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

  “On the subject of sex,” said Mike as he pushed the box back under the shelving unit, “I once made love to my girlfriend for one hour and five minutes.”

  Grace caught the smirk creeping across Mike’s face and just knew it was going to be another one of his jokes. Since joining the team there had been many times when her sides had ached from his funny stories and at his antics.

  “Go on you’ve got me, when was that?”

  “Last March, when the clocks went forward.” He started to laugh; a deep belly laugh. It was infectious, sometime funnier than his actual joke.

  She joined in the laughter for the best part of a minute, wiping the tears from her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. She nudged him eventually. “Stop it now Mike, we’ve got to get on with this.

  It was very rare that Grace worked with Mike Sampson – Hunter was her regular partner, though when she had done, she had found the experience a refreshing change. He was the ‘character’ in the department. Full of one-liners and jokes and he always had the ability to come up with a witty punch-line to lighten things. Yet she also knew the professional side to his work, and he was dedicated. He was regularly the last person to leave the office at the end of the day. Yet unlike her working relationship with Hunter, where they regularly shared small-talk on a daily basis about their personal lives, she realised she knew very little about Mike’s personal life. She knew he was single and spent quite a lot of his time in the pub with mates following a quiz trail around various venues throughout the week and she also knew that he loved to spend his weekends off fishing competitively up and down the country. But that was where her knowledge of him ended. She had never seen him in a relationship and he had never introduced a love of his life. As she dragged her eyes back to her paperwork she made it her objective over the next few weeks to get to know him better.

  * * * * *

  First Rebecca Morris’s smiling face came into view, fading away and followed quickly by a blurry distant shot of her in her school uniform standing by the bus stop, the same one where he had picked her up, and it stopped him in his tracks. The hairs in his nostrils quivered from a sharp intake of breath and he tried to catch up the two beats his heart missed. A cold clammy sensation swelled inside him and the palms of his hands suddenly itched from the beads of sweat, which rolled across his skin. He wavered only slightly but the two cups he was carrying clattered together and a splurge of hot tea splattered his training shoes and the carpet. He felt his heart flutter as he quickly tuned his hearing to the muted conversation that came from the television.

  “What on earth are you playing at?” screamed his mother, her head whipping round, peering back over her armchair.

  He quickly realised what he had seen was a reconstruction of the last sighting of Rebecca Morris being played out on ‘Crimewatch’, and that except for her facial photo, what he had witnessed was someone who had only been acting as a body double for Rebecca.

  He heaved a sigh of relief but a lump emerged in his throat, which he tried to swallow in order to answer his mother back.

  “I don’t know,” she spluttered. “Nearly thirty years old and I can’t even trust you to make me a cup of tea without spilling it.”

  He plonked the two cups onto the wooden coffee table in front of her, but it was too harsh and more tea slopped out.

  “Sorry, I’ll just fetch a cloth.”

  He turned to go back to the kitchen but there was more to the report, which again stopped him from what he was doing. He thought he recognised the scene being shown on their new HD ready TV. The colourless grey landscape had taken on changes over the years but there was no mistaking the area he was now looking at and he tried to catch what the presenter was saying.

  “Police say they are not ruling out the possibility that the recent gruesome findings are linked with the murder of fourteen year old Rebecca Morris whose mutilated body was discovered two weeks ago...”

  “Oh just leave it,” his Mother snapped. “I’ll fetch it. If you want a job doing, then do it yourself.”

  She pushed passed him slapping at his elbow trying to move him aside, but he was too strong for her now and she wobbled sideways as he flicked out his arm; a reaction to the slap.

  He watched his mother, her eyes bulging, glare back at him.

  She was getting inside his head again. He could feel the anger welling up inside. Just like all the other times. Sometimes she really messed with his head. Because of her he’d missed the remainder of the broadcast. From what had been said though, he could guess that they had found another one of his girls. He cursed inwardly at his mother’s interruptions. Now it meant he would have to go out tomorrow and get the local paper. He’d drive into town and get one from one of the supermarkets. He didn’t want to arouse suspicions by getting one from their usual newsagent.

  He heard his mother clattering about in the scullery searching out the floor cloth, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the way she always did when she was annoyed with him.

  One of these days he would fucking do for her.

  * * * * *

  ‘I feel like a bloody leper’ Susan Siddons thought as she drew on the final remnants of her cigarette before flicking it to the ground and grinding it underfoot. As an uncontrollable shiver moved down her back she wished she had put on her cardigan before coming outside. “I’m going to end up with a cold, thanks to this stupid bloody smoking ban,” she mumbled to herself, looking at her reflection in one of the pub windows. She took the breath freshener dispenser from out of her small handbag, squirted it into her mouth and then cupped her hand and blew into it, whilst simultaneously sniffing, to see if her breath still smelt of smoke. Then she replenished her lipstick, flicked a hand through her newly cropped hair and made her entrance back into The White Hart, her local bar, just a five minute walk from her dingy flat. As she entered the snug she tugged at the seams of her short skirt to cover a little more of her still slender legs.

