Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

But then he couldn’t see the red laser dot from the tritium illuminated sight dancing on his forehead.

The 9mm lightweight round left the Heckler and Kock MP 5 muzzle at 400 metres per second. The illegal dum-dum bullet punched into Gabriel Wild’s head just above the eyes, smashed through his skull and fragmented into the frontal lobe of his brain.

He had no time to realise why none of his limbs would move how he wanted them to. The force flung him backwards and before he hit the ground he was dead.

A little blood splattered Robyn Marshall’s cheek and for a second she stood there frozen. Then she let out a shriek and the shriek became a scream.

The Officer secured the cocking handle of his gun, cleared the round in his chamber and then pulled away the fifteen round magazine holder. He turned and handed his weapon to his Supervisor.

“Sorry Sarge I felt I was left with no option. You heard me shout to him three times to drop the knife but he took no notice. I thought he was going to kill her,” he said.

As he strolled back to the Armed Response Vehicle, Paul Goodright received a flashback of the night the CID car was stolen. Like the other times, he saw the image of his sister lying in Intensive Care, the doctors telling her that her boyfriend had been killed and that she would be crippled for life by the joyrider who had run them off the road.

He had sworn there and then to her that he would track him down, and after all these years of probing and searching his efforts had finally paid off.

Paul dropped his chin into his chest trying to suppress the smile, which was creeping across his mouth.

He had finally delivered Gabriel Wild’s punishment for all the misery he had caused.

Now he could lay his own demons to rest.

* * * * *

“What were Gabriel Wild’s last words to the firearms officer just before he shot him…?

In between drinks, sniggers and laughter erupted from the group of detectives at yet another one of Mike Sampson’s serial killer jokes.

Hunter smiled and shook his head.

The MIT team had virtually taken over one half of the lounge. It was a good job the pub had only the handful of regulars that the team all knew. Anyone else other than the locals in the lounge and they might take offence.

An hour earlier he and others from the team had been so pleased to see Grace hugging her fourteen-year-old daughter so tightly in the back yard of the police station.

He’d tried to put a reassuring arm around his partner telling her it was all over but one look at her face told him her head was elsewhere. All she had kept repeating was that she needed to get Robyn home.

Grace had left with her daughter in the back of a traffic car, in a complete daze.

The Detective Superintendent had wrapped things up very quickly with one of the fastest de-briefs Hunter had ever known, ending the short conference with a promise of a more thorough scrum-down early the next morning and finishing the preamble by standing everyone a drink to celebrate the end of the investigation.

Hunter pushed his way to the bar half listening to the end of Mike’s joke. He knew it was these moments that bonded a team.

On his way he spotted Paul Goodright tucked into a corner, hunched over a beer, rubbing a hand over his shaven head. He was alone.

He made a mental note to have some time with him once he had got himself a drink. He had not seen him since the shooting.

He ordered a pint and then sauntered across to his old colleague.

“How’re we feeling?” Hunter asked, sliding onto a seat opposite. Paul’s head shot up. He’d obviously been lost in his thoughts ruminated Hunter.

“Not too bad — had better days.”

He made a brave attempt to crack a smile, but Hunter could see it was half-hearted.

“Glad it’s over?”

“You bet.” He pushed himself back against his seat. His squat muscular frame stretched his black T-shirt.

Hunter could remember when Paul had been a very slim twenty-something detective with a full head of hair. That’s when the memories tumbled into his head. He would never have guessed that the decisions he and Paul had made that fateful night on the 12th October 1993 would have brought about such tragic chain of events involving so many people. As the episodes had unfolded during the last few weeks he had questioned himself so many times. Should he have done anything different? He had found himself unable to answer. No doubt that would be one of many things he would dwell on over the next few weeks.

“Thanks to you the result is good though eh?”

Paul tightened his mouth, rested his strong bare forearms across the table and gripped the bottom of his glass. His beer had lost its head.

Hunter wondered how long he had been nursing it.

“You say that but it doesn’t really take away the feelings I have over what happened all those years ago. That psycho tore my life apart.” He fixed Hunter with his hazel eyes. “I thought that when I shot him it would have made me feel better but its already short lived. I still feel so responsible for what happened. If I hadn’t have gone off shagging that night this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Paul you’ve got to stop beating yourself up. You weren’t to know what was going to happen that night. People happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You have to put it down to sheer fate. The guy was a killer — born and bred — full stop. There was nothing — and I repeat nothing you could have done about it.” Hunter pointed towards Paul’s flat beer. “Let me get you a fresh one you’ve earned it believe me. There will be a lot of people out there grateful for what you have done. Just think about all those parents of the girl’s he’s murdered for one. Secondly we won’t have the expense of a trial and the worry that some smart barrister will exploit a loophole or a jury will do an OJ Simpson and allow him to walk free.” Hunter drained his own beer then wiped the edges of his mouth. “I’d be honoured if you’d allow me to buy you a drink.”

Paul returned a weak smile. “Another beer would be great thanks.”

Hunter pushed himself up from his seat and edged through the throng once more towards the bar. He ordered another two pints of Timothy Taylor and returned to his old colleague.

He placed the beer in front of Paul and then raised his glass.

“Cheers.”

Paul picked up the pint. “Cheers”

Hunter took a swig. “I’m gonna get some fresh air in the garden. You’re more than welcome to join me but I’m going to have this and then disappear. I’m knackered. It’s been a long day.”

“No you get yourself off. I’m having this and then I’m going as well. Anyway I wouldn’t make good company at the moment. We’ll catch up some time eh?”

“You bet,” Hunter acknowledged with a quick nod and then spun away.

Easing himself past a couple blocking his way Hunter pushed open the French doors that led out into the garden. The sunlight momentarily blinded him and made him close his eyes for a second. Blinking them open, he realised that the earlier evening drizzle had given way to the beginnings of a spectacular sunset. The temperature had risen, although the air was still fresh from the rain. He leant against one of the wooden benches and took in all the smells of the surroundings. That burst of rain had invigorated the dryness in the landscape. He took another swallow of his second pint, casting a glance over the hedgerow at the bottom of the beer garden, towards a view of the countryside beyond. For the first time he realised the pub’s location gave him a clear view of the scene where this mayhem had first started five weeks ago. In the distance he could just make out the collection of old tumbledown farm buildings where Rebecca Morris’s body had been discovered. That find had started this whole roller coaster of events, uncovering the actions of a demented killer who had devastated the lives of seven innocent teenage girls and their families, and culminating in the abduction of Grace’s daughter — one of their own. It had made him realise just how vulnerable they could all be.