According to the satnav, the Pooles’ house was not far away and he approached with anxious anticipation.
He drove slowly up a narrow incline, the estuary in view to his right, beyond the stepped rooftops of the closely packed, whitewashed houses of the village. Cars parked in a line, leaving just enough space to pass. A high stone wall on his left extended ahead with a small void breaking the continuity of this old-looking, solid structure.
The satnav repeated, ‘You have reached your destination’ in a female American voice, so he continued up the hill and finally found a space to park. He gathered up his papers and his thoughts and made his way back along the high wall, gazing all the while towards the estuary.
A nameplate on a six-foot high wooden gate spanning the void in the wall showed him he had arrived at the Poole residence, Tradewinds. He stretched his back, rolled his neck, and then noticed a yellow Beetle just a short distance away, sandwiched between a Campervan and a Land Rover. He approached it and peered inside but there was nothing obvious to get excited about. He tugged on the door handles but they were secure. At least he could scrub that one thing off the list.
He returned to the gate and climbed the fifteen or so slate steps that opened out onto a decorative stone pathway and well-kept lawns. The size of the house surprised him. He was not expecting to see such an imposing property. Amy clearly came from money and he wondered what was waiting for him behind the grey stone walls and church-like wooden front door.
A large black cast-iron knocker signalled his arrival and he waited pensively for a reply.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair opened the door. ‘Hello,’ he said with a hollow voice. He appeared washed out and pained.
‘Mr Poole?’ Deans asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied as if apologising for the fact.
‘I’m DC Deans. I have been speaking with you and your wife about Amy. I wonder if I could discuss the matter further with you both. Is Mrs Poole around?’
At that, Mrs Poole came into view from behind her husband. ‘Please come in. Ian, let the officer through.’
Mr Poole seemed trancelike, vacant and dim. He dutifully moved to the side allowing Deans to enter.
‘I was expecting a phone call from you rather than a personal visit,’ Mrs Poole said, straightening a slumped umbrella beside the door.
‘I’ve other enquiries in the area and I wanted to be more than just a voice on the end of a phone.’ Deans shook both their hands in turn. ‘I’m so sorry that we’re meeting under these circumstances.’
Mr Poole shuffled off into a side room and Mrs Poole smiled fleetingly then guided Deans in the direction that her husband had just gone. They entered a living room and as Deans gaped out through a vast panoramic window, he suddenly appreciated the full extent of the outlook. Being a city lad, he was not used to seeing the coastline and he became temporarily distracted.
‘It’s a special view,’ Mrs Poole said.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Deans replied quickly, turning back towards them. ‘Yes, yes, it is. You’re very lucky to live here.’
Neither of them answered.
They all took a seat, Mr and Mrs Poole together on the sofa and Deans on a single chair that was further away from them than he would have liked.
Deans half-smiled awkwardly, and then began.
‘I’m the officer in the case for Amy’s disappearance, and responsible for the overall missing person investigation, even though I’m based in Bath.’
Both faces stared blankly at him.
‘I’m involved because the original report was made in Bath, so the investigation remains with us, although I’ll be liaising with local officers here.’ He stopped to allow an opportunity for any questions. There were none.
‘As well as formally introducing myself to you today, I’d like to ask you some questions about Amy, if that’s okay?’
Mr Poole did not respond but Mrs Poole nodded compliantly and said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘I take it that you’ve had no further contact from Amy since we last spoke?’
‘No,’ Mrs Poole said softly.
‘How often would you normally expect to hear from Amy?’
‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from her until yesterday evening,’ Mrs Poole said, glancing over to her husband. ‘That’s why we had no idea she had gone missing.’
Deans imagined they were both feeling an element of guilt for not knowing Amy was missing.
‘Please, don’t think that you could’ve done anything differently to avoid this situation.’
Mrs Poole acknowledged the gesture with a subtle nod of the head. ‘Thank you.’ Mr Poole did not move.
