by Chris Simms
'I'm glad you're nervous too,' Jon said. 'I nearly pissed myself.'
They both laughed out loud as they approached the rocks. Jon put the Portascope down, rotating his shoulder back and forth to relieve his aching muscles. 'She was lying right here,' he said.
'The theory is whoever jumped her was using the rocks for cover.'
'Whoever or whatever?'
'Whoever,' Jon stated firmly. 'Let's not shit ourselves up any more than is necessary.'
Nikki shone the torch around, picking out strands of white fleece on the black soil. 'What a grim place to die.'
'Yup,' Jon replied. 'What do you reckon our chances are of finding anything?'
'Minimal. These rocks are our best bet.' She handed the torch to Jon, opened the case and took out the main unit. After screwing the bulb in, she selected a filter cap. 'We'll start with UV.' She attached the battery pack and put her finger on the switch. 'You can turn the torch off.'
As Jon did so he heard the Portascope click on. An eerie halo of blue light bathed the area before them. Holding it at waist height, Nikki started to sweep the rocks. Lichen and moss shone white in its unearthly glow and once again Jon felt like he could have been on an ocean bed.
Nikki worked her way along the semi-circle of rocks.
'Nothing ink based,' she said, removing a filter and releasing a burst of white light. 'Let's go to violet.' A new filter was attached, which turned the glow a soft reddish colour. Nikki began to sweep again. Now the lichen was hardly visible, though scratches and irregularities on the rock's surface suddenly were. Jon was glancing uneasily into the darkness behind him when he became aware that the glow had stopped moving.
'Got something?'
'I'm not sure. Is this a letter? It is! That's a K, or what's left of it.'
Jon looked over her shoulder. Just visible on the pockmarked surface was a darkish stain in the shape of a ragged K. 'Go to your right.'
Nikki swept the light across, and a faint U, R and I were revealed. 'Does that say Kuri?' Nikki asked.
'Go to the next rock, you'll find more letters there.'
She stepped sideways and the rest of the word appeared.
'Kuririkana. What does that mean?'
'Remember,' Jon replied. 'What do you think it's written in?'
'There's only one substance that glows black under violet light, and that's blood.'
Jon felt as though a cobweb had just caressed the back of his neck. He briskly rubbed at the spot with one hand. 'Can you take a scraping, for DNA?'
Nikki waved a hand. 'Problem is the cleaning agent, whatever it was.'
'Cleaning agent?'
'Someone's tried to rub this off. In fact, they probably believed they did remove it. In daylight, this would be invisible. Luckily, blood is one stubborn substance to remove completely, especially from a surface like this.'
Who could have tried to remove it? Jon ran through the list of people who'd visited this spot. Ken Sutton, Adam Clegg...
Jeremy Hobson. Had his alibi been checked for the night of Rose Sutton's death?
Nikki had removed a pot from her jacket and was scraping at the rock when the noise cut through the night. He saw her back stiffen and when she looked round at him, her eyes were wide with fear. 'What was that?'
Jon had to swallow before any words would come. 'Screech owl?'
Nikki was still crouching, eyes now shifting to Jon's side and the blackness beyond.
What? He wanted to shout as his pulse rocketed away. Is there something behind me?
'That was not a screech owl.'
Keep calm, Jon told himself. Do not let her see you're scared.
'A sheep then. They make pretty weird sounds, coughing and all sorts.'
'Jon, that was a snarl. Sheep do not—'
The noise came again, carried on the wind from somewhere further down the ravine. It was a throaty sawing sound, like air going in and out of a large pair of bellows. So that's what it feels like to have your hair stand on end, Jon thought as his scalp contracted against his skull. Casually he flicked the torch on and shone it down the slope. He may as well have tried to illuminate an aircraft hangar with a candle. 'Or a deer. A stag. You get them up here.'
'At night?' Nikki plucked the lens off the Portascope and began using the white glow to put the lenses back in the case. She slid the battery into its slot, then the torch, turning it off only when it was in place. She stood up. 'You can carry that. Fucking hell, Jon, it wasn't a deer. It was not a deer.'
