‘We found camouflaged netting concealing the grave – just the same kind you used on your boat,’ Deans said.
Ranford bobbed his shoulders.
‘Explain how that got there,’ Deans asked.
‘That doesn’t mean a thing,’ Ranford said. ‘You can get that netting anywhere.’
‘We also recovered a shovel,’ Jackson said.
Deans noticed Ranford baulk slightly. ‘That’s right, Paul. It’s not a shovel, it’s a spade. There’s a subtle difference with its usage.’
‘Same thing,’ Jackson mumbled.
‘Tell us what we’re going to find when we examine the spade?’ Deans asked. In his peripheral vision, Jackson wiggled in his seat. Deans was taking it all in. ‘Your prints, DNA?’ Deans asked.
Ranford sniffed and rolled his shoulders.
‘Somebody else’s?’
‘Maybe,’ Ranford said.
Deans allowed ten seconds of silence to frame his question.
‘My wife. Archie Rowland and now Annie Rowland…’
Ranford’s left eye half-closed. He didn’t know about Annie.
‘Who else are we going to find down there?’ Deans asked.
Ranford appeared to drift off. Was he imagining their faces? ‘Who else is in this with you?’ Deans asked, making a point of looking sideways at Jackson.
‘This is a waste of time,’ Jackson said.
‘Was my wife sacrificed as an act of war?’ Deans said through clenched teeth.
Ranford peered at Deans beneath heavy eyes.
‘If it’s a war you want, a war you’ll have.’
Ranford looked over to Mansfield and twirled his index finger beside his temple. ‘Is he alright?’ He looked back at Deans. ‘I think you left something at that train crash… your marbles, perhaps?’
‘Sadly for you and your little band of Pagan worshipers, I found myself at that crash site.’
‘Alright,’ Jackson said leaning across the table and stopping the recording equipment. ‘I think that’ll just about do us for now.’ He glared at Deans and then at Ranford. ‘You’ll be staying here for a while yet,’ he said to Ranford. ‘So I suggest you think long and hard about talking, or not.’
Jackson, Deans and Mansfield remained in the room as Ranford was escorted away by two detention officers.
‘You mind explaining what that was all about?’ Jackson asked.
Deans heaved a deep breath and peered up at the sound-proofed ceiling. ‘I’m figuring out my enemy.’ He interlocked his hands behind his head, exposing his throat. Show yourself for what you are, Jackson.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Jackson said.
‘Exactly how it sounds.’
Deans lowered his arms and faced Jackson. ‘What now, Sarge?’
‘Well, that was a total waste of time. You need to rein in your personal feelings, son.’
Deans scoffed and sniffed loudly. They are the only things keeping me alive.
CHAPTER 44
The DCI had sent Jackson a voicemail while they were interviewing. They were to return to the station immediately, and she was waiting for them as soon as they came in from the outside.
‘We’ve got a fingerprint hit on the spade,’ she said. She was looking at Jackson the entire time. ‘I am told you handled the spade without protection from cross contamination.’ The DCI glared at Jackson. ‘Why did you feel the need to remove the exhibit in the first place?’
‘I was intrigued.’
‘By a fucking spade? Have you lost your mind? You have compromised a vital piece of evidence.’
Deans’ head slumped. This was what he feared would happen.
The DCI noticed Deans. ‘In fact,’ she said. ‘We have three separate hits. Two are confirmed and one is still being processed.’
Deans looked up. ‘Who is the other one, Ma’am?’
‘Paul Ranford.’
That meant Ranford did play more than a proprietary role in the death of Deans’ wife. He was at the site where her head was buried. Perhaps he was the main man after all.
Deans’ mind tracked to his early days in training school when he and his induction were trained in fingerprint and DNA taking. They were instructed on how to take wet prints and were let loose to practise on one another. Same with DNA mouth swabs. It was a lot of fun, but the police weren’t stupid and there is no doubt the ‘practice’ prints and swabs were shipped off to a lab and added to the database. After all, how embarrassing would it be for the force to a have a serial criminal in their ranks? Ironic!
