by Chris Simms
For after the ceremony they'd booked a function room at the Marriott hotel, close to where Alice's mum lived in Worseley. It was meant to be a small, simple and inexpensive reception, but the guest list soon began to multiply. Jon remembered their slight argument when he'd added the names of his team mates from Cheadle Ironsides rugby club. Probably wasn't such a good move after all, he now admitted to himself, remembering the flaming sambuccas that had begun appearing towards the end of the night.
Half way through the evening, in a brief moment alone with Alice, he'd mentioned how surreal everything felt, almost as if he was at someone else's wedding entirely. To his relief she had immediately agreed, gushing that it all felt like a dream to her too. Just in time he'd stopped himself from saying that wasn't quite what he'd meant. Instead, he'd sat back and lit a celebratory cigar, grinning as Rick, his friend and colleague, expertly twirled Alice around the small dance floor.
He looked down at the silver wedding band on his finger, still finding the sight of it there slightly bizarre. Shaking his head, he turned back to the sink and scrubbed at the bottles with a small brush. Satisfied they were clean, he lined them up in the rack, shoved it in the microwave and turned the dial to three minutes on full power.
Christ, he thought, what did I actually do with my time before this baby was born?
Punch sat in his basket patiently watching Jon's every move. 'I know, I'll be ready in a minute,' he said with a self-conscious glance towards the door, aware of how Alice laughed at him for chatting to the dog. Once he'd eaten the remainder of his cereal, he crouched in front of the washing machine and started emptying damp babygrows and bibs into a plastic washing basket. Turning the key in the back door, he stepped out into their yard and began hanging the miniature items from the clothesline.
The sun was just clearing the end of the alleyway and a horizontal shaft of orange light cut across the top of the yard walls. Punch came padding out, nose to the ground, to begin his usual check around. When he reached the wooden door leading into the alleyway itself he stopped and began sniffing loudly.
Jon looked over his shoulder. 'Smell something boy? Some- thing been prowling about, hey?' He pegged out the last babygrow and ducked into the kitchen for the dog lead and his jacket. As soon as he unlocked the wooden door, Punch shoved his way past Jon's legs and began excitedly cutting back and forth across the cobbles. Jon looked to the side. Their bin had been tipped over and the refuse sack partially dragged out. Something had ripped it open and removed the remains of the chicken they'd eaten two nights before. Bones were scattered around, pieces of vertebrae crushed and mangled. 'Bastard foxes,' Jon muttered to himself, thinking how he'd have to sweep the mess up later. Punch's head was down and he was snorting away at the base of the yard wall opposite. Abruptly he turned around and sprayed some urine over the spot.
'Something been marking your territory? Well, Punch, if it comes over into our yard you'll see it off, won't you?'
The dog heard the words 'see it off ' and began to look around eagerly at the tops of the walls, tongue hanging from his open mouth. It was the phrase Jon used whenever they spotted a squirrel in the local park and it was Punch's cue for a mad dash towards the smaller animal. Jon knew his dog was doomed to eternal failure in his chases, but it amused him to see his pet frantically dancing around a tree trunk, excitedly barking up at the branches.
'Come on then, I haven't got long.' He set off towards the end of the alley, cold autumnal air clearing his head. Out on Shawbrook Road the yellowing leaves were beginning to curl and drop from the trees. Kicking aside spiky horse chestnut shells, Jon thought about how it was getting dark by seven-thirty each evening. The clocks would go back in another few days and then things would get really miserable. Bloody great.
He reached the grounds of Heaton School five minutes later, striding along the track that dissected the playing fields, Punch keeping pace off to his side like a hunting party's outrider. As he skirted the edge of Heaton Moor Golf Course he looked across the dew-covered grass at the bunkers full of damp sand. Cobwebs glistened on the clusters of gorse bushes that crouched in the still morning air and curls of steam rose where the sun's rays sliced through the trees to his side.
Ten minutes later he was back home and unlocking the kitchen door. Punch waited obediently as his wet paws were dried with an old towel, then they both stepped back into the house.
