The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  The bedroom door was closed. That was a statement of intent on Maria’s part; the door was never closed. He grabbed a blanket hanging over the banister, took up an uncomfortable foetal pose on the sofa and did his best to relax.

  As he stared at the walls, grinding his teeth, he contemplated the situation he was now facing. Truth was, the only time he had managed a work/home balance was when he had been a single man and could work hard and play harder. These days he was all played out and it was a case of work hard, work harder. Back in the day, the only person he could let down was himself, and he had been disappointed plenty of times, but always managed to make up for it. These days he disappointed Maria far too frequently and rarely managed to make amends.

  Over the years, he had watched colleagues’ good relationships go down the pan. Strong couples, simply caved in, could not make it work any longer. The job was a relationship graveyard but Deans was not ready to commend his to the depths just yet. He swore that this would be the last time he would sacrifice himself for the cause. After this investigation, he would find a way to harmonise his life once again, even if it meant taking some boring desk job.

  Deans awoke to the sound of Maria coughing in the bedroom above. He rolled over onto his side, pressing his face firmly into the upright of the sofa. His head was banging from yet another night of inadequate rest and repeated dreams of Amy dumped on the rocks. Daylight was streaming into the living room through a gap in the white drapes, but Deans was completely unaware of the time. The house was silent apart from Maria’s sporadic dry cough.

  He cursed his timing. He was going to spend the day at home and at some point, he would have to inform Maria that he would be working in Devon for a month, starting tomorrow. Worse than that: he was not going to be around for the scan.

  He stumbled through to the kitchen and sank two paracetamol with a tall glass of water, flicked the switch on his coffee machine and stared emptily out of the window.

  As the coffee machine warmed up, he looked for messages on his mobile phone. Only a handful of hours had elapsed since he last checked his phone at the office, but the result was the same. No messages.

  It was 9:13 a.m. Deans made a tactical decision – make a drink, or two, then call Ranford, and then find the courage to face Maria.

  The coffee part was the easiest and most fulfilling, and probably the only stable aspect of his life right then. He spoke to Ranford just over half an hour later to be informed that the murder squad from County HQ had taken the investigative lead, but were expecting Deans on Monday morning for a full detailed briefing. He was already earmarked to make up an enquiry team with Ranford, which suited him fine. It was a given that he would have to relinquish any hopes of becoming the OIC because of the boundary politics, but at least he would still be hands-on and able to influence proceedings.

  He arranged to meet up with Ranford mid-morning, allowing time to sort accommodation and settle in before the murder squad picked his brains apart. He ended the call and moved on to the third task of the day. The one he was dreading most.

  Chapter 29

  Deans arrived in Devon by eight thirty, Monday morning. It was an early start. Maria had barely spoken a word to him the previous night and he felt distance was probably the best, for both of them. He was wise when helping others in times of extreme circumstances, but less apt at dealing with his own strife.

  He found a B&B that would be his home until Friday and threw his kit bag onto the floor beneath a lamp table in the corner of the room. He had packed light: a clean shirt for each day, the same suit, enough clean underwear, his work shoes and a small bag of toiletries. If he needed anything else, he would buy it in town.

  The room was small, with a single bed up against one wall and the lamp table in the opposite corner. A thick mesh curtain masked what view there may have been, although he was on ground level so did not feel a desperate need to check. Looking at the end of the bed, he hoped his feet would fall short of the stud wall. The en suite was a basic affair: budget shower cubicle, sink and toilet, and just enough room between them to be practical. The Bellagio it most certainly was not, but clean and functional it was, along with cheap. This was coming out of his own pocket until he could claim back expenses, so it just had to do.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. A small shelf was screwed to the side of the wardrobe, housing a white mini plastic kettle and long-life beverage facilities. Deans unplugged the kettle and filled it under the bathroom sink, thinking that there must be some place that did a roaring trade in supplying miniature kettles to guesthouses. Then thought, as he plugged the kettle back in, that somewhere else should supply longer leads, as he battled to reconnect the male and female connectors.

