Heart of the Demon (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (25 page)

“Kelly Marie Johnson, thirteen years old,” Glen unlocked his hands and spun an A5 size photograph of a smiling teenage girl towards them. The colours were still extremely sharp despite the photograph being twelve year old. A picture of a very pretty girl, and yet with many similarities to the other victims; dark collar length hair, glistening hazel eyes, and with an air of innocence about her.

Hunter notice
d that the girl was wearing heavy make-up and the pose of Kelly appeared more confident than the photos they had of the other girls. This shot was more professional altogether.

Grace took the photograph from the DS’s fingers, angling it slightly towards herself. “This is an unusual photo. Was it taken in a studio?”

“It was actually,” Glen replied. “Kelly had just been taken on by a modelling company. She was doing shoots for catalogues. That photo came from her portfolio. As you can see Kelly was a very pretty girl, looked a lot older than her thirteen years, and because of that she attracted a lot older type of boy. It caused a bit of friction with her dad.”

“What was she like as a person?” Grace continued.

“Well until she got the modelling contract just a normal teenage girl, but the six months leading up to her death her parents and her friends said her personality changed. She began to hang out with older teenagers. Putting jealousy to one side her closest friends painted a picture of a girl who suddenly got very cocky and arrogant and who began picking on girls who she considered less attractive than herself, humiliating them and even bullying a couple of them. She began wagging school and we found out she’d been meeting up with a couple of lads, sixteen and seventeen. We questioned them on several occasions and both eventually admitted they had had sex with her, but they insisted she had told them she was herself sixteen. What they did have however was unbreakable alibis on the day she was murdered. They were at work, witnessed by dozens of their co-workers.”

He took back the picture and viewed it himself.

She’d begun drinking as well; cider; and heavily. She rolled in drunk on several occasions and had bust-ups with her parents. She’d also been warned by the modelling agency about her attitude.”

“A girl with everything, pressing the self-destruction button,” said Hunter. “How many times have we seen that?”

“These characteristics you are describing identically match our victims. All the girls seemed to have been going through a real chaotic phase in their lives leading up to their deaths,” added Grace.

“In a short space of time Kelly changed from a naive young girl into a real wild child.”

“What happened on the day she was murdered?” asked Grace

“She’d come home from school.” Glen paused. “This was one of the rare occasions in recent times she had actually attended. She was on a final warning from the modelling agency. A clean up your act or your finished ultimatum,” he continued. “Anyway she got changed and told her mother she was meeting a couple of friends and would be back for her tea.”

He picked up some typewritten notes turned a couple of the pages over and then continued reading from one of the sheets.

“At four forty-five pm on the second of August nineteen ninety six Mr William Burridge was in woods at South Elmsall,” he glanced up, “Billy was known as a bit of a peeping-tom in the village. He did admit under questioning that he used to visit the woods on a regular occasion because they were well known as a rendezvous point for courting couples.” He returned his gaze back to the notes. “He heard a girl screaming. He could tell from its tone that it was someone in trouble and ran towards the sound and began shouting as he got closer. He described seeing a young man wearing a dark T-shirt and jeans running with a small wiry-haired dog before he disappeared amongst the trees.” The DS looked up from his notes again. “He got a glimpse of his face, just for a split-second glance, but it was enough for him to do an e-fit picture for us.”

He continued. “Then Billy found Kelly amongst some long grass. She had been strangled by a belt of some type and she had been stabbed. In fact when the post-mortem was done the pathologist stated that the killer had made some attempt to cut out her heart.”

Hunter and Grace exchanged looks.

Glen Deakin ran his fingers down the typewritten script. “Uniform were first on scene. A dog man did a follow through the woods, and some farmer’s fields, which led towards the village of Great Houghton, in your area. He lost the track there unfortunately.”
He set down the papers. “And that’s where I came in. I was part of the team, which did enquiries in your area. We joined up with a few of your detectives and did house to house. We circulated the e-fit and got an anonymous tip-off, which pointed us in the direction of Gabriel Wild. I knew as soon as I started interviewing him that something was not right. He was so nervous and cagey. We found there had been a bonfire in the back garden, some clothing and what looked like a pair of trainers had been burned, but it was four days after the murder and everything was just ashes. His mother totally covered for him. Said he was with her in the house at the time of the murder. Gabriel hardly said anything in interview and we couldn’t knock what his mother said. She stood firm even though we threatened her with perverting the course of justice.”