Silence.
Jon took off his coat, grabbed a bin liner and the dustpan and brush, then went back out into the alley and swept up the scattering of bones. After dumping them in the fresh bag, he placed the ripped bag inside it too and walked back into the kitchen. He made a cup of tea, then climbed the stairs and peered into their dimly lit room. Alice was lying on her side with the duvet peeled back. Holly's tiny body was alongside her, face pressed against an exposed breast. Jon could smell the slightly musty aroma of milk.
'She scoffing again?' he said, placing the cup of tea on the bedside table.
Alice smiled. She had a serene expression on her face and it was one Jon had never seen until she'd become pregnant. It carried a suggestion of peace and contentment and he was always delighted to see it. 'She woke up as you took Punch out. Did you clean his paws before you came in?'
Irritation suddenly needled him. He could sense Alice's mounting resentment of his dog – now the baby had arrived, Punch had dropped in her affection. He had even spotted her looking at the animal with obvious distaste.
'Course I did. So she's been feeding a good quarter of an hour then?'
'I suppose so, I think she's about full.'
'I should hope so. She took almost six ounces just before five this morning.'
Jon realised that, though they were talking to each other, both of their eyes were glued to the baby.
'I thought I heard you moving around. I wasn't sure if it was a dream.'
Jon sat down and passed a hand over the sheen of pale hair covering his daughter's head. Her skull was so warm and he had the urge to kick off his shoes and climb in beside them. Sod work and the bunch of dirty old men he was trying to protect.
'What are you up to today?' he asked.
Alice reflected for a moment. 'Thought I'd skip into Manchester for a spot of shopping, pop into the gym for a massage and sauna, have lunch in Tampopo then go to the cinema or theatre. Or I could sit in all day with this gum-toothed little monster latched on to my tit.'
Jon looked at her, relieved to see she was smiling.
'Actually, your mum's coming over and we're going to the park. Might stop for a coffee somewhere. I may even end up doing the feeding thing in public,' she said, raising her eyebrows and nodding down at her swollen breasts.
Jon frowned. 'That's not a problem, is it?'
She hunched a shoulder. 'Some people can be funny. You know, they reckon it shouldn't be done outside.'
Jon shook his head. 'That's totally wrong. It's the most natural thing in the world.'
Alice put on an upper class voice. 'Not very civilised though, is it?'
He let out a snort, then remembered the scene from their back yard. 'Did you hear that bloody cat screeching in the night?'
Alice was looking back down, attention almost completely absorbed by her baby. 'No.'
'God, it was a horrible noise. I can see where the word caterwaul comes from. It was on our back wall, something down in the alley was really putting the shits up it.' He paused. 'Which park are you going to?'
'I don't know. Probably Stockport Little Moor, walk along the river there.'
Jon glanced at her mischievously. 'Well, don't stray from the path, OK? What if the thing scaring the cat last night was the Monster of the Moor? It's only twenty miles away from here. It could have crept down from the hills looking for fresh meat.' Alice glanced up, looking alarmed. 'Jon, stop it! That's horrible.'
He grinned sheepishly, surprised at her reaction. 'It's only a joke Ali.'
'Well,' she said, hand cupping Holly's head protectively. 'It's not
funny. Imagine being that poor woman. Your last memory some savage black beast lunging at your throat. What's happening with that anyway?'
Jon's eyes lingered on his wife. The outburst wasn't like her. He'd noticed a few since the birth. Brief flashes of insecurity, even tears at the most trivial of human interest stories from the news. He shrugged. 'The local bobbies out near Mossley Brow are dealing with it. Apparently they've called in some expert in charge of the panther enclosure at Buxton zoo. He's giving them advice on how best to trap it.' He grinned. 'Last I heard there was a proposal to draft in a regiment from the Paras to stake out the moor with lamb chops.'
'Oh, that's ridiculous.' Her hand moved across to Holly's crown then back to her forehead. Rhythmic, soothing, even though their daughter wasn't crying. 'There must be a better way of catching it. People aren't safe with that thing roaming around.'
