03-Savage Moon (25 page)

Twenty-Four

'DCI Summerby.'

'Morning, boss, it's DI Spicer.'

'Jon, where are you?'

'At Mossley Brow nick. I assume you've heard?'

'Yes, is this for real?'

'Afraid so. I've seen the carcass myself. A bloody great panther.'

'Ye gods!'

'I'm arranging for an analysis of its stomach contents and we're getting a DNA profile too. See if there's a match to the hairs found on Peterson and Sutton.'

'You think there will be?'

Jon hooked a finger into the telephone cord and stretched the coils taut. The panther was a major development but, in his view, nothing more than a distraction. Danny Gordon still needed to be caught. 'Not really.' He twisted his finger free and the length of plastic sprang back into shape.

'How so?'

'I questioned the guy who shot it. South African called Du Toit, nephew of Ken Sutton. He's worked on game reserves all his life and he reckons the animal was a geriatric. I'm still very much of the opinion Danny Gordon is our killer.'

'It would make things a damn sight simpler if it turns out to have been that cat.'

'True, but I'm not convinced.'

'What's the progress with finding Gordon?'

'He's of no fixed abode, but we'll get scent of him soon. If not we could consider naming him in an appeal for information.'

'Talking of which,' Summerby replied, 'we need to get a statement out about this panther straight away, the phones are going mad here.'

Jon nodded. 'I'll get on to Gavin Edwards.'

'Fine, I'll relay your news to the incident room. Will you be heading back soon yourself ?'

'I'll be there in an hour.'

Jon was about to call the press office when his finger hesitated over the buttons. He called home instead, a slight sense of unease mounting with each unanswered ring. Bollocks, he cursed as the answer phone clicked in. She's probably upstairs feeding. 'Ali, it's me. Sorry to miss you this morning. Give us a call on my mobile.' He replayed the message in his head. Too unemotional.

'I love you, babe,' he quickly added, before hanging up.

The incident room at Longsight was subdued and Jon sensed the news about the panther had sucked the urgency away. Why bust a gut until it was confirmed the cat wasn't a man-eater? Time to dispel that notion, he decided, clapping his hands together.

'Right! Let's have some fucking action.' He started firing questions about. 'What's going on with the door-to-doors? Have Rhea and Ashford got to Aberdeen yet? Is DC Murray at Strangeways? What's the news from the team dredging Crime Lake? Any responses to our appeal for witnesses? Sergeant Biggs, a progress report on the interviews taking place around Mossley Brow.'

As activity broke out across the room, he dropped the evidence bag with the sample of panther blood on his desk. Rick caught his eye from his desk alongside. 'You look halfway through an exercise in sleep deprivation.'

Jon took in his colleague's immaculately styled hair and crisp pale blue shirt. He managed a quick smile. 'Probably because I am.'

'What's in the evidence bag?'

'Panther blood. We need to get it tested.' He picked up the phone, noticing the file at the top of his in-tray. It was a report from Richard Matthews, the CSM for the car park where Peterson was found. He replaced the handset. 'Shit, he's already finished up?' The report listed various findings from the spot, confirming that the dredging of the lake and fingertip search of the surrounding fields had failed to find the murder weapon. 'I was hoping he'd run this test for me.'

He sat down, his mind going over who else could ensure that the blood sample would be treated as a genuine priority over samples from other investigations that also would have been filed as urgent. Nikki Kingston. She'd never failed him before. Then again, that was before she'd made a pass that he'd turned down. He dialled her number. 'Nikki, it's Jon Spicer.'

'DI Spicer, what a pleasure.'

He heard the note of reservation in her voice. 'How's it going? You keeping busy?'

'It's not too manic at the moment.'

Great, he thought. Deciding it was too early to come out with his request, he continued with the small talk. 'Where are you?'

'At the scene of a rape in Openshaw. The carpet in the front room where it happened is infested with fleas and I've just been crawling about swabbing for semen. Some people live like bloody animals. Anyway, I'm sure that's not why you're ringing. A favour, is it?'

'Well, yeah. A DNA test on a sample of panther blood.'

'Really?' Enthusiasm now flooded her voice. 'Of course, you're on that case, there was stuff on the news. What was the creature like? Big as a tiger?'

'Not far off. You wouldn't like to have met it in a dark alley, put it that way. Beautiful animal. Shame it got shot really.'

'I'd love to see it up close.'

'Well, I'm trying to arrange an autopsy for it. We're storing it in the morgue at the MRI until a vet with the necessary experience can be found. I'll see if you can pop in.'

'So you need to see if its blood matches the samples of hair recovered from the victims?'

'You got it,' he replied, always impressed with her sharpness.

'How easy will that be?'

'Should be straightforward, as long as the hairs contained sufficient DNA for a profile.'

'They did,' Jon replied, recalling the report. The hairs themselves had been scored into wafer thin slices, mounted on glass slides and analysed under a microscope. Characteristics on the cuticle, cortex and medulla had led to their being identified as those of a panther. But, crucially, a DNA profile had also been obtained from the keratin proteins that forms the hairs themselves.

'Listen, I've got a kit in my car outside. It's not acceptable to use as evidence in court, but it'll do until the lab can give you an official result. How's that?'

'I'll get it biked over.' After taking her address, he replaced the receiver and looked up, the smile still on his face. Rick was staring at him accusingly. 'That was the Nikki you said you'd be steering clear of ?'

'It's only a DNA test.'

'How's Alice?'

If the question was designed to bring him back down to earth, it worked. 'I haven't had time to speak with her. I'll try calling her again.' He looked for Rick's reaction and got a silent stare.

'Don't look at me like that. When am I meant to find time?'

'How about now?'

'I could if you'd stop frigging well nagging me like an old woman. Anyway, we need to get over to James Field's place of work, remember?'

'Jon, it's your wife's health we're talking about here.'

Rick was right, and he shouldn't let the fact she'd been a complete bitch about Punch interfere with his judgement. But the seed of resentment was there. 'I'll try her, OK?' He dialled home. Still no answer. 'How about we drop in later today? You haven't seen her for a few weeks. It would be useful to know what you reckon.'

Rick stood up. 'No problem.'

They drove towards Piccadilly station, followed the road to the Apollo then turned left at the roundabout leading to Temper- ance Street. The road was narrow, lying in the shadow of a series of arches that carried the train line connecting Manchester to Sheffield.

Jon regarded the countless red bricks that formed the huge spans, marvelling at the effort involved in their construction.

The number of men who'd laboured to create the world's first industrial city always fascinated him – almost twenty thousand navvies were needed to dig the Manchester Ship Canal alone. Some of those were his relatives from Ireland who went on to settle in the city.

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?'