by Chris Simms
'I don't know. I'm hardly looking my best at the moment.'
'So? That's what beauty salons are for. Book a manicure and makeover too. I said I'm paying.'
Her hand dropped down to his head. Fingertips began massaging at his skull, tingles spread along his neck. 'I can't stop the tears sometimes. There's so much to do. Sometimes just the thought of ironing makes me tired.'
'Don't worry about it,' he replied, hooking a forearm across her thighs and squeezing. 'You've been through a massive change. I mean, you've given birth, Alice. Jesus. It's a huge thing.'
'What if I can't cope?'
'Ali, it's not just your responsibility. I'm here.' He thought about how early he needed to be in at the station. Before eight preferably.
'I still feel really uneasy about having that dog in the house.' That dog? Not long ago it was Punch. 'You feel that he's some sort of a danger to Holly?'
'I know he is. You know they say dogs have the same intelligence as a young child? They advise you not to leave a baby alone in a room with a young brother or sister.'
Those bloody magazines you read, he thought. 'Why?'
'Jealousy. They realise the baby is taking attention away from them. Depriving them of love. It causes resentment... babies are always getting injured by their siblings.'
First I've heard about it. Dreading what she was about to say, Jon asked, 'What are you suggesting then?'
'Can't he go to your mum and dad's?'
You know he bloody can't, Jon thought. 'My mum will never have a dog. It might mess up her perfect house.'
Her fingers were now working at the back of his neck, causing him to feel drowsy. 'Well, there's rescue centres. Places like that.'
Jon propped himself up on one elbow. 'You are joking?' Her hand withdrew and she re-crossed her arms. 'No.' From her tentative tone, he realised there'd been too much aggression in his voice. 'Ali, I'm not dumping Punch in some abandoned dog's home because he licked Holly's head.'
No answer. The silence stretched out until he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. 'I'm going for a shower.'
The sky was still pitch black as Jon swung his car into the police station car park. He looked at the dashboard clock. Twelve minutes to seven. Oh well, he thought, at least I'm in early. He came to a halt and looked over his shoulder. The back seats were folded down and Punch lay on a rug, a forlorn look on his face.
'All right boy? Bet this feels a little weird.' He got out of the car and opened the hatchback door. Punch sat up as Jon reached for a bottle of water and filled his dog's bowl. Then he unfolded the neck of a sack of dog biscuits and sprinkled a few on some flattened-out newspaper. 'OK boy. I'm going inside for a bit.' He pointed at the station building. 'In there. You stay here. You'll be OK. I'll be back soon.' He glanced at his watch. 'In about two hours.' Punch's stare didn't waver. 'OK, maybe two and a... ' He stopped talking. What am I doing? The dog doesn't speak bloody English, for Christ's sake. And it certainly can't tell the time. He closed the boot then went back to the driver's door. After lowering the window a couple of inches, he found a piece of paper and scrawled on it, 'If the dog's barking, let me know. DI Spicer, extension two-seven-four.'
After placing it on the dashboard and giving Punch a guilty wave, he hurried away to his office. The corridors were quiet, just the sound of a radio playing somewhere, a night shift officer singing tonelessly along. Jon opened the doors to the incident room. His incident room. Dark tables and desks, lifeless computer screens. Not for long, he thought, running the heel of his palm over the wall switches and listening to the chorus of buzzes as the strip lights flickered to life.
A feeling of exhaustion suddenly cascaded over him and he stepped back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut. What the hell am I doing? I shouldn't be here. Alice is stressed out. She needs me at home and here I am, heading up a bloody double murder investigation. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and looked up at the ceiling, not knowing what to do. His fingers brushed against the packet of cigarettes and he took them out. Good thinking. Coffee and a smoke, that'll clear my head. Once his cup was full, he set off to a different side door, not wanting to smoke a cigarette in full view of his dog.
He exhaled, the vapour in his breath combining with the smoke to create an impressive cloud. As it churned slowly away from him, a pair of headlights cut through it, adding to the dramatic effect. The car came to a halt and he spotted the bald head of Gavin Edwards through the windscreen. Bloody great.
