by Chris Simms
Twenty-Six
Trevor Kerrigan opened his eyes and smiled. The bedroom curtains were closed, the faint glow of dawn just strong enough to pick out the floral pattern printed on them. Last night's weather forecast had indicated that conditions would be perfect for his early morning round of golf.
It was part of his weekly routine to rise in the semi darkness on a Friday and be on the course well before anyone else. There was something deeply satisfying about being the first person on a pristine fairway, the cropped grass shimmering with dew-covered spiders' webs, the top layer of sand in the smoothly raked bunkers still damp.
He slipped out from under the duvet, leaving his wife fast asleep on the other side of the mattress. Pausing at the end of the bed, he turned an ear towards the window and listened. That was another good thing about these early starts. Hardly any bloody traffic on the roads.
The wheels of his Shogun crunched to a stop in the empty car park. A glance towards the clubhouse revealed grilles over the windows and shutters over the doors. Not even the groundsmen had turned up yet. As he hauled his golf bag out of the boot he looked up at the gradually lightening sky. There was some low cloud on the horizon stained a faint pink by the yet-to-appear sun. Above that the heavens were blank, as if wiped fresh and clean for the coming day. Somewhere in the depths of the golf course a pheasant sounded its klaxon call, the sound reverberating in the silence.
After placing his ball on the tee, he selected a driver, then looked down the deserted fairway. Pockets of mist clung in the dip created by the River Medlock as it meandered its way along the side of the course. Barely visible in the mist, about two hundred yards away was the green. The shadow to its left was a dense grouping of gorse bushes and he knew two kidney-shaped bunkers lay in wait to its right. A good drive would get him to within chipping distance of the green.
Lazily he swung at the air to the side of his ball, using the movement to gauge his muscles and joints. A bit of stiffness in the left shoulder. He reached his arm up over his head, bringing it round like a swimmer doing backstroke. A few more repetitions and he was satisfied it was loose enough. He stepped up to the ball, fingers and toes rippling, buttocks clenching and unclenching as he made infinitesimal adjustments to his posture. First shot of the day, he thought. And if I cock it up, it could throw me out for the rest of my round.
The club connected with a pleasing crack and he completed the swing before looking up, knowing it was a good one. The ball was almost invisible against the grey sky before it suddenly reappeared below the horizon and bounced to within metres of the gorse bushes.
'Nice one, Trevor,' he murmured, sliding the driver back into the bag. Now for the next pleasure – walking down the unblemished fairway.
As he strode over the grass he breathed in the chill morning air. Another few weeks and it'll be too cold for this, he thought. His mind turned to Milner. He'd turned up with some cash, but not the full amount. She would settle up a bit more the following week, he'd asserted. Trevor analysed the conversation. He knew the signs. Milner suddenly becoming an advocate for the woman, making excuses for her, buying her more time. It all pointed to the probability she was settling her debt by spreading her legs for him. He considered going round and demanding some of that payment for himself – God knows he'd been happy enough to accept favours like that plenty of times in the past.
He couldn't help grinning at some of the memories. Best time was when he got into the property game, buying up dingy bedsits and then renting them out to the dross who could afford nothing else. Always rent to women, was his motto. Preferably abandoned and damaged ones, those struggling to cope with what life had dealt them. There were plenty of rent days when tenants would literally get on their knees and beg. He found it the ideal position for them to bargain from. Most seemed to accept what he suggested as an unavoidable part of life. One or two would try and refuse. But, truth be told, their defiance only excited him. He liked a verbal tussle and there was only one time when events had escalated to brute force.
The business with Milner, however, was a different matter. There was no way he could allow an employee to get away with it. After all, it wasn't just the client getting shafted. It was him, too. And Trevor Kerrigan took it from no man.
