03-Savage Moon (35 page)

The noise came again. An urge to change direction away from it overwhelmed him. A trail opened up on their left. 'Take that one,' Jon snapped.

The terrain started rising and, to his immense relief, the red light at the top of the radio antenna bobbed into view. 'Keep going, Nikki. That's good. Keep aiming for that light.'

They skirted round the cairn at the top of Black Hill and marched down the other side without pausing for breath. Now on the plateau at the top of the moor, their stride lengthened. All the while Jon kept his head cocked to the side, listening out for the sound of anything pursuing them. After another five minutes he let the torch beam swing up. Dull metal glinted at the outer edge of the beam.

On seeing the car Nikki broke into a jog. They hopped over the ditch and on to the track. Somehow just being on a man- made surface was reassuring. Five metres from the car Jon said,

'It's not locked. Jump straight in.'

He opened the rear door, slung the case on to the back seat, opened the driver's door and got in. Nikki was in the passenger seat, her legs shivering violently.

He shut the door and started the engine, flicking the central locking on as he did so. Then he put the vehicle into gear and reversed as fast as he dared up the track, not giving a toss what happened to the car's suspension.

Thirty-Two

Jon nudged the car up his drive, bringing the front bumper to within inches of his house before pulling the handbrake on. He sank back in his seat. Thank Christ to be home. His mind was still twitching, settling momentarily on one aspect of what had happened on the moor before springing to another. When they'd got back to the car park at Crime Lake not a single word had passed between them. During the drive down off the moor Jon had glanced across at Nikki several times. She was hunched in her seat, knees, shoulders and elbows drawn in as she nibbled on the tip of a thumbnail. Occasionally the hand moved upwards to brush a tear from the corner of her eye.

He parked next to her car and she immediately got out, stepped over to the driver's door and got inside. The engine started and he had to quickly climb out and knock on her window. The noise startled her. 'Hang on, Nikki. I've got the Portascope.'

She nodded, then gestured to the back seat. As he placed the case inside, he quietly said, 'Do you want to talk about this?' She shook her head, hands clamped on the steering wheel.

'Nikki,' he watched her ponytail trembling. 'Maybe we should take five minutes to calm down.'

'Fuck off.' She was still staring ahead. 'You had no right to take me up there.' She shuddered. 'Just shut the door. I'm going home.'

He straightened up, then ducked his head back in for one last try. 'Nikki, I don't know what it was up there, but... '

The vehicle started to move and he had to step forwards to swing the door shut. She had accelerated down the road before remembering to turn her headlights on.

With a sigh, Jon looked at his house, hooking a finger into the inner curve of the steering wheel. He'd ring her tomorrow. What had really occurred up there? The primal terror that had come so close to engulfing him was skewing his perception of events. He tried to analyse things objectively. They'd heard a strange sound. In the darkness, their imaginations had supplied the image of what had made it. A huge black beast, a monster moving stealthily forward, yellow eyes able to see them clearly in the night.

But it was only a noise and, at one point, the faintest trace of a smell. It could easily have been a stag, a badger, someone with a tape of a big cat. The headrest seemed to be curling about his ears, gently cupping his skull. A tape recording. The sort of thing to scare off unwelcome visitors. Hobson. He could have recorded any number of those noises. Yeah, that wouldn't be any problem at all. An impact in his lap brought him awake. His hand had dropped off the steering wheel as sleep had relaxed his grip. With itchy eyes he regarded the glow at his front window. Hopefully she's relaxing in front of the telly, he thought.

He opened the front door to hear the tapping of computer keys. She was sitting at the computer in a tracksuit with an old cardigan over the top. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Strands bulged out at the side of her head, increasing her dishevelled look. He glimpsed a Portcullis logo at the top of the screen.

'Sorry I'm late back. I got delayed.'

'I didn't think you'd be home any earlier.' She didn't turn round.

'What are you up to?'

'There's these things called Hansard documents which let you see what's been debated in the House of Commons and I've been on Number Ten Downing Street's site. I can't find anything on civilian deaths in Iraq and I've been here for bloody hours.'

For fuck's sake, he thought, put another bloody record on will you? He knelt down and looked at Holly on her play mat.

