The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  ‘Yeah, too bloody right,’ Mansfield said.

  Deans looked over at Denise and even though there was low light, he could tell her eyes were popping out from her head.

  Deans was silent during the entire journey back with Denise. The CID officers had already gone, clearly keen to knock-off.

  Deans always carried at least one swab kit in his day-bag and the moment he had a chance, he wiped one of the sticks inside his trouser pocket and re-sealed it inside the tube.

  They arrived at Denise’s home and she opened a bottle of merlot, handing Deans a large glass with the best part of half the bottle inside. They sat at the kitchen table in introspective silence. Deans stared deeply into the burgundy coloured liquid, his thoughts tangled and barbed. He placed the glass down onto the table and looked at the palms of his hands, prodding the remnants of the faded stain.

  ‘The officer was right,’ Denise said watching him. ‘You should give those a really good scrub.’

  Deans shook his head and carried on looking at his palms.

  Denise followed-suit and placed her glass onto the table. ‘We don’t know she was there,’ she said.

  Deans looked up at her and held eye contact for the first time since they had arrived back at the house. ‘We do,’ he said. ‘She was.’

  They stared at each other until Denise spoke. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  Deans took a long sup from his glass. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But there’s one thing I am now sure about – I know who killed my wife and child.’

  Chapter 47

  Deans woke from a disturbed night. Maria had been in every thought, dream and conscious wakening. He imagined her horror; being trapped and chained in the dark and dingy cellar. He knew this was the day he would most likely hear about the DNA result from the body dragged from the depths of Sandymere Bay, and finally have to come to terms with his unspeakable reality.

  He joined Denise in the kitchen. She offered him toast, but he only accepted coffee. He sensed her studying his every movement.

  ‘So?’ she said finally. ‘Have you decided anything?’

  Deans nodded and kept the mug of coffee close to his mouth.

  ‘Do you need me today?’ she asked.

  He looked her in the eye and nodded again.

  She came over to the table but did not sit down. ‘Andy, the guardians have spoken to me. There is grave danger ahead for you.’

  Deans blew the steam from the top of his drink and returned the mug to his lips.

  ‘Andy, this is serious,’ Denise continued.

  ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘It is.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Denise asked, her voice full of concern.

  ‘Unfinished business.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘Torworthy CID.’

  Denise shrugged. ‘But they said they couldn’t help anymore.’

  Deans’ eyes moved from the dead space on the table in front of him and settled on to her troubled face.

  ‘They will,’ he said.

  The journey to Torworthy took far too long for Deans, only to be informed at the front desk that no one from the CID department was in the office. Deans looked at the police cars parked in a neat row, noses facing outward for a quick response. His eyes settled on a gap. One of the unmarked vehicles was out.

  He rummaged through his day-bag, removed a lightweight stab vest and proceeded to put it on beneath his jacket.

  ‘Take me to Babbage,’ he said to Denise.

  ‘You can’t can you?’ she asked.

  ‘I can,’ he said, giving her an unyielding stare. ‘Please, will you take me?’

  Denise stared wide-eyed at Deans and raked hair from her face. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Confront my wife’s killer.’

  ‘What about me?’ she asked.

  Deans paused and considered his answer.

  ‘You need to be there too.’

  Denise remained open mouthed for a moment, but then gave in when she realised Deans was not going to take no for an answer.

  They parked short of the address but close enough to see the front door.

  ‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Denise asked.

  ‘Probably not,’ Deans said, looking all around the car through the windows. ‘But what else have I got left to lose?’

  Denise pulled the keys from the ignition and tightened her long raincoat around the waist. ‘I’m not letting you go in there alone,’ she said. ‘I feel partly responsible for that monster and I’m not prepared to let anything else happen to you.’

  Deans half-smiled. ‘That’s up to you. I am not asking and I am not making you come with me… but thanks.’

  They both stood outside in the fine drizzle and Deans hobbled his way towards Ash Babbage’s property.

  ‘What are you going to say?’ Denise asked under her breath.

  ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ Deans said, and as they neared the front door, Deans turned to Denise with apprehensive urgency. ‘You do have your phone on you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Denise said.

