Heart of the Demon (D.S.Hunter Kerr) (11 page)

“I went on a bit of a crusade for a while and showed the cardigan to every villain I nicked,” continued Paul. “But no one could place it to any of our female criminals. If you remember the gaffer went off on one when he found out what I was doing and gave me the shittiest jobs for months. That’s when I realised my days were numbered, so I decided to go back into uniform. And that’s when I joined Traffic division. To be honest it gave me some freedom to see if I could track down the bastard who crippled my sister.” He rubbed his shaven head again. “Do you know Hunter every time I see my sister in her wheelchair I play that night over and over again in my head, wondering if I have missed something or someone and especially regretting my stopping off for a stupid shag.”

“Don’t beat yourself up Paul. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. We’ve all done things we regret. Anyway the murder enquiry I’m involved in might now draw a line under who caused your sister’s and her boyfriend’s accident. That’s why I called you. I’ve mentioned the cardigan because yesterday I found out that our murder victim Carol Siddons was actually wearing the cardigan. Apparently her mother gave it to her to wear on the night she went missing.”

Hunter paused, as he saw Paul draw in his breath. He studied his features and saw a look of real perplexity. He was thinking how he could break the next couple of sentences, but there was no other way round it.

“You know what that means don’t you Paul,” he started. “The cardigan belonged to a victim and not to the person who had nicked the CID car. That’s why you didn’t get anywhere with your enquiries all those years back. You also know that we’re also investigating the murder of a Rebecca Morris don’t you?”

Paul nodded.

“Well the discovery of Carol Siddons body is linked to Rebecca Morris. The forensic pathologist has confirmed that the killings are similar. It looks as though the killer picked up Carol Siddons after he’d nicked your CID car that night, drove her around in it, murdered her, and then buried her. Her body was found only about fifty yards from the old track where the car was dumped and set on fire. It had been buried in a shallow grave.”

Paul almost dropped into the chair beside the table where they had placed their drinks.

“Fucking hell, I can’t believe this,” Paul growled beneath his breath, and snatched up his beer and took a swift gulp.

“Do you still have that cardigan, because you know what I’m thinking now don’t you?” said Hunter now also seating himself at the table beside his colleague.

“DNA.”

Hunter nodded. His head tumbled around the knowledge he had of the scientific processes of matching DNA. Things had changed so radically since its introduction twenty years ago. He knew that forensic scientists were now able to work with
the smallest sample of genetic material, such as sweat, or tears on clothing, often referred to as trace evidence, to enable a match.

“Bloody hell Hunter I never actually booked it in as evidence. I’ve told you what I was doing with it all those years back. It was like treading on eggshells with the gaffer so I kept a low profile with my enquiries. I just kept it in my drawer until I needed it.”

“Did you get rid of it then?”

“I’m sure I didn’t sling it,” Paul retorted. “I can remember taking it with me when I moved. It stayed in my locker for ages.” After a moments silence he suddenly blurted out “I do have it. I put it in my garage. It’ll still be there. But if I do get it how can we get it into the evidence chain without being disciplined for breaching standards? The gaffer back then, Jameson, died of lung cancer a few years back, so there’s no one to back up my story as to why I had to suppress it as evidence.”

“Paul this is something you need to sort out. It’s not me who breached standards. We need that cardigan for forensic evidence.”

“So much for being buddies.”

“Look Paul I don’t want to fall out over this but I covered up enough for you that night when you were out shagging instead of doing your job, and rightly or wrongly the DI did his best to play down the link of one of his department’s cars being involved in a fatal accident, even though it had been stolen. We know there was the death of your sister’s boyfriend that night involving the CID car, plus now the murder of Carol Siddons, and the only evidence we’ve got is that cardigan. You recovered it and it should have been booked in. You know how this job has moved on, especially where it comes to preserving evidence. I don’t care how you do it now but we really need that cardigan. It could be our best chance of catching this bastard.”
He paused and took on a more sympathetic tone. “Look it’s like you said, this happened years ago. Things were different back then, and there’s no doubt that DI Jameson had some influence on your decision not to book it in. But if you think about this there must be some way you can turn this around. My guess is that the evidence property books will have been destroyed a long time ago, and you’ll be able to come up with something to cover your back.” Hunter took another sip of his beer, fixing his gaze on Paul, whom he could see was trying to make some sense of this dilemma. “Another thing” he added “And I know this could complicate things further but I also need to know where you were that night. Who were you shagging when the car was nicked, because there might be some vital witnesses to all this.”