'Hello, princess, how are you doing?'

Her head jerked at the sound of his voice and her arms began to wriggle back and forth. 'Daddy's home. You coming for a cuddle?'

He slid a hand under her nappy to lift her up. 'Ali, she's soaking wet.'

No reply.

He unbuttoned the base of her babygrow and was hit by a cloying smell. Brown stains were leaking out from the edge of her nappy. 'She's filthy. How long has she been lying here?'

He spotted the shadow of a frown as she glanced with tired eyes at their daughter. 'Well, change her then.'

'I will. But I'm asking how long she's been left here.'

'Since her last feed. I'm not sure. She wasn't crying.'

'Surely it's not a good idea for her to be lying in her own shit?'

The comment was intended to goad her, but all it provoked was another backward glance. 'When's the last time you changed her nappy?'

He opened his mouth, but said nothing.

'Exactly,' she answered, eyes on the screen once again. 'Do your fair share before having a go at me.'

But that's not the point, he thought. You should be concerned that Holly was being neglected. She clicked the mouse and another text-heavy page filled the screen. There was a detached air about her, as if attending to Holly was just another household chore. You're using this Iraq thing as a way to screen her out, he thought, remembering something about depressed mothers being unable to connect emotionally with their babies.

'Come on then, you,' he whispered, carrying Holly upstairs to the nursery. After bagging up the dirty nappy and wiping her clean, he wrapped a fresh nappy around her. 'We don't want a dirty bottom, do we?' he whispered. She grinned at the sensation and he wondered whether to call down that their daughter had just produced her biggest smile yet. Then he changed his mind, afraid Alice would just grunt a reply back up the stairs.

He gazed down at the tiny human before him. So totally helpless. She stared back, eyes fixed on his. He actually felt something shift in his chest as the realisation suddenly hit him. You're ours. Ours. The word was filled with new significance.

No one else will care for you in the same way because no one else is responsible for you in the same way. We created you. But now your mum doesn't seem able to cope with you. Which leaves me. I've got to take care of you until Alice is better.

He leaned down and brought his face so close to hers he could see his entire head captured in her unwavering pupils. There he was, as much a part of her as she was of him. He picked her up and held her close, waves of emotion flooding out. Then he bowed his head and held a kiss to the top of her skull, drinking in the delicious warmth coming from her soft skin.

The voice came and went, music drifting lazily over it. Then someone spoke over an urgent drumming. Words caught in Jon's semi conscious mind. Key 103 bulletin. Dramatic new theory. No official comment. River Medlock. Other world news. Attack on the Rashid Hotel, Baghdad. Paul Wolfowitz narrowly escapes.

He struggled to bring himself awake, eyes opening just as the newsreader announced,
And now to our main story. This morning Manchester awakes to a dramatic new development in the hunt for the Monster of the Moor.

Jon looked to his left. Alice was sitting up in bed, Holly silently feeding at her breast.

Analysis shows that all three victims were attacked within a short distance of the Medlock, a river that rises on Saddleworth Moor and runs into the very heart of the city. What worries experts is the possibility that, if the Monster is following the river in its hunt for new victims, it will end up in the centre of Manchester itself. So far, no one from Greater Manchester Police has been available for comment.

'Christ!' He kicked the duvet off and looked at the clock. Seven. He should have been up an hour ago. Flipping open his mobile, he scrolled through to Carmel's number and pressed connect. 'Who fed you that information?'

'Sorry, is that DI Spicer?'

'Who was it? Do you realise the shit this story will stir up?'

'You know I can't tell you that.'

'No?' He stood up, walked over to the window. Grey drizzle was falling outside. 'You don't need to. I saw you yesterday at

Buxton Zoo. It was Hobson.'

'You're wrong actually.' Her voice had softened. Was it sympathy he heard? 'You need to look closer to home.'

Jon glanced at Alice who was staring back at him. He turned away. 'Piss off, Carmel.'

He threw the phone on the bed and set off for the shower. Alice's voice stopped him in the doorway. 'So much for keeping work and home lives separate.'

'Yeah, sorry,' he mumbled. 'What time did you come to bed last night?'

