Hunter tried to scramble to his feet but quickly found himself reeling back against his car as a boot caught him mid-chest knocking the wind from his lungs. The three figures became shadows as a film of tears washed across his eyes, and expecting further blows he pulled his knees into his body. In that same instant, in the distance, he heard raised voices and the running of feet coming towards him. Scuffles broke out around him and as his vision cleared he saw his father and Barry Newstead grappling with his assailants. Feeling instantly buoyed by their presence he took on an inner strength and sprang to his feet.
He dodged another blow from David, twisted and lashed out with a tightly clenched fist. The punch he swung came from the hip and arced into his foe’s head. He knew he had connected well when he felt the crunch of gristle and bone. For a second Hunter stared into a young man’s face that was frenzied and distorted. The eyes were bulging and menacing. Hunter was hurting and he was also mad. Jumping instinctively to boxing stance he let fly again, raining punch after punch upon David Paynton. He could hear the cries and squeals flowing from David’s busted mouth, but he never let up until the man had slumped to the ground. As he pushed himself upright Hunter could see that in spite of his father’s and Barry’s age, neither had forgotten how to channel their aggression nor had they lost their touch. Barry had quickly overcome his foe and was standing over the man Hunter hadn’t recognised. The prostrate man was holding his chest and moaning.
The fate and suffering of Terry Paynton was still ongoing. It was only as Hunter took stock of the situation that he realised Terry was out of it. The only thing that kept him upright was the grip his dad had on the front of Terry’s sweatshirt, yet the viciousness with which his father still pummelled him was unrelenting.
A knot formed in Hunter’s stomach and he lurched forward grabbing hold of his dad’s swinging fist.
“Dad he’s had enough.” He caught his father’s stare and for a split-second he witnessed something in his dad’s eyes, which he had seen on many occasions during drunken street fights he had attended over the years doing his job, but never before seen in his own father. It was the look of sheer hatred and evil.
For a second his father tried to resist his son’s grip.
Hunter clenched his dad’s wrist tighter. “Dad, I said he’s had enough.”
Hunter saw the look in his father change dramatically. His command had registered.
Terry Paynton’s bloodied head was flopping around like a rag dolls.’ He let go of the sweatshirt and there was a sickening thump as Terry’s skull whacked the pavement.
Hunter saw the colour drain from his father’s face as though it had just registered what he had done.
Hunter reached for his mobile.
“What are you doing?” snapped Barry.
“Ringing for an ambulance,” Hunter replied.
“What on earth for?”
“So that we’re covered for the mess they’re in and they can be nicked later.”
“Don’t be so fucking daft. There’s no way they’re going to complain when they started it. If you were them with a reputation to keep up would you admit to be being beaten up by two old men? We’ve given them a bloody good hiding. They’ll lick their wounds and keep their heads down if they’ve any sense. Trust me I used to be a policeman.” A wide grin creased Barry’s face. “Come on there’s a well earned cold beer waiting for us.”
“Do you know I haven’t had so much fun since I gave Tam Watson a good thumping back in nineteen-ninety-one for taking my wee dram,” his father added in his broad Scottish brogue. “I’ve not lost my touch have I son?”
That comment disturbed Hunter.
It continued to play on his mind during the journey to the club. He kept glancing across at his dad who was staring out through the windscreen, eyes fixed daze-like. It was as if he was unmoved by the whole event and yet Hunter had to continually grip the steering wheel to stop himself shaking.
He swung into the club car park, pulled into a space and killed the engine.
“You seem a little quiet son.” His dad was still staring out through the windscreen, the gaze nowhere in particular.
Hunter took a deep breath. The image of his father pummelling Terry Paynton flooded back into his mind. That look in his father’s face. It was as though he was ‘getting off’ hurting the man. His stomach was churning.
“I’ve never seen you like that dad. I thought you were going to kill him.” He wanted to say more but it was his dad he was talking to.