‘Tell me more about Scott Parsons.’
‘Well, he’s a lovely boy,’ Mrs Poole replied. ‘They used to be an item actually, for many years.’ She paused and looked towards her husband again. ‘Long-distance relationships rarely work in my experience, and it wasn’t doing either of them any good.’
‘He hasn’t tried to contact you?’
Mrs Poole leant forward, and gripped her knees. ‘No. Do you think he should have?’
‘I don’t know,’ Deans replied. ‘I’m just trying to gather all the information I possibly can at the moment, Mrs Poole.’
Truth was, he thought it was strange Scotty had not shown any concern given his alleged closeness to Amy. Unless he did not know she was missing either.
‘Would Amy have met up with anyone else while she was down in Devon?’
Mrs Poole shrugged. ‘No, I don’t think so. She has many other friends but I wasn’t aware that she intended meeting anyone specifically, other than Scotty, of course.’
‘I noticed a yellow Beetle out on the road. Is that Amy’s?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
Deans detected that Mrs Poole was becoming distracted.
‘Mrs Poole, would it be possible to see Amy’s bedroom, please?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ve already looked around it, I hope that’s okay?’
‘Of course, Mrs Poole.’
She raised herself up from the sofa but Mr Poole remained seated. Deans stood up simultaneously and followed her upstairs to the first floor and a closed door.
Deans pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves and noticed alarm in Mrs Poole’s face.
‘Standard practice,’ he said in a reassuring tone.
Mrs Poole turned the handle, opening the door a fraction and then moved to the side allowing Deans to do the rest. It was a large, pristine bedroom with views to the front of the house and an en suite stone-tiled wet room. Deans had always wanted a wet room himself but Maria was less keen, so that meant they did not have one.
It was far bigger than his own bedroom and contained expensive-looking furniture. Framed photographs were dotted around. One caught his eye on the bedside cabinet. It showed Amy with a male of around her age and both looked very happy. Probably taken several years before, going by the picture Jessica had shown him. They were both wearing beach gear and looked well suited. He was a handsome-looking lad, and the position of the photograph in relation to others in the room suggested he must have been special to Amy.
‘Amy and Scotty,’ Mrs Poole said. ‘Taken at Sandymere Bay.’
Deans answered only with a nod and a smile but he was taking everything in. A daypack buried beneath an untidy pile of clothing in the corner of the room caught his attention.
‘May I look inside?’ Deans asked, exposing the bag.
‘Yes, of course. Oh my, it looks like Amy’s university bag.’ Mrs Poole held her hand to her mouth as Deans bent down beside the bag and unzipped the main compartment. He removed several law books and then found Amy’s student ID attached to an O’Neil lanyard. He looked closely at the badge. It was current.
‘Is it okay to take a look in the bathroom?’
Mrs Poole followed Deans into the en suite. He took a quick glance around, and then saw what he was after: Amy’s toothbrush and a hairbrush. He also saw a wash bag containing various oth
er makeup and toiletry items, and a medicine box. He picked it up and saw that it was the gabapentin. Inside he discovered seven complete blister strips of ten small, white pills, plus four others. He checked the prescription label – 26th September. A hundred capsules dispensed. Three per day, twenty-one per week. Twenty-six missing from the box. He performed a quiet calculation in his head. That would take them up to the night Amy went missing, unless she had others in reserve.
He cleared his throat and pointed to the toiletries and brushes. ‘Do you mind if I keep these all together and take them away with the bag? Amy will probably need them when she returns to university.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, please do,’ Mrs Poole willingly obliged.
It was devious but given the state of Mrs Poole’s emotions, he did not feel it appropriate at this stage to explain that both brushes could be rich sources of Amy’s DNA.
Having spent almost two hours with the Pooles, Deans concluded that he liked them very much and genuinely felt for them. They were a likeable couple and he imagined Amy would be no different.
