The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  He made his way slowly up the concrete sleepers, set into the large rounded boulders, until he reached the summit. The blast of chilled sea air was now unforgiving as it whipped-up the spray of frothing foam and spattered his skin. He wrapped himself tighter into his coat. Only the competent and foolhardy would challenge these angry waters at the height of winter.

  The beige coloured sun was like an artist’s impression; veiled by wafer-thin layers of off-white satin clouds, and only inches above the horizon. He held the moment and for the shortest time, everything else was forgotten. Only the cutting bitterness of the strong westerly wind prevented this from being perfect.

  Deans stood tall and pulled his shoulders back. He cast his gaze across the smooth, rounded faces of the boulders and stopped about fifty metres away where a mound of pebbles stood proud, six feet above the others. He dipped his head. That was the exact spot where several weeks before he had first met Amy Poole, but she was dead and her beautiful, youthful body had been mutilated.

  Deans stepped carefully along the ridge until he was alongside the monument. Several of the stones had messages written on them in marker-pen. Others were painted in various different colours.

  He reached down to his feet and picked up a fist-sized pebble. He kissed it and rested it on the top of the pile.

  Turning his face to the harshness of the wind he said, ‘Amy. I need your help. If you can… please help me.’

  A blinding flash of light from the headland a mile away snatched his attention. He blinked the black dots away from his vision and focussed on the light source; it was a large dark building, teetering on the cliff edge. Departed and solitary.

  Use the light, a voice said in his head.

  His hair stood vertically and his skin prickled with electricity. That voice. He had heard it just weeks before when it said, don’t give up.

  Deans peered at the monument of stones. That was the deceased voice of Amy Poole.

  Warmth swept through his torso and he looked again at the remote house. ‘Use the light,’ he whispered.

  He scuttled down the stones, pebbles clashing and shifting beneath his quick feet.

  The village was not large enough to get lost in and soon he was driving along a narrow dirt track and the same lonesome house was looming large up ahead.

  He slowed as he neared and could not pull his eyes away from the crumbling, red-brick exterior of the Victorian structure.

  The house was… would have been magnificent in its day. As close to the edge of the cliff as would be comfortable, the views out into the bay were extraordinary.

  Deans looked across to the pebble ridge, now just a grey smudge in the distance. He stepped out from his car and the door wrenched from his fingers as a sudden gust of wind slammed it tight. He looked up to the steep-angled roof as crows scattered into the sky, crying out with rasping calls of displeasure. He paused – something in the back of his mind reminded him that a group of these birds was called a murder. The skin on the back of Deans’ neck began to tighten – he was starting to feel the chill. He looked out to sea, beyond the overgrown brambles that skirted the base of the house like a natural fringe of protection. The sun was dipping away. Deans peered up again at the tall boxy chimney stacks and the crows were already settling back in to place.

  He walked to the western face of the property, the side to withstand the worst of the weather. Terracotta tiles glowed amber in the twilight and hung vertically from the walls like a colony of bats. Many had fallen away exposing the ladder-like wooden batons from which they had clung and blemishes in the masonry that was more reminiscent of a building found in a war zone.

  He moved back to the front. A decrepit wooden door set within a parabolic archway signified a probably once impressive walkway into the home, but now the wildly overgrown vines and creepers had invaded the spaces and engulfed the front of the property like a slow spreading disease.

  Deans shut his eyes, dropped his head and mumbled, ‘Amy, why have you brought me to this place?’

  He waited and listened carefully for a response.

  Half a minute went by and with no answer; he looked up to the brine-mottled windows that peered down upon him. The black edges of the structure were now setting an eerie silhouette against the deepening sky. This house would not look out of place in a horror movie.

  Deans squatted down bouncing on his heels. Why was he brought here? Maybe the answers he pursued did not exist. Maybe he had imagined Amy’s voice; crave something enough and your brain will trick you into believing it is possible. Or perhaps Savage was right, and he was finally losing his mind.

