Heart of the Demon (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 21

  “Go get it Rusty.” she shouted.

  The Irish red setter spun its head in the direction of the flying ball and then shot after it at breakneck speed. Twenty yards ahead Rusty darted into the undergrowth out of Katherine’s view and all she could hear for several seconds was the scratching of paws amongst the undergrowth. Her attention was distracted when above her she became aware of a cacophony of cawing, and looking up she saw a building of rooks, swirling and swooping, reminiscent of an army of apache helicopters, an image which she had seen so many times recently on the news broadcasts from Iraq. Within seconds Rusty’s barking was adding to the discordant sound. She wondered what on earth was happening, and although she experienced slight trepidation she pushed past the bushes towards the direction of her barking dog.

  She spotted her Irish red setter resting on its haunches, staring upwards, still barking wildly.

  Her eyes followed the dog’s line of sight. Nothing could have prepared Katherine for what she found herself looking at. Dangling from a rope, fastened to a large tree bough, was a man’s body. The first thing she noticed was the colour of his head. It was purple, and hopping bluebottles covered its bloated flesh. Then the smell hit her. It was a creeping, cloying smell of tepid urine and faeces, and her stomach leapt to her throat. Gagging, she gripped her nose and reached for her mobile.

  * * * * *

  DC Mike Sampson shifted uncomfortably in his oversized forensic suit. Because of his body weight to height ratio he generally found that to find anything to fasten over his pudgy stomach the sleeves would always be too long. Tugging at his sleeves had become a habit, and this was what he was now doing in his blue plastic mortuary oversuit.

  He dropped the exhibit bag he had been carrying onto one of the side tables in the sterile room. The clear plastic wrapper contained an A4 printed note SOCO had recovered from the pocket of the hanging Geoffrey Collins. In bold letters it simply stated ‘I AM A MONSTER FORGIVE ME.’

  Earlier that morning he had raced to Barnwell woods straight after briefing on the orders of SIO Detective Superintendent Robshaw, to take charge of a very active scene. Upon his arrival he saw that the uniform Sergeant and his shift had done a cracking job. The Police Medical examiner and Scenes of Crime had already been called out and were en-route, and a clear path had been roped off to the location where the lady walking her dog had discovered Collins’s body

  Because of the efficiency of the sergeant and his team he was merely there to check that everything which needed to be done, was being done. His role at the scene ended when they cut down Collins for removal to the mortuary, ensuring that the loop and knot of the rope remained in situ around his neck.

  That had been two and half hours ago and Mike was at the mortuary to observe Collins’s post mortem, confirm the suicide, and then they could wrap up this investigation and celebrate in the pub.

  The post mortem was already underway by the time he had suited and entered the mortuary cutting room. Pathologist Lizzie McCormack together with a Scenes of Crime Officer were already moving business-like around Geoffrey Collins’s naked corpse which lay on one of the stainless steel autopsy tables.

  The Professor was going through the preliminaries for the purpose of the recording tape. Height; weight; state of the body. The soft Scottish twang reminded Mike of the Mrs Doubtfire character from the Robin Williams movie.

  She hooked one hand behind Collins’s head and raised it from the wooden resting block. Then carefully she began to slide the still knotted rope over the bloated, discoloured face. The SOCO officer clicked off several shots of the process with his Nikon camera.

  Rolling the head from side to side she delicately stroked and touched several parts of Collins’s neck.

  “As a slip-noose was used, ligature was in contact with the skin right around the full circumference of the neck,” she began. She moved the head again fixed a finger to an area of the neck and the SOCO officer racked off several more shots.

  “Now this is interesting,” she announced after pursing her lips for a moment, “although there is evidence of bruising on and around the carotid vessels on the right hand side of the neck, except for the uppermost part of that side the ligature marks are faint and deficient on the sides and back.”

  Mike took a step towards the body “What does that mean Professor?”