The DS’s mouth set tight. “Gabriel remained and still remains our strongest suspect for Kelly Johnson’s murder.”

“Just one question,” said Hunter, “Did you find a playing card with Kelly’s body?”

The enquiry caught Glen in his tracks.

“Do you know that rings a bell.” He flicked through the mounds of paper and dragged out several stapled sheets. Sliding a finger slowly down the typeface he stopped halfway down the second sheet and averted his eyes to Hunter then Grace. “Yes, it’s here, on the exhibits list from the scene, a playing card found in Kelly’s left hand. It was photographed in situ; the Two of Hearts.”

“Kelly Johnson was his second victim,” rasped Hunter.

- ooOoo -

DAY THIRTY-FOUR: 9
th
August.

The back door of the Wild's semi-detached, the original wood and glass one, from the early fifties when the house was built, lay in pieces.
It had initially resisted the Task Force Firearms Team battering ram, but on the third ‘run’ the oak door had exploded from its frame in spectacular fashion. Splinters of wood and shards of glass had flown everywhere.

“Clear.” one of the
Kevlar-armoured firearms officers shouted as he swept the last remaining room on the ground floor and moved deftly on towards the stairwell.

Hunter and his team shared an air of nervous excitement as they stood outside, waiting and listening for their signal to enter. An earlier clear blue sky had given way to a slight drizzle and despite it still being the last dregs of summer the air seemed dense with cold moisture.

Set out in front of them was a meticulously tidy garden. Neatly trimmed hedges and tall bushes surrounded a newly mown lawn.

Hunter strained his e
ars following the sounds of the searching firearms team. They were currently moving rapidly through the upper rooms. Even though he was anticipating it, when the call for them to enter came it made him jump. Hunter went in first. He noticed that despite the daylight the lights were on in every downstairs room. A television was on somewhere in the lounge to his left; even though it was soundless he could see the flicker of blurred images against the dark patterned wallpaper. He bounded up the threadbare carpeted stairs quickly followed by Grace, Tony and Mike. On the landing he was surprised to be met by Paul Goodright, garbed head to toe in standard protective Task Force clothing with a Heckler and Kock rifle strapped across his chest. It had slipped his mind that Paul was part of the Firearms team. It was the first time he had seen him in uniform. He looked a quite a commanding presence.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Hunter greeted him.

Paul’s features were set grim. “The target’s not here Hunter and you’re not going to like what we’ve just found.” He pointed towards the front of the house.

Hunter
pushed the bedroom door fully open and the four MIT detectives trooped in. The room was gloomy. A single shaft of light pierced the dimness. One of the windows was open and the velvet curtains were lifting in the breeze. In the dullness he picked out the sheet-covered mound on the bed. Using thumb and index figure he carefully lifted the top edge of the white linen cover to reveal the figure of an ageing woman curled up in the foetal position. A gut-wrenching smell emanated from the body and he held his breath as he bent over the corpse. Lividity was rampant throughout her torso. A clear sign she had been dead for some days. Looking into her wide staring eyes he knew that the blood-shot effect meant that the blood vessels had blown, usually the result of strangulation. It was a feature in all the murders they had been investigating. A grotesquely swollen tongue had forced its way between her lips, filling the entranceway to her mouth.

“Looks like he’s got to her as well. I wonder if she found out about him and was going to drop him?” Tony Bullars broke the silence.

“The bastard. His own bloody mother. The evil bastard.” Grace seemed to stumble over her words. “I need some fresh air.”

She trotted down the stairs and made her way to the back door, stepping out into the fine rain. She
leaned her shoulders back against the house wall and took in deep gulps of air.

“How could he? I mean all those people and now his own Mother.” she spat out.

Hunter joined her. “You okay Grace? This is not like you.”