“Nae chance son. He’s made of stronger stuff than that. Anyway the little scumbag deserved what he got. Anyone who goes toe-to-toe with my son goes toe-to-toe with me.”
“But Dad...“
His father held up his hand, giving him the stop sign. “Listen to me now son you need to understand where that came from. I had a hard life in Glasgow. I had to fight for everything I got – literally. I had to learn how to take a punch and come back stronger. That’s all I want to say about it. I don’t want to talk about it again. And I don’t want you saying anything about this to your mother.” Then a smile creased across his face. “Come on, mines a pint of heavy and a wee dram.”
Before Hunter could say anything further his dad was pushing open the passenger door.
* * * * *
Without exception, whenever a group of policemen get together conversation always turns to one thing – the job. Earlier that day whilst working out at the gym it had been a spur of the moment decision for Hunter to take his father to meet Barry and Paul Goodright, especially as he knew what the conversation was going to expose him to. However, having just dished out a good beating to three nefarious characters with the help of his dad and then agreeing to hide the fact with Barry had made him realise it had not been too difficult a call to make.
Hunter shot a glance at his father’s smiling face. He was still disturbed by his dad’s actions and he knew at some stage he would have to discuss the earlier events again with him, though this wasn’t the time or the place.
Barry was on his soapbox and in full flow, chattering excitedly, recounting the fight. He paused as he finished the story, took a swill of beer and wiped the froth and saliva from his hairy upper lip and then leaned forward facing Paul Goodright.
“Now then young Paul, the reason why we’re all here.” He took a sideways glance towards Hunter’s dad. “Jock, we have some quite dodgy business to discuss. Not that we don’t like your company but it might be a good time to get the beers in.” Barry tapped his nose as a signal of secrecy.
Hunter could see the disappointment and yet acceptance on his father’s face as he collected the empty glasses and moved from the table. “Need some help dad?” he felt it necessary to ask.
“No son. You get your business done. It’s okay” his dad replied and winked as he loped off towards the bar.
Barry dragged a bulky supermarket carrier bag from beneath the table, which he had been gripping tightly between his legs. Hunter had seen him tugging it from the boot of the car after they had pulled into the pub car park and had wondered what was in it.
“In my early CID days it was always acknowledged that somewhere along the line you were always going to drop a bollock. Whether it was a small one or a big one was not in question, but how you were going to get out of it was another matter.” Barry began. “So each office had their own contingency plans. Before the days of numbering pocket books or other admin items we kept spares for the inevitable ‘faux pas’ usually in a locked drawer or cupboard. I also had my own spares just for back up.” He dropped the bag onto the table and pulled it open. “Ta dah.” he announced. He slid out its contents just like a poker dealer would do a pack of cards. There were two old Police ‘property other than found’ books, which Hunter and Paul could recall using early on in their careers to record seized items of property which would be required as evidence.
“I forgot I’d kept these, and it’s fortunate for you young Paul that I did. You’ll find one of these bo
oks is from the nineteen eighties and the other, which you will need, is from the nineties. All you have to do is fill out one of the carbon exhibit labels, date it the day you seized that cardigan and put it into the bag with it.”
“Barry, you’re a Godsend,” Paul responded excitedly and then paused. “Just one thing though, how am I going to get it submitted properly as evidence without having to admit I’ve kept it in my locker and then my garage for all these years’. The last thing we need is for some smart arsed barrister to knock it back especially if it has good forensic on it.”
“I don’t know. Have I got to wet-nurse you as well? I’ve even thought of that. These days’ civilian admin staff have taken over the role of looking after property and my guess is none of them will have been around in the nineties when the cardigan was seized. All you have to do is go to the station with the bagged and labelled cardigan inside your coat. Tell one of the admin staff you need to get some property from one of the stores, and when you go into them, pretend to have a rummage amongst the shelves, distract the admin person and Bob’s your uncle, or in this case Barry’s your saviour. When they try to check out the number on the card they’ll just think that the relevant property book has been destroyed after all these years.”
