Heart of the Demon (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Read online

  “Anything?” Hunter enquired. It was typical opening parlance between detectives when visiting the homes of murder victims. What it actually meant was, ‘Have they revealed or given anything away;’ until Mr and Mrs Morris were ‘alibied’ they were suspects.

  Caroline Blake shook her head. “They’re just numb. Still finding it difficult to accept that their daughter is dead.” She showed them into the front room and went off into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.

  He was pleased Caroline had been given the job as the FLO. He could remember interviewing her for this position only two months ago and guessed this was her first case. Despite her newness to the job he knew from her background that she would cope admirably.

  He and Grace could see as soon as they entered the room that Mr and Mrs Morris had suffered a sleepless night, and the redness of their eyes revealed many hours of crying. As soon as the questioning began it was obvious they were trying to be strong despite the intense sadness and pressure that was consuming them. Mrs Morris broke down repeatedly and tears welled in Jack Morris’s eyes as he spoke of a very happy daughter and showed off felt-tipped messages on cards from well-wishers that had been pushed through their door.

  Hunter and Grace questioned them for almost two hours, going over home and school routines and asking about her closest friends.

  “Any boyfriends?” Grace explored.

  “There were boys who were friends,” Mrs Morris replied “But she had no boyfriends that we are aware of.” She always checked her room, she added, glancing at her husband.

  They could not give any explanation for Rebecca changing out of her school clothes into the T-shirt and jeans she had been found in.

  Hunter could see from their returned looks, that was a mystery, which was tearing at their heartstrings.

  “She was a typical teenage girl, loved her boy bands, dressing up and playing around with make-up. She was always so cheerful, the life and soul of the house. Rebecca was a very special person who touched the lives of so many people. We don’t know anyone who would want to hurt her like this,” ended Jack Morris, a film of tears suddenly washing over his eyes, and as he hooked an arm around his wife’s shoulder she began to sob uncontrollably.

  “Can you let us see her room?” Hunter asked. “Just in case there’s anything which may give us a lead,” he added.

  Mrs Morris guided them upstairs and to the left of the landing. There was a plaque on the door – ‘Rebecca’s room’ – more than likely put there when she was just a young child. A more up to date one, no doubt added by Rebecca, stated ‘KEEP OUT - GENIUS AT WORK’.

  “Do you regularly check her room?” chipped in Grace.

  “Not exactly check. The odd flick round with a duster and a bit of straightening. Rebecca is a very tidy girl – was,” she corrected herself and fresh tears welled into her eyes. Hunter touched her gently on one shoulder. “I’m afraid we need to do a thorough search of her room. If you find this upsetting you can wait downstairs.”

  “No I’ll be okay” she sniffed and dabbed at her eyes “It still doesn’t seem real. I feel as though she’ll burst through the door at any second.”

  Hunter couldn’t find the right response and chose to shrug his shoulders as he pushed open the bedroom door. He paused for a second, surveying the surroundings. The first thing he thought was how bright and airy the room was. A stream of bright sunshine warmed it. The pink and beige décor of the walls matched the bedding. Two large purple cushions lay against the pine headboard, surrounded by a hoard of fluffy teddy bears and other creatures. Having already gathered from the Morris’s that their daughter was still a child at heart. It was these things that reinforced in his mind the innocence of the girl. Posters of several boy bands, whom he had heard of but couldn’t name the individual members, adorned the walls, together with photos of A list celebrities snipped out from magazines. Coloured ‘post its’ and paper arrows, with handwritten personal comments, such as ‘gorgeous’ and ‘luv u’ covered some of them: She had stamped her own identity on this room.