“I can’t do that. You don’t need to know this after all this time. What difference will it make?
No one will be able to recall anything that far back.”

“She was married wasn’t she?”
He sensed Paul hesitate. “Come on you’ve got to be straight with me. I need to know what I was covering up all those years ago.”

“She was married yes. She still is to the same guy, and that’s why it’s so messy.”

“Come on cough up. You’ve done the hard part getting this far.”

“He’s a local councillor.”

“Why’s that so messy?”

“Because he’s now a member of the Police Authority.”

“Bloody hell Paul. You certainly pick ‘em don’t you. Now you’ve told me that you might as well tell me now who she is.”

“Karen Gardner.”

“Karen Gardner, married to Jerry Gardner - chair of the Police Authority?”

Paul nodded “One and the same.”

“But she must be fifty if she’s a day.”

“Probably now, yeah. She was in her thirties when we met. I went to a burglary at their flat, and when I caught the kid who’d done it, she sort of rewarded me. After that I used to visit her every so often when her hubby was at his meetings.”

“I have to say a few of the lads used to hint that they thought she was a bit of a warm ‘un. You dirty bugger.”

“Yes she was. In fact she was red hot. Can you see now why I never said anything?
And I know that I wasn’t the only one doing the rounds with her. I got a whisper she was getting a good seeing to by a local villain and that’s when I called it a day.”

Hunter’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. “That puts a different complexion on things. If you knew about him then he might also have known about you being a cop.”

“I have to confess, it’s got me thinking now.” He paused and screwed up his face, then rubbed a hand across it. “This is a real fucking mess Hunter isn’t it?”

Hunter chose not to respond immediately. He was still a colleague even though they had been out of touch for all these years. He bit down on his lip, and then said, “You know who the guy is?”

“No idea. It was just a snippet I picked up in the pub, and so as I say I stayed well clear of her.”

“You know what I need to do, don’t you?”

“Interview her.”

Hunter nodded. “You and I go back a long way. I promise I’ll be as discreet as I can be. But it’s all fitting into place now. This villain whoever he is, may well have known about you visiting Mrs Gardner and thought of a really good way to get back at a cop. So the possibility is he could have either nicked the car that night, or got someone else to do it to set you up. And then somehow or other Carol Siddons got involved and ended up dead.” Hunter pondered for a second, then added, “Most probably because she witnessed the accident, which killed your sister’s boyfriend and was going to blab.”

- ooOoo –

DAY EIGHTEEN: 23
rd
July

On leaving the club Hunter’s mood was somewhat deflated. Getting into his car he popped in his ‘Bon Jovi’s Crossroads’ album into the CD player and tried to lose himself in the rock music, but driving home the music slipped into the background as he spent the journey replaying the evening’s conversation over and over in his mind and reflecting. Despite everything he and Paul Goodright had done together in the past, he knew that things would never be the same between them again. That trust they once shared had ended with their exchange of words.

He was restless for the remainder of the night as he mulled over his next steps. The saying ‘a problem shared’ entered his head time and time again, and he knew after several hours of tossing and turning that he had to confide in someone. Under normal circumstances when something troubled him he knew he could always turn to Beth. But this was different. This was a problem within ‘the job’ and he knew that the one person, apart from his wife, who would not pass judgment, and who would give him good balanced advice would be Grace.

The sleep, which had eluded him for hours, finally caught up with him about four o’clock. When the alarm sounded three hours later he felt thick-headed and completely drained, and he was only able to invigorate himself by staying longer in the shower. Tilting his head backwards, he lingered, feeling the rush of the cool water pour over his face.

As he stood outside on the patio finishing off his toast, taking in all the smells of the fresh morning air, and re-running last night’s events, despite the problems ahead he somehow felt himself becoming refreshed and revitalized. He drove to work replaying Bon Jovi, singing along to ‘Living on a prayer’ and ‘Keep the Faith,’ before cruising into Barnwell station yard.

When he entered the MIT office Grace Marshall had already arrived, face made up and smartly dressed looking business-like as usual. He noticed she’d scraped her hair back into a tight bunch, accentuating her high cheekbones and showing off the summer freckles.

Grace acknowledged him with a wide smile and as he sidled up to her he could see she was already adding milk to two cups of tea; one for him.

“We need to talk,” he said quietly.

Her warm burnt umber eyes widened.

“We certainly do,” she responded in quite a formal tone.

Grace’s response momentarily took him aback, and he returned her a quizzical look.

