The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

‘The DVD shows a light source…’ Deans stopped himself and shook his head. ‘No. It shows an orb of energy hovering over the couple, right at the moment they perish. That same energy is seen to retreat to the end of the bed as the footage stops.’

  The DI’s features tightened. ‘Energy?’

  Deans stood up and walked over the DI. ‘I felt it when I was at the house. Something else is in there, and it killed those two people.’

  The DI was unblinking. He drew a slow and silent breath, making his shirt buttons strain as his chest filled. ‘Deano, close the door a minute, would you?’ Deans did as instructed and returned beside the DI.

  ‘How is it going with Occupational Health?’

  Here we go. ‘Boss, I’m not losing my mind.’

  ‘I don’t believe I asked that.’

  Deans huffed. ‘It’s fine. I’m on sleepers.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m doing what they tell me, seeing them when I’m supposed to––’

  ‘And no adverse reactions to anything?’

  Deans squinted. ‘No.’

  ‘How about Thornton – is he keeping you well informed?’

  Deans looked away, suddenly felt guilty for taking his mind away from Maria.

  ‘I make sure he keeps me updated.’ The DI gave Deans a concerned stare. ‘Are you really ready to be back, Deano?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Deans said without hesitating.

  The DI cast him a sympathetic smile. He scratched the side of his face and leaned in closer towards Deans.

  ‘What do you propose we do at the house… with this… energy?’ he asked.

  Deans shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Well then, why is this… thing there?’

  Deans shrugged again. ‘I dunno? But we should find out.’

  He noticed the DI clenching and releasing his fist as if giving an invisible stress ball a vigorous workout.

  ‘And how would we do that?’ the DI asked.

  ‘I’d like to chat to the old man in the nursing home. See what he knows?’ Deans said.

  The DI did not respond.

  ‘I need to speak to him,’ Deans said, ‘and his smack-head daughter.’

  The DI reached for his fizzy bottle and took another considered drink.

  Deans waited until the bottle was back on the desk.

  ‘And I need to find whoever sent me that DVD,’ he said.

  The DI raised his brows.

  ‘And I want to bring somebody else into the house – to help me have a proper look around.’

  ‘Miss Moon?’ the DI asked.

  Deans blinked and turned his head slightly to the door. Has Mick said something?

  He looked back at the boss and conceded.

  The DI tapped the end of his pen against his front teeth, not taking his eyes away from Deans.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, eventually. ‘It’s all yours. Do whatever you need to. Take as long as you need. Work the hours you want, but don’t sacrifice yourself… or the reputation of this department.’

  Chapter 13

  DC Sarah Gold was at her desk in the Devon Major Crime Investigation Team when Sergeant Jackson burst into the room and demanded that she join him.

  DC Gold was still the officer in charge (OIC) of the Amy Poole murder investigation. Denise Moon’s associate and apprentice, Ash Babbage, had been remanded to custody following his partial admissions to her murder during interview with Deans, and Gold had been taking control of each element of the investigation since that time; ensuring the strongest case could be built and presented to the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS).

  DS Jackson was her skipper and had been overseeing the investigation. She got on fairly well with him and it certainly helped her that he was a lecherous old bastard, and she was attractive. Jackson had insisted from the outset that Gold take the lead investigative role in the case, despite her youthful experience as a detective.

  He was waiting in the hallway with his usual skeletal frown and rancid breath.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said and took them into an empty room where he slammed the door shut.

  ‘Sarge?’ Gold queried.

  He looked at her through his beady eyes.

  Gold was quite repulsed by him and thought that he looked like a tortoise; with his leathery, taught features.

  He pinched his lips together and panted loudly through his nose.

  ‘What have you done?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, taking a backward step. ‘I haven’t done anything… have I?’

  ‘The case is blown now,’ Jackson vented.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘The CPS had no choice but to disclose to Babbage that the case evidence has been destroyed.’

  ‘What?’ Gold spluttered. ‘What evidence? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Jackson said behind clenched teeth. ‘All the bloody evidence against Babbage that you authorised for destruction. It’s gone. It’s all bloody well gone.’

  Gold covered her mouth with a hand. Tears began to form in the corner of her eyes. She shook her head. ‘But… I haven’t…’

  ‘I’ve got the report,’ Jackson seethed. ‘You authorised destruction last week, and the officers in detained property didn’t know any better. It was your responsibility to ensure the safe keeping of those exhibits.’

  Gold shook her head, her hand still covering her open mouth. ‘I didn’t,’ she pleaded again.

  ‘And now Babbage has got a shit-hot barrister from London and we have to go before a judge to explain how we made such a catastrophic balls up with the evidence.’

  Gold could barely move. Could not believe what she was hearing.

  Jackson thrust his spiny finger near her face. ‘This is down to you. This is your cock-up and you are going to face the music.’

  Chapter 14

  Deans felt a pressure lift from his shoulders. The green light was all he needed. He had not been entirely straight with the DI; he did know what was required and how to go about it. And now he was on his way to the nursing home to see the old man, George Fenwick.

