The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  The office was empty. The clock on the wall showed 9:10 p.m. A Post-it on his computer screen informed him of two missed calls from Janet Poole.

  He took a deep breath, held the phone to his ear and dialled the number.

  ‘Hello,’ she answered after the first ring.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Poole?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied hurriedly.

  ‘Mrs Poole, this is DC Deans. I am very sorry for the lateness of the call. Is it convenient to speak?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have some news?’ Her voice was brittle.

  ‘No… I’m afraid there’s no update. I’m sorry I missed your calls. Was there something specific I can help—’

  ‘Have you spoken to Scotty?’

  ‘Scotty?’

  ‘Amy was meeting Scotty on Saturday night.’

  Deans sat upright. ‘No. Who is Scotty?’

  ‘Amy’s best friend.’

  ‘Do you know where they were meeting?’ he said, turning over a fresh page.

  ‘Um, Torworthy, I assume.’

  Deans scribbled Torworthy in his daybook.

  ‘And Scotty’s last name, please?’

  ‘Parsons. Scott Parsons.’

  Deans wrote the name in capitals further down the page and circled it several times.

  ‘And his address?’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know. He moved, but is still in the area.’

  ‘Phone number?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Deans circled his name a few more times.

  ‘Can you think of anyone else who may know his address or contact number?’

  ‘Sorry.’ There was a pause.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Poole. There are other ways I can find out.’

  She did not answer.

  ‘Am I right in thinking Amy drives a yellow VW Beetle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you happen to know the registration number?’

  ‘Oh, gosh! Um… I’m sure I could have it for you tomorrow.’

  Deans hoped he could short cut the process by striking lucky on the Intel database.

  ‘Would you happen to know if Amy’s car is still parked at the house?’

  ‘Oh, no, it wouldn’t be at the house as we only have a small driveway. Amy usually parks on the road at the front.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Poole. I’m unfamiliar with the area. If I requested a local officer to attend that road, do you think Amy’s car would be easy to locate?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Parking is only allowed on one side because the road is so narrow.’

  Deans’ mind drifted and he imagined Amy’s Beetle neatly parked beside a slim pavement in front of a row of semi-detached houses.

  Amy’s car might present a forensic Nirvana: traces of blood, semen or other bodily fluids. Maybe signs of a struggle or fight. Foreign fibres of clothing. Even a body in the boot, although that would be unlikely – the local critters would be paying more than a passing interest after this number of days.

  ‘Do you know if there are any spare car keys at the house?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, but Amy would normally hang her keys from the hook in the hallway.’

  Deans nodded knowingly. That was standard practice for people inexperienced at home security. He had lost count of the number of burglaries he had attended over the years that also involved the vehicles being taken because the keys were readily available.

  ‘Okay, Mrs Poole, I think I’ve troubled you enough for tonight. Thank you for your help. Would you mind if I contact you again in the morning, please?’

  ‘No. That is absolutely fine. We’re returning home very early tomorrow morning, but you can still contact me in the night if you hear anything.’

  ‘I’m very grateful.’ He paused. ‘Have you managed to get any rest yourself, Mrs Poole?’

  ‘Oh, I shall probably fall asleep at some point later. It will no doubt sound rather silly to you, but I don’t want to sleep, in case Amy tries to call me. I wouldn’t want to miss her.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound silly at all. I understand.’

  Deans pictured Mrs Poole waiting beside the phone, longing for it to ring. It would be a scene of utter torture.

  ‘Well, goodnight, Mrs Poole.’

  ‘Goodnight. And thank you for everything you’re doing to find my little girl.’

  ‘You are most welcome, Mrs Poole. Take care.’

  Deans replaced the receiver gently, kept his hand on the phone and stared right through it.

  He blinked and broke away. Despite the late hour, Deans made a coffee. He did not need caffeine. It was part of working long and late shifts.

  He pulled on a pair of blue vinyl gloves and removed Amy’s diary from the forensic bag. He was being cautious – could not afford any cross-contamination if this exhibit was required for analysis at some point in the future.

  The diary was the current year, too large for a pocket, but just right for a handbag. He took a long gulp from his mug and stared at the plain purple cover before opening it up.

  Seeking out the current date, he flicked the pages back to the week Amy disappeared. He was in luck – there were entries. Friday showed M&D with an arrow passing through Saturday and into Sunday – Mum and Dad, presumably. Saturday also showed Scotty.

  He made a note and looked at the other entries. Wednesday showed Carl Rugby and there were other references to university, he guessed. Deans continued looking backwards through the pages; more references to Carl, and another that puzzled him; DM, shown several times that month, the most recent being Saturday 27th of September, between two and three p.m.

  He pondered the initials as he emptied his mug, and followed the DM trail back to the middle of summer where it appeared to start. He checked his notes. There had been eleven DMs – mostly, but not exclusively at weekends.

  ‘DM,’ Deans breathed.

  There were two impending DMs, one next Saturday, and the Saturday after. He chewed his lip and glanced at the clock.