“Things have just caught up with me Hunter. It’s been a long couple of months with very little break and now this.”
She pushed herself back off the wall. “I want to personally nick this twisted bastard Hunter,” she announced quite loudly. “Want to look him in the eye, take a leaf out of Barry’s book - hope he puts up a fight so I can give the bastard some of what he deserves.” Her bottom lip quivered as she fought back the rage. She took a deep breath. “But we’ve dealt with his type all the time, haven’t we Hunter. When they come up against someone who’s a match they totally bottle it. They’re wimps and cowards. And I bet this pervert’s just the same.”

“You finished venting your spleen now, because we’ve got work to do.”

“Yeah, I feel better after that,” Grace answered giving him a wan smile as she turned to go back into the house.

* * * * *

He wanted to ring that fucking woman detective’s neck - just like his mother’s. Saying things like that about him.

I’m not a wimp and a coward and I’m certainly not a pervert. I’ll show her.

He slunk back into the bushes away from the officer’s gaze.

He had only
just managed to hide. The police’s arrival had completely taken him by surprise. He had been in the shed looking for some sacking to take his mother’s body away and bury, now that it was starting to smell, when he had heard the cars screeching up to the front of the house.

He knew that sound could only mean one thing. It confirmed in his mind that he had been right to do what he had done. Before he had ended his mother’s miserable life she must have telephoned the police and tipped them off about him. What had she said to him?

“Enough is enough.” Those were her words.

I knew she had, that’s why she had to die.

By rights he knew he should have punished her a long time ago.

How could she betray me after all this time? I’d only let her live this long because she
had helped me.

How many times had she washed his bloodstained clothing without question?

It wasn’t just my secret. It was our little secret. It was the only thing we actually shared together since that day she caused my dad to leave.

When he had seen the armed police smash down the door and then watched them all scuttle inside to search he had decided it was time to make himself scarce. He was about to emerge from the bushes at the bottom of the garden when that black lady detective and her colleague had come out, and she had started to slag him off. She was just like all the others.

He had intended to call it a day and leave the area now that he had been found out but he knew he had one more job to do before he left.

She has to be taught a lesson. She can’t say those things about me without being punished.

- ooOoo -

DAY THIRTY-SIX: 11
th
August.

Grace cupped her mug of hot coffee in both hands staring at the small TV screen in her kitchen. The sound was on low but she could still pick out the words of Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw. The local news broadcast was replaying footage from last night’s press conference held at the front of the Wild’s home.

“There has been a significant development with the discovery of the body of an elderly woman, and a post mortem examination will be carried out to determine cause of death,” he was announcing to the world’s press in his best Police speak. “We urgently need to trace and speak with her son Gabriel in relation to this incident.”
His face was solemn on camera, though Grace knew that inside he was elated because they finally knew who the serial killer was. Gabriel Wild was on the run.

The next shot was from the air, of the Wild’s rear garden, where a white forensic tent had been erected beside the wooden shed. She knew they had already dug up the remains of Gabriel’s dog. More disturbingly however was the fact that the ground penetrating radar had indicated there was at least one more much larger form buried beneath the flowerbeds. They were expecting to find yet another teenage girl’s body.

Grace flicked off the television set, trotted across the kitchen, snatched up the wall phone, scrolled down the contacts list and hit the speed dial button. She trapped it between her head and shoulder, listening to the ringing tone as she put the finishing touches to the polish on her nails.

“Come on, come on answer” she found herself muttering under her breath. She blew on her sticky nails. She had a lot to do after yesterday’s discovery.

“Hello,” the deep voice, at the other end of the phone, answered.

“Hi dad, it’s me,” she responded and removed the phone from between her head and shoulder, pressing it against her ear.

“Oh, hello Princess.”

Grace found herself screwing up her eyes, again.
For though she loved to hear the exaggerated notes in her father’s Jamaican accent, and knew in her own heart that it was just his term of affection towards her, she still cringed when he used the Princess word.

“Dad I wish you wouldn’t still call me Princess, I’m thirty seven years old.”

“You will always be my princess, no matter how old you are.”

Why on earth with the surname Kelly had her father and mother decided to call her Grace she would never know. Over and over she had bemoaned this to herself, from as far back as she could recall. As a young child she had not realised the significance of her name, but as she had got older, upon attending comprehensive school, she had found herself the brunt of so much taunting and mocking. It had been her first experience of prejudice because of her colour.

She shook herself away from her thoughts. “Dad I need a favour. I’ve got to work late again. Something really important has cropped up”

“I know it’s been on this morning’s news.” he interjected.

