Hunter decided that no one would benefit by revealing what Kirsty had told Grace. Especially he knew it was something that her parents wouldn’t want to hear at this time.
“That’s something we’ll have to ask her when she comes round.” Hunter stared down at Kirsty’s damaged body. A cold sensation shot down his spine and caused him to shudder.
“When you catch the bastard who did this, I hope you hang him,” Mr Evans snarled.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DAY TWENTY-NINE: 4th August.
The local and national tabloids together with the international press had now joined the hunt for the serial killer. They were crawling all over the district; tramping around every cordoned-off crime scene and laying siege to the District General hospital where Kirsty Evans lay sedated. It had meant bringing in extra uniform resources just to fend off the press. Every witness the police had visited received a follow up call from the media vigilantes. At night locals shared their stories in exchange for pints from journalists. Every hotel and Travel Lodge around Barnwell had been booked up. It was great for the local economy but it wasn’t good for allaying the fears of the community. The hacks were making a thorough nuisance of themselves.
The Major Investigation Team had adopted a siege mentality to all this and only Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw dealt with the daily press conferences.
However amongst the chaos the good thing that had come from the high profile status of the investigation was the drafting in of extra staffing. Hundreds of actions were now being tasked to detectives and there was a real resurgence to the enquiry.
Hunter’s team had processed the fresh exhibits from the serial killer’s latest attack on Kirsty Evans and those were now being ‘fast tracked’ by forensics. The hope was that within days they would have a name for their murderer.
* * * *
He had been to six separate newsagents to collect different editions of papers to read what they were saying about him. It had taken him a whole morning to digest the contents, going back over many of the paragraphs time and time again, picking over the key words, and he was at boiling point.
Speculation about his background and the press’s portrayal of him was making him angrier and angrier. They had continually described him as being pure evil and that the victims in all this were so innocent.
He wanted to scream. The stupid bastards have got it so wrong. It was those girls they should look at and blame for all of this. He was the one ridding society of its evil. After all what had his mother told him repeatedly when he had been so young; that he was the Angel sent by God to deliver his message. And the press were liars as welclass="underline" So much of each article had given detail of how close the police were to catching him.
What a load of rubbish, he said to himself. This drivel isn’t going to help them catch me.
What did worry him though were the paragraphs about his latest attack on Kirsty. Sooner or later she was going to come round and give police a description. Despite the fact he had disguised himself he couldn’t help but think — remembering that strange look on her face when he had spoken to her — that she had registered something about him. He hoped that what he had already done about that would throw the police completely off his scent.
In the past few days he had run the attack through and through in his head. How could he have missed that jogger?
I don’t make mistakes — not like that anyway.
He’d even had to leave his father’s old belt behind on Kirsty’s neck.
How could I have been so stupid? I never make mistakes. That’s why I’ve never been caught.
But on reflection he’d realised why that had happened. He’d panicked when he’d heard that guy shouting and seen him running towards him.
That was twice in short succession now, when for years he’d gone without being disturbed.
Is someone up there trying to tell me something?
Thank goodness the man had stopped to help Kirsty, instead of chasing after him, otherwise he’d more than likely be in prison now.
As soon as he had got out onto the road he had checked himself, told himself that this action could get him caught and so he had changed his pace to a gentle stroll and taken stock of who was around. There had been no one and so he had slipped off his disguise and dropped his coat and glasses inside the boot of his car. He had started the engine and waited; listening for the sound of the police cars and the ambulance, which he knew, would soon be arriving. When he had been satisfied they were going in the opposite direction he had driven slowly away from the parking lay-by.
He took in a deep breath, and composed himself and continued about his business, carefully snipping out the newspaper articles to place in his files; adding them to the other cuttings and to his own personal photographs of the girls; the ones he taken when he sneaked around their homes, and when he had dealt with them. He smoothed a hand over the images.
He still couldn’t believe the thrill he got from tightening the belt around their throats.
Watching the fear in the slags’ eyes as he’d squeezed out their lives.
The same fear he had seen in his mother’s face when his father had done the same.
* * * * *
Catching her image in the hallway mirror as she made her way into the kitchen, she took a long look at herself. Seeing the large number of deep worry lines etched into her face made her realise that the years had not been kind to her. Continuing on, picking up pace, she lugged the wicker basket towards the washing machine and dumped it in front of the open circular door. As she bent down to scoop out the dirty clothing wisps of frizzy grey hair fell across her face. She swept them back over her ears and continued with the chore of separating the colours into piles. “Dark wash, whites,” she mumbled to herself, like she always did when doing the washing. She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of the stained blue and white striped shirt, which had been stuffed to the bottom of the basket. Using only her thumb and forefinger she picked out the shirt slowly, holding it up to the light streaming through the kitchen window. The dark spots and splashes on the cuffs and sleeves were unmistakeable. She had seen them so many times. Automatically she reached for the bottle of stain remover kept below the sink. As she gripped the bottle in front of the shirt, ready to spray, the news bulletin, which had been broadcast that morning, sprang into her mind.
‘A fresh plea for witnesses to an assault on a teenage girl three days ago. Links to the murder of Rebecca Morris.’ The words from the female newscaster were all coming back to her.
The noise of her son shuffling about in his bedroom above disturbed her thoughts and she raised her eyes to the ceiling. They became fixed as though attempting to penetrate the plaster.
At that same moment the vision of her ex-husband surged into her mind. How he’d cursed and berated her over the years. Blaming her for their son’s condition.
“You’ve given birth to a psycho.” she remembered him blasting at her, the stench of chewing tobacco on his breath only inches from her face.
And as he’d grown older her boy had given her as much grief. Saying it was also her fault that his father had left. If he had only known the truth. He’d never seen the beatings, which had been dished out to her. She had always taken great care to hide the bruising. She had always wondered if the damage had been caused when her husband had kicked her in the stomach when she was carrying her boy.
Her neighbour, Jimmy Carson, had caught her crying so many times after arguments and had been the only one to comfort her. She had thought that taking a beating for being caught in bed with him might have been a good thing; might have changed the way her husband had treated her all these years. But it had only made things worse. He had punished her even more by leaving.