‘Is it Mum?’ Annie asked rising to her feet. Her hands clenched together like a pleading child. ‘Has something happened to Mum?’
Deans looked around her face for a moment and relaxed the muscles around his eyes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not Mum.’
Annie blinked deliberately several times, her eyes darting between Deans and Sarah. She dropped back to the seat, having first checked where she would be landing. The word, ‘Dad,’ ghosted from her lips.
‘Yep,’ Deans said with a huff. He balled his fists into the arch of his back and stretched for a moment. ‘Yep, I’m afraid so.’
Sarah bumped Deans off balance on her way towards Annie with outstretched arms. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Sarah said embracing the young woman.
‘How?’ Annie asked, her eyes welling with tears.
Deans sniffed and glanced back over to the wall decoration. ‘He was murdered.’
Annie stared at him, looking over the top of Sarah’s shoulders as they continued to hug.
Deans walked back to the window and rested his hands on the ledge. He leaned his forehead onto the chilled glass, staring out into the blackness.
‘His head was cut off,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘And his body dumped in the sea.’ He tapped his finger loudly on the window pane. ‘Just about… there.’ He turned and couldn’t tell who appeared most shocked – Annie, or Sarah?
Sarah put her arm around Annie’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she comforted. ‘Is there somewhere I can take you? Maybe back to Mum’s?’
‘No,’ Annie sobbed into her hands. ‘I want to be alone. I want you both to leave.’
‘Okay,’ Deans said.
Sarah lifted her arm away from Annie’s shoulder and gave Deans the dirtiest look he had seen for a long while.
Deans was first to make for the door, but not before stopping and looking back at the decoration hanging from the wall. ‘Take care,’ he said to Annie. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Deans was already negotiating the top of the metal stairs with his crutches when Sarah stormed out of the flat.
‘What the hell was that?’ she said, her voice tense yet restrained.
‘What?’
‘That poor girl has just lost her father, and you… you have just come across like a completely insensitive prick.’
‘Easy,’ Deans said putting on a sulky face. ‘You can have insensitive, but prick?’
‘You know what I mean,’ Sarah seethed. ‘Is that how you deal with death messages in Bath?’
Deans put a hand to his chin and pretended to think for a beat. ‘Nope,’ he replied.
Sarah slapped her hands against her thighs. ‘So why do it now?’
Deans turned his attention back to walking down the steps. ‘You’ll see in time,’ he said and began negotiating the metal treads with his sticks.
Sarah waited at the top and watched Deans ascend the steps, until he reached the bottom. She then joined him beside the car.
‘Did you notice anything familiar inside the flat?’ Deans asked her.
Sarah unlocked the doors, tugged the handle on the driver’s side and sat inside without saying a word.
Deans looked over the roofline and puffed air from his cheeks, before getting into the car himself.
‘Seriously,’ he asked as he buckled himself in. ‘Did you?’
‘No,’ Sarah blurted. She dropped her head and took several loud breaths. ‘I don’t think so?’
‘Hmm,’ Deans grunted.
Sarah slapped the steering wheel. ‘Okay. Okay… should I have noticed something familiar inside the flat?’
‘Maybe?’
CHAPTER 11
An extortionate taxi fare had taken Deans back to Denise’s house. Sarah’s generosity ended at the police station and now Denise was standing at the front door in her dressing gown.
Deans let himself inside the door before Denise had a chance to say anything.
‘Got anything to drink?’ he asked.
‘Good evening to you too,’ Denise said as he wafted by.
‘Got any whiskey in the house?’
Denise judged him with her eyes as she closed the front door.
Deans walked on through to the kitchen.
‘The best I can offer is wine,’ Denise said trailing behind him and re-attaching her robes tightly round her body.
‘That’ll do,’ Deans said. ‘Wine will do just fine.’
Denise passed him, removed a single glass from the wall cabinet and pulled out an unopened bottle of red wine from a cupboard. She placed the bottle down on the kitchen table next to the glass and took a backward step.
