by Chris Simms
As they rounded the corner, an office that extended off the much higher main building was revealed. To the side of it ran an electrified fence that must have been at least thirty feet high. Its top part was angled inwards and Jon was reminded of the exercise area at Strangeways prison.
'He's in there.' The young man pointed to the door of the office and walked back the way they'd come.
Jon approached the building and stepped through the door into a kitchen area. Hobson was standing by the sink, cleaving lumps of red meat into smaller pieces. There were three metal buckets on the floor, two already full of flesh.
Jon met the other man's eyes and felt himself recoil slightly at their watery gaze. Hearing a radio playing in the office beyond, he said, 'Have you heard the news this morning?'
'No. Too busy running round.'
'We've found a third body. Same injuries as Rose Sutton and Derek Peterson.'
The meat cleaver froze half way through a downward sweep and Hobson looked over his shoulder, pale blue eyes wide open.
'Same injuries?'
'And a hair was recovered from the victim.'
The metal blade thumped into flesh and bone. 'My God, so it's not over. That means there's a second animal out there.'
'Or someone who's very good at staging attacks so they resemble those of a panther.'
Hobson swallowed. 'If you permitted me to see the body, I could tell you that. You told the papers I was advising on the investigation, after all.'
Not until I know what you're about, mate, Jon thought.
'Actually, I have a few questions to ask you about the hunting habits of panthers.'
'No problem. Do you mind if we talk as I prepare their meal?'
'Fine with me.' Jon skirted past Hobson and looked into the office beyond. On the wall above an untidy desk was a collection of panther photos. In the corner was a unit of grey lockers, name labels on each door. Next to that was a book case. He examined the spine of the largest publication.
Wild Cats of the World. Mel Sunquist and Fiona Sunquist.
Jon imagined the authors living out in secluded forests, waiting endless days for a glimpse of their subject. No wonder they wrote as a couple. His attention was drawn to a TV monitor. The view was of an enclosure with a bare tree trunk lying on its side.
Hobson's voice came from the kitchen. 'The red buttons let you switch between cameras, including the ones in their dens.'
'How many panthers have you got?' asked Jon, pressing each button in turn. The third view revealed a solitary animal asleep on a raised platform. The camera was looking directly down and any sense of perspective was impossible to gauge.
'Three. Mweru, a female, and her one-year-old female cub, Mara. Then there's Samburu, a fully grown adult male. The enclosure is divided in two. Samburu has one half, Mweru and Mara the other. Come on, you can meet them close up.'
Jon looked into the kitchen to see Hobson walking outside, buckets hanging from his arms. They approached a plain wooden door built in to the rear wall. Hobson placed the buckets on the worn grass and produced a set of keys from the pocket of his khaki gilet. He opened the door to reveal a narrow concrete strip, on the other side of which was a screen of heavy duty wire mesh and metal grates. A sharp smell immediately filled Jon's nostrils.
'Like all cats, they spray to mark their territory,' Hobson explained. He crouched down and pressed a palm against the concrete floor. 'Feel. This area has under-floor heating. It magnifies the smell.'
Jon pressed a knuckle against pleasantly warm concrete.
'You're welcome to come inside but please keep to the back wall,' Hobson instructed.
Jon did as he was asked. Examining the gloomy space beyond the wire, he realised he was looking into the dens he'd just seen on the CCTV screen. On each side of him were two more thick wire doors reinforced with metal struts. Beyond them were the main enclosures themselves. A row of windows stretched round the perimeter and Jon could see dozens of people looking through.
Hobson stepped in and clanged two metal pails together, which brought immediate movement from the right-hand den. A moment later a dark shadow moved up to the wire and Jon found himself looking at a pair of golden eyes. The animal, barely arm's distance away, regarded Jon for a second. He looked for any emotion, but the stare seemed neutral, bored almost.
'Ah, Samburu's in I see,' said Hobson. 'Hello big fella.' He placed the pails on the floor and moved to one end of the concrete strip. 'Don't be fooled by appearances. Docile but deadly is what I tell every assistant. He looks like he'd be nice to stroke but, give him half a chance, he'll have your hand off. First you'd know about it was when you realised your arm ended at your wrist. That's why I said keep to the back wall. Going too near only provokes him into making a lunge – and I don't want him snapping a tooth off on the wire mesh.'
