by Chris Simms
'Theoretically, yes. But I'll say again, this is a murder investigation. And we have a prime suspect called Danny Gordon.' He saw the door to the incident room open. McCloughlin stepped through, moving silently along the wall and taking up a position at the edge of Jon's vision.
'Don't mind me.'
Jon tried to resume where he'd left off, but his mind was suddenly blank.
Summerby uncrossed his arms. 'Any word from Aberdeen yet?'
The office manager spoke up. 'They rang in half an hour ago.'
Looking down at a piece of paper, he continued. 'Michael Close is on a week's climbing holiday on the Isle of Skye. Up in the Cuillins apparently and not contactable by phone.'
'Hang on,' Jon said. 'The local nick were meant to check he was available for questioning.'
The other man was still looking down at the message. 'A mix up of dates. He's due back day after tomorrow. Rhea and Ashford are wondering what to do.'
Jon looked away. A day to drive back down, only to then turn round and head straight back up. Shit. Two of his Outside Enquiry Team out of action. 'Tell them to book into a hotel and see if you can send anything up there for them to do. Even if it's just typing up reports for entering into HOLMES. Right, what about Lee Welch?'
Murray opened his notebook. 'Reckons he bumped into Gordon a maximum of four times since their days in the Silver, as he called it. He wasn't the most willing of people I've interviewed, but he claimed they had nothing more than casual chats.'
'Did he have anything to say about Peterson?'
'Not a lot. Said he kept contact with the screws to a minimum.'
Jon wanted to laugh at Welch's choice of words. His whole life had been a rehearsal for his inevitable progression to adult prison.
'Gordon's probation officer?'
'Yes, boss,' Gardiner replied. 'He signed Gordon off last year and hasn't had cause to see him again since. When he had him on his books Gordon was living in a squat in Openshaw. We called at the address, it's still being used as a doss house today. There were a few in there. They hadn't seen Gordon for a few days, said he sometimes hung around with a black guy called Jammer. Medium height, dreadlocks.'
'How's the name spelt?'
Gardiner's shoulder rose and fell. 'They weren't sure. He was just known as Jammer.'
'Anything on the PNC?'
'Nope.'
'OK, what else?'
DC Collins spoke up. 'I had this Jammer person mentioned to me too. I dropped by at the soup kitchen that parks up behind the Piccadilly Tandoori.'
Jon knew the restaurant, a crooked white building that stood marooned on a patch of waste ground opposite the station. He'd fallen in there once after a drinking session round town. Never again. Behind it was a smattering of benches and clusters of bushes. Not near any shops, it had been colonised by a collection of drunks who could be found there at most times of the day, lolling around in various states of oblivion. 'What did the piss- heads have to say?'
'No one had seen him for a few days either. Someone thought Jammer had got hold of some cash, so they'd be getting off their heads at his place.'
'Which is?'
'They didn't know.'
Jon felt no more than a pang of irritation. The net was closing round Gordon. He'd circulate his photo to the entire police force. It shouldn't take long before they hauled him in.
'What about computers?'
Jon turned to Rick. 'What's that?'
'Any sign of a computer in that squat?' Rick asked Gardiner.
'Computers? They didn't even have electricity.'
'If he was tracking Peterson's movements through Swinger's Haven, he needed access to a computer. Perhaps we should start asking round the internet cafes and local libraries.'
Jon nodded to the allocator. 'Get that actioned. And everyone add this Jammer character to your list. We need him traced and interviewed. Next, Rose Sutton's associates. How's that going?' Gardiner consulted her notes again. 'Thrived on the farm life. Content and cheerful. Seemed like a lovely marriage.' She looked up. 'More comments like that. She appeared to have found herself a happy role in life.'
Bollocks, thought Jon. 'Never be taken in by public personas. There must have been a downside, there's always at least one.' Images of his despondent wife, crying baby and abandoned dog vied for position in his head.