'DI Spicer. Didn't know you smoked,' the press officer announced as he climbed out.
'Just the odd one. More a social thing really.' He glanced to his side, painfully aware that he was alone. 'You're in early.'
Edwards puffed out his cheeks, the shape of his face reminding Jon of a potato. Holding his briefcase before him as if to protect his groin he said, 'It's this case Jon. It's preying on my mind.' You and me both, Jon thought, grinding the cigarette out and accepting that his opportunity for quiet contemplation was over.
'What's bothering you?'
'Withholding Peterson's ID. That, and not coming clean about the possible connection to Mrs Sutton's murder. I'm afraid that by withholding information we'll have given the papers opportunity to speculate freely. They'll be creating the stories they know will have maximum impact.'
Jon had to nod. The bloke was probably right.
'And let's face it. A wild animal on the loose in Britain is good enough. But when it starts eating people... it's any reporter's wet dream.'
Jon leaned forward, invading the other man's personal space.
'There's nothing to prove it's the work of an animal.'
Edwards held up a placatory hand. 'I know. But there's nothing to disprove it either. And I'm worried the papers will exploit the space we created. I think we should call another press conference as soon as practical.' Three beeps came from his jacket and he fished a mobile phone out and started reading the text message.
Jon tipped the dregs of his coffee down a nearby drain, glad of the chance to consider his options.
'Events have overtaken us,' Edwards announced with a grim look. 'That was a contact I have at the Manchester Evening Chronicle. They've tracked down Peterson's address. There's a photographer on his way to the house now.'
Fucking hell, Jon thought. I haven't even been there yet.
'How have they found that out?'
'Who knows? They could have run a check on his car registration. It was parked by the body, wasn't it?'
'That would have taken the cooperation of someone with access to the DVLA's database.'
Edwards shrugged. 'Or maybe a neighbour rang them to say there was police activity at the house.'
Jon wasn't accepting that. His mind switched back to the possibility someone at the station was tipping the press off. After all, didn't that reporter from the Chronicle appear at Crime Lake with miraculous speed? 'OK. So we now have no option but to issue another press release. How early can we do it?'
'The earlier, the better. The Chronicle will be working on its lunchtime edition now. The nationals will be blocking in their lead stories. You release more details and they'll snap them up.'
'Can you do it? I need to get a team over to Peterson's house as fast as possible.'
Edwards ran a hand over his bald head in a gesture of unnecessary drama. 'Sure. I can do it. But we need to work out what I'm going to say.'
Jon looked at his watch. Five past seven. He stepped towards the doors. 'Come on then, let's get started.'
By half past seven they'd worked out the main points of the release. They'd give Derek Peterson's name out, along with his street. Information received since Jon's statement had revealed possible links to Mrs Sutton's death. These were now being investigated and the police at Mossley Brow were assisting in this. A post mortem was also being carried out to compare and contrast the nature of each victim's injuries. Finally, an expert in the behaviour of big cats was being thoroughly briefed on all new deve
lopments though, Edwards was to stress, this was just one of several avenues being investigated at this stage.
'Is that enough?' Jon asked, eyes on the hastily scrawled sheet of paper.
Edwards' mouth was partly open and he bounced the end of a biro between his teeth. Click. Click. Click. 'Until we see this morning's papers, I don't know. They'll be asking what the nature of the injuries were.'
'Tell them it was something sharp. Possibly a short-bladed knife.'
'They'll want to know if we have any suspects – human that is. Have we?'
Jon shook his head. 'The only thing I've got at this stage is a bloody request for witnesses posted up on a dogging website.' He clocked Edwards' look. 'Exactly. That's why I need to get over to Peterson's.'
The door opened as the first members of the Outside Enquiry Team reported for duty. One held a bundle of newspapers. He held them up so Edwards could see. 'Reception said these are for you. That's one hell of a front page on the Chronicle.'