“Can you pick up the girls from their school and give them their tea. I’ve got them booked into a holiday school sports scheme for this week. I wouldn’t ask you under normal circumstances dad but David’s still trying to sort out his new job so he’s been working late as well.”

“Anytime Princess. You know you don’t need to ask. Me and your mother love having them.”

“Thanks Dad you’re a star.” She didn’t give him time to respond. She knew if she engaged him in any further conversation it would be lengthy. And she just didn’t have time, especially as she had to drop the girls off before she drove in.

* * * * *

The Wild’s home had become another murder crime scene. Mrs Wild’s body had been removed on the instructions of the Coroner’s Office and now lay with all the other bodies, in cold storage at the mortuary.

Hunter, Tony Bullars and Mike Sampson, together with forensics had been over every inch of the house, rifling through cupboards and drawers to search out evidence. On the second sweep of the loft area Hunter gave off a shout as he began prising a corner of what looked like a section of wall, but what was in fact painted plywood. He had discovered a false wall covering the chimney breast. He tugged it away from its frame.

“Bloody hell just look at this lot,” he cried
, reaching through and pulling out a glass storage jar. It had a label near its base and he turned it around and held it towards the single bulb, which lit up the loft space. The jar was filled with a discoloured liquid and something slopped around inside.

“Frigging hell,” he exclaimed, recoiling
, almost dropping the jar. He caught it with his other hand and brought it closer to his eyes. Turning the jar he held it up towards the low wattage bulb to get a better look. He read the label: Claire Fisher’s name was emblazoned across it in bold black ink. Widening his eyes in the dim light he focussed on the contents.

Jerking his head back he thrust the jar towards Mike Sampson.

“Christ Mike is that what I think it is? The sick bastard. The press are going to have a field day when they get hold of this.”

Mike
scrutinised the contents and nodded. “It’s a heart. The bastard cut out and stored her heart. And look there’s a couple of more jars behind there as well.”

Hunter handed the jar
to Mike and leaned back into the space. He could make out three more lined up on a narrow shelf. Above, on another shelf, he spotted several box files and he took one down and flicked it open. It contained an array of newspaper’s and photos, which he began to read. He recognised some of the faces in the photographs and yellowing newspaper cuttings. Claire Fisher, Rebecca Morris and Carol Siddons were amongst them. Sellotaped to Carol’s photo was The Ace of Hearts playing card: Foxed and discoloured, it showed clear signs of ageing.

She was his first victim,
Hunter said to himself. He remembered hers had been the first body that they had found with its heart cut out. And he bet there would be a jar on the shelf with her name upon it.

There were other images of teenage girls that were familiar and he guessed that these would match some of those on the missing from home files back in the office. Filed in date order he speed-read the newspaper story lines of young girls who had disappeared over the last fifteen years
. He instantly picked out the ones they had already found murdered. But amongst them were other girls’ names whose bodies hadn’t been found and Hunter knew in his heart that these were in gravesites not too far away waiting to be uncovered.

Inside clear plastic pockets he found photographs.
Gabriel had taken shots of the girls after he had killed them. The images were graphic and gruesome. As he took out more files he found in the back of one of them a large scale local map of the Dearne Valley and its surrounding area. At the location of the old Manvers Colliery site were four ringed areas in red ink. As he scanned the map he spotted, circled, the old farm complex near to the village of Harlington, and at the top left hand section another drawn hoop covered a wooded area close to the village of South Elmsall.

Looking at the map
Hunter knew that he was looking at the locations where Gabriel had buried his victims and realised that there was further digging to do, especially around the Manvers complex.

Outside Wild’s home the media circus had gathered. The team could hear the Sky Newscopter hovering above. To feed their hunger a description and photograph of Gabriel Wild had already been circulated amongst them and that had been plastered across every news channel the evening before. Numerous sightings had been phoned in and these were currently being followed up.

They had also put out an ‘All Ports Warning’ to prevent Gabriel from leaving the Country.

The search to capture Barnwell’s serial killer was in full flow.

