Chris Simms: Savage Moon

Jon lowered his voice. 'Don't worry, you're about to be allotted some time for it. I'll make a start on these ones.' He removed the top three sheets from the list and left her to it.

He spent the rest of the morning working his way through the numbers, frequently getting answer machines at people's homes. Many were recorded by women — wives or partners. Jon left terse messages, asking the man to call him as soon as possible and not giving a reason why.

Pat walked into his side room just before lunch with a piece of paper in her hand. 'DI Spicer, I think I've got something for you.'

'Go ahead,' he replied, motioning at the spare seat opposite.

'Well, DCI McCloughlin instructed us to spend the morning on your calls.' She gave him a look that spoke volumes about McCloughlin's manner when he gave the command. 'Anyway, this man's answers were most odd.'

'How do you mean?' Jon asked, placing his elbows on the table.

'Well, I started off in the usual way. Said I was with the Greater Manchester Police and explained we were investigating an assault that took place in the car park at Silburn Grove last Thursday night. Well, he immediately asked how I had his phone number.'

'And?'

'I told him a car with a registration very similar to his was seen leaving the scene. He became very flustered and asked me to repeat when and where the incident took place, but I could tell he was just playing for time. When I asked if he drove an estate car he started complaining about his right to privacy and then hung up.'

For the first time in days, Jon felt the blood quickening in his veins. 'How old did he sound to you?'

'Not young. Hard to say, forty or over?'

'Really?' The answer caught Jon by surprise. The person who dialled 999 had described the attacker as a lad, not someone over forty. Perhaps we've tracked down the victim of the incident, he thought, taking the sheet of paper from her. A large star had been drawn next to a name near the bottom of the page,

DEREK PETERSON,

5 BURMAN STREET, CLAYTON.

'That's great, Pat, cheers.'

'Shall we carry on calling? DCI McCloughlin said we were allocated to you for the morning.'

'No, it's nearly lunch anyway. I'll give you a shout if I need any more help.'

She walked off and he turned to his computer. After logging into the PNC, he typed Derek Peterson's name and address into the search field. The man's record came up an instant later. Date of birth 1956. That made him forty-seven years old. Jon's eyes scanned downwards. A fine for gross indecency in 1993. Ten years ago he'd been arrested for exposing himself in the trees near to a children's playground. Jon felt his lip twitch with disgust. After that he'd been placed on the sex offender's list. The incident had also cost him his job in a care home for youngsters. Jon found himself immediately jumping to the conclusion that the man was a paedophile. Within a year of his conviction he'd informed the police of his move to Burman Street, but no further breaches of the law since then. As a result, his name had dropped off the register five years later. Jon then accessed VISOR, Manchester's Violent Sex Offender's Regis- ter. Nothing on that.

Feeling the muscles in his shoulders tensing up, he snatched the phone and started stabbing in the man's number. Half way through he stopped. OK, he thought, the man might be a seedy pervert, but he's also the victim of a vicious assault.

He put the phone down and breathed deeply. This wasn't the right attitude. He needed to suppress his own opinions and question the person in a professional and sympathetic manner if he hoped for any cooperation. How would Rick handle this? He'd go and see him face to face, that's what he'd do. He'd sit down and approach it gently. Right, decided Jon, picking up his jacket and heading for the door.

The drive to Clayton took Jon half an hour. Derek Peterson lived near the end of a drab and anonymous row of houses. Lads slouched at the corner, watching one of their group as he raced up and down the road on a miniature motorbike. Jon could see the area teetering on the edge of depression. Most of the tiny front gardens were unkempt, long grass engulfed a broken fridge in one. A few houses were boarded up. Residents were beginning to abandon the area and others were unwilling to move in.

He parked outside number five, worrying as he always did about some scrote damaging his car as soon as his back was turned.

There was a Volvo estate on Peterson's drive and its registration matched the numbers and letters reported by the anonymous caller. Jon looked at the front of the house. Most of the curtains were drawn and the view into the living room was blocked by a sheet of dirty yellow netting. What's the betting the inside of the house will be dim and musty, he told himself, getting his warrant card out and ringing on the bell. The netting to his right twitched, but by the time he'd turned his head the material had dropped back into place. It hung motionless as though it hadn't shifted in years.

Jon gave the door three loud raps with his knuckles. I'm not going anywhere, the harsh sounds announced, and moments later he heard movement behind the door. The lock rattled and the door opened up a crack to reveal a face that sagged with grey skin. The eye that wasn't partially shut by swelling switched nervously from Jon to the lads on the street corner beyond.

'Yeah?'

Jon sensed discretion was the best option, so he kept his ID close to his chest and his voice low. 'Derek Peterson? I'm DI Spicer from Greater Manchester Police. Could I come in for a quick word?'

The door didn't move. 'What's it about?'

'I think you know, Sir. You received a call from one of my colleagues about an incident in the car park on Silburn Grove.' The man sighed and the door opened a bit further to reveal an ugly lump on the man's forehead. It was capped by a fresh scab. He peered towards the street. 'Have you come in a patrol car?'

'No, Sir, that's mine parked directly in front of your house.' Peterson looked slightly relieved and Jon guessed he didn't want the neighbourhood knowing about this little visit. 'It won't get nicked there will it?' he said, trying to establish some rapport.

The man gave a snort as if to say, depends on your luck. Jon gestured with his hand. 'Maybe it's best we chatted inside?'

The door swung open and Jon stepped into the hall. As he suspected, the air was heavy with stale odours. Fried food and dirty carpets. Peterson walked into the front room and, without offering Jon a seat, slumped into an old armchair.

The telly was on, day time drivel that was barely different from the crap filling the evening schedule. Peterson looked like an apathetic sponge, soaking the lot up anyway.

Jon switched it off, not prepared to compete with the idiot box for the man's reluctant attention. The light in the room seemed weak and Jon wondered if it was on a dimmer switch only turned half way up, but when he saw the silhouettes of dead flies piled in the dirty lampshade he knew the interview was destined to take place in the gloom.

'Derek,' said Jon, sitting down and taking out a notebook and pen. 'Those are nasty injuries you've got there. Have you had them checked out?'

The man didn't respond and in the silence the whine of the miniature motorbike outside reached a crescendo as the machine sped past.

Jon shrugged. 'What happened in that car park last Thursday? We received a call from someone saying a serious assault was taking place.'

Peterson was still looking at the dead screen. 'Nothing much.'

'Nothing much? Someone's had a go at you. It looks like they meant business.'

Peterson draped a wrist over the armrest. 'Someone jumped out on me. He was carrying some sort of weapon. I don't know what.'