Chris Simms - Savage Moon

'Danny Gordon worked at your zoo?'

'That's Danny Gordon? My God, I didn't realise that was his name. As part of our community involvement, we accept lads from the Silverdale facility on work placements. The one helping me today, he's from there.' He turned to Jon. 'Only a fraction of any zoo staff are permanent. During holiday periods we need to double our numbers, so we take seasonal staff from many places. Students of zoology, animal behaviour and veterinary sciences, along with more casual workers.'

Jon glanced at Rick, who was looking equally surprised. Rick turned back to Hobson. 'So Danny Gordon did a stint at your zoo. When?'

'A few years back.'

'Doing what?'

'Cleaned tables in the cafe´. I offered to let him help with the animals, but he obviously didn't enjoy it. City lad through and through.'

Jon thought about how Samburu's hairs had turned up on all three victims. 'Did he ever help out with the panthers?'

'Once. He hated the smell though. Unlike his friend. He took a real shine to them.'

'Who?' Jon asked.

Hobson placed a finger over the head of James Field. 'Him. They arrived together. He was called James, I think. Far more enthusiastic. In fact, he was one of the best workers the Silverdale ever sent.'

Jon felt light-headed. He didn't know how it fitted together, yet, but he knew this was it. 'You're saying James Field had plenty of contact with the panthers?'

'Oh yes. I trusted him to feed them, clean them out. He took to studying their behaviour, learning their natural history, everything.'

'Hunting techniques?'

'Yes. I expected him to apply for a full time job to be honest. I would have taken him on too.'

'Gordon and Field were good mates?'

'Absolutely. They stuck together each break time, shared those roll-up cigarettes they all seem to smoke. James was stronger, more mature. I got the impression it was almost a big brother, younger brother kind of thing between them.'

Jon took a deep breath. Slow down, he thought. Keep your head clear. All that stuff James Field had said about hardly knowing Danny Gordon. What bullshit. 'Right, I'm concluding this interview at ten-fifty.' He clicked the tape off and looked at Hobson. 'One minute please, Rick and I need to talk.'

Out in the corridor he had an almost overpowering urge to leap into the air. 'It's Field. Am I right?'

Rick's eyes shone with excitement. 'How does it work? Field killed Sutton, Peterson, Kerrigan and his best mate?'

'No, Danny Gordon killed himself, unable to take it after Peterson humiliated him all over again. Field found his friend's body and decided to settle things with Peterson himself. He added the word to Gordon's suicide note. Simple revenge. Kuririkana. Remember. It was payback for what happened in the past.'

'So how do the other deaths fit in?'

'We'll find out soon. We've been concentrating on Danny Gordon. But if it's Field doing the killing, there's no wonder we haven't found any links between the victims. We need to get over to that garage straightaway.'

The side street was still clogged with cars. Droplets of rainwater were clustered on the windscreens, drips slowly fell from dented bumpers, pooling in the oil-stained puddles. A train rumbled by overhead, wheels screeching on the steel tracks.

Jon and Rick hurried along the narrow street, halting at the door to 'A and L Repairs'. Sensing Rick was hanging back, Jon looked over his shoulder. 'What?'

'I just thought, shouldn't we get back-up? If it's him, he's got one evil weapon on him.'

Jon paused, realising his eagerness had got the better of him.

'There's no back way for him to get out by. We can call for help once we know he's inside.'

He knocked on the door before pushing it open and stepping into the dingy interior. A Vauxhall estate was up on jacks, the legs of a dirty pair of overalls poking out from beneath. 'Hello there,' Jon announced.

The legs twitched and the garage owner wheeled himself out from beneath the vehicle, the body board he was on completely obscured by his bulk. 'Yes gents?'

Glancing towards the shadows at the rear of the garage, Jon said, 'Is James Field about?'

The man sat up and, still holding a spanner, wiped a cuff across his forehead. 'Nope. He's not turned up since you were last here.'

'Got a home address or phone number for him?'

'Yeah, I've tried ringing. He's not answering. Tell him he's sacked when you catch up with him.'

'What's his address? We'll pop round.'

With a grunt, the man got to his feet. He led Jon and Rick to the rear of the garage and opened a dirty address book. 'There you go.'

Jon took out his notebook and jotted it down. 'Can I take a look in his locker?'

'Padlocked.'

'Maybe you decided to break into it? It's your locker, after all.'

The man nodded. 'I suppose I could have.' He picked up a stout screwdriver off the workbench and positioned the end of it beneath the metal plate on the door. Two sharp yanks and the piece of metal flew off. He headed back to the Vauxhall.

Jon swivelled the reading lamp so its beam shone inside. On top of a pair of overalls was the book James Field had been reading.

Secrets of the SAS — Survival and combat techniques for the world's harshest environments.

Jon pulled on some gloves and opened the book to reveal a section on camouflage and ambush. 'Oh bollocks,' he said, putting it on the table, then gently lifting out the overalls. Beneath them was a box file. He placed the overalls on the workbench and with the tip of a finger, lifted the file's lid. Inside was a large piece of folded paper. Jon lifted it out by its edges and gently shook it open.

'Sweet Jesus.' At first he thought it was a diagram for a particularly brutal looking garden fork. Thin lines next to it gave measurements in millimetres. The handle, little more than a tube with a splayed base, measured one hundred and forty. It then merged with an oval shaped piece of metal with four bumps running across the top. From each one there emerged an evil looking hook, each one measuring forty millimetres. Further round the oval was a barb-like fifth. 'The dew claw,' murmured Jon. 'He's replicated a panther's paw.'

'My God,' said Rick. 'It's the murder weapon.'

'Or weapons,' Jon replied. 'One for each hand.'

As Rick returned to the car for evidence bags, Jon addressed the garage owner once again. 'Did James show any interest in welding?'

He slid back out from under the vehicle. 'Yeah. He was making garden ornaments. Don't know what. I'd leave him to it, let him lock up at night.'

Jon looked at the acetylene tank and blowtorch to his side. Garden ornaments, my arse.

It was a short drive to Field's place in Ryder Brow. The flat was located on the ground floor of a three-storey 1970s building. The armed response unit showed up ten minutes later, shortly followed by the call from the Detective Super giving them permission to enter the flat.

Jon and Rick watched from down the street as the building's residents were quietly ushered away. Once the area was clear, the team went in. The communication officer's helmet mike sounded seconds later. 'No one in.'

Jon and Rick ducked under the cordon tape, reaching the doors to the building as the armed officers began filing back out, Heckler and Koch MP5 carbines held across their chests. The front door to Field's flat had been smashed off its hinges and they had to step over it to enter his property. An armed officer appeared from the front room, removing his earpiece as he did so. 'One of you DI Spicer?'

'Me,' Jon replied.

'You've got a letter.' He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

'In there.'

The front room was sparsely decorated with second-hand furniture. A sofa was positioned against the back wall, an African-style throw failing to conceal the battered upholstery at its base. Mounted on the wall above it was a wooden face mask, splashes of red surrounding the jagged eyes, lines of dots running across the forehead and cheeks.