  ‘If this gets messy call 999, okay? Tell them where we are and say an officer needs urgent assistance. Alright… alright, Denise?’

  Denise nodded. Her face was ashen grey.

  Deans banged on the door with the ball of his fist. His breathing was fast and heavy, and he could feel his chest beating against his stab vest.

  He waited thirty seconds and banged again.

  This time the door unlatched and was jerked open with one swift motion. Detective Ranford stood in the doorway. He peered at Deans, then Denise, and then back to Deans.

  ‘Andy!’ he said. ‘What… What are you doing here? I thought you were the CSI.’

  Deans looked down at Ranford’s hands. He was wearing forensic gloves. Deans noticed the recognition in Ranford’s face and he moved his hands behind his back.

  ‘I’ve come to speak to Babbage,’ Deans said. ‘Don’t try to stop me.’

  Ranford stepped out into the rain but kept one hand on the edge of the door. He checked left and then right and grinned. ‘Mate,’ he said, putting a hand on Deans’ shoulder. ‘You may have a problem there. Babbage has killed himself.’

  Deans rocked backwards. ‘What?’ he spluttered. ‘Where is he?’ He shoved Ranford to one side.

  ‘Hold up,’ Ranford said grabbing Deans’ arm. His smile waned. ‘This is a crime scene.’

  He gave Denise a considered look and then whispered in Deans’ ear. ‘He’s inside, only just done it. I found him about twenty minutes ago. I thought you were the CSI.’

  ‘Let me in,’ Deans said jerking his arm back.

  ‘Andy, I can’t,’ Ranford laughed. ‘It’s the scene of an incident. We need a full forensic examination.’

  ‘Paul,’ Deans said standing as tall as his buggered leg would allow him. ‘Let me the fuck inside now. I want to see that bastard – dead, or alive.’

  Ranford’s face broke into a smile. ‘Of course, Andy, I completely understand.’

  He pushed the door open but again gripped Deans firmly by the arm. ‘Just, please be mindful of evidence.’

  Deans glared at him and then turned to Denise. ‘Do you want to come in?’ he asked.

  Denise shook her head.

  ‘Come on,’ Ranford said to Denise. ‘At least step in out of the rain.’

  Denise succumbed but remained on the doormat as Deans followed Ranford into the kitchen diner.

  Babbage was at the table. His head flopped back and a huge puddle of blood encircled his chair.

  Deans circumnavigated the claret until he was on the opposite side of the table and facing Babbage. There was no mistake; he was definitely dead, and by the looks of it, as a result of several deep slices to his throat. Deans looked to Ranford whose brow twitched as he smiled.

  Deans examined the surroundings. There were two place settings. He gazed at the plate of food and coffee cup in front of
Babbage, and then the blooded stainless steel carving knife lying on the table immediately in front of him.

  ‘Did a good job on himself,’ Ranford commented.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Suppose that’s one less shit to worry about.’ Ranford slowly made his way around the table towards Deans.

  Deans did not speak, but took in the rest of the area. He sniffed a lungful of the room. A smell of cooking was still in the air. He peered in closer to Babbage, ensuring the toes of his feet remained clear of the blood.

  ‘When did you say you arrived?’ Deans asked Ranford.

  Ranford shrugged. ‘Twenty, maybe thirty minutes ago? I called it in straight away. I don’t know why the others are taking so long to arrive.’ He smiled. ‘Like I said…’ his voice tailed away.

  Deans nodded and hobbled over into the kitchen area.

  ‘Careful where you plonk that cast,’ Ranford joked while keeping a watchful eye on Deans.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Deans said and continued looking around the kitchen. Cooking pans were still on the hob. He wandered over and looked inside one of them. Scrambled eggs. He touched the outside of the pan – it was warm. Deans sucked in a deep breath; the odour of breakfast was so far overcoming the stench of death. Everything else was as clean and tidy as he remembered it to be when he was last inside the house. Showroom tidy, he recalled, and then he saw it – a second steaming mug of coffee.

