Savage Moon

The attempt at making her smile again didn't work. 'She'd met Ken. You know, crossed paths over the years. But they didn't start seeing each other until after Elsie — that was her mother — finally died.'

'So things did move quite fast between them.'

'Yes. I was quite surprised. But she was almost forty by then. I think she was afraid of ending up alone.'

Jon looked for a wedding ring on Edith's hand and didn't see one. 'You think she rushed into the marriage then? He was, by my reckoning, fifty-four when they tied the knot.'

'Rushed into it?'

She was stalling for time and Jon sensed that he'd hit upon something.

'You know the saying,' he continued. 'Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Was she happy with Ken?'

She squared off a stack of leaflets on the counter between them. 'I'd say they were content enough. They weren't like young teenagers, all giddy and starry eyed. Too old for that.'

'Yes, but every relationship needs a bit of romance. Was Ken very affectionate towards her?' Jon thought of the man's frosty exterior and couldn't imagine it.

'I suppose so, in his own way.'

'Really? When I spoke to him, he emphasised the effectiveness of their teamwork round the farm. There wasn't a lot of grieving for a lost lover.'

She looked directly at Jon. 'Who knows what goes on behind closed doors? Apparently happy marriages suddenly break up, hopeless ones stand the test of time.'

'You knew Rose. You were her bridesmaid, one of her best friends. Surely she confided in you.'

Edith shook her head. 'As I say, they appeared content enough.'

'How would you describe Rose's relations with other men?' Her eyes opened wider for just a fraction of a second. 'How do you mean?'

'Did she have many male friends?'

'Not really. The farm is a full-time job, not much time for socialising with people, male or female. The odd visit to the

Shepherd's Rest, but that's hardly private.'

Jon soaked up the sudden rush of information — he hadn't got round to asking where she might meet her friends, male or female. 'I don't know, there must be plenty of quiet spots in the countryside nearby if you were looking for somewhere more private.'

Now she adjusted a pot of pens. 'I really couldn't say.' Don't worry, Jon thought, you're telling me enough as it is.

'Tell me about Jeremy Hobson. Didn't the two of them spend a lot of time together up on the moors?'

'Jeremy Hobson? The man from Buxton Zoo?' There was a note of disbelief in her voice.

'You think it impossible they could have been having an affair?'

She opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. 'That's not a question I can answer without implying she was having an affair with someone.'

'Was she?'

'I don't know! We didn't sit around discussing that sort of thing.'

Satisfied there was a can of worms waiting to be opened, Jon changed tack. 'Does the name Derek Peterson mean anything to you?'

'No.'

'He was the man discovered yesterday morning. There are some similarities to Rose's death.'

'Oh.'

'You're not interested in what those similarities are?'

She nodded at the radio. 'There was something on the news. They — you — aren't denying their injuries were similar.'

'Peterson trained as a care worker. Could he have met Rose at any sort of conference or training event?'

'I don't know. Rose didn't travel much outside the area. She did her nursery care course at the local school — the sixth form college nowadays. Was he from around here?'

No, Jon thought. And Rose was ten years older than

Peterson. 'OK, thanks for your time, Miss Clegg. If we need to ask you anything more, is it possible to call again during office hours?'

'Unless it's the weekend. It can get quite busy then.'

Jon thanked her again then crossed back to the door, Rick just behind. Once outside he rubbed his hands together. It was only just after three o'clock but the sun had already dropped below the jagged ridge that loomed over the village. Only the tops of chimneys on the houses set higher up on the opposite side of the valley were still bathed in light. At street level the gloom and cold were gathering in strength. He set off at a brisk pace towards their car. 'So, was Hobson slipping it to Rose Sutton? Someone definitely was.'

'Could have been Edith Clegg,' Rick said provocatively. 'I didn't notice any wedding ring on her finger.'

Jon glanced to his side. 'Could have been. I think a few more questions in these parts will turn something up.'

At the car Jon looked through the misty windows. 'Poor mutt. Fancy a walk round the car park while he stretches his legs?'

'No problem,' Rick replied.

Punch jumped out a little stiffly, had a good stretch, then trotted off, nose to the ground. Jon and Rick began a slow stroll along the car park's perimeter.

'What if an animal is doing this?' Rick stated in a neutral voice.

Jon breathed in, his eyes on the miniature ravine to his right, the sound of running water audible from the thick shadows at the bottom. 'It could have been if only one person was killed. But two? I don't believe it.'

'But how many sightings of mystery black cats are made in this country each year? How often are the remains of sheep and deer discovered? Jesus, in my mum and dad's village a pony was attacked. Great big claw marks down its flanks. I remember the photo on the front page of the local rag.'

'And how many panthers have been photographed, not to mention caught?'

'I've seen photos. And there are loads of credible witnesses.'

'And I've seen plenty of photos of the Loch Ness monster, UFOs and Bigfoot. Don't believe in any of them though.'

'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'

'You what?'

Rick smiled. 'Hamlet. What about the article in the Police Journal last year? How many coppers were on that golfing day? Ten, twelve? They all witnessed a large puma-like cat cross the fairway not fifty metres in front of them. I don't know in what kind of numbers, but these things are out there.'

'Yeah, I remember the piece too. But whatever they glimpsed, it didn't race up the fairway and start ripping chunks out of them, did it? The animal, and it was probably a big dog, raced off into the woods at the side of the golf course.'

By now they were standing at the corner of the supermarket. In the glow of the exterior lights Punch was exploring the deserted loading area by the side of the building, poking his snout into piles of empty boxes. A rat shot out from under an industrial-sized bin, heading straight towards them. Both men jumped back and it switched direction, streaking across the tarmac for the safety of the nearby stream.

'Punch! See it off!' Jon waved in the direction of the fleeing rodent. 'There, there!'

His dog tensed, then started looking up at the sides of the building.

'Not squirrels, a rat. There!' Jon pointed in its direction again, but it had disappeared over the wall. 'Stupid dog.'

Punch was still excitedly examining the gutters, stumpy tail wagging back and forth as Jon's mobile started to ring. He examined the outer screen and looked at Rick. 'It's the CSM from Crime Lake.' He flicked the phone open. 'Richard, how's things?'

'Fine, thanks. I have a result from that iron bar. It matches a Danny Gordon. I'd fax his record over, only I'd run out of paper if I did.'

Jon grinned. 'What's he been up to?'

'Shoplifting, burglary, joyriding, drunk and disorderly, ABH. He started young, been in and out of homes since a teenager, then juvenile detention facilities and finally graduated to

Strangeways itself.'

'Music to my ears,' Jon said. Knowing the answer already, he then asked, 'Is the Silverdale one of the places we've had the pleasure of putting him up in?'