Shadow of the Beast

by Michael Fowler

  * * *

  Hunter drove to the construction site at Chapel Meadows. Beside him sat Grace. They had been given the task of liaising with the forensics team who were examining the cellar of Terrence Braithwaite’s old home. Along the journey they’d hardly spoken a dozen words until they pulled up by the entrance and Hunter turned off the engine, then Grace rested her hand on his wrist...

  ‘I’m sorry Hunter. I should have backed you up better than I did.’

  He turned to face her, ready to tear a strip off her but, catching the pleading look in her dark brown eyes, a sudden feeling of guilt overcame him. With a softened tone he answered, ‘Yes you should have.’

  ‘It was just such a shock. I saw him holding his face and the blood and I thought about how he’d goaded us.’

  ‘And you put two-and-two together and came up with five!’

  She gave his wrist a squeeze. ‘I am sorry. Forgive me?’

  ‘I have to admit I am miffed. I know my temper can get the better of me sometimes but I would never do anything which would cause you problems. Cause myself problems yes, but not a colleague.’

  ‘And I know that Hunter. I should have spoken up for you.’ She gave his wrist another gentle squeeze. ‘Friends?’

  He relinquished a smile with a quick nod, ‘Buy me a McFlurry with extra smarties after this and we’re quits.’

  Uplifted she responded, ‘Deal. And I’m glad that’s out of the way. I couldn’t have done with looking at your sullen mug for another minute longer.’ She shouldered him, flashed a wide grin and sprang open her door. ‘Come on let’s see what we’ve got.’

  Hunter nipped the keys out of the ignition and opened his door. He felt the instant drop in temperature. A light cold wind seared his face. He dragged his overcoat off the back seat and started to pull it on as he got out of the car. As he pushed the door to he caught sight of a group of people rushing towards them. Reporters! He spotted Chronicle journalist Zita Davies, her long blonde hair flapping in the wind, heading up the posse. Although he had a good relationship with her he didn’t wish to talk with her right now. He already knew from that morning’s news that the press had speculated correctly as to why they were digging up Braithwaite’s old cellar, and were already liking the enquiry with that of Fred and Rose West. The last thing he needed right now after yesterday’s debacle was to be put on the spot by a bunch of hacks hankering after this afternoons’ headline.

  Darting a quick look at Grace he called, ‘Come on get your skates on,’ and fob-locking the car he put in a burst to the entrance, flashing his warrant card and skipping past the uniformed officer in plenty of time before the press horde got near enough to nab them.

  He could hear the pack hollering after them but Hunter never looked back as he tacked his way to the new crime scene, Grace at his shoulder.

  The short journey was a lot more difficult than either of them had anticipated. The ground was a lot firmer than their last visit, but it was still like trudging through freshly ploughed soil and within thirty seconds Hunter could feel his calves stiffening.

  They stopped by the inner cordon, a necklace of blue and white crime scene tape embraced a large blue tent. The sound of a mechanical digger scooping up rubble came from inside. Standing by the entrance was someone in a full forensic suit, writing on a clipboard. With the hood up of the baggy, shapeless all-in-one, and facemask, Hunter couldn’t make it out if the person was male or female. Hunter called out but never got a reaction. He formed his hands into a megaphone and bellowed. This time it worked. The person lowered their clipboard and slid down their mask. Hunter saw that it was CSM Duncan Wroe. He shouted, ‘Just seeing how it’s going. We’ve been given the liaison job.’

  Duncan stepped towards them, ‘Well you’re going to be hanging around a long time Hunter. We’re only half way into the cellar. The rubble’s impacted.’

  ‘Nothing doing then?’

  ‘We’ve exposed the walls and we’ve found some of the painted symbols that were mentioned, but I can’t see us clearing it out by the end of today. It’s going to be tomorrow before we can start excavating.’

  ‘Well we’ve got nothing else to do today. We might as well hang around just in case.’