'One person mentioned seeing her crossing some fields to a car park near Holme once or twice. The lady said there was a guilty look about her. The only other thing that seemed worth noting was the issue of losing sheep to the mystery panther. But even then, she viewed it very pragmatically. She would report anything to Hobson, reckoning he was the only person capable of catching it.'
Hobson's name again. It was cropping up too much. 'Ken Sutton suspected his wife of something. The officer at Mossley Brow, Adam Clegg, was holding back on me too. I want to know if Jeremy Hobson and Rose Sutton were having an affair. Let's check him out properly. Is he married? Where does he live? He's an authority on big cats. Where did he study? Now, switching back to Peterson, I don't suppose the door-to-door provided much?'
Adlon shook his head. 'He was regarded as a bit of a recluse. Would nod hello and that was it. Never had any visitors.'
Thought as much, Jon thought. 'OK, you and Paul can have Hobson. Dig around a bit, but keep it discreet. DS Saville and myself talked to James Field. He hadn't seen Gordon in years, but he did provide us with enough information to suspect Peterson was using his capacity as a supervisor in the care home to abuse Gordon and a number of other boys. I have some surnames here. Once Gordon's in custody we'll need to trace these people. As far as I'm aware, none ever made a formal complaint against Peterson, but I bet a few drank a toast to the man's death. Right, let's get going.'
Everyone rose to their feet and from the corner of his eyes, Jon saw McCloughlin head towards the door. He turned to Summerby. 'What was he doing here?'
Summerby smiled regretfully. 'He asked the Chief if he could keep tabs on this, seeing as he hasn't got a major workload at the moment.'
Jon fought the temptation to punch the wall. 'What was your response? I thought you were keeping him off my back?'
'I am, but I can't bar him from meetings. I said things were progressing well, but we need something, Jon. What are your feelings on how soon it'll come?'
Jon sat back. On top of everything else, he thought, I don't need this shit. He wanted to reveal everything happening back home, get some time off, holiday, compassionate leave, anything. So what if the case was looking like a career maker? As Rick had implied, there were more important things in life than the job. But McCloughlin's lurking presence had his hackles up. Another twenty-four hours, he decided. If they hadn't achieved a breakthrough by then, he'd throw in the towel and sod the consequences for his career. 'We're close, I'm certain. I'll put out an alert for Gordon. In fact, what about naming him in a press appeal?'
'Good idea, get on to Gavin Edwards. I'll be upstairs.'
It was just after ten o'clock when he got home. As he unlocked the front door he could see shifts in the glow visible at the edge of the front room curtains. The telly was on. She was still up.
'It's me.' He closed the door behind him, finding himself automatically looking to the end of the corridor again for Punch.
'Hi.'
It was a statement, not a greeting. No warmth in the word at all. Jon pulled in a breath and entered the front room. Seeing that Holly was asleep on her mat, he turned to the sofa. The remote was in her hand and the telly abruptly died. Even though she looked tired, anger shone in her eyes. 'How dare you bring Rick round like that?'
Jon felt his stomach sink. 'Say again?'
'You know. Turning up like that without warning.'
He glanced around. The room was still a mess, another full nappy sack now on the carpet. 'Ali, it's not about how clean the house is. He was more interested in seeing Holly.'
'Oh, that was the reason for the visit then?'
'Yeah, and
to see you of course.'
'To see me.'
Jon let his set of keys swing from his middle finger, their movement marking out the silence. I'm too tired for this, he thought, just wanting to sit down and put the telly back on.
'He's concerned for you. The same as I am.'
'What have you been saying?'
Checking Holly was still asleep, Jon perched on the edge of the armchair. 'Ali, Rick's sister has had a couple of kids. She found it really tough going after each baby was born.'
'You've been comparing notes. Discussing me.'
'No, not at all.'
She crossed her arms and drew her knees further up under her. Noting the defensiveness of her posture, Jon continued. 'All I did was mention how knackering it can be.' The urge to sit back in his seat was strong, but he knew he had to keep focused.
'Go on then, what did you say about me?'
