by Chris Simms
'Yes, the screaming went on and on. Then Peterson reappeared. By now the blood was completely covering his face and sweatshirt. He had this look on his face. Sort of shocked but also triumphant. He swapped the bar to his other hand, opened the car... '
'He was still carrying the weapon?'
'Yes, he shoved it under the driver's seat. At that point I rang off and got the hell out of there.'
'Did Peterson follow you out?'
'He did.'
Jon sat back. Jesus, that put a whole new angle on the incident. No wonder Peterson didn't want to report it. 'Adrian. I really appreciate you coming forward with this information. How are you doing for time?'
Adrian glanced at his watch. 'I should be going.' He stood up, then noticed his untouched tea. 'Sorry, I completely forgot about it.'
Jon waved a hand in dismissal. 'Not a problem. Adrian, at some point, we'll need to take a formal statement. When's the best time to contact you?'
'Will it be used to identify me?'
'No, absolutely not. Should we call you at your office?'
'Yes. My office.'
Rick straightened up. 'I've got your work number, Adrian.' Jon stood up and held out his hand. It was gripped momentarily in a sweaty palm, then Adrian hurried off between the tables. Jon moved round to the empty seat, stretched his legs out and reached across the table for his coffee. As he did so, he ran over Adrian's version of events. Jesus, Peterson was a sick fuck. To actually shove an iron bar up some poor bloke's arse.
He looked up. 'Why assault someone like that?'
'I think Adrian was right. Punishment surely,' Rick replied. Jon took another sip. The answer was lacking somehow. Punishment beatings involved smashed kneecaps or shattered faces. This was more like rape. 'It wasn't just punishment. I think it was sexual humiliation. The lad had the audacity to attack him, Peterson was showing him who was boss. And to me that suggests, at some point, Peterson was in a position of authority over the lad.'
'You mean this Silverdale facility? The lad was in there when
Peterson was on the staff ?'
'That's my guess. Peterson was into young boys. The DVDs in his house are proof of that. I think this lad was abused by Peterson. He was trying to settle scores. Only it all goes horribly wrong, and Peterson bitches him again.'
'So the next time he catches Peterson up in Daisy Nook Country Park he comes armed with something a lot more serious.'
'Looks like it. What I can't figure out is what Rose Sutton did to piss him off so badly. Don't forget, she was slashed to ribbons before the iron bar attack on Peterson. And why was he fucking around with an iron bar at all? Why not just go for Peterson with the same weapon he used on Rose Sutton? It was pretty effective first time after all.'
'Maybe he ditched that one and had to get hold of another.'
'Or go back and retrieve the first one.'
Rick shrugged. 'I guess we'll find out when we nail him. I tell you one thing. He'll have had some serious injuries from the bar. Internal ones.'
Jon pulled out his mobile. Seeing there was no signal, he drained his coffee and led the way up the stairs. Once outside under the library's portico he looked out at the needles of rain slicing through the air. As he waited for the crime scene manager to answer his phone he watched a magpie as it hopped along the edge of the tram platform, totally unperturbed by the passengers waiting there. Its head dipped to the side and it dropped from view on to the rails, reappearing a couple of seconds later. Then, emitting a sharp clacking sound, it flew to the top of a black metal pole and alighted on the CCTV camera mounted there, long tail raising and lowering as it balanced itself in the light breeze. Weren't those things rare once, Jon wondered, trying to remember a childhood rhyme about good luck if you spotted more than one. Now they were common as pigeons.
'Richard Matthews here.'
'Richard, DI Spicer. Are you still at Crime Lake?'
'Yes.'
'Can I ask a favour?'
'Go ahead.'
'Has Peterson's Volvo been towed yet?'
'No, a flat-bed truck is on its way.'
'Just check for me and see if the driver's door is open.'
'OK. I'm in the caravan at the moment. Two seconds while I put some gloves on.' Jon listened to the movement at the other end of the line. 'Right, I'm by his vehicle. I'm trying the door. Yes, it's open.'