  ‘There’s tea and coffee in the temporary incident room if you want to hang around in there.’ The Crime Scene Manager chinned towards the Portakabin Hunter had taken possession of ten days earlier when they had found the first body.

  Hunter turned to Grace, ‘I’m sure I saw a portable telly in there. Come on, it’s ages since I watched daytime TV.’

  * * *

  Hunter was just pulling his car out from a parking spot at Barnwell Police station to head off home for the day when his mobile rang. He braked and picked it off the passenger seat. It was Shaggy. He hit the answer button.

  He hadn’t even answered before Shaggy was demanding, ‘Hunter is that you?’

  Sensing the stress in his voice Hunter replied, ‘What’s up Shaggy?’

  ‘I need to see you urgently.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I don’t want to speak over the phone.’

  ‘Can it wait? I was just about to go home.’

  ‘Not really. I need to see you tonight.’

  Hunter took a deep breath. ‘Okay I’ll be with you in an hour. Same place?’

  ‘Yeah, same place. One hour.’

  Hunter ended the call, scrolled down his contacts and auto-dialed.

  * * *

  On Attercliffe Road Hunter eased off the accelerator and gently squeezed on the brake as he coasted his Audi towards the couple of cars waiting at the stop light by the junction. This was where he turned off the main road. Outside it was raining lightly and the road shimmered with reflective light from cars and street lamps. Hunter started tapping the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for the lights to change. Next to him he gave Barry a quick look. ‘Are you sure you’re okay doing this again?’

  ‘No problem Hunter, we’ll only be a few minutes with him won’t we?’

  ‘I hope so. I wouldn’t have bothered turning out but he sounded really rattled on the phone. If he’s got something I’ll ring the incident room at Ecclesfield and let them deal with it.’

  There was a moments silence and then Barry said, ‘I bet you’re frustrated with what’s gone on with Braithwaite?’

  ‘Frustrated is a fucking understatement.’ He paused and added, ‘You believe what happened don’t you?’

  ‘Course I do. You’re more subtle than smashing someone’s face into the desk.’

  ‘I’m annoyed because I just didn’t see it coming.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have seen that coming. I tell you what though it show’s you had him rattled. Talk about desperate measures call for desperate things. That has all the hallmarks of a guilty man.’

  ‘I’m also a bit frustrated for the team because it means we have to back off until we can get the evidence to bring him in properly’

  ‘We can always abduct him and waterboard him. If it’s good enough for the CIA’

  Hunter let out a laugh and then returned his attention back to the traffic lights. As he did so, a silver Subaru whipped across the junction into the side road Hunter was taking. He tried to get a glimpse inside the car but its speed and the blacked-out windows prevented him and he missed getting the registration number because of the two waiting cars in front.

  He had a bad feeling about this. At this set of lights most cars went towards Sheffield – there was nothing down the road the Subaru was heading except small independent garages and a couple of car dismantlers. The street wasn’t even a short-cut – it came back onto Attercliffe Road.

  Shooting Barry a sideways glance, he caught the concerned look in his colleague’s face, as if he’d read his mind, and gunned the engine, yanking down the steering wheel to overtake the car in front, realising, as he jolted forward, that he’d not left enough room to pull out. He cursed in frustration and beeped the horn to get a reaction. Its brake li
ghts flashed on. Hunter banged the horn again, muttering beneath his breath, ‘Move out of the fucking way.’

  Then the lights changed. The two cars in front pulled sluggishly away, almost as if snubbing him. Hunter lurched forward, his Audi’s wheels spinning and squealing as he bolted through the lights and took a hard left.

  Hunter could feel his heart racing as he stamped hard on the accelerator. The back end snaked momentarily causing the four-wheel-drive to kick in.

  A hundred yards ahead he caught the red flash of brake from the Subaru. A second later it was gone – disappearing from view around a bend.

  Up front, in half-light, Hunter saw someone lying crumpled at the edge of the road, and even though he couldn’t make out any features, Hunter instinctively knew this was Shaggy. Something bad had happened to him! He braked hard and the Audi scythed before dipping to a halt.

