Chris Simms - Savage Moon

How long could he hold off letting the press know Derek

Peterson's identity?

Was there a connection between Hobson and Mrs Sutton? What the hell had got into Alice?

Ten minutes later she came back and got into bed without a word.

'Alice, can we talk?'

She nestled down under the duvet with her back to him.

'What about?'

What about? How about your terrible mood? 'You seem a bit stressed out. Are you feeling OK?'

The mattress moved slightly as she shrugged.

He reached a hand out and ran a forefinger along the back of her neck. 'Who'd have thought such a little thing could knacker us out this much?'

Abruptly she sat up, and in the half light, he could just make out her crossed arms as she looked down at him. 'Am I being over sensitive?'

Just a bit, he thought. 'I don't know. Over-tired maybe.' She moved a hand towards her eyes, pushed a strand of hair he couldn't see away. 'I do feel emotional. Sorry if I snapped at you earlier.'

Relief. At least she acknowledges she's acting strangely. He remembered the salon. 'Did you ring Melvyn about that haircut?'

She sighed. 'No. I haven't had time. Maybe in a few weeks, once Holly's in more of a routine.'

'You should pop in anyway, just for a chat. Catch up on what's going on, remind yourself of what a laugh you had working in that place.'

'I don't know. I'm hardly looking my best at the moment.'

'So? That's what beauty salons are for. Book a manicure and makeover too. I said I'm paying.'

Her hand dropped down to his head. Fingertips began massaging at his skull, tingles spread along his neck. 'I can't stop the tears sometimes. There's so much to do. Sometimes just the thought of ironing makes me tired.'

'Don't worry about it,' he replied, hooking a forearm across her thighs and squeezing. 'You've been through a massive change. I mean, you've given birth, Alice. Jesus. It's a huge thing.'

'What if I can't cope?'

'Ali, it's not just your responsibility. I'm here.' He thought about how early he needed to be in at the station. Before eight preferably.

'I still feel really uneasy about having that dog in the house.' That dog? Not long ago it was Punch. 'You feel that he's some sort of a danger to Holly?'

'I know he is. You know they say dogs have the same intelligence as a young child? They advise you not to leave a baby alone in a room with a young brother or sister.'

Those bloody magazines you read, he thought. 'Why?'

'Jealousy. They realise the baby is taking attention away from them. Depriving them of love. It causes resentment… babies are always getting injured by their siblings.'

First I've heard about it. Dreading what she was about to say, Jon asked, 'What are you suggesting then?'

'Can't he go to your mum and dad's?'

You know he bloody can't, Jon thought. 'My mum will never have a dog. It might mess up her perfect house.'

Her fingers were now working at the back of his neck, causing him to feel drowsy. 'Well, there's rescue centres. Places like that.'

Jon propped himself up on one elbow. 'You are joking?' Her hand withdrew and she re-crossed her arms. 'No.' From her tentative tone, he realised there'd been too much aggression in his voice. 'Ali, I'm not dumping Punch in some abandoned dog's home because he licked Holly's head.'

No answer. The silence stretched out until he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. 'I'm going for a shower.'

The sky was still pitch black as Jon swung his car into the police station car park. He looked at the dashboard clock. Twelve minutes to seven. Oh well, he thought, at least I'm in early. He came to a halt and looked over his shoulder. The back seats were folded down and Punch lay on a rug, a forlorn look on his face.

'All right boy? Bet this feels a little weird.' He got out of the car and opened the hatchback door. Punch sat up as Jon reached for a bottle of water and filled his dog's bowl. Then he unfolded the neck of a sack of dog biscuits and sprinkled a few on some flattened-out newspaper. 'OK boy. I'm going inside for a bit.' He pointed at the station building. 'In there. You stay here. You'll be OK. I'll be back soon.' He glanced at his watch. 'In about two hours.' Punch's stare didn't waver. 'OK, maybe two and a… ' He stopped talking. What am I doing? The dog doesn't speak bloody English, for Christ's sake. And it certainly can't tell the time. He closed the boot then went back to the driver's door. After lowering the window a couple of inches, he found a piece of paper and scrawled on it, 'If the dog's barking, let me know. DI Spicer, extension two-seven-four.'

After placing it on the dashboard and giving Punch a guilty wave, he hurried away to his office. The corridors were quiet, just the sound of a radio playing somewhere, a night shift officer singing tonelessly along. Jon opened the doors to the incident room. His incident room. Dark tables and desks, lifeless computer screens. Not for long, he thought, running the heel of his palm over the wall switches and listening to the chorus of buzzes as the strip lights flickered to life.

A feeling of exhaustion suddenly cascaded over him and he stepped back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut. What the hell am I doing? I shouldn't be here. Alice is stressed out. She needs me at home and here I am, heading up a bloody double murder investigation. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and looked up at the ceiling, not knowing what to do. His fingers brushed against the packet of cigarettes and he took them out. Good thinking. Coffee and a smoke, that'll clear my head. Once his cup was full, he set off to a different side door, not wanting to smoke a cigarette in full view of his dog.

He exhaled, the vapour in his breath combining with the smoke to create an impressive cloud. As it churned slowly away from him, a pair of headlights cut through it, adding to the dramatic effect. The car came to a halt and he spotted the bald head of Gavin Edwards through the windscreen. Bloody great.

'DI Spicer. Didn't know you smoked,' the press officer announced as he climbed out.

'Just the odd one. More a social thing really.' He glanced to his side, painfully aware that he was alone. 'You're in early.'

Edwards puffed out his cheeks, the shape of his face reminding Jon of a potato. Holding his briefcase before him as if to protect his groin he said, 'It's this case Jon. It's preying on my mind.' You and me both, Jon thought, grinding the cigarette out and accepting that his opportunity for quiet contemplation was over.

'What's bothering you?'

'Withholding Peterson's ID. That, and not coming clean about the possible connection to Mrs Sutton's murder. I'm afraid that by withholding information we'll have given the papers opportunity to speculate freely. They'll be creating the stories they know will have maximum impact.'

Jon had to nod. The bloke was probably right.

'And let's face it. A wild animal on the loose in Britain is good enough. But when it starts eating people… it's any reporter's wet dream.'

Jon leaned forward, invading the other man's personal space.

'There's nothing to prove it's the work of an animal.'

Edwards held up a placatory hand. 'I know. But there's nothing to disprove it either. And I'm worried the papers will exploit the space we created. I think we should call another press conference as soon as practical.' Three beeps came from his jacket and he fished a mobile phone out and started reading the text message.

Jon tipped the dregs of his coffee down a nearby drain, glad of the chance to consider his options.

'Events have overtaken us,' Edwards announced with a grim look. 'That was a contact I have at the Manchester Evening Chronicle . They've tracked down Peterson's address. There's a photographer on his way to the house now.'