“What was the matter with you yesterday? You reacted as though you’d just been shot when Sue Siddons mentioned the cardigan,” she said stirring in a spoonful of sugar.

Hunter quickly glanced around, just to make sure no one was in earshot.

“I’ll tell you after morning briefing,” he replied, picking up the steaming mug and moving to his desk. He set the cup down and began to sift through the pile of papers and files which had accumulated in his tray over the last few days. He hoped he would be able to focus on their content.

The daily briefing centred on the previous day’s meeting with Susan Siddons, and Hunter recounted the conversation he and Grace had conducted with her. It had given a new dimension to the investigation. They now had a name for the mummified remains, and with this came the task of uncovering Carol Siddons’s past prior to her disappearance all those years ago. It had also thrown up the name of someone who could be considered to be their first major suspect: Steven Paynton, a petty criminal with a hard-man reputation. The police knew that he and his family had terrorised their community for years and many times the cops had met a wall of silence, or court cases had collapsed through fear. True, over the years there had always been enough people willing to tell the police about the family’s criminal activities, but to get those people to be witnesses and give a formal statement had been damn near impossible.

Therefore Steve Paynton had very few convictions. Those he had were petty - mainly for theft and burglary. And he had collected those in his early teens, for which, he had spent several months in a young offender’s institution. More up-to-date police intelligence revealed him as a minor league drug dealer who used violence to settle debts. Susan Siddons had also given some personal insight into his brutality towards her and her daughter, and this was now supported by information from Social Services who had their own personal file on Paynton. A phone call late the previous afternoon from one of the team leaders at Social Services had revealed that one of Paynton’s ex-partners, after numerous beatings, had fled the area just to get away from him.

This had occurred over fifteen years ago, before he had hooked up with Susan Siddons. The paperwork revealed that numerous attempts had been made to persuade the woman to formalise a complaint, but she had point blank refused to speak with the police, choosing instead to change her name and leave her home behind. A member of the team did stay in touch with her for a short time and had helped to re-house her. The last address in Retford, Nottinghamshire, was now five years old and Hunter and Grace were given the job of tracking her down.

Hunter drove the unmarked CID car out of Barnwell Police station following the route towards the A1 for the hour-long journey to Retford. Grace in the passenger seat shuffled uneasily on her seat scanning the file on Steven Paynton.

“Listen to this” she said keeping her eyes on the paperwork, whilst Hunter negotiated the bustling out of town traffic. “He’s a real bastard. Social Services have written loads of notes on this woman we’re going to see. It seems he started to beat her within a month of moving in. He scalded her with hot tea. He beat her with a dog leash, and he even pissed on her when she was asleep. And listen to this, he held a knife several times to her throat and simulated slicing her open. Now that is interesting. It’s making our Mr Paynton seem like a hot prospect in our enquiry. What with this and Sue Siddons’s statement it should give us some lever to hold him long enough to rattle his cage.”

“We don’t know yet if she’ll make a complaint. Don’t forget this was fifteen years ago. She’s got a new identity and a new life now. She probably wants to put all this behind her.”

“I’ll do everything I can to get a statement from her,” said Grace.

Hunter knew that was not an idle threat. Although outwardly Grace came across as being gentle for a detective, from experience he had discovered that there was a sharper and harder edge to Grace, which she could switch on like a light bulb when she needed to. He had personally seen many villains rue the day they had challenged her.

As he swung the car onto the unmarked country lane that led to the trunk road, Hunter knew from the determination in her voice that Grace was on a mission to get Steve Paynton. And he knew that when Grace got something into her head there was no holding her back.

Just before the A1 slip road he pulled the CID car into a lay-by and killed the engine.

“About the other day” he began, and in the next ten minutes he revealed everything from the discussion with Paul Goodright the previous evening. “That’s why I reacted like I did when Sue Siddons mentioned the cardigan. I realised it was the one Paul recovered from the back of the nicked CID car.”

Grace shook her head. “Bloody hell Hunter, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m hoping Paul can come up trumps and find some way of getting that cardigan into the system. If he can it’ll make it easier, but the other problem is Mrs Gardner. At the time she was having her dalliances with Paul she was also seeing someone else - a villain according to Paul, who likewise could have found out about Paul and was trying to stitch him up. As soon as Paul found out he didn’t stick around to find out who that person was. If we can find out that was the case, it’d make things very interesting.”

“Especially if it was Steven Paynton,” interjected Grace.

