The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  Denise stared at Deans. He knew what she was doing, but he still downed a triple whisky in one satisfying gulp.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. ‘Once tomorrow is over, or whenever that may be… What are you going to do?’

  Deans rolled the remaining dribble of whisky around his tumbler, closely inspecting the film of liquid as it became ever thinner.

  ‘I dunno.’

  He peered at Denise briefly and then looked back into his glass.

  ‘Will you carry on in CID?’ Denise asked.

  Deans shrugged and leaned forward for the bottle of Jameson’s. He saw Denise out of the corner of his eye as he poured another oversized measure.

  ‘I’ve got a lot to think about,’ he said and took a large swig. ‘I’ve got a funeral to organise.’

  Denise sipped from her tea and studied him.

  Deans sank back in his chair holding his glass in front of his face. ‘Got a funeral to organise,’ he repeated, beneath his breath.

  Denise did not speak, and they sat in silence until Deans finished his drink and then announced that he needed to sleep.

  Chapter 51

  Deans stomped back and forth in the living room and checked his phone for the umpteenth time that morning.

  ‘Sarah said she would call,’ Denise said. ‘Don’t get yourself so worked up.’

  Deans clenched his jaw, glared at Denise for a second, and then continued to clomp with the hard cast of his leg on the laminated flooring.

  ‘Do you want to go out somewhere?’ Denise asked. ‘Would that help?’

  Deans glowered again and removed his phone from deep inside his trouser pocket… again.

  ‘Why doesn’t one of them let me know what is happening?’ he said through gritted teeth. He looked at his phone a further time. Eleven twelve a.m. Just less than three hours of the twenty-four-hour custody time limit left.

  ‘Come on,’ Denise said. ‘Let’s grab some air.’

  ‘It’s pissing down,’ Deans said. ‘I don’t want to go out until I have to.’

  Denise sank her head and turned away.

  Deans’ phone rang in his pocket. He dived inside and answered it without looking at the screen. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Denise watched him, saw his eyes moving from side to side, in response to the other person talking.

  ‘We can be there in twenty,’ Deans said flashing his lids at Denise, searching for her agreement, which she did.

  He ended the call and looked at Denise with purpose in his eyes and fire in his belly.

  ‘The team from Bristol are ready to go,’ Deans said. ‘Jackson wants me to see them before they go in for the first interview. We need to get going.’

  Denise did not talk much on their way to Torworthy CID. Deans was doing enough for the both of them.

  They entered the car park and Sarah Gold met them and took them inside the station.

  ‘Everyone is here,’ she said as they walked through the security doors.

  ‘Jackson?’ Deans asked.

  Sarah nodded. ‘Yeah. It was his idea that you came. Your Bristol colleagues didn’t agree, but here you are.’ She looked up at him and gave a soft smile.

  They went up to the first floor and the CID office that Deans was now almost as familiar with as his own back in Bath.

  Deans immediately saw DI Thornton who came over and shook his hand.

  ‘Andrew,’ Thornton said. ‘It sounds like you had a lucky escape.’ He looked down at Deans’ leg; ‘Again,’ he said and winked.

  ‘Yeah, well, I guess I’m lucky,’ Deans replied dryly.

  Jackson came into the room and people spread out of his way, like a bow of a ship parting water.

  ‘Andy,’ he said, slapping a firm hand down on Deans’ shoulder. ‘Do you have a minute for an update?

  Deans followed Jackson out into the corridor and into the same small room that Jackson had used to give Deans a bollocking those short weeks before.

  ‘Forensics are back,’ Jackson said. He focussed on Deans and sucked air in through his nostrils. His mouth was bound tightly together, his lips thin and tense.

  ‘Go on,’ Deans replied in a low voice.

  Jackson filled his lungs with air and held it in.

  ‘The haunted house… Ruby Mansell’s place… well… Maria was there—’

  ‘I know,’ Deans said. ‘In the cellar.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jackson said. He peered away for a beat and then looked Deans square on. ‘They found numerous traces of Maria’s DNA.’