  He quickly turned to Ranford, who was also looking at the hot drink, and they locked eyes.

  ‘It wasn’t a dream,’ Deans said. ‘You did visit me in hospital.’

  Ranford cocked his head and grinned. He was now standing just the other side of Babbage with his gaping neck between them. Deans dragged his leg along the floor and rushed towards Ranford. ‘Why did you have to involve my wife, you bastard?’

  Ranford stepped back and lashed out, swatting a debilitated Deans away with ease.

  Deans headed straight through the tacky tide of Babbage’s blood. His teeth bared, and with single-minded determination, he grabbed Ranford by the lapel of his jacket. ‘You have played me from the start, you bastard,’ Deans seethed.

  ‘She’s dead,’ Ranford laughed playfully. ‘Maria is dead and I really enjoyed cutting up her body parts and feeding them to the fish.’

  Deans’ stomach juddered and convulsed, but before he could do anything, Ranford pushed him hard in the chest causing Deans to slip to the floor, his face splattering in the pool of tepid blood.

  Deans scrabbled, slipped, and did his utmost to stand up from the slimy gloop, but struggled with his leg cast to come back to his feet.

  Ranford rounded him like a cat toying with an injured prey. ‘How convenient,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t have to be suicide anymore.’ His gloved hand reached over Babbage and he placed the handle of the kitchen knife into Deans’ struggling grasp. ‘There,’ Ranford said happily. ‘That should do it.’

  Deans gripped the knife and thrust it in Ranford’s direction, but only jabbed at air.

  ‘Now, now, Andrew, one murder should be enough for anyone.’

  Ranford pressed the transmit button on his Airwave radio as Deans struggled to lift himself clear of the slippery floor.

  ‘Priority,’ Ranford shouted, putting on a breathless and animated voice. ‘Immediate backup required – all available units.’ He coughed, spluttered, and put on a struggling whimper. ‘Murder suspect has returned to the scene. He’s… Oh my God! He’s got a knife… No!’ Ranford screamed and then instantly ended the transmission with a smirk and a wink. ‘That should get the troops going,’ he said.

  Deans knew that the Airwave radio would provide Comms with their exact location thanks to its internal GPS system.

  Deans made it up onto a knee, coated in Babbage’s blood. ‘You fucker, you won’t get away with this!’

  Ranford drew his extendable steel baton from his utility belt, racked it fully open and held it in a textbook ‘strike’ pose on his shoulder.

  ‘Do you really want some?’ he asked. ‘I’d say you were in enough shit as it is.’ He stepped closer towards Deans and beamed a wide smile. ‘You know it’s a shame, I kind of liked you. But I have to say, your wife was pretty fucking hot… considering she was up the duff.’

  Deans slid and as Ranford drew the baton up from his shoulder to strike, Deans closed his eyes and curled up into a ball, but instead of feeling pain he heard a loud crash and scattering of objects onto the floor. He opened his eyes and saw Denise clinging on to the back of Ranford’s neck.

  ‘Get off me you fucking freak,’ Ranford shouted, lashing out wildly with his hands, clattering into the table and into Babbage who dropped sideways off the chair into his own sea of blood.

  ‘Keep him there,’ Deans yelled and crawled his way along the floor until he was lying on the back of Ranford’s legs. He grabbed Denise who was crying and looking horrified at the blood on her hands and clothing. ‘Call the cops,’ Deans said. ‘Do it now.’ He used his body weight to keep Ranford pinned to the floor and squeezed his neck angrily with both hands. There was nothing he wanted more than to end Ranford’s life – an eye for an eye – but he stopped himself from strangling Ranford and removed his hands.

  The reverberation of howling sirens grew louder in the narrowing distance. It sounded like the entire fleet was approaching from the station. Deans flipped Ranford onto his back so that he was now looking up at Deans. ‘Paul Ranford,’ Deans said breathlessly, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Ash Babbage. Conspiracy to murder Amy Poole…’ He swallowed and gritted his teeth, ‘…and the murder of Maria Deans.’

