Chris Simms - Savage Moon

Jon's eyes moved slowly over the scene before him, desperately searching for any clue that may have been left behind. The bushes had grown into each other, forming an impenetrable barrier. There was no way the attacker could have retreated through them into the rough at the edge of the fairway. Which meant he'd have walked over the edge of the green. Shit, half an hour ago, this area would still have been in shadow; the attacker's footprints standing out in the damp grass. As Jon stared, he wondered whether four feet or only two would have made the trail.

'Get a grip,' he whispered, snuffing the thought out before it could take hold, but as he backed away from the scene he couldn't help glancing between the trees behind him. He set off towards the car park, pulling his mobile out as he did so.

'Mum, it's me. Sorry to call so early.'

'That's OK, love. What is it?'

'Mum, can you go over to ours and stay with Alice? She's not so good. I don't want her on her own and I won't be back for a bit.'

'The baby blues is it?'

'Baby blues? I think it's a bit more serious than that.'

'Is she expecting me?'

'No.'

'Is it right that I just turn up? On your doorstep unannounced?'

It's never bothered you before, he thought. 'Course. She won't mind. She should rest, Mum. She needs a bit of fussing over.'

'And when will you be home, then?'

The implication of the question was clear. This is your job, not mine. 'As soon as I can. Late morning, hopefully.'

'OK, but I can't stay too long. I have to be at Our Lady of the

Angels for mass at noon.'

Jon closed his eyes for an instant. The interminable hours you forced us to spend in that bloody church when we were kids. He remembered the little games he, Dave and Ellie would play to try and pass the time: searching the hymnbooks for lines they could couple with rude words, kicking the padded cushions away as they all had to kneel for prayers. 'I'll be back, don't worry.'

'Right, I'll get dressed then.'

As he got back to the car park a familiar red Mercedes was reversing into the corner. Collyer, the home office pathologist. Sure enough, the man unfolded his long limbs from the vehicle and walked round to his boot.

'Prompt as usual,' Jon said, feet crunching over the gravel. The pathologist turned his head. 'No flies on my corpses,' he replied.

Jon smiled, not able to quite manage a laugh. 'It's like the other one I'm afraid. Not pretty.'

'I didn't expect it to be,' he replied, climbing into a white body suit. He removed a large briefcase from the boot. 'Lead the way.'

Jon retraced his footsteps back down the fairway, coming to a halt at the edge of the green and extending a hand. 'It's all yours. I suspect the attack was launched from the cover of those bushes, so I've kept well away from that area.'

'Fine.' The pathologist pulled on white overshoes, a facemask and hair net. He then approached the body. After slowly circling it, he opened his briefcase and knelt down by the head for a closer look. He removed a thermometer and inserted the end into the wound. After that he examined the hands, taking more time over the man's right fingers. Next he retrieved the thermometer, checked it, then returned it to its case. Finally he took out another pair of overshoes and walked over to Jon. 'A couple of things you should see.'

Jon slipped them on, then followed the pathologist back across the green.

'Judging from the temperature inside the throat wound, the victim's been dead for an hour at the most. This attack was more ferocious than the last. He's really gone to town this time. Look at the flayed edges of the wounds. That suggests multiple strikes with the pronged weapon I described. He hasn't just torn the throat open, he's pretty much removed it. See here? That's the clavicle showing through.'

'Collar bone to me?' Jon asked, feeling the bile churning at the back of his throat.

'Collar bone to you. He's even damaged that. Look, can you see those four nicks in the bone? That's where the prongs made contact.'

Jon crouched down and leaned in close. The pathologist was right. Four chips to the bone, identical spaces in between. 'Can you look at those nicks under a microscope to see if any traces of the weapon have been left in the bone?'

'Yes, that's a good idea. Now, the reason why this attack was more savage could be this.' He moved down to Kerrigan's right hand. 'You see the sovereign ring? It's been dented and there's a black hair caught in the rim.'

'He punched his attacker?' Jon bent forwards. 'That hair. It looks horribly similar to the ones recovered from Sutton and Peterson.'

'But there's more. Look closely at the ring and you'll see some other matter caught there. I'd hazard a guess that's some of your attacker's epidermis.'

'Skin? We can test for DNA?'

'Correct.'

Jon slapped a fist into his palm. 'Brilliant. Can I leave you to it? I need to get over to the victim's house.'

'OK. I'll speak to you soon.'

'And can you make that DNA test a top priority?' Jon called over his shoulder, halfway across the green.

Up above him the cloud had closed in on the sun, snuffing out its welcome glow.

It was mid-morning before he got a chance to make it to Summerby's office. He was about to knock on the door when his mobile rang. 'Hi Mum, everything all right?'

'She's not here. I'm outside your house, but no one's in.' Alarm bells rang in his head. 'Have you brought your key?'

'Yes.'

'Then open the door, she's probably asleep.'

'OK, I'll call you back.'

He stood in the corridor, nervously jiggling the phone in his cupped hand. Probably nipped out to the shops. Yeah, we needed some coffee. Or maybe in the back yard. It had just started to drizzle, she was probably getting the washing in before it got wet.

His phone went again and he'd answered it before the end of the first ring. 'Hi.'

'She's not here.' Faint irritation was in her voice.

He wanted to demand that she search the whole house, but he knew it would sound melodramatic. 'Not upstairs then?'

'The buggy's gone, she must be out.'

'Hang on then, I'll try her mobile.' He hung up and speed dialled Alice's number. Her recorded voice asked him to leave her a message. 'Ali, it's me. Call me when you pick this up. OK, speak to you soon.'

He rang his mum back. 'It's on answer phone. Can you stick around and call me as soon as she turns up?'

'But I'm expected at-'

'Mum, I'm sure your church will survive if you miss just one bloody service. Alice isn't very well.'

'All right,' she finally replied. 'I'll do a spot of vacuuming.'

'Thanks, Mum.'

He knocked on Summerby's door and went in. Gavin Edwards was there by the window, eyes directed to the sky as if he could gauge the coming media storm by the greyness of the clouds outside.

'So,' his senior officer announced, hands crossed on the desk before him. 'Same hallmarks as the other two?'

'More than that,' Jon sat down, the taste of a hastily gulped can of Red Bull still in his mouth. His heart rate was slightly up and he could feel the press of blood behind his eyes. 'The pathologist found a hair on the victim's right hand. I'm getting used to recognising panther hairs and it looked identical to the ones from Sutton and Peterson.'

'Hairs caught under the victim's nails again? Isn't that a bit too convenient?' Summerby demanded.

'Not under the nails, sir. It was snagged in the rim of a sovereign ring he was wearing. There was also what appeared to be a scrape of skin caught there. It could be that Kerrigan struck back at his attacker and took off some of his skin in the process.'

'What is he, an ex-boxer or something?' Gavin Edwards asked from the corner.

'He was known to be violent. I think we can assume he knew how to throw a retaliatory punch.'