“Great minds think alike. The problem is Mrs Gardner’s respectable status now. What she probably did in her thirties is well behind her now and one thing she won’t want is some hairy-arsed cop stirring up her past. Besides that it’s going to go down like a lead balloon if the Police Authority gets whiff of this.”

“What about a hairy-arsed female cop having a word with her?”

“Grace, one thing I don’t want to do is get anyone else involved in this mess, especially you.”

“Listen Hunter, no one is any the wiser yet about Paul’s and Mrs. Gardner’s indiscretions all those years ago, and at this stage we don’t even know if they are relevant to this enquiry. If I’m seen going to visit her by a neighbour or a friend it will just look as though I’m seeing her for coffee, or one of her charities she’s probably involved with. I’ll plan it when her hubby is out and also it will be a lot easier coming from another woman.”

“I have to admit I was worried how I was going to approach this, I’m not exactly renowned for being subtle.”

“Well then, you’ve answered the question yourself. And if it looks like we’re on to something, then we’ll worry how we can feed it into the enquiry system after.”

“It would be a help Grace. Thanks. And I promise if this blows up in our faces, I’ll just say this was on my orders.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“By the way Grace.”

“Yes?”

“Have you really got a hairy arse?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

* * * * *

“What a beautiful house. Victorian by the looks,” Grace Marshall commented as she and Hunter strode up the black and white decorative tiled path towards the wide open porch of the semi-detached house. They had already tried two other addresses amongst the terraced rows close to the town centre before being directed to this house on the outskirts of Retford. As they got nearer to the stained glass front door Grace snapped open the folder she was carrying and took a quick look at the photograph pinned inside. It was a dog-eared, discoloured, and dated picture of the woman they were seeking, and she hoped she would be able to recognize her from it. They could hear the sound of a woman singing from within, and Hunter tried to steal a glance through the front bay window only to find that thick curtains prevented his view. Grace pressed the original brass buttoned bell set in the door frame and the singing immediately stopped, quickly followed by a shout of “Just a minute.” from somewhere at the back of the house. The clop of footsteps resounded along the hallway before the front door swung open.

Though there were now crows-feet around the hazel eyes, and a slight greying around the temples of her chestnut brown hair, which was dragged back and tied in a ponytail, Margaret Brown, as she now called
herself, had changed very little. She was still the fresh-faced, attractive woman, depicted in the photograph, despite now being in her early forties. Switching her gaze quickly from one to the other she snapped off her yellow marigold gloves. “Sorry, I only just heard the bell. It’s my cleaning day. Can I help you?”

Grace flashed her police warrant card. She introduced herself and Hunter and smiled reassuringly. “Are you Margaret Brown, used to be Mary Bennett?” she continued.

Hunter saw the colour visibly drain from Margaret’s face.

Her eyes glazed over and she went rigid as if paralysed. Then she said, “This is about Steve isn’t it?”

“Steve. You mean Steve Paynton?” returned Grace.

She shook, then clasped a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God. He’s found me hasn’t he?” She shot her gaze past them,
searching over their shoulders, staring up and down the street.

“Not that we know of. Look this is about Steve Paynton, but it’s to do with his past. That’s why we’ve tracked you down after all this time. Please can we come in? We really need to speak with you,” said Hunter

She hesitated, took another nervous glance along the road, and then stepped aside to allow them entrance. Then she pushed the front door shut, turned the key and snapped on the safety chain before pointing to the front room.

Hunter and Grace went in first and seated themselves down on a leather settee without waiting to be asked.

“Sorry I reacted like I did,” Margaret said picking up a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the top of a side unit. She shuffled one out quickly and put it to her mouth and then offered the packet to the two detectives. They declined and she lit it, taking in a long drag, holding her breath for a several seconds before exhaling the smoke from one corner of her mouth.

“If I appear nervous that’s because I am. To be frank I’m shit scared. I’ve looked over my shoulder for so many years because of that man, and I was just beginning to think I had got him out of my life before you two showed up.”

“Please calm yourself down, he hasn’t found you. You’ve covered your tracks well. In fact if it weren’t for Social Services we would never have found you. And before you go complaining about them, it’s us who forced their hands because of a murder enquiry we’re involved in,” replied Hunter

“Steve’s killed someone,” she said so matter-of-fact. “That doesn’t surprise me. I always knew it was
only a matter of time before he killed someone.” Margaret dropped heavily into the only armchair in the room, crossing one slender leg over the other.

“We don’t exactly know if he has killed anyone, but he is a suspect.”