Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

“The last straw,” she continued, “was when I came back from shopping one day and found that Steve had totally stripped Samantha of her clothes and was photographing her. She was only five year old for God’s sake. I just lost it and I flew at him, but he was stronger than me and he gave me a right thumping. He took his belt off and strangled me with it. I must have passed out and when I came to he had a knife at my throat threatening to cut me up if I so much as whispered this to anyone. That’s when I came to my senses and realized just how much danger I was in, and was putting my children under. I knew that I had to get away before he killed one of us. So when he went to the pub that night I gathered together everything I could get in two suitcases and with the help of Social Services got into a woman’s refuge. Unfortunately I could only stay for a week because they don’t allow males in them, even though Jamie was only eight. So that’s when I changed my name and came to Retford. Somewhere where no one knew me. For over a year I didn’t even contact my parents, just in case Steve got to them.” She sighed. A long sigh, as though a great weight had been lifted off her. “Can you understand now why I’ve never brought this up with Jamie and Samantha? I feel so guilty. It holds too many bad memories for me, and I blame myself for allowing this to happen to them.”

Throughout Margaret’s narration of events Hunter had seen the pain, grief and anxiety, etched so visibly on her face, as she had unfolded the horrors, which she and her children had endured at the hands of Steve Paynton.

For the next two hours Grace guided Margaret through the anguish of recounting everything again into a written statement, and as she put her signature to the pages, Grace touched her gently on the back of her hand. “I promise you this Margaret,” she said. “Steve Paynton will not be causing you any more pain. After this you can put your nightmares behind you.”

DAY NINETEEN: 24th July.

Early that morning, along with a small team of uniformed officers from the day shift, Hunter and Grace sped to Steven Paynton’s terraced house, using side streets as cover because they knew how quickly the criminal grapevine worked in his location. They needed the element of surprise on their side.

Before the third knock Hunter put all his force behind a flying kick at the front door. The lock and metal hasp parted company with his first attempt and the door crashed inwards. He and Grace stormed into the hall, followed by the uniformed officers garbed in dark blue ‘search’ overalls.

The first thing that faced them was the strong pungent stench of cannabis, which immediately overwhelmed their sense of smell. It was the really offensive barbed type that was referred to as ‘skunk’ on the streets, and caused them to screw up their faces.

The two detectives quickly mounted the stairs whilst the uniform team dashed off to secure the ground floor of the house.

Before Hunter and Grace had even got halfway up the narrow stairway they were confronted by a snarling Steve Paynton on the landing above, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and wielding a baseball bat.

“What the fuck?” he shouted, glaring down at them.

“Police.” shouted back Hunter halting his jog. “Drop that now.” he bellowed, pointing towards the wooden bat.

Hunter could see why many feared Steve. Although he wasn’t big in terms of his physical proportions, his frame was lean and muscular. The definitions of his well-toned muscles were punctuated here and there by black tattoos of barbed wire and tribal markings. Add to that the shaved head and he realised why to some he could cut such a menacing figure.

“I hope you’ve got a warrant?” he demanded, lowering the bat to his side.

“Sure have,” Hunter responded now continuing back up the narrow stairway, though much slower, wary of how Steve Paynton might react.

“You could have fucking knocked. You didn’t need to kick my bastard door in.”

“I did knock — repeatedly,” he emphasised, “but no one answered…did they Grace?”

Behind Hunter, Grace Marshall nodded.

“Repeatedly” she agreed.

“Bollocks.” Steve groused as he backed-off to his bedroom. “I’ll get fucking dressed, you fucking morons.”

They followed him into his room. It was a pigsty of a mess. Hand rolled cigarette butts, porn magazines, several loose weight training barbells, and an array of clothing in various states of dirtiness littered the floor. It was hard to determine whether the marks on the carpet were design or stains. This room also had a strong smell of cannabis, mixed with the musty stench of body odour, causing Grace to crinkle her nose at the unpleasantness.

“Cleaners day off Steve I see,” she said rubbing thumb and forefinger across the bottom of her nose, as though it might wipe away the stench.

Steve Paynton was just fastening the last button on his jeans and he stepped forward to within a foot of Grace.

“You really don’t want to be doing this you black bitch,” he snarled moving his shaven head forward into her face. A large prominent vein, which threaded its way from the front of his ear to where his hairline should have started was pulsing angrily.

She held his stare. She had heard this type of abuse so many times over the years. “Roll with it girl,” her father had told her so many times. “Never let them see they’ve got to you. You’re better than them. Fight back how you know best.”

“A bit of a racist as well as a wanker,” she curtly replied.

“Me, I’m a signed up member of the Ku Klux Klan,” he quipped back.

Hunter rocked onto the balls of his feet, curling his hands into tight fists yet leaving then dangling at his sides — ready.

She pushed a polished red fingernail towards his nose. “Hey, white boy you really don’ know who yo’ messin’ wid,” she mimicked her Jamaican father’s patois.

“You stupid bitch,” he snapped “I’ll sort you out.”

In that same instant Hunter sprung forwards, swinging a punch from his hip. It smacked into Steve’s side, catching the bottom two ribs and the breath exploded from his mouth.

He sank to his knees clutching his side, and for a few seconds his face went bright red, eyes almost bulging from their sockets as he fought for breath. Then he caught it, gasped loudly, and fell to one side.

“You bastard. You fucking bastard.” He screamed.

Grace stepped over Steve Paynton’s prostrate figure, grabbed the rigid handcuffs from the waistband of her suit trousers and snapped one end onto his right wrist. Then she forced her knee into the small of his back, completely flattening him to the floor and slammed the jaws of the remaining cuff onto his other wrist.

“Fancy that, Steve Paynton being done over by a little black girl. This is really going to damage your street cred,” she announced twisting the rigid cuffs until he winced. “You’re nicked.”

He tried to push himself up, but Grace was now pushing his head into the carpet. “What for?” he mumbled, trying to avoid swallowing the fibres from the pile.

“Assaulting a Susan Siddons, and assaulting and raping a Mary Bennett. Those names ring any bells?”

“Might do, but they wouldn’t dare make a statement against me.”

“Oh believe me when I tell you they have given two very detailed statements about your activities. And we’re adding to that resisting arrest, just in case you feel like complaining about police brutality. Now get up and get down those stairs you insignificant little piece of shit.”

As Steve scrambled to his feet, helped by Hunter’s hands under his arms, Hunter turned to Grace “My my, we are somewhat tetchy this morning ma’am.” He said smiling, before helping her guide the prisoner towards the stairs.