  Snapping off his seat belt, he was out of the car before Barry, catching his hip on the front of the bonnet as he dashed to his informant’s aide.

  The blazing headlights of Hunter’s car confirmed it was Shaggy. He lay on his back, his knotted hair fanned out like the snakes on Medusa’s head. His eyes were wide, full of panic.

  In that instance Hunter spotted him clamping his chest with both hands, thick red blood flowed between his fingers. He was taking desperate breaths and moaning. ‘They’ve shot me Hunter,’ he gasped.

  ‘Who did this Shaggy? Was it Jazz or Danny?’

  He opened his mouth again, but all he released was a cough. A cough that spluttered blood. It spurted over his bottom lip onto his chin.

  ‘Hold on Shaggy,’ Hunter cried, ‘We’re getting you some help.’ Back over his shoulder he could hear Barry on the phone yelling for an ambulance and the police. He forced his own hands down over Shaggy’s in an attempt to stem the surge of blood from the wound, but the stream wasn’t stopping. After a couple of seconds Hunter could feel the breathing in Shaggy’s chest getting shallower; he was catching his breath and he knew that, despite the pressure he was bearing down, the life blood was leaving his body.

  ‘Hang on mate.’ He said again. This time he made his call softer – he was aiming to calm him.

  Shaggy issued another cough. More blood liberally left his mouth and he made a gurgling sound. His eyes rolled backwards and then his eyelids slowly shut. He let out a choke and became still. Hunter stared at his face. It was the second time in his career that someone had died in his arms.

  * * *

  Hunter pulled up his hands and stared – there was blood all over them: not only on his hands, but down the front of his shirt and on his trousers. He reached down and tugged off his trousers and dropped them into the evidence bag held in the outstretched hands of the Crime Scene Investigator. As he did so he tried to catch his colleague’s eyes, but the civilian officer, with whom he’d worked beside at numerous crime scenes, shied them away. Hunter knew it was nothing personal – this was the man’s job. After all he was being treated as either a suspect or a significant witness in a killing. He knew that Barry in the next room was suffering the same uncomfortable fate. He felt exposed and vulnerable even though he knew everyone in the room, including the DI from the rubber heel squad standing by the door, gaoler-like, preventing his escape. The DI was looking straight at him – his eyes unwavering. Hunter pulled away his eyes, a guilty breath catching in his throat. He’d been investigated before, but never for anything this bad. For a moment he reflected and thought about Barry in the next room. He’d dragged him into this. This was his fault. He also thought about the next few hours; the grilling the pair of them would be subjected to. Outside he caught a raised voice back along the corridor. Female. Detective Superintendent Dawn Leggate. It sounded as if she was heading towards them and at a fast rate of knots judging by the decibels getting ever louder. This he didn’t need.

  * * *

  In the shower room at the station Hunter rested his forehead against the tiles, letting the warm water cascade over his neck and shoulders and run down his back. The water washed away the dried blood. He watched the red-stained water stream into the shower tray and trickle down the plug. It strangely reminded him of the times when he had cleaned his art palette after finishing a painting. But this wasn’t paint. This was blood. Shaggy’s blood. And he’d got him killed!

  * * *

  An hour and a half later Hunter trudged out of the interview room feeling totally jaded following his grilling by Professional Standards. A DI had led the interview; it was always like that – one rank above – and he’d cut him no slack. The DI exposed every transgression he had made against procedures. He’d messed up good time and he knew it.

  He made his way up to the office where he found Barry sat at his desk. Barry greeted him with a smile but Hunter could tell it was half-hearted.

  Barry said, ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Fucking nightmare! And you?’

  ‘I did my best but they had me on the ropes Hunter. I think it would be fair to say they’ve got us by the short and curlies. They’ve suspended me.’

  ‘Me too.’ Hunter took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry about this Barry.’

  ‘Don’t apologies Hunter. You didn’t make me go – I volunteered remember.’

