Savage Moon

by Chris Simms

  The space below each arch had been utilised by a series of garages. Cars in various states of repair clogged the street and what little pavement there was.

  'Best we park here or we'll get boxed in,' Jon said, pulling over. They climbed out and approached the first garage. A flaking sign said, Taylors Autos. Jon looked at the cannibalised remains of vehicles piled up around the entrance. 'I wonder if every re-spray done on this street is for legitimate purposes?'

  Rick chuckled. 'I'm sure everything is declared to the taxman.'

  A man emerged through the doors built into the second archway, an engine part with wires that dangled like innards gripped in his hand.

  Jon stepped forward. 'A and L Repairs. Which one, mate?' The person lobbed the part on to a stack of similar objects, his eyes moving over Jon before he nodded to his left. 'Fourth along.'

  'Cheers.'

  They continued up the street. The tarmac could have done with a resurface decades ago, there were craters dotted around, most filled with puddles of oily water. Jon watched the colours shimmering on their surfaces as he passed. The double doors of A and L Repairs were closed, but a smaller door cut into the left-hand side was ajar. From inside came a crackling sound accompanied by erratic flashes of blue light. Jon squinted into the gloom beyond, then pushed the door fully open.

  The shaft of daylight fell on a figure who was hunched over a vehicle, welding torch poised in his hand. The pointed flame flickering from its end caught Jon's eye, its hiss reminding him of a snake's tongue. The man turned his head and lifted up his visor; a big black beard hung over an oil-stained Manchester City shirt. Jon guessed he was about fifty.

  'Is James Field around?' Jon asked.

  He tilted his head. 'At the back.' Not waiting for a reply, he lowered his visor and adjusted the torch's nozzle so the flame contracted into an intense blue spike. He brought it against the bodywork and sparks sprayed out. Jon stepped inside, the air was heavy and metallic, a smell that took him back to school and metalwork lessons. Welding a toasting fork his parents never used.

  The concrete floor was awash with silvery shreds and scraps of wire. He edged round the side of the vehicle, careful to keep his eyes away from the brilliant flame. Two more cars were parked behind it and beyond them was the rear part of the garage. A strip light hung from the high vault of bricks above, though it was only partly successful at illuminating the area below it. Jon could see a work bench littered with tools. A small reading lamp was positioned at its edge and sitting in a battered old office chair next to it was a young man. His feet were propped up on a tool box and his gaze was directed down at a book.

  'James Field?' No response.

  Jon moved closer, holding a hand out at waist level and waving it near the person's face. 'James Field?'

  He looked up, one hand tugging out his earphones. 'Yeah?' Jon took out his warrant card. 'DI Spicer and DS Saville,

  Greater Manchester Police. Got a minute?'

  'Yeah.'

  To Jon's surprise, he didn't seem at all bothered about two policemen suddenly rousing him from his break. 'It's about Danny Gordon.'

  'Danny Boy? What's he done now?' The accent was unmistakably Mancunian.

  A low rumbling gathered in strength, turning into something like thunder as a train passed overhead. James Field stood up, threw his book into a locker and swung the dented door shut. The noise of the train receded.

  'Can we talk outside?' Jon asked. 'It would be a lot easier.' Field nodded and Rick led the way back to the entrance. Out on the street Jon could see Field was in his early twenties. His head was shaved and he was wearing a pair of filthy overalls, the straps looping over solid shoulders. Jon took out his notebook.

  'When did you last see Danny Gordon?'

  Field thought for a moment. 'I don't know. A while.'

  'As in weeks, months or years?'

  'Oh years. Five, easily. What's he done?'

  'We just need to speak to him. You two were mates at the

  Silverdale?'

  The whites of his eyes showed as he looked up at the dirty sky. 'The Silverdale? Yeah. That's where I met him. We were friends, but that's a long time back.'

  'Did you keep in contact afterwards?'

  'A bit to begin with, but he started robbing again. I wanted to learn a trade, started doing mechanics.'

  Jon was impressed that the young man had resisted the easy option back into crime; it took a lot of determination to do what he'd done. Not wanting to appear patronising, he just nodded.

  'Any ideas where he hangs around nowadays?'

