STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel)

by James D Mortain

  ‘You’d better count on it,’ Deans said, taking half a step to the side allowing Ash to brush past.

  ‘It’s actually you that can count on it,’ Ash said as he reached the door. ‘Cheery-bye for now.’

  Deans heaved a sigh once Ash was gone and toyed with the idea of following, but what would that achieve, except frittering away valuable time later with Maria, and chasing fantasy evidence that was no longer his problem.

  He returned to the back room. Denise was curled up on the sofa, her knees tight to her chest.

  ‘Was it him?’ she asked.

  Deans nodded. ‘It’s okay. He’s gone.’

  ‘What if he returns?’

  Deans was in no position to offer protection, and had no magic answer.

  ‘Act normal and pray that we’re wrong.’

  The pitiful look on her face highlighted his inadequacy.

  ‘He took something from under the counter – a small notepad or something?’ Deans said.

  Denise shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Can you shut up shop for a few days, until the guys find something solid on Ash?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have appointments.’

  ‘Tell them you’re going on holiday. Take some time out. Visit friends, go somewhere.’

  ‘He would have sensed your abilities.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘An intuitive can identify the gift in others.’

  ‘He’s psychic too?’

  ‘His methods are different to mine, but he’s extremely gifted.’

  ‘Look,’ Deans said, helping Denise to her feet, ‘take care of yourself, and don’t be scared to call on the nines if you need to, okay?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do any more.’

  She reached out and hugged him, and as he held her tightly in his arms, he felt as helpless as at any time in his career. Jackson had forced him into an untenable position.

  Outside on the quay, Deans observed a squabble of seagulls battling for the remains of a dropped bag of chips. A salted breeze clung to his face. He checked his phone – missed call from Maria. He called her back, but Maria did not answer, must have been busy, so he left a voicemail informing her he would be back by seven and was no longer needed in Devon.

  There was one last thing he had to do, and soon he was on the doorstep of Tradewinds.

  Mrs Poole answered the door. Deans saw through the facade of normality – the makeup, subtle fragrance, faux smile.

  ‘Have I come at a convenient time?’ he asked.

  ‘You are welcome here, any time,’ she said, her twitching mouth exposing the inner strain.

  Deans nodded courteously and followed her through to the living room. Mr Poole was sitting in his cane armchair, staring out through the large panoramic window. Mrs Poole smiled apologetically, invited Deans to sit down, and called over to her husband.

  ‘Ian. Ian, dear. Detective Deans has come to see us.’

  Mr Poole turned partially and acknowledged his wife with a solemn dip of the head.

  ‘How have you both been holding up? I saw the press conference,’ Deans said to Mrs Poole who was mouthing I’m sorry as she lowered herself onto the sofa.

  Deans shook his head and held out a hand. Mrs Poole reached forward and took a firm grip.

  ‘We are managing. Thank you,’ she said and encased his hand in hers.

  Mr Poole’s anguish was obvious, as it had been from day one, but Mrs Poole remained spirited, at least to the outside world. Deans wanted to hold her close and not let go until her emotions spilled out. He was concerned that she had not acknowledged Amy’s death. She did not need to understand it, but for her own good, she should give up the battle against it. There was no escape from grief. The further you run, the harder it hits. Thoughts turned to his own unborn child. He looked at Mrs Poole and struggled to imagine the enormity of her sorrow.

  ‘I just wanted to see you in person before I leave,’ he said.

  ‘Leave? Where are you going?’

  Deans broke eye contact. ‘Something has come up back home, so I’m afraid I have to return. My colleagues here are doing all they can.’

  The firmness of her grasp highlighted her despair.

  ‘How are you finding your liaison officer?’ Deans said, shifting focus.

  ‘Fine. He’s fine,’ she said, still clinging onto his hand.

  Deans did not try to pull away. When they first met, he wanted Mr and Mrs Poole to count on him and trust in all he did. Now he was abandoning them.