A sharp odour caught in Jon's nostrils. Run! Just bloody run, his instincts screamed. 'Come on then,' he replied calmly, knowing how panic could pass between people like an airborne infection. 'We may as well head back. You lead the way, I'll be behind.'
'Too pissing right you will be. You got me out to this godforsaken place.'
They both started making their way up the ravine, neither now trying to step carefully over the boggier patches. Looking up, Jon was just able to make out where the slope ended and the sky began. 'Not far to the top,' he murmured, weighing up the case in his hand and wondering whether it would be better to swing as a weapon or clutch as a shield. He remembered the size of Samburu's claws. Jesus, calm down. You are not about to be attacked.
At the top of the slope Nikki paused, her breath coming in shallow gasps. 'Which way?'
'Right. We're heading towards that lump of land, see? At about two o'clock.'
'There are two paths, which one?'
Jon shone the torch ahead. Bollocks, she was right. 'OK, the right hand one. The other cuts away too—'
The noise came again. It now sounded level with them, somewhere off to their side. Nikki grabbed Jon's arm. 'What is that? Oh, please God, this isn't happening. Please tell me... ' He felt her grip starting to shake and her words dissolved into a single sob.
'Keep going, OK?' He pushed her down the right hand path, and as they made their way along, the only sound was the heather rasping against their damp legs. Just a walk in the park, Jon thought to himself, suppressing the flickers of panic threatening to catch fire in his brain. A nice walk in the park, tra la la la, that's all this is. A nice walk. Where've I got that line from, he wondered, guessing it was something he'd heard in a film. With a jolt he realised – American Werewolf in London. The scene where the beast attacks the backpackers out wandering on the moors. That bloody film, I wish I'd never seen it.
The noise came again. An urge to change direction away from it overwhelmed him. A trail opened up on their left. 'Take that one,' Jon snapped.
The terrain started rising and, to his immense relief, the red light at the top of the radio antenna bobbed into view. 'Keep going, Nikki. That's good. Keep aiming for that light.'
They skirted round the cairn at the top of Black Hill and marched down the other side without pausing for breath. Now on the plateau at the top of the moor, their stride lengthened. All the while Jon kept his head cocked to the side, listening out for the sound of anything pursuing them. After another five minutes he let the torch beam swing up. Dull metal glinted at the outer edge of the beam.
On seeing the car Nikki broke into a jog. They hopped over the ditch and on to the track. Somehow just being on a man- made surface was reassuring. Five metres from the car Jon said,
'It's not locked. Jump straight in.'
He opened the rear door, slung the case on to the back seat, opened the driver's door and got in. Nikki was in the passenger seat, her legs shivering violently.
He shut the door and started the engine, flicking the central locking on as he did so. Then he put the vehicle into gear and reversed as fast as he dared up the track, not giving a toss what happened to the car's suspension.
Thirty-Two
Jon nudged the car up his drive, bringing the front bumper to within inches of his house before pulling the handbrake on. He sank back in his seat. Thank Christ to be home. His mind was still twitching, settling momentarily on one aspect of what had happened on the moor before springing to another
. When they'd got back to the car park at Crime Lake not a single word had passed between them. During the drive down off the moor Jon had glanced across at Nikki several times. She was hunched in her seat, knees, shoulders and elbows drawn in as she nibbled on the tip of a thumbnail. Occasionally the hand moved upwards to brush a tear from the corner of her eye.
He parked next to her car and she immediately got out, stepped over to the driver's door and got inside. The engine started and he had to quickly climb out and knock on her window. The noise startled her. 'Hang on, Nikki. I've got the Portascope.'
She nodded, then gestured to the back seat. As he placed the case inside, he quietly said, 'Do you want to talk about this?' She shook her head, hands clamped on the steering wheel.
'Nikki,' he watched her ponytail trembling. 'Maybe we should take five minutes to calm down.'