  “Another fag break Sue?” her large-chested, generously proportioned friend Debbie quipped, taking a swig of lager.

  “My only vice,” she responded. “Oh and the occasional drink,” she added picking up her own half of beer, before dropping down onto the padded bench beside her best friend.

  “And sex,” finished Debbie.

  They both glanced at each other and gave off a short laugh.

  The television was on, mounted high up on a shelf in one corner of the room and despite there being no sound on, the items shown on the screen caught her eye. She immediately stopped drinking, resting the rim of the glass on her bottom lip, as she stared intently at the screen.

  “What’s this?” she mumbled nodding towards the screen. Debbie looked blank and shrugged her shoulders. Susan spun her head round towards the bar.

  “Terry.” she shouted to the large bellied manager serving behind the bar “What’s this on the telly?”

  He took his eyes of the fresh pint he was just pulling for a customer and looked towards the screen. “Crimewatch” he answered and went back to filling the glass.

  “Turn it up Terry” she requested sharply, but there was nervousness in her voice.

  “What for? You on it?” he shot back.

  “Fuck off and just turn up the sound you sarkie twat.” She almost slammed down her beer glass onto the round wooden table.

  Several heads in the snug turned towards her, but she hadn’t noticed. Her eyes were transfixed by the image on TV, focusing on the clothing neatly laid out on a table.

  “I wouldn’t argue with her if I was you Terry.” Debbie said.

  The manager aimed the remote handset at the television and held his index finger continuously on the volume switch, watching the numbers rise on the screen until it was audible.

  Susan strained her ears, just catching the final bits of conversation between the stocky, grey-haired detective and the fair-haired female presenter. She quickly deciphered that the remains of a young girl had been found on the site
of the old Manvers pit and was wearing clothing similar to that on the table. The rest of the conversation became just a jumble as her thoughts began racing. Simultaneously a mist clouded her vision. She clasped a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh my god,” she gasped.

  Debbie spun sideways and saw how the blood had drained from Sue’s face. “What’s the matter?”

  Susan didn’t respond. She was moving quickly out of her seat, banging her legs against the side of the table and causing the drinks to slop out of their glasses. She dashed along the corridor by the toilets, her slim figure bouncing off the doorjamb and she had to catch herself before she stumbled outside into the car park. Her fingers groped around the keypad of her mobile. She hadn’t dialled this number for a long time but she could still remember it.

  “Come on, come on,” she muttered with each dialling tone. Finally it was answered. The man’s voice seemed a lot steadier since the last time they had spoken several years ago.

  “Barry it’s Sue” she blurted out. “Susan Siddons. I really need to see you. It’s about our Carol. I think they’ve just found her.”

  * * * * *

  The unexpected phone call from retired detective Barry Newstead later that evening, practically demanding that they meet, took Hunter completely by surprise. But he knew the moment he had replaced the handset that it was a request he dare not refuse. From experience he knew that Barry never rang anyone out of the blue, and therefore it had to be something vitally important.

  He turned off the car stereo as soon as he pulled out of the drive and in silence drove the few miles from his home along the unlit country roads to the tranquil picture-postcard village of Wentworth, where Barry had fixed the meet, dwelling on the strangeness of the telephone conversation he had just had with an old colleague whom he had last seen over five years back.

  In his head he replayed his first ever meeting with the huge, bullish man. It was the 1st of September 1988 - he had been sixteen years of age. It was one of those dates locked inside his memory bank. That was because it was the day the police told him that his girlfriend, Polly Hayes, had been murdered; her battered body had been found in woodland. Barry had been one of the detectives on the case and had interviewed him.

  They had never found her killer, and a year into the enquiry Barry had broken the news to him that the case was being closed until further evidence came to light.

  Finding out who had been responsible for his girlfriend’s murder had been his incentive for joining the police. And with each murder case since, he had either enquired or examined the similarities of how each victim had met their deaths, but he still hadn’t turned up her killer. This recent case was looking no different.

  He had stayed in touch with Barry, not just to discuss any fresh information about Polly’s murder, but also because a bond of friendship had developed between them, and he had caught up with him again, at the age of twenty-five, when he had achieved detective status, and been posted to district CID.

  When he had entered the CID office on that very first day, a nervous knot in his stomach, Barry had been one of the first people to greet him.

  He became his mentor. Hunter quickly learned that Barry was one of the figureheads of the department, and also a legend in the office and in the first twelve months he regaled him with his adventures over a many a pint. He soon realised that in spite of his outward appearance he had an incredibly fast and alert mind and he could talk the hind-leg off a donkey. Hunter had learned that Barry had a vast network of informants and that when he ‘fingered’ someone for a job then without doubt they had done it. Along the way he also became familiar with Barry’s interview techniques. Occasionally he had witnessed Barry use violence, out of sight and mind of the custody sergeant, to gain a confession. As he, himself, had become involved in jobs with Barry he became mesmerised by some of his frighteningly unorthodox methods. Methods, which both scared, and yet at the same time, excited him. Hunter soon realised that Barry was so determined to prove that the villains he dealt with were found guilty of their crimes. And he would listen to him continually defend his activities by repeatedly stating “I can put my hand on my heart when I say I have never put an innocent man behind bars.” And he would back this up by telling him how many of his miscreants had written letters to him from prison for a visit so that they could ‘clear their slate’ before release. Hunter soon discovered that his clear up rate for crime was phenomenal.