  After waiting several minutes for the world’s loudest kettle to finish boiling, he made a drink and rummaged through his work folders. He was not sure what reception to expect from the County HQ Murder Squad as every department was different. Even his own CID office did not always see eye-to-eye with their uniformed brothers. There was often an underlying ‘them and us’ atmosphere that only really came to the surface when blame needed to find an owner. It was then the labels would be tagged: lazy, clock-watching woodentops, or doughnut-dunking tea-drinkers on the pleasure deck. Of course, none of it was true. Most detectives he knew drank coffee.

  Deans headed out and almost straight away found a small café where he took his obligatory seat in the corner of the room. Soon he was into a seven, maybe even eight-out-of-ten Americano with a slice of yoghurt-coated flapjack. One of life’s great breakfast combinations – fully loaded with caffeine, carbs and sugar, he was ready to begin the day.

  He figured he had roughly two hours until he would head to the nick, so in the meantime he would revisit Rayon Vert.

  He opened the door and saw Denise standing at the counter.

  ‘Detective, what a pleasant surprise.’

  Deans closed the door and scanned the room. They were alone. ‘Hello, Denise. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ She tilted her head and gave a wary smile. ‘I take it this is for business?’

  ‘Of course. Is there somewhere we can talk, please?’

  ‘I’m free all morning as it happens. Come on through to the back. I can close the shop for a bit if you’d prefer?’

  ‘You really don’t need to do that,’ Deans said, hoping Denise was not putting too much emphasis on his visit.

  ‘I’m the only one in today. If I don’t close the shop you’ll never get me to yourself,’ she said, flicking the lock and turning the shop sign in one smooth motion. ‘There,’ she said, and walked towards the treatment room.

  Deans followed tentatively a few steps behind.

  Denise sat on the single chair and gestured Deans towards the sofa.

  ‘Detective. How may I help today?’ she said almost knowingly.

  Deans scratched at the back of his head. ‘You said Amy needed me for the investigation. Why did you say that?’

  ‘Amy requested it. I merely passed it on to you.’

  Deans pulled a face and squirmed in his seat.

  ‘What’s troubling you, Detective?’

  ‘Please, call me Andy. Nothing is troubling me as such. I’m just curious I suppose…’ he hesitated, ‘…about your contact with Amy.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and then nothing more.

  They both studied each other. Who was going to make the next move? It was Deans.

  ‘Well, can you tell me any more?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you asking me if I’ve connected to Amy since we last spoke? Well, yes, I have.’

  Deans leant forwards. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Amy is in a bad place and is between destinations. She has moved on from the life as we know it, but the manner in which she’s been taken from us has placed her in a type of purgatory, and she can’t move on until certain factors are resolved.’

  ‘Her killer?’ Deans prompted.

  ‘Inevitably that is one such factor.’


  ‘Why me? Did she name me?’

  Denise shook her head. ‘She said, “He mustn’t lose faith in me.” And she referred to “the detective” several times.’

  ‘So it may not even be me? It could be any number of the detectives working on this now.’

  ‘But it was you who worked on it first, and who worked on it when Amy needed to be heard.’

  ‘But how could I lose faith when I don’t understand what the hell is happening? That suggests I had some kind of belief in the first place.’

  ‘I know it’s a lot to comprehend, Andy. But the very fact you’re here now means we are already halfway there.’

  ‘Argh,’ Deans grumbled.

  ‘Andy. I have spent the vast majority of my life as a pupil to the gift. I don’t expect you to understand it in one week. I can’t have all the answers for you at this time, but I can guide you, based on my contact with Amy. Remember, she can’t pass over until our job is done.’

  ‘No pressure then,’ Deans quipped, more out of nerves than anything else.