  ‘Shit,’ he shouted. He had not realised the time, and he had not contacted his wife to say he would be home late. He hoped she would understand, and understand again tomorrow.

  Chapter 9

  Amy had the best of both worlds. She was a student living away from home, enjoying the independence that brought, but also close enough to be able to drive home and back in a weekend. So many of her university friends were less fortunate.

  She had called Mum the previous Wednesday night for their usual midweek catch-up and mentioned that she would be down again at the weekend.

  The North Devon coastline had been a fantastic place for a child’s upbringing. Some of Amy’s friends found it all a bit too boring, but from a young age, she had taken advantage of the environment and had become a competent surfer. It was during those early teen years that she first became close to Scotty. He was the same age and lived nearby. They would meet up most days, and more often than not, would end up on the beach. The more time they spent in each other’s company, the more they wanted to be together, and it was not long before their friendship grew into a closer bond that developed further with age and intimacy. By the time they were young adults they both expressed openly their love for each other.

  Unfortunately, the bubble of young love burst for Scotty when Amy received her placement at university. Even before the first academic year was over, Scotty said that he could not continue the relationship while she was away from him. Amy was devastated, but he maintained it was the only way to manage his emptiness.

  As a result, Amy deliberately limited her home visits during that first year, which hurt her more than she was willing to express. She wanted to see more of Mum and Dad. She wanted to see more of Scotty but had to accept and understand his pain, but she was bitter. After all, the relationship was not just about him.

  Over the recent summer break, Amy had forged reconciliation with Scotty, and they had spent good time together. Amy still loved him, and their regenerated harmony provided her with inne
r warmth that had been missing for too long.

  Three weeks before her return to university, Amy invited Scotty to the house. It was time he knew about Carl.

  Mum and Dad were downstairs when Scotty arrived. Amy had been in her room, enacting the scene, preparing her lines.

  ‘Amy. Scotty’s here,’ Mum shouted up the stairs.

  ‘Okay.’ Amy swept her hair back and tied it with a band. ‘Oh God,’ she mumbled as his footsteps clunked louder on the wooden steps. She smoothed down her clothing and waited for the door to open.

  ‘Ames?’ Scotty said from behind the door.

  Amy drew breath as the door opened inwards and the moment she saw Scotty she thrust herself into his arms, almost knocking a frothing beer bottle from his hand.

  ‘What’s up with you tonight?’ he asked.

  Amy squeezed a little tighter.

  ‘I only saw you yesterday,’ he said chuckling.

  Amy released her grasp, sat on the edge of the bed, and hugged a large pillow, as she used to do when they were teenagers.

  ‘Come on Ames, what’s up?’

  ‘Um, there’s something I need to talk to you about,’ she muttered into the material.

  ‘Ames?’

  ‘Don’t rush me, Scotty. I need… I need to tell you something.’

  Scotty stopped smiling.

  Despite her preparation, this was proving tougher than she had anticipated.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Scotty…’ She paused and tears welled in her eyes.

  Scotty snatched at his breath.

  Amy met his fixed stare and her stomach heaved as her voice surrendered to the truth.

  ‘I… I’ve been seeing someone at uni.’ She turned away; could not bear to see his reaction.

  Stillness beset the room.

  Amy found the courage to open her eyes and gradually lifted her head.

  Scotty’s expression said everything; maybe more than any words he could have spoken. She had just broken his heart and the wave of guilt was overpowering.

  She did not know how long they both remained in that acrid silence before he placed his beer on the bedside cabinet and walked out of the door without saying another word.

  Saturday night was to be their first meeting since that evening. Amy needed to finish her conversation, end her torment and tell Scotty in person that her relationship with Carl was not serious, and she was going to end it, for him.

  Chapter 10

  Deans was a conscientious and sensitive man. This job bothered him. The phone call to Mrs Poole had bothered him. Groves bothered him and the fact that ninety-six hours had passed without progress seriously bothered him.

  Maria was barely speaking to him at breakfast. He appreciated that working all those hours was affecting their relationship and at times recently, it felt they were bound by a pressure cooker. Lack of sleep was a major issue. When he got the chance to – he couldn’t, and when he wanted to – he was working.

  He watched her spoon in her cornflakes without looking back at him. She looked worn out, her hair dishevelled. At times like these, he almost resented being a detective.

  He ran a hand through his long, dark hair and his fingertips lingered on the ridge of the partially hidden, scythe-shaped scar behind his left ear – his souvenir from a night that was to become the catalyst for a career as a detective. It was like pressing a replay button, but this repeat was one that he had battled for a decade to forget.

  Echo control. Any mobile units, please? Arthur Street, fight in progress. The voice of comms broke the monotonous sound of Deans’ squad car engine. He had just entered into Milsom Street, he was seconds away and jumped at the chance to see some action.

  ‘Echo Six-three, solo crewed.’ Although it was approaching 2:30 a.m., and the streets were all but deserted, he put on the strobes, and floored the accelerator.

  Thank you, six-three. Update from the informant; multiple groups of males now fighting in the street. Any other units to back-up six-three, please?

