Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

This is one of those Eureka moments Hunter thought as Grace sidled up beside him.

He was pleased to see that a uniformed officer had been stationed outside Kirsty’s side room. At least for the time being the killer wouldn’t be able to get to her.

Hunter flashed his warrant card and he and Grace entered.

The beeping noise from the heart monitor was the first sound, which greeted them. Kirsty was hooked up to an IV and a nasogastric tube. Her head was covered in a turban style bandage and under the bright fluorescent lighting they couldn’t help but notice the signs of a real battering around her face. Both eyes were heavily bruised and her nose was disjointed and twice the size it should have been. Mr and Mrs Evans were at her bedside, faces creased with anguish, her Mother tightly gripping Kirsty’s left hand and gently stroking the back of it with her other. They acknowledged the officers’ arrival with a solemn nod and Mr Evans rose from his high-backed seat. “Have you caught him yet?” There was a sharp edge to it, his question almost a demand.

They understood the tone. The anger was inevitable.

“Not yet, but don’t worry we will do,” Hunter responded.

Grace moved closer to the bed. Kirsty’s breathing was laboured; the sedative, which had been administered, was playing its part in relaxing her system. The girl’s eyes fluttered for a second and then stopped.

“The doctor said she’s going to be okay.” Mrs Evans caught Grace’s gaze.

She returned a sympathetic smile. “She is Mrs Evans. Kirsty will pull through. You watch in another couple of weeks she’ll be her old self. Young people are extremely resilient”

“Was she — ?” Mr Evans paused and gulped.

Hunter knew what he was trying to say, but was afraid of the answer. He offered, “There are no signs she was attacked like that. The man who did this was scared off before he had time to do anything else. He wouldn’t have had time to do anything like that.” Like Mr Evans, he avoided using the word rape.”

“Is it the same man who killed Rebecca?” Mr Evans asked.

“We don’t know for definite. That’s something we’re working on. We’ll know better when we get Kirsty’s clothing and the samples from under her fingernails up to our forensics lab. Your daughter was very brave, she put up a hell of a fight and it saved her life.”

“Do you think Kirsty was hiding something about Rebecca’s murder and that’s why he’s tried to silence her?”

Hunter recalled what Grace had told him following her clandestine meeting with Kirsty, less than a fortnight ago. It brought to the fore the secrets about Rebecca which she had revealed, and which Kirsty had kept from her parents; the drinking of alcohol and the meetings with older boys.

Hunter decided that no one would benefit by revealing what Kirsty had told Grace. Especially he knew it was something that her parents wouldn’t want to hear at this time.

“That’s something we’ll have to ask her when she comes round.” Hunter stared down at Kirsty’s damaged body. A cold sensation shot down his spine and caused him to shudder.

“When you catch the bastard who did this, I hope you hang him,” Mr Evans snarled.

DAY TWENTY-NINE: 4th August.

The local and national tabloids together with the international press had now joined the hunt for the serial killer. They were crawling all over the district; tramping around every cordoned-off crime scene and laying siege to the District General hospital where Kirsty Evans lay sedated. It had meant bringing in extra uniform resources just to fend off the press. Every witness the police had visited received a follow up call from the media vigilantes. At night locals shared their stories in exchange for pints from journalists. Every hotel and Travel Lodge around Barnwell had been booked up. It was great for the local economy but it wasn’t good for allaying the fears of the community. The hacks were making a thorough nuisance of themselves.

The Major Investigation Team had adopted a siege mentality to all this and only Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw dealt with the daily press conferences.

However amongst the chaos the good thing that had come from the high profile status of the investigation was the drafting in of extra staffing. Hundreds of actions were now being tasked to detectives and there was a real resurgence to the enquiry.

Hunter’s team had processed the fresh exhibits from the serial killer’s latest attack on Kirsty Evans and those were now being ‘fast tracked’ by forensics. The hope was that within days they would have a name for their murderer.

* * * *

He had been to six separate newsagents to collect different editions of papers to read what they were saying about him. It had taken him a whole morning to digest the contents, going back over many of the paragraphs time and time again, picking over the key words, and he was at boiling point.

Speculation about his background and the press’s portrayal of him was making him angrier and angrier. They had continually described him as being pure evil and that the victims in all this were so innocent.

He wanted to scream. The stupid bastards have got it so wrong. It was those girls they should look at and blame for all of this. He was the one ridding society of its evil. After all what had his mother told him repeatedly when he had been so young; that he was the Angel sent by God to deliver his message. And the press were liars as well: So much of each article had given detail of how close the police were to catching him.

What a load of rubbish, he said to himself. This drivel isn’t going to help them catch me.

What did worry him though were the paragraphs about his latest attack on Kirsty. Sooner or later she was going to come round and give police a description. Despite the fact he had disguised himself he couldn’t help but think — remembering that strange look on her face when he had spoken to her — that she had registered something about him. He hoped that what he had already done about that would throw the police completely off his scent.

In the past few days he had run the attack through and through in his head. How could he have missed that jogger?

I don’t make mistakes — not like that anyway .

He’d even had to leave his father’s old belt behind on Kirsty’s neck.

How could I have been so stupid? I never make mistakes. That’s why I’ve never been caught.

But on reflection he’d realised why that had happened. He’d panicked when he’d heard that guy shouting and seen him running towards him.

That was twice in short succession now, when for years he’d gone without being disturbed.

Is someone up there trying to tell me something?

Thank goodness the man had stopped to help Kirsty, instead of chasing after him, otherwise he’d more than likely be in prison now.

As soon as he had got out onto the road he had checked himself, told himself that this action could get him caught and so he had changed his pace to a gentle stroll and taken stock of who was around. There had been no one and so he had slipped off his disguise and dropped his coat and glasses inside the boot of his car. He had started the engine and waited; listening for the sound of the police cars and the ambulance, which he knew, would soon be arriving. When he had been satisfied they were going in the opposite direction he had driven slowly away from the parking lay-by.

He took in a deep breath, and composed himself and continued about his business, carefully snipping out the newspaper articles to place in his files; adding them to the other cuttings and to his own personal photographs of the girls; the ones he taken when he sneaked around their homes, and when he had dealt with them. He smoothed a hand over the images.