By the end of the first disk, which appeared to contain footage from several occasions, he did not identify much; apart from the fact the Roses liked their sex doggy-style.
He put that disk to one side and loaded the next. This time the subject was only Mrs Rose.
Deans watched her in various stages of undress. He focussed on her hair and the shape of her body, so similar in many ways to Maria. He did not pause, fast-forward, or stop, he just watched and struggled… struggled to remind himself that he was not watching his wife.
He checked his phone. Nothing.
He loaded the final disk and rubbed his eyes. It was the same bedroom scene, but this time it was empty. Deans sipped his coffee and allowed the footage to continue. The walls were now a different colour – the same as they were when Deans had been in the room himself. His eyes were leaden and gritty and all of a sudden, white noise made the image flicker and the sound crackle. Deans moved closer to the screen taking in every minuscule detail.
He snatched his breath and shot back in his seat, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
Did that just…? Nah, couldn’t have.
He rewound the footage and pressed play once again. This time his vision was like laser-sighted rods on one spot of the bed. His mouth fell open, and he quickly played it again.
The bed sheets were bowed and crumpled as if an invisible weight had just sat on them.
Deans ran his tongue around his lips, his throat was powder dry. He watched the recordings again in stark dismay. He saw it happen on another day, and then another, and another, and another. Each day cataloguing an entire sequence of poltergeist activity. Deans was spellbound as the final disk began to show Mr and Mrs Rose in the room once again, mostly sleeping, but Deans could see the air moving around them manifesting itself as washed out light – and then it dawned upon him; movement was activating the baby-cam. The final minutes of the disk rolled on and Deans once again witnessed the deaths of the Roses.
It was at least ten minutes before Deans moved from his seat.
His scalp was so energised that if he touched a single strand of hair his skin hurt. He lingered in complete silence and semi-darkness as he digested the material. What the hell was he supposed to do now? The others already thought he was on the edge. Would they even see what he had seen? It’s all that bloody woman’s fault, he heard Savage saying. And how was any of this helping him find Maria? His sight flickered on the twenty-inch screen and he dropped his face into his hands and remained that way for the next half-an-hour.
It was eleven-thirty by the time Deans arrived home. He had stopped off for a bottle of wine in The Bunker, which he polished off in the same time it usually took him to drink a pint of beer.
He dumped his kit bag onto the floor and made straight for the Jameson’s. He turned on the TV and used the emanating light to illuminate the room. He half-filled a tall tumbler with whisky and sank into the sofa with only his thoughts for company, and hooked up his feet. He pulled out his mobile phone – there were no new messages, so he scrolled down to Maria’s number – and as he had done every night, every morning and several times in between, he tried to call her phone.
He held the mobile to his ear and even though there was an automated voice telling him the other phone was switched off, he repeated the process again.
Deans stared into the whisky glass and wondered how many paracetamols he had in the house. He knew thirty would be enough.
He suddenly stopped and looked up at the ceiling directly above his head.
What was that?
He stood up from the sofa and slammed his tumbler of whisky down onto the coffee table. Still looking up at the ceiling, he licked the spilled spirit from his hand and his heart galloped.
Maria?
He raced out of the room, clattering his shoulder into the door frame, took the stairs, two at a time and burst through the bedroom door.
Maria was on the bed, facing him.
‘Maria,’ he yelled out.
She did not smile. Her features were wet and ruddy, her makeup smeared across her face.
‘Do it!’
There was the voice from behind him, and even though he recognised he was dreaming, Deans knew that he had to take in more of the scene.
‘Do it, now,’ he predictably heard Babbage’s voice say again, but this time Deans remained looking at his wife rather than turning behind him.
Deans leapt forwards hoping Maria would understand that he was taking control. And then he saw it; the flash of the blade beside Maria’s ear. He was too late, again.
‘No,’ Deans yelled, reaching out, but he was still too far away. He caught Maria’s stare and in that split-second moment, her fears transferred to him.
A hand moved swiftly beneath her jawline. Maria’s expression changed, her eyes bunched tightly and the sound of ripping sinew filled the air.
Deans could not move. He could not speak and even though he realised he was in a dream, his limbs would not respond.
Maria slumped forwards, her eyes still open and staring into his. Her raven-black hair covered her face as her head hit the duvet.
Deans sensed movement in his peripheral vision on both sides. He flicked left – it was Babbage, he swung right and for the first time he saw the second person, and their eyes locked together. Deans spotted the glint of the dripping blade in the hand and time stopped still.
Everyone froze apart from Deans. His eyes fogged with building emotion and as he slowly approached, he grabbed the blade and threw it far away along the floor. He rushed over to Maria and felt for a pulse, his hands drenched in her blood, but she was already dead.
Deans wiped his eyes with the material of his shirt and turned back to the killer. His limbs fell weak and limp, and he sank to the floor upon his knees.
He mustered the strength to look up through his despairing eyes, and grinning back at him, was his friend.