  He stood up with a groan from his aching knees, flicked the fringe from his forehead and stepped backward away from the house. He offered one last lingering look and then made his way to see Denise.

  Chapter 19

  Food and a bottle of red wine were waiting for Deans when he arrived.

  ‘Did you do everything you wanted?’ Denise placed a plate of ham, fried eggs and chunky chips in front of him.

  ‘Mostly,’ Deans said. He picked up a chip between his fingers and dipped it in a puddle of ketchup.

  Denise sat down opposite him, no food of her own. ‘And tomorrow?’ she asked.

  He rubbed his face. ‘I’m heading back to Bath. Need to progress that case,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked as if she already knew he did.

  ‘To be honest it’s helping me take my mind off Maria.’ He stared into space. ‘Is that bad of me?’

  Denise smiled. ‘We are each different, Andy. But I’d probably do the same.’

  Deans noticed her staring. ‘What?’

  ‘That house in Bath is waiting to share its secrets with you.’

  He twitched a brow and his thoughts turned at once to the house on the cliff edge.

  ‘It’s not by chance that you have been selected,’ she said.

  ‘Selected?’

  ‘The entity has chosen you.’

  Half a chip poked out from his mouth.

  Denise had a flat expression on her face.

  ‘Okay then,’ Deans said. ‘Why pick me?’

  ‘That’s what you must find out.’

  Deans leaned back in his chair, gave Denise a come on, give me a break gaze.

  ‘You will find the dead connecting to you on a more frequent basis. You are their conduit to the living. This is your gift now,’ she responded.

  ‘More like a curse.’

  Denise smiled and enlarged her eyes.

  ‘You know this area well?’ Deans asked after a couple more mouthfuls of food.

  ‘Reasonably, yes,’ Denise replied.

  ‘There’s a large house, on the edge of the headland––’

  ‘Ah,’ Denise interrupted. ‘The locals call that the haunted house.’

  Deans placed his knife and fork down onto the plate with a loud clunk. ‘Is it,’ he asked, ‘haunted?’

  Denise shrugged dismissively. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been inside.’ She cradled her wine glass and fixed her gaze upon him. ‘What is it? Why do you ask?’

  Deans turned away.

  ‘Andy?’ Denise said. ‘You can trust me… with anything.’

  Deans scratched behind his ear, noticed her nothing will shock me smile.

  ‘I went to the pebble ridge,’ he said, ‘to where Amy Poole’s body was found.’

  Denise lowered her glass silently onto the table and gestured with her head for Deans to continue.

  He licked his lips and looked down.

  ‘It’s okay’ Denise said, reaching over for his hand.

  Deans stared at her hand, on top of his, and knew that he was safe. ‘I asked Amy to help me find Maria.’

  Denise blinked slowly. ‘And?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing,’ Deans shrugged, ‘but right at that moment a bright light shone from the windows of that house directly into my eyes.’ He shook his head. ‘I know it was just the setting sun, but it was like a b
loody beacon or something.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Denise murmured, twisting the glass stem between her long slender fingers.

  ‘Was it…’ Deans asked urgently, ‘…a sign?’

  She lifted her glass and stared into it before taking a sip. ‘Possibly?’ she said. ‘Remember, nothing happens by chance.’

  Deans took a long gulp of his own drink.

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I drove there.’

  ‘And… what did you find?’

  Deans paused and shook his head. ‘I don’t know… but I want to go back.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  Deans glugged more wine. ‘Would you?’

  ‘I can do early tomorrow morning, but nothing later; I’ve got a full day.’

  ‘Okay,’ Deans said. ‘Early tomorrow morning it is.’

  Chapter 20

  The air was cold and tacky from a stiff North Westerly breeze and the sky was depressingly heavy. They had driven separately. Deans arrived first and was already outside of his car staring up at the dilapidated house when Denise joined him soon after. He greeted her with a nod and she came alongside his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s find a way inside,’ he said.

