Free 03-Savage Moon by Chris Simms Page B

gets ripped to bits? The doctor in London was going on about the attacker having the strength of a madman.'
    Christ, another aspiring horror film director, Jon thought.
    'I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the film,' said the pathologist, standing up. 'Surely you're not suggesting a werewolf did this?' Jon held up his hands. 'God no, not at all. But these injuries and the ferocity of the attack... Could it have been some sort of wild animal, like they think killed the woman up on Saddleworth Moor? I mean, you're talking about a multi- pronged weapon. Surely that's another name for a claw?'
    The pathologist crossed his arms, taking his time before he spoke. 'I'm afraid we're straying on to territory that is outside my expertise. Cause of death was from loss of blood, as a result of multiple lacerations to the throat. If you want a time of death, I'd say late last night. Once I get him back to the mortuary I'll provide a far more considered report.'
    OK, no need to get so bloody touchy.
    The video recorder coughed. 'The attack up on Saddleworth Moor. I saw the crime scene footage. It got, you know, e-mailed round.' The pathologist glared at him and Jon guessed some sort of morgue protocol had been broken. The video recorder stumbled awkwardly on. 'The injuries are startlingly similar.' He pressed his fingertips into his cheek. 'Where she was swiped, you could clearly see where the claws went in. A row of four.'
    Jon glanced down at the tarmac, looking for footprints or other evidence of an animal. On the ground in the far corner of the tent was a set of car keys, a number marker already placed next to them. He looked questioningly at the crime scene manager.
    'I presume they're the victim's. The key fob is for a Volvo.'
    'Yes,' chipped in the video recorder. 'Probably flung from his hand during the attack.'
    'Mind if I bag them up? We'll be needing to get into his house.'
    Richard Matthews sucked in his cheeks. 'I'll get them dusted for prints, then you can be my guest.'
    From outside the tent Jon heard the low rumble of thunder.
    He glanced back at Peterson's bloody remains. 'What about that hand tucked under his armpit. Have you examined it yet?'
    The pathologist shook his head. 'We called you in as soon as possible.'
    'Could we take a quick look?'
    The video recorder held up the camera as the pathologist pulled Peterson's hand out. The fingers were clamped together in a rigid grip. As the first droplets of rain begin to hit the tent roof Jon could clearly see several long black hairs caught between the dead man's fingers.

Nine
    As he waited for Summerby to answer his phone, the rain drummed down on the roof of Jon's car. Memories stirred of childhood camping holidays spent near Southport, the hours huddled in a cramped tent, praying for the incessant patter of rain to cease. He grinned, recalling how his younger sister, Ellie, would quietly colour in her books while he fought over war comics with his younger brother Dave.
    Our kid, Dave. Jesus, what a nightmare. What was he up to now, Jon wondered. If anyone deserved to be labelled the black sheep of the family, it was his younger brother. Despite all his dad's efforts, and later his own, they couldn't persuade him to get involved in sport. Didn't matter if it was rugby, football or even lacrosse if he fancied it – anything to divert his energy away from getting into trouble the whole time.
    He shook his head. Complete waste. He knew his brother was far more intelligent than him, could have gone to university any day. But by his late teens he'd started to dabble in drugs and soon developed a nasty little liking for speed. Their dad had kicked him round the house the first time he was arrested for stealing cars. The second time he stopped speaking to him, and when he offended again he booted him out of the family home altogether. Dave had his bags already packed to move out anyway, claiming he was off to live in a squat.
    Jon looked at the fingers of his left hand as they