  Urgent voices sounded and the front door burst open with a loud crash. Before he could do anything else, Deans was smashed in his back and folded in half from the rear as he was jumped on by a number uniformed officers. His face was pile-driven into the floor, his arms wrenched from beneath him into an agonising position behind his back and his wrists manhandled roughly into handcuffs. He could hear Denise doing her best to complain, but she then began to scream and her voice became frantic. Deans tried to wriggle free of his captors but the pain increased with each attempt to move.

  Deans listened to Ranford’s voice somewhere above him. ‘You little fucker,’ Ranford said. ‘You’re going to rot for what you’ve done to Ash Babbage… and for what you just tried to do to me.’

  ‘Leave him,’ a firm voice shouted above all the commotion.

  Deans scraped his face along the floor and looked towards the hallway. It was Sergeant Jackson.

  ‘Ranford. Over here!’

  Ranford looked at Deans with ardent hatred and turned towards Jackson as instructed.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jackson demanded of Ranford.

  ‘That fucker just killed Babbage. I practically caught him in the act.’

  Jackson looked at Deans, lying face down on the floor with four uniformed officers kneeling on his thighs and shoulder blades. Deans caught his eye and saw Jackson staring at the leg cast.

  Jackson frowned and turned back to Ranford. ‘No he didn’t,’ he said. His lips were thin and his stare was fierce. He looked down at Ranford’s hands. ‘Had enough time to put those on though I see?’ He suddenly launched out an arm and gripped Ranford by the throat, pushing him up against the wall. ‘Ranford,’ he said, ‘I’ve been watching you for some time, now.’ Jackson bared his teeth and leaned in within centimetres of Ranford’s face. ‘You must think I’m some kind of blind idiot?’

  ‘Let him go,’ Jackson shouted. He turned to the officers restraining Deans. ‘I said let Detective Deans go.’

  Deans felt the pressure ease from his body and he fought to regain his breath from his crushed rib cage. He looked over towards Denise who was still being restrained against a wall. ‘And Denise,’ Deans gasped, pushing himself up from the floor.

  ‘Let the woman go too,’ Jackson ordered.

  Deans dragged himself alongside Jackson, who was still holding a breathless Ranford by th
e trachea.

  ‘Do you want the honours,’ Jackson asked Deans.

  ‘Already done it, Sarge,’ Deans said. ‘Before the goons shoved me off him.’

  ‘Good,’ Jackson said. ‘I call that poetic. Now, someone take this piece of shit away from me and book him into custody.’

  Two PCs hesitantly came over and half-heartedly took Ranford, choking and coughing, away.

  Deans walked over to Babbage and stared at his corpse. He had seen enough death in recent weeks to last him a lifetime, but he felt no sympathy.

  DS Jackson joined him beside the mess on the floor. ‘We need to talk,’ he said, ‘but first I feel I must formally introduce myself. I am Detective Sergeant Stephen Jackson of Professional Standards.’

  Deans turned to him with abrupt surprise. ‘Professional Standards?’

  ‘Well, a covert limb of it,’ Jackson replied.

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  Jackson chortled. ‘No. Not you, but you didn’t half make my job bloody difficult. Come on, let’s follow the others to custody and get you cleaned up.’

  Chapter 48

  As they drove through the slow Torworthy traffic, Jackson told Deans and Denise that he was a local lad, but on making promotion through the ranks of the police he was approached by a covert limb of Professional Standards to be secreted within the constabulary. His role was to act just like any other departmental officer, but to also keep detailed dossiers on individuals identified as potential problems to the organisation. Ranford had only recently appeared on his radar. He had displayed an overwhelming desire to be involved with missing person investigations involving young women, until Deans had come along and scuppered their snooping.

  As Jackson spoke, Deans thought about the early stages of the Amy Poole investigation; the CCTV and the post mortem – each eagerly lapped up by Ranford.

  Jackson said that Ranford’s existence was somewhat of a dichotomy; outwardly, his appearance was smart, his actions thorough – verging on the OCD, yet he lived a nomadic lifestyle with little luxury and few friends, apart from, it would seem, Ash Babbage.