Hunter noticed that the girl was wearing heavy make-up and the pose of Kelly appeared more confident than the photos they had of the other girls. This shot was more professional altogether.
Grace took the photograph from the DS’s fingers, angling it slightly towards herself. “This is an unusual photo. Was it taken in a studio?”
“It was actually,” Glen replied. “Kelly had just been taken on by a modelling company. She was doing shoots for catalogues. That photo came from her portfolio. As you can see Kelly was a very pretty girl, looked a lot older than her thirteen years, and because of that she attracted a lot older type of boy. It caused a bit of friction with her dad.”
“What was she like as a person?” Grace continued.
“Well until she got the modelling contract just a normal teenage girl, but the six months leading up to her death her parents and her friends said her personality changed. She began to hang out with older teenagers. Putting jealousy to one side her closest friends painted a picture of a girl who suddenly got very cocky and arrogant and who began picking on girls who she considered less attractive than herself, humiliating them and even bullying a couple of them. She began wagging school and we found out she’d been meeting up with a couple of lads, sixteen and seventeen. We questioned them on several occasions and both eventually admitted they had had sex with her, but they insisted she had told them she was herself sixteen. What they did have however was unbreakable alibis on the day she was murdered. They were at work, witnessed by dozens of their co-workers.”
He took back the picture and viewed it himself.
She’d begun drinking as well; cider; and heavily. She rolled in drunk on several occasions and had bust-ups with her parents. She’d also been warned by the modelling agency about her attitude.”
“A girl with everything, pressing the self-destruction button,” said Hunter. “How many times have we seen that?”
“These characteristics you are describing identically match our victims. All the girls seemed to have been going through a real chaotic phase in their lives leading up to their deaths,” added Grace.
“In a short space of time Kelly changed from a naive young girl into a real wild child.”
“What happened on the day she was murdered?” asked Grace
“She’d come home from school.” Glen paused. “This was one of the rare occasions in recent times she had actually attended. She was on a final warning from the modelling agency. A clean up your act or your finished ultimatum,” he continued. “Anyway she got changed and told her mother she was meeting a couple of friends and would be back for her tea.”
He picked up some typewritten notes turned a couple of the pages over and then continued reading from one of the sheets.
“At four forty-five pm on the second of August nineteen ninety six Mr William Burridge was in woods at South Elmsall,” he glanced up, “Billy was known as a bit of a peeping-tom in the village. He did admit under questioning that he used to visit the woods on a regular occasion because they were well known as a rendezvous point for courting couples.” He returned his gaze back to the notes. “He heard a girl screaming. He could tell from its tone that it was someone in trouble and ran towards the sound and began shouting as he got closer. He described seeing a young man wearing a dark T-shirt and jeans running with a small wiry-haired dog before he disappeared amongst the trees.” The DS looked up from his notes again. “He got a glimpse of his face, just for a split-second glance, but it was enough for him to do an e-fit picture for us.”
He continued. “Then Billy found Kelly amongst some long grass. She had been strangled by a belt of some type and she had been stabbed. In fact when the post-mortem was done the pathologist stated that the killer had made some attempt to cut out her heart.”
Hunter and Grace exchanged looks.
Glen Deakin ran his fingers down the typewritten script. “Uniform were first on scene. A dog man did a follow through the woods, and some farmer’s fields, which led towards the village of Great Houghton, in your area. He lost the track there unfortunately.” He set down the papers. “And that’s where I came in. I was part of the team, which did enquiries in your area. We joined up with a few of your detectives and did house to house. We circulated the e-fit and got an anonymous tip-off, which pointed us in the direction of Gabriel Wild. I knew as soon as I started interviewing him that something was not right. He was so nervous and cagey. We found there had been a bonfire in the back garden, some clothing and what looked like a pair of trainers had been burned, but it was four days after the murder and everything was just ashes. His mother totally covered for him. Said he was with her in the house at the time of the murder. Gabriel hardly said anything in interview and we couldn’t knock what his mother said. She stood firm even though we threatened her with perverting the course of justice.”
The DS’s mouth set tight. “Gabriel remained and still remains our strongest suspect for Kelly Johnson’s murder.”
“Just one question,” said Hunter, “Did you find a playing card with Kelly’s body?”
The enquiry caught Glen in his tracks.
“Do you know that rings a bell.” He flicked through the mounds of paper and dragged out several stapled sheets. Sliding a finger slowly down the typeface he stopped halfway down the second sheet and averted his eyes to Hunter then Grace. “Yes, it’s here, on the exhibits list from the scene, a playing card found in Kelly’s left hand. It was photographed in situ; the Two of Hearts.”
“Kelly Johnson was his second victim,” rasped Hunter.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
DAY THIRTY-FOUR: 9th August.
The back door of the Wild's semi-detached, the original wood and glass one, from the early fifties when the house was built, lay in pieces. It had initially resisted the Task Force Firearms Team battering ram, but on the third ‘run’ the oak door had exploded from its frame in spectacular fashion. Splinters of wood and shards of glass had flown everywhere.
“Clear.” one of the Kevlar-armoured firearms officers shouted as he swept the last remaining room on the ground floor and moved deftly on towards the stairwell.
Hunter and his team shared an air of nervous excitement as they stood outside, waiting and listening for their signal to enter. An earlier clear blue sky had given way to a slight drizzle and despite it still being the last dregs of summer the air seemed dense with cold moisture.
Set out in front of them was a meticulously tidy garden. Neatly trimmed hedges and tall bushes surrounded a newly mown lawn.
Hunter strained his ears following the sounds of the searching firearms team. They were currently moving rapidly through the upper rooms. Even though he was anticipating it, when the call for them to enter came it made him jump. Hunter went in first. He noticed that despite the daylight the lights were on in every downstairs room. A television was on somewhere in the lounge to his left; even though it was soundless he could see the flicker of blurred images against the dark patterned wallpaper. He bounded up the threadbare carpeted stairs quickly followed by Grace, Tony and Mike. On the landing he was surprised to be met by Paul Goodright, garbed head to toe in standard protective Task Force clothing with a Heckler and Kock rifle strapped across his chest. It had slipped his mind that Paul was part of the Firearms team. It was the first time he had seen him in uniform. He looked a quite a commanding presence.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Hunter greeted him.
Paul’s features were set grim. “The target’s not here Hunter and you’re not going to like what we’ve just found.” He pointed towards the front of the house.
Hunter pushed the bedroom door fully open and the four MIT detectives trooped in. The room was gloomy. A single shaft of light pierced the dimness. One of the windows was open and the velvet curtains were lifting in the breeze. In the dullness he picked out the sheet-covered mound on the bed. Using thumb and index figure he carefully lifted the top edge of the white linen cover to reveal the figure of an ageing woman curled up in the foetal position. A gut-wrenching smell emanated from the body and he held his breath as he bent over the corpse. Lividity was rampant throughout her torso. A clear sign she had been dead for some days. Looking into her wide staring eyes he knew that the blood-shot effect meant that the blood vessels had blown, usually the result of strangulation. It was a feature in all the murders they had been investigating. A grotesquely swollen tongue had forced its way between her lips, filling the entranceway to her mouth.