‘The saddest thing is, we could help them if only they’d allow themselves to open their minds,’ Denise said dejectedly. ‘Together we could help provide unspoken words, help mend broken bonds or reassure loved ones left behind.’
‘That will never happen, Den. Don’t get your hopes up. Our poles are too far apart. The police would never give any credence to the gift.’ He touched her hand. ‘I’m worried about you. Don’t set yourself up for a fall.’
Denise broke into a resigned smile. ‘I suppose you’re right, but there was no harm in trying. I’m going to take a lie-down, close my eyes for twenty minutes. Be a sweetie and take care of anyone coming in.’
Denise shuffled away to the back room, slipped off her shoes, lowered the blinds and spent the next five minutes taking deep, controlled breaths.
Betrayal.
Chameleon.
Denise immediately recognised Amy’s voice. Two spoken words, but what was the meaning? She felt Amy’s presence again. Denise had not searched for it. Amy had come to her. Amy needed salvation and she was showing Denise the way.
‘Tell me, Amy,’ Denise whispered. She was attuned, her senses acutely aligned.
‘Use me,’ she implored louder.
She tried to lift her head but a downward pressure pinned her to the couch. Her eyes were open but could no longer see daylight. A dull resonating sound confused her mind.
A pressure in her chest increased with every breath, a tightening band of fear began to take hold. She fought to bring her hands up to her face but they were unwilling. There was no feeling of movement in her legs. The crushing sensation grew stronger. Every cell of her body was now super-fuelled with the effects of surging adrenalin and she could sense a building panic in Amy, and within herself. Her own heart was now racing and she could feel the connection to Amy was slipping away as her own body prepared itself for self-preservation. Denise sensed the killer.
‘Show me,’ she pleaded. ‘Show me, Amy,’ she screamed, clawing at the material beneath her.
‘Denise? Den? Den!’ Ash had charged into the treatment room on hearing the disturbance. He grabbed her hand and held it tightly between his. Denise was breathing fast and shallow. Her skin had turned pale and clammy.
‘Jesus, Denise. Come back,’ Ash said, slapping the back of her hand, but she was unresponsive. He swiftly placed her into the recovery position and squatted beside her. ‘Den, Den, come on. Break the contact,’ he said, rocking her forcibly by the shoulders. Her eyes were open, but it was as if her soul had left her.
Ash snapped his fingers inches from her face and shook her more violently until finally, he saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.
‘Christ, Den, are you okay?’ he gasped, a bead of sweat forming on his own brow.
Denise blinked rapidly and attempted to raise herself.
‘It’s okay,’ she panted, pushing herself up to a seated position. ‘I’m all right, thank you.’ She slumped forward, shaking life back into her arms.
‘Let me grab you a drink,’ Ash said in a dither, and rushed out of the room.
‘Any chance of making it a stiff one?’ Denise joked weakly, but Ash was gone.
The shop door opened, setting off the bell chimes in the reception. Ash was there and could deal with whoever it was, so Denise lay back down and pondered Amy’s message. The words betrayal and chameleon repeated in her head. What did they refer to, and how was she supposed to decipher them?
The gift allowed a practitioner to connect between the here and now and the afterlife, and occasionally communication was effortless, but more frequently it was jumbled, almost coded, and that is when the skill of the medium is measured. Denise prided herself on her ability to untangle any web of words but this particular scenario was unique, as well as personally upsetting.
The door to the therapy room opened and Ash walked in.
‘Den, I’m sorry. That policeman is back. He wants to speak to you. I told him you were otherwise occupied but he’s rather insistent.’
Denise was relieved. Their last contact had left her feeling unusually downhearted.
‘That’s fine, flower, let him through. Would you be a darling and put the kettle on, please?’
Ash nodded, but his disapproval was evident for Denise to see as he left the room.
Deans knocked politely and poked his head around the door.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Hello, Detective. I wasn’t expecting to see you again.’
‘Funnily enough, I wasn’t expecting to be back,’ he retorted with a smile, which was one of awkwardness rather than friendliness.
‘How may I help?’ Denise asked.
Deans’ day-old stubble crackled beneath his fingertips, as he thought about her question. He could not fathom if he was anxious about what he was about to ask, or what he was about to hear.
‘You said Amy had a lift from her killer, and then you said Amy was dead before I knew about it. Where were you getting your information from?’
Denise smiled knowingly and patted the sofa seat next to her as she sat down. Deans responded and noticed her studying his face.
‘I told you already,’ she said. ‘Amy showed me.’
Deans shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. How’s that possible? How are you receiving the communication, and what exactly did she say?’
He was asking multiple questions at the same time, a big no-no for any successful interrogation, but he would be happy with just one answer to any of them. It did not matter which at this stage. Deans felt a desperate need for understanding, and then perhaps he could start believing.
‘She came to me again,’ Denise said, ‘just now.’
‘Go on,’ Deans prompted.
‘She was in a dark, confined space.’ Denise looked away vacantly. ‘It was…’ she shook her head. ‘…Cold and she couldn’t move.’
Deans leant forward, elbows on his knees.