  Amongst them, in the centre of the wall, opposite the foot of the bed, was a pin board filled with photographs. Many were of Rebecca in different poses and in different periods of her young life. All happy scenes. On the beach. At fun parks. Pulling faces. On rides. With family and with friends. He scanned them for the up to date ones. And they were there. Her brown hair longer, and styled, blue glistening eyes, a nose that was a little prominent. The word cute came to mind. These were more serious poses – more grown up. A smiling face amongst her friends, and he wondered for a second which one of those she had confided in. As he took a last look at them he knew in his mind that these would be the last treasured memories Mr and Mrs Morris had of Rebecca.

  He and Grace separated and began to move methodically about the room, checking under the bed, dressing table, wardrobe, and bedside cupboard. Opening drawers, and rifling through her clothing. They picked up books, CDs, DVDs, opening, shaking them and then replacing them. The two detectives had done this many times before and were on autopilot as they went about the task. Hunter caught a glimpse of Mrs Morris, motionless in the doorway, hands clenched together, prayer-like and stifling a sob. He wondered if she could feel the presence of her cherished child as they disturbed Rebecca’s things. He fired off several questions about her regular habits and then asked, “Did she have a computer?”

  “No she shared the one downstairs,” replied Mrs Morris, “so we could keep an eye on her, what with these chat room perverts you read about.” Then she checked herself and her voice faltered.

  “Did she keep a diary, that you know of?”

  “No. Not to my knowledge. If she did it was more than likely in her school bag. She did the odd scribble in her school planner, but I’ve not checked that for weeks. She recorded most of her stuff on her mobile. Those are with her.” She paused. “Who could have done this to her?”

  He saw that her face looked tired, care worn, and that dark lines were etched around her eyes from lack of sleep. He wished he had an answer for her.

  As he finished he gave the room a final, once over look. He just knew that this would probably remain untouched for many years to come. It would be the Morris’s’ dedication to Rebecca’s memory. A shrine to their beautiful daughter. He felt a cold shudder move down his spine. Someone had walked over his grave.

  Hunter finally closed the bedroom door with a sense of foreboding. He had hoped for an early breakthrough. Some sort of discovery. A name, or an indication why such an innocent girl had met a brutal death. But there had been nothing. If she had any secrets, they hadn’t found them in that room.

  * * * * *

  There was a deathly silence about the evening, broken only by the soft squelch of his rubber soled training shoes on the wet garden path as he moved through the fine drizzle. Despite the rain it was still warm. He glanced back up the garden where the lounge window of his home was illuminated in a warm yellow glow, and where he could see the flashes of light coming from the television. Looking at his watch he realised his mother would be fully engrossed in one of her favourite soaps. For at least half an hour he knew he would not be disturbed.

  Snapping back the padlock of the old shed he slowly eased open the paint-blistered door. It creaked slightly. The sound cascaded images around in his head from the many horror movies he had watched and he momentarily stiffened, frame upright, and gave another glance over his shoulder. The evening was still. The rain was keeping everyone indoors. He stepped into the wooden hut and secured the door after him. The interior was dingy and he had to strain his eyes whilst surveying the muddle of garden equipment and discarded household items. Finally piercing the darkness and identifying the pile he required he began to pull at several old wooden packing crates, garden tools and old blankets he had placed there several days ago. Lastly he opened one of the plastic sacks that lay in an ordered heap. A pungent musty smell hit his nostrils, and almost simultaneously black and white images of a gir
l struggling, flashbacked into his mind. He shuddered for a split second and then composed himself.

  Item by item he spread out her school shirt, skirt and tie and then removed books, a pencil case and the mobile phone from the pink bag she used for school. He double-checked the battery and SIM card ensuring they were still disconnected. He’d read somewhere that whilst the battery and SIM card were connected that a mobile could still be tracked, even if it wasn’t in use.

  After yesterday’s close shave he couldn’t afford to take chances. Not now, after all this time.

  He picked up her school shirt, white cotton, freshly washed, and he pulled it towards his face, sniffing deeply, picking up the fragrance of her deodorant. His flesh began to go goosey, and a cold sensation tingled up his spine. The muscles of his face twitched involuntary as he caught a final glimpse of her face in his mind. He felt himself getting erect again.

