Free 03-Savage Moon by Chris Simms Page A

these parts decades ago.
    He examined the blue band that marked the route of the river Medlock. Where did that flow from, Jon wondered, looking up the valley and settling his gaze on those brooding moors once again. He reached for the zipper of his jacket as a sudden chill went through him. Above the hill's curving outline, scraps of grey cloud were streaming across the sky. Shit, rain was on its way. He turned for the car park.
    Back at the crime scene a couple more people in white suits were putting on gloves in preparation for entering the inner circle of tape. One he immediately recognised as Doctor Collyer, the home office pathologist.
    Jon hurried over. 'Morning.'
    The pathologist looked up, owl-like eyes accentuated by the white hood of the crime scene suit. 'Good morning, Detective.' A look passed between them that spoke of horrors mutually shared. The last time they'd met, they were standing over the remains of the Butcher of Belle Vue's third victim. Jon let his expression reflect the pathologist's. I remember, mate. How could I ever forget?
    'Richard Matthews, good to meet you.'
    Jon turned and saw the crime scene manager looking at him, eyebrows raised in anticipation of a response. He was a slightly overweight man of about forty.
    'DI Jon Spicer, likewise.'
    No one shook hands. It didn't really go with wearing latex gloves.
    'Mind giving me a shout once it's OK to step inside?' Jon said to both of them
    'Of course,' Matthews replied, beckoning to the video recorder chap who was approaching them from the car park's entrance. Jon glanced at him. A young man with a shaved head and a ring through his right nostril.
    The three men walked across a series of footplates and entered the white tent. Jon had just climbed into a crime scene suit when Matthews poked his head out, face a shade more pale than when he went in. 'Whenever you're ready.'
    Jon immediately padded across the footplates, stooping slightly as he stepped inside the tent. He sniffed the air. Blood. A smell that now set him on edge whenever he passed the open door of a butcher's shop.
    The home office pathologist was looking at him, alarm showing in his usually impassive eyes. 'I've never seen anything like this before. Keep to the footplates, there's a lot of debris around his head.'
    The video recorder stepped to one side. Oh shit, here we go, Jon thought. Breakfast, don't you dare come back up.
    Derek Peterson was on his back, one arm pointing to the side, the other bent in on itself so the fingers were tucked under his armpit. For a moment it looked like he was frozen in some sort of bizarre dance move. Most of the left hand side of his face was hanging off, one eyeball sliced open, blood-smeared jelly bulging out. His throat was in a similar state, great furrows of flesh ripped out to expose the bony cartilage of what Jon assumed was his windpipe. He saw that the debris referred to by the pathologist was shreds of flesh.
    'If he didn't die of shock, he'd have bled to death in a matter of seconds.' The pathologist pointed at Peterson's mutilated throat. 'I don't know what type of weapon could do this. Not only has it severed the exterior and interior jugular veins, it's gone through his carotid artery, taking out the surrounding muscles at the same time. And look at this.' He crouched down to extend a finger closer to the corpse's upper chest. 'See the lacerations to the cricoid cartilage?'
    'His windpipe?' The bile was churning in Jon's stomach.
    'Yes. I'd say the weapon was multi-pronged and fashioned from a very resilient material, metal being the obvious choice. Whoever wielded it was a very powerful man.'
    Was no one going to say what seemed totally obvious? Jon gave a nervous laugh. 'I feel like I'm in a scene from American Werewolf in London .'
    'I'm sorry?' the pathologist replied, but Jon caught the look of agreement on the video lad's face.
    Sure enough, the younger man eagerly chipped in. 'You know, the scene on the moor when the American