03-Savage Moon (7 page)

With his eyes half shut and a hand massaging his groin, he watched for the telltale sign of any approaching headlights. The minutes ticked slowly by. From somewhere nearby an owl hooted, the call both forlorn and inquisitive. Is there anybody else out there, it seemed to say.

Peterson was beginning to wonder the same thing. He lowered a window to let in some air. A single light twinkled far across the fields and a sheep bleated. What if I'm in the wrong car park, he suddenly wondered. There could be another one on the other side of the park. I didn't think to check the map properly. A sudden image of a busy car park flashed across his mind, men clambering from one vehicle to another, perhaps a young chicken who would come over to Peterson's car...

With the thought that he was missing out tormenting him, Peterson turned off his engine and opened the door. The interior light came on and he squinted at the sudden brightness. After climbing out and shutting the door behind him, he tried to examine the tarmac itself, looking for signs of recent activity. Wedged-up tissues, discarded condoms, empty bottles of pop- pers.

But the light inside his car had messed up his ability to see. The darkness swam with unnatural reds and oranges, blinking reviving a burning comet-shaped ball from where he'd glanced at the bulb itself.

Car keys dangling from his fingers, he slowly made his way across to the other side. Something was on the ground. He crouched down and patted the tarmac, fingers making contact with an empty packet of cigarettes. Looking up, he could see that the thick undergrowth separating the car park from the fields beyond was now only a few feet away. Bulky white forms seemed to float there. Sheep, slowly making their way from the field's edge. There was a strange smell in the air, sharp and musty. Cheap aftershave? He heard a sound close by and slowly stood. Was it a cough? His night vision was beginning to return, the swirls of colour fading to reveal his surroundings in a monochromatic grey.

He sensed more than saw something near the tree. 'Hello?' Peterson said, heart quickening with the thrill of someone else being there. 'There's no reason to be afraid.'

He peered at the area below the branches, trying to detect forms in the dark shadows lurking there. Then he stepped closer, holding a hand out. 'Please, I think we're looking for the same thing. There's no need to be shy.'

Was that the shape of something crouching at the base of the trunk? Something denser, blacker than the shadows around it? Peterson leaned forwards. That smell again. Not aftershave. More the tang of something unwashed.

With a sudden snarl, an inky mass shot upwards and outwards. Frozen to the spot, Peterson felt his eyes instinctively widen, allowing a fraction more light on to his retina. Pointed ears, a muzzle, something swinging towards his face. The impact caught him on the side of the neck, raking downwards across his throat. He wasn't aware of stepping backwards, or even falling, but now he was on his back, the black form moving in a blur above him as his torso rocked with fresh blows. Feebly, he lifted a hand to defend himself. His fingers made contact with thick, coarse fur before his hand was knocked away. Now there was liquid flying around, landing on his face, getting in his eyes. Rain? No, the droplets were shooting upwards, out of him. When he tried to shout only a bubbling rasp escaped.

Then the thing was gone. Coldness took its place, emanating down in waves from the star filled sky above. He tried to breathe in, immediately choking as a thick warmth flooded into his lungs. He tried to cough the liquid back out, unaware that most of the muscles in his neck now lay in tatters on the ground about his head.

SEVEN

The coffee machine squeezed a final dribble out into Jon's cup and he turned round to head for his office.

Halfway to the door he realised he'd forgotten to stop in the car park for a cigarette. He came to a halt, one hand sliding the packet of ten Silk Cut out of his coat. But then his eyes strayed to his office door.

He'd been turning over in his mind the development with Derek Peterson since waking up and now he was itching to get to his computer. Sod the cigarette, he decided. I should chuck the things in the bloody bin, he thought, but instead he pushed the packet back into his pocket. Just in case the morning turned sour.

A few of the fraud team were already in and he gave a general wave in their direction, not waiting for any response. As his computer booted up he reflected on the case again. Since Derek Peterson was the victim, the attacker was still out there. If only he could trace the person who had called 999 a lot more of what actually took place in the car park would be revealed.

Jon typed Peterson's details into the computer then reached for the coffee cup, blowing air across the surface of the liquid as he scanned the man's record.