‘When are we expecting the results of the third?’ Deans asked.
‘It’s a partial lift. They’re not convinced enough at present to give a positive result, but they are re-examining the spade…’ she looked at her watch. ‘Andrew, can I have a quiet word, please?’
‘Of course, Ma’am.’
Jackson ogled them as they walked away and into a separate room.
The DCI invited Deans to take a seat, but remained standing. She observed him for a moment. ‘How did you know about the Bone Hill?’ she asked.
Deans folded his arms. ‘I was told about it.’
‘By?’
‘Denise Moon.’
‘Ah, Denise Moon.’
‘Hold on, Denise isn’t—’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not apportioning any involvement to your friend.’
‘Denise told me about the local history – the Viking invasion in the ninth century.’
‘Yes,’ the DCI said drawing the word out to emphasise her thoughts on the matter. ‘The Vikings. I’ve heard a lot about the Vikings recently.’ She continued staring at him and began to pace slowly, as was becoming her trait. ‘What I mean is, how did you find the burial ground? It was off the beaten track and hidden beneath camouflaged netting.’
Deans smoothed his fingers along the side of his face, towards his scar.
‘It’s okay – try me, but I’m not swallowing that “instinct” line of yours again.’
Deans glanced away and pondered his next move. His eyes darted left and right. She was taking on Jackson, so had to be an ally, didn’t she? He moistened his lips and peered up at the boss.
‘Detective Gold has told me some things about you,’ the DCI said.
Oh, shit! Deans plunged his head into his hands.
‘It’s okay. I have an open mind about these things. I knew there was something special about you after that search at Babbage’s house, and how you discovered that evidence…’
Deans nodded, but his hands still masked his face.
‘Tell me,’ the DCI pressed.
Deans peeled his head from his hands. ‘I didn’t want any of this,’ he said.
‘I understand that,’ the DCI said.
‘I’d rather have my family back.’
‘But that can never happen. Not anymore.’
‘No.’ He looked away. ‘Not anymore.’
‘But you’ve got talents – talents that can be very useful to a detective – to a police force.’
‘Yes,’ Deans breathed.
‘And I want you to use them.’
Deans looked her square in the eye.
‘I want you to go to police headquarters with Detective Gold, this evening. There, you will meet a colleague of mine who is expecting you. He is going to show you some photographs of outstanding missing persons from this district. Look at them. Do whatever it is you do. It’s time to unleash your talent.’
‘Why are you helping me?’
The DCI pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘My mother went missing when I was eight years of age. They suspected my father for a time. And then put it down to her own decision to leave when they found no evidence of her disappearance. Hmm, that’s not at all what happened. She was murdered; at least, that is what I believe. But her body has never been found.’ She made a point of looking at Deans. ‘I suppose that’s what drives me to be the best officer I can be.’ The DCI paused in her thoughts. ‘And so, you can see why I find
you quite intriguing… and your abilities frankly exciting. Harness your misfortune to become the most potent investigator the world has ever seen.’
‘What about Jackson?’ Deans asked.
‘Jackson is in my sights, don’t worry.’
‘You know he handled that spade deliberately to mask any of his fingerprints that were already on there?’ Deans said.
The DCI smiled. ‘You’d better get going, or it’s going to be a long night for you.’
Deans shut his eyes. ‘Every night is long for me, since…’
It was nudging seven-thirty by the time Deans and Sarah arrived at police HQ. This was where Sarah was normally based so she knew exactly where to go. She used her proximity card to allow them through two secure corridors and into a sizeable open-plan office with only four work desks and a very large flat white table in the centre of the room.
Two suits were stood facing them behind the table, and spread neatly before them were seven columns of case file data headed by a photograph of each individual victim.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ the male officer said.
‘Hi, Jeff,’ Sarah replied. ‘Hi, Angie,’ she said to the female.