Hunter had sat transfixed throughout this, and now that Barry had finished he leaned back in his seat in reflective mood. On the one hand he knew that what he had been a party to was completely unorthodox, and yet on the other, if this would help catch their killer he knew it was something he could live with.
Then as he slid the books back into the carrier bag Barry glanced at both of them and spoke slowly. What he said was as if he had read Hunter’s mind.
“Something my old Sergeant once said to me when I was a young CID officer and the words remained with me throughout my service. Sometimes we have to use as much trickery as the villains do. You match lie for lie and make sure yours are better than theirs. At the end of the day you’ve got to protect the public and pay back the bad guys. Always remember the pen is mightier than the sword. And one last piece of advice. When you’ve worked them one, don’t get a conscience about it.”
- ooOoo -
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DAY TWENTY-ONE: 26th July
Grace Marshall had arrived early at the tea room, ordered a strong black coffee and sat down as close to the rear of the shop as she could. She was uneasy and experiencing butterflies in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t every day that a possible main witness had links to the police authority, even if it was only through marriage. This was going to be an uncomfortable meeting and needed a delicate approach. Grace had rehearsed over and over in her head what she was going to say and deep down she wished now she hadn’t suggested this to Hunter.
If this goes wrong she thought to herself, and the gaffer got to hear of it I’m going to get a right dressing down. She stared at the glassed front entrance wondering what Mrs Gardner looked like. It was just after ten-thirty am and the world outside the glass was bathed in strong sunlight. For a second she tried to recall the women’s soft tones without a hint of local dialect when she had called her yesterday afternoon. The voice had been very calming, very reassuring, and yet quite concerned about why there was a need to meet in such secrecy.
Whilst she waited for the coffee her eyes strayed around the room. It was the first time she had taken notice of the contemporary décor despite having used this tea room as a place to meet friends on many an occasion whilst out shopping. There were only another couple of people in there; a young mum with a toddler in a buggy and an older woman whom she guessed was the child’s grandmother.
When she had agreed the arrangements over the phone she knew from her previous visits that generally very few people would be in at this time. The other customers were just out of earshot; their conversation was just a muted jumble of words. That also meant they would not be able to overhear her speaking with Karen Gardner.
Five minutes after ordering the waitress appeared with her coffee. Grace thanked her with a smile and picked up the cup, holding it in front of her with both hands and turning her attention back to the entrance. The coffee was stronger and hotter than she had anticipated and caused her to jolt. It also wasn’t the best she had, but it would do; after all she wasn’t here to do a coffee morning.
The door opened with a pinging noise as it caught the bell fastened to the lintel. The slim, attractive, faired-haired woman in a dark, well-tailored suit met her own gaze, smiled, raised a hand and moved towards her.
“Detective Marshall - Grace?” she asked standing before her.
Grace nodded and pointed out a chair opposite. It was a natural reaction, for she knew Mrs Gardner was going to sit anyway.
Within seconds the same young waitress returned, pen poised over a small notepad.
Karen glanced at Grace’s drink. “Another coffee please,” she said softly. “Cappuccino.”
As the waitress walked away Grace leaned forward holding out her hand, carefully clasping the slender hand of Karen Gardner. Grace couldn’t help but spot the well-manicured French-polished nails. “Grace Marshall,” she introduced herself.”
“Karen Gardner,” replied Karen, taking back her hand.
The voice sounded nervous.
“Sorry I was so vague on the phone, but I didn’t want to give too much away.”
“I gathered that,” Karen replied.
Grace saw her swallow hard. She had visually examined Mrs Gardner as soon as she walked through the door and she could instantly see why Paul Goodright had visited her all those years ago. At forty-eight, she was still a very attractive woman and very tastefully made-up and dressed. She guessed she was a woman who could afford to spend lots of time at the gym judging by her slim figure and sunbed tan. Grace waited a few minutes whilst Karen’s coffee order came, making small talk about the weather and asking questions about Mrs Gardner’s fundraising events, hoping to put her more at ease. The cappuccino soon arrived. Grace waited whilst Karen took a sip, and then continued. “Mrs Gardner – do you mind if I call you Karen?”