  He pulled off the main road and followed a long shingle driveway towards the large Georgian manor house that for the last seventeen years had been used as a luxury private nursing home. He had driven past the entrance many times before, but this was his first venture inside the grounds.

  Tall evergreen trees sheathed by six-foot-high mesh boots lined both sides of the entrance road every twenty metres or so. The gardens were pristine. Moisture on the baize-flat lawns shimmered like crystals in the wintry morning sunshine.

  He parked short of the entrance and looked over at the valley in the distance. He could see Solisbury Hill, just as he could from his kitchen window at home. He sucked in a deep breath and forced himself back into character.

  ‘Hello,’ a breezy voice came from the intercom beside the door. It was positioned such that Deans had to crouch over to speak. Better placed for guests or residents in wheelchairs.

  ‘Good morning,’ Deans said. ‘My name is DC Deans from Falcon Road CID. I was hoping to talk to the manager if I may, please?’

  ‘Is she expecting you?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Hold on.’ The intercom clicked and fell silent.

  Deans used the opportunity to check his phone for messages – there was nothing.

  The door opened and a young, uniformed bleached-blonde girl – probably still in her teens, greeted him with a friendly and outgoing smile.

  ‘Can I see some ID, please?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Deans said, his warrant card already poised in his hand.

  The girl peered at the card, smiled and welcomed Deans inside the doorway.

  ‘Hold on here a moment,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch the duty supervisor for you.’

  Deans looked around. The thin striped red and black carpet was just as he had expected; dark, resilient and spongy under foot. He glanced at the staff identity board and immediately focussed on the three members of sta
ff not wearing light-grey uniforms – higher up the food chain, he thought.

  He could never imagine himself doing a carer’s role, but if he ever made oak tree age, he would happily spend his final days in a place like this… if only he could afford to.

  A woman in a smart trouser suit approached.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said; her face an unconcealed question mark.

  ‘Good morning,’ Deans replied, shaking her hand. ‘I’m terribly sorry to trouble you. I’m a detective from Falcon Road CID.’ He again flashed his badge but this time the wallet was taken from him and studied in detail.

  ‘Please don’t be alarmed,’ Deans said, his hand at the ready for the return of his identity card. ‘I’m here to ask about one of your residents, if possible, please?’

  ‘Who are you looking for?’ the suited woman said, waving away the girl in grey.

  ‘George Fenwick?’ Deans said.

  The woman’s features became more inquisitive and Deans noticed her recoil her head – ever so slightly.

  ‘Yes. George is one of our residents,’ she said. ‘May I know what this is about specifically?’

  ‘And can I ask your position here, please?’ Deans responded.

  ‘Sally Jarvis,’ she said nudging her square-rimmed glasses higher up her nose. ‘Team Leader.’

  ‘Hi, Sally,’ Deans said. ‘Could we speak somewhere a little more private, please?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes, of course. Come this way.’

  She led Deans further into the building – to a large office strewn with folders and papers.

  ‘Please close the door – if you wish?’ she said taking a seat beneath a large bay window that looked out onto the shingle car park at the front of the building.

  Deans followed her outstretched arm to one of the three high-armed chairs in front of the desk. It was like sitting before a headmistress.

  ‘I’m investigating two unexplained deaths at George Fenwick’s previous address,’ Deans said.

  Sally frowned and shook her head.

  ‘I’d like to chat with George about the house and his time living there,’ Deans continued.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ Sally laughed dismissively. ‘You won’t get much out of dear old George. He’s got more than a touch of senility, bless him,’ she chuckled. ‘I’ll even bet that he thinks you are Peter.’

  Deans smiled politely. ‘Who is Peter?’

  ‘None of us know. Not any relative that we’ve come across. But Peter often comes up in conversation.’

  Deans’ eyes lengthened. ‘George is capable of conversation, then?’

  ‘Well, yes. You’ll get something out of him, but it may not be relevant to what you have asked.’

  ‘I understand,’ Deans smiled.

  ‘Okay,’ Sally said standing up from her chair. ‘Let me run it by him first. He doesn’t get many visitors,’ she said, almost apologising for the fact.

  Deans waited until Sally was gone and then walked over to the window.

  He could see a large conservatory with elderly residents sitting around the edge near to the windows. He noticed Sally come into view and approach a loan figure sitting in a high backed armchair.

  Deans watched their interaction carefully. Sally leaned in, but the old boy did not move. She remained for another thirty seconds before turning away and making her way back out of the conservatory.

  Deans returned to his seat and a short time later Sally re-entered the office.

  ‘Well, he’s awake at least,’ she said.

  Deans smiled.

  ‘So, is it okay for me to see Mr Fenwick?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, yes. I think I’d better hover though,’ she said. ‘For your sake – in case he flies off to Planet George.’

  Deans held out his hand. ‘After you then,’ he said.

  They walked through the impressive foyer with its triple-width stairway and split landings, through to a smaller, but no less imposing, drawing room with well-stocked book shelves and a number of elderly faces dotted around the outside of the room. Deans dipped his head at those who registered his presence.

  They entered the long conservatory and Deans zoomed in on George, twenty feet ahead.

