day.
Eight
Once Jon had fought through the traffic to get on to the M60, he flicked a switch on the dashboard of his unmarked car. Flashing lights and a siren came on behind the vehicle radiator grill. The cars in front jerked out of his way. This is more like it, Jon thought, not dropping below eighty until junction twenty- two appeared.
Racing on to the slip road, he forced his way across a busy roundabout then switched the siren off as he entered a residential area, vehicle lurching over a succession of speed bumps. After a quick glance at the open A to Z on the seat beside him he took a right turn and emerged at the junction for Coal Pit Lane, unkempt farm land directly in front. Beyond the fields was a hill, topped by a row of electricity pylons. Jon's eyes moved past the ugly structures to what rose up in the far distance: the muted browns of the moors.
He turned right, following the roughly surfaced road as it ran alongside fields dotted with sheep. He looked at the animals. Is there really some sort of a beast preying on you? For a second he could believe it – if any animal had the word victim stamped all over it, it was sheep.
Soon he spotted a small sign for Crime Lake and seconds later he was easing up by a tiny car park, lowering his window and holding up his identification as he did so. The uniformed officer standing in front of the police tape at the car park's entrance pointed him towards an Italian restaurant just down the road. The building stood on its own, a large expanse of tarmac to its side. 'Plenty of room in there, boss.'
He pulled up behind the major incident wagon. A couple of officers in white scene-of-crime suits were unloading equipment from the rear of the vehicle. Excellent, Jon thought, forensic recovery should be good. As he climbed out of his car he checked the sky. Grey and impassive, but no immediate sign of rain. Even better as far as collecting evidence was concerned.
A sergeant was talking to an old boy with a rucksack and narrow holdall at his feet. The fisherman who found the body. Jon went over, warrant card out. 'DI Spicer. How are you, Sir?' The elderly man turned towards him. When he spoke there was a fleck of spit on his lower lip. 'Norman Bell.' He smiled briefly. 'I've had better starts to a morning's fishing, that's for sure.'
Good on you, thought Jon. Still got your sense of humour. He glanced at the man's rucksack. 'Got a flask in there?'
The man nodded.
'Why not pour yourself a brew while I bother you with a few questions?'
The man squatted down and began opening the side pocket of the rucksack. Jon looked at the sergeant. 'Everything under control?'
'Yes, Sir. The boys have taped off the car park. I thought we'd set up the rendezvous point here. Pathologist and crime scene manager are on their way.'
'Good stuff. How long have you been here?'
'About twenty minutes.'
'OK. If any reporters show up later on, I want them referred on to me. No one is to say a thing, all right?'
'Sir.'
Jon nodded as the fisherman straightened up, a steaming cup now in his hands. 'There's a spare one if you want a drink.'
Jon shook his head. 'When did you get here, Mr Bell?'
'Seven-thirty. I'm secretary of the local fishing club. I get here before the other members arrive, and tidy the car park.' A look of disgust crossed his face. 'You know, from what gets left here from the night before. Someone's got to do it.'
Jon thought of Peterson being there. That bloody figured.
'And was there anyone else here when you arrived?'
'Not a soul. We get a few dog walkers using the area, but none were around this morning.'
The sergeant turned to Jon. 'Mr Bell didn't take a good look at the body, Sir. He saw the legs and blood, then immediately called nine-nine-nine.'
'I knew he was a goner straight away. I drove an ambulance for almost thirty years. Something about the way they lie.'
'You did the right thing not touching the body, Mr Bell. There's an amazing amount forensics can pick up
Eight
Once Jon had fought through the traffic to get on to the M60, he flicked a switch on the dashboard of his unmarked car. Flashing lights and a siren came on behind the vehicle radiator grill. The cars in front jerked out of his way. This is more like it, Jon thought, not dropping below eighty until junction twenty- two appeared.
Racing on to the slip road, he forced his way across a busy roundabout then switched the siren off as he entered a residential area, vehicle lurching over a succession of speed bumps. After a quick glance at the open A to Z on the seat beside him he took a right turn and emerged at the junction for Coal Pit Lane, unkempt farm land directly in front. Beyond the fields was a hill, topped by a row of electricity pylons. Jon's eyes moved past the ugly structures to what rose up in the far distance: the muted browns of the moors.
He turned right, following the roughly surfaced road as it ran alongside fields dotted with sheep. He looked at the animals. Is there really some sort of a beast preying on you? For a second he could believe it – if any animal had the word victim stamped all over it, it was sheep.
Soon he spotted a small sign for Crime Lake and seconds later he was easing up by a tiny car park, lowering his window and holding up his identification as he did so. The uniformed officer standing in front of the police tape at the car park's entrance pointed him towards an Italian restaurant just down the road. The building stood on its own, a large expanse of tarmac to its side. 'Plenty of room in there, boss.'
He pulled up behind the major incident wagon. A couple of officers in white scene-of-crime suits were unloading equipment from the rear of the vehicle. Excellent, Jon thought, forensic recovery should be good. As he climbed out of his car he checked the sky. Grey and impassive, but no immediate sign of rain. Even better as far as collecting evidence was concerned.
A sergeant was talking to an old boy with a rucksack and narrow holdall at his feet. The fisherman who found the body. Jon went over, warrant card out. 'DI Spicer. How are you, Sir?' The elderly man turned towards him. When he spoke there was a fleck of spit on his lower lip. 'Norman Bell.' He smiled briefly. 'I've had better starts to a morning's fishing, that's for sure.'
Good on you, thought Jon. Still got your sense of humour. He glanced at the man's rucksack. 'Got a flask in there?'
The man nodded.
'Why not pour yourself a brew while I bother you with a few questions?'
The man squatted down and began opening the side pocket of the rucksack. Jon looked at the sergeant. 'Everything under control?'
'Yes, Sir. The boys have taped off the car park. I thought we'd set up the rendezvous point here. Pathologist and crime scene manager are on their way.'
'Good stuff. How long have you been here?'
'About twenty minutes.'
'OK. If any reporters show up later on, I want them referred on to me. No one is to say a thing, all right?'
'Sir.'
Jon nodded as the fisherman straightened up, a steaming cup now in his hands. 'There's a spare one if you want a drink.'
Jon shook his head. 'When did you get here, Mr Bell?'
'Seven-thirty. I'm secretary of the local fishing club. I get here before the other members arrive, and tidy the car park.' A look of disgust crossed his face. 'You know, from what gets left here from the night before. Someone's got to do it.'
Jon thought of Peterson being there. That bloody figured.
'And was there anyone else here when you arrived?'
'Not a soul. We get a few dog walkers using the area, but none were around this morning.'
The sergeant turned to Jon. 'Mr Bell didn't take a good look at the body, Sir. He saw the legs and blood, then immediately called nine-nine-nine.'
'I knew he was a goner straight away. I drove an ambulance for almost thirty years. Something about the way they lie.'
'You did the right thing not touching the body, Mr Bell. There's an amazing amount forensics can pick up
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