Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

As Steve Paynton was led away by the arrest team Hunter and Grace donned their latex gloves and joined the search team who were already busying themselves in the downstairs room.

Much of the house was squalid, despite some very expensive items of furniture and electrical equipment dotted around. They picked their way amongst dirty crockery, some of which still held days’ old remnants of food, strewn across stained seat cushions, which had to be removed in order that they could search down the sides of the suite. They also checked several large screen televisions and DVD players, no doubt stolen, as the serial numbers and markings had been erased, and removed them to the marked police van outside. Behind the washing machine in the kitchen they discovered a stash of cannabis weed, about half a kilo in a plastic bag, amongst hundreds of packets of rolled tobacco, but they knew these day’s that this amount wasn’t quite enough for CPS to prosecute for supplying, or smuggling, and so they continued. What they really needed was something that could connect him to either of the two murdered girls, and so they methodically and painstakingly moved appliance after appliance, household effect after household effect, and even tore up the carpets in the hope of a breakthrough. And it came; in the bathroom; virtually the last room on the checklist. Working under the strains of a dull glow from the bare electric ceiling bulb, probing the nooks and crannies beneath the bathtub, one of the searching officers spotted a chink of light catching the edge of something metal deep in one corner, and only Grace was small enough to crawl into the space to remove it.

She cursed as she dragged herself back out, her pale grey suit now covered in cobwebs, dirt and other detritus.

The tea caddy she held was probably from the late 1950’s and was in poor state. She pulled at the lid and it jerked forward as she prised it open, spilling some of its contents over the bathroom floor. What they stared at took them all by surprise. A collection of black and white, and colour photographs of girls, from pre-pubescent children to young teenagers, in various stages of undress, including nude, lay scattered around their feet. Grace lowered herself onto her knees, and Hunter joined her as she carefully shook out the remaining contents of the caddy. Using only a forefinger she separated the photos and began to sift through the images.

“Bingo.” she exclaimed as she dragged away four, single, faded colour photographs. They depicted a young pubescent girl doing what could only be described as posing indecently. In two she was wearing only a pair of white cotton panties, and in two others she was completely naked.

“Recognise her?” Grace enquired catching Hunter’s gaze.

“Certainly do,” he replied, recollecting the images from the missing from home files. “That’s Carol Siddons; a very young Carol Siddons.”

* * * * *

“Which one do you want to be: good cop or bad cop?” asked Hunter as he paused at the cell area interview room door, glancing through the folder of paperwork and evidence he was carrying, ensuring it was in correct order for the interrogation.

For a brief moment Grace Marshall returned a look of deep thought. Then, narrowing her eyes, exposing her laughter lines, she said, “bugger it. We’ll both be bad cop. We’ve got enough evidence to send him away for a bloody long time.”

“That’s my girl,” he replied, opening the door and entering the soundproofed room.

Steve Paynton was already seated behind the table, hands clenched together in front of him. He glanced up at them, unclenched his hands and tugged at the front of the all-in-one white forensic suit.

“Why the fuck have you put me in this?” he demanded truculently.

“Your clothes have been seized for forensics,” Hunter responded.

“What forensics? You’ve got fuck all on me.”

Grace and Hunter sat down opposite. Hunter slid the file across to Grace. They had already decided, given Steve Paynton’s attitude towards women, that it would rattle him more if she was to lead the interview.

Grace opened up the file, being careful not to show the photos they had found, and then she switched on the tape recording machine.

“This interview is being tape recorded,” she began, and went through the preliminaries; the opening preamble to any police taped interview, the caution and confirmation that he did not wish the services of a solicitor.

“Don’t fucking need one” he asserted.

Grace chided him child-like with a wagging finger, demanding he refrain from swearing for the purposes of the tape, and then continued with her questioning, but in a calm-matter-of-fact manner, in an effort to throw him off.

“We have a statement from a Susan Siddons, whom I believe you were once in a relationship with Steve?”

“No comment”

“Susan says that on a regular basis you would beat her. Is that correct?”

“No comment.”

“Are you going to sit there all day saying no comment?”

“No comment.” He stared hard into Grace’s eyes and smirked.

Grace patiently went through the statement taken from Susan Siddons, outlining every one of the beatings Steve had dealt her. He continued to respond with ‘no comment’ and then Grace changed tack to discuss the assaults on Carol Siddons, Sue’s daughter. His only change in answer came when he was asked about the time he was caught urinating on the girl.

“Look it’s her word against mine. Sue is an alkie. If this gets to court she’ll be torn apart in the box by my brief.”

“She wasn’t an alcoholic till she met you,” Grace snapped back.

Hunter touched the back of Grace’s hand and shot a quick glance at her, raising his eyebrows.

Grace knew that he was silently willing her to not let Paynton get under her skin.

She took a deep breath and then flicked over to the pages of Margaret Brown’s statement.

“Do you remember Mary Bennett?” Grace said referring to Margaret’s original birth name.

“Should I?” he replied arrogantly and then leaned back in his seat, clasping his hands behind his head.

“You should do. You were in a relationship with her for two years during the nineteen eighties.”

“A lot of water under the bridge since then, Constable. Refresh my memory.”

Grace again patiently read over Mary’s statement, careful to detail every incident of assault and introducing the numerous times he had raped her whilst being in fear of being beaten.

“Rape you say.” He rocked forwards and stroked his chin. “Definitely not rape. I would say it was consensual sex. She liked it rough if I recall. Don’t all women?”

Grace took another deep breath, exhaled slowly.

“Mary says she came home from bingo one night and found you had stripped her five year old daughter Samantha and were photographing her,” she said calmly.

Grace saw an immediate reaction to his look. His face had lost that cockiness.

He said after a long pause “No comment.”

Then Grace took out some of the photographs they had recovered from the tin under the bath. They were in two separate evidence bags, each one containing a number of images.

She slid out five photos from one of the bags.

“For the tape” she continued, “I am now showing the defendant exhibit one — five colour photos of a pre-pubescent girl. She is naked in each one and two of them focus on her genitalia.”

The colour drained from Paynton’s face. Grace knew that she had him.

She continued. “These have been identified by Mary Bennett as being those of her daughter Samantha, then aged five, and corroborate her statement. Can you tell me why we found these hidden in your house?”

He remained silent.

Grace opened up the second exhibit bag and removed four faded photographs. She slid them across the desk directly in front of his face.