  Denise grabbed his arm. ‘Isn’t that against the law?’

  Deans dug into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He lifted a flap to expose his police badge. ‘If anyone asks,’ he said with a flick of the eyebrow.

  ‘Are you sure you can do that?’ Denise said, but Deans had already hurdled the low, vine-covered wall and was clambering through the undergrowth towards the main entrance.

  ‘Come on,’ he said in a half-whisper. ‘We need to stick together.’

  Denise flapped defeated arms and followed in his path.

  Deans peered through the nearest window, shielding light from the corners of his face with his hands, but everything was masked by dirty old Louvre shutters on the inside.

  Denise was tight on his shoulder. ‘What are we looking for?’ she asked, brushing dirt and foliage from her clothing.

  Deans tugged against an immoveable door handle and took a step back, looking up at the building. ‘I dunno,’ he said and flashed Denise a determined stare. ‘Maybe Amy will show us?’

  He made off around the side of the house, trampling wildly overgrown vegetation down with his feet.

  Denise followed tentatively, flicking stray twigs away as she went.

  Deans stopped at a ground floor window and hurried Denise along with a hand gesture. A diagonal crack ran the entire height of the rectangular-shaped pane. Using the heel of his hand, he pressed against the fault line feeling for movement and the glass shifted. He manipulated the sheet with more force, and the upper section fell out in his hands. He placed the large shard carefully against the side of the house and went to work on the remaining section until the frame was completely free of potential snags. Deans climbed through the open space and used the torch light on his mobile phone to see where he was stepping.

  The place was clearly uninhabited – thankfully, and the kitchen area through which he had just entered was a relic of a time long forgotten. He turned to Denise and after a little persuasion he encouraged her through the gap.

  They stood side-by-side in the narrow room. Deans illuminated the water damaged and paper-peeling walls with the limited beam of light from his phone. He searched the doorframe and found an old-style brown light relay with three switches, but none of them worked. There had probably been no electricity supply for decades. Deans chuckled to himself, if this had been Bath, a property of this one-time grandeur would have snapped up by developers long ago.

  ‘Stay close,’ he said to Denise and shuffled towards a long, dark hallway. The beam of light from his phone highlighted ceiling cobwebs that looked more like flimsy grey hammocks. He felt moisture settling on his top lip and wiped it with a finger.

  They came to a side door. Deans pushed it open and saw beads of light streaming in from gaps in the wooden shutters. He told Denise to stay put, entered the room and pulled the shutters wide in a cloud of choking dust. Daylight drenched the floorboards from the large bay windows and Denise stepped into the room and joined him. Deans looked out through the windows into the vast bay. The cliff edge was so close he might just as well have been looking out from a porthole on board ship.

  ‘Are you picking anything up?’ Deans asked, turning to Denise.

  ‘Oh, what’s that,’ she said raising a hand to his face. ‘Your nose is bleeding.’

  Deans looked at the hand he had used to wipe his lip. It was streaked in blood.

  ‘Here,’ Denise said, handing Deans a tissue. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ she said.

  Deans dabbed his face. ‘I didn’t know,’ he replied. ‘I think it has stopped,’ he said investigating the tissue. ‘Has it stopped?’

  Denise shook her head and deep creases formed in her brow.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Deans said plugging his nostrils. ‘We’ll be out of here soon. I just want to look upstairs.’

  ‘Go careful,’ Denise said. ‘There is something about this place.’

  ‘Are you coming?’ Deans asked, heading for the hallway. Denise groaned and followed in his wake.

  Deans stood at the base of the staircase and looked up. Daylight from the upper levels revealed a kinking and winding row of decorative white spindles, and dark mahogany posts and handrails rose up towards the tallest extremities of the house. He stepped gingerly onto the first tread and slowly climbed the steps, each one echoing with a unique creak.

