Savage Moon

'Cloughs is what they're called.'

'Cloughs then. They eventually turn into rivers, right?'

'Of course. The Etherow, Goyt, Tame and Medlock. They all rise on these moors. Apart from the Medlock, they converge at Stockport to form the Mersey. That's why the area below is known as the Mersey basin.'

'Where does the Medlock lead?'

'Right into the centre of Manchester. I think it eventually merges with the Manchester Ship Canal at Salford.'

A collection of black shreds suddenly scored the mottled greyness above them. Jon looked up at the crows as they traversed the sky in an unnaturally straight line. Instead of trying to fight the current of air, the birds were passively allowing themselves to be swept along, heads angled at the men below. Then, with an invisible adjustment of their wings, they plummeted as one, disappearing beyond the contours of the moor. Jon wondered if they were the same birds found feeding on Mrs Sutton's corpse. Pushing the thought away, he tried to focus on what Adam had just told him. The information seemed significant somehow, but the constant buffeting of the wind was giving him a headache and when Clegg turned the handlebars to begin the bumpy ride back to Far Gethen farm, he didn't complain.

Thirteen

They slowed to a stop in front of the barn and Jon climbed off the quad bike. While Adam drove it slowly back inside, he examined his feet. Smeared black earth clung to the sides of his shoes and fragments of gorse were caught in the soaking laces.

'OK,' said Adam, hanging the keys back on the hook. 'You'd like a word with Ken?'

They walked across the courtyard to the front door of the farmhouse. Adam knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door then opened it. The kitchen was pretty much as Jon had expected — flagstone floor, chunky wooden table and an ancient Aga with tea towels and oven gloves draped over its front rail.

A Welsh dresser stood opposite Jon and he noticed the pair of walkie-talkies standing upright in a base unit, battery lights glowing as they recharged. The shelves above were lined with plates painted with images of foxhunts. Hounds raced across landscapes, horses vaulted hedges and, in one, a stag was being brought down in the shallows of a river, eyes wide with terror.

'In here.' Ken's voice came from further inside the house. Seeing Adam removing his boots, Jon crouched down and took his shoes off, realising his socks were totally saturated. They crossed the kitchen and Jon glanced back to see a trail of glistening footprints behind him.

The doorway led straight into a large living room, where an enormous fire crackled away in the hearth. Apart from the weak light filtering through the windows, the flames provided the room's only illumination.

Sutton was sitting in an armchair before the fire, dark lines etched into his weary face. A mug was balanced in one hand, curls of steam rising above the rim. 'There's tea in the pot.'

'Jon? You want a cup?' asked Adam.

'Please. Chuck in a couple of sugars too,' Jon replied, glancing up at the animal heads lining the walls. There must have been a dozen foxes, a few badgers and several varieties of deer, some with antlers, others without.

Adam went back into the kitchen and Jon turned to Sutton who was staring impassively at the fire. Wondering where the younger man with the rifle was, Jon pointed to the armchair opposite. 'Mind if I sit down?'

Ken grunted and Jon took it as a yes. Taking out his notebook and pen, he eased himself into the seat, trying to keep his sodden socks from view by tucking his feet under the chair. Waves of heat began pushing against his face and he hoped the warmth would soon work its way down to his frozen shins and ankles.

'So you've seen the moor,' Sutton stated, eyes still on the flames.

'Yes. It's certainly an unforgiving place. I'm sorry you had to find your wife up there.'

'Oh, she didn't mind it. The place has a strange kind of beauty.'

Maybe if you're hiking over it occasionally, Jon thought. But that's bloody it. 'Your wife, Mr Sutton. Aside from helping you out on the farm, what else did she do with her time?'

Sutton turned his head towards him. The rims of his eyes were red and emotion played at the corners of his mouth before he spoke. 'She did more than help out. She ran this bloody place.'

Jon's pen remained at the top of a blank page. 'With your help?'

'I do what I can, which is less and less these days.'

'What about children?'

Sutton shook his head. 'We married late. Maybe that's why we were never blessed.'

'So who helps out now?'

Sutton tilted his head to the window. 'There're lads on neighbouring farms. People pitch in for lambing. We look out for each other.'

Jon couldn't see him running the farm for much longer. He wondered if the old man would stay in the farmhouse once he was forced to sell off the land. 'The man who was in your jeep. Is he from a neighbouring farm?'

Adam reappeared with the tea, handed a cup to Jon and sat down on the sofa.

Sutton nodded. 'A neighbour, yes.'

'So your wife. How would you describe your marriage? Did it have its ups and downs?'

'Of course. Doesn't yours?'

Jon imagined Alice's reaction when he mentioned he was working on another murder investigation. It's about to, he thought. 'Did you argue much?'

Sutton gave a sigh that combined exhaustion and frustration.

'Listen, lad, I don't know what your job involves and I don't think you know mine. But let me tell you, running a farm like this is hard. You have to work as a team to keep on top. There's no packing up at the end of the day to catch the train home. So we'd argue sometimes, but we were a bloody good team, Rose and me. A bloody good team.'

Jon spotted a glistening in the man's eyes as he turned back to the dancing flames. 'Did she have any outside interests? Friends or social groups for instance?'

'She knew everyone in the area. We'd go for drinks some nights in the village.'

'I'm sure you've been asked this, but what about people she'd fallen out with?'

'Rose? She was friends with everyone.' There was a defensive note in his voice. 'Adam, you tell him. Friends with everyone she was.'

Jon glanced at his colleague who gave a silent nod. 'Adam mentioned she worked in a nursery before you married. Did she stay in contact with her former workmates?'

'She'd see them every now and again, I suppose.'

'At their houses or just crossing paths in the village?'

'I don't know. Both. If there was a birthday or something. She'd go for the odd meal with friends and old colleagues. They're one and the same, I suppose.'

'These sheep you've been losing — could Rose have had an argument with any dog owners crossing your land?'

Sutton held up a finger. 'It's no dog that's been killing our sheep. I can save you time by telling you that for certain.'

The anger bubbling in his throat encouraged Jon to pursue the subject. 'Can you be certain of that?'

'When a dog worries sheep, it tries to snap at their legs. If it latches onto a limb it might rip the flesh by shaking its head from side to side.'

Jon's mind went to the image of the terrified stag on the plate in the kitchen. The cluster of dogs hanging off it.

'Creates a certain type of wound,' Sutton continued. 'Messy. It doesn't jump on to a sheep's back and then bite through the top of their spine. And it doesn't then eat half the animal either.'

'Have you had problems with dogs worrying your sheep then?'

'A few.'

'The most recent?'

'Early last spring. An idiot couple with an Alsatian. Two ewes miscarried.'

'You spoke to these people?'

'Oh, I was for more than speaking to them.' He pointed to a metal cabinet in the corner. 'If Rose hadn't stopped me, I'd have shot that bloody dog.'