'Good. Now, take a look under the driver's seat. Anything there?'
'There is. It looks like a crow bar.'
'OK, careful to avoid touching the ends of it, can you lift it out and tell me what you see?'
'I've got it. Yes, there's something here. Appears to be blood, possibly faecal matter too.'
Jon closed his eyes, imagining the years of misery the lad must have endured. Was it any wonder he ended up so desperate for revenge? 'I'll need you to take swabs and test for DNA. We need a result as soon as.'
'It's top of my list.'
'Cheers, Richard.'
Jon hung up and looked at Rick. 'If the lad was in the Silverdale facility, he's a young offender. If he's a young offender, he's got a record.'
'And if he's got a record, his DNA is on the national database,' Rick finished the sentence.
Jon held up a hand and they slapped palms together. 'Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?'
Rick gave him a cheesy grin. 'I'd better get back to Chester
House.'
'You still working on that complaints thing you mentioned?' Rick threw a glance upwards. 'Just finishing it, thank God.'
'So what's next?'
'I'm starting a stint with the Drugs Squad next week.'
'Fancy joining this investigation in the meantime? I could do with the help.'
Rick looked him in the eyes. 'Some mad bastard ripping people's throats out? To be honest mate, I thought you'd never ask.'
Jon smiled. 'Nice one. Why don't you get it cleared with your boss then come over to the incident room. I'll bring you up to speed.'
Rick glanced at his watch. 'He's in a meeting until lunch. Why don't I come over now and just clear it with him later?'
'Fair enough.'
As they reached Jon's car Rick ducked his head for a better view through the rear window. 'What's Punch doing in there?'
'Spot of bother with Alice. She's decided he's a danger to Holly. Won't have him in the house.' As he opened the door Punch's face lit up with delight. 'Hello there stupid, you OK?' The dog stared back tongue protruding from the side of its mouth as they got in.
'He didn't try to bite her, did he?' Rick asked, clipping in his seatbelt.
Jon started the engine and reversed the car out of its space.
'No.'
'Scratched her?'
Jon shook his head.
'Am I missing something here?'
'Not really.' Suddenly he had the urge to describe out loud the bizarre turn of events. Perhaps it would make everything clearer in his head. 'She saw him lick Holly on the head. And because he licks his bones before chewing them, she concluded he was getting ready to do the same to Holly. To be honest, she's not been herself since the birth. She gets wound up very easily, worries about things too much.'
'Wound up about what?'
'I don't know. Stuff that's out of her control. Iraq, for instance. She was crying the other night because she reckons our forces are killing their babies. She goes on and on about it.'
'Any other things like that?'
Jon glanced suspiciously at him, sensing something behind the question. 'Things like what?'
'Morbid thoughts. About death, people being injured. That sort of stuff.'
Jon dug his fingernails into the leather of the steering wheel.
'She worries about Holly being OK. She gets up to check she's still breathing during the night. Reckons the baby monitor might not be working.'
Rick remained silent for a few seconds. 'What about in the mornings? Is she getting up all right?'
'Rick, we've got a three-m
onth-old baby. She's frigging knackered.'
'Yeah, but you're getting up aren't you?'
'What's your point here?'
'I've got an older sister. She's got two kids. Both times she suffered from post-natal depression. Feeling that she couldn't cope, that she was failing as a mother, lethargy, dark thoughts. Fretting about her baby. She wouldn't leave any windows open in case a fox got into the house and carried it off.'
Jon looked at him. 'A fox?' Even as he heard the incredulous note in his voice, he knew Alice's fears about Punch were just as groundless. 'You reckon she's depressed then?'
'I'm no doctor, mate, but it sounds very similar.'
Jon felt a sense of dread. My God, he thought. 'I should have spotted it myself.'
'No. It's quite subtle at first. She obviously hasn't seen it either.'
'So what happened to your sister? Did the kids go into care?'
'What?' Rick smiled. 'Course not. Her GP prescribed anti- depressants. They took a few weeks to kick in, but she's fine now.'
