened to the old man's wheezes as he shuffled away.

  Please don't let me end up like him, he thought, aware of the packet of ten in his own pocket.

  The speaker crackled again. 'Yes boss?'

  Jon placed his hands on the counter, his car keys clinking against the metal surface as he did so. 'Do you have any packs of nappy sacks?'

  'Nappy sacks? Yeah. Anything else?'

  His eyes went to the rack of confectionary by the till. 'Some

  Extra Strong Mints too.'

  The man walked out from behind the counter, fetched the items and came back, a puzzled look now on his face. 'Was it you I saw on the telly earlier? Giving that statement about the bloke who was found this morning?'

  'You must have a good eye for faces,' Jon answered, slipping a fiver under the window. To his annoyance, the man didn't pick it up.

  'So what's the score then? The newswoman said you lot aren't denying there's a link to the woman who got ripped apart up on Saddleworth. That means there is one, right?'

  Here we go, thought Jon. Like I'm about to reveal anything to you. He nodded at the items in the man's hands. 'Listen, I'm in a bit of a rush here. Can you just give us them and do my change?'

  As if Jon's terse reply contained a secret nugget of informa- tion, the man touched a finger to the side of his nose. 'Message taken, boss. Message taken.'

  He was home five minutes later, the remains of an Extra Strong Mint wedged in the corner of his mouth. Except for a low murmur from the TV, the house was silent and calm. He hung his jacket on the banister and looked into the front room. Alice was in a pair of pale blue towelling pyjamas, fast asleep on the sofa with Holly stretched across her lap. He glanced about for Punch. Strange, no dog. He walked down the short corridor into the kitchen. Empty. As he started making up Holly's bottle, a thought suddenly occurred. Oh no, the stupid mutt. He knows he's not allowed upstairs. Jon stood on the bottom step. 'Punch? Punch, are you there?' he whispered, trying not to wake Alice.

  He heard his wife stir. 'Jon. Is that you?'

  'Hi babe,' he replied in a soft voice, stepping through the door and crouching down in front of the sofa. 'You OK?'

  Alice struggled up on to an elbow, eyes bleary with sleep.

  'What time is it?'

  'Just after ten-thirty. She's not been squawking yet?'

  'No.' She rubbed at her left eye. 'You've been smoking.' Jon leaned back on his haunches. 'I had a sneaky one as a wind-me-down.'

  She sat up straight now. 'Jon, what are you doing letting yourself start again?'

  'I know. I'll pack it in again soon. It's just work at the moment is getting to me.'

  'What about Holly? There are statistics that link passive smoking to cot death. You should be thinking about her.'

  Fucking hell, that's a bit extreme, thought Jon. 'Ali, it was over two hours ago.'

  'But I can still smell it.'

  'Yeah, but... ' he gave up. The conversation was irrational.

  'Where's Punch?'

  'In the yard.'

  'The yard? What's he doing out there?'

  'Jon, I'm really sorry to say this. Just after you rang I caught it licking Holly's face. Like it does to a bone before it starts chewing it. I just don't feel safe with that animal in the house with our baby.'

  Jon shook his head. Am I hearing this right? 'Say again.'

  'I don't feel safe with him in the house.'

  'What, you thought Punch was about to bite Holly? Ali, the dog's being protective, he would never hurt her.'

  'I've seen it looking at her. It doesn't like her. It's jealous. We can't risk it.'

  Jon looked down at their baby. This was just paranoid. Alice wasn't like this. What the hell was going on? 'You've locked him outside? It's raining out there.'

  'The shed's open. I put his basket and food bowl in it.'

  Jon bit his lip, stood up and walked to the back door. He opened it and looked out. Punch was curled on the concrete in the corner. His coat was glistening under the streetlight and Jon could see shivers running down his back. He wanted to shout into the house that she was totally out of order. 'Punch, come here, boy!'

  His dog got uncertainly to its feet, the stump of its tail beginning to wag. Jon gestured into the kitchen. 'Come on!'

  Punch trotted over and climbed the steps, droplets of rain beaded on the fur above his eyes.

  'You stupid thing, what are you doing there?' Jon reached for a tea towel and began rubbing him down.

  'Jon, he's not staying in this house.'

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Alice in the kitchen doorway, Holly cradled in her arms. 'Ali, I'll keep the kitchen door shut and we can talk about it in the morning. He can't sleep out in that shed.'

  'And Holly? You value the dog above our daughter?'

  Jon's hands paused. What sort of a question was that? Carefully, he formulated an answer before opening his mouth.

  'It's not a case of who I value more, Ali, this is crazy. What's really the matter?'

  'Fine!' He'd never heard so much venom in her voice. Punch shrank away beneath his fingers and Holly started to cry. 'Have it your way. You can sleep down here with your precious dog!' She slammed the kitchen door shut and he heard her stamping up the stairs. He looked at Punch's sad brown eyes. 'What the fuck was that about?'

  Faintly at first, Holly's crying was picking up in strength. He noticed the half made-up bottle by the sink. 'Stay there boy.' He quickly washed his hands, mixed powder with the water, then warmed it in the microwave. Closing the kitchen door b
ehind him, he climbed the stairs. 'Ali? I've got her bottle. Do you want me to feed her?'

  'Did you wash your hands?'

  'Yes.'

  'Give it to me.'

  He stepped into the dark nursery. Alice raised her eyes only enough to look at the bottle in his outstretched hand, but he could see she was crying. 'Are you all right, babe?'

  She turned away. 'Oh, forget it. I'll give her breast milk.'

  Sixteen

  The movement Alice created getting out of bed awoke him. Holly was whimpering in the nursery. The sliver of window visible at the edge of the curtain was pitch black and he looked at the bedside clock. Five twenty-six. He'd tried to sleep on the sofa until about one-thirty with no success. Finally he'd crept up the stairs and slipped into bed beside her, relieved she didn't wake up. The need for more sleep actually made him feel nauseous, but his mind was already accelerating away, multiple considerations clamouring for attention.

  How long could he hold off letting the press know Derek

  Peterson's identity?

  Was there a connection between Hobson and Mrs Sutton? What the hell had got into Alice?

  Ten minutes later she came back and got into bed without a word.

  'Alice, can we talk?'

  She nestled down under the duvet with her back to him.

  'What about?'

  What about? How about your terrible mood? 'You seem a bit stressed out. Are you feeling OK?'

  The mattress moved slightly as she shrugged.

  He reached a hand out and ran a forefinger along the back of her neck. 'Who'd have thought such a little thing could knacker us out this much?'

  Abruptly she sat up, and in the half light, he could just make out her crossed arms as she looked down at him. 'Am I being over sensitive?'

  Just a bit, he thought. 'I don't know. Over-tired maybe.' She moved a hand towards her eyes, pushed a strand of hair he couldn't see away. 'I do feel emotional. Sorry if I snapped at you earlier.'

  Relief. At least she acknowledges she's acting strangely. He remembered the salon. 'Did you ring Melvyn about that haircut?'

  She sighed. 'No. I haven't had time. Maybe in a few weeks, once Holly's in more of a routine.'

  'You should pop in anyway, just for a chat. Catch up on what's going on, remind yourself of what a laugh you had working in that place.'