Edwards got up from his seat, took the papers and returned to Jon's desk, cradling the bundle like an archaeologist with a precious find. 'Oh.'
Jon stood up to see what sort of a headline could have provoked such a reaction.
WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE!
The page was almost completely covered by a shot of the moors. Superimposed over the top was a close up of a black panther, mouth wide open and fangs exposed. Jon could almost hear the ferocious snarl leaping from the page. Sweet Jesus, he thought, eyes dropping to the subhead below the image:
£50,000 offered for the Monster of the Moor.
He began to read the paragraph of text at the base of the page.
This morning Manchester faces a deadly threat. There is an enemy stalking us that attacks without warning, without compassion. It seems likely the animal has struck twice now, each time savagely ripping its victim apart. With the help of a prominent local businessman, the Manchester Evening Chronicle will put a stop to this evil. We're offering a £50,000 cash reward for anyone who captures the Monster of the Moor, dead or alive. Further reports on pages 2, 3, 4 and 5.
You bitch, Jon thought, an image of Carmel in his mind. Cancelling her exclusive hardly seemed an effective sanction now. He jabbed a finger at the front page. 'This is going to fuck everything up.'
Edwards slid the paper off the top, revealing the first of the national tabloids.
Beast terrorises Manchester.
He flipped through a succession of similar messages, stopping at the first broadsheet.
Copy cat killer?
'Nice headline,' Gavin murmured, examining a panel of photos that included a panther, mountain lion, jaguar and lynx. 'Well, they didn't mess about,' he quietly announced.
Jon placed the heels of his hands on the table, lowered his head and took a couple of deep breaths. I'm so out of my depth, he thought. What the hell do we do now? Gradually he noticed the room had gone quiet. He looked up to see all eyes upon him. It's your call, he realised. Just stick to protocol, it's all you can do at this stage.
'Right everyone. Let's sit down in five minutes. I just need to make a call.'
Before the officers turned away he caught the sceptical expressions on almost all of their faces. Edwards looked like he'd just developed a sudden case of toothache.
'I still say we stick to our original statement,' Jon whispered, painfully aware of the uncertainty in his voice. 'It's all conjecture and media bullshit. Surely our job is to bring a bit of restraint and rationality to all this?'
Edwards nodded. 'You're right.'
'Then add in something about us taking a very serious view of people carrying firearms on public land. Mention a custodial sentence, the last thing we need are a load of would-be Rambos roaming about with loaded shotguns.'
'Will do.'
Jon picked up a phone and dialled Summerby's number. As the line buzzed Jon stared down at his shoes. What the hell have I got myself into? I should never have asked to take this thing on, I haven't got nearly enough experience. I'll just have to tell him the case has come at the wrong time. I need to be at home, sorting things out with Alice.
The phone continued to ring. Come on, please pick up... After waiting another five rings he reluctantly replaced the receiver and glanced around. All six of the Outside Enquiry Team were now in, as were the essential members of the incident room. OK, he told himself, treat it like the talk before a rugby match. Fill them in on what we're going to do, get their enthusiasm bubbling, then get them out there. You can have a word with Summerby later on.
Taking a file from his desk, he moved to the centre of the room. 'OET? Gather round please. First things first: despite this morning's papers, we're treating this as a murder case. I don't want to hear any whispers about some fucking Monster of the Moor, all right?'
A few uncertain nods.
'Listen, if the powers that be decide it is a panther doing the killing, the role of the Major Incident Team ends and the involvement of the RSPCA or some other outfit begins. Now I'm assuming you're all keen to work this case?'
Everyone stared back, heads now eagerly bobbing.
'Good, because I don't want any one who's not a hundred per cent.' He looked down at his file, needing to break eye contact. You fucking fraud, he thought. 'The MO for Derek Peterson is identical to that for Rose Sutton, so we're assuming the same person or persons were responsible for both deaths. Now I'm going to need five officers to help me go through Peterson's property. You may have heard he was into a bit of car park action with other men.' He opened the file and handed out copies of Peterson's police record. 'As you can see, he was done for gross indecency back in ninety-three, an offence that cost him his job as a care worker at the Silverdale facility for young offenders.'
