The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  Denise joined him beside the right-hand wall, both facing it like it was an art gallery display.

  ‘I need to know exactly where she touched this wall,’ Deans said.

  Denise stepped closer, and dipped her head, as if listening for a far-off sound. With an outstretched arm, she pointed to the wall.

  Deans positioned his head side-on, so that he could now see every dimple of paint, and each imperfection in the plaster. His eyes fixed on a shadow directly in front of Denise’s fingertips that had not been visible from head-on. It was a unique feature on an otherwise typical surface. Within this area, he noticed a shallow gouge and spontaneously suffered a ripping, tearing sensation in his right hand. He recoiled instinctively and flapped his hand through the air. Ranford’s voice then filled his head.

  ‘The fingernail,’ he cried out.

  Police instinct took over and he dropped to his knees and searched the edge of the skirting board directly beneath the mark. Could he really be that fortunate?

  ‘He dragged her down the stairs to the kitchen,’ Denise narrated in a monotone voice. ‘Used the link door to the garage so that no one would see him.’

  Deans stood up. ‘Link door? What link door?’

  Denise was staring into space.

  Deans left her in the room and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Sure enough, on the other side of the fridge freezer was a closed door that he had previously missed. He tried the handle – it was locked.

  ‘He pulled her into the car,’ Denise said. She had joined him.

  ‘Any door keys?’ Deans asked impatiently, checking the worktops.

  Denise had taken a seat, her hair matted to her face.

  ‘Any keys?’ Deans said, now practically shouting.

  ‘Under the microwave,’ Denise replied.

  Deans chased the worktop and settled on a stainless steel microwave in the far corner of the kitchen. He rushed over and lifted it. Time seemed to stop for an instant. He looked over to Denise; she was not even looking his way.

  You have to be kidding me, he thought.

  A bunch of keys were marooned amongst age-old food debris. He swiped a Chubb key, and it worked.

  He opened the door in a hurry – now was not the time for paranormal analysis. The garage was empty. Spotless would be another way to describe it. Even the concrete floor had a recently vacuumed appearance.

  Deans heaved a deep, despondent sigh. The whole place had been primed for his arrival. He glanced at the shelving. There were no tools or junk as you might expect to find. Instead, neatly stacked cardboard boxes. Why should he be surprised?

  He turned back to the kitchen and for a fleeting moment, took stock of the situation. It would take highly skilled search teams and forensic experts hours if not days to establish what had happened here to Amy, yet, in ten minutes they’d formed a hypothesis. Moreover, he knew exactly where to start looking for the evidence. If he was a reluctant believer before, he would become a fully-fledged disciple if something tangible came from the police search.

  ‘Denise,’ he said softly.

  She slowly lifted her head. She was tearful.

  ‘We don’t have long. Can Amy describe the pillow?’

  Denise dipped her head once again. Her body language growing increasingly resigned. She shrugged. ‘It was light-coloured, possibly white.’

  ‘Did he leave it here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Denise’s eyes were bloodshot. She looked exhausted and emotional.

  The scale of Deans’ dilemma then struck him; this house offered evidential avenues, possibly enough to place Amy within its confines and suggest signs of a struggle, but the source of the information was a psychic, who should never have been at the scene in the first place.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to be smart. He checked his watch; 10.55 p.m.

  Time’s up.

  Chapter 45

  Deans paced the hallway as he waited for the troops to arrive. He was experiencing a strange excitement; a mixture of knowing he had broken the rules, and overwhelming anticipation, wondering if the search would throw up anything to support his far-fetched encounter. He prayed that Denise had not left a trail that would screw up the forensic examination. Any of his DNA profile could be easily explained away – it would be embarrassing, but he could justify it. Not so Denise.

  He was potentially standing in the midst of a forensic-rich environment. Ironic, given the immaculate show home feel. He needed to place Amy at the house, to prove she was there, but more importantly, he needed to show that this was where Amy had been attacked. Babbage must have known this day was coming and been able to prepare accordingly. Deans just prayed he had missed that wall.

  The CSI team would not want blind examination of an entire house. They preferred direction, specific rooms, bedding or clothing, but not a complete house. Just like cops, they did not have endless resources or finances in which to luxuriate. Deans knew exactly where to take them. The problem playing out in his mind was explaining how he had come to those conclusions.

  He could say that he was looking around and noticed the shadow. It was something unusual, and in a house like this, unusual was a good place to start. He could argue; for the sake of a few quick swabs or dabs, what was there to lose? As for the rest, he would just have to wing it. It was uncharted territory but it was exhilarating.

  Moving to the kitchen, Deans attempted to contain his restlessness, by checking on Denise while he was still alone. Rummaging for his phone, he heard a noise in the background. He turned. It was close – muted music – Rihanna, if he was not mistaken. He followed the direction of the sound to the garage, just as the music cut off. It was a ringtone. Why would Babbage have a phone in the garage? Deans frowned. Babbage had not struck him as an R&B, Dance fan.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he said, and as he did so, stumbled forwards as if jostled in the back. He turned a one-eighty within the blink of an eye, but no one was there. His limbs stiffened, and he saw his breath once again.

