Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

How many times had she washed his bloodstained clothing without question?

It wasn’t just my secret. It was our little secret. It was the only thing we actually shared together since that day she caused my dad to leave.

When he had seen the armed police smash down the door and then watched them all scuttle inside to search he had decided it was time to make himself scarce. He was about to emerge from the bushes at the bottom of the garden when that black lady detective and her colleague had come out, and she had started to slag him off. She was just like all the others.

He had intended to call it a day and leave the area now that he had been found out but he knew he had one more job to do before he left.

She has to be taught a lesson. She can’t say those things about me without being punished.

DAY THIRTY-SIX: 11th August.

Grace cupped her mug of hot coffee in both hands staring at the small TV screen in her kitchen. The sound was on low but she could still pick out the words of Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw. The local news broadcast was replaying footage from last night’s press conference held at the front of the Wild’s home.

“There has been a significant development with the discovery of the body of an elderly woman, and a post mortem examination will be carried out to determine cause of death,” he was announcing to the world’s press in his best Police speak. “We urgently need to trace and speak with her son Gabriel in relation to this incident.” His face was solemn on camera, though Grace knew that inside he was elated because they finally knew who the serial killer was. Gabriel Wild was on the run.

The next shot was from the air, of the Wild’s rear garden, where a white forensic tent had been erected beside the wooden shed. She knew they had already dug up the remains of Gabriel’s dog. More disturbingly however was the fact that the ground penetrating radar had indicated there was at least one more much larger form buried beneath the flowerbeds. They were expecting to find yet another teenage girl’s body.

Grace flicked off the television set, trotted across the kitchen, snatched up the wall phone, scrolled down the contacts list and hit the speed dial button. She trapped it between her head and shoulder, listening to the ringing tone as she put the finishing touches to the polish on her nails.

“Come on, come on answer” she found herself muttering under her breath. She blew on her sticky nails. She had a lot to do after yesterday’s discovery.

“Hello,” the deep voice, at the other end of the phone, answered.

“Hi dad, it’s me,” she responded and removed the phone from between her head and shoulder, pressing it against her ear.

“Oh, hello Princess.”

Grace found herself screwing up her eyes, again. For though she loved to hear the exaggerated notes in her father’s Jamaican accent, and knew in her own heart that it was just his term of affection towards her, she still cringed when he used the Princess word.

“Dad I wish you wouldn’t still call me Princess, I’m thirty seven years old.”

“You will always be my princess, no matter how old you are.”

Why on earth with the surname Kelly had her father and mother decided to call her Grace she would never know. Over and over she had bemoaned this to herself, from as far back as she could recall. As a young child she had not realised the significance of her name, but as she had got older, upon attending comprehensive school, she had found herself the brunt of so much taunting and mocking. It had been her first experience of prejudice because of her colour.

She shook herself away from her thoughts. “Dad I need a favour. I’ve got to work late again. Something really important has cropped up”

“I know it’s been on this morning’s news.” he interjected.

“Can you pick up the girls from their school and give them their tea. I’ve got them booked into a holiday school sports scheme for this week. I wouldn’t ask you under normal circumstances dad but David’s still trying to sort out his new job so he’s been working late as well.”

“Anytime Princess. You know you don’t need to ask. Me and your mother love having them.”

“Thanks Dad you’re a star.” She didn’t give him time to respond. She knew if she engaged him in any further conversation it would be lengthy. And she just didn’t have time, especially as she had to drop the girls off before she drove in.

* * * * *

The Wild’s home had become another murder crime scene. Mrs Wild’s body had been removed on the instructions of the Coroner’s Office and now lay with all the other bodies, in cold storage at the mortuary.

Hunter, Tony Bullars and Mike Sampson, together with forensics had been over every inch of the house, rifling through cupboards and drawers to search out evidence. On the second sweep of the loft area Hunter gave off a shout as he began prising a corner of what looked like a section of wall, but what was in fact painted plywood. He had discovered a false wall covering the chimney breast. He tugged it away from its frame.

“Bloody hell just look at this lot,” he cried, reaching through and pulling out a glass storage jar. It had a label near its base and he turned it around and held it towards the single bulb, which lit up the loft space. The jar was filled with a discoloured liquid and something slopped around inside.

“Frigging hell,” he exclaimed, recoiling, almost dropping the jar. He caught it with his other hand and brought it closer to his eyes. Turning the jar he held it up towards the low wattage bulb to get a better look. He read the label: Claire Fisher’s name was emblazoned across it in bold black ink. Widening his eyes in the dim light he focussed on the contents.

Jerking his head back he thrust the jar towards Mike Sampson.

“Christ Mike is that what I think it is? The sick bastard. The press are going to have a field day when they get hold of this.”

Mike scrutinised the contents and nodded. “It’s a heart. The bastard cut out and stored her heart. And look there’s a couple of more jars behind there as well.”

Hunter handed the jar to Mike and leaned back into the space. He could make out three more lined up on a narrow shelf. Above, on another shelf, he spotted several box files and he took one down and flicked it open. It contained an array of newspaper’s and photos, which he began to read. He recognised some of the faces in the photographs and yellowing newspaper cuttings. Claire Fisher, Rebecca Morris and Carol Siddons were amongst them. Sellotaped to Carol’s photo was The Ace of Hearts playing card: Foxed and discoloured, it showed clear signs of ageing.

She was his first victim, Hunter said to himself. He remembered hers had been the first body that they had found with its heart cut out. And he bet there would be a jar on the shelf with her name upon it.

There were other images of teenage girls that were familiar and he guessed that these would match some of those on the missing from home files back in the office. Filed in date order he speed-read the newspaper story lines of young girls who had disappeared over the last fifteen years. He instantly picked out the ones they had already found murdered. But amongst them were other girls’ names whose bodies hadn’t been found and Hunter knew in his heart that these were in gravesites not too far away waiting to be uncovered.

Inside clear plastic pockets he found photographs. Gabriel had taken shots of the girls after he had killed them. The images were graphic and gruesome. As he took out more files he found in the back of one of them a large scale local map of the Dearne Valley and its surrounding area. At the location of the old Manvers Colliery site were four ringed areas in red ink. As he scanned the map he spotted, circled, the old farm complex near to the village of Harlington, and at the top left hand section another drawn hoop covered a wooded area close to the village of South Elmsall.