Chris Simms - Savage Moon

'So who was he?' Summerby asked, eyes on the notes in Jon's lap.

'Trevor Kerrigan, lived in a house called The Beeches on

Droylsden Road.'

'The Beeches? That sounds a bit grand, isn't it just terraced houses along there?'

'He was the area's biggest loan shark. Nasty piece of work according to the local officers. Got a record that stretches back over thirty years. Early stuff on tax evasion and fraud. He rented bed-sits. Seems he packed that in during the recession of the eighties to focus solely on money lending. Plenty to suggest he uses intimidation and low level violence to collect what's owed him, but nothing has ever resulted in a conviction.'

'A man with many enemies,' Summerby leaned back. 'You think that Danny Gordon will feature on his list of debtors?'

'That's my guess.'

'Still no sign of him?'

'Unfortunately not.' He turned to Edwards. 'You issued his name and description?'

'Yes, the release went out yesterday evening. Too late for the first editions to major on it, but local radio have picked it up. No calls through to the incident room then?'

'A few,' Jon replied. 'Just vague sightings in the city centre. Nothing solid as yet. I gather there's already been quite a reaction to this latest killing.'

Summerby laughed. 'A reaction? People are getting bloody hysterical. We've got sightings of panthers being called in from all over the place. People won't walk in parks. The council has had to issue an appeal for calm. I've never experienced anything like it.' He picked up his phone. 'Let's meet again at four.'

Taking the cue, Gavin made for the door. Jon stayed in his seat. 'Sir, could I have a word?'

Summerby met his eyes, then glanced at the press officer who was hovering at the door. 'That's all Gavin, thanks.'

The door closed and Summerby replaced the phone. 'What's up, Jon?'

Jon took a breath in. 'I'm not sure I can continue being SIO on this case.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'It's my wife, Sir. Things have gone a bit downhill at home.' He found himself flicking the fingers of his hand, as if warding off an irritating insect. Christ, Jon, this is Alice you're talking about. 'Since having the baby she's got more and more stressed. That and being tired. She's not coping too well.'

'You mean she's depressed?'

He couldn't bring himself to agree. Somehow it felt like he was betraying her. 'Not depressed, but she needs support. I'm never there for her.'

He watched Summerby thinking it over. 'When this case kicked off, I asked you whether it was a good idea for you to take it on. You assured me that it was. As I remember, you mentioned there was plenty of help from members of your family and hers.'

Jon recalled his blithe assurance. What a prick you were, he told himself. 'I did, yes. But the case isn't what it first appeared.'

'Few cases are. Now we're in the thick of it and you want to walk away? I've got the Chief breathing down my neck, DI Spicer.'

You also don't want to jeopardise the holiday you've no doubt booked the day after you retire, Jon thought. 'Sir, you also reserved the right that, if things got out of hand, you'd step in to take command.' Admitting defeat was not something Jon ever permitted himself to do. He searched for the words. 'I feel that point has been reached.'

'Do you realise how I've fought your corner with McClough- lin? This will make me look a complete fool.'

Jon felt himself shrivelling in the chair. He tried to sit up.

'What can I say? Alice isn't well. She's… ' What? He thought. On some motorway flyover contemplating jumping off? Is Holly in her arms? He squeezed his eyes shut. 'She's struggling.'

'Has she seen a GP?'

'No.'

'Maybe that should be your first priority. It would help put things in perspective. Perhaps it's just a case of some medication.'

Jon sighed. 'I can't head this thing up. It's too big. I'll work as part of the team no problem, but I don't know how to run the whole show.'

Summerby rolled a pen back and forth with the tip of one finger. 'Fine. You'll need to take me through your policy book. I want to know about all of your decisions so far, the reasoning behind them, what is being currently actioned. I'm assuming you've got everyone trying to locate Danny Gordon?'

'Not everyone, no. I've got people looking into Jeremy

Hobson's past, others asking questions out at Mossley Brow.'

'Sod that. Who are those officers kicking their heels up in

Aberdeen?'

'Rhea and Ashford.'