‘Just before I go,’ he said, as the said their goodbyes, ‘I found a diary in Amy’s bedroom in Bath. There are references to a DM. You wouldn’t happen to know what or who that could be?’
Mrs Poole put her hand to her face and looked puzzled for a while. She did not ask her husband.
‘I think it could be something she does whilst she is here, looking at the dates in the diary,’ Deans said. ‘Could it be something she was doing for a hobby, or part of her coursework?’
‘How about Denise?’ Mr Poole suggested in a downcast voice.
They both stopped and looked over at him.
‘Denise?’ Deans mirrored. Mirroring was usually an effective technique of obtaining more information without having to ask for it. This was more than appropriate in Mr Poole’s case.
Instead, Mrs Poole once again resumed conversation duties. ‘Denise. Yes. She has been helping Amy with her coursework. I believe her surname is Moon. Yes, there we go. DM.’ She took a step towards her husband and touched the back of his hand. He did not respond.
‘Okay,’ Deans said, ‘how does Denise Moon help Amy?’
‘She’s a medium or something,’ Mrs Poole said, apologising for her husband with her eyes. ‘I don’t understand what they do. I know Amy has been working on the suggestion that mediums can help the police with their investigations. It was all part of her thesis.’
Deans had certainly never experienced such involvement at first hand, and as far as he knew, it was something fabricated for TV entertainment.
‘Interesting,’ he said, trying not to sound dismissive. ‘What do you know about this woman, Denise Moon?’
‘She has a shop in town and I think Amy sees her there. They get along rather well, evidently. I know Amy was enjoying their meetings.’
‘Is Amy into all that mystical, fortune-telling stuff?’ Deans asked.
‘No, it’s not like that at all,’ Mrs Poole said defensively. ‘Denise is a therapist. She helps people. She’s not some fairground attraction.’
‘I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. I’m ignorant on such matters.’
Deans noticed Mr Poole nodding.
‘Would you happen to know where I can find the shop?’
‘I haven’t been in there myself,’ Mrs Poole replied, ‘but I know it’s off the High Street, behind the bank. There is a small walkway leading away from the cashpoint. Follow that and you’ll eventually come to it.’
Satisfied that he had covered all angles, Deans left the Pooles, glad that he had been given an opportunity to spend valuable time with them. Their grief was palpable and he felt happier that some much-needed bridge building had taken place between them.
Back inside his car, he studied the notes he had made in his book. He turned over to a blank page and drew two large circles, one above the other. Inside the top circle, he wrote Scott Parsons and inside the second, he wrote Denise Moon.
Chapter 11
A glance at his watch only confirmed to Deans that time was pressing. Desperate for caffeine, he found a homely-looking coffee shop on the quayside. The Pooles had been lovely company but understandably a little lax on the hospitality stakes. He ordered a double shot espresso and a door-wedge piece of homemade flapjack from the young server, and sat at a small round table at the back of the room, which was something he subconsciously always did. Maybe all cops did the same. It was better to know who was around you than not, although here he knew no one and no one knew him.
It always amused Deans that, no matter where he was, the local shit-bags would sense he was a cop. Some would give a little nod of recognition or a toothy grin. Their way of saying, I know what you are. It was a strange occurrence, but then again, he could tell they were shit-bags, so it was fair game.
In this town, specifically in this little coffee house, Deans must have stood out like a sore thumb dressed in his grey pinstriped suit, salmon-pink shirt and matching tie, however the espresso tasted good, and he savoured the bitterness with two full gulps, then opened his daybook and read over his notes. It was already his intention to track down Scott Parsons, but now he had generated an additional enquiry: to locate and interview Denise Moon.
He picked at the remaining crumbs from his flapjack and with a smile handed the empties back to the server as he left.
Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside of Rayon Vert Therapy and Treatment Studio, on the backstreets of Torworthy town centre.