  ‘Indeed,’ Denise said with a resolute expression etched into her features. ‘Look, we can do this a number of ways but maybe we should meet up regularly and exchange notes. I’m not expecting confidential information. I just need to know if my interpretations are aligned to your enquiries.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dean said with a shrug. ‘Well, what can you tell me today?’

  Denise huffed. ‘It’s a little confusing. She told me, “Don’t let her do it again.”’

  ‘Her?’ Deans said quickly. ‘What do you mean, “Her”? Are we looking for a female killer?’

  ‘I can only convey the messages, Andy. I haven’t yet seen with enough clarity to enable me to make judgements.’

  ‘Well, when will you know?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s unusual not to have more by now. Something’s affecting my connection, but what, I don’t know.’

  Deans pinched at the bridge of his nose as if staunching a nosebleed and stared back at Denise through the gaps of his fingers as he spoke. ‘Have you chatted to any other police officers about this?’

  ‘No. You’re the only one.’

  ‘Good. I need your absolute honesty. If this is real, then we could probably help each other. If it’s not, then I’m not prepared to jeopardise the investigation.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, and then hesitated, concentrating on his face. ‘Andy, do you mind if I say something about you?’

  ‘About me personally?’

  Denise nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘Maria needs you more than ever right now. You’ll find a time very soon that will test both your emotions and dedication to each other.’

  ‘What?’ Deans recoiled. ‘How do you know about Maria?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t think I’m trying to interfere.’

  ‘What, in my bloody private life?’

  ‘You have difficult times ahead and all I want to do is give you warning,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Are you reading me or something?’ Deans said angrily.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is you’re doing, don’t. Okay?’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. That certainly wasn’t my intention. I just thought you should know.’

  ‘I already bloody know,’ Deans shouted. ‘My relationship is heading for the shitter, and this job isn’t exactly helping. So the sooner we crack it, the better all round, okay?’

  Denise did not flinch.

  Deans shot to his feet. ‘I’d better go. Got things to do.’

  Denise led the way back to the entrance with Deans panting and foaming close behind. She unlatched the door and watched as Deans marched silently away from the shop.

  Chapter 30

  Deans made his way to the station, arriving earlier than he had planned, and was greeted at the front desk by Ranford who accompanied him upstairs to the CID office.

  Mansfield was at his desk having an animated conversation over the phone and it sounded like he was holding his own. Two other suits were at Ranford’s desk perusing a pile of papers and Ranford introduced them to Deans as DS Jackson and DC Gold from HQ, Major Crime Investigation Unit.

  DS Jackson was an old sweat, complete with knurled forehead. He wore his police service like a seasoned leather. Gold was young, petite, blonde and fresh-faced. They all shook hands and Jackson informed Deans that Gold was the new OIC.

  Deans was instantly aware that Jackson was protective of Gold from the way he stood close by her, on the verge of occupying her personal space. As they continued chatting, he also noticed Jackson sneaking extended glances her way, even if she was not talking. Could there be something going on between them? Or was Jackson living in a fantasy land, using his rank to give favours that he hoped could lead to favours?

  ‘So you ladies are one action team,’ Jackson said snidely. ‘Do you think you can manage to stay out of mischief? Or do you need me to hold your hands?’

  Deans looked at Jackson with measured disdain.

  ‘I imagine we’ll be just fine,’ Ranford chipped in. ‘Thank you, Sarge.’

  ‘Good. Get on with it then,’ Jackson sneered, the trenches of his forehead deepening. He turned and headed back over towards Gold.

  ‘I take it he wants us out of the way?’ Deans said quietly to Ranford, who nodded his answer. ‘Come on, let’s grab some actions and find somewhere else,’ Deans suggested.

  They gathered up their things and stopped at the action allocation tray. Operation Bejewel was printed in bold black letters on an A4 sheet and Sellotaped to the wall. Much like naming a hurricane, the operation name wouldn’t have specific meaning, but the first letter would normally be associated to the police district where the offence took place, in this case ‘B’ district. The rest of the word was randomly generated.