  Field puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape from between his lips. 'Squats.'

  At the mention of the word an image of his younger brother flashed in Jon's head. The few times Jon had seen him since he'd left home, Dave had told him he was living in squats round the city.

  'Any particular squat?'

  'They change all the time, don't they? A place in Ancoats, but I'm going back years. They knocked it down recently to build more executive flats.'

  'Can you tell me about a staff member at the Silverdale? Derek Peterson.'

  The name prompted a humourless smile. 'Mr P.'

  Jon connected with Rick's glance. Peterson's name on

  Swinger's Haven.

  Field shook his head. 'He still at that place?'

  Hardly, Jon thought, picturing his corpse in the MRI's morgue. 'Why did you call him Mr P?'

  By bracing his shoulders back, Field pushed himself clear of the wall. He nudged at a lump of plastic with the toe of his trainers. 'We always said the p was for piss-head.'

  Jon remembered the mention of cans in Peterson's kitchen.

  'Did he drink on duty in the Silverdale?'

  Field continued toying with the lump of plastic. 'Yeah. He had his little cliques, invite them into his office when he was on night shift, offer them booze.'

  'What little cliques? Kids in the facility?'

  Field nodded. 'He always steered clear of me. He liked the sickly-looking quiet ones.'

  'What do you mean liked?'

  'They'd get booze, smokes. He'd bring them magazines. Wank mags, anything. It was a power thing. You were either one of his favourites or you weren't.'

  Jon contemplated how the man must have manipulated the youngsters. It didn't take much to guess how he called his favours in. 'Was Danny Gordon one of his favourites?'

  'I suppose.'

  'Peterson would get him drunk?'

  'Yeah.'

  'How was he after these drinking sessions?'

  'How was he?'

  'Happy, sad, chatty, subdued?'

  'Subdued. He had a hangover.'

  Jon rolled his pen between his fingers. 'Did he ever say what happened during these drinking sessions?'

  'Not really, it was all part of the clique thing. They liked being secretive, it was a way of gloating at us lot who weren't included.'

  'But you were mates with Danny Gordon. Didn't he let on anything to you?'

  'Nah, we didn't talk about it. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of blanking me.'

  'Do you remember the names of the other kids in these cliques?'

  Field frowned. 'One was called Sawyer, little weaselly guy. Another called Dealey or something. He didn't stay at the Silver very long. There were a couple of others. Not sure of their names.'

  Jon jotted the two surnames down. They'd need to trace every person in the facility from when Peterson was an employee. He closed his notebook and looked around. 'How long have you worked here?'

  'Since doing my qualifications. Two years or so.'

  'So you've got your own place?'

  'Yeah, Ryder Brow. Three stops on the train.'

  'You work in a garage and you don't drive?'

  'Not on what I earn.'

  It was a shame. The guy was obviously bright enough to have fought his way through the pitfalls of a care home upbringing. He deserved better than this. Jon watched as Field flicked the piece of plasti
c up. He knocked it slightly higher with his other foot, then volleyed it across the narrow street. It clattered off the wall and bounced behind a pile of hubcaps.

  'Still play football? I gather you were top scorer for that team at the Silverdale.'

  He smiled. 'That was just kids' stuff. Half of them couldn't run the length of the pitch.'

  Jon took in his stocky build. 'You should have played rugby.' Field laughed. 'I liked the look of it. Jonah Lomu. There's no prissy diving in rugby, is there?'

  Jon's eyes lit up at the comment. Cheadle Ironsides were always on the lookout for new players, and this guy looked like he could be really useful. 'I see you more as a Jason Robinson type. Plays for Sale Sharks?'

  'Yeah, I know. Billy Whizz they call him.'

  Jon nodded. It occurred to him that the first team captain, Ian Reynolds, ran a big garage in Stockport. He was always moaning about how hard it was to find reliable mechanics. 'Why don't you give it a go? I play for a club near here. Cheadle Ironsides. Training is Tuesday and Thursday nights at seven o'clock.'

  Field looked unconvinced. 'How'd I get there?'