'Fuck off.' She was still staring ahead. 'You had no right to take me up there.' She shuddered. 'Just shut the door. I'm going home.'
He straightened up, then ducked his head back in for one last try. 'Nikki, I don't know what it was up there, but... '
The vehicle started to move and he had to step forwards to swing the door shut. She had accelerated down the road before remembering to turn her headlights on.
With a sigh, Jon looked at his house, hooking a finger into the inner curve of the steering wheel. He'd ring her tomorrow. What had really occurred up there? The primal terror that had come so close to engulfing him was skewing his perception of events. He tried to analyse things objectively. They'd heard a strange sound. In the darkness, their imaginations had supplied the image of what had made it. A huge black beast, a monster moving stealthily forward, yellow eyes able to see them clearly in the night.
But it was only a noise and, at one point, the faintest trace of a smell. It could easily have been a stag, a badger, someone with a tape of a big cat. The headrest seemed to be curling about his ears, gently cupping his skull. A tape recording. The sort of thing to scare off unwelcome visitors. Hobson. He could have recorded any number of those noises. Yeah, that wouldn't be any problem at all. An impact in his lap brought him awake. His hand had dropped off the steering wheel as sleep had relaxed his grip. With itchy eyes he regarded the glow at his front window. Hopefully she's relaxing in front of the telly, he thought.
He opened the front door to hear the tapping of computer keys. She was sitting at the computer in a tracksuit with an old cardigan over the top. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Strands bulged out at the side of her head, increasing her dishevelled look. He glimpsed a Portcullis logo at the top of the screen.
'Sorry I'm late back. I got delayed.'
'I didn't think you'd be home any earlier.' She didn't turn round.
'What are you up to?'
'There's these things called Hansard documents which let you see what's been debated in the House of Commons and I've been on Number Ten Downing Street's site. I can't find anything on civilian deaths in Iraq and I've been here for bloody hours.'
For fuck's sake, he thought, put another bloody record on will you? He knelt down and looked at Holly on her play mat.
'Hello, princess, how are you doing?'
Her head jerked at the sound of his voice and her arms began to wriggle back and forth. 'Daddy's home. You coming for a cuddle?'
He slid a hand under her nappy to lift her up. 'Ali, she's soaking wet.'
No reply.
He unbuttoned the base of her babygrow and was hit by a cloying smell. Brown stains were leaking out from the edge of her nappy. 'She's filthy. How long has she been lying here?'
He spotted the shadow of a frown as she glanced with tired eyes at their daughter. 'Well, change her then.'
'I will. But I'm asking how long she's been left here.'
'Since her last feed. I'm not sure. She wasn't crying.'
'Surely it's not a good idea for her to be lying in her own shit?'
The comment was intended to goad her, but all it provoked was another backward glance. 'When's the last time you changed her nappy?'
He opened his mouth, but said nothing.
'Exactly,' she answered, eyes on the screen once again. 'Do your fair share before having a go at me.'
But that's not the point, he thought. You should be concerned that Holly was being neglected. She clicked the mouse and another text-heavy page filled the screen. There was a detached air about her, as if attending to Holly was just another household chore. You're using this Iraq thing as a way to screen her out, he thought, remembering something about depressed mothers being unable to connect emotionally with their babies.
'Come on then, you,' he whispered, carrying Holly upstairs to the nursery. After bagging up the dirty nappy and wiping her clean, he wrapped a fresh nappy around her. 'We don't want a dirty bottom, do we?' he whispered. She grinned at the sensation and he wondered whether to call down that their daughter had just produced her biggest smile yet. Then he changed his mind, afraid Alice would just grunt a reply back up the stairs.
He gazed down at the tiny human before him. So totally helpless. She stared back, eyes fixed on his. He actually felt something shift in his chest as the realisation suddenly hit him. You're ours. Ours. The word was filled with new significance.
No one else will care for you in the same way because no one else is responsible for you in the same way. We created you. But now your mum doesn't seem able to cope with you. Which leaves me. I've got to take care of you until Alice is better.