‘What, are you not having one?’ Deans asked as he made for the table.
‘It’s a bit late for me.’ Denise gestured towards the bottle. Deans didn’t need a second invitation and quickly unscrewed the top, pouring himself a hurried glass.
‘How did it go?’ Denise asked, keeping her eye on the bottle action.
Deans sank an entire glass in one gulp and topped it back up again. He was aware of Denise looking on, but nailed the second glass with equal determination.
‘Want to talk about it?’ Denise asked, making a deliberate point of noticing the time on the clock.
Deans pulled out a chair from beneath the table and dropped onto it. Denise looked at the clock again. She smiled reluctantly and took the chair opposite. She watched him for a silent minute, deep in his own thoughts.
‘Okay,’ Denise said. ‘It’s almost eleven, I need some sleep. I’ve got clients booked in from nine-thirty, but I’ll be free in the afternoon if you need me for anything.’ She scraped the chair legs back, but before she stood up Deans reached out and grabbed the back of her wrist.
‘There’s something I need to talk to you about. Have you got a pen and paper?’ he said.
Denise put her fingers to her lips and watched him for a few seconds, before standing up and leaving the room.
Deans poured himself another glass and Denise returned with a wad of printer paper and a Biro pen.
Deans drew the design of Annie’s wall decoration as he gulped from the wine glass.
‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’ he asked while crudely replicating the flying bird. He pushed the sheets towards Denise.
She placed her specs onto her nose and looked down. She didn’t say anything at first, but Deans saw enough from her twitching eyes to know that he was onto something.
‘Where did you see this?’ she asked. Her smile now replaced by a serious expression.
‘At a flat, earlier this evening.’
Denise looked up from the page.
‘…And carved into a piece of wood on the deck of Detective Ranford’s boat.’
Denise squinted.
‘And…’ Deans said, ‘…on a book cover in Ash Babbage’s study.’
Denise jerked her head, causing hair to fall across her face. She used a single finger to drag it back and she held Deans’ stare. She stood up without saying a word and walked over to the kettle. She filled it at the sink and turned it on.
Deans watched her every movement.
She took out a tall, slender mug and selected herbal tea from one of three glass containers on the worktop. She waited silently as the kettle boiled and then poured the steaming water, clanking the spoon loudly against the inside of the mug. She carefully balanced the tea bag on the spoon and dropped it into a food caddy in the corner of the kitchen. She caught Deans staring and the corners of her mouth upturned for the briefest of moments.
She came back to the table, sat down, placed a coaster in front of her and lowered her mug on top. She swallowed and then looked up at Deans.
‘There is a legend,’ she said. ‘Well… something more like folklore.’
Deans leaned towards her on his elbows.
She lifted her mug with both hands and blew steam from the top before taking a sip.
‘North Devon has an ancient history,’ she said from behind her mug.
Deans shrugged an
d shook his head.
‘This area in particular, has suggested links to significant events and battles of the Viking Age.’
Deans opened his palm for her to continue and took another drink from his glass.
‘Have you heard of Ragnar Lothbrok?’ Denise said.
Deans spluttered. ‘Yeah, course I have, I love the Vikings series on TV.’
Denise grunted behind closed lips. ‘This is not a TV series. This is real – real events – real people.’
Deans scratched the nape of his neck and then rested his chin in his hands.
‘Ragnar Lothbrok, as you know from watching the TV series, was a famous mythological Viking leader. It is said that one of his son’s, Ubba, invaded these shores.’
‘Ubba was here – you’re kidding?’
Denise looked at Deans in the same way a school teacher might silently reprimand a petulant child.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Deans said.
‘Around the ninth century, Ubba, or Hubba as he was known in these parts, invaded with a heathen army, but they were defeated by Alfred the Great.’ She stopped herself and took a sip of the peppermint-smelling brew.
Deans leaned closer still. ‘And?’
Denise glanced away and licked her lips.
‘And?’ Deans repeated.