  'Someone'll give you a lift. The lads live all around this area.' He took out one of his cards. 'Give me a ring. About Danny Gordon if you hear anything, or about the rugby.'

  Reluctantly, Field took the card. As they walked away Jon looked over his shoulder. 'You've heard of Reynolds' Garage in Stockport? The guy who owns it plays for the club. He needs decent mechanics too. I'll introduce you to him, I bet he pays better than this place.'

  An uncertain smile was now on Field's lips. He looked at Jon's card properly this time. 'Cheers.'

  They'd taken a few more steps before Rick said, 'I can't believe you're using a murder investigation to recruit players for your rugby club.'

  Jon shrugged. 'That's how it works, mate.' He fell silent, thinking about how the course of his younger brother's life might have been different if he'd only got into sport and off the streets.

  As they got to the car Jon glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. No one from the Outside Enquiry Team would be reporting back until after lunch. 'Fancy dropping by ours then?'

  Rick looked across the roof of the car at him. 'I don't want it to look like we're checking up on her.'

  'It won't. I'll say we were just passing by. She'll be fine.' After reversing out of the narrow street Jon drove back to the roundabout. As they went past the turn-off for the A57, Jon saw Rick gazing up the road towards Belle Vue, The Butcher's dumping ground earlier that year. 'Good to be working with you again.'

  'Say again?' said Rick, turning his head, a haunted look on his face.

  'It's good to be working with you again,' Jon repeated. Rick smiled. 'Cheers. Never a dull moment with your cases.

  Even if I end up needing sleeping pills.'

  'Only way for it to be,' Jon answered, now heading down the A6. They continued past Longsight police station, leaving the main road a few minutes later and cutting across a couple of residential streets before pulling up outside Jon's house. He looked at the front door, wondering what sort of a greeting awaited them. God, I hope she's all right.

  His key turned in the lock and the door opened to the sound of Holly crying. 'It's me, babe, Rick's here. We're just popping in to see the baby.'

  Behind him Rick gave a tentative call. 'Hi Alice.'

  Jon could hear her getting up in the front room. He stepped through the door. Damp baby clothes were draped in a line along the radiator; Holly was lying in a vest on the change mat in the centre of the room. By her side was an open nappy sack with a dirty nappy in, a pack of wipes next to it. Alice had just got off the sofa and was running her fingers through her hair. She was still in her dressing gown and alarm showed in her eyes. 'Rick,' she called back. 'I'm not even dressed yet, look at me.'

  Rick appeared in the doorway. 'Hey Alice, do I care? It's great to see you.'

  Alice managed a smile but she was obviously flustered.

  'Would you like a coffee?'

  'I'll make them,' Rick offered.

  'Nonsense, you sit down.'

  Alice stepped towards the door and Jon could see she was going to take Holly with her.

  'Well, at least let me have a cuddle.' Rick's arms were outstretched.

  'Oh, you really want a crying baby?' Rick grinned. 'Doesn't bother me.'

  Alice delayed for an instant before holding Holly out. Totally relaxed, Rick took her and began a gentle rocking. Holly's sobs died away.

  'A natural,' Alice said, crouching down to grab the nappy sack. 'Right, drinks.' She left the room and Jon raised his eyebrows and looked at Rick. His partner nodded towards the kitchen.

  Jon walked down the short corridor. Alice was filling the kettle. 'Sorry I missed you this morning, Ali. It was better to sneak out and leave you a note.'

  'You could have called to say you were bringing Rick round. You never drop by during the day. The house is a total mess.' Jon opened his palms. 'Ali, we've got a young baby. The house is meant to look like a bomb's hit it.' She fired him an irritated glance. 'Not that it does. There's just a bit of healthy untidiness. Besides, Rick doesn't mind.'

  'I saw a report on the news. They've caught that animal?'

  'Yeah, this guy from South Africa shot a panther.' He didn't want to get into the details of the case. 'Have you got much planned today?'

  Alice was peering into a cupboard. 'We've got no coffee. Ask

  Rick if he wants tea.'

  Jon bent his head back and called down the corridor. 'Rick. Do you fancy tea, mate?'

  'Whatever's easiest.'