  Lizzie held up a latex-gloved hand, a clear order that she wanted him to say nothing else. With her other hand she took up a scalpel from a tray next to her. Then pushing her spectacles up onto the bridge of her nose she began slicing into the soft tissue of the throat area of the cadaver. Diving her fingers into the incised front of neck, she began pulling and probing the larynx.

  “There is bone injury in the air passage. There is a fracture of the hyoid.” She gave off a long drawn out “Hmmm,” before continuing with the remainder of the post mortem. Part way through she scraped under the finger nails, dropped some fibres into sample tubes and held the hands up for the Scenes of Crime Officer to photograph. Finally, after two hours she dropped the last of her instruments back onto a metal tray and snapped off her surgical gloves.

  “Suicide by hanging?” Mike asked

  “Oh indeed dear, this man’s demise was caused by strangulation, but this was no suicide.”

  Lizzie McCormack’s response took him aback. “Not suicide?”

  “The evidence couldn’t be much clearer. This man was murdered. See here.” The Pathologist raised Collins’s head from the support block and motioned a finger over the incised opening in the throat. “Contusions to the soft tissue and underlying muscle, and a fractured hyoid, all of which are indicative of manual strangulation. Coupled with the fact that the rope marks around the neck are merely superficial I conclude that he was already dead when he was strung up.” She took a long pause. “When it comes to murder they can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I have a few more tests to carry out but I’ve also found trauma to the face which leaves me to believe he has suffered significant blows to the mouth and left cheek which could have rendered him either unconscious or semi- conscious. Finding those injuries caused me to carry out further examinations, particularly of the hands. I found that the majority of his fingernails are broken and there are fibres and possibly flesh beneath the remains of his nails. I bet if you go back to the tree where you found this man hanging you will find striation marks on the branch, which has been caused by the rope when his dead weight has been hauled up.”

  Mike gasped at the magnitude of these findings. His mind was racing. If it hadn’t been for Professor McCormack’s experience in dealing with murder victims this would never have been spotted. It could only mean one thing - Geoffrey Collins had been set up to make him look like the murderer. He pictured in his mind the recent bust at Collins’ flat. The real serial killer must have somehow got into Collins’s flat, assaulted and strangled him, used his computer knowing the police would trace it back to him, left the recently taken photographs of Kirsty and cleaned up any trace of himself before he’d left. And that’s why SOCO found the surfaces wiped with concentrated bleach. In his head he tumbled around everything he had recently learned. There was only one conclusion. Kirsty Evans’s attacker and the slayer of Carol Siddons, Claire Fisher and Rebecca Morris, had tried to throw them off his scent by killing Collins and making it look like suicide.

  “The crafty bastard,” Mike said aloud.

  “Wash your mouth out with soap dear,” Lizzie responded drily.

  “Sorry Professor, I was just thinking aloud.”

  She smiled back. “I know, and you’re right the person who did this is very crafty - and brutal, and if I wasn’t so good, he’d have succeeded.”

  No pub tonight, Mike thought to himself. The hunt is back on.

  * * * * *

  I don’t know why they call this a green room, Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw thought to himself as he re-read his script, there’s not a drop of alcohol in sight.

  He shuffled uneasily in his seat as th
e male make-up artist flicked a blusher brush filled with foundation across his face.

  “Do I have to wear that stuff?” he had barked earlier, grimacing at the thought of having to wear make-up for the first time in his life.

  “Despite the fact that you look well for someone who is in their late forties we all need a little help in front of the cameras,” the make-up artist said.

  The SIO made final notes to the speech he was going to make. His second visit to the ‘Crimewatch’ studios was much sooner than he had anticipated, but he knew they had to ‘up the ante’ if they were to catch this killer. He had committed murder at least four times and would have added Kirsty Evans to his list had it not been for the quick reactions of a Paramedic out on his evening jog.

  The numerous ‘actions’ were still being processed, and the new ones to find a link with Geoffrey Collins were being carried out at this moment as he prepared himself for the evening’s live programme.

