Free 03-Savage Moon by Chris Simms

nowadays if no one has contaminated the scene.'
    'Oh aye, I've seen it on the telly.'
    'Well, Sir, I'll leave you with the sergeant here, he'll make arrangements for you to give a statement.' He turned to the officer. 'Who's checked the body?'
    The sergeant nodded towards a young officer sitting in a patrol car. His face looked white as a sheet. 'PC Evans. He's feeling a bit queasy.'
    Jon's eyes went to the restaurant. 'Check with the people who live above this place. They may have heard something.'
    Jon walked back round to the car park entrance, immediately noticing Peterson's dark blue Volvo parked to one side. After signing in with the officer he stepped towards the inner ring of tape. The car park was big enough for a dozen or so cars at the most. At the far end, under the overhanging branches of a tree, a white tent was already up, concealing the body and protecting vital evidence from the elements.
    Jon looked over his shoulder. 'Who's the Crime Scene
    Manager?'
    The officer consulted his clipboard. 'Richard Matthews.'
    No Nikki Kingston then. Jon felt disappointment tinged with relief. He reflected on their last encounter. It was at the height of the race to catch the Butcher of Belle Vue. He'd been in the pub, a couple of drinks the worse for wear when she'd showed up with a vital piece of evidence.
    He wasn't quite sure how it happened. A grateful hug from him maybe, but they'd ended up kissing for a few seconds before he summoned the will to break it off. Still tempted, aren't you though, he thought, deciding it was best to steer well clear of her.
    He looked around. The car park was circled by trees and he could hear the drone of traffic from the nearby ring road. No point in crossing the inner tape until he'd got the OK from Richard Matthews. Instead, he followed the tape round the edge of the tarmac to a small gate that led to a gravel pathway. A graffiti-covered sign said, Crime Lake. No motorbikes . His eyes flicked over the collection of signatures scrawled on the sign's edge. Didn't anyone have normal names any more? Half of these seemed to be in a foreign language.
    Between the dying leaves still on the trees he could see the pale shine of water. Crime Lake. He lifted the striped ribbon and stepped through the gate, noticing that several paths branched off between the trees. Bloody great. It was going to be a nightmare trying to decide where to end the crime scene.
    He took the path that led down to the dreary-looking expanse of muddy water and past another couple of signs that read, No fishing from the tow path .
    The lake soon narrowed into a canal, and as he followed it along, a row of four eager geese paddled over. Jon held his palms out. No bread I'm afraid. He looked at the sullen sky. Winter's on its way, you lot are best getting the hell out of this country.
    After a few minutes he reached a junction in the canal. He took the right hand fork and crossed an overflow, water trickling off through the undergrowth to run down the slope into the valley below. After a couple of stone steps the canal seemed to dry up and he found himself on an aqueduct. Blocks of stone that must each have weighed tons made up the ramparts and, looking over their edge, he saw that the construction spanned a river a good thirty feet below – evidence of the incredible effort spent on creating Manchester's industrial past. The banks of the river were wild and overgrown, the ground leading off into thickly wooded slopes. Plenty of cover for a killer, man or beast.
    He retraced his steps to the junction where he spotted an information board beside a tree. The plastic cover was pock- marked with cigarette burns, making it hard to read the writing below.
    Medlock Valley. Daisy Nook History Trail .
    His eyes went to a small red square. You are here . A paragraph of writing told him that the aqueduct was built in the
    1790s and used to carry a branch of the Hollinwood canal. Not any more, thought Jon. Heavy industry had died out in