‘You must be Detective Deans,’ Jeff said striding across and shaking Deans’ hand with vigorous enthusiasm.
‘Yes,’ Deans said, trying to wrestle his hand back. ‘I am.’
‘Hello,’ Angie said, waiting her turn to shake his hand also. ‘Thanks for coming over. How was the traffic?’
‘You know the North Devon link road,’ Sarah replied sarcastically. The three of them groaned together and rolled their eyes. It must have been a Devon thing.
‘Can I fix anyone a drink? Jeff asked.
‘Please,’ Deans said almost before Jeff had chance to finish what he was saying. ‘Coffee would be great, thanks.’ He looked around the bright white office. He hadn’t seen his own Cold Case Unit, but imagined it would look something similar.
‘The DCI has told us all about you,’ Angie said to Deans. ‘I have to say, it’s a privilege to meet you in person. I mean, I’ve obviously seen you on TV,’ she qualified.
Deans gave a quick glance. ‘Obviously.’
‘How do you take it?’ Jeff asked from the back of the room.
‘Hot and black, please.’
‘Sarah… usual?’
‘Yes, please, Jeff.’
Deans peered at the large white table. ‘What exactly has the boss said about me?’
‘That you have some sort of “celestial insight” with crime scenes.’
Deans scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I think you may be in for a disappointment then.’
Angie noticed him studying the upside down documents. ‘Go on and take a look,’ she said. ‘We’ve set this up for you to see.’
‘What is it?’
‘Seven unsolved missing person cases since nineteen eighty-four.’
Deans and Sarah walked behind the table at a respectful distance. Deans leaned over and looked at each of the pictures. The first three columns were clearly older investigations, given the quality of the photographs and going by the hairstyles and clothing worn by the victims.
‘What about before eighty-four?’ Deans asked.
‘That data is archived on microfiche. We can get it, but the DCI wanted to concentrate on these for starters.’
‘For starters?’ Deans said. ‘How many others are there?’
Angie broke away from the table. ‘Sixteen missing person enquiries where there is no trace of the individual.’
‘Including these seven?’ Deans said.
‘Twenty-three, if you include these missing persons.’
‘Over what time period?’ Sarah asked.
‘The earliest report we can find dates back to the fifties, but the likelihood is there are more.’
Deans creased his brow. ‘That’s roughly one every few years.’
‘Yes,’ Angie replied. ‘But it’s not consistent. There are multiple cases in close succession and there are other long gaps between reported cases, so either we are missing data on further victims, or for some reason there were periods of time when nobody went missing.’
Deans stepped closer to the table. He reached down and picked up the file closest to him Sarah Stockdale, reported missing October 18th, 1992. He put the file down and lifted the next. Angelique Montgomery, reported missing October 24th, 1987.
The others watched him as he hesitated before taking the next file. He looked for the date before anything else: October 15th, 2001.
‘Are all of these reported missing during October?’ he asked.
‘All but one,’ Angie nodded. She walked to the file at the end of the row and read from the cover. ‘Mellissa Derry – reported missing November the fifth, two thousand and six.’
Deans turned to Sarah. ‘Amy Poole.’ And together they said, ‘October the fourth.’
Deans ran his fingers along the contours of his chin. ‘What have you established about these dates?’ he asked.
‘Just that they are within a tight time frame of one another,’ Jeff said returning to the room with a tray of drinks.
‘The significance of which is?’ Deans questioned.
‘We were hoping you might be able to tell us that? We’ve discounted term times, the possibility of an errant lecturer, you name it.’
‘Hold on,’ Deans said, removing the day-book from his bag. He quickly tracked back several pages at a time. He slowed to look closer at each page and then stopped. He looked up from his book and turned the page towards Sarah, showing her a date that he’d circled several weeks before.
‘What is it?’ Sarah asked.
‘The date that the Herald reported the sudden death of Ruby Mansell.’
