Chris Simms - Savage Moon

'I think you should discuss it with her first. You know, a few gentle nudges about how she's feeling. Perhaps float a visit just as a possibility.'

'Yeah, you're right. I don't suppose you could take Punch for a day or two?'

'Jon, I live in a flat. Not a chance.'

'Yeah, thought so,' Jon replied, eyes on his dog's reflection in the rear-view mirror.

Ken Sutton stood looking up into the oak tree in the field above his farm. Andrew was perched on a bough, drilling a block of wood into its upper side. Once the screw was properly in he hitched the electric screwdriver on to his tool belt and looked down. 'Next.'

Ken held up the last square of wood. Keeping his grip on the bough with one hand, Andrew reached down with his other and was just able to take it. He placed the block over a cross he'd scored in the bark earlier on, positioned another screw then drilled it through and into the branch itself. Once he'd done the same with three other screws he sat back and looked around him. Four other blocks of wood were held firmly in place on the tops of neighbouring branches. 'This takes me back to building tree houses when I was younger. First plank then.'

Ken crouched down and hooked his fingers under the end of the six-foot length of timber at his feet. Standing it upright, he raised it to within reach of Andrew's hands. The weight on his fingers disappeared as the plank vanished up into the branches.

Andrew laid it between two boughs, wedging the outer edge against two blocks of wood. The screwdriver was lifted from his tool belt and the plank soon fixed in place. One by one, Ken passed up the other planks and soon Andrew had created a small platform between the tree's lower branches.

Crouching on it, he took a spirit level from his belt and placed it on the wooden surface. 'Not bad for a rush job. Right, next is the carpet. You're certain this hasn't been near any chemicals recently?'

'Only if you count sheep piss. It's been in the end barn for months.'

'Sheep piss is good.'

Ken heaved the roll of dusty carpet up on to its end. Crouching down again, he gripped the lower part in a bear hug and straightened his legs. The top of the roll was now about four feet above his head. Andrew lay over the edge of the platform, grasped it in both hands and began pulling upwards. Bits of straw, dried earth and wood lice began dropping out of the bottom end into Ken's hair.

Andrew dragged it over the edge and unrolled it across the platform, a variety of startled centipedes and spiders fleeing for the edges. 'Perfect. This'll keep the draught off my arse.'

Ken was bent over, running a hand through his hair to dislodge the debris caught in it. 'Just the camouflage, then.' He turned to a mound of netting that lay in the long grass. After scooping it up, he flung it upwards with both arms. Andrew's outstretched fingers caught a corner and he yanked it on to the platform like a fisherman pulling in his catch.

'What's the view up there like then?' Ken asked, looking across the field.

Andrew peered out from between the bare branches. 'It's fine.' He lifted an imaginary rifle and pointed to a patch of grass about thirty metres away. 'We tether up one of your old ewes there and bang, it's game over.'

Ken crossed his arms and scanned the bottom edge of the moor. Nothing moved in the brown landscape.

'Come on, you bastard,' he murmured to himself.

Jon spent the rest of the morning coordinating the other strands of the investigation, including the dredging of Crime Lake.

DC Susan Gardiner arrived back just before lunch with the first boxes from Mossley Brow. After logging them in, she placed them in the corner by Jon's desk.

'Did you get the list of people interviewed so far?' he asked. She nodded. 'That one on the right. In the orange folder.'

'How did Clegg seem to you?'

'Agitated to see all the files go. He wanted to know how things were progressing.'

I bet he was, thought Jon. He lifted out the orange folder and opened the cover. Inside was a pile of statements, accompanied by Personal Descriptive Forms of each person questioned. Jon scanned over details including age, weight, colour of hair. His eyes automatically went to the box indicating whether the person had consented to a DNA swab. Most had. The first few names meant nothing to him. Then his fingers stopped flicking through the sheets. Edith Clegg. Adam's sister and Rose Sutton's bridesmaid. Jon thought about Adam's evasiveness. Questioning Edith about Rose might also reveal a bit about Adam. It seemed a good place to start. 'Fancy a drive out to Holme?'

Rick looked up from the adjacent desk. 'Why not?'

The tourist office in Holme only had one hiker in it. Jon and Rick stood outside until the woman behind the counter had served him, then they crossed the street and went in.

'Edith Clegg?' Jon asked politely.

'Yes,' she replied, her smile suddenly becoming fixed in place as he produced his warrant card. 'DI Spicer and DS Rick Saville, Greater Manchester Police. Could we have a word?'

Her eyes dropped to the till, then lifted slowly back up again.

'Is it about Rose?'

'That's right,' Jon replied, looking meaningfully around the empty room. 'We can call back later if now isn't convenient.'

'No, that's fine. How can I help?'

'You were very close to Rose, I understand?'

'That's correct. I have given a statement you know.'

'I do. It's just that I have a few questions of my own, if that's all right.'

She nodded and as Jon got out his book he noticed that the smile still clinging to her lips didn't match the cautious look in her eyes. 'How long had you known Rose?'

'We grew up together — in Mossley Brow on the other side of the moor.'

'Nice place to live. What brought you over here?'

'When we sold the family farm I needed somewhere else. Property was slightly cheaper here and it's nice and quiet.'

'How about Rose? Why did she move?'

'She got married.'

'I gather Rose's parents have both passed away.'

'Yes. Her father died when we were all at school. Her mum lasted until about twenty years ago. She developed MS. Rose nursed her for many years.'

'She seemed to have had a very caring side to her, what with her job in the nursery.'

A genuine smile now appeared on Edith's face. 'Yes, she had such a kind nature.'

'It seems a bit odd that she never chose to have children of her own.'

Edith's face clouded. 'She married late, I suppose.'

'Yes.' Jon went to some notes he'd jotted down back at Longsight. 'Married to Ken Sutton in nineteen eighty-eight. Thirty-nine is a bit old, even for nowadays.'

'Well, as I said, she took care of her mother for all those years.'

'Yes you did. And how long had she known Ken Sutton before marrying him? Did he sweep her off her feet in a whirlwind romance?'

The attempt at making her smile again didn't work. 'She'd met Ken. You know, crossed paths over the years. But they didn't start seeing each other until after Elsie — that was her mother — finally died.'

'So things did move quite fast between them.'

'Yes. I was quite surprised. But she was almost forty by then. I think she was afraid of ending up alone.'

Jon looked for a wedding ring on Edith's hand and didn't see one. 'You think she rushed into the marriage then? He was, by my reckoning, fifty-four when they tied the knot.'

'Rushed into it?'

She was stalling for time and Jon sensed that he'd hit upon something.

'You know the saying,' he continued. 'Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Was she happy with Ken?'

She squared off a stack of leaflets on the counter between them. 'I'd say they were content enough. They weren't like young teenagers, all giddy and starry eyed. Too old for that.'