Jon sighed. 'Ali, this isn't some sort of conspiracy. He mentioned that his sister found it hard in the first few weeks. She didn't feel able to cope. She became very tearful, just like you said you are sometimes.'
Her shoulders dropped. 'You're saying I'm a failure as a mother.'
'No! Jesus, Ali, stop putting words in my mouth. Rick's sister went to the doctor and it turned out she was depressed.'
'Oh great, so I need happy pills to prop me up. I am not depressed.'
'You're hardly yourself, Ali. What about Punch? You haven't even asked where he is.'
'Will you get it into your thick head that Punch is not part of our family. It's a dog. An animal. It's got more in common with the panther out there than us.'
Jon felt his eyes sting at the harshness of her words. 'That's proof you're not yourself.'
'Punch feels his position in the house is threatened by Holly. No one can predict what it might do to her.'
Jon shook his head. 'That dog would never hurt anyone. It would lay down its life defending us, Holly included.'
'You might be prepared to risk it, I'm not. I'm not going to let anything hurt my baby.'
'So you don't give a shit where Punch is?'
'I was wondering,' she said, avoiding his eyes.
For a second Jon was tempted to say he'd had the animal put down. Just to see what reaction the comment might prompt.
'Senior is looking after him.'
Silence fell. Try again, Jon thought. 'Ali, do you not agree you're tired out?'
'I'd be a lot less tired if I had a husband who got home at a normal time.'
Oh no, Jon thought. You're not turning this on me.
'How many hours have you spent at home recently?'
Jon closed his eyes. Shit. She's got me here. 'Ali, I can't help my job.'
'You can't help trying to take on the world. Why did you let yourself get dragged into this panther business?'
'I didn't let... ' The lie died on his lips. He hadn't just held his hand up for the case, he'd grabbed it with both arms, despite his senior officer's concerns. 'It was just how things developed, I didn't know what it was about to become.'
'You had a choice, Jon, you must have. But you chose to take it on. Look at me and tell me that I'm wrong.'
He dragged his eyes up to her face. 'Ali, I wish it was that simple. There are protocols to be followed, expectations... ' The deceit was poisoning him. My own fucking wife, he thought. If I can't be straight with her, what have I got left?
Her chin was jutting forward as she waited for his answer.
'OK,' he held up a hand. 'I'll see Summerby tomorrow and get moved off the case. Is that what you want?'
'I want you here a bit more. Why can't you just have a less important role on it?'
'Fine. I'll ask for one. And my job prospects will probably be damaged forever.'
'But do you want to be here, Jon? I'm not sure that you do.' Jesus Christ, this was supposed to be about you, he thought. Yes, I want to be here. No, I don't want to sacrifice my career. When did life turn into such a bloody tightrope walk? 'Ali, in an ideal world, we'd be rich and living in the sun. But we're not. So I've got to work. Luckily, I do love my job. But I love you and Holly and Punch too.'
He flicked his eyes up and saw her blink at the dog's name. Good, he thought. Just so you know we're not finished on that subject either.
'So I'm trying to balance things as best I can. Sorry if it's not perfect.' He saw an opportunity to move the spotlight back on her. 'Are you sure having me around is going to improve things for you?' He noticed her arms gripping her sides more tightly.
'You seem so stressed out recently.'
'I do feel sad.'
Thank God, she's admitting something is wrong.
'It's all so totally tragic.'
Jon cocked his head to the side. 'What is?'
'Iraq.'
Oh sweet Jesus, not that again.
She reached over the arm of the sofa and picked up several sheets of A4. 'I've been on some web sites. There's so much stuff you don't hear about on the telly. Did you realise no one has any idea how many civilians have been killed since we invaded? The British and American forces are making no attempt to keep count, by their own admission.' She tapped the print-outs.
'According to these people, its thousands upon thousands. Children, babies, blown to bits. Christ Jon, they're just collateral damage. If we went there to free these people, why don't we have the decency to keep count of how many we kill as part of that process?'
The papers were shaking as she put them down to angrily wipe a tear away, her eyes now fixed on Holly.