  But then Hunter had transferred to Drugs Squad, and had then achieved promotion and they had lost touch. Whilst in his new post he had picked up gossip which had disturbed him. Sadly, he’d learned that Barry had brought about his own downfall. Barristers and judges had begun to vehemently challenge his breaches of guidelines, in particular of The Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and his ‘collars’ began to walk away free from court.

  Word got back to Hunter that some of the younger managers had labelled him a maverick and a dinosaur, and between them had plotted his downfall. In particular one newly promoted Chief Inspector had removed him from operational CID and sidelined him to a desk job. He’d left numerous messages on Barry’s voicemail for him to get in touch. He’d expected him to return the calls and take his advice, but he never had. The next thing he had learned was that Barry had retired. Hunter had caught up with him again at his leaving do. It was one of the biggest he had attended and he saw and heard so many past and present CID bosses praise his efforts. He recalled one retired Detective Superintendent telling everyone ‘how sad it was that detectives like him were no longer allowed to operate to the benefit of the victims.’

  Hunter had recently watched the TV series ‘Life on Mars’ and had been amazed how much of Barry’s character and working practices fitted into the series. He did wonder at first if he had been an advisor to the programme and found himself scouring the credits for the ex-detective’s name.

  As he pulled into the rear car park of the village pub Hunter couldn’t help think that despite the inconvenience and the fact that he was shattered after another gruelling fourteen hour day it would be nice to catch up with Barry again after all this time.

  The George and Dragon, built of Yorkshire stone, was a typical country pub. The interior had a warming ambience and its décor was that of an old farmhouse, with heavy stone flagged floors, timbered ceilings and whitewashed plaster walls. Turn-of-the-century sepia photographs of the pub and the village decorated the walls, and the furniture was a mixture of heavy wooden chairs, high backed benches and many different sized tables. It was one of those pubs he only occasionally visited, particularly on warm summer evenings, though with its range of good quality real ales he quickly acknowledged he should and would pay it more attention in future.

  The bar area was a hive of activity and he scoured the sea of faces to see if he could spot Barry. He hoped he would still be able to recognize him after all these years. Then he spotted him, tucked away in the corner on one of the high back seats, just putting a pint of beer to his mouth. ‘He hasn’t changed one bit’, he thought to himself. The same, dark, rumple of hair and red-flushed face, reminiscent of a hill farmer. Hunter was deeply suspicious of the Dorian Grey appearance, especially as he knew that Barry had been retired at least six years and would be in his early fifties. Hunter made eye contact, raised his hand to acknowledge him and then shook it several times towards his face silently mouthing the words ‘want another beer’. Barry gave him the thumbs up and Hunter ordered two pints of Timothy Taylor Landlord; one of his favourite real ales, before squeezing between customers towards the seated area where his ex-colleague sat.

  Hunter also saw that Barry still had that bushy moustache, which he stroked so frequently and annoyingly, and as he got closer he spied the tell-tale signs that he was dying his hair. As Barry pushed himself up from his seat and thrust out a hand to greet him Hunter couldn’t help but notice he was more beer-bellied and rotund than he had last remembered him, but as he gripped and shook his hand he could feel there was still stre
ngth in those arms, which he had seen him use piston-like on more than one occasion to pummel an adversary.

  “Looking Good Hunter.”

  “You too Barry.”

  “Still as diplomatic as ever I see. That’s why you got promoted and I didn’t. I’ve put on a few pounds I know, since I retired.” He slapped the side of his girth; “but I can still give the young-uns a run for their money.”

  Hunter had no doubt that he could.

  “How are you doing?”

  For a good half hour as they sipped their beers Barry quizzed him about the job, tut-tutting and shaking his head as Hunter described the many changes that both the uniform side as well as the CID departments had undergone since Barry’s retirement. For a few seconds he wondered if he himself would be as cynical and critical when it became his time to leave. Over the first twenty minutes conversation the chilled smooth tasting beer went down easily and Barry went to the bar to replenish the glasses.

  Then as Barry eased himself back into his seat Hunter decided it was time to get to the crux of why he had driven here. “Well I have to say I was intrigued by your call, right out of the blue after all these years.”

  Barry took the head off his beer. “Have you identified your body from the Manvers site yet?” he enquired not looking up.

  “Not yet. We’re ploughing our way through hundreds of missing-from-home files going back years and the gaffer went on Crimewatch tonight, but I don’t know if anything’s come of that.”

  “That’s why I rang you. I got a call just like you, right out of the blue. From a woman I haven’t seen or spoken to in years. It was the mum of a girl who went missing back in the early nineties, a Carol Siddons.”