Michael Fowler - Heart of the Demon

She muttered back something incoherent and rolled over.

In stocking feet he crept downstairs, so as not to wake his two boys, and eased a newspaper from the letterbox of the front door, before creeping through to the kitchen at the rear.

He made tea lazily, dunking a tea bag directly into a mug, at the same time slotting two slices of bread into the toaster. He made the tea strong, adding a heaped teaspoon of sugar to wake himself up. Waiting for the toast he stood before the kitchen sink, mug clutched to his chest, staring dreamily through the window, taking in the sights of the morning freshness stirring his garden. Everywhere was still damp from the overnight rain, and a fine mist was rising as the warmth of the sun slowly appeared over the distant tree tops. He thought for a moment how fortunate he was. His home overlooked farmland that formed part of the old Wentworth estates. A gate at the bottom of his garden opened up onto fields and many a time he had watched his two boys making dens amongst the bushes, or jumping into the stacks of newly cut wheat.

He visualized his own first home as a child. A terraced house with a shared back yard. It was all his parents could afford, but he could still remember being told by his father, that it was far better than the tenement building that he and his wife had left behind in Glasgow.

Both his parents had reminded him many times of how fortunate he should consider himself. They had been born in Scotland and brought up in an era of economic hardship, deciding to move down to Yorkshire to make a better life for themselves in the early nineteen seventies. They had never returned, both choosing to settle when he had been born six months after their arrival.

As he bit into his first slice of fresh toast he opened up Barnwell’s weekly paper. The headline ‘BRUTAL MURDER’ in bold black letters shouted back, and a cherished family photo of Rebecca Morris, a faint smile across her face, filled a good section of the page. There had been hardly anything in the Nationals, but he knew the local paper would make great play on the macabre discovery. He pored over the article to check if the killer’s handiwork had been leaked but there were no surprise revelations. Its column inches had used the original police press statement, a brief update by the Senior Investigating Officer, and lastly the usual quotes from friends and neighbours to embellish the misery, anguish and cruelty of this human tragedy report.

He finished reading the article and knew first hand that progress was still in its early stages. Now in the sixth day of the investigation, the finishing touches were just being put around the site of the murder, with exhibit after exhibit being logged and bagged for forensics. There had been no discoveries so far of Rebecca’s school clothing, bag or personal mobile. It was painstakingly slow work with no stone being left unturned. And he knew that within the next hour, when he sat in this morning’s briefing, the now twenty strong Major Investigation Team — two additional teams of detectives’ from district CID had swelled their ranks — would be ready for another day working against the clock.

* * * * *

Hunter and Grace had been allocated the task of interviewing Rebecca’s closest friend, Kirsty Evans, who had just returned from holiday to hear the shocking news. As Hunter entered the Wood estate his mind went back to his childhood years when he had roamed these streets with some of his school pals who had lived there. It had once been a model of council planning. Sadly the estate had become like many others — run down. A new generation of people, with legacies of problems, had moved in and had not bothered to change or adopt the same pride as their neighbour’s. Consequently, he knew from his previous CID work, that burglaries had increased to fund drug habits, resulting in those tenants with savings moving out for a more peaceful lifestyle.

They pulled into Hawthorne Close, a small cul-de-sac, and Hunter immediately thought that this was not one of those streets that had fallen to the dregs of society. This was how he remembered the look of the estate many years ago. The Evans’s had spent money re-furbishing their house, and a garage and extension had changed the appearance of the council house.

Mr Evans greeted them, explaining how dreadful the shock had been, what a pleasant, friendly girl Rebecca was, and finished with the note that Kirsty was still very upset.

Hunter immediately picked up on the tone of how Mr Evans delivered his opening and guessed he had made those comments as a means of expressing hope that they would adopt a softer and sympathetic approach to how they interviewed his daughter. He reassuringly replied, “Don’t worry Mr Evans we’re just here to get some background about Rebecca.”

Mr Evans showed them into the lounge, informed them she was with her mother, and then finished by saying he had some work to do ‘out the back’.

It was evident Kirsty had been crying. She was slightly younger than Rebecca by two months, but Hunter thought she looked older. A few years older in fact. She could easily have passed for sixteen. Her hair had obviously been cut and coloured at a good salon. She wore tasteful make up over her newly acquired tanned face, and her slender figure already had womanly curves.

Hunter introduced Grace and himself, but went no further as they had already decided that because Grace’s daughter, Robyn, was exactly the same age that she would most likely have the natural affinity to carry out this sensitive interview.

They settled themselves in armchairs beside the settee where Kirsty sat, with her Mother placing a reassuring arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and positioned themselves to face her. Hunter, the note taker, sat back pen poised over his daily journal, whilst Grace leant forward hands clasped together on her lap.

“Kirsty, this is important” she began. “We need to catch Rebecca’s killer as soon as possible. We need you to tell us everything you know about her. It’s also important that you hold no secrets back, even if you think you might get into trouble.”

Kirsty’s bloodshot eyes shot open and fixed on the detective.

“Trouble, but we haven’t done anything wrong. We’re not like that”

“I’m not accusing you of anything Kirsty. It’s just that in cases like this we can’t afford for anything to be held back. We all have things we want to keep hidden, sometimes especially from parents. I have a daughter exactly the same age as you, so I can say that from experience. Trust me Kirsty we’re not wanting to get you into any trouble.”

“I’m not hiding anything. We don’t have anything to hide…” she glanced sideways at her mother, “honest,” she finished.

“Fine Kirsty, that’s just fine. Now tell us about Rebecca.”

For the next ten minutes the girl spoke softly, in warm affectionate tones, about her friend Rebecca. Her likes and dislikes. What they did in their rooms and what they did outside and at school. There was nothing untoward.

It was typical fourteen-year-old girl stuff, thought Hunter as he scribed.

Kirsty appeared to have settled. Grace said, “Did she ever fall out with anyone? Have any enemies?”

“Not Rebecca. She was quiet and friendly. We’re all like that, our group. We keep away from the girls we know who are going to cause trouble.”

“What about boyfriends?”

“None serious. We knocked about with a couple of lads; walked home with them, saw them at the youth club, that kind of stuff. Just acted around with them.”

The replies flowed but Hunter couldn’t help but feel that the sentences were somehow so false; so rehearsed. He tried to catch Graces attention, to indicate for her to change tack in her approach to the questions.