  He knew he would have to get rid of all these soon just on the off chance he was questioned.

  Folding the clothing carefully and mentally double checking each item’s return to its bag, he replaced everything as it had been, and then putting an ear to the door he confidently stepped out into the warm summer rain.

  - ooOoo -

  CHAPTER THREE

  DAY SIX: 11th July.

  In contemplative mood Hunter Kerr stared into the bathroom mirror, ran a hand around his freshly shaved jaw line, dabbed water from the bowl onto his head, and then rubbed a wet hand through his brown receding hairline, temples now flecked with grey. He stroked the few mature hairs slowly, for a second thinking about colouring them, then caught himself, and smiled at his vanity.

  Stepping back into the bedroom he fastened up his shirt and slung a loose tie around his neck. He saw that Beth was still snug beneath the duvet. He diverted his gaze to the bedside alarm clock and saw that in twenty minutes’ time it would be buzzing away. He knew that within five minutes of it sounding Beth would be into her routine, sorting out their two sons for school, whilst at the same time preparing herself for her job at the Doctors’ surgery where she worked part time as a nurse practitioner. It always amazed him how she could juggle managing the house, their boys, and still hold down a professional career. He knew he couldn’t do it. He bent down and kissed her forehead. She half opened her eyes and smiled.

  “Just off love. Don’t know what time I’ll get in. Got a busy day ahead.”

  She muttered back something incoherent and rolled over.

  In stocking feet he crept downstairs, so as not to wake his two boys, and eased a newspaper from the letterbox of the front door, before creeping through to the kitchen at the rear.

  He made tea lazily, dunking a tea bag directly into a mug, at the same time slotting two slices of bread into the toaster. He made the tea strong, adding a heaped teaspoon of sugar to wake himself up. Waiting for the toast he stood before the kitchen sink, mug clutched to his chest, staring dreamily through the window, taking in the sights of the morning freshness stirring his garden. Everywhere was still damp from the overnight rain, and a fine mist was rising as the warmth of the sun slowly appeared over the distant tree tops. He thought for a moment how fortunate he was. His home overlooked farmland that formed part of the old Wentworth estates. A gate at the bottom of his garden opened up onto fields and many a time he had watched his two boys making dens amongst the bushes, or jumping into the stacks of newly cut wheat.

  He visualized his own first home as a child. A terraced house with a shared back yard. It was all his parents could afford, but he could still remember being told by his father, that it was far better than the tenement building that he and his wife had left behind in Glasgow.

  Both his parents had reminded him many times of how fortunate he should consider himself. They had been born in Scotland and brought up in an era of economic hardship, deciding to move down to Yorkshire to make a better life for themselves in the early nineteen seventies. They had never returned, both choosing to settle when he had been born six months after their arrival.

  As he bit into his first slice of fresh toast he opened up Barnwell’s weekly paper. The headline ‘BRUTAL MURDER’ in bold black letters shouted back, and a cherished family photo of Rebecca Morris, a faint smile across her face, filled a good section of the page. There had been hardly anything in the Nationals, but he knew the local paper would make great play on the macabre discovery. He pored over the article to check if the killer’s handiwork had been leaked but there were no surprise revelations. Its column inches had used the original police press statement, a brief update by the Senior Investigating Officer, and lastly the usual quotes from friends and neighbours to embellish the misery, anguish and cruelty of this human tragedy report.

  He finished reading the article and knew first hand that progress was still in its early stages. Now in the sixth day of the investigation, the finishing touches were just being put around the site of the murder, with exhibit after exhibit being logged and bagged for forensics. There had been no discoveries so far of Rebecca’s school clothing, bag or personal mobile. It was painstakingly slow work with no stone being left unturned. And he knew that within the next hour, when he sat in this morning’s briefing, the now twenty strong Major Investigation Team – two additional teams of detectives’ from district CID had swelled their ranks - would be ready for another day working against the clock.

