Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

“I am showing the defendant four colour photographs of a pre-pubescent girl.” She paused staring into Steve Paynton’s ashen face. “Two of these are naked, and two show the girl wearing just a pair of white panties,” she continued. “This girl has been identified as being the daughter of Susan Siddons — Carol Siddons, — whose body was recently discovered buried on the site of the old Manvers Colliery.”

“Whoa. Whoa.” he shouted. “Just a minute, where’s this fucking going? You’re trying to pin her murder on me aren’t you?”

“Never mind you shouting the odds saying we’re trying to pin the murder of Carol Siddons on you,” Grace retorted her own voice now raised a pitch higher. “We know you lived with Carol and her mum for some time. We also know that you were violent towards them, and you have a history of violence, and now we have found these nude photographs of Carol when she was only a child hidden in your bathroom. Join the dots Steve.”

He dropped his head into his hands, and then rubbed his forehead feverishly.

After about thirty seconds he stopped, snapped bolt upright and banged his hands on the table. “All right you’ve got me,” he snarled. “But I ain’t done no murder. I had nothing to do with killing Carol or any other girl. Yes I photographed them, but it was fun like, I’m no pervert. And yes I’ll admit that I slapped Sue and Mary about but that’s it. Okay? That’s it.”

“Come on now Steve, you’ve made a start now. That’s the hardest part over. Now just get it off your chest and tell us the rest. Shall I make it easier for you.” Grace reached forward fixing his gaze with her own.

A mixture of fear and hate played across Paynton’s face.

Grace continued. “I think as Carol got older she got the courage to tell you what you had done was wrong and that she was either going to tell her mother or the police. You couldn’t afford that to happen and you realized you had to silence her once and for all.”

“No.” he shouted and banged a fist on the table “You’re twisting this. Yes I photographed her, but that’s it. I didn’t harm her like you’re saying. I didn’t fucking kill her.”

* * * * *

Hunter ‘high fived’ Grace and punched the air as they left the interview room an hour later. The interview hadn’t ended entirely as they had wanted, but they had made a pretty good start to one of many questioning sessions that would be conducted over the next thirty-six hours. Steven Paynton had fully confessed to the brutal beatings against both women and went some way to admitting he had forced Mary Bennett to have sex against her will.

Hunter knew that at least would give CPS enough evidence to consider a charge of rape.

Finally Paynton admitted taking indecent photographs of Samantha Bennett and Carol Siddons when he had been living with their mothers. But no matter how hard they had pressed they couldn’t move him on Carol’s murder. Hunter hoped that would be only a matter of time.

DAY TWENTY: 25th July

The headline ‘DEARNE MURDERS — SUSPECT HELD’ brought a smile to his lips. He’d read the storyline in the local Barnwell Chronicle several times and the thought that someone else was taking the rap for him only boosted his confidence.

He knew it would mean that those around him would be more relaxed and less suspicious, enabling him to go about his activities again without raising so much as an eyebrow.

He rested the compact digital camera on the sill of the open car window, monitoring the crowd through the two inch screen. The camera had been a marvellous buy for the price. Small and discreet enough to hide in the palm of his hand and yet powerful enough with its 10X zoom to pick out the finest detail at fifty yards.

He checked and double checked his rear view mirror again, and then scoured the faces of the bustle of parents hovering outside the school, attentive to any suspicious reaction, especially as he had now parked in the same spot for the past week whilst he waited and watched out for her. He took a fleeting glance at his watch again. She was late today. Or had he already missed her. He hoped not. He especially liked to see her in her school uniform. And he also knew that this would be his last opportunity to catch her in her uniform for some time; the school’s were breaking up today for the annual six-week summer hols.

At the edge of his peripheral vision he caught sight of her, coming his way from a different part of the school. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds just as she emerged from a row of trees close to the boundary fence. For a second it cast a halo effect on her mane of blonde highlighted hair, and he snapped off a shot. He wasn’t too concerned about the composition of the shot because he knew he could play with the image later on his computer to get the effect he wanted. He wondered why she had been so late for him. He zoomed in and caught the frown creasing her pretty face. Something or someone was troubling her. He snapped another shot of her chewing at a finger. She looked particularly attractive today. Was that a hint of mascara around her beautiful brown eyes?

He took another picture of her climbing into her mother’s car, catching more thigh than normal as her short, grey school skirt rode up her legs, before she went partially out of his sight as she slammed the passenger door shut. There was a brief exchange of words between her and her mother before they pulled away from the kerb. He wondered what that was about.

Dropping the camera onto the seat beside him he took another glance around. He let out a deep breath as soon as he was satisfied he had not attracted any unwarranted attention, and then he put his car in gear and slowly crept away.

He drove the three miles to his usual quiet spot and veered off the road onto the dirt track to the woods. He edged slowly along the tree line until he was on the long stretch where he knew he would have a good view of anyone approaching from a distance, and then he turned off the ignition.

He wound down both front windows to listen to the sounds around and picked up his camera and started to go back through the images he had captured. He was particularly interested in the ones he had caught of her two nights ago when he had crawled to the bottom of her garden, waiting for her to go to her room. It had reminded him of his teenage years when he had sneaked around his neighbours’ properties with the camera his father had left him, snapping away as they emerged from their bathrooms.

When she had come from the shower he had set the camera to video mode, watching her as she gently rubbed the moistness from that long mane of hair. He particularly liked the way the light glistened on her face and neck and shoulders. He had captured her petite, slender form perfectly.

Viewing this was almost as good as being in the room itself with her.

He found himself getting excited again. He felt the rush of desire as a burst of testosterone surged through him. He set the camera on the dashboard of his car, switched to playback mode, cranked back his seat, unbuttoned his jeans and began to masturbate.

* * * *

“Harder, faster.” barked Jock Kerr, setting all his weight behind the leather punch-bag. “C’mon son, thirty more seconds, put it in.”

Hunter’s gloved hands pummelled the sand-filled bag in piston-like fashion. Every muscle in his arms felt as though it was on fire and beads of sweat ran from his forehead, down the sides of his face and neck, adding to the already soaked patch on the front of his gym vest.

“Okay son, that’s it. Good work, call it a day,” ordered his father in his strong Glaswegian lilt.

Hunter punched the bag twice, hard for luck, then dropped his guard and rested his chin on his upper chest taking in great gulps of air. He felt physically drained almost to the point of sickness, and yet he was mentally alert, pleased that he had managed an hour of his father’s training. Hunter loved his boxing sessions in his father’s gym. His passion for them was almost on a par with his painting, but unlike finding enough time for his art, he knew he could always squeeze in an hour or two at the gym several times a week. It also gave him quality time with his dad, and it had the added bonus of sharing a well-earned pint or two with him after in his local working-men’s club. Inevitably conversation revolved around Hunter’s job or the distant memories of his father’s boxing days.