Savage Moon

'It's only a DNA test.'

'How's Alice?'

If the question was designed to bring him back down to earth, it worked. 'I haven't had time to speak with her. I'll try calling her again.' He looked for Rick's reaction and got a silent stare.

'Don't look at me like that. When am I meant to find time?'

'How about now?'

'I could if you'd stop frigging well nagging me like an old woman. Anyway, we need to get over to James Field's place of work, remember?'

'Jon, it's your wife's health we're talking about here.'

Rick was right, and he shouldn't let the fact she'd been a complete bitch about Punch interfere with his judgement. But the seed of resentment was there. 'I'll try her, OK?' He dialled home. Still no answer. 'How about we drop in later today? You haven't seen her for a few weeks. It would be useful to know what you reckon.'

Rick stood up. 'No problem.'

They drove towards Piccadilly station, followed the road to the Apollo then turned left at the roundabout leading to Temper- ance Street. The road was narrow, lying in the shadow of a series of arches that carried the train line connecting Manchester to Sheffield.

Jon regarded the countless red bricks that formed the huge spans, marvelling at the effort involved in their construction.

The number of men who'd laboured to create the world's first industrial city always fascinated him — almost twenty thousand navvies were needed to dig the Manchester Ship Canal alone. Some of those were his relatives from Ireland who went on to settle in the city.

The space below each arch had been utilised by a series of garages. Cars in various states of repair clogged the street and what little pavement there was.

'Best we park here or we'll get boxed in,' Jon said, pulling over. They climbed out and approached the first garage. A flaking sign said, Taylors Autos. Jon looked at the cannibalised remains of vehicles piled up around the entrance. 'I wonder if every re-spray done on this street is for legitimate purposes?'

Rick chuckled. 'I'm sure everything is declared to the taxman.'

A man emerged through the doors built into the second archway, an engine part with wires that dangled like innards gripped in his hand.

Jon stepped forward. 'A and L Repairs. Which one, mate?' The person lobbed the part on to a stack of similar objects, his eyes moving over Jon before he nodded to his left. 'Fourth along.'

'Cheers.'

They continued up the street. The tarmac could have done with a resurface decades ago, there were craters dotted around, most filled with puddles of oily water. Jon watched the colours shimmering on their surfaces as he passed. The double doors of A and L Repairs were closed, but a smaller door cut into the left-hand side was ajar. From inside came a crackling sound accompanied by erratic flashes of blue light. Jon squinted into the gloom beyond, then pushed the door fully open.

The shaft of daylight fell on a figure who was hunched over a vehicle, welding torch poised in his hand. The pointed flame flickering from its end caught Jon's eye, its hiss reminding him of a snake's tongue. The man turned his head and lifted up his visor; a big black beard hung over an oil-stained Manchester City shirt. Jon guessed he was about fifty.

'Is James Field around?' Jon asked.

He tilted his head. 'At the back.' Not waiting for a reply, he lowered his visor and adjusted the torch's nozzle so the flame contracted into an intense blue spike. He brought it against the bodywork and sparks sprayed out. Jon stepped inside, the air was heavy and metallic, a smell that took him back to school and metalwork lessons. Welding a toasting fork his parents never used.

The concrete floor was awash with silvery shreds and scraps of wire. He edged round the side of the vehicle, careful to keep his eyes away from the brilliant flame. Two more cars were parked behind it and beyond them was the rear part of the garage. A strip light hung from the high vault of bricks above, though it was only partly successful at illuminating the area below it. Jon could see a work bench littered with tools. A small reading lamp was positioned at its edge and sitting in a battered old office chair next to it was a young man. His feet were propped up on a tool box and his gaze was directed down at a book.

'James Field?' No response.

Jon moved closer, holding a hand out at waist level and waving it near the person's face. 'James Field?'

He looked up, one hand tugging out his earphones. 'Yeah?' Jon took out his warrant card. 'DI Spicer and DS Saville,

Greater Manchester Police. Got a minute?'

'Yeah.'

To Jon's surprise, he didn't seem at all bothered about two policemen suddenly rousing him from his break. 'It's about Danny Gordon.'

'Danny Boy? What's he done now?' The accent was unmistakably Mancunian.

A low rumbling gathered in strength, turning into something like thunder as a train passed overhead. James Field stood up, threw his book into a locker and swung the dented door shut. The noise of the train receded.

'Can we talk outside?' Jon asked. 'It would be a lot easier.' Field nodded and Rick led the way back to the entrance. Out on the street Jon could see Field was in his early twenties. His head was shaved and he was wearing a pair of filthy overalls, the straps looping over solid shoulders. Jon took out his notebook.

'When did you last see Danny Gordon?'

Field thought for a moment. 'I don't know. A while.'

'As in weeks, months or years?'

'Oh years. Five, easily. What's he done?'

'We just need to speak to him. You two were mates at the

Silverdale?'

The whites of his eyes showed as he looked up at the dirty sky. 'The Silverdale? Yeah. That's where I met him. We were friends, but that's a long time back.'

'Did you keep in contact afterwards?'

'A bit to begin with, but he started robbing again. I wanted to learn a trade, started doing mechanics.'

Jon was impressed that the young man had resisted the easy option back into crime; it took a lot of determination to do what he'd done. Not wanting to appear patronising, he just nodded.

'Any ideas where he hangs around nowadays?'

Field puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape from between his lips. 'Squats.'

At the mention of the word an image of his younger brother flashed in Jon's head. The few times Jon had seen him since he'd left home, Dave had told him he was living in squats round the city.

'Any particular squat?'

'They change all the time, don't they? A place in Ancoats, but I'm going back years. They knocked it down recently to build more executive flats.'

'Can you tell me about a staff member at the Silverdale? Derek Peterson.'

The name prompted a humourless smile. 'Mr P.'

Jon connected with Rick's glance. Peterson's name on

Swinger's Haven.

Field shook his head. 'He still at that place?'

Hardly, Jon thought, picturing his corpse in the MRI's morgue. 'Why did you call him Mr P?'

By bracing his shoulders back, Field pushed himself clear of the wall. He nudged at a lump of plastic with the toe of his trainers. 'We always said the p was for piss-head.'

Jon remembered the mention of cans in Peterson's kitchen.

'Did he drink on duty in the Silverdale?'

Field continued toying with the lump of plastic. 'Yeah. He had his little cliques, invite them into his office when he was on night shift, offer them booze.'

'What little cliques? Kids in the facility?'

Field nodded. 'He always steered clear of me. He liked the sickly-looking quiet ones.'

'What do you mean liked?'

'They'd get booze, smokes. He'd bring them magazines. Wank mags, anything. It was a power thing. You were either one of his favourites or you weren't.'