by Chris Simms
'McCloughlin's post office investigation?' Summerby looked slightly irritated.
Jon nodded.
'Let me make a call. We'll get you an agreed number of hours since the man seems unable to stick to an informal arrangement.' Glad to have some support behind him, Jon smiled inwardly.
'How about the request for information at the scene?'
Jon thought about the forlorn incident board sitting at the end of the car park. 'Nothing from that, Sir.'
'And your own efforts? Didn't you visit the car park a couple of times yourself ?'
'No luck there either, Sir,' he replied, cringing at the memory.
Summerby leaned back. 'Well, keep plugging away. How many more to get through on the car registration list?'
'We've almost gone through every owner aged under twenty- five. I'll open up the rest of the list today, though I think we'll be very lucky to get anything from this line of enquiry.'
'I'm afraid I agree,' murmured Summerby. 'Still, look at it this way. It's the ideal case for an officer with a young baby. No long hours, no running around. Use the time wisely, Jon. We'll give it another week and I'll have to look at moving you to something else.'
'OK, Sir.' Jon got up, wondering if he'd die of frustration before then.
He headed down the corridor and opened the doors to the station's main incident room. Around a dozen officers were busy on the phones, civilian assistants were typing up reports and the allocator was giving out a load of actions to a group of plain- clothes detectives.
Jon glanced hungrily at the whiteboards, eyes moving over the grainy CCTV stills of the balaclava-clad gang. Dotting the board were photos of the burnt-out getaway cars from each robbery.
From the corner of his eye, he saw McCloughlin staring at him from his inner office, hands on hips. What are you doing on my territory? his posture demanded.
Fuck you, Jon thought, savouring the prospect of the phone call his former boss was about to receive from Summerby. He looked around and spotted one of his civilian assistants at her desk nearby. A glamorous-looking woman in her forties, she was elbow deep in piles of witness statements. 'Hi there, Pam, how's it going?'
'It's Pat,' she coughed, and Jon cursed his inability to remember names. 'Not too bad. We've got a lot of typing to do.'
He noticed the note of impatience in her voice. Obviously my trivial demands are inconveniencing you, he reflected.
'Looks like it,' Jon replied, keeping his voice friendly as he removed the list of car registrations from his book. 'When you get the chance, can you start calling these owners?'
She gave a heavy sigh. 'Yes. But I don't know when, it's very busy in here.'
Jon lowered his voice. 'Don't worry, you're about to be allotted some time for it. I'll make a start on these ones.' He removed the top three sheets from the list and left her to it.
He spent the rest of the morning working his way through the numbers, frequently getting answer machines at people's homes. Many were recorded by women – wives or partners. Jon left terse messages, asking the man to call him as soon as possible and not giving a reason why.
Pat walked into his side room just before lunch with a piece of paper in her hand. 'DI Spicer, I think I've got something for you.'
'Go ahead,' he replied, motioning at the spare seat opposite.
'Well, DCI McCloughlin instructed us to spend the morning on your calls.' She gave him a look that spoke volumes about McCloughlin's manner when he gave the command. 'Anyway, this man's answers were most odd.'
'How do you mean?' Jon asked, placing his elbows on the table.
'Well, I started off in the usual way. Said I was with the Greater Manchester Police and explained we were investigating an assault that took place in the car park at Silburn Grove last Thursday night. Well, he immediately asked how I had his phone number.'
'And?'
'I told him a car with a registration very similar to his was seen leaving the scene. He became very flustered and asked me to repeat when and where the incident took place, but I could tell he was just playing for time. When I asked if he drove an estate car he started complaining about his right to privacy and then hung up.'
For the first time in days, Jon felt the blood quickening in his veins. 'How old did he sound to you?'
'Not young. Hard to say, forty or over?'
'Really?' The answer caught Jon by surprise. The person who dialled 999 had described the attacker as a lad, not someone over forty. Perhaps we've tracked down the victim of the incident, he thought, taking the sheet of paper from her. A large star had been drawn next to a name near the bottom of the page,
DEREK PETERSON,
5 BURMAN STREET, CLAYTON.
'That's great, Pat, cheers.'