  Deans cleared his throat. ‘His job is to be someone from the police that you can talk openly with and deal with any questions or issues that may arise. Someone you can rely upon.’

  Mrs Poole loosened her grip. ‘Why couldn’t that be you?’

  ‘I wish that it could. I sincerely do.’ He gave a gentle squeeze and Mrs Poole slowly released her hands. ‘I hope you and your husband find resolution soon. My thoughts are with you both.’

  Mrs Poole began to weep. It was incredible to think she had any tears left to spare. What must it take to find the courage to start each day, let alone survive it? Deans hoped he would never in his lifetime need to find out, and made his way to the door.

  ‘Thank you for coming over, Andy. It was a lovely gesture,’ Mrs Poole said, dabbing her face with a tissue.

  ‘I shouldn’t do this,’ Deans said, removing a business card from his wallet. ‘But if you feel that you need to chat, about anything, anything at all, please call me.’

  Mrs Poole touched the side of his face. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled painfully as a tear meandered down her cheek. ‘You know, Amy would have loved you.’

  Deans gulped down his building emotion, nodded respectfully, turned and walked away.

  Chapter 38

  The journey back up the M5 was a blur and before he knew it, he was turning off the M4 at Junction 18. He had been on autopilot, and now he was only a few miles from home. He was relieved to be returning to normality, but had to accept that he was unusually frazzled. The endless shifts, restless nights, staying away from home and the developments of the final twenty-four hours had taken him to the limit, unlike any investigation before.

  He decided he would spend the evening with Maria, and then drop the pool car back to the office in the morning and he hoped Mick would grant him a few days off for some quality Maria time. He had worked far beyond the norm and if the European directive of working hours was normally a pain in the arse, this time he could use it to his advantage.

  It was early evening and the sky was low when he pulled up outside his home, and as he walked up the pathway, he expected the front door to open before he reached it. Not this time.

  Fumbling at the doorstep, he removed the house keys from deep inside his rucksack, which only emphasised how long it had been since he had needed to use them. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  ‘Hello,’ he called out, but heard nothing.

  ‘Hello, Maria,’ he said louder. ‘I’m back.’

  The hallway was dark and cold. He frowned. Unusual, he thought and moved to the bottom of the stairs. The landing was in darkness.

  ‘Hello, Maria?’ Again, there was no reply. He dropped his bag where he stood and entered the lounge. The curtains were open, the TV was off and the room was clean and tidy. He walked through to the kitchen. There was no trace of leftover washing-up or the smell of cooking. He touched the outside of the kettle; it was cold. Maria drank herbal tea like it was going out of fashion.

  He crept upstairs as the silence of the house intensified and found the bedroom door closed. His frown was now a concerned scowl. He carefully offered his ear to the wood, gently twisted the handle with a metallic moan from the constricting spring, and quietly pushed the door.

  The room was empty, the bed made and everything was in its rightful place. He puffed out his cheeks and scratched at the scar behind his ear. Where is she?

  He checked the other two bedroom
s and bathroom. Leaning over the edge of the bath, he touched the luxury soap she loved so much. It was dry and waxy and the flannel was crisp. He gripped his chin, his mouth wide open. Where the bloody hell is she?

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he ran into the kitchen, directly over to the fridge. Maria’s IVF calendar took prominence on the door; her daily injections, the nasal sprays, the weekly routines she observed with unyielding dedication. He pulled at the handle and leaned in; the milk was out of date.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he yelled. Maria never lets that happen.

  He whipped out his phone and called her number with trembling fingers. The dialling tone changed as she answered, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘Babe, where—’

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ she snivelled.

  ‘What?’ Deans took a backwards step.

  ‘You – fucking – bastard.’

  ‘Maria, what’s happening?’

  ‘How could you?’

  ‘How could I what?’

  ‘This was the happiest day of my life—’

  ‘Maria, what the hell are you going on about?’

