He parked in a space at the front, crossed the puddle-strewn car park and went up the glistening stone steps. One of the blue double doors of the station entrance was slightly ajar and he stepped into a foyer whose walls were lined with numerous posters and notices.
A woman behind the counter smiled pleasantly at him. Jon thought of the battle-hardened stares of the staff at his station in Longsight. Not too many robbing scallies, violent drunks and scowling prostitutes around here then. He returned her smile then held out his warrant card. 'DI Spicer. Hopefully the officer running the Rose Sutton case is expecting me.'
Her face flinched slightly at the mention of Rose's name. 'Oh, right, I'll just make a call.'
She swivelled in her seat, dialled a number, and relayed the message in hushed tones before turning back to face him.
'Inspector Clegg will be with you shortly.'
'Thanks.' Jon put his hands in his pockets and turned to study the walls around him.
A poster about rural crime and how best to guard against burglary in isolated properties.
A notice about the need to record the chassis numbers of all agricultural vehicles, even those not registered for use on the public highways.
What would it be next? Posters on sheep rustling? He heard the lock click on the door at the side of the reception desk. 'DI Spicer, through here.'
Jon turned round. An officer with brown curly hair and slightly red cheeks was standing there. Probably late forties, Jon thought, and easily my height. His eyes dropped momentarily to the man's outstretched arm as it held the door open. Fingers like sausages, rolled up sleeves and a forearm that resembled a large leg of ham. The bloke was big and not through pumping iron in any gym.
Jon walked over. 'Good to meet you. I'm called Jon.'
Their hands connected and Jon's fingers were crushed momentarily in the other man's grip. He looked into his eyes, wondering if it was a deliberate ploy. Some sort of signal to the city copper about how things were done around here.
'Inspector Adam Clegg, Sir. Would you like a brew before we get started?'
'Sounds good.'
Clegg led the way to a small kitchen and took two mugs from a cupboard. 'Tea or coffee?'
'Black coffee, cheers.'
The other officer tipped a heaped spoonful into each cup, then filled both from a stainless steel urn on the side. Jon looked at the object and was reminded of the kitchen at Cheadle Ironsides rugby club before they got the wall-mounted water heater installed. It had been several years before. 'Don't see many of those nowadays.'
Clegg paused, a bottle of milk in his hand. It was a glass pint, not a plastic litre carton. 'What's that?'
Jon's eyes wavered between the bottle and the urn. Take your pick, he thought. 'The urn.'
'Oh that. Well, it serves our needs well enough. Terrible news about this morning.'
Jon nodded. 'I don't think lacerations describe his injuries. His throat was pretty much ripped out.'
Inspector Clegg crossed his massive arms. 'Sounds like Rose. Her throat had been opened right up too.'
Jon noted his use of the woman's Christian name. 'And you think she was attacked by an animal?'
Clegg raised one shoulder and let it fall. 'The hairs caught under her nails belonged to a panther. I understand some were recovered on the victim this morning too.'
'Yup. They've gone for analysis.'
'Well, if it is a person doing this, they don't deserve to be classed as human. Ripping apart man and beast without distinction. The rear legs of the ewe found by Rose's body had been almost stripped to the bone. Are we saying a person did that? Ate the meat raw up on that godforsaken moor?'
Jon looked away from the man's stare. Feelings were obviously running high on this one. 'I heard you've been talking to the guy who runs the black panther enclosure at Buxton Zoo.'
'Jeremy Hobson? Yes, he's here right now as a matter of fact. An expert in the behaviour of big cats. He's giving advice on how the bloody hell we're going to trap this thing.'
'But if it killed this morning's victim, it's come down off the moors. Stand in the car park by Crime Lake and you can hear traffic on the city's ring road zooming past.'
'From what Mr Hobson tells me, a panther's hunting range can cover many miles.'
'And this Hobson bloke, you're happy letting him know all the details of the investigation?'
'Yes. He understands everything is strictly confidential,' Clegg replied, carrying on down the corridor.
'So are you local to here?' Jon asked.
'I am. Born just down the road, schooled in the village.'
'Been in the job long?'
'Fourteen years.'
That means you joined at around thirty, Jon thought. 'So what did you do for a living before this?'
'My family owned a cattle farm. We gave up when milk prices got too ridiculous. The bloody supermarkets are killing off small scale farming in this country.'
Jon thought about the glass bottle of milk. Purchased locally and probably produced the same way.
'So you weren't tempted to turn your hand to farming sheep up on the hills?'
Clegg let out a guffaw. 'Now that is a bloody hard life. Besides, the price for lamb is even worse than for milk.'
They'd reached a closed door at the end of the corridor and Clegg paused, one hand on the brass door knob. 'I'll apologise now. This isn't the biggest room to work in. We were using it just for storage.'
'Why not somewhere bigger?' Jon asked.
'We wanted somewhere away from where we all work on a day-to-day basis. Somewhere private. These photographs aren't the nicest things you'll see.'
In the dank undergrowth, the golf ball seemed to glow with an unnatural brightness. The creature lowered its head and sniffed the dimpled surface. High above, the tail end of the rain cloud moved slowly towards the distant hills, pushed by a breeze that, at ground level, was laced with the scent of humans.
It stayed on its stomach, invisible among the plants that flourished beneath the tree. Drips fell steadily from the branches, some shattering on dying leaves of bracken, others absorbed instantly by the thick black hair covering the creature's back.
Out on the fairway a pair of multi-coloured umbrellas tilted, then collapsed to reveal the two golfers who had been sheltering beneath the taut nylon canopies. The men spoke, words indistinct. One then gestured towards the ancient looking oak that overhung the green, his hand see-sawing in uncertainty. The other glanced upwards, appraised the sky, then nodded. Umbrellas were slotted into golf bags and they began striding forward.
The creature watched them approach. Then, with a final sniff of the golf ball, it seemed to flow backwards, merging silently with the shadowy slope that led down to the river.
Ten
The door opened on a small room that still smelled of old cardboard. A couple of notice boards had been wheeled in, one covered by a sheet. Jon scanned the other. Photos of dead sheep covered it. The limp corpses were stretched out on a variety of terrains — blood-stained grass, patches of forest floor, moss- covered banks. Clumps of fleece were dotted round the bodies. His eyes lingered on the animals. Intestines hanging out, milky eyes staring upwards, rumps partially missing.
In the middle of the room was a desk that took up almost all the available floor space. Sitting at its side was a man with a thick shock of ginger hair. As Jon stepped into the room he was struck by the pale blue eyes looking up at him.
'DI Spicer, from the Major Incident Team in Manchester.'
'Jeremy Hobson. I run the panther enclosure at Buxton Zoo.' He half stood to shake hands, revealing a pale green pair of canvas trousers below the darker green of his woollen jumper.