  Detectives had already pulled Collins’ prison and Probation files and were ploughing through them. They’d all come to the conclusion during the day’s briefing that the killer must have known Collins was a convicted sex offender and that was why he had chosen him as the ideal candidate to throw them off his scent.

  There had also been a very difficult debate during that meeting as to whether the use of the leather belt should be disclosed, especially as it was a significant piece of evidence. He had to argue strongly that they had very little choice. They had to act before someone else was murdered.

  “And if showing that belt on TV will jog someone’s memory and give us that golden nugget by which we can identify our killer, then it will be worth it,” he had told his teams.

  The buzzer above the door sounded and the ’three minutes’ light flashed on.

  The make-up artist pushed the handle of his brush underneath Michael Robshaw’s jaw and manoeuvred the Superintendent’s head from side to side.

  “Pretty as a picture” he whispered. “Go break a leg.”

  * * * * *

  She was following the light along the tunnel. Through the darkness she could see the trees and fields ahead and the summer breeze brushing her face brought with it the smell of freshly mown grass. But with every stride her experience was one of dragging feet through treacle and her pounding heart felt as if it was about to burst through her chest.

  Though she couldn’t see him she could sense he was getting closer, almost hear him breathing down her neck, and smell the foul stench of the halitosis from his mouth. Rebecca was shouting to her, waving her to safety. And then he was on her, grabbing at her hair and clawing at her skin. She was tugged forward so hard that her feet left the ground. Then something was tightening around her neck and the air left her lungs with a whoosh.

  She tried to fight back, biting and scratching her attacker, but he was on top of her and she couldn’t move. She was totally at his mercy.

  He lowered his head and she caught the first glimpse of his face. It was a hazy image she saw but she thought she recognised him. Rebecca was trying to tell her who it was; she had been there when she had first seen him.

  And the voice. It was growling at her, but she had heard it before, when it had been much softer and kinder.

  The haziness started to clear. His face was suddenly unobstructed.

  Kirsty Evans flicked open her eyes and gasped for breath “I know who it is.” she screamed from her hospital bed.

  - ooOoo –

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  DAY THIRTY-TWO: 7th August.

  The persistent ringing tone from Grace’s desk phone was not going to go away. She mentally cursed herself for not putting it onto voicemail, especially as she had so much paperwork to go through.

  She snapped it up and gave a curt “Grace Marshall MIT” and waited for the response.

  There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, “Grace is that you?”

  She immediately recognised the voice of the desk clerk from downstairs. “Sorry Cheryl,” she responded pleasantly, “I’ve got so much work to do and so very little time to do it. I promised I’d take the girls to their netball training tonight. I’ll really be in their bad books if I don’t turn up.”

  “Tell me about it. What about that lump of a husband taking his turn? Or is he like mine, not much help?” returned Cheryl.

  “Oh he tries his best, but it’s the third time this week he’s had to pick them up when I’ve promised. It’s not been helped by him just getting a new job. I’ll be getting the riot act read soon if I’m not careful.”

  “Well I might be adding to your burden Grace. There’s a lady just turned up at the front desk. She wants to speak to a policewoman. She says she saw the Crimewatch programme last night and she’s not exactly sure but she thinks the killer could be her ex-hubby.”

  The woman who Grace ushered into a side room within the foyer of the police station was nervous and twitchy and Grace being a non-smoker couldn’t help but notice that she smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. She seated herself at one side of the fixed table in the room clasping her hands between her knees and introduced herself as Rachel Beddows, adding that she was twenty-five years old. With only a little eye liner on for make-up, Grace thought she looked a lot older.

  “The desk clerk says that you believe the killer we’re after could be your ex-husband,” Grace opened, taking out her pen, scribbling onto a sheet of paper; testing it was working.

