'What sort of imminent development?' Edwards again.
You flying out of this fucking window, Jon thought, finally turning his eyes to the press officer. 'I'll let you know when I think of it,' he replied, praying something would come of Rick's appeal on Swinger's Haven.
Edwards looked incredulous. 'Stories this juicy don't crop up every day. Their editors down in the big smoke will be screaming for something.'
The big smoke, Jon sneered to himself. If you're so in awe of London, why don't you piss off back down there. 'I'm not releasing some half-baked observations that risk blowing this panther thing out of all proportion. We can buy more time if we say the victim hasn't been formally identified. At least that way we can delay conjecture about the two deaths being linked. What do you think, boss?'
'We can get away with saying the next of kin hasn't been located, but only for a while. Just don't forget it's a two-way thing with the press, Jon. They can help as well as hinder.'
'Agreed.' Jon stood up. 'I'll get it over with then.' As he headed back down the stairs he could hear Edwards hurrying to catch him.
'I've set things up in meeting room two. Want me to show them in?'
'OK.' Jon watched the other man as he rushed off towards reception. Jon ducked into the toilets and looked at himself in the mirror. Shit, I look knackered. He massaged the skin below his eyes in the vain hope of removing the dark smudges seemingly ingrained there. Summerby was right, this investiga- tion was going to be conducted under a very bright spotlight. The fluorescent strips glared down at him and he knew how a rabbit must feel. 'Come on, Spicer, you'll be fine,' he murmured, straightening his tie. Remembering the media awareness course he'd recently completed, he reached for a hand towel to wipe the dampness from his forehead, knowing it would look like a layer of grease on the TV screen.
As he walked into the room all noise quickly died away. Edwards had been busy. At the end of the room a collection of screens bearing the logo for Greater Manchester Police had been erected. A lectern stood waiting for him, microphones for several radio stations already clipped to it. Jon walked to the front of the room and tapped them with a finger. 'Can we have these mikes and all tape recorders off, please? Those too,' he said, looking into the video camera lenses that were trained on him.
Satisfied his instructions had been followed, he surveyed the room, trying to impose an air of authority. 'Right, before my official comments, a quick word.' Hands paused on writing pads.
'I know you all, quite literally, scent blood on this one; however, I'm appealing for some leeway here. We'll keep you up to date on everything, but until certain avenues have been followed up we need the details of this morning's killing minimised. I'll explain why as soon as possible. Can I expect your cooperation with this?'
Sideways glances were exchanged.
'Why? Is today's victim special?' an older guy at the back asked.
'It appears he was frequenting places used by homosexual men for casual sex. If this becomes a focal point of your reports we risk losing potential witnesses.'
'And this car park at Crime Lake is one such place?'
'Yes.'
'Surely that will be common knowledge?'
'Only to those on the scene, not to the general public. It will help us if things stay that way. You know how this works — any appeal for witnesses will draw a blank if you're all splashing the fact it's a dogging site. Some restraint then, ladies and gents?'
More glances were exchanged and a ripple of reluctant nods slowly spread across the room. Seizing the opportunity, Jon nodded to a cameraman. 'OK — to proceed with my statement.' He heard a slight crackle as the mikes came back on. Put your hands behind your back, he thought, knowing the stance imparted a more measured appearance. Keeping his head still and eyes trained on a point just above the reporters staring at him, he announced, 'My name is DI Spicer and I work for Greater Manchester Police's Major Incident Team. At seven forty-five this morning, the body of a middle-aged Caucasian man was discovered in a car park by Daisy Nook Country Park. From injuries found on the body, the death is being treated as suspicious at this stage. Until a post mortem has been carried out and a formal identification made, I cannot comment further. Any witnesses are urged to contact the incident room at Longsight police station.'
He took a step to the side, suddenly wishing the exit wasn't at the other end of the room as a clamour of disappointed voices rang out.
'Is it true the victim's torso was severely lacerated?'
'Does this carry the hallmarks of an attack by a wild animal?'
'Are you linking this to the killing of Mrs Sutton up on
Saddleworth Moor?'
Bollocks, thought Jon. He turned to them once again. Holding up both hands, he said, 'As you can understand, I cannot comment further until the victim's family have been informed. However, at this stage we're not linking the death of Mrs Sutton with this morning's incident.'
There was a pause as over a dozen reporters mentally dissected this. None looked convinced.
'OK everyone,' Gavin Edwards said, taking the stage. 'I'll be issuing a press release within the next half hour. Updates will also be available on the voice bank; for those reporters not from Manchester the telephone number will be on my press release.' Jon made it to the door and started hurrying away down the corridor. A woman's voice called out behind him. 'So there'll be no need to visit the moors where Mrs Sutton died?'
Jon recognised the voice. That bloody woman from the Manchester Evening Chronicle. Carmel something. He tried to wave the question away. 'That's correct.'
'So why do you have peat and bits of heather on the bottoms of your trousers and shoes? Surely you've been up to Saddleworth Moor already?'
He looked down. Fuck, he'd forgotten his shoes were filthy. He reached for the handle of the nearest door. To his relief it opened on an empty meeting room. 'In here.'
She hurried inside, failing to hide the pleased look on her face. Shutting the door, he turned to her. She was almost a foot smaller than him, but she didn't flinch at his most menacing stare.
'DI Spicer, the Red Tops are sending teams up from London. The Mail 's already here, desperate to find out where today's victim lived so they can start door to doors on his street. Now I know he had injuries to his face and neck, and you've just pretty much confirmed to me that you've been up on to Saddleworth Moor. My news editor expects me to deliver first on this one. It's my patch. I have the local contacts. If a Red Top beats me to the story, my job's on the line. Why shouldn't I go with this information?'
'How did you find out about his injuries?' She shook her head. 'I'm sorry.'
Jon scrutinised her and she kept looking right back. She's got balls, he thought, his respect for her growing. 'If you print those details, I'll see you're barred from every news conference I ever hold.'
He saw her stance soften slightly and he knew she'd picked up on the hollow ring in his voice. 'DI Spicer, if I lose my job, you wouldn't need to bar me from future conferences. What am I supposed to do?'
Jon let his shoulders relax a little too. 'You tell me.'
'How about a deal?'
'Go on.'
'I keep back what I know, you give me an exclusive interview with the family of this morning's victim.'
'I said in my briefing, we haven't identified him yet.'
She gave him a look and Jon knew she didn't believe his lie. He weighed up the offer, knowing he was in a corner. 'OK, you're on.' He reached for the door.
'Hang on,' she said. 'When do I get it?'
'At a time to be determined by me.'
'Tomorrow.'
He stopped. 'You what?'