  Deans shut his eyes and imagined Maria’s face. ‘I knew they would.’

  ‘I’m not sure if you’ll want to hear this?’ Jackson said screwing his face into a wrinkly prune.

  Deans stared at him, permitting the information to pass.

  ‘Okay,’ Jackson said taking breath. ‘The chainsaw—’

  Deans raised a hand and stopped Jackson going any further. His mouth began to quiver, his eyes blurring.

  Jackson reached out and planted a hand onto the table in front of Deans, welcoming Deans to take it.

  Deans blinked and droplets of tears splashed onto the table and onto Jackson’s wrist.

  He brought a hand slowly up from his lap and dropped it into Jackson’s grasp.

  ‘We are going to get this bastard for everything that he has done,’ Jackson pitched. ‘And I am going to do this personally… for you.’

  Deans saw the hatred in Jackson’s face and he squeezed Deans’ hand before letting go.

  ‘Are you staying close by?’ Jackson asked.

  Deans swallowed deeply. ‘Yeah,’ he whispered. ‘I guess.’

  Jackson stood up. ‘Is there anything specific you want us to ask Ranford?’

  Deans lifted his head. His eyes were glazed and reddened, and he simply replied, ‘Why?’

  Chapter 52

  Jackson woke Deans from the sofa in the custody sergeant’s rest room. Denise was with him, but she had not slept. Deans sat bolt upright, his mouth open, but no sound came out.

  ‘Have you had a good rest?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Twenty-past-eleven,’ Denise said.

  Deans wiped his face and dug a knuckle into his gummy eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. How long have I been—’

  ‘You don’t have anything to apologise for,’ Jackson said.

  Deans groaned in the back of his throat and, as he ran a hand through his hair, he sensed a heightened energy in Jackson.

  Deans froze.

  Denise leaned over, grabbing his hand.

  ‘Ranford has coughed the lot,’ Jackson said. ‘Babbage, Amy Poole… Maria.’

  Deans’ jaw slackened.

  ‘Of course, there’s still a hell of a long way to go,’ Jackson continued, ‘but the hardest part is done. We didn’t even have to break him. He blurted the lot – quite proud of the fact, if anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are others that come out in due time.’

  Deans frowned. ‘Don’t you think that’s unusual? Why would he admit so freely to three murders?’

  Jackson rocked his head backwards and looked to the ceiling. ‘Ranford might have been a cop, but first and foremost he was a psychopath, as was Babbage. We may never get to know the real reason why he did these horrific acts,’ Jackson shrugged and looked back at Deans. ‘Anger – hatred – jealously – opportunity? But we must concentrate on the significant steps that have been taken today and make a cast iron case against him so that he never again has an opportunity to do these heinous crimes.’

  ‘Can I see him?’ Deans asked.

  Jackson jerked his head back and frowned at Deans.

  ‘Not in person,’ Deans said. ‘Can I watch him on the charge room CCTV?’

  Jackson shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not, but you absolutely must not have any contact with him. Do you understand?’

  Deans’ bottom lip wavered, so obviously that he was under no doubt that Jackson and Denise
noticed.

  Jackson held the door open and Deans and Denise walked through to the charge desk and booking in area.

  A different sergeant was behind it now. Deans recognised him from when Babbage had been locked up a couple of weeks before.

  ‘This is Andy Deans,’ Jackson said to the custody sergeant.

  ‘We’ve met,’ the sergeant said, holding an outstretched hand for Deans to take. ‘My sincere condolences,’ he said giving Deans a firm handshake.

  ‘Can I see him on the screen?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Be my guest,’ the sergeant said, directing Deans’ attention to a TV monitor and one of the camera cells – the same one that Babbage had occupied those weeks before.

  Deans peered at the screen. Ranford was tucked beneath a thin blue blanket, his feet nearest the camera.

  ‘How long has he been out of interview?’ Deans asked.

  The custody sergeant looked at his computer screen. ‘About fifteen minutes now,’ he said. ‘He’s having a compulsory rest.’

  ‘What did his brief say?’ Deans asked in a deadpan voice.