Jon felt an uneasy thrill of excitement. Just a sheet of wire separated him from a creature that would kill him without any hesitation at all. Hobson had grasped a metal handle connected to a wire that ran up the wall and into the den. Another wire stretched from a large counterweight. As the counterweight lowered, the handle in Hobson's hand rose until he could secure it on a hook embedded in the wall. 'I've just lowered the trapdoor to his den. That keeps him inside while I put his food out. Now, where's Mweru and Mara?'
He picked up a bucket and ran it down the door leading into the other enclosure. Two panthers of almost equal size appeared from a thicket of bamboo. Lazily, they padded across the sandy floor and disappeared round to the front of their den. Next thing two more sets of yellow eyes shone behind the wire. Hobson stepped gingerly past Samburu's side and lowered the trap door to the neighbouring den. 'Right, all in.' He stood in front of the gate leading into the mother and cub's enclosure, then took his keys out once again. Fixed to a metal plate in the centre of the enclosure was a building site sign with a graphic of a head in a hard hat and a raised hand. Danger: Keep Out.
Hobson glanced up at a mirror high on the wall that let him see into the den. 'Check and double check,' he whispered, more to himself than Jon. Then he unlocked the gate's padlock, slid back two large bolts and shouldered it open. Next he picked up two of the buckets and walked out into the enclosure itself. Jon saw the spectator's faces begin to turn. Fingers started to point. Mweru and Mara paced back and forth across a patch of light, tips of their long tails twitching. Samburu was nowhere to be seen.
Hobson walked confidently over to a pole of wood and wedged a chunk of meat into the V at its top. You love this, don't you, Jon thought, beginning a quick tally of people watching. He gave up at the third window, having counted forty-eight faces.
His eyes returned to Hobson as he proceeded round, hiding bits of meat on various branches and ledges of rock. Two minutes later he returned to the side gate, both buckets empty, face slightly flushed.
He relocked the side gate then reached for the handle controlling the counterweight. 'OK ladies, give them a good show.'
The metal trapdoor scraped up and the two cats appeared in the open. Mweru made a beeline for the wooden pole. Rearing up on her hind legs, she sniffed the meat then, almost reluctantly, grabbed it in her jaws. Hobson chuckled. 'Beef. They hate it. Chicken every day would be their choice. Right, now for Samburu.'
He lobbed the empty pails out on the grass, picked up the third one, then approached the side gate to Samburu's enclosure. The same procedure was repeated and Hobson strode out like a gladiator entering the ring. Jon glanced at the handle to the counterweight. You'd soon lose that swagger if I unhooked that counterweight, he thought, looking at the den before him. In its corner was a metal door with a small viewing window. 'You're hiding behind that aren't you?' whispered Jon, stepping up to the narrow opening and peering through.
An eye appeared, immediately followed by a snarl as several yellow teeth connected with the edge of the window. Jon actually felt the animal's breath on his face as he lurched backwards, the back of his head thudding against the wall behind. The pant
her appeared at floor level and pushed a huge paw at the gap below the wire mesh, cruel claws fully extended. All the while it stared at Jon in that same emotionless way. No hard feelings, the look seemed to say. But of course I want to eat you.
Jon looked at its slick coat, darker spots just visible in the glossy fur. But for a heavier bunching of muscles about its shoulders, the animal had very similar proportions to a domestic cat. It was just about twenty times larger and able to haul prey heavier than itself up a vertical tree trunk. Jon glanced at the height of the viewing window. Easily six feet up, he thought, and all you had to do was rear up on your hind legs to be the same height as me. He couldn't help smiling. 'You crafty bastard,' he whispered. 'You knew I'd eventually look through, didn't you?'