Deans awoke and sat bolt upright. He had been crying in his sleep. He peered at the television; the display glowed brightly as a still image burned onto the screen. Deans leaned forward, lifted his glass from the coffee table and took a big mouthful of whisky. The DVD controller was under his midriff and he tugged it out from beneath him, and pointed it towards the screen. His hand shook as he held it outstretched before him. He could feel the piece of skin at the corner of his eye twitching as he pondered the decision to press PLAY. Was he simply torturing himself?
Those were happy times, the happiest. He looked at Maria and penetrating warmth filled his chest. He traced the contour of her face – her smiling mouth, nose… the delicate veil lifting from her hairline. His vision flickered and he peered then at himself.
He looked much younger even though their wedding day wasn’t so very long ago, but Maria had not really changed, not to him anyway. Deans looked away from the screen and focussed on his trembling finger, poised on the button. His eyes narrowed and he finished the contents of his glass with one determined hit.
He planted the tumbler firmly onto the coffee table, closed his eyes and pressed the button.
The sound of chiming bells, cheers and laughter filled the living room. He kept his eyes bunched until he heard Maria’s voice and had no option but to open them again.
Maria had a soft southern Irish lilt; her accent was one of the most endearing traits that first attracted him to her. Deans smiled. There were times when she would enhance it – mostly when she was drunk, or angry, and he loved the way she would tell him to “Feck off” when he teased her about it. What he would do now for one of those flash-tantrums?
He picked up the bottle of whisky by the neck and splashed another large measure into his glass. He paused the DVD player with an image of them both embracing on the steps to the church with confetti on the wind and in their faces. The corners of his mouth lifted and he sank another large mouthful.
“It’s all her fault,” he heard Savage saying again in his head. “Her fault.”
He topped up his tumbler and s
crolled through his mobile phone until he located Denise Moon on his dialling list.
‘Hello,’ she said with a groggy, delayed voice.
Deans did not speak. His breathing was laboured.
‘Andy?’ Denise said. ‘It’s almost one a.m. What’s wrong?’
‘Are you playing me?’ Deans said.
‘Sorry?’ Denise responded sharply.
‘Are you playing me for some kind of idiot?’
He did not hear a reply, so he continued speaking.
‘All this shite about spirits and the bloody gift. Well, where has that got me… hey? Hey?’
‘Um… Andy, I don’t think we should talk about this now—’
‘No. This is a terrific time to talk about it. Everything is always on your terms. Always a load of garbled bollocks; “Ooh, let’s have a treatment and suddenly you can rule the world”,’ Deans said in a sarcastic and mimicking tone. ‘Well I don’t want to rule the sodding world – I want my world – my world. Not a world that you think I should have.’
Deans stopped talking and took a loud gulp of his drink.
‘You know? I honestly think that you may be full of shit… and I almost thought… pah!’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t matter what I almost thought. Well…’ he said hesitating, ‘…I don’t want your help and I don’t need your sympathy… I’ll do just fine on my own… okay? Okay? I don’t need your mumbo-jumbo mystic bollocks anymore. I’ll be fine…’ Deans stopped talking and snorted the remains of his tears away.
Denise was still on the line, but she hadn’t spoken a single word. Deans snivelled and breathed heavily into the mouthpiece and then he heard her speak.
‘Let’s talk properly another time,’ Denise said softly. ‘Goodnight.’ And she put the phone down.
Chapter 24
Deans peeled his body from the sofa and clutched his head. ‘Oh, God!’ he said and covered his face with his hands. He looked around him, his phone was not there – and then he remembered. He got up from the sofa, walked across to the other side of the room and eventually found his phone beneath the armchair. He stared at the screen – nothing.
‘Shit,’ he said rocking his head. What was done, was done, there was nothing he could do about that, but now was not the time to put anything right.
He heaved a sigh and groaned with each pulsating surge of pain in the crown of his head. He rubbed the back of his neck and dragged his hand along the front of his face. The more he thought about it, the worse it became.
In the short time that he had slept, he had envisioned a vivid dream. But this was one that he could turn into reality, and needed to. He figured nine a.m. would be about right and if that was too early, tough luck.
He picked up his phone and sent Mick Savage a text message saying that he had enquiries to follow up and would be taking a pool car for the day, and did not know when he would be back. In fairness, that was as much as Deans knew. This was to be a day of discovery – not least for him.
Ahead of time, he banged loudly and repeatedly on the door giving no choice to the occupier but for it to open.
Samantha Fenwick greeted Deans with a roll of the eyes and an attempt to close the door in his face.
‘No fucking around now, Samantha,’ Deans snarled, using the toe of his shoe to stop the door from closing. He pushed his way inside and followed close behind Samantha as she retreated swiftly away from the door.
‘What now?’ she whined.
‘Find something warm to wear, we’re going out,’ Deans said.
‘Like fuck we are,’ she said turning to Deans, her face like a puckered pink prune.
‘Like fuck – WE ARE!’ Deans growled. He pushed beyond her and started to rummage through debris on the floor in an effort to find some footwear that she could put on.
‘What are you doing? Fuck off, will you,’ Samantha squealed, but Deans was not slowing and he did not intend to leave without Samantha.
‘You’re coming with me and I don’t give a shit if I have to drag you out of here in your bare feet,’ he said launching empty cider bottles through the air like a man possessed.
