‘Don’t think you can come down here with your city ways, son. There are procedures, there is policy, and there is respect,’ Jackson boomed.
Deans looked to the others, who quickly turned away.
‘Respect?’ Deans repeated through gritted teeth. ‘Let me tell you what respect is. Respect is doing everything we can for the families of our dead victims. Respect is allowing highly trained officers to get on and do their jobs without making them feel like children—’
‘Get out of my fucking office,’ Jackson screamed, his face deep crimson red.
Deans looked again at the others. They clearly did not want to know. He nodded knowingly at Jackson, who was now practically melting with rage, turned and walked away.
Chapter 42
Deans returned to his car. The air was cold and miserable. He stared fixedly through the windscreen until his eyes glazed dry. Since discovering Maria had left home, he had managed to keep his emotions pretty much in check but it had taken a lot to remain composed in the face of Jackson’s outburst.
A tap on the driver window disturbed his moment. He blinked moisture back into his eyes and focused on the silhouette beside his door, and realised it was Gold.
‘Hold on a moment,’ he said, wiping a hand down his face. ‘Hi,’ he said, buzzing the window down.
Gold was wearing her rain jacket and holding two document bags.
‘I’ve been told to hook up with you,’ she said.
‘Really? Hook up or watch?’
She laughed. ‘Can I get in, please? It’s cold.’
Deans nodded over to the passenger seat beside him, and as she opened the door, he caught sight of his bloodshot eyes in the rear view mirror.
Gold stepped in, smiled awkwardly, closed the door and pulled on her seatbelt before the cabin light once again dimmed to darkness.
‘We all think he’s a twat, you know,’ she said, looking directly ahead.
Deans nodded thanks at her attempts to ease the situation.
‘He’s told me to go with you to the custody unit,’ she said.
Deans turned to face her. ‘You’re kidding! I was expecting to have to storm it, like entering Fort Knox.’
‘Well, no need now. I’m your little key into Pandora’s box.’ She grinned.
Maybe his straight talking had cracked Jackson’s granite casing, or maybe Jackson knew Deans had no intention of walking away and it was better to keep him under a watchful eye.
‘Okay. What else has he told you to do?’ Deans asked.
‘Report to him everything you do.’
‘And will you?’
‘Maybe,’ she said, with a mischievous smile.
She was a sweet-looking girl. Fragile, like a china doll. A completely inappropriate OIC for the monster they were investigating.
They headed off with Gold giving directions, and arrived at the custody centre about half an hour later. The unit was a four-storey complex with a spiked, ten-foot perimeter fence surrounding the entire site. It was the modern way; ensuring people stayed on the inside and protected from the outside.
Gold swiped her proximity card and the gates motored slowly apart.
‘We need to park near there,’ Gold said, pointing over to a one-storey annex, the size of a trading estate unit. The custody drop-off, Deans thought.
Gold led the way in through a secure side door. A narrow, straight corridor with sparkling grey non-slip flooring took them to another door, but this time Gold had to press a buzzer and wait. Seconds later the door latch clicked and she pushed through into a spacious custody reception area. A raised staff base loomed over them and blocks of CCTV screens beamed cell and corridor images from the wall behind.
Deans noticed the profile of the front desk was angled forwards like the bow of a ship. He figured that was to make life difficult for any disgruntled shits, who might have an adverse reaction to the custody staff. His eyes followed a yellow line taped to the floor, three feet in front of the desk, until he lost sight of it deeper into the dim corridor, where Babbage would no doubt be waiting.
These modern, purpose-built custody units worked well. Designed with practicality in mind. They were clinical in appearance, but effective. Deans’ own custody unit dated back to the sixties with only nine cells in total. Each year something else needed repairing or replacing, but it had character oozing from the pores.
Deans caught the three male staff behind the counter all gaping towards them – correction: towards Gold.
‘How may we help?’ the custody sergeant asked her.
‘Hi, Sarge,’ Gold said buoyantly. ‘We’re from the Op Bejewel team. You have someone in the cells asking to speak to my colleague DC Deans.’ She waved a hand in Deans’ direction.
‘Ah yes, thanks for coming,’ the custody sergeant replied, now acknowledging Deans’ presence.
‘Sarge,’ Deans said, dipping a nod.
‘Come back around here,’ the custody sergeant said. ‘You’ve certainly picked a strange one, I can tell you.’ He turned to the bank of monitors and pointed to the top row, third screen in from the left.
‘There’s your man.’
Deans immediately recognised Babbage. He was perched on the edge of a low-level bench, sitting bolt upright with his hands on his knees. He was an intriguing sight.
‘He’s hardly moved,’ the custody sergeant said. ‘A very odd individual indeed. All he does is sit there demanding to see you.’
‘Any development with the mental health assessment?’ Deans asked.
The sergeant shook his head. ‘Been assessed. Perfectly normal according to the doc.’ He pulled a face. ‘But we all know they’ve got to believe they’re Elvis or Mickey Mouse before much else happens.’
‘So, he’s in play?’ Deans asked.
