“Police say they are not ruling out the possibility that the recent gruesome findings are linked with the murder of fourteen year old Rebecca Morris whose mutilated body was discovered two weeks ago…”
“Oh just leave it,” his Mother snapped. “I’ll fetch it. If you want a job doing, then do it yourself.”
She pushed passed him slapping at his elbow trying to move him aside, but he was too strong for her now and she wobbled sideways as he flicked out his arm; a reaction to the slap.
He watched his mother, her eyes bulging, glare back at him.
She was getting inside his head again. He could feel the anger welling up inside. Just like all the other times. Sometimes she really messed with his head. Because of her he’d missed the remainder of the broadcast. From what had been said though, he could guess that they had found another one of his girls. He cursed inwardly at his mother’s interruptions. Now it meant he would have to go out tomorrow and get the local paper. He’d drive into town and get one from one of the supermarkets. He didn’t want to arouse suspicions by getting one from their usual newsagent.
He heard his mother clattering about in the scullery searching out the floor cloth, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the way she always did when she was annoyed with him.
One of these days he would fucking do for her.
* * * * *
‘I feel like a bloody leper’ Susan Siddons thought as she drew on the final remnants of her cigarette before flicking it to the ground and grinding it underfoot. As an uncontrollable shiver moved down her back she wished she had put on her cardigan before coming outside. “I’m going to end up with a cold, thanks to this stupid bloody smoking ban,” she mumbled to herself, looking at her reflection in one of the pub windows. She took the breath freshener dispenser from out of her small handbag, squirted it into her mouth and then cupped her hand and blew into it, whilst simultaneously sniffing, to see if her breath still smelt of smoke. Then she replenished her lipstick, flicked a hand through her newly cropped hair and made her entrance back into The White Hart, her local bar, just a five minute walk from her dingy flat. As she entered the snug she tugged at the seams of her short skirt to cover a little more of her still slender legs.
“Another fag break Sue?” her large-chested, generously proportioned friend Debbie quipped, taking a swig of lager.
“My only vice,” she responded. “Oh and the occasional drink,” she added picking up her own half of beer, before dropping down onto the padded bench beside her best friend.
“And sex,” finished Debbie.
They both glanced at each other and gave off a short laugh.
The television was on, mounted high up on a shelf in one corner of the room and despite there being no sound on, the items shown on the screen caught her eye. She immediately stopped drinking, resting the rim of the glass on her bottom lip, as she stared intently at the screen.
“What’s this?” she mumbled nodding towards the screen. Debbie looked blank and shrugged her shoulders. Susan spun her head round towards the bar.
“Terry.” she shouted to the large bellied manager serving behind the bar “What’s this on the telly?”
He took his eyes of the fresh pint he was just pulling for a customer and looked towards the screen. “Crimewatch” he answered and went back to filling the glass.
“Turn it up Terry” she requested sharply, but there was nervousness in her voice.
“What for? You on it?” he shot back.
“Fuck off and just turn up the sound you sarkie twat.” She almost slammed down her beer glass onto the round wooden table.
Several heads in the snug turned towards her, but she hadn’t noticed. Her eyes were transfixed by the image on TV, focusing on the clothing neatly laid out on a table.
“I wouldn’t argue with her if I was you Terry.” Debbie said.
The manager aimed the remote handset at the television and held his index finger continuously on the volume switch, watching the numbers rise on the screen until it was audible.
Susan strained her ears, just catching the final bits of conversation between the stocky, grey-haired detective and the fair-haired female presenter. She quickly deciphered that the remains of a young girl had been found on the site of the old Manvers pit and was wearing clothing similar to that on the table. The rest of the conversation became just a jumble as her thoughts began racing. Simultaneously a mist clouded her vision. She clasped a hand to her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she gasped.
Debbie spun sideways and saw how the blood had drained from Sue’s face. “What’s the matter?”
Susan didn’t respond. She was moving quickly out of her seat, banging her legs against the side of the table and causing the drinks to slop out of their glasses. She dashed along the corridor by the toilets, her slim figure bouncing off the doorjamb and she had to catch herself before she stumbled outside into the car park. Her fingers groped around the keypad of her mobile. She hadn’t dialled this number for a long time but she could still remember it.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered with each dialling tone. Finally it was answered. The man’s voice seemed a lot steadier since the last time they had spoken several years ago.
“Barry it’s Sue” she blurted out. “Susan Siddons. I really need to see you. It’s about our Carol. I think they’ve just found her.”
* * * * *
The unexpected phone call from retired detective Barry Newstead later that evening, practically demanding that they meet, took Hunter completely by surprise. But he knew the moment he had replaced the handset that it was a request he dare not refuse. From experience he knew that Barry never rang anyone out of the blue, and therefore it had to be something vitally important.
He turned off the car stereo as soon as he pulled out of the drive and in silence drove the few miles from his home along the unlit country roads to the tranquil picture-postcard village of Wentworth, where Barry had fixed the meet, dwelling on the strangeness of the telephone conversation he had just had with an old colleague whom he had last seen over five years back.
In his head he replayed his first ever meeting with the huge, bullish man. It was the 1st of September 1988 — he had been sixteen years of age. It was one of those dates locked inside his memory bank. That was because it was the day the police told him that his girlfriend, Polly Hayes, had been murdered; her battered body had been found in woodland. Barry had been one of the detectives on the case and had interviewed him.
They had never found her killer, and a year into the enquiry Barry had broken the news to him that the case was being closed until further evidence came to light.
Finding out who had been responsible for his girlfriend’s murder had been his incentive for joining the police. And with each murder case since, he had either enquired or examined the similarities of how each victim had met their deaths, but he still hadn’t turned up her killer. This recent case was looking no different.
He had stayed in touch with Barry, not just to discuss any fresh information about Polly’s murder, but also because a bond of friendship had developed between them, and he had caught up with him again, at the age of twenty-five, when he had achieved detective status, and been posted to district CID.
When he had entered the CID office on that very first day, a nervous knot in his stomach, Barry had been one of the first people to greet him.
He became his mentor. Hunter quickly learned that Barry was one of the figureheads of the department, and also a legend in the office and in the first twelve months he regaled him with his adventures over a many a pint. He soon realised that in spite of his outward appearance he had an incredibly fast and alert mind and he could talk the hind-leg off a donkey. Hunter had learned that Barry had a vast network of informants and that when he ‘fingered’ someone for a job then without doubt they had done it. Along the way he also became familiar with Barry’s interview techniques. Occasionally he had witnessed Barry use violence, out of sight and mind of the custody sergeant, to gain a confession. As he, himself, had become involved in jobs with Barry he became mesmerised by some of his frighteningly unorthodox methods. Methods, which both scared, and yet at the same time, excited him. Hunter soon realised that Barry was so determined to prove that the villains he dealt with were found guilty of their crimes. And he would listen to him continually defend his activities by repeatedly stating “I can put my hand on my heart when I say I have never put an innocent man behind bars.” And he would back this up by telling him how many of his miscreants had written letters to him from prison for a visit so that they could ‘clear their slate’ before release. Hunter soon discovered that his clear up rate for crime was phenomenal.