‘She was terrified,’ Denise continued. ‘I felt her panic – pure, stricken fear.’
Deans had not moved. Denise focused on him.
‘You’ve found her. Haven’t you?’ she said, more as a statement than a question.
‘Tell me more,’ he urged, avoiding the question. ‘Please.’
Denise evaluated Deans with her eyes before she spoke again. ‘Amy has mentioned two things that I don’t yet understand.’
Deans nodded, opened out a hand.
‘She said two words. Quite individual, but not in any context. Betrayal and chameleon.’ Denise looked purposefully at Deans as if he would have an instant answer.
Deans slumped back firmly in the seat and the cool, comforting leather wrapped around his frame. He bobbed his head a little, and exhaled slowly.
‘Amy’s boyfriend is in custody as we speak,’ he said. ‘That could account for the betrayal.’
‘Why has he been arrested?’ Denise asked interestedly.
‘I’m afraid I’m unable to divulge that at this time. I’m sorry.’
Denise let out a stifled laugh. ‘Detective Deans, I understand the constraints you work under. Please don’t think I’m trying to prise information from you. That was not my intention. I’m as determined to establish the facts as you.’
‘I know,’ Deans said. He could tell she was genuine, and in truth, he was becoming increasingly intrigued by Denise Moon. He stood up and as he did so, his forehead thumped with a surging pain. He waited silently for a second, clutching his head.
‘Are you okay?’ Denise asked.
‘I need to go back to Bath,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
She stared at him. ‘Would you like some water?’
He shook his head. ‘Do you mind?’ he said apologetically. ‘If it’s okay, could you keep me updated with any other contact from Amy?’
‘Of course, Detective.’ She was watching him intently. ‘Maybe we can work through this together?’
Deans’ mouth twitched to a semi-smile, he removed a business card from his wallet,
placed it on the arm of the sofa and patted it. As he opened the treatment room door it was clear that he had caught Ash off guard.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Ash improvised. ‘I was about to knock on the door but I didn’t want to interrupt anything.’
Deans was standing in his path. Ash tilted to the side and addressed Denise. ‘One of your clients called for you. I told them you were busy. Didn’t leave any messages.’ As he turned back towards the reception, Ash gave Deans a weary peak.
He was very different to his employer. A willowy, wiry man. Deans could tell with no hesitation that Ash did not like him. It probably was not personal; after all, they’d only just met. Perhaps he had suffered a bad experience with the police. It did not bother Deans. He normally struggled to get along with people like Ash and thus far, nothing about the man was proving the contrary.
Chapter 22
Deans finally got through to Savage and informed him that he was heading back. An ETA of three hours meant he would reach the office at around four thirty, give or take.
The custody extension had not yet been authorised, and minus travelling time, they had just about two hours left on the clock. Nowhere near long enough, Deans thought as he started the long journey home. He bolstered himself for the long drive ahead with a welcome sugar hit from a Snickers bar and put a CD into the music system. Driving alone was one of the few times when he could grasp a piece of normality in an otherwise surreal day, but as he forced a hummed tune, his thoughts turned to Amy’s mangled body amongst the cold, dank boulders. He remembered the panic Denise had described, and cringed at the terror Amy must have experienced and the abject horror of it all. He did not register any more of the song and little more of the journey.
He arrived back in the office not far off his original estimation. His colleagues were buzzing around. Something else was going on.
He caught the eye of Savage across the room.
‘Deano, how are you doing? The extension is set. We got the full twelve, giving you until six fifty-three tomorrow morning.’
Deans looked at the clock on the wall as if he needed to check what 6.53 a.m. looked like. He was completely knackered and his mind was draining him of what energy he had left as it played out a variety of scenarios, none of them making much sense. He acknowledged Harper with a nod, who was deep into a pile of papers across the desk.
‘What’ve you got, Dais?’ Deans asked.
‘Stranger rape beside the canal locks. Looks like a proper job.’ She flashed him a knowing look and returned to her work.
Deans did not want to interrupt her unnecessarily, and he certainly did not need to become embroiled in that job, so he said no more, shut the room out and began to focus.
He took a red pen and drew a large square box on the right-hand side of his timeline. Inside he wrote MISPER LOCATED – DECEASED – Sandymere Bay, Saturday 11th October, 07:20 hours.
He stared intently at the sheet. All the noise around him faded out. There were still so many gaps to fill: when, how and why she was murdered? If the murderer was Groves, and how and why was she dumped at Sandymere Bay?
He removed his phone and checked for messages. He had not spoken to his wife since leaving home that morning and she had not made any attempt to contact him either. How could he try to make it up to her knowing that she probably wouldn’t get to see him again until at least late tomorrow afternoon?
His prisoner had now been with them for almost twenty-four hours. Groves was apparently being a model detainee. No complaining, no banging on the cell door, no shouting or swearing and always polite when spoken to, however the cell staff were growing concerned at his lack of eating or drinking.
Deans had some time before the solicitor would be back at the station so he made a call to Ranford, who had been attending the post-mortem examination.
‘What’s the update?’ Deans asked.