He paused to glance over his shoulder. A line of dark footprints stretched all the way back to the start of the fairway. He nodded, pleased to have been the first to mark the virgin grass. His eyes turned to the green ahead. There was the white dot of his ball, just short of the green. He leaned his head to the side. What was that by the edge of the bushes? Something red. He continued on his way, his eyes fixed on the scrap of colour. As he got closer he could see the object was made from material. Flimsy material. A pair of knickers? Maybe some couple had been using the golf course for a spot of open air shagging. Yes, they were knickers all right. He could now make out their lacey edges. Within metres of the bushes he heard a sound – high pitched, girlish. Surely not. They couldn't still be at it, he thought, not in this temperature. But a branch was moving. Shaking slightly. Rhythmically. Oh yes. He hoped she'd be on top. Then he could get a good look at her before bawling them out.
He crept quietly up to the bushes but the dense clusters of spikes stopped him from seeing between the short branches. With a leering smile ready on his face, he stepped round. Confusion made his expression falter. Something black, crouching low. But rearing upwards towards him fast. Very fast. Teeth. Great snarling teeth. And a sharp, sour smell. He just had time to ball his fingers into a fist when a blow caught him under the chin, snapping his head backwards and exposing his throat. The second swipe tore his windpipe out.
Twenty-Seven
'That's your bloody phone.'
Jon's eyelids felt glued shut. He moved away from Alice's elbow as it jabbed him in the ribs. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, he grabbed his mobile.
'Spicer here.'
'Morning, Sir, it's Sergeant Innes at Longsight.' Jon managed to grunt in reply.
'Sorry for the early call.'
'What time is it?'
'Just after seven.'
He'd been asleep for what? Six hours. He felt like he needed sixty more. 'What's up?'
'A body has just been found on the Brookvale golf course. Severe lacerations to the face, neck and upper chest.'
Jon was on his feet and reaching for his trousers. 'I'm on my way.'
The sun was just clearing the trees by the time Jon arrived at the entrance to the golf course. The brightness would be short lived. Despite the weather forecast, a slab of grey cloud was moving across the sky and Jon thought it would be raining by lunch. His tyres made a drumming noise as he drove over the cattle grid and on to the gravel drive beyond. It rose up and, looking to his left, he saw the brown of the moors in the distance. To his right the chimneys, towers and cranes of Manchester were just visible.
As he pulled into the car park at the side of the clubhouse, he noted a green van, two police cars and a monstrous four-wheel drive already parked there. A sign to the side was headed by the words, Club rules. He read the first one. No trainers or shirts without collars allowed. Thinking how much he hated the petty rules and sad hierarchies of these places, he deliberately parked in the slot reserved for the President.
At the tee-off for the first hole three lines of footprints led across the still damp grass. They ended at a patch of sunlight that was creeping up the fairway, pushing back the shadows cast by the pine trees behind them.
'Who's been down there so far?' Jon asked, after introducing himself to the uniforms.
'The groundsman and the constable who first responded to the nine-nine-nine call.'
Jon's eyes went to the distant bushes. A bag of golf clubs and two arms, flung backwards, were just visible. He looked over his shoulder at the jeep. 'That his car?'
'Yes. Registered to a Trevor Kerrigan of The Beeches, Droylsden Road.'
'Have you run his details?'
'No need, Sir. Kerrigan's well known in th
is area.'
'Why?'
'He's a loan shark. Loads of reports linking him to intimidation of people owing him money. He's almost been collared for assault on several occasions, but either the victims won't testify or one of his thug employees owns up.'
'So no shortage of people bearing a grudge.' He looked back at the fairway. The crime scene manager was still fifteen minutes away. He didn't want to wait that long. 'I'm going to take a look.'
As he ducked under the blue and white ribbon of police tape stretching across the top of the car park, the sergeant said, 'Sir, is this another one?'
'Another what?' Jon waited, forcing the officer to say it.
'Another victim of a wild animal. Because if it is, the panther that was shot out on Saddleworth Moor can't have been the killer, can it?'
Jon took a step back towards the other man, his stomach pressing against the striped ribbon. 'Sergeant, we've got enough shit with what the press are stirring up. I will not have anyone referring to attacks by wild animals, is that understood?'
'Sir.'