‘Be my guest. The sooner he is out of here the better as far as I am concerned. I still have him on constant observations for now, just to be safe. We will resort to DNA by force if we have to, but I would rather you speak to him first. Maybe you can convince him to cooperate.’
Constant observations varied between units and custody sergeants. Sometimes the detention officers did it and other times the police officers drew the short straw. Generally used for high-risk subjects to keep them from self-harming or to prevent loss of evidence; in Babbage’s case, it was because he presented as unpredictable. Deans had spent many long hours sitting, or standing outside cell doors on constant obs and never forgot what a soul-destroying task it was. Whoever it was watching Babbage now, they had Deans’ sympathy.
He thanked the custody sergeant and found a quiet office to speak with Gold.
‘What has Jackson asked you to do now that we’re here?’ Deans asked.
‘Not much. Just keep him updated about you.’
‘Well someone needs to arrest Babbage on suspicion of murder. Was anything discussed about that?’
‘No.’
‘Did he not listen to anything I said?’
Gold shrugged, shook her head.
‘Call him. Tell him we are good to go but we need his authority to make the arrest. Make him feel like he’s calling the shots.’
‘What grounds do we have for the arrest?’
‘Amy was seen getting into Babbage’s vehicle on the night she went missing.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s what I think. The CCTV still needs some going over, but we also have…’ Deans hesitated, ‘…a witness account.’
‘We do?’
Deans nodded. ‘All we need is for Jackson to green light the arrest and for the custody sergeant to buy it and Babbage is all ours. I’ll give you some privacy,’ Deans said, left Gold in the room, and headed back out to the bank of CCTV monitors.
Babbage had not moved. The custody sergeant was in the back office with the detention officer and had not seen him return. Deans looked around: the reception area was empty. All that was between him and Babbage at that moment was the cop on constant obs.
He quickly moved b
ehind the custody desk, stepped in close to the bank of monitors and concentrated on the two screens that required his attention. Satisfied with his preparation, he soundlessly made his way down the cell corridor, and flashed his warrant card to the forlorn-looking PC sitting outside of Babbage’s cell.
‘Hey, buddy,’ Deans said. ‘I’m happy to give you five minutes, if you need a slash or something.’
‘Thanks,’ the PC said, looking slightly puzzled.
‘No worries,’ Deans said. ‘Why not grab a coffee while you have the chance? I’m good here until you get back.’
‘Okay, cool.’ The PC replied and placed a well-thumbed copy of Hello! onto the floor and beamed broadly as he passed Deans, who watched until the PC was out of sight.
The cell door was open, but Deans had made a point of not showing himself to Babbage, yet. He could feel his heart quickening and slowly stepped forward until he was at the threshold of the cell. He had already established the camera blind spot and carefully positioned his body so that he was leaning against the left side of the door frame. From here, only his feet would be in shot, so long as he did not lean forwards. Babbage was still sitting on the low-level bench, his head in his hands, and had not noticed Deans’ arrival.
As the seconds approached a minute, Deans became more anxious.
‘Babbage,’ he called out.
Deans was not permitted to interview Babbage there and then, or ask any questions relating to the investigation, but he needed Babbage to know he was there, accepting the challenge, and in control of whatever Babbage was up to.
Babbage looked up from behind his willowy fingers.
‘Detective Deans,’ he responded after a second or two of indecision, and rose excitedly to his feet.
‘No.’ Deans glowered and dipped his index finger. Babbage acknowledged the gesture with a grin and gently returned to his seated position, hands upon his knees in a display of total compliance.
‘Oh, you and me…’ Babbage said enthusiastically. ‘This is going to be so much fun.’
Deans folded his arms and propped a shoulder against the doorframe.
‘I’ll bet you are just very slightly fed up with me. Am I right?’ Babbage said.
Deans did not respond, but excitement was clearly building within Babbage.
‘Oh, come on. Enter into the spirit, Detective.’
‘This isn’t a game.’
‘Ooh,’ Babbage said, cupping his hands loudly with delight. ‘This is a game. And you are playing very well.’
The echoes of approaching footsteps intruded on Deans’ building hatred. It was the PC.
‘Cheers,’ the PC said. ‘Really appreciate that.’ He stopped and noticeably registered Deans at the doorway. ‘Sorry, has he been giving you any trouble?’
Deans turned to face a grinning Babbage. ‘No trouble whatsoever.’ He patted the PC on the shoulder and headed back alone the corridor.
When he returned to the charge desk, Gold was waiting for him.
‘What were you doing down there?’ she asked.
‘Just giving that poor sod a comfort break. What’s the answer?’
Gold was looking Deans over with prying eyes.
‘Jackson,’ Deans said. ‘What did he say?’
‘He says we can go ahead with the arrest but you’re not to have any contact with the prisoner.’
‘Fine.’
Gold tilted her head. ‘He also said you would take the hit if the evidence doesn’t stack up.’
Deans shrugged. ‘Fine.’
The custody sergeant was busy talking to a detention officer behind the charge desk, but Deans had the perception of Gold staring at him, and so made his way across to the skipper and interrupted their conversation.