  Jackson shook his head. ‘He just let Ranford speak, didn’t try to stop him.’

  Deans nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘And the team from Bristol?’

  ‘They’re in for the long haul,’ Jackson replied. ‘They think they might stick another interview into him before the night is out and we still have a bag of time left on the superintendent’s extension. They’ll be at it all tomorrow as well.’

  ‘Why don’t we head off?’ Denise said.

  Deans heaved a juddering breath and his vision flickered as he stared at Ranford’s feet.

  ‘She’s right,’ Jackson said. ‘No point being here. Get off to bed, safe in the knowledge that we caught your wife’s killer.’

  Deans slowly drew a deep breath. ‘Yeah,’ he sighed. ‘We did.’

  Denise walked over to him, wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a long, firm hug.

  Jackson watched them for a quiet moment.

  ‘You two have a potent alchemy,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you do half the things you… do, but you would be a very useful asset to someone, somewhere.’

  Jackson’s bony features softened. ‘And I’d be delighted to have you both on my squad.’

  Deans looked up at Jackson, and Jackson smiled back at him.

  ‘I don’t know what my future holds, anymore,’ Deans said. ‘But I’ve got some serious thinking to do.’

  ‘That is totally understandable, and you must take your time,’ Jackson replied. ‘Don’t make any rash decisions.’

  He walked over and touched Deans on the back of the arm.

  ‘You are an extraordinary detective,’ Jackson said.

  Deans smiled a little and locked eyes with Jackson.

  ‘And you are still an arsehole.’

  Chapter 53

  ‘Okay,’ the pathologist said to his assistant, ‘wheel her in, but give me a moment; I need to tell Jen that I’m going to be late.’

  The assistant nodded and smiled as the pathologist walked out of the examination room into the scrubs area, delved into his opened locker and removed his phone.

  ‘Hi, honey,’ his wife said breezily after several rings. ‘Are you on your way?’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Jen. I’ve got to work late tonight.’

  ‘Archie, you promised!’

  ‘It shouldn’t take too long, sweetheart. The police want this one fast-tracked – something to do with a high-profile case.’

  ‘But we arranged to meet the others at eight. Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  The pathologist huffed and looked back through the glass wall into the examination room, to where the assistant was just walking away from the body. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he sighed. ‘This is apparently something unusual, and they need the results.’

  ‘Don’t they always?’

  The pathologist rolled his eyes. ‘This doesn’t happen all that often, Jen—’

  ‘After thirty-two years of loyal service you would think they could let you enjoy your wedding anniversary?’

  ‘Yes, well, this is the last one that will be affected – by this job, anyway.’

  ‘And it can’t come soon enough,’ his wife sniped. ‘Alright, be quick and I’ll see you at home. Make sure you let me know if you are going to be any later than seven, I don’t want to let the children down… again.’

  ‘I will,’ the pathologist said. ‘Just remember Jen, I love you – always have, always will.’

  ‘Love you too,’ his wife said. ‘And be quick!’

  Archie half-smiled and blew a double kiss down the phone.

  He looked back at the stainless steel slab and the lawn-green hospital sheet covering the body. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’

  He walked over to an ancient but reliable music system and pressed play on the CD stack.

  Archie Rowland had a set routine that he followed each time he examined a body. He was old school, and despite the modern-day powers-that-be frowning upon his quirky nuances, that was as far they took it. With only two months before retirement, he was probably in the “too difficult to handle” box and best left to his ways.

  The London Philharmonic filled the silence of the room as Archie rolled up his latex gloves without looking down at his hands. He hummed along to the opening piece – Saint-Saens La Danse Macabre, and flicked the switch to start the extractor fan above the slab. He donned his mask, entered the examination room and walked over to the counter top housing the electronic weighing equipment and the ‘subject’ notes.

  ‘So,’ he said, opening the file cover. ‘Welcome… Mrs Maria Deans.’ He hummed along to the music and peeled back the sheet from the top of the slab. ‘Oh!’ he said taking a partial backwards step. ‘Oh dear!’