Gross indecency in 1993. Lost his job at the Silverdale facility for young offenders. He'd been placed on the sex offenders' register after that and it looked like his employment record had taken a turn for the worse. In fact, Jon wondered, thinking about the state of the man's house, he probably hadn't worked since.

He looked at the personal details section. Prior to enrolling as a mature student at Salford Polytechnic in 1988, Peterson had worked as a finance officer for the council. The course he'd signed up for lasted one year. Health and Social Welfare. Jon shook his head. About five hours a week and an automatic pass for anyone who turned up for over half the lectures. That had obviously been enough to get him a job as a care assistant at the young offenders' facility. Classic behaviour of a paedophile; secreting himself into a position of trust that brought him into contact with youngsters.

He leaned back, allowing his mind to construct a possible scenario for the incident. Peterson worked in the care home from 1989 to his arrest in 1993. Four years with vulnerable teenagers. Peterson appeared to have been singled out by his attacker. Could there be some sort of a connection to the period Peterson spent at the Silverdale facility?

Jon made a mental note to pay the place a visit. He took a tentative sip of coffee. Still too bloody hot. What about Peterson himself ? He didn't like the fact a policeman had come knocking on his door. No surprise in that neighbourhood. Jon contemplated turning up in a patrol car with a uniform. Would a bit of pressure make the bastard cooperate or would it make him clam up even more?

His phone went. 'DI Spicer.'

'Jon, it's Sergeant Innes in the radio control room.'

'Morning, Graham. What can I do you for?'

'You're currently logged on to the record of one Derek

Peterson.'

Jon's eyes went to his computer screen. Anyone else accessing a person's police record was alerted to the fact if another officer was also logged on. 'I am.'

'Is he of especial interest to you?'

'He is.' He leant forward. This is going to be interesting.

'Then you might like to know that his body's just been discovered in a car park by a lake at Daisy Nook Country Park.' Bloody hell. The place mentioned on that dogging web site.

'Where's that?'

'Just off junction twenty-two of the M60. Out near Oldham.' Jon pictured the geography of Manchester. Oldham was on the north-east edge of the city, not far from where Peterson was attacked the other night. 'OK, what's the score?'

'A fisherman found his body at first light. Little more than an hour ago.'

'And is the scene secure?'

'Yes. Uniforms have taped it off and I've called out the major incident wagon.'

'Who else have you let know?'

'No one. I was thinking of putting a call in to McCloughlin. His syndicate is down for the next runner.'

'Don't.' Jon realised the word had come out with a little too much force. 'Peterson is central to a case I'm on. I'll let DCI Summerby know and see how he wants to play it.'

'Your shout, but I need to allocate it a FWIN and put it on the system.'

'Of course,' Jon replied, hanging up. Once the crime had been given a Force Wide Incident Number and entered on to the computer it wouldn't be long before his superiors spotted it. He needed to contact Summerby to make sure no one else was given the case. He picked up the phone and punched in his senior officer's number. Engaged.

He'd go up there himself. After hurrying across the office, he bounded up the stairs and knocked on Summerby's door.

'Come in.'

Summerby was just replacing the phone, his eyes on the computer screen. 'Ah, Jon, what brings you up here so bright and early?'

'Morning, boss. I was just talking to the radio control room. There's been a major development with my case.'

Summerby motioned to a chair, one eye still on his computer screen. 'Sit down.'

Jon perched on the edge of the seat. 'Yesterday I questioned the man who was attacked in the car park at Silburn Grove on Thursday night. When I asked for a description of his attacker he fed me a pack of lies. He'd also failed to seek medical help for the injuries he'd sustained. He was hiding something and I believe it was the fact that he knew his attacker.'

'Interesting.' Summerby finally dragged his eyes from the screen. 'So what's your next move?'

'Well, Sir, it's already been decided for me. His body was discovered in a car park by Daisy Nook Country Park this morning.'

Summerby's eyes slid back to his screen. 'Derek Peterson? This was the man you interviewed yesterday? Details have just gone on to the computer.'