He was taken aback by Rick's almost flippant tone. 'But addicted to pills for the rest of her life?'
'For fuck's sake, Jon, it's not like that nowadays. They take them for about six months, then gradually get weaned off them. It's no big deal. You make it sound like her brain was turned to mush. It's not One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Medicines have come a long way since then.'
Jon pinched his lower lip between a finger and thumb. 'So I need to get her to a doctor's.'
'I think you should discuss it with her first. You know, a few gentle nudges about how she's feeling. Perhaps float a visit just as a possibility.'
'Yeah, you're right. I don't suppose you could take Punch for a day or two?'
'Jon, I live in a flat. Not a chance.'
'Yeah, thought so,' Jon replied, eyes on his dog's reflection in the rear-view mirror.
Nineteen
Ken Sutton stood looking up into the oak tree in the field above his farm. Andrew was perched on a bough, drilling a block of wood into its upper side. Once the screw was properly in he hitched the electric screwdriver on to his tool belt and looked down. 'Next.'
Ken held up the last square of wood. Keeping his grip on the bough with one hand, Andrew reached down with his other and was just able to take it. He placed the block over a cross he'd scored in the bark earlier on, positioned another screw then drilled it through and into the branch itself. Once he'd done the same with three other screws he sat back and looked around him. Four other blocks of wood were held firmly in place on the tops of neighbouring branches. 'This takes me back to building tree houses when I was younger. First plank then.'
Ken crouched down and hooked his fingers under the end of the six-foot length of timber at his feet. Standing it upright, he raised it to within reach of Andrew's hands. The weight on his fingers disappeared as the plank vanished up into the branches.
Andrew laid it between two boughs, wedging the outer edge against two blocks of wood. The screwdriver was lifted from his tool belt and the plank soon fixed in place. One by one, Ken passed up the other planks and soon Andrew had created a small platform between the tree's lower branches.
Crouching on it, he took a spirit level from his belt and placed it on the wooden surface. 'Not bad for a rush job. Right, next is the carpet. You're certain this hasn't been near any chemicals recently?'
'Only if you count sheep piss. It's been in the end barn for months.'
'Sheep piss is good.'
Ken heaved the roll of dusty carpet up on to its end. Crouching down again, he gripped the lower part in a bear hug and straightened his legs. The top of the roll was now about four feet above his head. Andrew lay over the edge of the platform, grasped it in both hands and began pulling upwards. Bits of straw, dried earth and wood lice began dropping out of the bottom end into Ken's hair.
Andrew dragged it over the edge and unrolled it across the platform, a variety of startled centipedes and spiders fleeing for the edges. 'Perfect. This'll keep the draught off my arse.'
Ken was bent over, running a hand through his hair to dislodge the debris caught in it. 'Just the camouflage, then.' He turned to a mound of netting that lay in the long grass. After scooping it up, he flung it upwards with both arms. Andrew's outstretched fingers caught a corner and he yanked it on to the platform like a fisherman pulling in his catch.
'What's the view up there like then?' Ken asked, looking across the field.
Andrew peered out from between the bare branches. 'It's fine.' He lifted an imaginary rifle and pointed to a patch of grass about thirty metres away. 'We tether up one of your old ewes there and bang, it's game over.'
Ken crossed his arms and scanned the bottom edge of the moor. Nothing moved in the brown landscape.
'Come on, you bastard,' he murmured to himself.
Twenty
Jon spent the rest of the morning coordinating the other strands of the investigation, including the dredging of Crime Lake.
DC Susan Gardiner arrived back just before lunch with the first boxes from Mossley Brow. After logging them in, she placed them in the corner by Jon's desk.
'Did you get the list of people interviewed so far?' he asked. She nodded. 'That one on the right. In the orange folder.'
'How did Clegg seem to you?'
'Agitated to see all the files go. He wanted to know how things were progressing.'