Denise took another mouthful of tea and gently leaned back in the chair holding Deans’ gaze. ‘One theory is that Hubba and his entire army of warriors were slaughtered on the ancient meadows of Hemingsford. The defeated army was gathered up and tossed into a mass burial ground. Today, we call this place, Bone Hill.’
‘This is a real place?’
‘Yes. This is a real place.’
‘Where is it?’
Denise drew a deep breath and held Deans’ intense stare. She slowly exhaled and narrowed her eyes.
‘It’s on the headland, hidden by a dense canopy of trees.’
‘On the headland?’ Deans quickly mirrored.
Denise nodded. ‘Not far from Ruby Mansell’s house.’
Deans’ eyes widened. ‘Has it been proven to contain the remains of the Viking warriors?’
Denise shrugged. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
Deans’ mind raced.
‘Another suggestion,’ Denise said. ‘Is that the invasion happened at a different location entirely and this is all romantic fantasy.’ She cleared the back of her throat and shuffled herself in her seat.
‘But?’ Deans asked impatiently.
Denise blinked heavily. ‘But – even though there are a number of hypotheses about Hubba’s death, his remains have never been recovered.’
‘Suggesting he didn’t die here.’
Denise smirked and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘Ancient lore has it that a number of invading warriors survived the battle and remained in the area… along with their barbaric, macabre methods.’
‘Such as?’
Denise lifted her drink and brought it towards her lips. She held it in front of her mouth like a shield as she spoke. ‘There was human sacrifice – females mostly. Young. Nubile. The type of woman who would make a good wife in Valhalla. The most revered of the Norse Warriors to perish on the battle grounds were said to be buried alongside a fresh, young, living maiden.’
Deans’ thoughts raced to Amy Poole. She had all of those qualities, and had been disfigured and then buried alive on the pebble ridge. He took a mouthful of wine and swallowed it down with a loud gulp.
‘And there was ritual sacrifice to appease the Pagan Gods.’
Deans glazed over as Denise continued. ‘Savage acts of violence. Brutal murders and… beheadings.’
Deans lowered his glass with a clatter on the table top.
‘The natives of that time were also fairly barbaric, compared to today’s standards, and didn’t need much encouragement to be inspired by their Scandinavian counterparts.’
The skin around Deans’ eyes tightened. ‘So, what happened?’ he asked.
Denise didn’t blink. ‘It is suspected that a group; a very small group at first, created their own sect of… well… Norse fanatics and disciples of Odin.’
Deans lifted a hand. ‘Hold on. Where is all this history stuff heading?’
‘You have just drawn me The Raven Banner. This was the war symbol of the Norse God, Odin, and a terrifying signal of impending doom to all enemies of the invaders. Hubba was said to have flown The Raven Banner from his flagship.’
‘So?’
Denise looked at Deans over the top of her mug. ‘Ash Babbage. Detective Ranford. And now this other person?’
Seriously? Deans’ chin dropped to his chest. ‘No,’ he said rocking his head. ‘What if they were just fans of the TV series, I mean, you must be able to buy this kind of stuff on the internet.’
‘Of course, but think about the murder victims. Look what has happened to them.’
Maria’s face entered Deans’ mind.
‘What else do you know?’ he asked quickly.
Denise jiggled her head. ‘Imagine centuries of coastal erosion. Speculation suggests that the headland of Sandymere Bay was, as it is now, a rocky outcrop. Manuscripts describe a mythical place – a perfectly flat protuberance of rock where offerings were made to the Pagan Gods.’ She hesitated. ‘I felt something,’ she said. ‘A powerful energy when we were inside Ruby Mansell’s house.’
Deans’ bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I felt it too.’
He stared into Denise’s eyes. ‘The house, it’s on the cliff edge.’
Denise nodded.
‘Oh my God!’ Deans breathed. Maria wasn’t murdered – she was sacrificed.
CHAPTER 12
Next morning, Sarah collected Deans from the house. Jackson had arranged to meet them at Torworthy Police Station, but before they got out of the car, Sarah leaned across to Deans and touched his arm.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she said.
