He took the path that led down to the dreary-looking expanse of muddy water and past another couple of signs that read, No fishing from the tow path.
The lake soon narrowed into a canal, and as he followed it along, a row of four eager geese paddled over. Jon held his palms out. No bread I'm afraid. He looked at the sullen sky. Winter's on its way, you lot are best getting the hell out of this country.
After a few minutes he reached a junction in the canal. He took the right hand fork and crossed an overflow, water trickling off through the undergrowth to run down the slope into the valley below. After a couple of stone steps the canal seemed to dry up and he found himself on an aqueduct. Blocks of stone that must each have weighed tons made up the ramparts and, looking over their edge, he saw that the construction spanned a river a good thirty feet below — evidence of the incredible effort spent on creating Manchester's industrial past. The banks of the river were wild and overgrown, the ground leading off into thickly wooded slopes. Plenty of cover for a killer, man or beast.
He retraced his steps to the junction where he spotted an information board beside a tree. The plastic cover was pock- marked with cigarette burns, making it hard to read the writing below.
Medlock Valley. Daisy Nook History Trail.
His eyes went to a small red square. You are here. A paragraph of writing told him that the aqueduct was built in the
1790s and used to carry a branch of the Hollinwood canal. Not any more, thought Jon. Heavy industry had died out in these parts decades ago.
He examined the blue band that marked the route of the river Medlock. Where did that flow from, Jon wondered, looking up the valley and settling his gaze on those brooding moors once again. He reached for the zipper of his jacket as a sudden chill went through him. Above the hill's curving outline, scraps of grey cloud were streaming across the sky. Shit, rain was on its way. He turned for the car park.
Back at the crime scene a couple more people in white suits were putting on gloves in preparation for entering the inner circle of tape. One he immediately recognised as Doctor Collyer, the home office pathologist.
Jon hurried over. 'Morning.'
The pathologist looked up, owl-like eyes accentuated by the white hood of the crime scene suit. 'Good morning, Detective.' A look passed between them that spoke of horrors mutually shared. The last time they'd met, they were standing over the remains of the Butcher of Belle Vue's third victim. Jon let his expression reflect the pathologist's. I remember, mate. How could I ever forget?
'Richard Matthews, good to meet you.'
Jon turned and saw the crime scene manager looking at him, eyebrows raised in anticipation of a response. He was a slightly overweight man of about forty.
'DI Jon Spicer, likewise.'
No one shook hands. It didn't really go with wearing latex gloves.
'Mind giving me a shout once it's OK to step inside?' Jon said to both of them
'Of course,' Matthews replied, beckoning to the video recorder chap who was approaching them from the car park's entrance. Jon glanced at him. A young man with a shaved head and a ring through his right nostril.
The three men walked across a series of footplates and entered the white tent. Jon had just climbed into a crime scene suit when Matthews poked his head out, face a shade more pale than when he went in. 'Whenever you're ready.'
Jon immediately padded across the footplates, stooping slightly as he stepped inside the tent. He sniffed the air. Blood. A smell that now set him on edge whenever he passed the open door of a butcher's shop.
The home office pathologist was looking at him, alarm showing in his usually impassive eyes. 'I've never seen anything like this before. Keep to the footplates, there's a lot of debris around his head.'
The video recorder stepped to one side. Oh shit, here we go, Jon thought. Breakfast, don't you dare come back up.
Derek Peterson was on his back, one arm pointing to the side, the other bent in on itself so the fingers were tucked under his armpit. For a moment it looked like he was frozen in some sort of bizarre dance move. Most of the left hand side of his face was hanging off, one eyeball sliced open, blood-smeared jelly bulging out. His throat was in a similar state, great furrows of flesh ripped out to expose the bony cartilage of what Jon assumed was his windpipe. He saw that the debris referred to by the pathologist was shreds of flesh.
'If he didn't die of shock, he'd have bled to death in a matter of seconds.' The pathologist pointed at Peterson's mutilated throat. 'I don't know what type of weapon could do this. Not only has it severed the exterior and interior jugular veins, it's gone through his carotid artery, taking out the surrounding muscles at the same time. And look at this.' He crouched down to extend a finger closer to the corpse's upper chest. 'See the lacerations to the cricoid cartilage?'
'His windpipe?' The bile was churning in Jon's stomach.
'Yes. I'd say the weapon was multi-pronged and fashioned from a very resilient material, metal being the obvious choice. Whoever wielded it was a very powerful man.'
Was no one going to say what seemed totally obvious? Jon gave a nervous laugh. 'I feel like I'm in a scene from American Werewolf in London.'
'I'm sorry?' the pathologist replied, but Jon caught the look of agreement on the video lad's face.
Sure enough, the younger man eagerly chipped in. 'You know, the scene on the moor when the American gets ripped to bits? The doctor in London was going on about the attacker having the strength of a madman.'
Christ, another aspiring horror film director, Jon thought.
'I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the film,' said the pathologist, standing up. 'Surely you're not suggesting a werewolf did this?' Jon held up his hands. 'God no, not at all. But these injuries and the ferocity of the attack… Could it have been some sort of wild animal, like they think killed the woman up on Saddleworth Moor? I mean, you're talking about a multi- pronged weapon. Surely that's another name for a claw?'
The pathologist crossed his arms, taking his time before he spoke. 'I'm afraid we're straying on to territory that is outside my expertise. Cause of death was from loss of blood, as a result of multiple lacerations to the throat. If you want a time of death, I'd say late last night. Once I get him back to the mortuary I'll provide a far more considered report.'
OK, no need to get so bloody touchy.
The video recorder coughed. 'The attack up on Saddleworth Moor. I saw the crime scene footage. It got, you know, e-mailed round.' The pathologist glared at him and Jon guessed some sort of morgue protocol had been broken. The video recorder stumbled awkwardly on. 'The injuries are startlingly similar.' He pressed his fingertips into his cheek. 'Where she was swiped, you could clearly see where the claws went in. A row of four.'
Jon glanced down at the tarmac, looking for footprints or other evidence of an animal. On the ground in the far corner of the tent was a set of car keys, a number marker already placed next to them. He looked questioningly at the crime scene manager.
'I presume they're the victim's. The key fob is for a Volvo.'
'Yes,' chipped in the video recorder. 'Probably flung from his hand during the attack.'
'Mind if I bag them up? We'll be needing to get into his house.'
Richard Matthews sucked in his cheeks. 'I'll get them dusted for prints, then you can be my guest.'
From outside the tent Jon heard the low rumble of thunder.
He glanced back at Peterson's bloody remains. 'What about that hand tucked under his armpit. Have you examined it yet?'
The pathologist shook his head. 'We called you in as soon as possible.'