'Shall we carry on calling? DCI McCloughlin said we were allocated to you for the morning.'
'No, it's nearly lunch anyway. I'll give you a shout if I need any more help.'
She walked off and he turned to his computer. After logging into the PNC, he typed Derek Peterson's name and address into the search field. The man's record came up an instant later. Date of birth 1956. That made him forty-seven years old. Jon's eyes scanned downwards. A fine for gross indecency in 1993. Ten years ago he'd been arrested for exposing himself in the trees near to a children's playground. Jon felt his lip twitch with disgust. After that he'd been placed on the sex offender's list. The incident had also cost him his job in a care home for youngsters. Jon found himself immediately jumping to the conclusion that the man was a paedophile. Within a year of his conviction he'd informed the police of his move to Burman Street, but no further breaches of the law since then. As a result, his name had dropped off the register five years later. Jon then accessed VISOR, Manchester's Violent Sex Offender's Regis- ter. Nothing on that.
Feeling the muscles in his shoulders tensing up, he snatched the phone and started stabbing in the man's number. Half way through he stopped. OK, he thought, the man might be a seedy pervert, but he's also the victim of a vicious assault.
He put the phone down and breathed deeply. This wasn't the right attitude. He needed to suppress his own opinions and question the person in a professional and sympathetic manner if he hoped for any cooperation. How would Rick handle this? He'd go and see him face to face, that's what he'd do. He'd sit down and approach it gently. Right, decided Jon, picking up his jacket and heading for the door.
Four
The drive to Clayton took Jon half an hour. Derek Peterson lived near the end of a drab and anonymous row of houses. Lads slouched at the corner, watching one of their group as he raced up and down the road on a miniature motorbike. Jon could see the area teetering on the edge of depression. Most of the tiny front gardens were unkempt, long grass engulfed a broken fridge in one. A few houses were boarded up. Residents were beginning to abandon the area and others were unwilling to move in.
He parked outside number five, worrying as he always did about some scrote damaging his car as soon as his back was turned.
There was a Volvo estate on Peterson's drive and its registration matched the numbers and letters reported by the anonymous caller. Jon looked at the front of the house. Most of the curtains were drawn and the view into the living room was blocked by a sheet of dirty yellow netting. What's the betting the inside of the house will be dim and musty, he told himself, getting his warrant card out and ringing on the bell. The netting to his right twitched, but by the time he'd turned his head the material had dropped back into place. It hung motionless as though it hadn't shifted in years.
Jon gave the door three loud raps with his knuckles. I'm not going anywhere, the harsh sounds announced, and moments later he heard movement behind the door. The lock rattled and the door opened up a crack to reveal a face that sagged with grey skin. The eye that wasn't partially shut by swelling switched nervously from Jon to the lads on the street corner beyond.
'Yeah?'
Jon sensed discretion was the best option, so he kept his ID close to his chest a
nd his voice low. 'Derek Peterson? I'm DI Spicer from Greater Manchester Police. Could I come in for a quick word?'
The door didn't move. 'What's it about?'
'I think you know, Sir. You received a call from one of my colleagues about an incident in the car park on Silburn Grove.' The man sighed and the door opened a bit further to reveal an ugly lump on the man's forehead. It was capped by a fresh scab. He peered towards the street. 'Have you come in a patrol car?'
'No, Sir, that's mine parked directly in front of your house.' Peterson looked slightly relieved and Jon guessed he didn't want the neighbourhood knowing about this little visit. 'It won't get nicked there will it?' he said, trying to establish some rapport.
The man gave a snort as if to say, depends on your luck. Jon gestured with his hand. 'Maybe it's best we chatted inside?'
The door swung open and Jon stepped into the hall. As he suspected, the air was heavy with stale odours. Fried food and dirty carpets. Peterson walked into the front room and, without offering Jon a seat, slumped into an old armchair.