Jon marched down the centre of the fairway, rolling his tongue round the inside of his mouth as he did so. Shit, I forgot to brush my teeth. He patted his jacket pockets searching for mints. Bollocks, forgot those too. He felt slightly unsteady as if he was walking on a layer of foam. Christ, I'm tired, he thought, glad to step into the sunlight and feel its faint warmth on the back of his neck.
When he'd left Alice she was sitting up in bed, Holly feeding at her breast. But his wife's head was hanging forward and he couldn't even tell if her eyes were open as he said that he'd be back soon. He checked his watch. Seven forty-eight. Give it until eight, then he'd ring his mum and see if she could go round and stay with Alice until he got back. Which would be when, he asked himself. Lunchtime, no later. I'll get things rolling here then phone Summerby and request that he take over the case.
He circled the far side of the green, glancing into a pair of bunkers as he passed them. A set of tiny footprints ran across the far one. A stoat or squirrel he thought, wondering if any tracks might remain where the body lay. With each step, more of the corpse came into view. Arms stretched out either side of a balding head that was peppered with droplets of blood. The guy was spread-eagled, cropped grass stained a dark crimson beneath his upper half.
Jon continued round until he could see the entire body. Where the throat should have been was just a gaping great hole, glistening flaps of flesh hanging down. Twenty, even ten minutes ago, that wound would have still been bleeding, Jon thought. He scrutinised the dense grouping of gorse, the rims of his eyes feeling red and itchy. One bush had grown outwards, giving the clump a rough L shape. The attacker had obviously been concealed behind it, waiting for Kerrigan to approach. Was it a random attack or had it been planned? If it was premeditated, as Jon suspected, how did the killer know Kerrigan would be here, alone, at this precise time?
Jon's eyes moved slowly over the scene before him, desperately searching for any clue that may have been left behind. The bushes had grown into each other, forming an impenetrable barrier. There was no way the attacker could have retreated through them into the rough at the edge of the fairway. Which meant he'd have walked over the edge of the green. Shit, half an hour ago, this area would still have been in shadow; the attacker's footprints standing out in the damp grass. As Jon stared, he wondered whether four feet or only two would have made the trail.
'Get a grip,' he whispered, snuffing the thought out before it could take hold, but as he backed away from the scene he couldn't help glancing between the trees behind him. He set off towards the car park, pulling his mobile out as he did so.
'Mum, it's me. Sorry to call so early.'
'That's OK, love. What is it?'
'Mum, can you go over to ours and stay with Alice? She's not so good. I don't want her on her own and I won't be back for a bit.'
'The baby blues is it?'
'Baby blues? I think it's a bit more serious than that.'
'Is she expecting me?'
'No.'
'Is it right that I just turn up? On your doorstep unannounced?'
It's never bothered you before, he thought. 'Course. She won't mind. She should rest, Mum. She needs a bit of fussing over.'
'And when will you be home, then?'
The implication of the question was clear. This is your job, not mine. 'As soon as I can. Late morning, hopefully.'
'OK, but I can't stay too long. I have to be at Our Lady of the
Angels for mass at noon.'
Jon closed his eyes for an instant. The interminable hours you forced us to spend in that bloody church when we were kids. He remembered the little games he, Dave and Ellie would play to try and pass the time: searching the hymnbooks for lines they could couple with rude words, kicking the padded cushions away as they all had to kneel for prayers. 'I'll be back, don't worry.'
'Right, I'll get dressed then.'
As he got back to the car park a familiar red Mercedes was reversing into the corner. Collyer, the home office pathologist. Sure enough, the man unfolded his long limbs from the vehicle and walked round to his boot.
'Prompt as usual,' Jon said, feet crunching over the gravel. The pathologist turned his head. 'No flies on my corpses,' he replied.
Jon smiled, not able to quite manage a laugh. 'It's like the other one I'm afraid. Not pretty.'
'I didn't expect it to be,' he replied, climbing into a white body suit. He removed a large briefcase from the boot. 'Lead the way.'
Jon retraced his footsteps back down the fairway, coming to a halt at the edge of the green and extending a hand. 'It's all yours. I suspect the attack was launched from the cover of those bushes, so I've kept well away from that area.'