‘That’s okay.’
‘No it’s not. I forgot how this must be for you. It’s understandable that you are reacting differently to the rest of us.’
His eyes flickered. ‘Thanks for understanding. Shall we see what Jackson wants?’
Jackson was already waiting for them inside the foyer.
‘Bad night?’ Jackson said upon seeing Deans. ‘You’ve got bags under your bags.’
‘You could say that,’ Deans replied and shuffled in through a security door behind Sarah and made his way towards the CID office on the first floor.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Jackson said as he followed Deans through the narrow corridor. ‘Something we need to talk about.’
‘Okay,’ Deans replied.
‘Come through here,’ Jackson said, taking Deans to the small interview room a short distance from the office.
Jackson went inside first and took the seat on the opposite side of the table facing the door, leaving Deans to negotiate himself in the snug gap between the door and the back of his chair.
All right, Deans thought, leaning his sticks against the back of the now closed door. What is this all about? He took his seat and watched Jackson, who was licking his thin dry lips and running a thumb and forefinger beneath his jaw line.
‘I don’t want you here anymore,’ Jackson said with a soft firmness. He raised a hand before Deans had a chance to speak. ‘It’s not that I don’t empathize, I truly do.’
‘But?’
‘But, I think that you are a distraction.’
Deans gave Jackson a barbed stare. ‘To?’
Jackson leaned on the desk and his cold eyes narrowed to slits. ‘DC Gold, for one. To the entire team, for two, AND, I think it best if you went home to allow yourself time to recover and let us do what we need to do.’
Deans filled his chest. He held it down for several seconds and then slowly exhaled, so that Jackson would feel his breath on his face. He leaned slightly forwards. ‘Trying to get rid of me again are we?’
‘It’s for your own goo
d. You have a lot to contend with, you don’t need any of this on top.’
‘No,’ Deans said.
‘No?’
‘No,’ Deans repeated. ‘I’m not going home.’
‘Deans…’ Jackson said, flattening his hands on the table. ‘Don’t force me into a decision I don’t necessarily want to make.’
‘Then don’t make it.’
Jackson’s steely eyes cut right through Deans. ‘Why do you torment yourself with this?’
‘You are a local man, aren’t you?’ Deans asked.
Jackson fanned a hand. ‘I don’t live here anymore, but yes. I suppose you would say this was my home town.’
‘Ever heard of Bone Hill?’
Deans saw a twitch in the corner of Jackson’s eye.
‘No,’ Jackson said. ‘Don’t believe I have.’
Deans pinched his bottom lip between his teeth and waited for Jackson to respond.
He didn’t.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me?’ Deans asked.
Jackson tilted his head and eyeballed Deans. ‘Ask you what?’
‘What is Bone Hill?’
Jackson smirked and scratched the skin between his nose and top lip with a talon-like nail. ‘Okay…’ he chuckled. ‘Go on… what is Bone Hill?’
Deans leaned forwards, closing the gap between them. Jackson had nowhere to go – there was a solid wall behind him.
‘A mass burial ground of Viking warriors.’
Jackson blinked and forced a smile.
‘Maria and my unborn son were sacrificed, as I believe, were others through the ages.’
Jackson covered his mouth with the back of a hand and fixed his gaze at Deans.
‘And…’ Deans continued. ‘Your pathologist friend lying in the mortuary is the latest victim.’
Jackson slammed the palms of his hands onto the table top creating an echo in the small room. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘There are no sacrifices. We have our killers – Detective Ranford and Ash Babbage. They were working in tandem and there are no other people involved.’
‘Explain Archie Rowland then?’
Jackson breathed heavily through his nostrils, his mouth was clamped tight.
‘Couldn’t have been Babbage,’ Deans said. ‘He was already dead. It couldn’t have been Ranford. He was locked up.’ Deans slid his elbows along the table, until he was nearly up and out of his chair. ‘There are others.’
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