'Fly them back down here if necessary. I'll see the Chief about getting some more men on the case.'

Halfway down the stairs Jon paused on a landing and rang his mum again.

'No, she's not back yet. Jon, you sound very uptight.'

'Things are really busy here, that's all. Don't forget to call me-'

'I know, I know. Now can I get on with this cleaning?'

He felt as though everything he cared about was under threat. Scrolling down through his phone book, he called Senior's number. 'It's Jon. Everything OK, mate? Punch not being too much bother?'

'The dog's fine. They've been tearing round the park like a couple of nutters.'

'Great. I'll try and pop round later.'

He carried on down the stairs, aware that the can of Red Bull had added a coating of fur to his teeth. 'Toothbrush,' he muttered, hurrying past the incident room to the car park. Minutes later he was pulling up on the garage forecourt. Inside he headed for the toiletries section. Seven quid for a toothbrush and toothpaste? Cursing the fact he was being ripped off, he placed the items on the counter.

'I bet you're living in that police station, aren't you?'

He looked up, realising it was the same attendant from the other night. 'Not far wrong.' He removed a ten-pound note from his wallet.

'Or do you prefer not to be travelling the roads at night? Safer to stay in the cop shop?'

Jon put the money on the counter, sensing a wild theory on how to solve the case coming his way.

'I wouldn't worry. The Medlock flows into town a good mile north of here.'

Jon looked at the attendant. 'Say again?'

The man gave a knowing wink. 'The Medlock. I've been looking at the city centre map too.' He opened a large format A to Z and pointed to the page. 'The beast is following the river, right? It killed the woman first, now it's crept down off the moors and killed that guy by Crime Lake. Now it's got another on the Brookvale golf course. Look, the Medlock runs off the moor and passes through both spots. The animal is probably heading towards the city centre as we speak. Am I right, or am I right?'

Jon managed a tight-lipped smile. That was the half-formed thought that had occurred to him on the moor, as he was sitting on the back of Sutton's quad bike looking down towards Manchester. What had Adam Clegg called it? The Mersey basin. And the Medlock flowed right into the heart of the city before emptying into the Manchester Ship Canal. Jesus Christ, it'll be mayhem if people start believing that.

'Good imagination, mate.'

The man laughed. 'That's what my teachers said at school. Didn't get me far though, did it?'

Jon drove round the corner then immediately parked up. He took his own A to Z of Manchester from the glove box and turned to the overall map at the front. There was Saddleworth Moor, a near blank expanse just beyond the right-hand edge of the map's grid. He looked at the square nearest to it, then turned to that page and studied the main features there. Saddleworth Moor golf course. Moorgate Quarry, Ladcastle Quarry (disused). He turned to the page before. An empty area called High Moor dominated it. A patch of blue caught his eye. Lower Strinesdale Reservoir. And there, above it, was the thinnest of black lines. The River Medlock.

The area below was covered by page seventy-four. More details filled that page and he had to scan a swarm of words before finally finding the ones he was looking for. The Medlock. Still just a black line, it emerged by Sun Hill, disappeared again, then popped up further down the page at Lees Cemetery. It had widened considerably by the time it meandered past Oldham Golf Course. He turned to page seventy-three. Now it was marked as a blue line, making it easier to pick out as it trailed off the corner to continue on page eighty-seven. He saw the words Daisy Nook Country Park and Crime Lake. He remembered looking down at the river from the bridge, noting how the overgrown banks would have provided cover for an attacker. The river branched away, passing beneath the M60 ring road and on to page eighty-five. Brookvale Golf Course. Shit, the thing ran right past where Kerrigan's body had shown up. Jon looked down the page. Now it was just above Droylsden. Next was page ninety-seven. There it was again, meandering innocently through an area that was crowded with residential streets and industrial properties. At Philips Park it disappeared, emerging to the left of Beswick in a Public Open Area. Now he was on the red grid of enlarged squares that detailed the city centre itself. Familiar names sprang out at him. The Town Hall and Library. Piccadilly Gardens. The Arndale Shopping Centre. Bridgewater Hall. Granada TV Centre.