  Hunter sighed, ‘Still it’s down to me.’

  ‘And it’s not finished there.’

  Hunter threw him a questioning look.

  ‘Ma’am wants to see us before we go.’

  ‘Oh fuck!’

  ‘Oh fuck exactly.’

  Hunter felt scruffy in his T-shirt and joggers as he stood outside Dawn Leggate’s office, but that was the only spare attire he had in his locker following the seizure of his blood splattered clothing. Barry was wearing crumpled jeans and a shirt.

  Dawn’s door was ajar and Hunter rapped softly.

  ‘Enter.’ Dawn called from inside. Her voice sounded brusque.

  Hunter pushed open the door and stepped in, an image flashing inside his head: it reminded him of his first visit to the headmaster’s office at secondary school following his school-playground fight with Simon Drayton. His stomach had knotted then.

  Dawn was sitting behind her large desk, straight-backed in her chair, her face bearing a look that could kill.

  Hunter was about to speak when she said, ‘What the fuck were you two playing at?’

  Hunter thought her Scottish accent made her question sound even harsher. He opened his mouth to answer an apology, but he never got the chance, as she continued, ‘I’d already told you Hunter not to get involved. Instead you go wading into an area where someone has already been shot and killed, wearing no protective body gear, and exposing a vulnerable witness who’s got killed for Christ’s sake. The papers are going to have a field day with this. The pair of you…’ she aimed a finger at both of them, ‘broke every rule in the book. You both know there are rules for dealing with informants, especially in situations like this, and you ignored them. You go steaming in and as a result an innocent man has been killed.’

  ‘But we didn’t go steaming in boss.’ Hunter replied.

  ‘Did I ask you to speak?’ Her finger was now jabbing.

  ‘No boss.’

  ‘Well don’t then, not when I’m fucking talking. I wouldn’t mind but you can’t even get your story right between the pair of you – both of you telling Professional Standards it was each your idea. I don’t know you haven’t got one fucking brain cell between you. And now you’re fucking suspended for God’s sake.’ She lowered her hand. ‘As if I haven’t got enough on my plate. Now get out of my office, both of you, before I say something I’m going to really regret.

  Backing out of Dawn’s office, closing the door behind him, Hunter gazed at Barry. He looked deflated. He said quietly, ‘That was some bollocking.’

  ‘She certainly didn’t pull any punches,’ he whispered gruffly. Setting off down the corridor, he called back, ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a fucking drink.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

&n
bsp; At Bridlington bus station Terrence Braithwaite waited for the bus to York. He had on a baseball cap and kept his chin tucked into his overcoat. He knew that detectives would eventually pick him out on CCTV but he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Once he got off the bus, though, that was where their surveillance of him would end. He had already determined that the preparations he had in hand for the next part of his journey would ensure that he completely disappeared off the police radar. Checking his watch, he saw that he had another ten minutes to wait before the bus departure. He was first in line and a small queue had formed behind him. He didn’t look sideways because he didn’t want anyone to make contact with him – neither eye nor voice. He wanted no one to remember him. The sudden ringing of his mobile made him jump. He knew who this would be because only one person had his number. He took a few steps away from the person behind, dragging his large holdall with him and answered with a soft ‘Hello.’

  ‘Did you see what was on the fucking news?’ The agitated voice rasped.

  In his mind’s eye Terrence could see him hyperventilating, probably in the toilet or the back yard at his workplace. He was always like this when the pressure was on.

  Covering his mobile with his hand, speaking low he said, ‘I told you not to ring unless it’s urgent.’

  ‘It is fucking urgent for God’s sake they’re digging up the cellar. Haven’t you seen?’

  ‘Course I have. Don’t worry it’s me they’re after. They don’t even know about you.’

  ‘It won’t take them long, forensics and all that. They’ll soon put two and two together.’

  ‘No they won’t, they’re cops. We’re smarter than them. We got rid of the evidence remember. It’s still at the cottage isn’t it?’