  ‘Amy. Is that you?’

  He froze, desperate to hear a response, but he was talking to himself.

  ‘Christ, I need a break,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, while diving into his pocket to remove his phone. The screen was glowing – he brought the phone closer to his face – he blinked, and looked again. This was absurd; he was looking at the dialled number for Amy Poole.

  It was an old police trick. Input the number of a missing or stolen phone, call it in the presence of a suspected thief or locality, and listen out for a ringtone. It had landed a number of shit-bags over the years and out of habit, he had saved Amy’s number on his phone from the outset of the investigation.

  He moved closer to the link-door, his entire body buzzed with energy and his addled mind raced with permutations. He’s only got her phone stashed in the garage, he thought. Bingo.

  Deans’ face beamed as brightly as the screen before him. He needed to find that phone. Grabbing the key once again, he unlocked the door. His limbs jerked with excitement as he stood in front of the stacked boxes; his thumb poised on the call button. He pressed it.

  ‘Number unobtainable,’ a female voice informed him. ‘No,’ he shrieked, clawing at his hair. He tried it again, with the same result.

  The temptation was to wade through the boxes, but he had to be patient. Instead, he rifled through his call history; three recent calls to Amy Poole. He had not imagined things. It has to be Amy, he thought.

  The sound of vehicles slowing outside of the metal garage door snapped him from his daze. He closed and locked the link-door and dashed to the front room of the house, where he saw a CSI team and uniformed officers gathered outside. There was a knock at the door, and on the doorstep was the CSM, Mike Riley.

  ‘Hello again, Detective. You’re keeping us busy,’ Riley said.

  Deans stared beyond him at the congregating police staff.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry,’ Deans said, focusing on
Riley. ‘I’m just a bit knackered.’

  ‘Anyone else been inside?’ Riley asked.

  Deans paused for a second. ‘Not beyond the hallway, no.’

  ‘Have you had a look around?’ Riley said, stepping onto the doormat. ‘What do we know?’

  Deans stepped aside, allowing Riley to place his equipment onto the floor.

  ‘I’ve looked at all the rooms,’ Deans said. ‘On the face of it, the house is spotless…’ This was his moment. ‘But I’ve found a patch of oil, or grease on a wall surface up in the third bedroom.’

  Riley dipped his head and stared at Deans as if looking over the top of imaginary spectacles. ‘Grease?’ he mirrored.

  Deans nodded.

  ‘Just how much of a search have you been conducting?’

  Deans sensed hostility. Time to be wise. ‘This room is different. Not like the others.’

  Riley scowled. ‘Okay. You’d better tell me about this patch of oil.’

  ‘It’s on the right-hand wall. About shoulder height.’ Deans used his hand to indicate a visual measurement in line with Riley’s ear. Deans cleared his throat. ‘I also found a small gouge in the paintwork.’

  Riley peered over his non-existent specs once more. ‘And you think that could be…?’

  ‘If Amy was here against her will, then perhaps it might be a site of disturbance.’

  ‘So you think this stain, or smear, call it what you will, might be some evidential trace of our victim? A facial impression, something like that?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not indeed. Conversely, why?’

  ‘Amy had clearly been in some kind of struggle. The marks around her neck, the bruising to her head, the torn fingernail.’

  ‘Ah, so you believe the gouge in the paint is from the victim scratching the wall as she struggled to protect herself from her attacker and the stain will be some kind of body fluid or grease she left behind?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘And why do we even suspect our victim was here in the first place?’

  ‘Because I just called her phone and it rang from inside the garage.’

  Riley lurched backwards. ‘You have the victim’s phone?’

  ‘No. I heard it ring. Second time around I couldn’t get a connection.’

  Riley frowned. Deans spoke before Riley had a chance to discredit Deans any further. ‘The search team will find the phone. I absolutely guarantee it.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Riley said. He was clearly evaluating Deans. ‘Fine,’ he said after a long, deliberate pause. ‘You’d better show me to this stain.’

  Riley had arrived in a white paper suit and handed another to Deans with a black look. ‘For what it’s worth now, I suppose you might as well put this on.’

  Deans opened the door to the white room and Riley stepped inside.

  ‘How the blazes did you find anything in here?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Instinct.’ Deans wavered. ‘And luck I suppose.’ He smiled, unsure if Riley was buying into it.

  ‘It’s over there,’ Deans said with an outstretched arm, inviting Riley to look at the wall.

  Riley went over, angled his head to catch the light for a minute or so, and turned to Deans with a baffled expression.

  ‘Instinct?’

  Deans nodded.

  ‘I’ll get this wall swabbed first.’

  Deans looked up to the ceiling. Yes, he mouthed.

  ‘Anything else you want to show me?’

  ‘I’d look around the gap in the skirting for traces of the broken nail.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Riley groaned. ‘How about we start with you showing me the other rooms?’

  Deans complied, but Riley did not comment much, other than to say how sparse the place was. The final room to show him was the garage.

  ‘The search team can start in here,’ Riley said, ‘while my team are upstairs. We’ll start with some photographs.’