The telly was on, day time drivel that was barely different from the crap filling the evening schedule. Peterson looked like an apathetic sponge, soaking the lot up anyway.
Jon switched it off, not prepared to compete with the idiot box for the man's reluctant attention. The light in the room seemed weak and Jon wondered if it was on a dimmer switch only turned half way up, but when he saw the silhouettes of dead flies piled in the dirty lampshade he knew the interview was destined to take place in the gloom.
'Derek,' said Jon, sitting down and taking out a notebook and pen. 'Those are nasty injuries you've got there. Have you had them checked out?'
The man didn't respond and in the silence the whine of the miniature motorbike outside reached a crescendo as the machine sped past.
Jon shrugged. 'What happened in that car park last Thursday? We received a call from someone saying a serious assault was taking place.'
Peterson was still looking at the dead screen. 'Nothing much.'
'Nothing much? Someone's had a go at you. It looks like they meant business.'
Peterson draped a wrist over the armrest. 'Someone jumped out on me. He was carrying some sort of weapon. I don't know what.'
'The man who rang us said it was an iron bar.'
Peterson glanced across at Jon, obviously unsettled by the amount he appeared to know. 'Yeah, it could have been.'
'And he struck you across the face and head with it? From your injuries that could well be GBH. Have you visited a hospital?'
He shook his head.
'Could I ask why not? Regardless of what you were doing in that car park, you're the victim of a serious offence. You have every right to seek help, be it medical or from the police.'
'It's not that bad. Besides, what would you lot do?' The question had an accusatory ring to it and Jon sensed Derek Peterson didn't regard the police as a force to protect him.
'We need to find the man who did this, Derek. If he's responsible for the other attacks that have taken place, he needs to be stopped before someone gets killed.'
Peterson flipped his hand over and turned the palm upward in a tired attempt at exasperation. 'I don't need the attention, OK? You'll have seen my record.'
He looked at Jon for affirmation and received a single nod.
'The animals round here, if they found out about me, they'd drive me from my home. Paint on my front door, bricks through the windows. It happened before and where were you lot then?' Jon thought of the change of address on the man's record. He wanted to take a deep breath, but didn't like the idea of drawing the fetid air any further into his lungs than was necessary. 'Derek, whatever happened as a result of your previous charge I can only apologise for. But we need your help now.'
'Forget it,' Derek said, reaching for the remote, then looking irritated when he realised the TV was turned off at the set itself.
'Is there nothing you can give me by way of a description? You needn't involve yourself any more than that. How old was your attacker? Was he taller than you?'
Peterson turned the remote over in his hand. Coming to a decision, he hauled himself up slightly in his seat. 'Mid-twenties. Bit taller than me. Heavily built.'
'So, six foot or over?'
'Not quite as tall as you.'
Jon was six-foot-four. 'About six-one or two then?' Peterson gave a nod.
'And you said he was heavily built. Like he did weights? Body builder size?'
'Like you I'd say. Do you do weights, officer? Make yourself big for when you need to apply a bit of force?'
Jon let the comment pass. 'What about his hair?'
'Cropped short, again like yours.'
Jon's pen paused and he wondered if Peterson was just stringing him along. 'What was he wearing, Sir?'
'Oh, I don't know. One of those hooded tops. Red, I think.'
'How do you know it was hooded?'
'Because it was over his head of course.'
Got you, Jon thought, going back to his notes. 'But you just said he had cropped hair. How could you tell that if the hood was up?'
Peterson looked flustered. 'It slipped down when we were struggling.'
'You struggled with him? I thought he just struck you a couple of times and ran off. What happened if you struggled with him?'
Peterson's eyes moved back to the telly. Breaking eye contact. Getting ready to tell a lie.
'I got a hand up and pulled his hood back. I think that rattled him and he ran off then.'
'So you saw his face?'
'Er, glimpsed it I suppose.'
Jon kept looking at him, pen poised above the note pad.
'Average looking. White. Nothing in particular stands out.'