  ‘Don’t you dare…’

  ‘Maria,’ Deans’ voice was now raised. ‘I don’t fucking know what you’re talking about. Where are you for Christ’s sake?’ Deans could hear Maria bawling and the sound of a male in the background – her father.

  ‘Maria, talk to me,’ Deans pleaded.

  The phone went dead.

  Deans did not move for at least a minute.

  ‘Shit,’ he blurted, flopped down on the sofa and gripped his head. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he said to himself.

  He leapt to his feet as the landline rang. ‘Hello, Maria?’ he said urgently.

  ‘Andrew, this is Graham.’ It was Maria’s father.

  ‘What’s going on, Graham?’ Deans’ voice was full of hostility.

  ‘Maria doesn’t want to talk right now, Andrew. You are best giving her some space. A day or two to come to terms—’

  ‘With what, exactly? I’m sorry, Graham, but I seem to be the only one who hasn’t got a fucking clue what’s going on here.’

  ‘Maria had a call, Andrew. Regarding you and your… antics in Devon.’

  ‘Fucking antics? Hold-on a minute pal. There were no fucking antics. I’m being right royally shafted here.’

  ‘Andrew, do yourself a favour and keep out of Maria’s way. She’s got a lot to contend with at the moment—’

  ‘A lot to contend with? Jesus, Graham… try filling my fucking boots if you want a lot to contend with.’

  Graham went quiet for a moment, and then spoke calmly, ‘The scan was successful, in case you were wondering.’

  Deans gasped, felt a bleed of tears pool in his eyes, and an uncontrollable tremor of his bottom lip. He waited, wiped his streaming nose, and turned towards the large canvass print of them both above the fireplace.

  ‘That’s great, Graham…’ his voice fluttered. ‘Thank…thank you.’

  ‘We will take care of Maria. You… well; you do whatever you need to do. Just let Maria make the next move.’

  Chapter 39

  Deans confined himself to the house for the next two days. He barely ate, and his stomach sloshed with caffeine during the day and cheap bourbon by night.

  Savage was aware that Deans had returned. He had paid him an impromptu visit and taken back the pool car on Deans’ behalf. Of course, they chatted about the reason why he was back, and the Maria situation, including the IVF treatment. Savage did not patronise him – the rumours were already rife in the station. Someone had gobbed off. If cops were outstanding at one thing, it was gossiping. Deans was not especially worried; he knew that within a week the next hot topic would be whispered in the corridors or debated during the small hours of night shift. Nonetheless, he was not looking forward to making those first steps back into the office.

  Deans may have been out of the work environment but his mind had not stopped churning. His resolve was in free-fall, and he was beginning to question his own sanity in going along with Denise and her absurd suggestion that he had some sort of otherworldly power.

  Savage had handed Deans a ‘come back when you’re ready’ voucher, said he would cover for him until Deans was ready to return. It was fair to say that he probably did need a couple of days to haul himself up out of the cesspit that he now found himself wading through.

  Deans took a half-an-hour stroll into town headlong into the lashing rain. He had no purpose anymore and he barely acknowledged the downpour. He wandered the streets as thoughts ricocheted inside his skull. The city centre was better on miserable days like these – fewer people, even with Christmas beckoning. PC Rain, as it was affectionately known in the station, was doing a good job of keeping the masses away.

  He eventually stepped out of the weather and into his favourite coffee house on George Street. Sitting at the farthest corner of the window, he rested his forehead in his hand, sipped from the strongest roast of the house, and watched people scuttling by, defiantly hunched beneath their umbrellas. A melancholy tune played in the background – music to slit your wrists to. Deans peered over to the waiting staff; they must have known he was coming.

  He rotated his cup on its saucer, back and forth, back and forth, a grinding noise, oddly soothing. The foam art intended as a heart might just as well have been an onion. It was a fitting metaphor.