  Riley accompanied Deans to the doorstep, and ushered in three fully-clad forensic officers and briefed them on what he needed. It was late, but judging by the activity of the locals in the street, word of their presence had obviously spread – that, and the fact that half of the police fleet were now parked in front of Babbage’s home.

  By 1:36 a.m., organised chaos had taken over. There were easily the same number of staff here as at the scene on the beach. All working diligently, all professional, all determined, and all because Denise had convinced Deans that he was experiencing supernatural contact.

  Chapter 46

  Deans left the scene just after three a.m. The search and forensic examination was well underway and he was now nothing but an onlooker, and in desperate need of some kip. He was impressed with the uniformed team. They were a tight unit and reminded him of his old uniformed days back home; the camaraderie, banter, and friendships, as strong a group as you would find, but it was different for Deans now. He was still part of a team but that brotherhood was not the same – could never be the same. He had watched their interaction with a quiet envy. That was what he needed around him now – his mates.

  As he drove through Torworthy, the heaters warmed the air inside the car. He had forgotten to book somewhere to stay and so it would have to be a reclined seat for what was left of the night, and he knew exactly where he wanted to park.

  The alarm on his phone woke him at six-thirty from one of the most uncomfortable, cold and crazy night’s sleeps he had ever endured. His body was in turmoil; the physical element – completely fatigued, the mental element – entirely wired.

  With gummy, bloodshot eyes, he looked at his face in the rear-view mirror. He was pale and unshaven, and his mouth tasted like a tramp’s armpit. He had felt better waking up after the office Christmas parties, and that took some doing. He wound the chair to an upright position and blinked moisture back to his eyes. His neck was solid, his back – aching, and his thirst for coffee unbearable.

  He checked his phone; no contact since the last time he saw it. He dwelled on the screensaver, and touched the photo of Maria.

  There was about an hour’s window to freshen up, and drink enough caffeine to feel human again, and not long after, he was at Denise’s house.

  The smell of a warm coffee maker greeted him as soon as Denise opened the door. She commented on how bad he looked, and smelt. At least she was being honest.

  After a rapid shave and wash, Deans was treated to a hot drink and buttery toast, which he devoured under Denise’s scrutiny.

  ‘How’s Maria?’ she asked.

  Deans stopped chewing. ‘She’s moved out.’

  ‘And what do you think about that?’

  If his eyes could talk they would be saying, what a bloody stupid question.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Finish your breakfast. I just want you to know that I’m a good listener if you need me.’

  He paused for a moment. ‘We’ve been having fertility treatment.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘I missed the scan… because I was here.’

  Denise stood up, walked to the sink and gazed distantly out through the window. ‘There is no greater gift than a new life,’ she said, and turned back to Deans. ‘And that takes both of you to create, but it also takes both of you to nurture.’

  ‘I know,’ Deans whispered ruefully.

  ‘I know you know. And that’s why as soon as all this is over, you must commit yourself to your wife before anything else.’

  He nodded and returned to his breakfast. Neither of them spoke until he had finished, and Denise took his plate to the sink. He watched her and waited for his moment.

  ‘Why me, Denise?’ he said.

  She looked up from the washing bowl. ‘Why any of us?’

  ‘Well, you were always going to be a medium.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Your mum and stuff.’

  Denise walked back over to Deans and sat opposite him. ‘I was just shown a pathway, and I happened to follow it.’

  Deans shook his h
ead.

  ‘All Amy is doing is showing you a different course to the one you’ve known. It’s up to you if you follow it.’

  Deans grumbled beneath his breath, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I appreciate this is possibly against everything you believe or understand, but everything happens for a reason, Andy.’

  ‘What reason?’

  ‘Isn’t that the biggest question for us all? Only time can dictate that.’

  Deans huffed. ‘Something happened… after you left. Something that couldn’t be… chance.’

  Denise smiled broadly. ‘That would be Amy’s way of making you believe.’

  Deans dropped his head into his hands.

  ‘Butterflies,’ Denise said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Denise had a glint in her eye. ‘I bet if you were asked to describe the flight of a butterfly, you’d say: unsteady, fragile, possibly even unpredictable.’

  Deans shrugged and nodded.

  ‘A creature at the mercy of the elements,’ Denise continued. ‘And that may be so, but observe two butterflies, one directly behind the other, and watch how the second butterfly is able to adjust and follow the first butterfly with such precision that the flight can’t possibly be as chaotic or random as we believe. It’s a chosen direction.’

  ‘So,’ Deans said slapping his hands onto the tabletop, ‘suddenly I’ve got some supernatural ability, and I’m supposed to decide if I should pursue it?’

  Denise shook her head. ‘For some reason, Amy has been the catalyst in the emergence of your abilities. But that’s all it is for now: an awakening. My journey began a very long time ago, and I am only in the dawn of the day.’ Denise smiled. ‘Think about Amy’s thesis, her topic; the gift complementing police investigations.’

  Deans grimaced. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘You were quite right. It is not chance. None of it is chance. You being here now isn’t chance.’

  ‘What about Ash? He’s got the gift.’

  Denise looked away, screwed up her face. ‘Remember everyone has the ability, good and bad.’

  ‘And he will know about me?’