* * * * *

It had been easier to get back to his car than he had anticipated. He slipped on his disguise, of the spectacles and his father’s duffle jacket, which were still in the boot and then scooped out a handful of hair wax from its tin and rubbed it into his hair. He sat in the car for a good ten minutes cursing. Things had come to a head quicker than he had ever anticipated. He would be punished for sure. They’d found the body of his mother before he’d had time to bury her, and sooner or later he knew the detectives would tear apart the house and find all of his little secrets.

A tingling sensation coursed its way through his body as the images of all his victims washed around in his brain. He closed his eyes trying to hold the vision of each one as he recalled what he had done to them.

Their names slowly filtered through. Carol Siddons had been the first. A smile lit up his face. He could still see the surprise on her face as though it was only yesterday. Then there had been Kelly Johnson. She had been a right tart. He’d soon sorted her though. He would never forget the two girls from the children’s home near Doncaster; Amy Clarke and her friend Katie Nichols. He’d met them on Nether Hall Road, a notorious place for prostitutes. He’d been cruising the area when he spotted them.

“Fifty quid for both of us” Amy had said “You’re getting underage you know.”

Those two bitches had chosen themselves.

Though, i
t had proved difficult killing them. The girls had been edgy the entire journey to the Manvers complex and when he had pulled onto the track behind the coking plant they had tried to escape. Thank god his car had only been two-door; they couldn’t get out of the back.

They had put up a hell of a fight. He had scratches and bite marks everywhere and the car had been a real mess when he had finished. It had taken days of cleaning before he could use his car again. He’d buried those two together in the same grave. And then there was Claire Fisher – posh little rich kid. If only her parents had known what she was really like. He didn’t need to rape her. She had given in to him so easy, but he’d still killed her anyway – gullible bitch. Three years ago there had been Zoe Green. She had been so pretty. He spotted her whilst he was mooching around Clifton Park, in Rotherham. She was walking her dog and had let it off its leash. Luring the dog to the bushes had been so easy and when she had come looking he had pounced. He could still see the shocked look on her face. She had just frozen and he had killed her in less than a minute. Smuggling her body into the boot of his car had been the hard part. He’d waited whilst dusk and then moved her before anyone had come
searching. He’d driven home and secreted her behind his garden shed. He’d covered her with bin bags and garden rubbish, and the next day buried her between the hydrangea bushes and the back fence without his mother noticing.

Finally there had been Rebecca Morris. She had been his bad omen. Killing her had proved his downfall, but now wasn’t the time for recriminations. He still had things to do.

Starting the engine he aimed a lengthy look up and down the street, and when he had satisfied himself that no police officers were in sight he set off in the direction of the quiet country lanes, which he knew so well.

Earlier that day it had not been too hard following Grace’s people carrier.

She obviously has other things on her mind.

He smiled to himself as he wove in and out of the traffic, two, and no more than three cars behind. He had picked her up late into the evening leaving the police station and had followed her home. He had been elated that day when Grace had emerged at 8am with her two children. He hadn’t thought about the detective having kids - and they were girls at that.

He liked the look of the eldest in her school uniform. He was surprised to see her dressed like that because he knew the kid’s were on school holiday. Then he recognised which school she was at – private school. He guessed they must have different holiday’s and he took a short cut, anticipating where Grace would be driving. He was right. He was comfortably parked, a good hundred yards from the entranceway to the private school when Grace arrived. He used the zoom lens on his camera to watch the girl’s get out, and then snapped off a shot.

He was certain Grace would be working late again because of the ongoing hunt for him and he therefore guessed
that her daughter’s would be making their own way home.

The remainder of the day he put things in place and rehearsed his lines, and ten minutes before the school day was due to end he slipped his car into a marked parking bay opposite the school gates and sat back to wait.

It wasn’t long before he spotted the eldest girl, coming towards him, chatting with a bunch of mates.

He slipped out of the driver’s seat and strode purposely towards her.

“Miss Marshall?” he asked and he showed the fake warrant card he had made earlier on his laptop. He could see she was taken aback. “Miss Marshall I’m detective Wild. I work with your Mum. She’s had an accident and I’ve been sent to take you to the hospital.” He could see the girl visibly pale.

“I need to speak with someone.”
She reached for her mobile in her blazer pocket.

“We need to hurry Miss, your mum needs to go to theatre. You can phone who you need to tell on the way there.”