The route to Brookvale Golf Course took him through the drab terraced streets of Droylsden, but the green of the fairways came into view within ten minutes of setting off from his house. He pulled into the club's entrance, the suspension on his Shogun barely registering the speed bumps as he cruised along the short drive to the car park. He got out of his vehicle and was walking round to the boot, when his mobile phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Milner. What did that idiot want?
Holding a hand up in greeting to a couple of men making their way to the clubhouse, he turned round and got back in his car, not wanting any other member to hear his conversation.
'John. What's up?' he snapped.
'Ah, hello, Trevor. You OK, boss?'
'Fine. What is it?'
'Erm, I'm at a house on Ackroyd Street.'
Immediately Kerrigan commenced a mental scan. He prided himself on his ability to recall the details of every late payer from memory. 'Skinny woman with shit teeth and a little kid. How much is she behind?'
'This week or all together?'
'This week, for starters.'
'Thirty-two quid just to cover the interest.'
Kerrigan started calculating. Allowing for the rates of interest he charged, she probably owed in excess of three hundred quid. Not a massive amount in itself, but when added to dozens and dozens of other amounts like it, it soon funded his leisurely lifestyle and two holidays in Barbados each year. He also knew that letting one late payer get away with it sent out completely the wrong signal. 'Are her curtains open?'
'Yeah.'
'So what's inside?'
Movement at the other end of the line. Kerrigan could picture Milner stepping across the patch of grass, in all probability having to pick his way past mangled toys, discarded nappies and dog shit.
'There's a TV on.'
'Widescreen?'
'Yup.'
'DVD underneath it?'
'Think so.'
'What else? Sofas, armchairs? Kids' toys?'
'No sofa. The kid is on the floor playing on a video game.'
'So she can afford Sony fucking Playstations can she?'
'Hang on, she's seen me looking in. She's coming across to the window.' The other man started speaking away from the phone. 'Come on love, you're well overdue. You know the score. Listen, if you… ' His voice came back on the line. 'No use, she's drawn the curtains. Said she's not opening the door to anyone.'
'You already tried telling her you were a registered bailiff?'
'Yeah, when I arrived. She was half out the door with the kid and a shopping bag on her arm. Stepped back inside, saying she knows her rights and I'm not coming in.'
Bollocks, Kerrigan thought. She must have been to the Citizen's Advice Bureau for help. 'She was going shopping, so she's got cash in there. Keep knocking. On her door and her windows. Make it loud. Let the neighbours hear. If she was going shopping, she needs food, especially for the kid. She'll open the door eventually.'
'How long do you want me to keep trying, boss?'
Kerrigan rolled his eyes. Did he have to hold every fuckwit's hand in this life? 'As long as you want to pick up your bonus this month, that's how long. You think I got to sit here at my golf club because I gave up every time some stupid bitch blew her giro on gin and then tried to close her curtains on me? Now don't bother me again until you've got the cash!'
He slammed the phone down on the passenger seat. Breathing deeply, he flicked the radio on, wanting to distract himself from the pond life he had to deal with. There was some sort of news flash going on. A woman was reporting that another body had been found with extensive injuries to the throat and upper chest.
Police refused to confirm or deny a connection with the woman found up on Saddleworth Moor. Kerrigan gave a low whistle. Now there was something to talk about in the members' bar.
Twelve
Outside the rain had stopped and the cloud layer had started to break up, allowing a few shafts of sunlight through.
A light breeze was blowing as they walked to a cafe´ further down the small high street. Jon was surprised at how much less everything cost compared to the chains of sandwich shops that had slowly taken over the centre of Manchester.
'Can we eat on the way?' Jon asked when Adam gestured to the stools lined up along a narrow formica counter. 'I don't want to miss him.'
'Fair enough,' the other man replied, picking up his roll and opening the door.
At the car park Adam thought for a moment. 'I've got to visit my sister in Holme later. It might be easier if we go in separate cars.'
'No problem,' Jon answered, unlocking his. 'You lead the way.'
'OK. I'm parked round at the rear; back in two ticks. We'll take the Tintwhistle road, it's the most direct way to Sutton's farm.'
Jon had managed to bolt down half his barm before Adam reappeared in a four-wheel drive Nissan that was bright with police markings. He waved at Jon then pulled out of the car park. As they headed south along the main road Jon was aware of the greyish-brown hills rising up in the distance on his left. In the foreground buildings, lampposts and trees glided past, but the moors beyond didn't seem to move. The land had a brooding stillness about it that hinted at how long it had existed, all but unchanged, over the centuries.
By the time the road led into Tintwhistle, Jon had noted several Land Rover Defenders passing them by, their wheel arches caked with mud, some with cages on the back for livestock or sheep dogs. As they passed a pub called The Shepherd's Rest, he noticed a road sign informing him that the A6024 was open.
The valley began to steepen and fir trees closed in on both sides, dimming the interior of the car. Then the road rose more sharply and suddenly they emerged from the trees. On his left the edge of the moor loomed over him, rising up so dramatically that almost all his view of the sky on that side of the car vanished. He looked at the long grass on its plunging slopes, broken by clumps of bracken, swathes of purple heather and gnarled branches of gorse. Behind the bushes he glimpsed the occasional white fleece of a sheep.
At the turning for the A6024 the road rose more steeply still. Dropping into a lower gear, Jon noticed the landscape was dominated by a coarse brownish grass, not a single tree in sight. Apart from scar-like grooves cut by small streams, the only break in the monotony of the moor was the drystone walls. He looked again at the undulating contours of the land. Jesus, it resembled the bunched muscles of an enormous animal, ready to rise up at any moment and shake itself free of the tiresome little constructions of rock built across its back. This, Jon realised, was a place that merely tolerated man: in no way had it been tamed by his presence.
They finally reached the summit of the moor. Towering above him was a radio mast, struts of wire leading off at diagonal angles down to the ground. Glancing in his rear view mirror he saw the plains of Cheshire and Lancashire framed there for an instant. As he crossed the plateau he was aware of the strength of the wind as it buffeted his car. Before long the road started its descent and a sign announced 13 % gradient. Use low gear!
The road curled round, giving a bird's-eye view of sheep- dotted fields, dense patches of woodland and darkly glistening reservoirs. Nestled at the head of the valley was the village of Holme. He'd stopped there for lunch with Alice once. As in many of the places on this side of the moors, the local people had been weavers before the industrial revolution swept their cottage industry into the cold and imposing mills. He remembered the tea-room pamphlet informing him that this region was where the Luddites smashed the shearing frames that threatened their way of life.