CHAPTER TEN
DAY EIGHTEEN: 23rd July
On leaving the club Hunter’s mood was somewhat deflated. Getting into his car he popped in his ‘Bon Jovi’s Crossroads’ album into the CD player and tried to lose himself in the rock music, but driving home the music slipped into the background as he spent the journey replaying the evening’s conversation over and over in his mind and reflecting. Despite everything he and Paul Goodright had done together in the past, he knew that things would never be the same between them again. That trust they once shared had ended with their exchange of words.
He was restless for the remainder of the night as he mulled over his next steps. The saying ‘a problem shared’ entered his head time and time again, and he knew after several hours of tossing and turning that he had to confide in someone. Under normal circumstances when something troubled him he knew he could always turn to Beth. But this was different. This was a problem within ‘the job’ and he knew that the one person, apart from his wife, who would not pass judgment, and who would give him good balanced advice would be Grace.
The sleep, which had eluded him for hours, finally caught up with him about four o’clock. When the alarm sounded three hours later he felt thick-headed and completely drained, and he was only able to invigorate himself by staying longer in the shower. Tilting his head backwards, he lingered, feeling the rush of the cool water pour over his face.
As he stood outside on the patio finishing off his toast, taking in all the smells of the fresh morning air, and re-running last night’s events, despite the problems ahead he somehow felt himself becoming refreshed and revitalized. He drove to work replaying Bon Jovi, singing along to ‘Living on a prayer’ and ‘Keep the Faith,’ before cruising into Barnwell station yard.
When he entered the MIT office Grace Marshall had already arrived, face made up and smartly dressed looking business-like as usual. He noticed she’d scraped her hair back into a tight bunch, accentuating her high cheekbones and showing off the summer freckles.
Grace acknowledged him with a wide smile and as he sidled up to her he could see she was already adding milk to two cups of tea; one for him.
“We need to talk,” he said quietly.
Her warm burnt umber eyes widened.
“We certainly do,” she responded in quite a formal tone.
Grace’s response momentarily took him aback, and he returned her a quizzical look.
“What was the matter with you yesterday? You reacted as though you’d just been shot when Sue Siddons mentioned the cardigan,” she said stirring in a spoonful of sugar.
Hunter quickly glanced around, just to make sure no one was in earshot.
“I’ll tell you after morning briefing,” he replied, picking up the steaming mug and moving to his desk. He set the cup down and began to sift through the pile of papers and files which had accumulated in his tray over the last few days. He hoped he would be able to focus on their content.
The daily briefing centred on the previous day’s meeting with Susan Siddons, and Hunter recounted the conversation he and Grace had conducted with her. It had given a new dimension to the investigation. They now had a name for the mummified remains, and with this came the task of uncovering Carol Siddons’s past prior to her disappearance all those years ago. It had also thrown up the name of someone who could be considered to be their first major suspect: Steven Paynton, a petty criminal with a hard-man reputation. The police knew that he and his family had terrorised their community for years and many times the cops had met a wall of silence, or court cases had collapsed through fear. True, over the years there had always been enough people willing to tell the police about the family’s criminal activities, but to get those people to be witnesses and give a formal statement had been damn near impossible.
Therefore Steve Paynton had very few convictions. Those he had were petty — mainly for theft and burglary. And he had collected those in his early teens, for which, he had spent several months in a young offender’s institution. More up-to-date police intelligence revealed him as a minor league drug dealer who used violence to settle debts. Susan Siddons had also given some personal insight into his brutality towards her and her daughter, and this was now supported by information from Social Services who had their own personal file on Paynton. A phone call late the previous afternoon from one of the team leaders at Social Services had revealed that one of Paynton’s ex-partners, after numerous beatings, had fled the area just to get away from him.
This had occurred over fifteen years ago, before he had hooked up with Susan Siddons. The paperwork revealed that numerous attempts had been made to persuade the woman to formalise a complaint, but she had point blank refused to speak with the police, choosing instead to change her name and leave her home behind. A member of the team did stay in touch with her for a short time and had helped to re-house her. The last address in Retford, Nottinghamshire, was now five years old and Hunter and Grace were given the job of tracking her down.
Hunter drove the unmarked CID car out of Barnwell Police station following the route towards the A1 for the hour-long journey to Retford. Grace in the passenger seat shuffled uneasily on her seat scanning the file on Steven Paynton.
“Listen to this” she said keeping her eyes on the paperwork, whilst Hunter negotiated the bustling out of town traffic. “He’s a real bastard. Social Services have written loads of notes on this woman we’re going to see. It seems he started to beat her within a month of moving in. He scalded her with hot tea. He beat her with a dog leash, and he even pissed on her when she was asleep. And listen to this, he held a knife several times to her throat and simulated slicing her open. Now that is interesting. It’s making our Mr Paynton seem like a hot prospect in our enquiry. What with this and Sue Siddons’s statement it should give us some lever to hold him long enough to rattle his cage.”
“We don’t know yet if she’ll make a complaint. Don’t forget this was fifteen years ago. She’s got a new identity and a new life now. She probably wants to put all this behind her.”
“I’ll do everything I can to get a statement from her,” said Grace.
Hunter knew that was not an idle threat. Although outwardly Grace came across as being gentle for a detective, from experience he had discovered that there was a sharper and harder edge to Grace, which she could switch on like a light bulb when she needed to. He had personally seen many villains rue the day they had challenged her.
As he swung the car onto the unmarked country lane that led to the trunk road, Hunter knew from the determination in her voice that Grace was on a mission to get Steve Paynton. And he knew that when Grace got something into her head there was no holding her back.
Just before the A1 slip road he pulled the CID car into a lay-by and killed the engine.
“About the other day” he began, and in the next ten minutes he revealed everything from the discussion with Paul Goodright the previous evening. “That’s why I reacted like I did when Sue Siddons mentioned the cardigan. I realised it was the one Paul recovered from the back of the nicked CID car.”
Grace shook her head. “Bloody hell Hunter, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m hoping Paul can come up trumps and find some way of getting that cardigan into the system. If he can it’ll make it easier, but the other problem is Mrs Gardner. At the time she was having her dalliances with Paul she was also seeing someone else — a villain according to Paul, who likewise could have found out about Paul and was trying to stitch him up. As soon as Paul found out he didn’t stick around to find out who that person was. If we can find out that was the case, it’d make things very interesting.”