Savage Moon

'This is weird.'

Jon paused at the open wardrobe and glanced over his shoulder. Rick was on his knees, bent almost double so he could see under the bed. 'What is?'

'There's nothing of a personal nature. I was expecting some porn hidden in here at the very least. Would you have any meaningful idea of who lived in this flat if we didn't know already?'

Jon bowed his head in thought. Rick was right. The flat was missing the usual items that made it someone's home; photos of friends and family, phone numbers on scraps of paper, even documents such as phone bills, bank letters or nectar card statements. James Field had left as much trail as a ghost.

He turned the wardrobe inside out. Old trainers, battered jeans, a hooded top. The bathroom bore even less fruit. No bottles or pills bearing a GP's label or a pharmacy's price sticker. Jon slammed the cabinet shut. 'There has to be something in this place.'

They pulled up carpets, tapped for fake floorboards. Nothing.

'Right,' said Jon. 'The bastard thinks he's clever. Let's check outside.'

They went to the walled off area containing the residents' bins. Green containers were lined against the wall, each one bearing the number of a flat. Jon zoned straight in on number three, flipping it over and dragging out a single bag of rubbish. He ripped it open, spilling potato peelings, blackened bananas and several empty pots of yoghurt, green mould ringing their rims. 'Let's check the rest.'

They started tipping over the others and hauled out rubbish sacks, the sweet smell of putrescence filling the air. Scrunched up letters, pizza boxes, clumps of hair, empty wine bottles, used tampons, plastic containers, lumps of festering chicken, crumpled tins and cans.

'No wonder the country's landfill sites are overflowing. Have this lot heard of recycling?' Rick muttered, crouched before a knotted bin liner. He pulled the plastic apart and his hands stopped. 'Jon.'

Jon turned. A shoebox was at the top, its lid slightly off. 'Lift it out, carefully.'

Using the tips of his gloved fingers, Rick lifted the object clear of the debris surrounding it. The layer of grey dust covering the lid had finger marks in it. Rick flipped it off and they stared at the pile of letters inside. The address on the uppermost envelope read, James Field, Flat 3, Oakdene Flats, Thomas Street, Ryder Brow, Manchester.

'Gotcha,' Jon grinned.

Back in James' flat, they started laying the letters out on the living room floor. Most of the envelopes were written in a childish style. 'Danny Gordon's writing,' Jon said. The remainder of the envelopes were written in a neater hand. At the bottom of the shoebox was an envelope with Kenyan stamps on it. No letter was inside, just the stubs of two plane tickets. 'He flew to Nairobi on the fifth of March, two thousand and one, returning on the twenty-sixth.'

Rick had slid a letter out from one of the envelopes bearing the childish writing. 'You're right, it's sent from Strangeways. Jesus, Danny Gordon couldn't have been awake in many of his school classes, the spelling is atrocious.'

'What does it say?' Jon asked, picking up a letter with the neat handwriting.

'Just going on about being bored. Slagging off his padmate, talking about what they'll get up to when he gets out.'

Jon unfolded his letter, a frown slowly appearing on his face.

'It's from a Pat and Ian Field.'

'His parents?'

Jon read the letter in its entirety. 'They adopted him.' He turned the letter over, glanced at the date at the top. 'This was written after James returned from Nairobi. They're asking his forgiveness for what happened, saying it wasn't their decision about his name. They tried to do what was right and they still love him as their son.' He looked at Rick. 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

Rick looked at the note James had left for Jon. 'The one more place he has to visit. Surely not?'

'I don't know. I hope not, but… Christ, they obviously infuriated him.'

'Is there an address or phone number?'

'Both. They're asking him to at least call them. I've got a really bad feeling about this.' He took his phone out and entered the number.

A woman answered. 'Yes?'

'Pat Field?'

'Yes, who is this speaking?'

'My name is DI Spicer. I work for Greater Manchester Police.'

'Oh.'

'Mrs Field, is your husband there?'

'Yes.'

'With you in the house?'

'He's out raking leaves off the lawn.'

'Is anyone else with you?'

'No. Detective, your tone of voice. Is this bad news?'

Bad news? You could say that. 'I don't mean to alarm you, but can you get your husband inside the house and then lock the doors?' He paused, wondering whether he should say any more. You've no choice, he thought. He could be in their garden right now. 'Do not allow anyone inside, unless they're a police officer. I'll send a patrol car round and I'll be there soon.'

'What is this about?'

'Mrs Field, this concerns James. Do not let him in, do you understand?'

'James.' There was a note of resignation in her voice. 'What's he done?'

'There isn't any time. Just get your husband inside, we'll be there soon.'

He hung up, eyes still on the letter. 'Bollington. That's about forty-five minutes away.'

They were on their way out when the support car arrived.

'Seal the flat,' Jon barked, handing the letter to the officer in front. 'And contact the police station nearest to this address. Get them to send a patrol car round, it's where James Field might be heading. Tell Summerby we're on our way there.'

They passed the Welcome to Bollington sign forty minutes later. The sky resembled an old sheet, dull white as far as the eye could see, bare twigs on the trees outlined sharply against it.

The narrow high street ran on and on, leading them past several pubs. At an aqueduct a lane led off to the left. 'That's it, Owen's Lane,' Rick said, an A to Z open on his lap.

Jon took the turn and the car bumped over rough cobbles. Waterview was the fourth cottage they reached, ivy creeping over stone walls. A patrol car was already outside, a uniformed officer leaning against it.

'Thank God there are no ambulances,' Jon said.

They parked behind the vehicle and jumped out. 'DI Spicer and DS Saville. Your colleagues are inside?'

'Yes, Sir,' the officer replied. From his expression, Jon could see he was dying to know what this was all about. 'Keep in your vehicle and lock the doors. Maintain contact via your radio.'

The young man began to smile.

Rick stepped forward. 'The guy we're after? He's a total fucking head case.'

The officer's expression dropped like a stone when he saw they were serious. Quickly he clambered inside.

Jon and Rick strode up the short path and knocked on the wooden door. Movement behind the frosted glass and the door opened. 'Don't do that again,' Jon said to the officer, voice low.

'You ask the person to identify himself first, understand?' The man nodded. 'Sorry, Sir.'

Jon and Rick stepped into a low hallway lined with watercolours of the local area. Lyme Park, Kinder Scout, Fernilee Reservoir.

'They're in the front room, Sir.' The officer pointed to the left.

Jon was surprised to see that the couple were both white. He was completely bald, she had grey hair tied back in a bun. He guessed they were in their late fifties. They were sitting side by side on a floral patterned sofa, their hands clasped together. Mrs Field wore slippers and the husband an old pair of mud-caked shoes. Bits were on the cream carpet. 'Mr and Mrs Field, I'm DI Spicer. Sorry for all the commotion.' He looked at the wife. 'We spoke just earlier?'

'Yes,' she replied nervously. 'What happened?'

Jon took a seat opposite them. Where do I start, he wondered, extracting his notebook to give him a few seconds. 'It's about James. Your adopted son?'