Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

Hunter saw the colour drain from his father’s face as though it had just registered what he had done.

Hunter reached for his mobile.

“What are you doing?” snapped Barry.

“Ringing for an ambulance,” Hunter replied.

“What on earth for?”

“So that we’re covered for the mess they’re in and they can be nicked later.”

“Don’t be so fucking daft. There’s no way they’re going to complain when they started it. If you were them with a reputation to keep up would you admit to be being beaten up by two old men? We’ve given them a bloody good hiding. They’ll lick their wounds and keep their heads down if they’ve any sense. Trust me I used to be a policeman.” A wide grin creased Barry’s face. “Come on there’s a well earned cold beer waiting for us.”

“Do you know I haven’t had so much fun since I gave Tam Watson a good thumping back in nineteen-ninety-one for taking my wee dram,” his father added in his broad Scottish brogue. “I’ve not lost my touch have I son?”

That comment disturbed Hunter.

It continued to play on his mind during the journey to the club. He kept glancing across at his dad who was staring out through the windscreen, eyes fixed daze-like. It was as if he was unmoved by the whole event and yet Hunter had to continually grip the steering wheel to stop himself shaking.

He swung into the club car park, pulled into a space and killed the engine.

“You seem a little quiet son.” His dad was still staring out through the windscreen, the gaze nowhere in particular.

Hunter took a deep breath. The image of his father pummelling Terry Paynton flooded back into his mind. That look in his father’s face. It was as though he was ‘getting off’ hurting the man. His stomach was churning.

“I’ve never seen you like that dad. I thought you were going to kill him.” He wanted to say more but it was his dad he was talking to.

“Nae chance son. He’s made of stronger stuff than that. Anyway the little scumbag deserved what he got. Anyone who goes toe-to-toe with my son goes toe-to-toe with me.”

“But Dad…“

His father held up his hand, giving him the stop sign. “Listen to me now son you need to understand where that came from. I had a hard life in Glasgow. I had to fight for everything I got — literally. I had to learn how to take a punch and come back stronger. That’s all I want to say about it. I don’t want to talk about it again. And I don’t want you saying anything about this to your mother.” Then a smile creased across his face. “Come on, mines a pint of heavy and a wee dram.”

Before Hunter could say anything further his dad was pushing open the passenger door.

* * * * *

Without exception, whenever a group of policemen get together conversation always turns to one thing — the job. Earlier that day whilst working out at the gym it had been a spur of the moment decision for Hunter to take his father to meet Barry and Paul Goodright, especially as he knew what the conversation was going to expose him to. However, having just dished out a good beating to three nefarious characters with the help of his dad and then agreeing to hide the fact with Barry had made him realise it had not been too difficult a call to make.

Hunter shot a glance at his father’s smiling face. He was still disturbed by his dad’s actions and he knew at some stage he would have to discuss the earlier events again with him, though this wasn’t the time or the place.

Barry was on his soapbox and in full flow, chattering excitedly, recounting the fight. He paused as he finished the story, took a swill of beer and wiped the froth and saliva from his hairy upper lip and then leaned forward facing Paul Goodright.

“Now then young Paul, the reason why we’re all here.” He took a sideways glance towards Hunter’s dad. “Jock, we have some quite dodgy business to discuss. Not that we don’t like your company but it might be a good time to get the beers in.” Barry tapped his nose as a signal of secrecy.

Hunter could see the disappointment and yet acceptance on his father’s face as he collected the empty glasses and moved from the table. “Need some help dad?” he felt it necessary to ask.

“No son. You get your business done. It’s okay” his dad replied and winked as he loped off towards the bar.

Barry dragged a bulky supermarket carrier bag from beneath the table, which he had been gripping tightly between his legs. Hunter had seen him tugging it from the boot of the car after they had pulled into the pub car park and had wondered what was in it.

“In my early CID days it was always acknowledged that somewhere along the line you were always going to drop a bollock. Whether it was a small one or a big one was not in question, but how you were going to get out of it was another matter.” Barry began. “So each office had their own contingency plans. Before the days of numbering pocket books or other admin items we kept spares for the inevitable ‘faux pas’ usually in a locked drawer or cupboard. I also had my own spares just for back up.” He dropped the bag onto the table and pulled it open. “Ta dah.” he announced. He slid out its contents just like a poker dealer would do a pack of cards. There were two old Police ‘property other than found’ books, which Hunter and Paul could recall using early on in their careers to record seized items of property which would be required as evidence.

“I forgot I’d kept these, and it’s fortunate for you young Paul that I did. You’ll find one of these books is from the nineteen eighties and the other, which you will need, is from the nineties. All you have to do is fill out one of the carbon exhibit labels, date it the day you seized that cardigan and put it into the bag with it.”

“Barry, you’re a Godsend,” Paul responded excitedly and then paused. “Just one thing though, how am I going to get it submitted properly as evidence without having to admit I’ve kept it in my locker and then my garage for all these years’. The last thing we need is for some smart arsed barrister to knock it back especially if it has good forensic on it.”

“I don’t know. Have I got to wet-nurse you as well? I’ve even thought of that. These days’ civilian admin staff have taken over the role of looking after property and my guess is none of them will have been around in the nineties when the cardigan was seized. All you have to do is go to the station with the bagged and labelled cardigan inside your coat. Tell one of the admin staff you need to get some property from one of the stores, and when you go into them, pretend to have a rummage amongst the shelves, distract the admin person and Bob’s your uncle, or in this case Barry’s your saviour. When they try to check out the number on the card they’ll just think that the relevant property book has been destroyed after all these years.”

Hunter had sat transfixed throughout this, and now that Barry had finished he leaned back in his seat in reflective mood. On the one hand he knew that what he had been a party to was completely unorthodox, and yet on the other, if this would help catch their killer he knew it was something he could live with.

Then as he slid the books back into the carrier bag Barry glanced at both of them and spoke slowly. What he said was as if he had read Hunter’s mind.

“Something my old Sergeant once said to me when I was a young CID officer and the words remained with me throughout my service. Sometimes we have to use as much trickery as the villains do. You match lie for lie and make sure yours are better than theirs. At the end of the day you’ve got to protect the public and pay back the bad guys. Always remember the pen is mightier than the sword. And one last piece of advice. When you’ve worked them one, don’t get a conscience about it.”