He leaned down and brought his face so close to hers he could see his entire head captured in her unwavering pupils. There he was, as much a part of her as she was of him. He picked her up and held her close, waves of emotion flooding out. Then he bowed his head and held a kiss to the top of her skull, drinking in the delicious warmth coming from her soft skin.
The voice came and went, music drifting lazily over it. Then someone spoke over an urgent drumming. Words caught in Jon's semi conscious mind. Key 103 bulletin. Dramatic new theory. No official comment. River Medlock. Other world news. Attack on the Rashid Hotel, Baghdad. Paul Wolfowitz narrowly escapes.
He struggled to bring himself awake, eyes opening just as the newsreader announced, And now to our main story. This morning Manchester awakes to a dramatic new development in the hunt for the Monster of the Moor.
Jon looked to his left. Alice was sitting up in bed, Holly silently feeding at her breast.
Analysis shows that all three victims were attacked within a short distance of the Medlock, a river that rises on Saddleworth Moor and runs into the very heart of the city. What worries experts is the possibility that, if the Monster is following the river in its hunt for new victims, it will end up in the centre of Manchester itself. So far, no one from Greater Manchester Police has been available for comment.
'Christ!' He kicked the duvet off and looked at the clock. Seven. He should have been up an hour ago. Flipping open his mobile, he scrolled through to Carmel's number and pressed connect. 'Who fed you that information?'
'Sorry, is that DI Spicer?'
'Who was it? Do you realise the shit this story will stir up?'
'You know I can't tell you that.'
'No?' He stood up, walked over to the window. Grey drizzle was falling outside. 'You don't need to. I saw you yesterday at
Buxton Zoo. It was Hobson.'
'You're wrong actually.' Her voice had softened. Was it sympathy he heard? 'You need to look closer to home.'
Jon glanced at Alice who was staring back at him. He turned away. 'Piss off, Carmel.'
He threw the phone on the bed and set off for the shower. Alice's voice stopped him in the doorway. 'So much for keeping work and home lives separate.'
'Yeah, sorry,' he mumbled. 'What time did you come to bed last night?'
'Around midnight. You were fast asleep with Holly on your chest.'
'Was I?' Jon looked at his side of the bed. 'I remember changing out of my work clothes and then lying down with her. She was asleep?'<
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'You both were. They don't recommend it. If you'd rolled over—'
'I didn't mean to – Christ. I must have just nodded off. Did you sleep OK?'
'So-so. She needed feeding at around two, then again at four.'
'God, I didn't even hear that. You should have woken me, I could have given her a bottle.'
'I tried to. You were dead to the world.'
He felt a pang of guilt at having left his wife to get through the night feeds on her own. 'How are you feeling?'
'Fine.'
Jon tiptoed through his next comment. 'You seem so wrapped up in this research thing. I don't want you getting upset about it.' He lightened his tone and smiled. 'Don't forget we've got a little girl to look after too.'
She looked down. 'I'm feeding her now, aren't I?'
Yes, but that's about all you're doing with her. 'True. But go easy. The last thing you need to do is exhaust yourself stressing out over what's happening in Iraq.'
'Do I look tired?' He nodded.
She smiled. 'Well take a look at yourself. You're a complete wreck.'
Yeah, Jon thought. Nine hour's sleep and I still feel like shit. He grinned back, 'I'd better grab a shower then and make myself look beautiful.'
Summerby, McCloughlin and most of the incident room team were surrounding the centre table when Jon walked in. He spotted several copies of the Manchester Evening Chronicle dotted about.
'Morning, Jon, nice that you made it in,' Summerby said, before looking back at the front page. 'Just what we didn't want to happen.'
The photo was an aerial view of the Greater Manchester area, the route of the Medlock highlighted in a lurid red. Big crosses marked where all three victims had been discovered, next to each was a panel giving estimated time and date of death. Hovering over the city centre itself was a large red question mark.