Struggling to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, he moved further into the road but still only saw the back of the man’s beanie.
‘Scott?’ he breathed, recognition dawning. His shoulders and arms stiffened and his chest filled air. He stood planted to the spot as he watched their interaction.
Amy leant forward, giving Scott a lasting hug.
‘Bitch,’ he snarled. She had it coming to her.
He drew a sharp breath, his surroundings came back into focus – he was exposed, and he darted back to his seat.
It was too late. The other car was gone and so was Amy.
He noticed the time: 19:53, and sat motionless, gaping ahead at the now empty bus stop.
Several minutes went by, and then he caught his eyes in the rear view mirror. ‘You fucked that right up.’
Chapter 3
Detective Constable Andrew Deans was sitting despondently at his desk. From his second floor vantage point, he had a clear view of the people below going about their daily routines, most of them leading normal lives in comparison to his own. He sucked in deeply and expelled a long, coffee-fuelled breath as he watched with envy the public below. Tuesday afternoon, and this was his third day of six on duty, his morning confined in the small and overcrowded custody unit helping his colleague, Daisy Harper, interview a smug maggot of a man, arrested for stealing a large quantity of cash from his employer. Hours had wasted away as they waited for the solicitor to conduct his consultation, only to receive a half-page, barely legible, prepared statement at interview.
Few things bothered Deans much, but lingering around a stuffy, fluorescent-lit dungeon was certainly high up on the list, particularly as it was a beautiful day and especially as the brief was Johnson.
Deans secretly hoped that Johnson would one day become the unwitting victim of one of his own clients. Nothing serious, of course. Maybe a shed break-in or sat-nav theft from his car, but enough. Enough to see if Johnson would come bleating to the cops for help. Deans bet Johnson would rather suffer in silence than seek the help of his colleagues.
It was now three forty p.m. and the day had started at eight. There was an hour and a quarter to go before he could head off home, and it could not come soon enough. Harper had already gone for the day; had some family commitment or something. She had three kids to juggle as well as the job. They had been the only two detectives on duty that morning, but the skipper, who was himself enjoying some time off, had granted Harper the leave in advance. Now, Deans was solo in the office.
‘Great,’ he muttered under his breath as he continued to stare wistfully out of the window, considering whether to make his thirteenth coffee of the day.
DC Young from the late shift had been expected in at three but was commencing a crown court trial in the morning, so was pretty much written off from any meaty jobs that might arise. Deans was acutely aware that as it stood he was all that was left of the CID cover that day. The radio just had to stay ‘Q’ for a short while longer and then he could be at home with his wife and maybe even enjoy some fading autumn sunshine. He had learnt very early into his career never to use the word ‘quiet’ while on duty. Not only would his colleagues berate him, but it also had a nasty propensity of dishing up quite the opposite.
He sighed and flicked back through the recent pages of his blue A4 daybook – indispensable CID issue. No self-respecting detective could be without one. Those hard-backed matt covers safeguarded every investigative scribble. He had been working on a dubious robbery report from the early hours of yesterday; a young male victim, walking home at gone two a.m., alleging that he was followed by hooded kids on push-bikes who surrounded him, pushed him to the ground, produced a flick knife and stole his mobile phone and ‘probably about eighty pounds cash’. ‘Probably’ was never a good starting point and even more of a challenge with a hammered victim, unable to recall any significant detail about the offence, or the offenders.
Deans had already re-interviewed the complainant, sussing him out, testing his account, and four DVDs from the Council CCTV system were still sitting in his pending tray. No matter how many times he had tried to avoid noticing them, they were not going away.
CCTV was potluck, and sometimes a thankless task. Deans already had a slightly defeated mindset, and suspected the student had lost his phone whilst on the piss and been told by the phone company to get a crime number before they would offer a replacement. The eighty pounds would be mere embellishment.