‘Sorry, Sarge. DC Gold here has just received authority to arrest Babbage on suspicion of murdering Amy Poole.’
‘By whom?’ the sergeant asked.
‘DS Jackson,’ Deans said.
The sergeant pulled a face. ‘DS Jackson?’
‘He doesn’t get out of the office much,’ Deans quipped.
‘He’s my sergeant,’ Gold said, elbowing Deans in the ribs, ‘from Major Crime in Exeter. He’s the deputy senior investigating officer.’
‘Well somebody had better convince me why Babbage needs to remain in my custody unit.’
They funnelled through to a back office, and Deans explained the circumstances and flowered up the evidence enough to secure a detention. The sergeant was less than ecstatic, but agreed to the arrest, once he had also spoken to Jackson on the phone.
The sergeant steered the way along the yellow line into the void of the cell corridor with Gold and Deans in his wake.
Gold acknowledged the PC waiting outside of the open cell door and Deans gave him a wink, but remained out of Babbage’s view.
The sergeant entered the cell and his voice resonated throughout the corridor. ‘Listen up,’ he said. ‘This officer is going to say something to you. It’s important that you listen and understand what’s going on.’
Gold hovered in the doorway, neither inside, nor out. She looked uncomfortable; holding her daybook tightly to her chest like it was body armour. She cleared her throat. ‘Ash Babbage, I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Amy Poole between Saturday the fourth of October and Saturday the eleventh of October this year—’ She coughed, and snatched a glance towards Deans.
‘Is he out there?’ Deans heard Babbage ask.
‘Listen to what is being said to you,’ the custody sergeant said loudly over Babbage’s voice.
Gold continued, ‘You do not have to say anything. but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court, and anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
The sergeant cut in. ‘Do you understand what has just happened? I must remind you of your right to free and independent legal advice. Do you wish to have a legal representative notified of your arrest?’
There was silence.
The sergeant ushered everyone away from the cell apart from the PC whom he told to stay put, much to his obvious displeasure.
They returned to the charge desk where a uniformed inspector was already waiting for an update. They greeted one another and the inspector asked Gold to justify the grounds for her arrest.
Realising the inspector was not buying into the story, Deans interjected.
‘Sir, I’ve been involved with this investigation from the outset when the victim was a MISPER in Somerset. Early enquiries led me to this area and when the body was located we had very little to go on. However, extensive enquiries have identified what I believe to be reasonable grounds to detain Mr Babbage for interview. Firstly, witnesses and CCTV would suggest that on the night Miss Poole went missing, she accepted an unexpected lift by an unidentified male driving a dark-coloured VW Golf. Although she later met up with friends, no one appears to know why she got the lift or from whom. A key witness watching this pick-up may be able to identify the driver through an ID procedure, although that line of enquiry is currently being pursued. As we understand it, Miss Poole left the club alone but did not make it back home. There is no evidence to suggest that she got a taxi, so our starting point for the disappearance must be on leaving the club. The driver of the Golf is vital to our investigation, and Mr Babbage owns a dark blue VW Golf that he was driving at the time of his arrest by your traffic officers.’
‘Yes, I granted the recovery of that vehicle earlier today.’
‘Thank you, sir, I’m very much obliged,’ Deans said, currying favour. ‘On being stopped by your officers, Mr Babbage apparently requested to speak personally with me in relation to the Amy Poole murder. This was completely unsolicited and I don’t believe in coincidence, sir.’
The inspector peered at Deans, his features unyielding.
‘Sir, I further request that we conduct a search at his home address for any evidence relating to the victim or the crime, and seek his cooperation in an ID procedure
. Only then may we prove or disprove any involvement he might have in this murder.’
‘Forensics?’ the inspector asked.
‘Well, sir, who knows what we may uncover at the home address, or from the vehicle, come to that.’
The inspector scrutinised Deans for an uneasy second, then nodded. ‘I think, given the serious nature of the offence under investigation and the embryonic stage we still sadly find ourselves at, I’m willing to authorise a Section Eighteen search of his home address, and if he won’t agree to an ID procedure then we can still go ahead using his custody image. Which we have, yes?’
Deans and the custody sergeant shook their heads in tandem.
‘That’s in hand I take it?’ the inspector said to the custody sergeant.
The skipper nodded. ‘He’s been a difficult prisoner, sir, but we’ll press on with that immediately.’
‘Don’t think I’ve come across a willing one yet,’ the inspector said dryly.
That could be about to change, Deans thought.
‘Good,’ the inspector continued. ‘And I think we’d be justified in obtaining fingernail scrapings, clippings and hand swabs.’
‘Sir,’ Deans acknowledged.
‘But we don’t have any evidence of a sexual assault, so we’d be hard pushed to obtain intimate samples. Am I right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Deans said.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Gold said.
‘Thank you for that concise review of the case, uh… Deans. I did speak to Sergeant Jackson earlier regarding the vehicle lift, but he rather waffled.’
‘Thank you, sir. To be fair to Sergeant Jackson, we haven’t had much opportunity to exchange updates today.’
The Detective Deans Mystery Collection Page 21