  Deans collected a bunch of tasks and looked back to Jackson, who was watching their every step to the door.

  ‘What’s the story with Jackson?’ Deans asked as they walked down the stairs into the blustery and cold outdoors.

  ‘What, old Hasselhoff? He’s got a bit of a rep for being a ladies’ man,’ Ranford replied.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me? Really?’

  ‘Seriously. He’s seeing a WPC, twenty-six years his junior.’

  Deans was staggered. It looked more a case of hassle than the Hoff from what he could tell so far.

  ‘She’s a bit of a babe by all accounts,’ Ranford continued, ‘but I haven’t seen her personally. He’s divorced twice over with two of his kids not much younger than his new woman.’

  ‘Difficult,’ Deans commented, not really giving a damn.

  ‘You’re telling me. And he can kiss his pension goodbye with the two previous marriages.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Deans said. ‘I bet he pulls as many OTs as he can and is always the first to volunteer for bank holidays and Christmas.’

  ‘In one.’ Ranford chuckled.

  It was an all too familiar scenario: cops with failed marriages working their butts off to lessen the deficit of their passed-over pensions.

  ‘So, what was all that about with Gold? Is he giving her one as well?’ Deans asked after a few moments.

  ‘I don’t know. If he isn’t then he probably wants to, and who could blame him?’

  Deans raised his brow but did not reply. They kept on walking to the small café just a few minutes from the station. They took a round table in the back corner of the room and looked through the bundle of actions Deans had picked up.

  First up would be a revisit to the scene and a check for all potential CCTV and house-to-house opportunities. Deans was pleased. He had hoped to check over the scene again with fresh eyes. The other actions were general TIs – trace and interviews. They would be people named during other enquiries who had not yet been spoken to. These often proved fruitless but they had to be done. The HOLMES (Home Office Large Major Enquiry Syst
em) database would collate, generate, and continue to do so until all actions were complete or signed off.

  They finished their coffees and used one of Ranford’s pool cars for transport. It was a very tired Vauxhall Astra, complete with customary war wounds. From the rusted scratch that ran from the driver door all the way back to the rear wheel arch, Deans surmised that just like his own pool car, this was also easily identifiable as a police vehicle. He had previously known whole windscreens put through, so a few scratches were comparatively nothing to get excited about and not worth the cost of repair.

  After ten minutes enduring Ranford’s unique style of driving, they were back on the bumpy approach road to the spot where Amy had been found. The car bounced and scraped along the potholes and craters as Ranford rode the terrain in carefree fashion, and Deans let out the occasional profanity as the floor banged into the road surface.

  There was nothing around. No houses, no shops, no bus stops, no trees, no lampposts, absolutely naught. It was a wasteland with meandering waterways cutting through the perfectly flat grassy landscape. The pebble ridge dominated the horizon between them and the ocean. This area was named, The Burrows, according to Ranford.

  It was agreed that they would start at the burial scene and work the radius back to the main road. In reality, it was a half-moon shaped piece of open land consisting of at least several hundred acres. The rest of it was rock, water or sand depending on the tide. Although there was a lot of land to scope, the reality was far simpler. There was one road in and the same road out. A small cluster of farm buildings at the northern edge wouldn’t take long to assess and other than that, it was grass, small waterways and a whole lot of sheep. An hour at most should do them; Support Group had already completed the nose to ground search, the hard part.

  They stood on the peak of the grey boulders, the crashing ocean behind and the green expanse before them. Deans felt strangely unsettled; his stomach tight and his shoulders knotted. The spot where the body had been located was just feet below them. The heap of pebbles created by the forensic team stood proud like a miniature cairn. A spray of flowers and a small white teddy had been wedged between rocks at the summit and a label of some description was flailing in the breeze. Deans stepped over and read it: Forever a Princess. You are never out of our hearts XXXXXX.