'Around midnight. You were fast asleep with Holly on your chest.'

'Was I?' Jon looked at his side of the bed. 'I remember changing out of my work clothes and then lying down with her. She was asleep?'

'You both were. They don't recommend it. If you'd rolled over—'

'I didn't mean to – Christ. I must have just nodded off. Did you sleep OK?'

'So-so. She needed feeding at around two, then again at four.'

'God, I didn't even hear that. You should have woken me, I could have given her a bottle.'

'I tried to. You were dead to the world.'

He felt a pang of guilt at having left his wife to get through the night feeds on her own. 'How are you feeling?'

'Fine.'

Jon tiptoed through his next comment. 'You seem so wrapped up in this research thing. I don't want you getting upset about it.' He lightened his tone and smiled. 'Don't forget we've got a little girl to look after too.'

She looked down. 'I'm feeding her now, aren't I?'

Yes, but that's about all you're doing with her. 'True. But go easy. The last thing you need to do is exhaust yourself stressing out over what's happening in Iraq.'

'Do I look tired?' He nodded.

She smiled. 'Well take a look at yourself. You're a complete wreck.'

Yeah, Jon thought. Nine hour's sleep and I still feel like shit. He grinned back, 'I'd better grab a shower then and make myself look beautiful.'

Summerby, McCloughlin and most of the incident room team were surrounding the centre table when Jon walked in. He spotted several copies of the
Manchester Evening Chronicle
dotted about.

'Morning, Jon, nice that you made it in,' Summerby said, before looking back at the front page. 'Just what we didn't want to happen.'

The photo was an aerial view of the Greater Manchester area, the route of the Medlock highlighted in a lurid red. Big crosses marked where all three victims had been discovered, next to each was a panel giving estimated time and date of death. Hovering over the city centre itself was a large red question mark.

The headline read,
River of Death
.

Jon sat down. 'I know where this has come from. Hobson, the big cat expert at Buxton Zoo. I saw the crime reporter from the
Chronicle
arrive there yesterday for a briefing. The bastard is using this whole thing as a business promotion.'

DC Adlon spoke up. 'I didn't have time to find much on the bloke, but a company search threw up something interesting. Buxton Zoo is a public limited company and Hobson is the majority shareholder.'

Summerby sat back and looked at Jon. 'I gather the reason you missed my briefing yesterday was because you were back at Crime Lake.'

Jon nodded. 'The word Kuririkana is written on the notice board at the top of the car park and on the rocks by where Rose Sutton was found.'

'You've been up on the moors too?' Summerby demanded. Catching Rick's look of surprise, Jon coughed awkwardly. 'I went straight up there after I found the word on the notice board in the car park. It had been daubed on the rocks in blood.

Rose Sutton's at a guess. Someone had then done their best to remove the word. Only a sweep with a Portascope showed it up.'

Summerby stared back at him. 'What's your conclusion then?'

'I'm not sure. I know Jeremy Hobson has spent time in Kenya though, he told me himself.'

Summerby mulled on the conversation as officers began to speculate in whispers. 'Right, we'll come back to that. In the meantime, Gavin Edwards has some other developments you should all know about.'

The press officer ruffled his copy of the newspaper. 'I have a contact on the features desk at the
Chronicle
. They're doing an interview with a man who's booked into the Royal Hotel in Buxton for the next twenty-one days. He says that's how long he'll need to trap and kill the panther.'

'Who is he?' Jon asked.

'He runs an agency that organises bear shoots in Eastern

Europe, among other things. Quite a character apparently.' Jon rolled his eyes. 'Where's he from?'

'He's British.'

'And I presume he's armed with some sort of a weapon?'

'Yup. It's got a scope on it that would put a paparazzi photographer to shame. I understand they've already done a photo-shoot in the grounds of the hotel. He even wears a hunting hat with game feathers in it.'

Jon looked at Summerby. 'This is getting like the wild west.'

'Agreed. I've been on to the Chief Constable of Derbyshire. This hunter fellow's firearm certificate is up to date, so all they can do is warn him not to discharge it in unauthorised areas. If the farmers allow him on to their land, we can't stop him.'