  The assistant came into the room. ‘Do you need me any longer, Archie? Only, it’s Friday and I was hoping—’

  Archie covered the body quickly with the sheet. ‘No, that’s fine, Annie. I will clean up afterwards. You go and enjoy your youth. Have a wonderful weekend.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Annie said. ‘I’ll see you next week.’

  Archie waved a hand as Annie closed the door. This was an autopsy that she didn’t need to view.

  The county’s most revered and knowledgeable pathologist walked back over to the file and read the opening pages. He returned to the body and took a deep breath.

  ‘So, you are the wife of a detective, eh? No wonder they were persistent.’ He slowly peeled the sheet back exposing the upper torso once again. He stopped, looked and sighed deeply. ‘Well then, Mrs Deans,’ he said, ‘what has happened to your head?’ He leaned in closer to her body and looked at the cauterised folds where her head was once connected to the remaining stump.

  ‘Interesting,’ he muttered.

  He took his index finger and slowly followed the contour of the seal, five centimetres above the clavicle. ‘Hmm,’ he muttered, ‘very neat.’ He pinched the seam of the hospital sheet and walked backwards with it, exposing more of Maria’s body. He stopped just below the waist and dropped the material. He stared at her torso and frowned. For a moment, he did not move and then he returned to the notes. He studied them with more detail and pursed his lips.

  ‘Very interesting,’ he said and turned back to Maria.

  He walked slowly counter-clockwise staring at her body. He came alongside her stomach and crouched down so that his eye-line was at the same height as her tummy. He leaned across and gently manipulated the skin around her abdomen.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he murmured, stood up and leaned in closer. ‘When did you get this?’ he said looking at a perfectly straight and expertly stitched wound up the centre of her belly.

  He reached for a measure. ‘Seventeen centimetres exactly,’ he said aloud. He paused, chewed the inside of his cheek, and looked back to where Maria’s head should be.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Deans, but I’m going to have disturb this
exquisite piece of surgery.’

  He took a fresh Swann Morton scalpel from the stainless steel tray beside the slab, moved the large round lamp directly above his head, and slowly sliced and picked the stitches apart, until the skin was free from the sutures. He frowned and coughed behind his mask. He was now completely unaware of the dramatic music playing in the background. He took his index finger and gently pulled one side of the skin flap away. He held it open with a slightly trembling finger and leaned closer in to the body. He could see a small but easily identifiable pair of feet. He sucked in deeply through his nostrils and shook his head.

  ‘Where’s the amniotic fluid?’ he whispered to himself.

  He reached behind him and selected a shoehorn shaped metal implement and edged back towards the body. He took a clamp, parted the incision area and manoeuvred the light above his head so that he could see clearer. He lowered the implement into the wound and slowly lifted it back out. He reached down, hooked the umbilical cord beneath his index finger, and gently unravelled it towards him until the tiny feet were visible. He carefully reached in with his fingers and pulled out the unborn baby.

  ‘Oh God!’ He dropped the foetus onto his mother’s belly and the tool that he had been holding bounced and clanked on the hard examination room floor.

  Archie stood back. He stared at the child’s body, his eyes wide and disbelieving. He did not move or blink for at least a minute, and then he quickly checked around the room that nobody was present.

  He stepped in closer and peered down again at the foetus.

  The little boy – just fourteen weeks old – had suffered the same hideous fate as his mother. His head had been removed… and the wound had been cauterised with the same exacting intent.

  Archie covered his mouth with the other hand through the mask. His eyes burned wide and bewildered. He leaned in close to Maria’s body once again and tilted his head. He fumbled for a pair of tweezers from the tray and gently picked at an object from her torso. He held it up to the light and peered closer; it was one of the sutures.

  Archie shook his head.

  ‘Can’t be, can’t be,’ he muttered softly and brought it closer towards his face. He peered back at Maria, the surgical wound, and then took time to stare at the tiny strand suspended in his grasp. He leaned in closer still. ‘I haven’t seen sutures like that since…’ His bottom lip quivered and he flashed a glance towards the door.