Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

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 strength 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.