The cat moved away, apparently now bored with his presence. Jon glanced again at Hobson as he completed his circuit of the enclosure, pausing to actually bow to the watching audience. Suspicion blossomed in Jon's head. 'You like this too bloody much.' He looked at where Samburu had pawed the mesh. A few hairs were caught there. Jon reached in his pockets, pulled out a small evidence bag, then crouched down. Samburu was just visible at the other side of the den, sitting in front of the trap door, waiting to be released. Jon quickly extended a hand, plucked a few hairs from the wire and stood up. A swift check of the other den revealed a few more hairs on the wire there and he snatched those for his collection.
When Hobson reappeared Jon was at his designated spot, arms behind his back.
'That's them sorted,' Hobson announced, wiping his hands on his shorts then securing the gate to the enclosure and lifting the trap door to Samburu's den. 'What was it you wanted to ask me?'
They stepped back outside and Hobson locked the wooden door behind them. 'Are panthers known to follow rivers and streams? Perhaps to use as a hunting ground?' Jon asked.
Hobson paused for a moment. 'Yes. Especially in jungles. A river provides a natural pathway through thick vegetation.'
'Do they mind water?'
'They don't seek it out like tigers do, but they certainly don't mind swimming across a river if it cuts through their territory. More often a river probably acts as its edge. Delineating the border. Of course a river crossing point would also be a good place for a panther to ambush its prey.'
Jon nodded, satisfied the answer reinforced the Medlock theory.
'Why do you ask?' Hobson said, picking up the empty pails. Should I tell him? Jon wondered. Yes, let's see how he reacts.
'This morning's victim was found within metres of the Medlock. The river also runs through Daisy Nook Country Park where Peterson was found. The Medlock rises at the foot of Saddleworth Moor where, as you know, Rose Sutton was killed.'
During his short speech Hobson's pale eyes flickered all around, never once settling on Jon. 'Interesting.'
'Isn't it?' Jon replied, now studying the man more carefully. He glanced towards the gates he'd come by. 'I'd better be heading back. Is the zoo always this busy on a weekday? There must have been a couple of hundred people watching just now.' Hobson stacked the buckets into each other and led the way towards the reception building. 'Not usually, no.'
'Just since people started getting killed?'
'That's right. Some of the staff see it as macabre, but I'm trying to use it as a way of educating people about these magnificent animals. I've written a panther information sheet for staff to hand out. It encourages people to give money to conservation projects. Donations, I hear, have risen sharply.'
Jon wasn't surprised. People were so easily seduced by anything that slaughtered their fellow humans. Panthers, sharks, crocodiles, inmates awaiting execution on death row, Apache gunship helicopters. 'So must your takings at the gates.'
'True,' Hobson replied, eyes on the ground in front.
'How would you describe your relationship with Rose
Sutton?'
Hobson glanced at him and Jon looked straight back with a steady gaze.
'We got on pretty well. A shared interest, I suppose. She was fascinated by the prospect of a panther roaming their land. Unlike the husband. He just wanted to kill it.'
'You spent a fair bit of time with her then? Up on the moors?'
'Not really. They'd lost maybe a dozen sheep over the last few years. Sometimes I wouldn't see her for months.'
'Ken Sutton suspected she was having an affair.'
Hobson was about to smile, then his face dropped. 'Hang on. Are we discussing the behaviour of panthers or Rose Sutton's personal life?'
'I don't know. They seem to be linked, at least in death.' By now they'd reached the perimeter fence. Hobson put the buckets down. 'You said earlier the killing this morning could have been someone staging an attack to resemble a panther.'
Jon cocked his head to the side. Come on then smart arse, what was I implying? He watched as Hobson pondered what to say.
'I've been working for some time now on the theory that there is more than one Alien Big Cat living in the Peak District National Park. The locations and almost simultaneous killings of sheep, that sort of thing. I don't believe it's a human you're hunting.'
No, you probably don't, thought Jon, but that's not going to stop me searching. 'Thanks for your help.'
Hobson let him through the gate and he walked back to his car, got inside and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. Come on Jon, think. What's going on? Should more of the investigation focus on Hobson? He removed the evidence bag from his pocket and held it up. The collection of hairs inside stuck to the plastic, some crossing over each other as if arranged in an archaic code. What will you tell me? he asked himself.