  * * * * *

  Hunter and Grace had been allocated the task of interviewing Rebecca’s closest friend, Kirsty Evans, who had just returned from holiday to hear the shocking news. As Hunter entered the Wood estate his mind went back to his childhood years when he had roamed these streets with some of his school pals who had lived there. It had once been a model of council planning. Sadly the estate had become like many others – run down. A new generation of people, with legacies of problems, had moved in and had not bothered to change or adopt the same pride as their neighbour’s. Consequently, he knew from his previous CID work, that burglaries had increased to fund drug habits, resulting in those tenants with savings moving out for a more peaceful lifestyle.

  They pulled into Hawthorne Close, a small cul-de-sac, and Hunter immediately thought that this was not one of those streets that had fallen to the dregs of society. This was how he remembered the look of the estate many years ago. The Evans’s had spent money re-furbishing their house, and a garage and extension had changed the appearance of the council house.

  Mr Evans greeted them, explaining how dreadful the shock had been, what a pleasant, friendly girl Rebecca was, and finished with the note that Kirsty was still very upset.

  Hunter immediately picked up on the tone of how Mr Evans delivered his opening and guessed he had made those comments as a means of expressing hope that they would adopt a softer and sympathetic approach to how they interviewed his daughter. He reassuringly replied, “Don’t worry Mr Evans we’re just here to get some background about Rebecca.”

  Mr Evans showed them into the lounge, informed them she was with her mother, and then finished by saying he had some work to do ‘out the back’.

  It was evident Kirsty had been crying. She was slightly younger than Rebecca by two months, but Hunter thought she looked older. A few years older in fact. She could easily have passed for sixteen. Her hair had obviously been cut and coloured at a good salon. She wore tasteful make up over her newly acquired tanned face, and her slender figure already had womanly curves.

  Hunter introduced Grace and himself, but went no further as they had already decided that because Grace’s daughter, Robyn, was exactly the same age that she would most likely have the natural affinity to carry out this sensitive interview.

  They settled themselves in armchairs beside the settee where Kirsty sat, with her Mother placing a reassuring arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and positioned themselves to face her. Hunter, the note taker, sat back pen poised over his daily journal, whilst Grace leant forward hands clasped together on her lap.

  “Kirsty, this is important” sh
e began. “We need to catch Rebecca’s killer as soon as possible. We need you to tell us everything you know about her. It’s also important that you hold no secrets back, even if you think you might get into trouble.”

  Kirsty’s bloodshot eyes shot open and fixed on the detective.

  “Trouble, but we haven’t done anything wrong. We’re not like that”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything Kirsty. It’s just that in cases like this we can’t afford for anything to be held back. We all have things we want to keep hidden, sometimes especially from parents. I have a daughter exactly the same age as you, so I can say that from experience. Trust me Kirsty we’re not wanting to get you into any trouble.”

  “I’m not hiding anything. We don’t have anything to hide…” she glanced sideways at her mother, “honest,” she finished.

  “Fine Kirsty, that’s just fine. Now tell us about Rebecca.”

  For the next ten minutes the girl spoke softly, in warm affectionate tones, about her friend Rebecca. Her likes and dislikes. What they did in their rooms and what they did outside and at school. There was nothing untoward.

  It was typical fourteen-year-old girl stuff, thought Hunter as he scribed.

  Kirsty appeared to have settled. Grace said, “Did she ever fall out with anyone? Have any enemies?”

  “Not Rebecca. She was quiet and friendly. We’re all like that, our group. We keep away from the girls we know who are going to cause trouble.”

  “What about boyfriends?”

  “None serious. We knocked about with a couple of lads; walked home with them, saw them at the youth club, that kind of stuff. Just acted around with them.”

  The replies flowed but Hunter couldn’t help but feel that the sentences were somehow so false; so rehearsed. He tried to catch Graces attention, to indicate for her to change tack in her approach to the questions.