He had never given the idea of mediums any thought before and now he was about to speak to one. He did not know what to expect and struggled to rid his mind of the classic image of an older woman with a silk bandana and crazy eyes.
‘If only the guys could see me now,’ he muttered beneath his breath, pushing at the small entrance door, and stepping inside.
He was surprised to be greeted by a man in black spectacles that were too large for his head, seated behind a narrow stone counter top.
‘May I help you, sir?’ the man asked gently.
‘I’m looking for Denise Moon,’ Deans said, wondering if Dennis Moon was more accurate.
‘She’s with a client at the moment.’
The man had a deadpan look and said no more.
After an awkward delay, Deans asked, ‘Do you happen to know how long she’ll be?’
‘Have you made an appointment, sir?’
‘No,’ Deans chuckled, and then cleared his throat. ‘No, no, I haven’t.’
The man watched Deans with a humourless, poker-faced expression.
God, he is one intense cookie, Deans thought. He whistled a muted tune and looked around the room.
The man’s eyes were still upon him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Deans said. ‘I’m Detective Constable Andrew Deans. I need to speak to Ms Moon about a police matter.’
The man looked over his right shoulder towards a closed door, and then turned his focus back on Deans.
‘I tell you what,’ Deans said. ‘I’ll sit down here and wait until she’s free. I’m doing fine for time,’ he lied. It was getting late and he still had lots to do.
As Deans bided his time, he noticed a small CCTV camera positioned in the corner of the wall behind the counter, pointing towards the front door. It looked real enough but could easily be a dummy, which was exactly how Deans was feeling right then. This place was certainly out of his comfort zone.
Eco-warrior music played softly in the background, and glass shelving displayed exotic-looking crystals and stones as if they meant something. To him they were just curious rocks. He looked closer. Each one had a black label with gold handwriting describing the stone’s powers and the price. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. Eighty-five quid for a small black pebble.
Deans shook his head at the desperation people must feel to spend so much money, and the exploitative ways in which some were willing to cash in on the vulnerabilities of others.
After twenty more minutes of awkward silence,
the rear door opened and a pretty, young woman full of verve and smiles entered the room. Deans sat up straight and adjusted his tie. She noticed him and smiled pleasantly back. Deans was about to ask if she was Denise when another woman walked in behind her. Denise Moon, he presumed.
She was not as he had expected. In her late forties, with long dark hair, pale skin and a friendly, almost familiar face. Although she was still quite young, she was mumsy at the same time.
The smiling woman paid with a card and left the shop, announcing that she would return next week. Deans looked over to the man, expecting him to relay his message, but instead he said nothing and remained seated behind the counter. Needing to take the initiative once again, Deans stood up.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘Denise Moon?’
‘Yes. Hello. How may I help you?’ She was holding out her hand to shake. Deans noticed that she had near-flawless skin. She was naturally attractive with large, brown intelligent eyes. A black, sparkly stone around her neck on a long slender chain caught his eye, and he wondered what it was. He could only imagine how much it would cost going by the prices of the other pebbles on display.
‘Hello,’ he said again, taking her outstretched hand. ‘I’m Detective Constable Andrew Deans. I was wondering if I could trouble you for a short while. You may be able to help me with an investigation I’m conducting.’
She had a look of surprise. ‘Yes, of course.’ She turned to the man behind the counter. ‘How’s the diary looking, Ash?’
‘Next appointment in fifteen minutes,’ he replied, without taking his eyes away from Deans.
Denise smiled warmly and welcomed Deans through to the back. He followed her into a low-arched hallway and through to a room similar in appearance to a spa salon. There was a treatment bed in the centre, leather seating was against one wall and peaceful music playing in the background.
‘I do hope you haven’t been waiting long, Detective?’ she asked. ‘I’m afraid Ash can be a little protective of my schedule.’
‘No, no, not at all,’ he lied again and she gave him a knowing smile. ‘Please, call me Andy,’ he said.
STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) Page 6