He eventually mustered a degree of motivation with the aid of another strong brew and began reviewing the first disk, but it was not long before his eyes started feeling heavy with the lack of action from the computer screen.
DC Young sauntered into the office wearing civvies and humming along to headphones.
‘Dress down day?’ Deans said, looking Young up and down.
‘I’m at court tomorrow,’ Young replied, as he scoured the office. ‘Something going on, Deano?’
‘No. I’m it.’
‘Who else is on lates?’ Young asked more attentively.
‘You’re it.’ Deans smiled and turned back to his computer screen that was still showing dark and grainy images of a faraway park. Reflected in his monitor Young was pleading silently; arms out at his side.
With only a short time to go before his shift was due to end, Deans checked the log of ongoing calls for anything requiring CID attention. Though sixteen outstanding jobs showed nothing obvious to be concerned about, one made him take a second look. Medium Risk MISPER, LOG-0505.
CID did not normally deal with missing persons unless someone with pips on their shoulders deemed they were high risk. Deans knew that with a starting point of medium risk, this particular job had potential to ascend the stairs to the suits and so he read on.
Third party informant is reporting a missing housemate. MISPER – Amy Poole last seen on Friday afternoon. MISPER has not returned home over the weekend and has not attended lectures this week. Informant has spoken to MISPER’S boyfriend who has not had contact with her since Friday. Alternative telephone numbers are unknown.
The log now had Deans’ full attention and he continued reading.
MISPER is a 20-year-old female student of Minerva University, Bath, living in privately rented accommodation. MISPER last seen with boyfriend, Carl Groves, on Friday 3rd October after final lectures. MISPER not answering calls texts or social media.
A lacklustre voice from behind interrupted Deans’ concentration.
‘Anything I need to know about, Deano?’
‘Not really. There’s a medium risk MISPER – female student – probably one to keep an eye on.’
‘Oh great, not another bird shacked up somewhere? She’ll return once she’s had enough.’
It was not unusual for MISPERs to return of their own accord but the problem with them, especially when they were higher risk, was that they absorbed significant resources and time. Considering there were any number of MISPER logs every day, and this was the third that Deans knew of during his shift alone, only occasionally did one come along that grabbed the attention, and this was a case in point.
‘It seems a little strange to me,’ Deans said.
‘Well, it’s medium risk. Leave it for the woodentops to deal with.’ Young was always so complimentary about his uniformed colleagues.
Deans chortled and grabbed his bag. ‘I’m out of here,’ he said, tapping Young’s desk with his knuckle as he passed. ‘Have a good one.’
‘Remember I can’t get involved in anything, I’ve got court tomorrow.’
Deans did not reply. His stint was over.
Walking home, Deans continued to think about the MISPER log, and it bothered him. Friday afternoon to Tuesday lunchtime was a significant period with no contact. The boyfriend must have heard from Amy Poole at some point, some other family member, or a friend. But he knew the job would probably be waiting for him next day, along with God knows what else, so he continued his journey home and did not give it another tho
ught that night.
Chapter 4
Wednesday lunchtime and Deans was at home with his wife, Maria. She had been off sick from work since Monday. He was making her beans on toast, which was all she fancied. He made himself the same but double the amount. He was starting late-turn that day and wanted to know he had some food inside him just in case he did not get another chance to eat.
Despite Maria feeling unwell, they had at least spent some unexpected time together although she was not particularly forthcoming.
They were enduring an anxious time. No one else knew other than close family; no one else needed to know – yet. It was taking a toll, especially on Maria. For Deans it was slightly different. It was not diminished ownership, perhaps less self-imposed responsibility. They were both aware of the stats: twenty-five to thirty per cent, the experts had quoted. Not great odds if you were putting money down, but more than a glimmer of hope to cling onto if you dreamed of becoming a parent. Work was his coping mechanism, his fleeting release from the anguish. Maria had a part-time hairdressing job with her best friend from school days, who had two children herself. Deans did not think Maria resented the fact he could escape, but it certainly did not help that he was often at work when she was at her most fertile. The three a.m. attempts to conceive off the back of a long shift because Maria was ovulating, were anything but romantic.