  He reached the first floor landing, a wide expansive space. He looked towards the light source – it was a beautiful, yet neglected patchwork of lead-lined-stained-glass running the height of this floor and onto the next. Deans looked around. Go higher, his inner voice said, and he climbed the next set of steps and reached the upper level.

  It was darker. There were five rooms, one at each apex and three in the middle. Four of the doors were already open, but he was drawn to the closed door on the west-facing side of the building. He zoomed in on the tainted brass doorknob and his chest plummeted into his belly as if he had just sped over a humped-back bridge. The hairs stood rigid on his arms as he leaned forward for the handle. The door pushed open with a reluctant whine of the hinges and his eyes immediately settled on the single most striking feature in the middle of the room, an ancient metal-framed bed with a heavily stained and soiled mattress sagging off one side and the exposed and redundant rusty sprung-metal-coils of the base.

  Beside the window, he saw a standalone white basin with a fracture in the wall running diagonally behind it, so large he was amazed the side of the house was still standing. He took in the rest of the room; the peeling and hanging orange-flower wallpaper, and a small fireplace with a dune of grey soot that had blown back into the room over an extended period of time.

  He sniffed the air and scowled. It smelt like perfume – familiar perfume. Can’t be.

  He stepped back to the landing and inhaled deeply again, but the smell had completely disappeared. He scrunched up his face and shook his head again.

  ‘Andy,’ Denise yelled from below. ‘Someone’s coming.’

  Deans lingered at the doorway. Something was drawing him back into the room, but Denise needed him. He closed the door and scampered down the steps.

  Denise was already talking to an old man at the bottom of the stairs when Deans arrived.

  ‘Good morning,’ Deans said confidently, bounding down the final few steps and waving his warrant badge ahead of him. ‘We are from the CID. We heard noises from outside. Thought we’d come in and check it out.’ He beamed a smile. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

  He looked at Denise. Her eyes were on stalks.

  ‘How did you get in?’ the little old man asked.

  Deans looked down and noticed a long dead bolt key in his hand.

  ‘We discovered an insecure window. So, do you look after this spectacular place?�
� Deans said, quickly changing the topic.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said straightening his age-buckled back. ‘I’ve been watching over this place since Ruby died.’ His wrinkles puckered on his cheeks. ‘Eleven year now,’ he said with melancholy in his voice.

  Deans squinted. ‘Sorry, who owned it before?’

  ‘It were in the Mansell family for generations,’ the man said.

  ‘Ruby Mansell?’ Deans asked.

  The old boy peered up at Deans through pea-sized eyes. ‘Did ee know her?’

  ‘Sadly, no,’ Deans said and cast an enthusiastic gaze around the hallway. ‘It’s a mightily impressive house.’

  The old man didn’t respond.

  ‘Did you visit when Ruby lived here?’ Deans asked.

  ‘I did,’ the old man said. ‘Frequently.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Deans murmured. ‘And in that top bedroom looking out towards the lighthouse—’

  ‘Ave ee been up in there?’ the old man scowled.

  ‘No,’ he said briskly.

  ‘I never went in that room.’

  ‘Why not?’ Deans asked.

  The old man caught Deans’ eye for a short moment. ‘Oh… no particular reason,’ he said.

  Deans looked the gentleman up and down and rubbed his chin. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘We didn’t find anyone that shouldn’t be in here. Would you like me to fix that broken window?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ the old man said. ‘I best take a quick look around the place.’ He offered Deans and Denise a cautious glance and off he shuffled.

  Deans turned to Denise. ‘Come on,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  Chapter 21

  Deans was back in Bath later that afternoon, he was due to start the next set of six shifts the following day. He had a revitalised energy and an aching determination. He had arranged to meet Maria’s parents at their place. It had been nine days since they last met properly and Deans was pensive. Graham and Joyce Byrne were lovely parents-in-law and about as loving a couple as you could wish to meet. They were the tightest unit he knew and were always together, always smiling, always happy, always so proud of their daughter.