This is exactly what I mean, thought Jon. And you can't even see it. Morbidly dwelling on death and destruction half a world away. 'Ali, why are you letting yourself get so worked up? We can't stop what's happening. Why don't you just leave it?'
'Turn a blind eye? Push it to the side because it's not happening here? I will not!' Holly's arms and legs flinched at her raised voice. Her eyes fluttered open and her lips began to move.
'Think about it, Jon. What would you do if someone destroyed your family? Me and Holly. Murdered.'
Jon knelt down to scoop his daughter up. 'She's hungry. I'll get her bottle.'
He walked from the room but she followed him to the kitchen. 'You wouldn't rest until you'd tracked them down, I know you wouldn't.'
I wouldn't rest until I'd stamped the last breath out of their blood-soaked faces, Jon thought.
'This war has only just started. People will want revenge for all the death we've unleashed over there. It will be revisited on us, I know it will.'
Jon turned round, Holly now crying in his arms. 'For fuck's sake, Ali, stop it will you? Can't you see you're upsetting her?' Alice's eyes suddenly focused on their baby, and the fire burning within them vanished as tears welled up. 'Oh my poor darling. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.' She laid a palm on the baby's head, then trailed her fingers over the soft sheen of hair.
The gesture contained such sorrow Jon used the excuse of opening the microwave to move Holly away from his wife's touch. 'I'll take care of this feed. Why don't you go to bed?' Alice stood there a moment longer, the mournful look still on her face. Then she seemed to crumple. 'Yes, you're right.' She turned and walked from the room as if already in the grip of sleep.
Jon watched her go with a sense of foreboding. What's happening to my wife? The microwave pinged and he took the bottle out, quickly tested its temperature, then placed the teat in Holly's mouth. Leaning against the kitchen cupboards, his eyelids lowered. He had the sensation of falling backwards, or was it just the waves of tiredness pressing down? He opened his eyes and watched as Holly eagerly drained the bottle.
Ten minutes later she was safely tucked up in her cot and he was back in the kitchen, making a cup of black coffee. In the front room he turned the computer on and accessed the internet. He went to the history file to see which sites his wife had been looking at. BodyWatch. Troops Out. Al Jazeera. Something by Robert Fisk. An essay by John Pilger from the New Statesman's web site. God, she was wallowing in it.
He moved the cursor to the search field, typed in Post Natal
Depression and hit enter.
Top of the search was something from the Royal College of Psychiatrists. He clicked on it and read the heading on the document that appeared.
What does it feel like to have PND?
He scanned the subheadings below.
Depressed. Irritable. Tired. Sleepless. Unable to cope. Anxious. Chin propped on his hand, he read the paragraph that followed.
You may find that you are afraid to be alone with your baby. You may worry that he or she might scream, or choke, or be harmed in some way. You worry that you might lose him or her through infection, mishandling, faulty development or cot death.
He thought about how Alice had taken to checking Holly in the night, afraid she couldn't hear her breathing. The irrational fear of Punch began to make perfect sense. Scrolling down the document, his eyes were snared by another subheading.
Do women with PND harm their babies?
He had to take a sip of coffee before reading on, eyes slowing at the second to last line. Rarely, she may feel so suicidal that she decides to take her baby's life and her own.
Alice's last words before going to bed sprang into Jon's head. But it wasn't what she said that caused the apprehension he felt; it was the melancholy way she had caressed Holly's skull before walking from the room. No, she wasn't that bad. She needed to see a doctor and tomorrow he'd try and broach the subject again. But she hadn't lost the plot so completely that she'd... he didn't dare even think the words.
By the time he closed down the computer, his coffee was stone cold in his mug. The kitchen sink was half full of old washing-up water and he tipped the dregs in, watching the dark cloud of denser liquid billowing out across the bottom, enveloping a teaspoon that lay there.
He remembered his dream, the blackness engulfing the desert fortress, camels whinnying like horses, church bells ringing from minarets. Why minarets? He shook his head. This bloody business in Iraq is getting to me too.
Twenty-Six
