'Could we take a quick look?'
The video recorder held up the camera as the pathologist pulled Peterson's hand out. The fingers were clamped together in a rigid grip. As the first droplets of rain begin to hit the tent roof Jon could clearly see several long black hairs caught between the dead man's fingers.
Nine
As he waited for Summerby to answer his phone, the rain drummed down on the roof of Jon's car. Memories stirred of childhood camping holidays spent near Southport, the hours huddled in a cramped tent, praying for the incessant patter of rain to cease. He grinned, recalling how his younger sister, Ellie, would quietly colour in her books while he fought over war comics with his younger brother Dave.
Our kid, Dave. Jesus, what a nightmare. What was he up to now, Jon wondered. If anyone deserved to be labelled the black sheep of the family, it was his younger brother. Despite all his dad's efforts, and later his own, they couldn't persuade him to get involved in sport. Didn't matter if it was rugby, football or even lacrosse if he fancied it — anything to divert his energy away from getting into trouble the whole time.
He shook his head. Complete waste. He knew his brother was far more intelligent than him, could have gone to university any day. But by his late teens he'd started to dabble in drugs and soon developed a nasty little liking for speed. Their dad had kicked him round the house the first time he was arrested for stealing cars. The second time he stopped speaking to him, and when he offended again he booted him out of the family home altogether. Dave had his bags already packed to move out anyway, claiming he was off to live in a squat.
Jon looked at the fingers of his left hand as they rested on the steering wheel, focusing on the nicks and scars that formed a cicatrix over his knuckles. If he hadn't channelled his aggression
— which seemed to be a genetic trait of his family — into rugby, there was a good chance he'd have gone the same way. He knew of his dad's reputation when he worked on the docks and drank in the pubs around Salford, but neither of them had gone off the rails like Dave.
'Come on, pick up,' Jon whispered, mobile phone pressed to his ear.
The line suddenly clicked. 'DCI Summerby speaking.'
'Boss, it's Jon Spicer here, I'm out at Daisy Nook Country
Park.'
'What's it looking like, Jon? You sound like there's an army marching past.'
Jon nodded. 'Just a touch of Manchester rain. It's looking grim, boss, very grim. The guy's throat has been ripped to shreds. Much more damage and you could have seen through to his spine.'
'Thanks for that. I'm trying to eat a piece of toast here.'
'Sorry, Sir, but I need you to understand the savagery of the attack. It's, well, I can only describe it as inhuman.' Silence at the other end of the line. 'Sir, are you still there?' Jon asked, wondering if he'd lost his signal.
'Yes, I can hear you. You're suggesting an animal killed him?'
'Well, it's certainly a strong possibility, Sir. There were hairs caught under his nails. Big black buggers. I gather there were similar ones found at the murder scene on Saddleworth Moor.'
'Anything else? Paw prints in the vicinity for instance?'
'We've got a tent over the body and the crime scene manager is here, so everything's pegged down, but a search of the surrounding woods won't reveal much. The rain has seen to that. I've called the coroner and he's given the green light for an autopsy. We'll get the body over to the MRI as soon as possible.'
'OK, that's all good. But if it is some sort of wild animal responsible for these attacks we're not, strictly speaking, talking about a murder investigation here.'
Jon picked at the steering wheel. 'Perhaps we should be talking to experts in other areas? People with experience in hunting and tracking for instance. I gather someone connected to Buxton Zoo is already giving advice. What do you think?'
'We can consider that at a later stage. But until we can conclusively prove otherwise, we should assume it's murder.'
'Fine with me, boss. I'd like to see the officer in charge of the Saddleworth Moor inquiry at the Mossley Brow nick. If a person's doing this, he had a major grudge against the farmer's wife and Derek Peterson. Find out what that is and we're a heck of a lot closer to finding the killer. Peterson worked with young offenders; maybe it'll turn out that victim number one did too.'
'OK, I'll ring ahead to the station at Mossley Brow and let them know you're on your way. See you back here later.'
Jon turned to his A to Z. The police station at Mossley Brow was on page eighty-nine, the last one covered by the map. After that was the green expanse of the Peak District National Park. The most direct way to the station was along a road that twisted through the fields he'd seen from Coal Pit Lane before eventually emerging at Mossley Brow itself.
Jon was just putting his car in gear when there was a knock on his window.
In the shadow cast by a large umbrella stood a figure. The raindrops clustered on the glass prevented Jon from making out if it was male or female. He pressed a button and his window lowered.
'Detective Inspector Spicer? Carmel Todd, Manchester Evening
Chronicle.'
She was well spoken, no trace of Mancunian accent in her voice. Cheshire set, perhaps? Jon took in her long blonde hair and minimalist designer glasses. She was attractive, but not in the delicate and pretty sense of the pampered individuals who swanned around the city in their little sports cars. Attractive as in strong, straight features and a little make-up.
'The officer at the car park entrance said you were in charge.' Jesus Christ, how did you get here so fast, Jon thought, giving a slight nod, inviting her to carry on. He could sense her assessing him, weighing up his cropped hair, scar over his eyebrow and lump where his nose had been broken. Am I a grunt or do I just look like one? What will you go for, charming or pushy? I know you'll be desperate to get something out ahead of the nationals.
She leaned forwards and a gap opened up at the top of her white blouse. It took all his effort to keep his eyes on her face.
'I gather there's a body in there with extensive mutilations.' Jon rubbed his fingers across his chin. 'You gather? How have you gathered?'
Her lips tightened in response, expression saying my business, not yours.
He breathed in. 'The body of a middle-aged man was discovered at first light this morning. Until his family has been contacted and a formal identification made, I can't comment further.'
Her eyes had lost their sparkle. Just a business-like determina- tion remained as she scrabbled for more information before the window went back up. 'This place is well known as a meeting spot for gay men. Is there some sort of a connection?'
Jon returned the tight-lipped expression. My business, not yours.
'Is it true his injuries bear a remarkable similarity to those of the woman found up on Saddleworth Moor?'
The window stopped and Jon looked through the three inch gap at her blue eyes. Who the fuck fed her that?
'I'll be issuing another statement later today.' The crack closed and he pulled out of the restaurant car park. With windscreen wipers moving steadily back and forth, he followed the rough road across the swathe of fields. Bedraggled groups of sheep stood about, some grazing, others just standing with heads bowed as they waited for the rain to pass. Soon the potholes got worse and, as the road narrowed to little more than a single lane track, he began to regret his decision to go cross country. At one point the dry-stone wall on his left had collapsed and, steering round the pile of stones, he wondered how often cars actually passed this way.
After almost fifteen minutes, houses started to appear on either side of the road and he emerged at the junction in Mossley Brow. The sloping roads and steep terraces of houses gave the town a crooked feel. Jon soon found the police station, an austere building constructed from the same rough blocks of dark grey stone that had been used for the neighbouring buildings.