Sarah leaned in closer and read aloud. ‘Eighteenth of October two thousand and seven.’
Deans curled his lip and bobbed his head. ‘Jackson was the officer in the case.’
‘What?’ Sarah said.
‘Jackson was quoted in the article as expressing his sorrow at her passing.’ Deans absorbed the details of the other missing persons spread out before him. ‘What’s the significance,’ he said beneath his breath.
‘Do you have a computer I can use?’ he asked
‘Sure, use mine,’ Angie said. ‘I’ll log you in. What do you need?’
‘Google.’
Angie tapped the keyboard and the familiar search bar popped up on the screen, which has to be said, was much larger and of a higher quality than his own monitor back in Bath.
Deans typed significant months of the Viking age into the search engine and a page of results came up on the screen. He leaned in close and read out loud from the results.
‘The Vikings only had two seasons: winter and summer,’ he said. ‘Winter started on the fourteenth of October.’ He paused and faced the others before reading on silently for a moment.
He pushed himself back from the desk and gaped into space.
‘What is it?’ Sarah asked.
‘According to this article, the first month of the winter was given a name that modern-day translation calls Slaughter Month. He turned to face the others. ‘It ran from the fourteenth of October to November the thirteenth.’
Jeff and Angie screwed up their faces and stared inquisitively at each other. Jeff asked the obvious question. ‘What has this got to do with the Vikings? We are talking about the Vikings aren’t we?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Sarah said as Deans rushed back to the table and quickly scanned the dates.
‘They are all within Slaughter Month,’ he said eagerly and then hesitated. ‘And so was Ruby Mansell… and Maria.’
‘What about Amy Poole? She was taken just before that date,’ Sarah said.
Deans peered into space.
‘She wasn’t meant to die,’ he said. ‘Not when she did. She was taken when they knew she was going to be in North Devon rather than Bath. They were going to keep her somewhere until the time of her sacrifice.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did they keep her?’ Jeff asked.
‘My guess would be, the cellar at Ruby Mansell’s house, but for some reason, they messed it up.’ Deans looked deeply into Sarah’s eyes. ‘And that’s why Ash Babbage was killed.’
Jeff looked closer at the computer. ‘It says here that Slaughter Month was a period of harvest – a time to bring food in for winter storage.’
‘And what about Archie and Annie Rowland?’ Sarah asked. ‘They were outside of this period too.’
‘They weren’t sacrificed,’ Deans said. ‘They were executed.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Jeff said. ‘I… I… I’m struggling with all of this Viking stuff.’
Deans returned to the computer and typed, Odins’ Raven Banner into the search bar. ‘Here,’ he said tapping the screen. ‘This links everyone to the Vikings.’
Jeff sat down at the desk and took his time to read the information on the screen, while Deans retuned to the table of missing girls.
His eyes kept on returning to the same one: Tammy O’Shea, missing October 30th, 1985. He felt for the ridged scar behind his ear. What is it with you, Tammy?
He peeked up at the others gathered around the computer. He leaned forward and picked up the A4 image of the girl and a pulse of energy shot through his hand, up his forearm and rushed to his head. He rocked on his heels as his breath was knocked out his lungs, as if he had just received a blow to the stomach.
‘Andy?’ Sarah said.
Deans blinked down at the picture. She was an eighteen-year-old brunette, with an early Madonna-style haircut – all crimped, finished off with an oversized black bow and heavy eye makeup. He picked up the file, read the details and noted that if she were still alive, they would be the same age. He continued reading the summary: Tammy went missing on her way home from college. She lived with her parents in a small village eight miles out from Torworthy and had an older brother, Shane. She usually got a ride home with her father who worked in a butcher’s shop, but not this day. Unfortunately, for Tammy, she never made it to the shop and her father reported her missing at the police station three hours later.
Deans was “tuned-in”, Maria was with him and the rest of the room faded to a smudge. Tell me your story, Tammy.
The Bone Hill Page 19