  Did Maria really think he was capable of doing such a thing? Her response sadly suggested that she did. He had given her no reason to doubt him over the years, so why now? The timing was unbelievable. He was longing to see her, to kiss her, touch her, smell her, and place his hand on her stomach and tell her how proud he was. He closed out the room. Had he been so short-sighted that he could not see how the job was jeopardising his home life? Of course not, he had chosen to put the job before his home life.

  He wiped his nose with the serviette. No matter how low he was feeling right then, Janet and Ian Poole’s suffering was on a completely different scale. And that was why he did his job, and why he made his own personal sacrifices.

  Deans slid a hand into the damp side pocket of his jacket, removed the object contained within, placed it gently onto the table in front of him, and for a long moment focused on nothing else. It was Maria’s private treatment journal.

  He’d discovered it on the kitchen worktop – didn’t usually live there – must have been misplaced, in her hurry to get out. He took several considered sips of his drink, and then opened the cover.

  Immediately inside, on the front page he saw Maria’s handwriting, a dedication: For you my baby. Deans turned the pages, absorbing every word, hearing Maria’s voice;

  I can’t describe the emotions I’m feeling, they change so often. At times I feel selfish for wanting you, needing you, craving you. Should I be happy with my lot, or should I chase my heart’s desire? That is you my love – only you. Yes, I already love you, more than you could possibly imagine, and I know Andy does too.

  The treatment so far has been bearable. I won’t lie, I’m more tired now than at any time in my life. Andy says wait until you come along and then we will know tiredness. He is always so full of joy!

  I pray every night that you will come. I promise Andy and I are ready to be parents. Please don’t be put off by Andy’s night-terrors. I know you will be the best therapy he could wish for. Andy is still working long, late hours, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you, or love you.

  Deans looked up from the page with misted vision. He scanned the room. Nobody else was paying him any attention. He wiped his eyes with the knuckle of his forefinger and returned to the diary.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you! I saw five eggs – how amazing – I so wish Andy could have seen you too, but he couldn’t get away from the office. He knows already, I sent him a text. He’ll be home later and so excited. I love him more now than ever before. Our incredible journey together as a family has begun.

  Deans no longer heard the
music in the background, or the chatter at the table near to him. He was inside the diary, just him and the sound of Maria. He devoured the pages to the latest entry.

  You spoke to me last night in my dreams. You said, “Mummy, stop being silly, of course it will be positive”, and it was! I saw two blue lines – can you believe it? I’m pregnant!! Daddy has been jumping around the room – he’s ridiculously excited. Please stay, please, please, please. I promise I will take care of you, I won’t do any more running and I’ll look after myself.

  I had to inform the clinic about the result. I can’t believe I have to wait another four weeks before they will scan me. How on earth will I last? I want to sleep and wake up on the day of the scan. I just can’t wait to see you.

  This is torture, the waiting. I think my next entry will be when I have more news. I have to stop this torment somehow.

  Deans drained the dregs from his cup, pulled on his sodden jacket, acknowledged the staff and left.

  Chapter 40

  He had been home for ten minutes when he received a withheld number on his mobile phone.

  The office, he thought. ‘Not this time,’ he muttered, and slid the phone back into his pocket.

  He busied himself as much as possible, but curiosity forced him to make the call; after all, it was likely to be Savage, and he did not want to alienate one of the few allies he seemed to have left.

  DC Glover from Team 1 answered the call.

  ‘Hi, Gloves, it’s Deano. Did someone call for me?’

  ‘Hi, Deano, yeah, I did,’ Glover replied. ‘I’ve had North Devon on the blower for you. They want you to call some custody suite, urgently. Have you got a pen?’

  Dumbfounded at the request, Deans took down the details and without delay, dialled the number.

  ‘North Devon Custody Centre. Sergeant Jarvis speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Sarge. This is Detective Deans from Bath. I understand someone wanted to speak to me about something?’

  ‘Do they ever! Thanks for calling back, mate. Hopefully you can put an end to all this bloody craziness.’