'I gathered they were about to. That's why I came up to see you. Before word starts getting out... ' An image of McCloughlin was in his mind and he chose his words more carefully. 'You know the politics something like this can create.' Summerby's eyebrow was raised. 'Indeed I do. You're wanting this one for yourself, I take it?' Jon nodded.

'It's Category A. Members of the public at risk, Major Incident Room facilities, dedicated SIO and high level of media interest anticipated.'

'High level of media interest?'

'You obviously haven't actually read the incident details.'

'No,' Jon replied, wondering what was causing the dubious expression on Summerby's face.

'The man's throat was ripped out. He also suffered extensive lacerations to his face and chest.'

Jon had to gulp before any words would come out. 'Same as the woman up on Saddleworth Moor?'

'Seems so. When the press learn of this, it's going to be madness.' He reached for his A to Z of Manchester and turned to the index. 'Daisy Nook Country Park, here we are.' Summerby flicked to the overall map of the city and turned the book around for Jon to see. The park was on pages eighty-six and eighty-seven, near the edge of the grid of squares that covered the city and its outlying areas. A couple of inches to the right and the grid ended to be replaced by an expanse of green. Saddleworth Moor. 'There can't be five miles between the two killings.'

Jon studied the map. Jesus, could some sort of wild animal really be stalking the outskirts of Manchester?

'DI Spicer, are you sure you want involvement in this? It's going to be in the glare of the media. I don't need to mention the hours you'll have to put in.'

To keep his hands from fluttering with excitement, Jon placed them between his knees. He'd have to forget nine to five on this one. It would be evenings, late nights, weekends. The works. He thought about how Alice would cope with Holly on her own. But what else could he do? They both knew his job wasn't governed by normal hours and this case had suddenly got too good. 'It'll be fine sir. Both mums lives near by, they're more than happy to help out.'

Summerby nodded. 'Well, if you're sure, I'm happy for you to take it on. Obviously we'll have to make arrangements with the divisional bobbies handling the investigation on Saddleworth Moor, but I'm sure they'll understand this is now a case for the Major Incident Team. I'll let the necessary people know. You get over there. Here, I'll print you a copy of the report.' He clicked his mouse and the printer began to whirr on the corner of his desk. 'You know what the bit of water's called that this car park is next to?'

'No.'

Summerby had a wry smile on his face. 'Crime Lake.'

'You're serious?'

'Afraid so. Earned that name when a body was dumped in it. Couple of hundred years ago, mind you.'

Shit, the papers were going to have a field day.

Eight

Once Jon had fought through the traffic to get on to the M60, he flicked a switch on the dashboard of his unmarked car. Flashing lights and a siren came on behind the vehicle radiator grill. The cars in front jerked out of his way. This is more like it, Jon thought, not dropping below eighty until junction twenty- two appeared.

Racing on to the slip road, he forced his way across a busy roundabout then switched the siren off as he entered a residential area, vehicle lurching over a succession of speed bumps. After a quick glance at the open A to Z on the seat beside him he took a right turn and emerged at the junction for Coal Pit Lane, unkempt farm land directly in front. Beyond the fields was a hill, topped by a row of electricity pylons. Jon's eyes moved past the ugly structures to what rose up in the far distance: the muted browns of the moors.

He turned right, following the roughly surfaced road as it ran alongside fields dotted with sheep. He looked at the animals. Is there really some sort of a beast preying on you? For a second he could believe it – if any animal had the word victim stamped all over it, it was sheep.

Soon he spotted a small sign for Crime Lake and seconds later he was easing up by a tiny car park, lowering his window and holding up his identification as he did so. The uniformed officer standing in front of the police tape at the car park's entrance pointed him towards an Italian restaurant just down the road. The building stood on its own, a large expanse of tarmac to its side. 'Plenty of room in there, boss.'

He pulled up behind the major incident wagon. A couple of officers in white scene-of-crime suits were unloading equipment from the rear of the vehicle. Excellent, Jon thought, forensic recovery should be good. As he climbed out of his car he checked the sky. Grey and impassive, but no immediate sign of rain. Even better as far as collecting evidence was concerned.