‘I haven’t done one of those before and that was bloody gruesome,’ Ranford replied.
Deans chuckled and thought back to his first PM; the suspicious death of a homeless drunk following a drugs overdose. The question had been; who had administered the fatal dose? It was one of those first-time experiences indelibly ensconced in the mind. He had only been in CID for a couple of weeks when the job came in. The blasé way in which the pathologist and mortuary team dissected the body had been astonishing. Every organ and body part of interest examined and removed with such enthusiasm that it was a somewhat disturbing experience for a novice. Two things in particular stuck with him, the first being the appalling odour that was unlike anything else he had previously experienced and remained with him for several days after, and secondly the gruesome yet fascinating procedure of peeling the dead man’s skin from his head to access the brain.
‘They improve with practice,’ Deans said.
‘I don’t want another for a while, thank you,’ Ranford retorted.
‘You’ll see they’re like buses. Anyway, give me the lowdown.’
‘The pathologist was very interested with the glue in the eyes. Said it was cyanoacrylate adhesive, or superglue to you and me. He said there was no evidence that she attempted to remove it. Her ear canals were full of it too.’
‘Really?’ Deans said.
‘There’s more. Much more, they tidied up her face. Looks like letters carved into her cheeks.’
‘What?’ Deans uttered breathlessly.
‘Left cheek appears to spell SNE, the right, HNE.’
Deans scribbled the initials in his book. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The incisions were rough, jagged, different depths.’
‘She was alive,’ Deans said beneath his breath.
‘Sorry?’ Ranford said.
‘Nothing. What else?’
‘There was a large, well-established bruise to her right temple, which according to the pathologist indicates infliction before death, but was unlikely to have killed her. Asphyxiation is the likely cause of death, suffocation. There are some markings that might suggest attempted strangulation, and other deep tissue bruises around the body, probably from being buried while she still had a strong circulation of blood. In other words, it appears she was buried alive.’
Deans thought back to the pebble ridge. He viewed it distinctly in his mind’s eye, but it was night-time, even though he had not visited the scene in the dark. The unrelenting barrage of waves created a din that clogged his mind. He jerked his head, but the vision remained.
‘Is there any way to establish if she was conscious when she was buried?’ he asked.
‘Impossible to say. The mass of pebbles would have prevented any body movement. If she was conscious to start with, she soon wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.’
‘Was she interfered with?’
‘Almost categorically not. She was certainly no virgin but there was no trace of semen or evidence of any other kind of forced struggle. The only other unusual aspect the pathologist commented on was a broken nail on her right ring finger. Said it was recent, and that it looked nasty.’
Deans clasped his forehead with his free hand, and pressed his fingers into the temples.
‘Any scope for DNA comparison?’ he asked.
‘We’ve taken fingernail cuttings and scrapings and swabbed around her eyes, mouth, hands and vagina, but given the location in which she was found the pathologist and CSM don’t hold out a lot of hope due to water contamination.’
‘Okay, thanks. Do yourself a favour and find some Vicks,’ Deans said. ‘It will help get rid of the smell. I’ll be in touch.’ Deans ended the conversation and rested his head in his hands. He was surprised that sexual contact had not been identified. Lust, desire or sexual hatred had been top of his motive stakes.
Time to rethink.
Chapter 23
Interviewing was Deans’ domain. It was the time when he could gain a degree of control in an otherwise spiralling investigation. So far, he had been playing catch-up, chasing shadows, scratching around for evidence
. This interview would be his first opportunity to get answers directly from Groves.
Some prisoners had the mistaken belief that by saying ‘no comment’ they would throw the interviewing officer off-balance and gain the upper hand. Deans had lost count of the number of interviewees that smirked their way through a ‘no comment’ interview only to wish they’d put their point of view across when they were subsequently standing before the custody sergeant and being charged. Frequently they were positively encouraged to say nothing by their solicitor, through fear of implicating themselves or because the police did not have enough evidence to warrant an account by the defendant. And that was exactly what Deans predicted was about to happen with Groves, though he was not worried. He was well prepared regardless of the limited evidence to hand, and he had the advantage of that previous witness testimony, which had more holes in it than a colander.
When Deans was young in service, he was excited but inadequate at interviewing. He sometimes had all the answers before the interviews started and would try his utmost to trip the defendants up; to make them look silly or prove they were lying; to show how clever he was and complete it all as quickly as possible.
He used to keep tabs with a couple of colleagues as to who could get the quickest interview time. Four minutes was the record set by one of his response team colleagues, PC Gower: a four-minute ‘no comment’ interview; that was all. It was a joke, shameful. Gower thought it was clever until six months later when the case landed in court. He practically crapped himself at the thought of having to justify his inept interview to the magistrates.
It was rare to find an officer who genuinely enjoyed court. Maybe it was the waiting around, sometimes for days on end. Maybe it was being under the spotlight and scrutiny of others, or maybe it was because defence solicitors and barristers took a particular pleasure from making police officers squirm in the witness box. Whatever it was, Deans still did not relish court time and always viewed it as one of the more hostile environments of his job.
STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) Page 11
