Savage Moon

'The housing inspectors kicked it open, reckoned the smell was dead pigeons.'

'They didn't have keys?' Jon asked, mask held to his face.

'Not for the lower lock. Looks like Danny Gordon had fitted that one himself.'

Jon stepped through the door and turned around. At the top of the door was a bolt. 'That wasn't drawn?'

'Suppose not,' Rick replied. 'Is that significant?'

Jon shrugged. 'If he took the trouble to lock himself in, why not draw the bolt across too?'

'You're thinking someone else locked him in, from the outside?'

'Maybe. No doubt it's suicide?'

'It looks more or less certain, though there is something odd on the suicide note.'

Rick walked down the bare concrete corridor and into the front room. In an attempt to reduce the draught that must have blown in, Gordon had tacked plastic sheeting over the window frame, reducing the light from the outside. A few packing crates stood in one corner, clothes piled untidily on top. In the middle of the room a fold-out table was covered in empty tins. Soup, baked beans, ravioli.

In the other corner Danny Gordon's corpse lay on a bare mattress. Decomposition was well under way, but even the patches of black blossoming under the waxy skin couldn't mask the obvious injuries to his face. He was wearing a T-shirt and shell-suit trousers. The trainer and sock on his left foot were missing and sticking out from between his bare toes was a tarnished syringe.

'Look at his forearms, completely fucked,' Rick said from behind his mask as the white-suited forensics investigator moved to the side.

Jon examined the thick peppering of punctures that ran along them. 'So you think he's been here a good five days?'

'Yes, that's a good estimate,' the woman replied.

'Which means, though it's possible he killed Rose Sutton, he couldn't have been responsible for Peterson and Kerrigan,' murmured Jon.

'Looking at those skinny arms, I doubt he could have inflicted much damage on anyone, male or female,' Rick added.

'Where's the note?' Jon said, turning away from the pathetic sight.

'Here,' Rick nodded to the table. 'He points the finger squarely at Peterson, describing the abuse that went on in the Silverdale. Says that Peterson destroyed him and he can't go on any more.'

Jon skimmed over the childish writing with its embarrassing amount of spelling mistakes. What a life, he thought. That it ended like this, in a squalid tower block flat on a mattress probably dragged from some skip, seemed depressingly inevitable.

Jon reached the end of the note. Below Danny Gordon's signature was a single word. Kuririkana. The writing shifted out of focus as Jon looked inwards, searching his memory. Where have I seen that before? He tried to replay his movements over the last few days. Bollocks, it was like searching for a needle in a haystack. 'Have you seen that word somewhere else? It looks familiar somehow.'

Rick shook his head. 'I thought you might know. What's that song the All Blacks do before rugby matches?'

'The Haka.'

'That's it. Could it be Maori? Looks like it might be to me.'

'You know, I've seen it performed so often, but I've no idea what the lyrics are.'

'DC Adlon has gone to the University, maybe they can help. Thing is, it doesn't appear to be Gordon's handwriting.'

Jon looked more closely. Rick was right. Though written with the same pen, the letters were regularly spaced and less spiky. 'Any sign of the pen?'

'No,' the woman in the white suit replied. 'Not so far anyway.'

Jon looked towards the corridor. 'Let's assume someone locked Danny Gordon into this flat on their way out. Could it be the same person who wrote that word?'

'You're saying someone helped him kill himself?' Rick replied.

'Not necessarily. They could have sat with him while he did it. Or maybe just found him after the event.'

'You mean a mate of some kind?'

'It's the sort of thing a mate might do.'

'The only mate he seemed to have was this Jammer.'

'Exactly. Any black guys with dreadlocks downstairs?'

'Let's take a look.'

The screens covering the main doors had been removed and the doors themselves opened. Despite this, the smell of unwashed bodies and musty clothes filled the air. All the squatters had retreated from the patch of daylight shining in, preferring to sit or lie in the shadows beyond. There were about twenty of them, all waiting in silence as several clipboard-wielding officers worked their way around.

Jon started at the right-hand corner. His eyes had only passed over three faces before they connected with his younger brother's. He was staring back at him through a haze of cigarette smoke. Jon's immediate reaction was to move his gaze on, but his mind was suddenly racing. Jesus Christ, that was our kid. What's he doing here? Please God, don't let him be connected to this mess. His eyes slowly moved back. Dave's hair was longer, and though the face was thinner it only seemed to emphasise the square features of the Spicer family.

'No black guys,' Rick said at his side.

Without replying, Jon walked across the foyer. 'Has this man been statemented?'

The nearest officer glanced back. 'Yeah. Andrew Adams, no fixed abode. Fake name if I ever heard one.'

Jon motioned with his fingers. 'A word outside please.' With a lazy grin, his younger brother got to his feet. As they headed for the doors, Rick started uncertainly over. Jon warded him off with a raised palm.

Once outside, Jon moved a good ten metres from the doors before turning round. His younger brother was dragging on a roll up, the smirk still on his face. Jon looked him up and down. Dirty jeans and battered trainers. Beneath a shapeless top the bones of his shoulders stuck out too sharply. He seemed to have regressed back to his teenage weight. 'What are you doing here?'

'Sorry officer?'

Jon realised he'd snapped the question out. He started again.

'All right, Dave?'

'Yeah, Jon. Fine. Just been rudely awoken by your colleagues, but other than that, I'm good. You?'

Jon nodded. 'You living here?'

His brother turned to the building, took a last drag on his roll up and dropped it into the grass. 'Only recently. I've been up in the Lakes over the summer. Enjoying the country life.'

Enjoying some poor bastard's empty holiday house, Jon thought. 'Why haven't you rung Mum? She's worried sick about you.'

Dave shrugged. 'The old man still alive?'

'Course he is.'

'There you go then.'

'Why punish Mum because you fell out with Dad?'

'Fell out? He threw me out.'

'You-' Jon stopped. This was heading in the usual direction. Who said that, who did what. He took out his pack of cigarettes, flipped the top open and held it out.

'Naughty, naughty,' Dave smirked, taking one. 'You never kicked the habit?'

Jon slid one out for himself and lit both up. 'I did for a bit. Listen, just call her will you? Tell her you're OK.'

'You've seen me, you can let her know.'

'But that's not the same. You know that.'

'And you know she won't let me leave it at that.' He adopted a whining voice. 'What are you doing? Where are you living? Why don't you come home?'

Jon felt his shoulders tensing up. You're close to a fucking slap. 'What are you doing?'

Dave paused to drag on his cigarette. 'Meaning?'

Jon held a hand towards the tower block. 'This, for fuck's sake. Kipping in derelict buildings with a load of addicts. I don't suppose you're working.'

His brother laughed scornfully and Jon felt his resentment of him increase. 'Nice going, our kid. Some fucking life you've got here.'

His brother's lips curled, the prelude to countless childhood fights. 'Unlike yours? Look at you, the system's sucking you dry, pal. You look fifty, slaving to pay off your mortgage, putting aside a few hundred each year for your tedious week in Spain. No fucking thanks.'