'Just since people started getting killed?'
'That's right. Some of the staff see it as macabre, but I'm trying to use it as a way of educating people about these magnificent animals. I've written a panther information sheet for staff to hand out. It encourages people to give money to conservation projects. Donations, I hear, have risen sharply.'
Jon wasn't surprised. People were so easily seduced by anything that slaughtered their fellow humans. Panthers, sharks, crocodiles, inmates awaiting execution on death row, Apache gunship helicopters. 'So must your takings at the gates.'
'True,' Hobson replied, eyes on the ground in front.
'How would you describe your relationship with Rose
Sutton?'
Hobson glanced at him and Jon looked straight back with a steady gaze.
'We got on pretty well. A shared interest, I suppose. She was fascinated by the prospect of a panther roaming their land. Unlike the husband. He just wanted to kill it.'
'You spent a fair bit of time with her then? Up on the moors?'
'Not really. They'd lost maybe a dozen sheep over the last few years. Sometimes I wouldn't see her for months.'
'Ken Sutton suspected she was having an affair.'
Hobson was about to smile, then his face dropped. 'Hang on. Are we discussing the behaviour of panthers or Rose Sutton's personal life?'
'I don't know. They seem to be linked, at least in death.' By now they'd reached the perimeter fence. Hobson put the buckets down. 'You said earlier the killing this morning could have been someone staging an attack to resemble a panther.'
Jon cocked his head to the side. Come on then smart arse, what was I implying? He watched as Hobson pondered what to say.
'I've been working for some time now on the theory that there is more than one Alien Big Cat living in the Peak District National Park. The locations and almost simultaneous killings of sheep, that sort of thing. I don't believe it's a human you're hunting.'
No, you probably don't, thought Jon, but that's not going to stop me searching. 'Thanks for your help.'
Hobson let him through the gate and he walked back to his car, got inside and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. Come on Jon, think. What's going on? Should more of the investigation focus on Hobson? He removed the evidence bag from his pocket and held it up. The collection of hairs inside stuck to the plastic, some crossing over each other as if arranged in an archaic code. What will you tell me? he asked himself.
A car appeared at the edge of his vision, crossing the car park and coming to a halt in the far corner. Carmel Todd got out and set off for reception. What the fuck was she doing here? Is this a pre-arranged meeting or have you just received a call? He remembered the radio on in Hobson's office. The man could easily have heard the news and rung her. He waited until she'd gone inside, then started his car. His mobile went off. Eagerly he glanced at the screen, but his wife's name wasn't showing.
'DI Spicer here.'
'Jon, it's Rick. You need to get back here.'
'What's happened?'
'Danny Gordon has been found in a squat on the Oldham
Road.'
'Yes! Is he being taken to Longsight?'
'No, the MRI's mortuary. Officers at the scene reckon he's been dead a good five days.'
Jon sat back in his seat. Five days? That meant it was impossible that his prime suspect was the killer. 'He's dead?'
'Suicide. There's a note with the body, it puts Peterson right in the shit.'
'Where is this squat?'
'Head towards the city centre on the Oldham Road, it's the last tower block on your left just before you hit Great Ancoats Street. You can't miss the place, it's a total eyesore.'
'I'm on my way.' As he dropped the phone on to the passenger seat behind him, the thought burrowed back to the front of his mind. Where the hell is my wife?
Twenty-Nine
Jon got there forty minutes later. A uniform waved him into a lay-by on the opposite side of the road to the ugly building. A barrier of blue construction site hoardings had been erected round the base of the derelict premises. Judging by the volume of graffiti covering them, they'd been there for quite some time. Rick stood waiting in the gap where one panel had been removed.
'You looked fucked, mate,' his partner cheerfully announced.
'Thanks.'
'How's Alice?'
Jon shook his head in reply. 'By the way, I've stepped down from trying to head up the investigation. Summerby's assuming responsibility.'
'Probably not a bad thing. You've got other things on your plate.'
'Yeah well, your position on the team is unaffected. I guess you're just lumped with me.'
'Perfect. We're still in the thick of it, but now the pressure's off.'
I wish, Jon thought, turning to the building that loomed over them. 'This looks a nice place to live.'
The overgrown grass surrounding the tower block was littered with debris. Segments of window frames, panels of formica, squares of plywood. Sprinkled over everything was a generous amount of broken glass. All the windows at ground level were covered by metal plates, those on the first and second floors by chipboard. But many had been kicked out and, from the third floor up, no windows or even frames existed.
Looking up, Jon could see the ceilings of the higher flats, only bare plaster and wires where lights had once hung. A sign on the side of the building announced, If any incident occurs in connection to this property, call Secure Holdings.
He read the phone number, wondering how long ago the company had gone out of business. 'People actually live in here?' he asked as Rick led him to a side door, the metal panel covering it bent back.
'Quite a few. They're all in the main foyer giving statements. According to the housing inspectors who found the body, the building was first taken over by a bunch of art students. There's no leccy or gas, but the water's still connected, so they weren't shitting in buckets. They held a few wild parties, then the local vermin cottoned on. It soon descended into crack dens and all the rest of it. The students were scared off a long time ago.'
'Where was Danny Gordon?'
'Sixteenth floor, corner flat. I don't think many could be arsed climbing up that high. The door to the flat was locked, but the smell gave it away.'
Squeezing through the gap between the door frame and protective panel, they entered a stairwell that reeked of urine. Jon was instantly reminded of the sharp aroma in the panthers' dens.
As they set off up the stairs Jon noted that the elaborate murals on the walls had been ruined by a covering of mindless graffiti. It was, he thought, a clear indication of the order in which the tower block had been colonised. Arty free-thinkers first, brain- dead no-thinkers second. As they reached each landing the view over the city became more impressive. To their right was Sportcity, site of the facilities built for the Commonwealth Games and now used by local teams, including Manchester City Football Club in the main stadium. He spotted the B of the Bang sculpture, a collection of metal spikes radiating outward from a central point that was meant to symbolise the explosion of energy from a starting pistol. Jon smiled when he thought of what the locals had named it: Kerplunk.
As soon as they stepped out into the corridor of the sixteenth floor the smell hit him. There it is, Jon said to himself. The unmistakeable aroma of rotting human. They paused at the door to flat while Rick took out a couple of white face masks from the scene of crime bag kindly left at the door by forensics.
Jon was looking at the splintered wood a third of the way up the door frame. 'What went on here?'