'Thin in the face or round? Prominent nose? Big eyes? Small eyes? Far apart or close together?'
Peterson waved his hand impatiently. 'I didn't see. It all happened so quickly.'
'How quickly? He struck you, what, twice? You struggled and he ran off.'
'Yeah, it was all over in seconds.'
'But, Sir, I have the recording of whoever called us that night. They had time to get to their car, call nine-nine-nine and then be put through to an operator. I was able to hear screaming in the background. The call lasted a good twenty seconds.'
Peterson sat forward and rubbed at his neck with the end of the remote. It wasn't a natural movement and Jon knew he was feigning confusion. 'I don't know, I was being attacked for fuck's sake. Maybe I was yelling, who knows?'
'I'm confused by the blood as well. A trail of it led away from the shed towards a small stream. Was that yours?'
'I suppose so.' Jon saw an idea occur to him. 'Yes, that's right. I chased him. He ran off, splashed through the water. Maybe I was yelling as I chased him.'
'Could I take a sample of your DNA? It only involves a mouth swab, then we can compare it to samples recovered from the scene.'
Peterson looked very uncomfortable. 'Do I have to?'
'No, Sir, it would be an entirely voluntary gesture on your behalf to assist us with our enquiries.'
He shook his head. 'I don't trust all that stuff. It's too like big brother.'
Despite his distaste for the man sitting opposite him, Jon was inclined to agree. DNA matches only proved blood or bodily fluids belonged to someone. They didn't conclusively prove that person was at the scene of a crime. People being sent down for crimes they insisted they didn't commit was nothing new, but when that person's guilt rested on the opportune discovery of DNA, Jon couldn't help feeling uncomfortable – he knew the potential for a stitch-up was immense. 'OK, Sir,' he said, backing off. 'Very last thing. The man who called. You were with him I take it?'
Peterson rolled his eyes at the ceiling.
'Is that a yes?'
'Yes.'
'Can you tell me anything about him?'
Peterson looked at Jon. 'Apart from the fact there was a bald patch on the top of his head, all I can say is that he gave a mediocre blow
job.'
You win, Jon thought. That's enough for me. He stood up, took out a card and handed it to Peterson. 'Don't hesitate to call me if anything useful comes back to you. And I'd get a doctor to look at those injuries.'
Peterson looked Jon's card over. 'Yeah, will do.' Leaning to the side, he slid the card into his back pocket.
Jon drove back towards Longsight, turning the interview over in his head. Peterson was lying, that much was obvious. But why? He could understand the man's reluctance to get involved. Local press, or any press for that matter, loved a crime that had some sordid sex thrown in, as Peterson had already discovered to his cost.
But why the deceit over his attacker's description? Jon couldn't help feeling that it was more than a random attack. After all, it didn't appear that the other man had been assaulted. Was the assailant only after Peterson?
He pulled into a lay-by and reached for his mobile, scrolling through the numbers until he reached Rick Saville's name.
'Rick, it's Jon Spicer here. How are you?'
'Jon! Good to hear from you. I'm not bad. Yourself ?'
'Yeah, I'm OK.'
'How about Alice and the baby?'
'Yeah, they're good too. We still haven't got used to getting up for the night feeds. Don't suppose anybody does. Listen, how stacked out are you at the moment?'
Rick gave a sigh, then lowered his voice. 'Not at all. This rotation I'm on is just about finished, thank God.'
'What was it, complaints or something?'
'Yup. And I've got a few complaints of my own. It was pure shite.'
Jon grinned. 'Well, I might have something a bit more interesting for you. It's about this case I'm on.'
'What is it?'
Jon glanced at the debris littering the grass verge. Empty crisp packets, a plastic carton, a trainer with no laces. Messy bastards.
'This guy was attacked in a car park near Middleton.'
'Yeah, I saw a report in Saturday's paper.'
'There's a witness to the attack out there somewhere. I need to track him down.'
'Are you liaising with Stonewall and True Vision?'
'True what?' He reached into the glove compartment, trying to find a pen.