I bet he was, thought Jon. He lifted out the orange folder and opened the cover. Inside was a pile of statements, accompanied by Personal Descriptive Forms of each person questioned. Jon scanned over details including age, weight, colour of hair. His eyes automatically went to the box indicating whether the person had consented to a DNA swab. Most had. The first few names meant nothing to him. Then his fingers stopped flicking through the sheets. Edith Clegg. Adam's sister and Rose Sutton's bridesmaid. Jon thought about Adam's evasiveness. Questioning Edith about Rose might also reveal a bit about Adam. It seemed a good place to start. 'Fancy a drive out to Holme?'
Rick looked up from the adjacent desk. 'Why not?'
The tourist office in Holme only had one hiker in it. Jon and Rick stood outside until the woman behind the counter had served him, then they crossed the street and went in.
'Edith Clegg?' Jon asked politely.
'Yes,' she replied, her smile suddenly becoming fixed in place as he produced his warrant card. 'DI Spicer and DS Rick Saville, Greater Manchester Police. Could we have a word?'
Her eyes dropped to the till, then lifted slowly back up again.
'Is it about Rose?'
'That's right,' Jon replied, looking meaningfully around the empty room. 'We can call back later if now isn't convenient.'
'No, that's fine. How can I help?'
'You were very close to Rose, I understand?'
'That's correct. I have given a statement you know.'
'I do. It's just that I have a few questions of my own, if that's all right.'
She nodded and as Jon got out his book he noticed that the smile still clinging to her lips didn't match the cautious look in her eyes. 'How long had you known Rose?'
'We grew up together – in Mossley Brow on the other side of the moor.'
'Nice place to live. What brought you over here?'
'When we sold the family farm I needed somewhere else. Property was slightly cheaper here and it's nice and quiet.'
'How about Rose? Why did she move?'
'She got married.'
'I gather Rose's parents have both passed away.'
'Yes. Her father died when we were all at school. Her mum lasted until about twenty years ago. She developed MS. Rose nursed her for many years.'
'She seemed to have had a very caring side to her, what with her job in the nursery.'
A genuine smile now appeared on Edith's face. 'Yes, she had such a kind nature.'
'It seems a bit odd that she never chose to have children of her own.'
Edith's face clouded. 'She married late, I suppose.'
'Yes.' Jon went to some notes he'd jotted down back at Longsight. 'Married to Ken Sutton in nineteen eighty-eight. Thirty-nine is a bit old, even for nowadays.'
'Well, as I said, she took care of her mother for all those years.'
'Yes you did. And how long had she known Ken Sutton before marrying him? Did he sweep her off her feet in a whirlwind romance?'
The attempt at making her smile again didn't work. 'She'd met Ken. You know, crossed paths over the years. But they didn't start seeing each other until after Elsie – that was her mother – finally died.'
'So things did move quite fast between them.'
'Yes. I was quite surprised. But she was almost forty by then. I think she was afraid of ending up alone.'
Jon looked for a wedding ring on Edith's hand and didn't see one. 'You think she rushed into the marriage then? He was, by my reckoning, fifty-four when they tied the knot.'
'Rushed into it?'
She was stalling for time and Jon sensed that he'd hit upon something.
'You know the saying,' he continued. 'Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Was she happy with Ken?'
She squared off a stack of leaflets on the counter between them. 'I'd say they were content enough. They weren't like young teenagers, all giddy and starry eyed. Too old for that.'
'Yes, but every relationship needs a bit of romance. Was Ken very affectionate towards her?' Jon thought of the man's frosty exterior and couldn't imagine it.
'I suppose so, in his own way.'
'Really? When I spoke to him, he emphasised the effectiveness of their teamwork round the farm. There wasn't a lot of grieving for a lost lover.'
She looked directly at Jon. 'Who knows what goes on behind closed doors? Apparently happy marriages suddenly break up, hopeless ones stand the test of time.'
'You knew Rose. You were her bridesmaid, one of her best friends. Surely she confided in you.'
Edith shook her head. 'As I say, they appeared content enough.'
'How would you describe Rose's relations with other men?' Her eyes opened wider for just a fraction of a second. 'How do you mean?'
'Did she have many male friends?'