  Alice made three cups then plucked a hair band off the windowsill and began to tie her hair back. Jon watched sunlight catching in the blonde strands. There was something sensual about the sight and he was reminded of lazy Sunday mornings – waking to find daylight peeping round the curtains, slowly making love then falling back asleep. Jesus, that now seemed part of another life entirely.

  In the front room Rick had sat down on the sofa. Holly was cradled in the crook of his elbow, eyes shut and one arm hanging limply down. Alice set his mug on the table, then took a seat herself, drawing her long legs up under her.

  'So,' Rick said. 'You've got yourself one beautiful baby.' Alice's lips relaxed enough to allow a brief smile. 'Thanks.'

  'How's she sleeping at nights?'

  Alice kept her eyes resolutely on Holly. 'OK. She's awake every three hours I suppose.'

  Rick gave a low whistle. 'I can't imagine it. I know my sister found it tough.'

  He paused to allow her a response. Alice completely missed the cue, Jon noted, not even asking what the baby's name was or how it was doing now. Instead she crossed her arms and drew in a breath. 'You just have to get on with it, don't you?'

  Jon was watching Rick. Go on, he thought. Mention your sister going to see the doctor. Rick caught his eye and opened his mouth.

  Alice spoke first. 'It's good news about that panther isn't it?' Jon sensed the diversion on his wife's part. She'd never normally mention his work inside their home.

  'A lot of people must be very relieved,' she continued.

  'People were starting to keep their kids in once it got dark.' Her eyes moved back to Holly.

  Rick nodded. 'Does the health visitor always manage to turn up at an awkward moment? My sister thought her one had some sensor that told when anyone was about to bath their baby.'

  Alice shook her head. 'She doesn't visit any more. I said there was no need. I can take her to the local clinic when she's due to be weighed.'

  'What's it like there?'

  'I don't know, I haven't been yet.'

  Rick looked surprised. 'You should pop in. My sister found it a great way of meeting other mums. There's information about all sorts of groups and meetings too.'

  The silence was broken by Jon's phone beeping. Alice and Rick turned to him as he checked the screen. A text message from Nikki Kingston. He slid the phone back into his pocket.

  'Work?' Alice
asked. He nodded.

  She turned to Rick. 'Well, I don't want you getting in trouble by being here.'

  Jon saw Rick's face redden at the politely phrased dismissal. He tried to reach for his drink.

  'Here,' Alice took Holly back and started straightening her vest.

  Rick gulped back his tea. 'Well, good to see you, Alice. We'll have to get Jon to baby-sit so we can go out. How about the cinema?'

  She glanced up. 'Maybe in a while. I couldn't leave Holly for that long yet.'

  'Course. When you're ready.'

  Shocked by his wife's rudeness, Jon stood. 'Right, we'd better be going. I'll ring you. Hopefully it won't be a late one tonight.'

  'OK,' she said. The word was full of casual cheer but she didn't meet either of their eyes.

  As they walked to the car, Jon clicked on the message.

  'Fucking hell.'

  'What?'

  'The hairs found on Rose Sutton and Derek Peterson? They weren't from the panther shot this morning.'

  Rick's mouth fell open. 'That means there's another one out there.'

  'Who fucking knows. We need to get back to the station though.' As he started the engine he looked at Rick. 'She isn't right, is she?'

  'No. My sister wouldn't admit it, not for months. You need to have a talk with her. I think she knows something's up.'

  Jon's eyes were checking the rear view mirror as he pulled out. 'Yeah mate, and when the hell am I supposed to find the time to do that?'

  Twenty-Five

  Summerby was waiting for him back in the incident room. After updating his senior officer, Jon called everyone round the centre table. 'OK, let's see where everyone's at. First bit of news I have is that the DNA of the panther killed this morning does not, I repeat not, match the DNA from the panther hairs recovered from Peterson and Sutton.'

  He watched as the information sank in. DC Gardiner was the first to speak. 'So not only is there a second animal out there, it's the one forensically linked to our victims.'

  Everyone looked at Jon for his response. He gestured towards Gardiner. 'Forensically linked is the correct choice of words. That's all the link is. It doesn't conclusively prove a panther killed Peterson and Sutton.'