Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

“Did you get Billy?” Grace asked.

“We did actually. I was so hyped-up I can tell you. It was early in my career and it was the first time I had actually seen armed police. We surrounded the fairground compound where Billy lived with his parents and he came out meek as anything telling us he’d been at home all night, and his father backed him up. We arrested him of course and carried out a search as best as we could but there was no sign of any gun. The gipsy who’d been shot was operated on and they stitched his guts back in and we finally managed to speak to him three days later but he refused to say anything. He wouldn’t even confirm his name. At the travellers’ site we couldn’t find anyone who wanted to talk to us so without witnesses and vital evidence the enquiry went nowhere. We found out later that the elders from the traveller site settled things with Billy’s father, whatever that meant.” He paused and smiled, “How’s that for someone who’s supposedly past it?” then in a hammy Poirot accent he added, “Hastings the little grey cells they do not desert me.”

“That was a crap attempt at a French accent. It sounded more Welsh” goaded Grace.

“You Philistine,” sneered back Barry, “Hercule Poirot, the greatest detective in the world — even greater than you, is Belgian not French.” He finished by giving Grace a quick wink.

Hunter couldn’t help but smile. It hadn’t taken Barry long to settle in, and just as he had thought he had not lost any of his recall. His storage of information on villains, their cohorts and their networks, plus all the jobs he had attended over his thirty years was far better than any local Intelligence Unit computer system.

“Right you two I’m going to get this to the HOLMES people and then get Tony and Mike. Meanwhile, I think it’s time to shake Billy Smith’s tree a little. I want you Grace to sort out the paperwork and get a magistrate’s warrant. ”

* * * * *

Hunter’s team sped into the open entranceway of the Smith’s fairground compound in two unmarked cars only to find themselves being greeted by two snapping and snarling Alsatians acting as sentries. The surprise element was long gone. The cars swerved around the slavering animals, churning up the ground of loose shale, and they slewed to a halt in front of a thirty-six foot static caravan where Barry Newstead had earlier indicated Billy Smith should still be living.

Before jumping from the car Hunter whipped his head around in the direction they had just come from, focussing on the vicious hounds that were frantically jerking and leaping against the chain which was holding them. He quickly scanned its length, and only averted his gaze when he judged those brutes couldn’t reach him. At that same instant a single facing door shot open, crashing against the aluminium side of the caravan with a resounding clatter. A tall, stocky built, man confronted them.

Hunter could see that the man was well over six feet tall and judging by the broad shoulders, expansive chest and bulging arms, which strained the white T-shirt he was wearing, he was someone who regularly trained and maintained his physique. His facial features were quite striking. Overall he had a tanned weather-beaten appearance framed by a head of thick, naturally curly, almost black hair.

His ice blue eyes, wide and alert, strafed the compound. “What the fuck’s going on?”

Hunter leaped from the driver’s seat. Mike Sampson and Tony Bullars were also pulling themselves out of their CID car and Hunter signalled towards them with a raised hand. “You and Bully hang back five,” he ordered and turned to the thick-set man framed in the doorway of the caravan. “Billy Smith?” He shouted, raising his voice over the now hysterical dogs, wishing he could silence them — permanently.

As if reading his mind the man suddenly ordered loudly “Quiet! Sit! Sabre, Spike!” Then with a smug grin turned towards the detectives as the two dogs immediately stopped barking and settled back on their haunches. “What do so many cops want me for? You’d think I’d murdered someone.”

“Funny you should say that,” Grace mumbled under her breath.

Hunter caught the comment and nudged her arm. “We could do with a word with you Billy. You got a few moments?”

“Sure come in, but wipe your feet,” he replied and disappeared back inside the van.

As Hunter stepped up into Billy Smith’s home, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the vision, which met him. The plushness of the interior took him completely by surprise. Thick pile carpets, lush furnishings and soft pine cabinets ran from its entranceway into the open lounge. Expensive pieces of Crown Derby were much in evidence, both on the windowsills and in the glass units. The smell of fresh polish hung in the air. The mobile home was immaculate with everything neatly in place.

“My next question is,” said Billy Smith as he eased himself into an armchair, “What is so important that it needs two car loads of detectives to turn up at my door?”

Strong sunlight shone through slatted blinds behind him throwing his form into silhouette.

Hunter narrowed his eyelids to catch a glimpse of Billy’s face.

“How did you know we were cops? We haven’t introduced ourselves yet,” Hunter responded.

“Dogs can smell you a mile off” he retorted. “Now get to the point and tell me what’s going on?”

“We’re here making enquiries into the murder of Rebecca Morris.” Hunter replied.

Prior to setting off from the station Hunter had briefed his team and decided against introducing the parallel investigation of the slaying of Claire Louise Fisher which provided the fairground link to at least two of the three murder victims, and only he and Grace knew the tenuous link to Carol Siddons through the Billy, Karen Gardner, Paul Goodright ménage a trois.

“I’ve seen that on the telly. Why do you want to talk to me about that? I don’t even know the girl. I’ve never met her.”

“We believe there’s a link to your fair, in as much as she was at the Feast fair shortly before she died.” He lied in order to get a reaction from Billy, which might indicate guilt.

“I hope this is not leading where I think it is. I swear on my mother’s death I had nothing to do with that girl. If she was at the fair I never saw her.”

“In order to satisfy ourselves, is it all right if we do a search of your home?” Grace interjected.

Billy thought for a moment. “What if I say no?”

“Well we have got a search warrant,” Grace responded waving the magistrates’ document in her hand.

“Looks like I’ve got no choice does it? But please don’t wreck things. I’ve heard about police and searches.”

Hunter called in Tony and Mike and the four of them split up to begin a methodical high and low exploration of the caravan.

Hunter ensured Billy remained in view throughout his search, continually glancing towards him through the corner of an eye, at the same time chatting in general terms endeavouring to relax him with a view to throwing him off guard when it was time for the more probing investigation-based questions.

Then after about twenty minutes Mike Sampson shouted from one of the bedrooms at the back of the static.

“Got something,” he announced and appeared in the doorway holding aloft a small item in a latex gloved hand. He strode purposefully through to the lounge followed by Grace and Tony. He showed the item to Hunter and then held it in front of Billy Smith.

“Whose is this?” he requested sharply.

“Mine, why?” Billy responded.

“Not with these markings on it,” returned Mike. “This is Rebecca Morris’s mobile phone.

* * * * *

“I’ve told you a dozen times I found the damn thing,” Billy Smith replied, an agitated note in Billy Smith’s reply to Grace’s question.