He left the house having cocooned Maria within a duvet in front of the TV and a boxed set of Sex and the City and walked his usual route to work.
Bath was shaped like a bowl, with the majority of action taking place at the heart. He likened it to the crater of a volcano, not only in appearance but also for its quiescent energy with undertones of irrepressible ferocity. He had lived in Bath all his life, and becoming a cop had tainted his image, but not his love for his home.
He arrived at the office well before his shift was due to begin. The team on days were sitting around their desks, faces glued to their screens.
‘Hey, guys, how’s it going?’ Deans said as he walked past them towards his own desk. He fired up the computer and tried the room again. ‘All right, guys? How’s it been?’
‘Busy,’ DC Saunders replied, still looking at his screen.
‘Anything to hand over?’ Deans asked.
‘Need to speak with you about that MISPER from the weekend, Deano,’ DS Boyle, the day shift skipper said. ‘No problems. Uniform have disowned it and I see you were on duty when the job first came in.’
‘MISPER?’ Deans hesitated; he had been dealing with the robbery. ‘Are we talking about the student?’
‘You’ve got it,’ Boyle replied. ‘Grab yourself a brew and come on over.’
‘Not sure what I can offer,’ Deans said. ‘CID didn’t have any involvement. She was medium risk.’
‘Not any more, Deano,’ Boyle said dejectedly. ‘High risk and we’re all tucked up.’
Deans looked at Boyle’s team, each of them avoiding eye contact. It was their first day on duty from rest days – how could they all be unavailable already?
Boyle handed Deans a wad of papers. The top sheet was a contemporaneous transcript of the 999 call, showing the timings, caller details and all subsequent police enquiries – the STORM LOG; the starting point of most investigations. And this one had been the five hundred and fifth call of that day. When Deans first saw this log there were only several lines of information. Now it was four A4 pages long.
‘We need a detective on this now, Deano,’ Boyle said. ‘Uniform have done everything they can but this needs a comprehensive investigation.’ He clutched Deans’ shoulder and leant in. ‘The Boss is starting to kick up about this at prayers. We need progress and we need it pronto.’
Deans sighed, and looked over at the case files on his desk stacked like a game of Jenga. ‘Yeah, no worries. Last I heard, she hadn’t returned to her digs after the weekend. Surely someone’s had contact with her by now?’
‘Not according to uniform,’ Boyle replied. ‘It seems no one knows where the girl is. Can you or someone from your team get back onto the housemate, Jessica Morrison, and track down the boyfriend? Somebody must know something. Pin them down to specifics. Oh, and we need contact with the family, ASAP, compliments of the boss.’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ Deans nodded half-heartedly, and shuffled over to his desk to review the enquiries.
PC Wilder of Team 1 had spoken to Jessica Morrison by phone yesterday. She still had not heard from Amy. Deans scanned the rest of the bundle and was disappointed to see telecoms and banking enquiries had not been arranged. Historic cell-site activity could at least show the phone’s location at a given time, and similarly with cash withdrawals, and that would have made for a useful starting point. A Police National Computer (PNC) report showed the boyfriend, Carl Groves, had received a caution back in the summer for a public order offence in the city centre. The officer in the case was PC Hill, a foot patrol officer whose arrest rate was significantly higher than the rest of his team, or the station, come to that. The bosses loved him for it and he regularly received performance awards. The reality however, was that Hill was an average officer who had an unbelievable knack for getting under the skin of the late-night revellers. Those stupid enough to engage or argue got nicked. Hill was like a Venus fly trap, indiscriminate and uncompromising, and Deans imagined Carl Groves had flown just too close for his own good.