  He was sitting an arm’s length from the window with a thick travel rug over his knees. The conservatory was baking hot as it was – most pleasant on such a fresh morning.

  ‘This is George,’ Sally announced loudly as they reached the chair from behind the frail old gentleman.

  George did not move.

  ‘George,’ Sally called loudly, deliberately walking in front of him. ‘George, you have a visitor.’

  Deans followed and stood alongside Sally.

  George stirred and slowly faced them, his eyes a bleeding metallic grey.

  ‘Hello, George,’ Deans said warmly. ‘My name is Andrew Deans.’

  ‘Peter?’ the old boy croaked.

  Sally turned to Deans and smiled.

  ‘No, George,’ Deans said. ‘My name is Andrew Deans. I’m a police officer.’

  Deans waited for some kind of recognition, but nothing came.

  ‘Have you brought my lunch?’ George asked.

  ‘No, George,’ Sally said kneeling before him. ‘You’ve just had your breakfast. You’ll have to wait a little bit longer for lunch.’

  She turned to Deans with a broad grin. ‘He has a wonderful appetite,’ she said proudly.

  ‘What’s your favourite meal, George?’ Deans asked, trying to find a way in – but all he got was silence.

  Sally then spoke in a normal, less child-like tone. ‘This is fairly standard for George; an initial acknowledgement that we are here, and then he drifts off when we don’t produce food.’

  Deans nodded, still looking at the old fella.

  ‘When did you last see Peter?’ Deans asked.

  Sally took a half step backwards and stared at Deans.

  George looked ahead, slowly clawing at the tartan blanket that covered his knees.

  ‘Is he an old friend – perhaps a relative?’

  There was not so much as a flicker from the molten eyes.

  ‘You’ve got your answer,’ Sally said. ‘George won’t be able to respond to any more of your questions today.’

  Deans sucked in silently through his teeth. ‘Well, it’s been nice to meet you, George.’

  He faced Sally who was already holding an outstretched arm back out of the conservatory.

  Sally started to walk away ahead of Deans. ‘All he thinks about is his stomach,’ she said, ‘and Peter.’

  As Deans took the final two steps away from the conservatory, he glanced over his shoulder and George was looking directly back at him.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask?’ Deans said walking back through the foyer. ‘But how much does it cost to become a resident at this lovely retreat?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we don’t discuss personal finances with anyone unless the residents allow it,’ Sally said.

  ‘I was considering more about myself,’ Deans beamed. ‘Just wondering how much pension to keep to one side.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry about that, just yet,’ Sally retorted, shaking Deans by the hand.

  ‘Thank you for your time, and for allowing me to see George,’ Deans said. ‘He’s quite the character.’

  Sally held the entrance door open for Deans to walk out. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Chapter 15

  Samantha Fenwick did not look surprised to see Deans at the door again.

  The drapes were still drawn even though it was now a gloriously sunny day outside.

  ‘Tell me everything about Charlie,’ Deans said, standing over her as she slouched, barely alert in the armchair.

  She smiled and uncapped a bottle of cider with a hiss of escaping gas.

  ‘Two people have died,’ Deans said more assertively.

  Samantha shrugged and angled the bottle up to her lips.

  Deans watched and waited for her to lower
the drink.

  ‘I saw… it,’ he said.

  He noticed Samantha blink clarity into her eyes and she swivelled her head to face him. Her eyes held his for a brief moment and then she turned away.

  ‘Then he has chosen you,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’ Deans asked quickly.

  She reached forwards for her bottle and Deans swatted her hand away.

  ‘Chosen for what?’ he said more forcefully.

  Samantha held her hand out for the booze and refused to look at him.

  Deans moved the cider bottle further away from her.

  ‘Give me my bottle and I will tell you,’ she said, not relinquishing her attention from the alcohol.

  Deans huffed and handed it back.

  She hugged it close to her body like a child cherishing a teddy bear.

  Deans dragged the table back away and knelt down directly in front of Samantha.

  ‘What has Charlie chosen me for?’ he asked calmly.

  She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You’ll be next.’

  ‘For what?’ Deans’ voice was now prickly and loud.

  The bottle inched into her mouth. ‘His fun,’ she said with a smile.

  Deans cocked his head. ‘Who was Charlie?’

  Samantha faced away, not for any other purpose other than to avoid the question.

  ‘Who was Charlie?’ Deans shouted this time.

  Samantha went to drink again, but Deans wrestled the bottle from her hand, spilling alcohol on to the floor.

  ‘Who the fuck was Charlie, Samantha?’

  She lowered her head. The split-ends of her matted and greying hair curled up on the heavily stained carpet.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until you tell me,’ Deans insisted.

  ‘This is police brutality,’ Samantha snapped.

  ‘Give it a rest,’ Deans said. He had heard that so many times it had become a given. People did not want him tapping on their doors, and thanks to sensationalist television and dodgy police series, people thought it was the way to get rid of a cop on their doorstep – wrong!

  ‘Sooner you tell me, sooner I’m out of here,’ Deans said rolling his eyes.

  Samantha bared her decaying pegs. ‘He was dad’s business partner. Now, give me back my bottle.’