Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

Hunter nodded.

“Well they’ve pulled off a number of chat room extracts, which Kirsty’s been having, with someone called Josh who says he’s seventeen. Well they’ve managed to trace the IP address and it comes back to one Geoffrey Collins.” She dropped several printed sheets in front of Hunter adding to the pile already on his desk.

Hunter knew from previous dealings that Grace was referring to the Internet provider service, where addresses could be tracked back to an individual computer.

“And get this, Geoffrey Collins is actually a thirty-seven year old man, and Public Protection Unit have confirmed he’s on our sex offenders’ register. If you look at pages ten and twelve you can see some of his profile that PPU have faxed over to me. His last conviction was over eight years ago and that’s probably why he’s not on the DNA database. He was done for gross indecency against two girls. One was fifteen and the other fourteen. What do you bet that G in Rebecca’s journal is Geoffrey Collins?”

“My, my, we have been busy haven’t we?" Looks like you’ve solved this all on your own. You’ll be after promotion and a commendation next,” Hunter replied.

“If the cap fits,” she smiled back modestly.

“That is real good work Grace. Now you can help me get an operational plan drawn up with the SIO so that we can do an early morning knock on this Geoffrey Collins.”

DAY THIRTY: 5th August.

Geoffrey Collins lived in a one bedroom flat above one of the charity shops on Barnwell High Street. A decision had been made the night before not to contact his landlord for fear of word leaking out and Collins fleeing before the early morning raid. By 7am both marked and unmarked police cars lined the High Street. Overnight one of the evening shift detectives had secreted himself at the rear of the place to keep a check of Collins movements, ensuring he didn’t leave before he could be arrested.

Hunter and his team were at the back of the queue of police vehicles, watching the Task Force don their protective gear and check their firearms. They were taking no chances. Ten minutes later the radios crackled into life, the Task Force Inspector had begun coordinating the operation. His instructions were short and precise and in a matter of minutes the immediate area around the flat had been cordoned off.

Hunter wound down the car window as the ‘Strike…Strike…Strike.” shout went out over the airwaves.

Two dull thuds pierced the stillness of the morning, followed by the shattering of glass and splintering of wood.

He knew at that moment that Collins door had succumbed to the Task Force battering ram. He listened intently to the radio chatter as the armed team swept the building ‘clearing’ each room, and in less than a minute his name was being called.

“DS Kerr?” The Task Force Officer requested.

Hunter responded.

“The flat is empty, Collins is not here.”

Hunter cursed beneath his breath. Nevertheless he left the unmarked CID car, followed by Grace, Tony Bullars and Mike Sampson, already garbed in their forensic suits.

The detectives entered the flat via the ground floor door at the rear of the building. The firearms team were just ‘racking’ their weapons, clearing rounds from the chambers of their Heckler and Kock MP5s.

Hunter gave them a studious glance. He admired the elite team, always viewing them as a necessary evil in the fight against crime. It had always been his mind-set never to carry a gun. If truth be told he didn’t trust himself with something which could take away someone’s life from the slightest of touch. He had always been worried that with a gun in his hand he might get it so wrong — especially when the red mist came. No, he’d stick with his fists. He had more control over them and the damage he left behind was always repairable. He squeezed past them, over the bits and pieces of broken timber and glass, which had once been the back door. It had been well and truly knocked off its hinges.

Grace, Tony and Mike followed up behind.

They all cringed and screwed up their faces as a rancid smell reached their nostrils. Glancing around, the flat was a hovel, filthy and malodorous. A table in the centre of the room was covered in dirty crockery, a half eaten sandwich, and milk had curdled in its plastic container.

Hunter scrutinised the setting and wondered if it normally was left in such a state, or had Collins left in a hurry.

A bare electric bulb provided the only light, and wallpaper, the pattern of which must have come from the seventies, peeled in places from the damp walls.

In the bedroom a patch of light streamed through a gap in the curtains picking out objects within the sparsely furnished room. Against one wall was an old fashioned metal bed covered in an array of yellow stained sheets. The image reminded Hunter of Tracey Emin’s Turner Prize submission to The Tate Gallery.

On a bed side unit laid a lap top computer. It was still switched on.

A bundle of newly printed photographs lay scattered over the floor. Grace picked one up, studied it, and turned it to Hunter’s face. He instantly recognised the close-up shot of the pretty teenage girl — Kirsty Evans — who now lay critically injured in Barnwell General.

He shook his head disconsolately. “We need to nail this bastard, and quick before he attacks again.”

Grace nodded in agreement, shook out one of the plastic exhibit bags she had been carrying in her jacket pocket and dropped in the photo. Pulling the top off her marker pen with her teeth she timed and dated the exhibit label and bent down to scoop up more of the pictures. They all appeared to be snaps of Kirsty, taken at regular intervals, and she instantly identified the background as the park where Kirsty had been attacked.

Hunter whipped out his police radio. It sparked into life as he pressed the open channel button “I want Scenes of Crime and the computer team up here immediately,” he called in.

He knew they wouldn’t be long. He had included them in his operational plan the previous evening, briefing the SOCO manager over the phone before leaving work, and ensuring that they were in their vans at the end of the street before the start of the morning’s raid.

Though his team would be carrying out a thorough search to gather evidence he knew that he still required the full range of specialist skills to process the crime scene, and despite the fact that the firearms unit had trampled through most of the flat Hunter knew that there would still be some significant clues around.

Within minutes he heard the heavy footfalls of several individuals clomping hurriedly up the stairs.

Red-faced and breathing heavily, SOCO manager Duncan Wroe, whom he had known for many years, poked his head of straggling hair and unshaven face round the door. As usual the white forensic suit he wore hung limp on his rake-thin frame. He unfortunately always looked so dishevelled; yet despite that appearance Hunter knew that Duncan was one of the best SOCO officers around. So much so, that two years previously he had been selected by the Home Office as a member of a Forensic Science Team to travel to Afghanistan and train up newly appointed Afghan Scenes of Crime officers in modern forensic science methods.

Hunter knew he was going to get a thorough job done. He greeted him eagerly, snapping off one of his latex gloves to shake his hand. His part was over. It was time to update the SOCO manager and hand the crime scene over.

As Hunter briefed Duncan the computer technician slid past, making straight for the laptop. The pale-faced, spectacle wearing young man slotted a memory stick into one of the available ports and hit the ‘enter’ tab. The screen saver flashed on. The desktop image showed another picture of Kirsty Evans. It was a replicated shot from one of the photos Grace had already recovered as evidence.