  “I’m almost certain it’s him,” she replied. Her voice was raspy and gravelly.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’ve been following all the local news about the murders because a couple of weeks ago I did have a thought that it could be him and so when I heard it was going to be on Crimewatch I sat down to watch the programme. When I saw that detective – I think he was a Superintendent or something – show that belt I just froze. I heard him say it’d been recovered from the attack on the latest victim and they could link it to at least two of the murders. Was that the exact belt he showed?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Then I’m certain it was Gabe’s. Well not exactly Gabe’s as such, it belonged to his father and Gabe used to play around with it.”

  “What do you mean play around with it?”

  “He used to twist it around in his hands whilst he was watching TV, as though he was getting it ready to throttle someone. It used to scare me.”

  “You call him Gabe?”

  “Yes his full name is Gabriel Wild. The last I heard he was still living with his mum on the Tree estate.”

  “How long have you been divorced from him?”

  “Oh I’m not divorced, but I’ve been separated from him nearly eight years now. I ran away and haven’t seen him since. I’ve been too scared to go to a solicitors or anything. He always said if I left him he’d find me and kill me. I live in Sheffield now and I changed my name by deed poll.”

  “There’s obviously some reason why you think it’s him besides seeing that belt why don’t you tell me a bit more?”

  “I don’t really want to get him into trouble if it isn’t him,” she retorted anxiously.

  “Don’t worry we have the attacker’s DNA so if it isn’t him a quick test will clear him.”

  Rachel unclasped her hands and set them on the table. She fiddled with several gold rings, which adorned a number of fingers on both hands. “I’ll start from when we met, that’ll give you a picture of what he’s like.” She licked her lips. “Gabe was into photography in a big way and was working as an apprentice at a big studio here in Barnwell. He used to come to our school to take all the form’s photographs. He was twenty-one when we first met and I was almost sixteen, in my last year at school before college. He chatted up all the girls but I was the one who fell for him. He told me I could be a model with my looks and figure and asked if he could take some private photos for a portfolio for a model agency he freelanced for. Like a jerk I fell for it hook line and sinker. I posed for some innocen
t shots at first and then he persuaded me to have some more sexy ones done. His dad had made him a photo studio in the loft and he used to photograph me there when his mum went out. Then the inevitable happened and we started having sex. Within six months, just after my sixteenth birthday, I left home after a bust up with my mum and moved into his mother’s house.” She paused her blue-grey eyes focussed on Grace. It was a gaze filled with sadness and despair. “Am I going round the houses too much for you?”

  “No you’re absolutely fine. I’ve got bags of time,” Grace lied. In the back of her mind she was thinking about her girls’ netball practice, but at the same time she could see the tension etched on Rachel’s face.

  “He started to do ‘kinky’ things when we had sex. It scared me at first but I suppose I just got used to them.”

  “What do you mean kinky?”

  “It’s a bit embarrassing this.” She wrung her hands. “Well he always wanted me to dress up in my schoolgirl stuff, which I could understand. But then he started asking me to resist so he could pretend he was raping me. Then one time he got his father’s belt and put it round my neck and started squeezing it. That really freaked me out and we didn’t have sex for a good few months after that. After he stopped sulking we talked about it and he said it was only a bit of fun, that he wouldn’t hurt me and it was just bondage. Well after we had a good drink one night he did it again to me. This time he really hurt me. He squeezed the belt so tight that I went unconscious for a good few minutes. That’s when I told him enough was enough. Things just soured after that. A couple of weeks after, he started to go out late at night and he would be gone for ages. On a couple of occasions he didn’t get back until the early hours of the morning. One night he came in absolutely lathered in sweat and I asked him what he had been up to. He said he’d just been out for a jog. But I knew he was lying because he’d never jogged in his life; he hated sport. He’d sooner light up a fag than go for a run. Anyway the next morning I saw he’d put his clothing in the washing machine but when I went to hang them out I thought there were bloodstains on a T-shirt. I asked him about it but he just said it was some dye from his photography processing.”