She saw Karen finish the last dregs of the coffee, set the cup down and indicate with a faint smile and slight nod for her to continue.
“I asked to meet you here away from your home because what I want to talk to you about is a bit sensitive, but I won’t beat about the bush Karen. We’re trying to tie up some loose ends on one of our enquiries, and well basically it’s about an affair you had with a young detective, Paul Goodright, a good few years’ back.”
“Oh God is that all this is. I’ve been fretting ever since you called. I thought it was something more sinister.” She started to laugh. “It wasn’t an affair, we just went to bed together a few times.”
The response surprised Grace, but at the same time she knew from the reply this was now going to be easier than she had expected.
“How is Paul? He must be early thirties now. Is he married? Kids?” Karen Gardner was now firing off her own questions.
Grace responded with a series of nods.
“Please don’t beat about the bush any more, as you put it. About five years ago my husband discovered I was seeing someone, not Paul, another guy, and he confronted me about it. I never denied it. I told him a few home truths about all the meetings he went to, leaving me alone at night only to be wheeled out and be the dutiful wife when he needed me at his do or other. We had a big clear the air session, and to be honest it was well overdue. I suppose I was a little wild in my late twenties, early thirties. I saw a few guys, just for the attention which I wasn’t getting from my marriage, but for the last five years I’ve been the faithful councillor’s wife.” Grace saw her pause for a second glancing towards her. “I can see by your expression you’re surprised at how forthright I’m being.”
“I am a little taken aback,” replied Grace. She took another sip of her cappuccino. It was cold now, and she set it back down on the saucer.
“Look, as I say we sorted our marriage out. Oh by
the way I only confessed to the one, he doesn’t know about the other couple, which includes Paul. My husband forgave me and its all water under the bridge now. Jerry’s not daft. He’s a politician at heart and he still sees me as his bit of ‘eye candy’ I think the term is. I’m by his side when he needs me, flutter my eyelids and say all the right things to his colleagues, and he allows me my freedom to shop and meet my friends down at the gym, and get my beauty treatments; it’s a happy compromise.” Mrs Gardner broke off, signalled to the waitress and ordered two more coffees, and then continued. “Now I’ve bared my soul officer Marshall can you give me a clue what this is about. The investigation?”
“Well it might not actually have anything to do with our investigation, but as I’ve said, it is a loose end that we need to tie up. I want you to try and cast your mind back to nineteen-ninety-three when you were seeing Paul.”
“Good God. I can’t remember what I did last week without my diary.”
“I think you might remember this Karen, he had the CID car stolen whilst he was with you one evening.”
“Oh yes I do remember that,” she started to laugh. “He was in a right flap. I was laughing when he came back and told me what had happened and he had to make the call back to his office. He told me it wasn’t funny. He said he had to come up with a story to cover up being with me. I wasn’t very helpful to him I’m afraid. I couldn’t take it seriously and to be honest that signalled the end of our short relationship.” Karen Gardner paused again and Grace saw her looking towards the waitress as the girl returned with the second order and cleared away their cups.
After she had gone Mrs Gardner continued. “Wasn’t the CID car involved in some kind of serious accident with another car; ran it off the road or something?” Karen stopped for a second, gazed up at the ceiling and tapped her chin. “Yes, that was it,” she continued, and Grace fixed eyes with her again. “I’m sure Paul told me that his sister and her boyfriend had been in the other car and that she had been seriously injured and her boyfriend had been killed. I think he also mentioned there was some kind of internal enquiry and if I was ever interviewed about Paul being with me I was to deny everything. That’s when he also told me he mustn’t see me again until things died down. But he never did get in touch again.” Mrs Gardner picked up her cup, took a sip, set it back down again. “Is that what this is about? Have you found out who took the car?”
Heart of the Demon (D.S.Hunter Kerr) Page 13