He noted with interest that Amy’s family were from Hemingsford. He had been to Cornwall with Maria several times but was less familiar with North Devon. He hunted for the contact details and punched the home number into the desk phone. Being a Wednesday afternoon he did not know whether to expect an answer or not, but the skipper had said the call needed making, and so be it. Deans understood this contact was important and potentially difficult. It had been several days since Amy went missing, with no significant progress. That was unsatisfactory from an investigative perspective, but nothing compared to the anguish her parents must be feeling.
He failed to gain a response from the landline; however, a mature-sounding woman with a soft, warm voice answered the mobile number.
‘Hello. Mrs Poole?’ Deans asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Hello, my name is DC Deans. I’m calling from Falcon Road CID in Bath. I just wanted to make contact with you and introduce myself.’
There was a silence for a few moments, and then Mrs Poole replied, ‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to pass you my direct contact details and let you know that I’m the officer in the case for Amy’s disappearance.’
There was a longer silence.
‘Hello?’ Deans said again, but heard nothing. He pressed on. ‘I’ve only been allocated the job today, but I can assure you that I’ll do all I can to find your daughter, Mrs Poole.’ He stopped talking and waited for some sort of response. It was unusual in these circumstances to be having a one-way conversation, but then again, he would usually be visiting the family in their home. He pressed the phone tightly to his ear and then the magnitude of his error struck him: Mrs Poole didn’t know.
‘Mrs Poole,’ Deans said quickly. ‘Mrs Poole, are you okay?’
Instead of an answer, Deans heard heartbreak and pain. He flicked through the handover papers to the STORM LOG and immediately saw what he had missed. NOK have not been informed.
A surge of blood rushed to his head, his cheeks flushed, and he fought in his mind to construct the right words to rectify his balls-up.
‘Mrs Poole, I’m very sorry. It was my belief that you’d already been informed. I’m terribly sorry to have given you the news in this way.’
He stopped, but heard nothing.
‘We received a report on Tuesday from one of Amy’s housemates that she was missing. It’s suggested that Amy hasn’t been answering her phone or social media. Have you had any contact with her since the weekend, Mrs Poole?’
A shadowy sound of gasping breath was all he could hear in the earpiece.
‘Okay, Mrs Poole,’ he said softly. �
��I’ll take it you’ve had none.’ He paused, heard snivelling. ‘Do you have someone else there with you at the moment, Mrs Poole?’
‘Y-yes. My hus-husband… and… s-sister.’
‘I’m glad you’re not alone. Would it be possible to speak to either of them, please?’
The line went quiet for a moment. ‘Who is this?’ a male voice boomed.
‘Hello, sir. My name is Detective Constable Andrew Deans of Falcon Road CID in Bath. Am I speaking with Mr Poole?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sincerely sorry to have upset your wife, Mr Poole. I’m afraid I have some difficult news to pass to you. Your daughter, Amy, has been reported missing by a university housemate.’
‘What? When?’ he barked.
‘She apparently hasn’t attended any lectures so far this week, sir.’
‘What? Why didn’t someone tell us this before?’
‘Please accept my apology for that, Mr Poole. I’ve only been allocated this case today and it was my impression that family would’ve been contacted from the outset. I will look into that for you, and I’ll be making my own complaint to my supervisor.’
‘I don’t give a shit about your supervisor. Where’s my daughter – is she alright?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that right now, but I’ll ensure we’ll do all we can to find your daughter, sir.’
‘What about her AEDs? Has she got them with her?’
‘I’m sorry, her AEDs?’
‘Her medication. She is epileptic. Does she have them with her?’
Deans bunched his eyes and threw his head backwards. The stakes had just risen.
‘I didn’t know,’ he replied gingerly. ‘Her friends didn’t mention anything to—’
‘Amy doesn’t broadcast her affliction. She’s very private about it.’
Deans did not know much about epilepsy and had to think on his feet.
‘How often does Amy take her medication?’ he asked.
The Detective Deans Mystery Collection Page 2