'That place,' an officer with curly black hair sighed knowingly.
'Sorry, what was that Detective... ' Jon waited for the officer to identify himself.
'DC Murray, boss. Hugh Murray. It's like a bloody hotel. More facilities than most kids enjoy.'
'You've been there?'
'A few times. I used to work on the Child Protection Unit.'
'Good. After we've been through Peterson's house you can get over there and dig out all the information you can on the man. My hunch is that he was attacked by someone who knew him. There was a witness to the early part of the assault... '
'At Crime Lake?' A female officer with a carefully arranged mess of collar-length brown hair asked.
Jon shook his head, aware he'd got ahead of himself. 'Sorry, no. Peterson was first attacked in a car park at Silburn Grove, Middleton, last Thursday. His assailant was described as a young lad by the person who rang nine-nine-nine. I suspect Peterson could have encountered his attacker during his time as a care worker.'
'Encountered as in what sense?' asked DC Murray.
'Possibly an abusive sense, given his record. While you're at the facility we'll go through Peterson's place looking for any evidence relating to his time at the Silverdale or any link to Rose Sutton.'
Starting at the left-hand edge of the group, he counted off the five officers. After getting each one to introduce themselves, he said, 'You lot with me. Now, Detective... ?'
'DC Adlon. Joseph Adlon.'
'I'd like you to coordinate the uniforms in a door-to-door of Peterson's street.' He turned to the woman who'd asked the earlier question.
'DC Gardiner, I need you to liaise with Inspector Clegg. He's the officer in charge of the Sutton enquiry over at Mossley Brow. After we've finished in Peterson's place I need you to bring back the list of all Rose Sutton's family and friends interviewed so far and start moving all her case files over too. OK with that?'
'No problem.'
Jon closed the file and stood. 'Let's meet in the car park in ten.'
Seventeen
Jon walked quickly over to his desk and called home. Alice answered just as he was about to give up. 'Hi Ali, it's me.'
'Jon, you don't normally ring from work.'
The comment took him by surprise. Wasn't it obvious things weren't exactly normal? 'No. I wanted to check you were OK.'
'Why? Shouldn't I be?'
Actually, no. You were in a foul mood last night. And you've kicked our dog out of the house, remember? 'Well, you know
. . . you were upset.'
'Oh that,' she said breezily. 'My hormones again. They go up and down like a bloody yo-yo at the moment.'
Unable to see her face, Jon tried to focus on the intonations in her voice. It sounded like the Alice he knew and loved. But was it an act or had her dark mood really passed? 'So what you said about stuff. Punch for instance... '
'Oh Jon. I know it's not easy, but we can't have him in the house. Sorry.'
Still she sounded so normal. Like they were debating whether to ditch a cheap piece of furniture. 'Ali, I can't leave him at some kennel for strays. We need to talk about this properly.'
'Jon, Holly's crying. I have to go.'
'OK, I'll try and call later.'
'Fine. Speak to you in a bit.'
The line went dead and Jon found himself staring at the mouthpiece of the receiver as if he could find a clue to his wife's behaviour in the arrangement of holes there. He dialled his mum and dad's number.
'Hello?'
Dad. Why did he always sound vaguely surprised at the phone's ability to transmit voices into his ear. 'Morning, Dad. You all right?'
'Yes.'
Jon waited for him to elaborate. Nothing. Christ, the man was awful at speaking on the phone. 'Did you see Salford playing the other day? That Aussie they've brought in looks like he'll be useful.'
'He does. You want your mum?' Jon gave in. 'Yeah, go on then.'
'Mary! It's Jon. He wants a word.'
A bang as the phone was put down on the wooden sideboard. Jon could see his Dad wandering back into the front room where his paper and cup of coffee awaited.
'Hello, Jon. Everything all right?'
'Yeah—'
'Have you seen the morning news? That case you're on is talk of the town.'