  Deans sucked in, wished he had been less hasty to volunteer and activated the sirens. They should hear him coming from this distance and he hoped it would disperse at least some of the shit-bags.

  Echo Six-one, making ground from Newbridge, the response from Deans’ colleagues came over the wailing sound of their own sirens.

  Six-two, from Odd Down.

  His back-up was travelling from the extremities of the city. That meant Deans was going to be on his own for at least the next few minutes.

  ‘CCTV please,’ Deans requested urgently. He guessed the disorder would be somewhere between The Mint Club and the late-night takeaway, and consequently under the watchful eye of the cameras.

  As the road widened onto Arthur Street and the needle hit fifty, he saw the chaotic situation spread over an unmanageable distance on the right hand pavement – three, possibly four separate fighting groups.

  ‘Fuck!’ Deans said drawing breath. ‘Six-three, on scene.’ His pulse raced as he decided where to position his vehicle.

  Roger. Early update please, six-three.

  ‘Priority,’ Deans bellowed, as he watched one prone male on the pavement surrounded by a group, having his head jumped upon as if he was a bouncy castle. ‘Urgent assistance required.’

  Roger. Units are making to your location, came the calm voice of comms.

  Deans brought the car to a rapid halt, but kept the sirens howling – that way the offenders might not immediately twig that he was alone.

  Deans fumbled for his CS canister amongst his stab vest attachments, and then noticed Jordan Finch standing over another horizontal male. Finch was a nineteen-year-old bag of skin and bones, but he was a nasty bastard with a liking for knives, probably to make up for his lack of physical presence.

  Deans had to make a snap-decision. He looked over at the bouncy castle male. He was not moving, and the others were still working it into him.

  Deans sprinted beyond one fighting faction, and as he neared the stamping group, he gave up trying to pull out his CS and hurled himself towards them with wide swinging arms, taking at least two of them out as he came to a sprawling halt on the damp pavement. He could only hope that CCTV was watching and recording everything that was unfolding.

  It took a second to gain his orientation and as he lifted his upper body from the floor, he looked over his shoulder. The victim on the ground was no longer surrounded. A startling blow to the back of his head forced Deans to the ground. He instinctively rolled away and up to his knees, just as a swinging leg caught him square in the chest forcing him to rock onto the back of his heels. He activated the emergency button on his Airwave radio and the faint sound of approaching sirens temporarily lifted his spirits, but as he brought himself up to his haunches, still suffering blows from all sides, he then heard a familiar, animated voice above the chaos. It was Finch.

  ‘Let’s do the cunt, come on. Come on, let’s do the fucking pig.’

  Deans looked up to where the voice was coming from and saw Finch, with hatred in his eyes, bounding towards him, prodding a broken wine bottle in Deans’ direction.

  The police vehicles were growing louder from both sides, but another knee to the head felled Deans like a sick oak tree. In desperation, he tried to raise himself to his feet, but an impossibly heavy weight pinned him down from behind. He scraped his nose on the paving slab to search for Finch, and found him standing right beside him. Deans buried his face into the concrete, but felt no pain, as at that precise moment, Finch plunged the jagged wine bottle into the back of Deans’ head.

  Deans was already unconscious by the time his teammates arrived. He awoke with a crescent of medical staff and bosses around his bedside. The job had been great, not only to him, but also to Maria. His physical recovery took a few months, but the mental healing – much longer. He had managed to avoid viewing the CCTV until the cold-blooded brutality of Finch was dissected in painstaking detail at the trial. It was soon after that Mick Savage approached Deans to join his team
, on the basis that he passed the selection criteria. Maria had wept at the thought of Deans escaping the frontline, and that was all he needed drive him on to succeed.

  Looking across the table now at Maria he realised how fortunate he was. She was a good woman. He knew she was not happy with the time he spent at work but she would never force ultimatums upon him. They had often discussed where they would live when he retired. It gave them hope, albeit temporarily, as he still had nine years of service to go before he could draw his thirty-year pension.

  Deans noticed Maria wiping her eyes.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  She shook her head and trailed strands of her long dark hair through her milky bowl.

  He pushed back his chair, knelt beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, sweetheart.’

  ‘Sam’s pregnant.’ Maria looked at Deans, her eyes red and desperate.

  He waited fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. ‘Work Sam?’

  Maria bobbed her head.

  ‘Well… that’s great news.’ He did his best to sound as disarming as possible.

  ‘They’ve only been married for seven months,’ she whimpered.

  Deans dropped his head, closed his eyes and clenched his teeth

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘I know, Maria’

  ‘Six years, Andy. If someone else tells me not to leave it too long, I’ll bloody blow. “You’re not getting any younger”,’ Maria mimicked, ‘Oh can’t you just all fuck off.’

  ‘They don’t know the score…’ Deans stopped himself. ‘…I’m pleased for Sam. She’s a nice girl.’

  ‘I know, and that’s what makes it harder. I should be delighted for her, but instead… well, it only highlights my own failure.’

  ‘You’re not a failure, Maria,’ Deans said quickly. ‘Remember we’re in this together. It will happen. We’re good people.’