Jon felt himself frowning. What had happened to her sense of humour? He thought back, trying to remember the last time he'd heard her laughing. When she was working as a beautician she'd always be giggling, relaying the gossip from the salon, recounting Melvyn's outrageous exploits in the Gay Village. Too much time in the house, that was the problem. He hooked a frizzy strand of hair from her face. 'Hey Ali, why don't you leave Holly with my mum and nip into Melvyn's for a haircut? Your work mates, they'd love to see you.'
'It's not a barber's, Jon. He'll be fully booked for days.' Suddenly she shuddered. 'You've put me off now. We'll probably end up going to the Trafford Centre.'
Jon pictured the gargantuan shopping centre on the eastern edge of Manchester. 'I'd rather take my chances with the Monster of the Moor than the hordes of zombies shuffling around in that place. And give Melvyn a call; the treat's on me, all right?'
Three
Half an hour later Jon was grinding a cigarette out in the car park of Longsight police station.
Much to Alice's disapproval, he'd been smoking again since his involvement in the hunt for the Butcher of Belle Vue that had taken place earlier that year. It had culminated in a major clash with his SIO, DCI McCloughlin. In the pressure cooker environment of a major investigation, one such occurence might not have been problematic, but it was a repeat of a similar falling out they'd had on the Chewing Gum killer case the year before.
Nothing had been explicitly said, but it was no surprise to Jon when he wasn't among the officers named to work with McCloughlin on his next case. Instead, he'd been moved to DCI Edward Summerby's syndicate. The man was white-haired, overweight and due to retire next year. Jon wasn't that bothered
– he was finding it impossible to cope with McCloughlin's dictatorial style anyway.
The only problem was that the less demanding cases were being farmed out to Summerby in the run up to his retirement. The result was that Jon found himself walking down the corridor to a side room, where he made up a team of one trying to catch the assailant of men skulking round car parks looking for casual sex. How fucking sad, he thought, knowing it was a fairly commonplace practice. A natural consequence, he concluded, of a society that, despite all its comforts and luxuries, left many feeling isolated and alone. So they jumped into their cars in search of contact with other humans.
His smoking went up and down in its frequency. Some days he hardly touched them, but on others the nicotine was a vital way of perking him up. You're just tired, he told himself, not wanting to admit that the job he so loved could be starting to bore him. Stifling a yawn, he pressed the buttons on a dispensing machine and watched as a spindly stream of black coffee fell into the plastic cup below. The liquid died away to a succession of droplets like the end of a piss. He picked up the cup and entered the side room.
As he made his way over to his desk in the corner, a few colleagues working on a fraud case acknowledged him with a lift of an eyebrow or a tilt of a head. None smiled: there was a tarred brush dangling above DI Spicer and no one wanted to get too near.
He sat down, glanced at his in-tray and turned on his computer. Increasingly this was now his routine – sitting at a desk and spending all day staring at his screen or shuffling paper.
The search of the crime scene at the car park hadn't revealed anything other than the trail of blood. A sample had been taken and tested for DNA, but there was no match on the national database. Following that, Jon had placed an incident board at the end of the car park giving the time and date of the attack and requesting that anyone with information call his number. The phone hadn't gone once.
He'd even parked there himself one evening and approached car drivers as they pulled up. It was amazing how many men had 'got lost', 'made a wrong turn' or were 'looking for a toilet' as he produced his badge.
When he decided to approach a car with his identification hidden, he'd been greeted by the sight of a fifty-year-old man sitting with his flies wide open. His penis was jutting upwards like an extra gear stick. Jon almost nicked him for gross indecency. When he returned the next night he was the only one there; word obviously spread fast within that particular community.
He wondered how his partner in the Butcher of Belle Vue investigation would handle things. DS Rick Saville was a graduate on the accelerated promotion scheme. He had a razor- sharp eye for detail and an ability to relax people when questioning them. He was also gay – perhaps he could provide a few pointers. Last he'd heard, Rick was back at the Greater Manchester Police's headquarters at Chester House on a rotation with police complaints. Maybe he'd give him a ring and suggest a beer at the Bull's Head.
