Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

“The crafty bastard,” Mike said aloud.

“Wash your mouth out with soap dear,” Lizzie responded drily.

“Sorry Professor, I was just thinking aloud.”

She smiled back. “I know, and you’re right the person who did this is very crafty — and brutal, and if I wasn’t so good, he’d have succeeded.”

No pub tonight, Mike thought to himself. The hunt is back on.

* * * * *

I don’t know why they call this a green room, Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw thought to himself as he re-read his script, there’s not a drop of alcohol in sight.

He shuffled uneasily in his seat as the male make-up artist flicked a blusher brush filled with foundation across his face.

“Do I have to wear that stuff?” he had barked earlier, grimacing at the thought of having to wear make-up for the first time in his life.

“Despite the fact that you look well for someone who is in their late forties we all need a little help in front of the cameras,” the make-up artist said.

The SIO made final notes to the speech he was going to make. His second visit to the ‘Crimewatch’ studios was much sooner than he had anticipated, but he knew they had to ‘up the ante’ if they were to catch this killer. He had committed murder at least four times and would have added Kirsty Evans to his list had it not been for the quick reactions of a Paramedic out on his evening jog.

The numerous ‘actions’ were still being processed, and the new ones to find a link with Geoffrey Collins were being carried out at this moment as he prepared himself for the evening’s live programme.

Detectives had already pulled Collins’ prison and Probation files and were ploughing through them. They’d all come to the conclusion during the day’s briefing that the killer must have known Collins was a convicted sex offender and that was why he had chosen him as the ideal candidate to throw them off his scent.

There had also been a very difficult debate during that meeting as to whether the use of the leather belt should be disclosed, especially as it was a significant piece of evidence. He had to argue strongly that they had very little choice. They had to act before someone else was murdered.

“And if showing that belt on TV will jog someone’s memory and give us that golden nugget by which we can identify our killer, then it will be worth it,” he had told his teams.

The buzzer above the door sounded and the ’three minutes’ light flashed on.

The make-up artist pushed the handle of his brush underneath Michael Robshaw’s jaw and manoeuvred the Superintendent’s head from side to side.

“Pretty as a picture” he whispered. “Go break a leg.”

* * * * *

She was following the light along the tunnel. Through the darkness she could see the trees and fields ahead and the summer breeze brushing her face brought with it the smell of freshly mown grass. But with every stride her experience was one of dragging feet through treacle and her pounding heart felt as if it was about to burst through her chest.

Though she couldn’t see him she could sense he was getting closer, almost hear him breathing down her neck, and smell the foul stench of the halitosis from his mouth. Rebecca was shouting to her, waving her to safety. And then he was on her, grabbing at her hair and clawing at her skin. She was tugged forward so hard that her feet left the ground. Then something was tightening around her neck and the air left her lungs with a whoosh.

She tried to fight back, biting and scratching her attacker, but he was on top of her and she couldn’t move. She was totally at his mercy.

He lowered his head and she caught the first glimpse of his face. It was a hazy image she saw but she thought she recognised him. Rebecca was trying to tell her who it was; she had been there when she had first seen him.

And the voice. It was growling at her, but she had heard it before, when it had been much softer and kinder.

The haziness started to clear. His face was suddenly unobstructed.

Kirsty Evans flicked open her eyes and gasped for breath “I know who it is.” she screamed from her hospital bed.

DAY THIRTY-TWO: 7th August.

The persistent ringing tone from Grace’s desk phone was not going to go away. She mentally cursed herself for not putting it onto voicemail, especially as she had so much paperwork to go through.

She snapped it up and gave a curt “Grace Marshall MIT” and waited for the response.

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, “Grace is that you?”

She immediately recognised the voice of the desk clerk from downstairs. “Sorry Cheryl,” she responded pleasantly, “I’ve got so much work to do and so very little time to do it. I promised I’d take the girls to their netball training tonight. I’ll really be in their bad books if I don’t turn up.”

“Tell me about it. What about that lump of a husband taking his turn? Or is he like mine, not much help?” returned Cheryl.

“Oh he tries his best, but it’s the third time this week he’s had to pick them up when I’ve promised. It’s not been helped by him just getting a new job. I’ll be getting the riot act read soon if I’m not careful.”

“Well I might be adding to your burden Grace. There’s a lady just turned up at the front desk. She wants to speak to a policewoman. She says she saw the Crimewatch programme last night and she’s not exactly sure but she thinks the killer could be her ex-hubby.”

The woman who Grace ushered into a side room within the foyer of the police station was nervous and twitchy and Grace being a non-smoker couldn’t help but notice that she smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. She seated herself at one side of the fixed table in the room clasping her hands between her knees and introduced herself as Rachel Beddows, adding that she was twenty-five years old. With only a little eye liner on for make-up, Grace thought she looked a lot older.

“The desk clerk says that you believe the killer we’re after could be your ex-husband,” Grace opened, taking out her pen, scribbling onto a sheet of paper; testing it was working.

“I’m almost certain it’s him,” she replied. Her voice was raspy and gravelly.

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve been following all the local news about the murders because a couple of weeks ago I did have a thought that it could be him and so when I heard it was going to be on Crimewatch I sat down to watch the programme. When I saw that detective — I think he was a Superintendent or something — show that belt I just froze. I heard him say it’d been recovered from the attack on the latest victim and they could link it to at least two of the murders. Was that the exact belt he showed?”

Grace nodded.

“Then I’m certain it was Gabe’s. Well not exactly Gabe’s as such, it belonged to his father and Gabe used to play around with it.”

“What do you mean play around with it?”

“He used to twist it around in his hands whilst he was watching TV, as though he was getting it ready to throttle someone. It used to scare me.”

“You call him Gabe?”

“Yes his full name is Gabriel Wild. The last I heard he was still living with his mum on the Tree estate.”

“How long have you been divorced from him?”

“Oh I’m not divorced, but I’ve been separated from him nearly eight years now. I ran away and haven’t seen him since. I’ve been too scared to go to a solicitors or anything. He always said if I left him he’d find me and kill me. I live in Sheffield now and I changed my name by deed poll.”

“There’s obviously some reason why you think it’s him besides seeing that belt why don’t you tell me a bit more?”