Chris Simms - Savage Moon

Murray headed to the central meeting table and opened the folder. 'Danny Gordon's file from the Silverdale. Why we're kept so busy.'

John listened as the officer described how Gordon had absconded repeatedly from the facility, usually to be found sniffing glue or shoplifting in the city centre. He also had a history of violent outbursts, frequently attacking staff members and fellow offenders.

'We need to find him. Any pointers from the facility?' Jon asked.

'According to the director, if anyone will know, it's this lot,' Murray replied, producing a photograph of a group of lads crouching around a football on the unnatural green of an Astroturf pitch. 'They formed a five-a-side team, were top of the league the staff organised. The director made a few phone calls and got the whereabouts of the rest.'

He held a finger to the person at the right hand edge of the shot. 'Michael Close. Lives in Aberdeen and works on the rigs in the North Sea. He's our second least promising bet. Did his stint at the Silverdale and has kept his nose clean ever since.'

'Who's the least promising one?' Rick asked.

'Him,' Murray replied, pointing to the next youth. 'Kevin Russell. Died last year when the stolen BMW he was travelling in left the M60 somewhat prematurely with the junction for the M56. No loss to his queen and country. The next one in is our man, Danny Gordon. Crap at football apparently. The guy at his side is James Field. Car thief. Scored all their goals and completed a course in… wait for it, car mechanics, while at the facility. Now works in a garage near Ashbury. Last up is Lee Welch, has another four years to go in Strangeways for holding up a jeweller's in the city centre.'

Jon bent over to examine the photograph more closely. Five fairly ordinary looking teenage lads. Danny Gordon was smaller and thinner than Jon imagined him from his mug shot. He was in the middle, looking somehow vulnerable, one hand resting on the football, no smile on his face. Jon wondered exactly what Peterson had done to him. Michael Close was lanky with a mop of brown hair and a friendly expression. He moved to the last two members of the team who were still alive.

Lee Welch had narrowed his eyes to mean slits and was succeeding quite well in looking like a proper thief. Only stick-thin legs betrayed the intimidating look he was trying to achieve. Next to him was James Field. The name had a slightly posh ring to it, Jon thought, staring at the youth. Jon had played in enough rugby teams to know with a glance that the lad was a natural athlete. Fifteen or sixteen, but with a fully adult physique. He was clearly of mixed race, one parent either African or Caribbean.

Jon looked at his watch. Five-twenty. Most offices would be shutting. 'Right, I want each of these people interviewed face to face. It's too late now, but two of you can get started on the drive up to Aberdeen. Any takers?'

The eyes of every single team member slid towards the floor.

'That's a surprise. Well, using my right as boss, I'm giving it to you two, Ashford and Rhea. I'll phone ahead for you.' He turned to a relieved looking DC Murray. 'You're obviously on a roll. Lee Welch is yours to interview. Rick and I will visit James Field's place of work first thing in the morning. Gardiner, you get over to the young offenders' probation offices by the law courts. Find out who was in charge of Danny Gordon and see what he knows. Paul, start asking questions at the soup kitchens and hostels. He may be using them.'

Just before seven Jon got the opportunity to slip outside into the car park. Punch was asleep on the blanket and Jon's heart sank when he realised how long the dog had been stuck in the car. Waking him with a gentle tap on the window, Jon opened the boot. 'Coming for a walk?'

Punch scrabbled to get a firm footing on the loose blanket, then jumped down on to the asphalt. Clicking a lead on to his collar, Jon set off out of the car park, crossed the main road and headed along the other side towards Crowcroft Park.

The noisy rush of commuters driving home meant there was little point in trying to phone Alice until he was in the park itself. He let Punch off the lead, took a seat on a battered bench then got his phone out. How to play it?

'It's me,' he announced cautiously.

'Hi.'

The single word gave nothing away. 'How's things back home?'

'All right thanks.'

Now he detected the flatness in her voice. 'Was Holly good for you today?'

'Not so bad. We both got some sleep after lunch.'

'Good. There's still more to do here, but I shouldn't be that much longer… ' He let the sentence trail off, testing the water.

She sighed. 'So I'll just do tea on my own?'

'Probably best. I'll grab something here.' He watched as Punch circled round on the grass in front of him, before squatting down and curling off a spindly turd. 'Great,' Jon groaned, realising he'd come out without any plastic bags.

'What's great?' Alice asked.

'Punch has just crapped on the grass,' he replied, patting his pockets and finding a latex glove.

'Oh.'

This is as good a time as any, he thought. 'How do you feel if

Punch-'

'I've said. We can't have the dog in our house. It's too risky.' Anger flared. 'My mum can't look after him.'

Nothing from his wife, just a faint squawking in the background.

'Ali, did you hear?'

'Holly's starting up.' Her voice sounded leaden. 'Probably needs changing.'

Nice, he thought. Making your priorities clear then. He pressed the red button, unsure if she'd hung up on him first. How could she be such a fucking cow? Surely being depressed didn't excuse that? Well, if she expected him to hurry back to help out, she was in for a long wait. He had plenty to do earning the money needed for the mountain of nappies, baby milk, clothes and other stuff she so happily took for granted.

He snapped the glove on, reached down and gingerly hooked his fingers under the warm sausage Punch had left, all the while picturing Alice wiping Holly's dirty bottom back home. The lump hit the bottom of the bin with a quiet thud and Jon's phone started ringing again. Hope reared up. Maybe she was ringing to apologise. He removed the glove and looked at the screen. Senior's name glowed there, the ex-Marine who coached at the rugby club. 'Senior, how's it going?'

'You training tonight or what, Slicer?'

Short and to the point as usual, Jon thought. 'No mate. I'm stuck in a big case.'

'Yeah, I saw your ugly mug on my telly. Did your mother never teach you how to knot a tie?'

That's rich, Jon thought with a smile, picturing the moth-eaten jumper, tracksuit trousers and slip-on shoes Senior favoured in the club bar. 'Saturday's looking out too, sorry.'

'Bloody useless you are, Slicer. What's more important? Getting out and playing a match with the boys or getting your face on the bloody telly? You'll be wearing fucking make-up next. Not that it'll do you any good, I've seen better looking arses on the monkeys down at the zoo.'

Jon heard him start to chuckle at his own joke and he couldn't help but grin. He was about to reply when he heard an anxious barking in the background. Senior's labrador, Bess. She'd been badly affected when the household's other dog, an Alsatian called Arthur, had died a couple of months ago. He glanced towards Punch as a thought suddenly occurred. 'Senior, could Bess do with some company?'

'The dog could do with bloody tranquillisers.'

'I need somewhere for Punch to stay.'

'What's wrong with your own house?'

'Problems with the missus.'

There was a pause and Jon knew the implications of his answer were sinking in. 'You'd better bring him round, then. Not that you'd remember, but training finishes about eight-thirty. Any time after that.'

Jon pulled up outside Senior's house just before ten. The lights were on downstairs and in the corner of the front garden was the usual pile of tackling bags and training bollards. It always amazed Jon how the things were never stolen — but every kid on the nearby estate knew not to aggravate the Sullivans. If Senior didn't find you, one of his two equally stocky sons would.