He lifted the few pieces of paper in his in-tray. There was a response from the communications liaison unit letting him know that the person who'd called 999 on the night of the incident had done so from a pay-as-you-go mobile. The chance of tracing him from his phone records had just vanished.
With a sigh, Jon looked at the next sheet of paper.
Confirmation from the A&E department at North Manchester General hospital that no one on the night of the twenty-fifth had been treated for injues consistent with being repeatedly hit with an iron bar. Just like every other hospital in the region.
He picked up the final piece of paper, a status report from the two civilian assistants who were helping him on an intermittent basis. Jon had got a list of vehicles with licence plates that began MA03 then had the letter H in the remainder of the registration. There were several thousand of them.
Of the vehicles registered to drivers in the Greater Manchester area, many were smaller models or saloons, some were four- wheel drives and around a third were estates. So began the aspect of police work Jon detested most – the laborious trawl through a massive list, slowly crossing off possibilities one by one.
The person who'd dialled 999 had described the attacker as a lad: so he'd gone through the list of estate drivers under the age of twenty-five checking for any with a record for violence. There were fourteen of them, but all appeared to have solid alibis for the night of the attack.
After that, he'd requested that his civilian assistants call every local car owner under the age of twenty-five from the list and ask if they could give their whereabouts on the evening the incident took place. Whenever their questions were met with vague or elusive answers the civilians flagged the call and gave the details to Jon for following up.
It was a tenuous way to go about an investigation and the process was worsened by the fact that his assistants were rarely available to actually help him. Time and time again they were being commandeered by DCI McCloughlin to provide back-up in his pursuit of an armed gang terrorising post offices around Salford.
His phone rang. 'DI Spicer here.'
'Jon, it's DCI Summerby.'
'Morning, Sir,' Jon replied, sitting up straighter.
'Morning. I have ten minutes if you're not too busy. Just wanting to see how things are progressing down there.'
Jon rolled his eyes. 'I'll be straight up.'
As he slipped the pieces of paper in his report book he thought about his boss. DCI Summerby's style of management
couldn't have been more different to that of his old boss, DCI McCloughlin.
Summerby was softly spoken and led through a permissive approach, involving his officers in the decision-making process and giving them as much autonomy as he could in the investigation.
McCloughlin, gruff and bristly, was far more autocratic. He took decisions on his own then issued sets of commands to his team. And if an officer strayed from his designated role McCloughlin didn't like it – as Jon had discovered to his cost.
He climbed the stairs and knocked on Summerby's door before opening it.
'Jon, come in.'
He stepped into the room, immediately noticing that the window was wide open despite the crisp chill to the morning.
'Beautiful day, isn't it? Shame to be stuck in an office,' said Summerby, hand cutting through a ray of sunlight as he gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk. Jon had a sudden image of him pruning a garden. 'Though you look like you've been up well before dawn's rosy fingers crept over the horizon.'
Jon gave a crooked smile, aware of the dark smears of skin below his eyes. 'You're not wrong,' he replied, running a hand through the cropped brown hair on his head.
Summerby gave a sympathetic smile. 'How is the baby?'
'Fine, thanks. Eating for England she is.' He glanced at the photos on the wall of two young men, mortar boards on their heads, academic gowns draped from their shoulders. 'I bet you can hardly remember the horrors of night feeds.'
Summerby linked his fingers and looked off to the side. 'True. You only remember the good times I'm pleased to say. Anyway, how's this case going?'
Jon tried to keep his voice from sounding too negative. 'Not much headway so far, Sir. The person who reported the incident called on a pay-as-you-go phone, so that's a non-starter. No hospital in the area treated anyone for blunt trauma injuries to the head that night. I'm currently working my way through the car registrations, but progress is slow I'm afraid. My civilian assistants seem to be spending all their time on Operation Stamp.'