‘Why are you being so horrible,’ Samantha said curling herself into her chair.
Deans leaned in close, his teeth bared. ‘Get your shoes on, right now.’
Samantha covered her face with her hands and coiled even tighter.
‘Too late for that,’ Deans said. ‘Holds fuck all weight with me. You’re coming. Right now.’
‘Where are we going?’ Samantha asked from behind her arms.
‘Having a little get together… a little family time with Pops.’ Deans had been stuffing a Co-Op carrier bag with her tobacco, Rizlas and a three-quarters-full bottle of her cheap and nasty cider.
‘No way,’ she cried out, ‘I haven’t been there in ages. Not going now.’
‘Yes way. You are coming, and we are leaving right now. Time to take a little drive.’
‘I don’t want to,’ she said in a timid child’s voice.
Deans loomed over her. She was a pathetic picture of a human being. Her sobs were the only thing he could now hear. Deans snapped his head and blinked sense back into himself. He wiped the front of his face and looked at the carrier bag in his hand. Jesus Christ! He looked towards the doorway and back to Samantha. His face flushed with anxiety, his chest pounded and a trauma boiled from deep within. He panted heavily as if he had just jogged up the stairs. He filled his cheeks with air and blew slowly through a small gap in his lips.
‘Samantha… Samantha. I’ve got everything you’ll need.’ His voice was now calmer. ‘You can drink as much as you like. I really need your help… Please?’
She unfurled her arms and Deans could see her puffy and terrified eyes. A ball of guilt lodged in the back of his throat.
She looked at the carrier bag and Deans lifted the bottle so that she could see it was inside.
‘I’ll even buy more bottles for you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’
Her eyes scanned the floor – the empty cider bottles scattered all around.
‘How long?’ she asked.
‘Not long,’ Deans replied gently.
In reality Deans did not know how long they would be, but her voluntary agreement, more or less, was far more preferable to false imprisonment and kidnap.
Deans helped Samantha to her feet, and she directed him to a pair of manky Adidas trainers that he then helped place onto her feet.
‘Do you promise you will buy more cider… and I won’t have to pay you back?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Deans replied. ‘Come on, let’s get to the shops.’
He assisted her down the stairwell of the flats and into his car. In this proximity, Deans realised how much she needed a bath, or at least a wash and a change of clothes. He opened his window to the fullest extremity, even though drizzle was pitching on his arm.
The care home was no more than five minutes up the hill and ignoring the speed restrictions, Deans brought the car to a sudden halt scattering gravel outside of the care home entrance.
‘I don’t want to see him,’ Samantha said defiantly. Her arms folded and her pout classic fifteen-year-old.
‘I actually don’t give a shit what you want,’ Deans said. ‘You’re coming in with me.’
He stepped out, slammed his door, came around the front of the car and fixed a constant glare onto Samantha.
‘Out,’ he said holding the door wide open.
Samantha did not move.
Deans stuck his head inside the car. ‘Don’t test me, Samantha. You are only ten minutes away from being booked into custody for accessory to murder.’
She faced him with pleading eyes. ‘But it’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘It has everything to do with you and your old man. Now, I’m only going to ask you one last time. Please, get out of the fucking car.’
She unhooked her belt, keeping a watchful eye on Deans and slowly inched her way out of the seat.
; Deans shut the door and quickly locked the car. He noticed Samantha staring at the front of the care home building.
‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’ he said buzzing the entrance door.
She shook her dirty matted mop of hair. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked quietly.
The answer was simple. ‘Three dead people,’ Deans said.
‘But we didn’t kill them.’
Deans huffed and looked her in the eye. ‘I’m giving you the opportunity to do the right thing.’
Following the same procedure as before, Deans was once again face to face with George Fenwick, only this time they were in his private room and Samantha and a carer were also present.
‘Hello, George, remember me?’ Deans said loudly. ‘The policeman.’ He knelt down, so that he was the same height as George and beamed a wide smile. ‘Look who else has come to see you?’
George blinked moisture to the metallic sheen coating his eyes, his stare falling short of Deans’ face.
‘He probably doesn’t have an idea who you are,’ the carer suggested.
‘Oh, I think he does,’ Deans said and nudged Samantha in front of her father. ‘Look George, it’s your daughter, Samantha.’
‘Peter?’ George spluttered with his delicate voice.
‘No, George,’ the carer said, ‘this is your daughter. How special is that?’
Deans noticed George begin to turn but then stop himself.
‘Do you know what, George, I’d love to hear all about Peter,’ Deans said and dragged a plastic chair from the back wall, placed it directly in front of the old boy and sat down.
The corners of George’s eyes pooled with tears. He raised an arm; slow, deliberate, trembling and prodded a handkerchief at his face. His lips were ajar, and the skin pulled tight at the corners of his mouth.
‘Peter?’ George repeated tamely.
Deans leaned back against the chair, straining the plastic with his weight. He locked his hands behind his head but did not take his eyes away from the old boy. ‘Do you know what, George? I have as long as it takes. I’m in no rush.’
The Detective Deans Mystery Collection Page 38