A car appeared at the edge of his vision, crossing the car park and coming to a halt in the far corner. Carmel Todd got out and set off for reception. What the fuck was she doing here? Is this a pre-arranged meeting or have you just received a call? He remembered the radio on in Hobson's office. The man could easily have heard the news and rung her. He waited until she'd gone inside, then started his car. His mobile went off. Eagerly he glanced at the screen, but his wife's name wasn't showing.
'DI Spicer here.'
'Jon, it's Rick. You need to get back here.'
'What's happened?'
'Danny Gordon has been found in a squat on the Oldham
Road.'
'Yes! Is he being taken to Longsight?'
'No, the MRI's mortuary. Officers at the scene reckon he's been dead a good five days.'
Jon sat back in his seat. Five days? That meant it was impossible that his prime suspect was the killer. 'He's dead?'
'Suicide. There's a note with the body, it puts Peterson right in the shit.'
'Where is this squat?'
'Head towards the city centre on the Oldham Road, it's the last tower block on your left just before you hit Great Ancoats Street. You can't miss the place, it's a total eyesore.'
'I'm on my way.' As he dropped the phone on to the passenger seat behind him, the thought burrowed back to the front of his mind. Where the hell is my wife?
Twenty-Nine
Jon got there forty minutes later. A uniform waved him into a lay-by on the opposite side of the road to the ugly building. A barrier of blue construction site hoardings had been erected round the base of the derelict premises. Judging by the volume of graffiti covering them, they'd been there for quite some time. Rick stood waiting in the gap where one panel had been removed.
'You looked fucked, mate,' his partner cheerfully announced.
'Thanks.'
'How's Alice?'
Jon shook his head in reply. 'By the way, I've stepped down from trying to head up the investigation. Summerby's assuming responsibility.'
'Probably not a bad thing. You've got other things on your plate.'
'Yeah well, your position on the team is unaffected. I guess you're just lumped with me.'
'Perfect. We're still in the thick of it, but now the pressure's off.'
I wish, Jon thought, turning to the building that loomed over them.
'This looks a nice place to live.'
The overgrown grass surrounding the tower block was littered with debris. Segments of window frames, panels of formica, squares of plywood. Sprinkled over everything was a generous amount of broken glass. All the windows at ground level were covered by metal plates, those on the first and second floors by chipboard. But many had been kicked out and, from the third floor up, no windows or even frames existed.
Looking up, Jon could see the ceilings of the higher flats, only bare plaster and wires where lights had once hung. A sign on the side of the building announced, If any incident occurs in connection to this property, call Secure Holdings.
He read the phone number, wondering how long ago the company had gone out of business. 'People actually live in here?' he asked as Rick led him to a side door, the metal panel covering it bent back.
'Quite a few. They're all in the main foyer giving statements. According to the housing inspectors who found the body, the building was first taken over by a bunch of art students. There's no leccy or gas, but the water's still connected, so they weren't shitting in buckets. They held a few wild parties, then the local vermin cottoned on. It soon descended into crack dens and all the rest of it. The students were scared off a long time ago.'
'Where was Danny Gordon?'
'Sixteenth floor, corner flat. I don't think many could be arsed climbing up that high. The door to the flat was locked, but the smell gave it away.'
Squeezing through the gap between the door frame and protective panel, they entered a stairwell that reeked of urine. Jon was instantly reminded of the sharp aroma in the panthers' dens.
As they set off up the stairs Jon noted that the elaborate murals on the walls had been ruined by a covering of mindless graffiti. It was, he thought, a clear indication of the order in which the tower block had been colonised. Arty free-thinkers first, brain- dead no-thinkers second. As they reached each landing the view over the city became more impressive. To their right was Sportcity, site of the facilities built for the Commonwealth Games and now used by local teams, including Manchester City Football Club in the main stadium. He spotted the B of the Bang sculpture, a collection of metal spikes radiating outward from a central point that was meant to symbolise the explosion of energy from a starting pistol. Jon smiled when he thought of what the locals had named it: Kerplunk.
