* * * * *
The Wild’s home had become another murder crime scene. Mrs Wild’s body had been removed on the instructions of the Coroner’s Office and now lay with all the other bodies, in cold storage at the mortuary.
Hunter, Tony Bullars and Mike Sampson, together with forensics had been over every inch of the house, rifling through cupboards and drawers to search out evidence. On the second sweep of the loft area Hunter gave off a shout as he began prising a corner of what looked like a section of wall, but what was in fact painted plywood. He had discovered a false wall covering the chimney breast. He tugged it away from its frame.
“Bloody hell just look at this lot,” he cried, reaching through and pulling out a glass storage jar. It had a label near its base and he turned it around and held it towards the single bulb, which lit up the loft space. The jar was filled with a discoloured liquid and something slopped around inside.
“Frigging hell,” he exclaimed, recoiling, almost dropping the jar. He caught it with his other hand and brought it closer to his eyes. Turning the jar he held it up towards the low wattage bulb to get a better look. He read the labeclass="underline" Claire Fisher’s name was emblazoned across it in bold black ink. Widening his eyes in the dim light he focussed on the contents.
Jerking his head back he thrust the jar towards Mike Sampson.
“Christ Mike is that what I think it is? The sick bastard. The press are going to have a field day when they get hold of this.”
Mike scrutinised the contents and nodded. “It’s a heart. The bastard cut out and stored her heart. And look there’s a couple of more jars behind there as well.”
Hunter handed the jar to Mike and leaned back into the space. He could make out three more lined up on a narrow shelf. Above, on another shelf, he spotted several box files and he took one down and flicked it open. It contained an array of newspaper’s and photos, which he began to read. He recognised some of the faces in the photographs and yellowing newspaper cuttings. Claire Fisher, Rebecca Morris and Carol Siddons were amongst them. Sellotaped to Carol’s photo was The Ace of Hearts playing card: Foxed and discoloured, it showed clear signs of ageing.
She was his first victim, Hunter said to himself. He remembered hers had been the first body that they had found with its heart cut out. And he bet there would be a jar on the shelf with her name upon it.
There were other images of teenage girls that were familiar and he guessed that these would match some of those on the missing from home files back in the office. Filed in date order he speed-read the newspaper story lines of young girls who had disappeared over the last fifteen years. He instantly picked out the ones they had already found murdered. But amongst them were other girls’ names whose bodies hadn’t been found and Hunter knew in his heart that these were in gravesites not too far away waiting to be uncovered.
Inside clear plastic pockets he found photographs. Gabriel had taken shots of the girls after he had killed them. The images were graphic and gruesome. As he took out more files he found in the back of one of them a large scale local map of the Dearne Valley and its surrounding area. At the location of the old Manvers Colliery site were four ringed areas in red ink. As he scanned the map he spotted, circled, the old farm complex near to the village of Harlington, and at the top left hand section another drawn hoop covered a wooded area close to the village of South Elmsall.
Looking at the map Hunter knew that he was looking at the locations where Gabriel had buried his victims and realised that there was further digging to do, especially around the Manvers complex.
Outside Wild’s home the media circus had gathered. The team could hear the Sky Newscopter hovering above. To feed their hunger a description and photograph of Gabriel Wild had already been circulated amongst them and that had been plastered across every news channel the evening before. Numerous sightings had been phoned in and these were currently being followed up.
They had also put out an ‘All Ports Warning’ to prevent Gabriel from leaving the Country.
The search to capture Barnwell’s serial killer was in full flow.
* * * * *
It had been easier to get back to his car than he had anticipated. He slipped on his disguise, of the spectacles and his father’s duffle jacket, which were still in the boot and then scooped out a handful of hair wax from its tin and rubbed it into his hair. He sat in the car for a good ten minutes cursing. Things had come to a head quicker than he had ever anticipated. He would be punished for sure. They’d found the body of his mother before he’d had time to bury her, and sooner or later he knew the detectives would tear apart the house and find all of his little secrets.
A tingling sensation coursed its way through his body as the images of all his victims washed around in his brain. He closed his eyes trying to hold the vision of each one as he recalled what he had done to them.
Their names slowly filtered through. Carol Siddons had been the first. A smile lit up his face. He could still see the surprise on her face as though it was only yesterday. Then there had been Kelly Johnson. She had been a right tart. He’d soon sorted her though. He would never forget the two girls from the children’s home near Doncaster; Amy Clarke and her friend Katie Nichols. He’d met them on Nether Hall Road, a notorious place for prostitutes. He’d been cruising the area when he spotted them.
“Fifty quid for both of us” Amy had said “You’re getting underage you know.”
Those two bitches had chosen themselves.
Though, it had proved difficult killing them. The girls had been edgy the entire journey to the Manvers complex and when he had pulled onto the track behind the coking plant they had tried to escape. Thank god his car had only been two-door; they couldn’t get out of the back.
They had put up a hell of a fight. He had scratches and bite marks everywhere and the car had been a real mess when he had finished. It had taken days of cleaning before he could use his car again. He’d buried those two together in the same grave. And then there was Claire Fisher — posh little rich kid. If only her parents had known what she was really like. He didn’t need to rape her. She had given in to him so easy, but he’d still killed her anyway — gullible bitch. Three years ago there had been Zoe Green. She had been so pretty. He spotted her whilst he was mooching around Clifton Park, in Rotherham. She was walking her dog and had let it off its leash. Luring the dog to the bushes had been so easy and when she had come looking he had pounced. He could still see the shocked look on her face. She had just frozen and he had killed her in less than a minute. Smuggling her body into the boot of his car had been the hard part. He’d waited whilst dusk and then moved her before anyone had come searching. He’d driven home and secreted her behind his garden shed. He’d covered her with bin bags and garden rubbish, and the next day buried her between the hydrangea bushes and the back fence without his mother noticing.
Finally there had been Rebecca Morris. She had been his bad omen. Killing her had proved his downfall, but now wasn’t the time for recriminations. He still had things to do.
Starting the engine he aimed a lengthy look up and down the street, and when he had satisfied himself that no police officers were in sight he set off in the direction of the quiet country lanes, which he knew so well.
Earlier that day it had not been too hard following Grace’s people carrier.
She obviously has other things on her mind.
He smiled to himself as he wove in and out of the traffic, two, and no more than three cars behind. He had picked her up late into the evening leaving the police station and had followed her home. He had been elated that day when Grace had emerged at 8am with her two children. He hadn’t thought about the detective having kids — and they were girls at that.