Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

“Was the torn newspaper actually inside that plastic bag with the playing card?” asked Hunter, becoming alert to Barry’s information.

Barry nodded.

Hunter’s eyebrows raised and his blue eyes engaged with Barry’s. “This killer is one really twisted evil bastard Barry. He wants us to know this is his work. He placed that with the body so that we would know when she was killed, and I’m guessing that part of the paper will lead us in the direction of who she is.” Hunter pushed aside his notes. This find had his fullest attention. “We’ve been making enquiries and wondering why such a gap between the murder of Carol Siddons and Rebecca Morris, well it’s my bet that this will go some way to fill in those gaps. Contact the local paper and see what’s in the copy, and then get that exhibit to forensics and see if he’s left any DNA or prints. Let’s just hope he’s slipped up somewhere along the line.”

* * * * *

At the same time as Grace Marshall was organising the warrant, and search team with the local Task Force, to raid Steve Paynton’s old family home and allotment, Barry Newstead was entering the local history room at Barnwell library. Following a

phone call to the local weekly newspaper, The Barnwell Chronicle, he had discovered that old archive editions were no longer kept at the newspaper office, but had in fact been put onto microfiche and were held in trust by the local history group.

Within ten minutes of entering the small history room Barry was seated before a large microfiche reader, receiving instructions in its use by the female supervisor, who was at the same time loading the roll of microfiche containing all 1999’s editions of the weekly local newspaper onto the machine’s spool. As she leaned over him he couldn’t help but take in the alluring smell of her perfume. Quite an expensive one he thought, as he sneaked his gaze to her face only a few inches from his. It made him realise how much he had missed the smell of a woman since the sudden death of his wife from a stroke three years ago. Although heavily made-up he guessed she was in her mid fifties, roughly the same age as he, and he found himself being distracted from the task in hand.

“Right Mr Newstead,” she said straightening up.

She had taken him by surprise. He hoped she hadn’t caught him staring at her. He could feel his cheeks flushing.

“You just turn those handles at the side of the machine until you find the edition you want, then when you’ve found what you want you hit the print button, which will copy what you see on the screen. Understand all that?” she checked with him and smiled.

A very attractive smile he thought.

“If you need anything else just give me a call” she finished, then turned on her low heels and clicked her way back towards her desk.

He turned the spool slowly at first, watching the blown up images of the past editions of his local paper float across the screen. He was soon getting a feel for the movement, which he quickened as he became used to the momentum of the apparatus, and in less than a minute he was soon spinning past the editions until he hit mid-September’s pages and then began to slow until he settled on the 6th October’s front sheet. He took out the torn section, now secured inside a police exhibit bag, which had been discovered beside the female skeleton. He manoeuvred it around and held it in front of the reading screen for comparison. Confirming it was from the same paper he set it down to begin scanning the newssheet. He didn’t need to go far down the page. Within seconds he knew that what he had been looking for was contained in the front-page headlines. He began to pore over the print.

POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING TEENAGER

Detectives leading the enquiry into the surprise disappearance of 15 year old Claire Louise Fisher from Barnwell are urging the public to help them with information.

Claire was reported missing five days ago on October 1st.

The last reported sighting of Claire was by her boyfriend at 9.30pm that night.

There was more to the report. The journalist had filled the remainder of the story with Claire’s background, plus interviews with her parents and friends, which he quickly scanned. And he recognised the photograph of Claire that the paper had used. It was a clear replica of the one from the front of her missing from home file back on his desk.

He slapped the table excitedly. He knew in his mind that having read this that Claire Louise Fisher was their latest corpse.

He looked for the print key on the microfiche reader, hovered his index finger over and stabbed at it. Almost instantaneously the copier below the microfiche reader spurred into action and within seconds a facsimile of the front page of the 6th October 1999 edition had been printed onto an A4 sheet.

Barry sat back in his chair and perused the story again. He found himself shaking his head and muttering to himself as he read it a second time, whilst thinking of the ramifications of what he had just uncovered.

Claire Fisher went missing on the first of October ninety-ninety-nine, he said to himself, and the edition of this newspaper didn’t go on sale until the sixth. That means the killer didn’t bury her straightaway. Claire was either alive and held somewhere, or killed and kept somewhere for the best part of a week until the paper came out, and then she was finally buried.

“This is one twisted bastard.” He said. From the corner of his eye he caught movement from the desk, and he glanced up to see the faired-haired local history Supervisor looking in his direction.

“Sorry about that” he whispered loudly towards her, and apologetically raised a hand. “Talking to myself. A sign of age eh?”

She smiled back.

Quite a nice smile; a welcoming smile, he thought. There was something about it, which conjured up the image of Susan Siddons. It seemed perverse that such a painful event as this should bring them back together again after all these years. It made him realise just how much he had missed her. This has to be fate he thought. And he was a great believer in fate. He wondered about giving her a call.

DAY TWENTY-FIVE: 31st July.

Thunder growled and rumbled overhead, and a split second later the rain fell in streams, pelting the earth like spears. Grace Marshall cowered beneath the canopy of the rear entrance of Barnwell Police station. She had been petrified of thunder since a child and for some reason it still scared her. She would rather tackle a violent man than face thunder. Her eyes darted back and forth across the car park searching for Hunter who she knew was waiting for her in an unmarked police car. She spotted a dark blue Vauxhall whose windscreen wipers appeared to be working overtime to cope with the sudden downpour, and although she couldn’t see who was driving she guessed it would be him.

She glanced up at the thick mass of storm clouds, placed her working clip file over the top of her head and in the same instant made the decision to dash to the car. Despite the fact it had only been seconds, as she bounced into the passenger seat of the CID car, the rain was already beginning to soak through her Italian linen trousers. She shook her work folder into the footwell and then pulled down the passenger side visor and stared into the mirror. She flicked a comb of fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to stop it frizzing like it usually did, and then brushed several stray droplets of rain from her cheeks.

Hunter stared at her shaking his head.

She looked back.

“What?” She returned her eyes to the mirror. “Image is everything Hunter, and if you were a woman you’d know that,” she finished, slapping the visor back in place.

“A little rain never did anyone any harm,” he retorted.