'Fine.' The pathologist pulled on white overshoes, a facemask and hair net. He then approached the body. After slowly circling it, he opened his briefcase and knelt down by the head for a closer look. He removed a thermometer and inserted the end into the wound. After that he examined the hands, taking more time over the man's right fingers. Next he retrieved the thermometer, checked it, then returned it to its case. Finally he took out another pair of overshoes and walked over to Jon. 'A couple of things you should see.'
Jon slipped them on, then followed the pathologist back across the green.
'Judging from the temperature inside the throat wound, the victim's been dead for an hour at the most. This attack was more ferocious than the last. He's really gone to town this time. Look at the flayed edges of the wounds. That suggests multiple strikes with the pronged weapon I described. He hasn't just torn the throat open, he's pretty much removed it. See here? That's the clavicle showing through.'
'Collar bone to me?' Jon asked, feeling the bile churning at the back of his throat.
'Collar bone to you. He's even damaged that. Look, can you see those four nicks in the bone? That's where the prongs made contact.'
Jon crouched down and leaned in close. The pathologist was right. Four chips to the bone, identical spaces in between. 'Can you look at those nicks under a microscope to see if any traces of the weapon have been left in the bone?'
'Yes, that's a good idea. Now, the reason why this attack was more savage could be this.' He moved down to Kerrigan's right hand. 'You see the sovereign ring? It's been dented and there's a black hair caught in the rim.'
'He punched his attacker?' Jon bent forwards. 'That hair. It looks horribly similar to the ones recovered from Sutton and Peterson.'
'But there's more. Look closely at the ring and you'll see some other matter caught there. I'd hazard a guess that's some of your attacker's epidermis.'
'Skin? We can test for DNA?'
'Correct.'
Jon slapped a fist into his palm. 'Brilliant. Can I leave you to it? I need to get over to the victim's house.'
'OK. I'll speak to you soon.'
'And can you make that DNA test a top priority?' Jon called over his shoulder, halfway across the green.
; Up above him the cloud had closed in on the sun, snuffing out its welcome glow.
It was mid-morning before he got a chance to make it to Summerby's office. He was about to knock on the door when his mobile rang. 'Hi Mum, everything all right?'
'She's not here. I'm outside your house, but no one's in.' Alarm bells rang in his head. 'Have you brought your key?'
'Yes.'
'Then open the door, she's probably asleep.'
'OK, I'll call you back.'
He stood in the corridor, nervously jiggling the phone in his cupped hand. Probably nipped out to the shops. Yeah, we needed some coffee. Or maybe in the back yard. It had just started to drizzle, she was probably getting the washing in before it got wet.
His phone went again and he'd answered it before the end of the first ring. 'Hi.'
'She's not here.' Faint irritation was in her voice.
He wanted to demand that she search the whole house, but he knew it would sound melodramatic. 'Not upstairs then?'
'The buggy's gone, she must be out.'
'Hang on then, I'll try her mobile.' He hung up and speed dialled Alice's number. Her recorded voice asked him to leave her a message. 'Ali, it's me. Call me when you pick this up. OK, speak to you soon.'
He rang his mum back. 'It's on answer phone. Can you stick around and call me as soon as she turns up?'
'But I'm expected at—'
'Mum, I'm sure your church will survive if you miss just one bloody service. Alice isn't very well.'
'All right,' she finally replied. 'I'll do a spot of vacuuming.'
'Thanks, Mum.'
He knocked on Summerby's door and went in. Gavin Edwards was there by the window, eyes directed to the sky as if he could gauge the coming media storm by the greyness of the clouds outside.
'So,' his senior officer announced, hands crossed on the desk before him. 'Same hallmarks as the other two?'
'More than that,' Jon sat down, the taste of a hastily gulped can of Red Bull still in his mouth. His heart rate was slightly up and he could feel the press of blood behind his eyes. 'The pathologist found a hair on the victim's right hand. I'm getting used to recognising panther hairs and it looked identical to the ones from Sutton and Peterson.'
