Savage Moon

Yeah, and who else, Jon thought, glancing at the reporter from the Manchester Evening Chronicle. 'And the journalists? Who tipped them off?'

'The guy in the trailer. He rang in for his reward.'

'And did you find out exactly who he is?'

'A relative of Sutton's apparently. I'm not sure of his name.'

'You were meant to be checking on his identity and firearms certificate.'

Clegg looked awkward. 'It was on my list, I just hadn't quite got round to it.'

Useless prick, Jon thought, turning towards the crowd. The photographer had cocked his camera so its lens pointed up at the orange sky. With his other arm he started to gesture again. 'Can you get it so its head is hanging over the side of the trailer? Yes, that's it, perfect. Just lift it up a shade.'

Blood started streaming over the metallic surface and the photographer focused in on it. Slowly he moved down the steps, finally crouching below the animal's head and shooting upwards for a more dramatic angle. Onlookers vied to get in at the edges of the shot, young lads holding their thumbs up. Jon was reminded of a photo of a lynching in America's deep south. The same cruel triumph shone in everyone's eyes.

The photographer stood up and looked at Carmel. 'I've got plenty.'

With an anxious glance at the cars pulling up on the main road, she walked over to the trailer. 'Andrew, we need to get a move on. We'll go in my car.'

As Andrew jumped down, Jon could see people with cameras climbing out of the cars. Rival journalists.

Carmel waved at Ken Sutton. 'Your tarpaulin. Can you pull it back over the animal?'

He nodded, and started to approach the trailer. Jon went down the steps and gripped the young man's upper arm. 'You shot that animal?'

'Yeah!' he beamed.

'Then I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

Carmel's arm shot out and her fingers curled round Andrew's other arm. 'He promised me an interview, it's a condition if he's claiming the reward money.' She glanced at the swarm of approaching reporters, then back at Jon. 'Can we discuss this somewhere more private?'

Jon gave the young man a little grin. 'Now you know what it feels like to be the quarry.'

'Eh?' he said, looking confused.

'Let's go to the station,' Jon replied, leading him up the stairs.

'Inspector Clegg, please secure the body of that animal. I don't want anyone to touch it.'

Now inside reception, Jon nodded at the woman behind the counter. 'Coming through please.'

She pressed the buzzer and they had just stepped through into the corridor beyond when the first reporter burst through the front doors. 'Excuse me! Excuse me! Daily Mail, could I speak with you please?'

Jon watched Carmel click the inner door shut, the middle finger of her right hand raised at the man on the other side of the glass. Jon couldn't help smirking with amusement. She turned round, professional front now restored. 'DI Spicer. That lead article wasn't my doing.'

Jon folded his arms. 'I don't remember inviting you through this door.'

Carmel looked dismayed. 'Please. You can't kick me back out there.' She glanced over her shoulder at the throng of faces pressed against the glass.

Jon turned on his heel. 'Come on.' He marched down the corridor towards Clegg's office. The kitchen was on his left and he veered inside. Thank Christ for caffeine. Grabbing three mugs, he said, 'Tea or coffee?'

Andrew spoke first. 'Tea please.'

Once the drinks were made, Jon led them into Clegg's office and pointed to a couple of chairs. He perched on the edge of a desk. 'You're giving her an interview?'

The young man nodded. 'Shit yeah. Fifty grand, I'll do the thing naked if she wants.'

Carmel gave a girly laugh that rang as totally fake to Jon. 'We could discuss that I, suppose.' She reached for a notebook and pen.

Jon held up a forefinger. 'No you don't.'

She registered his expression and slid the notebook back in her handbag. He turned his attention to the younger man.

'What's your name?'

'Andrew Du Toit, Sir.'

The accent was unmistakable. 'South African?' He nodded, still smiling.

'What are you doing in the UK?'

His expression grew more serious, but his eyes radiated confidence. 'Staying on my uncle's farm.'

Jon remembered the farmer claiming that the younger man in the Land Rover was a neighbour. How many other lies was the old boy telling? 'Ken Sutton is your uncle?'

'Yes, my mum is his sister.'

'How long has she lived in South Africa?'

'She emigrated in the early sixties.'

'And you were born there?'

'Yup, nineteenth of July, nineteen eighty-one. It's all on my passport.'

'When did Ken Sutton contact you?'

'He called just after his wife's death. I've worked on game reserves around the Kruger since I was fifteen.'

'In what capacity?'

'Guide, tracker, all sorts.'

'Hunter?'

'Yeah, sometimes animals need to be culled.'

'I saw you at Sutton's farm the other day. Have you got a licence for the rifle you were carrying?'

He nodded, reaching into his jacket. Jon saw the blood smeared down its front. 'Licence and permission from customs to bring it into the country.'

Jon scanned the pieces of paper. They looked genuine enough, though he'd check later. 'May I keep these for the time being?'

'Sure.'

Jon relaxed a bit, more confident of the man's cooperation.

'What happened last night then?'

'At Ken's farm?'

'Yes.'

'I built a hide in the oak tree in the field above his farm, it borders the moor itself. Then I tethered a sheep a short distance away. I set up a spotlight, then waited for nature to take its course.'

'The sheep was attacked then?'

'Oh yeah. The cat approached the stake-out at about ten past four. The sheep started bleating like hell, so I knew it was out there. As soon as I heard it strike, I hit the light. She was on the sheep's back.' He clicked his fingers twice. 'Two shots, first hit its rear leg, second was a headshot. Bullet went straight through and ended up in the sheep. Two dead animals.'

'And it's a panther?'

He nodded. 'To be honest, I didn't think it would be that easy. Leopard is one of the most difficult animals to hunt. But that old girl? She's well past her prime.'

'You can tell its age?'

'I can tell she wasn't young. Overweight, a couple of teeth missing, eyes going rheumy. They suffer the same stuff we do in old age. Take a look at her kidneys when you open her up. They're one of the first things to go in big cats.'

'Was it capable of killing a human?'

He nodded without hesitation. 'She may have been old, but that doesn't pose a problem for hunting humans. We're easy prey. Compared to an impala and most other animals, our sight, hearing and sense of smell are non-existent. We can't run very fast and without a weapon, we have no real means of defence. Check what's in her stomach. Big cats' digestive systems are quite slow because, in the wild, they can go several days between feeds.'

Jon considered the advice, realising the dead cat could be a valuable source of forensic evidence. The memory of Derek Peterson's shredded neck made an unwelcome return. 'What about its claws? Could there be debris trapped there?'

'You mean like under human nails?'

'I suppose so.'

'I doubt it. Any kind of cat — big or small — is meticulously clean. Always washing and grooming. Plus their saliva is packed with powerful enzymes that break down scraps of food. Prevents the likelihood of infection.'

Jon wished he'd let Carmel take notes. He could have photocopied them. 'What do you propose doing now?'

Andrew shrugged. 'Not sure. I had planned to go straight home if I shot it. But I'm getting more used to your weather. Ken could do with a hand on the farm as well. Plus a couple of guys in the local pub asked if I wanted to run out for Glossop rugby club.'