The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  Deans punched a number into his desk phone, and after a long delay, Ranford answered the call.

  ‘Paul, it’s Andy Deans again.’

  ‘Hello?’ Ranford bellowed back, causing Deans to recoil. ‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear very well.’

  Ranford might have been having difficulty hearing him, but Deans and anyone else in the immediate vicinity had no problems hearing Ranford.

  ‘Paul, it’s Andy Deans again,’ he said at hands-free-volume. ‘Can you hear me now?’ This time Deans pre-empted the booming reply and held the receiver away from his ear.

  ‘Just about,’ came the distorted reply. ‘You can probably hear it’s like a bloody hurricane down here.’

  ‘Are you at the scene yet?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Deans huffed and spoke louder still. ‘Are you at the scene?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you with the body?’

  ‘Sorry, I got something about the body?’

  Deans looked across the desk at Mitchell, who appeared to be enjoying his obvious frustration.

  ‘Are you with the body?’ Deans was now shouting his question, as if semaphorically.

  ‘Nearby, yes.’

  ‘I need you to describe any clothing.’

  ‘Clothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hold on. Let me go back into the tent.’

  There was a long delay and Deans waited with the phone held at arm’s length for Ranford to speak again.

  ‘Hello, Andy.’

  This time, Deans could just about make out Ranford’s voice.

  ‘Yeah, go on. That’s better.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m inside now. You wanted to know something about the clothing?’

  ‘Can you describe any, please?’

  There was another short delay.

  ‘I can see a bit. Looks like an elbow sticking up out of the rocks, and some white and green material.’

  That was enough; Deans did not need to hear any more. He knew it was Amy and he knew he had to be at the scene. He quickly ended the call and dashed off to find the skipper who was chatting in the DI’s office.

  Deans interrupted their conversation. ‘Excuse me, boss. Sorry to disturb you. I’ve a further update from the scene in Devon.’

  Two faces looked attentively his way.

  ‘My contact from D and C is at the scene. The body is still in situ and I believe it could be Amy.’

  Their expression simultaneously became quizzical.

  Deans carried on. ‘From the accounts I’ve been given it sounds like there are similarities in the clothing.’

  The DI nodded.

  Deans grasped the moment. ‘We’ve roughly ten hours left on Groves’ clock. Let me go back down to Devon, suss out the scene and the body. If it is Amy then…’ He paused. ‘Well, then Groves has an awful lot to answer for. If not, then no harm done. I could know definitively within three hours from now, including travelling time. Best case scenario, we then request an extra few hours from the Superintendent. Worst case scenario, we go for the full twelve and fill our boots.’

  Savage was the first to respond. ‘Deano, I admire your determination with this job, I really do, but we don’t yet know if it’s our MISPER.’

  ‘My gut’s telling me it is, Sarge.’ Deans had last called him ‘Sarge’ on the first day he joined the team. ‘I can’t just sit around and wait for the phone to ring. This is crucial. If it is Amy then I’m going to need to see the body anyway.’

  ‘Gut feeling isn’t enough, Deano,’ Savage rebutted.

  ‘We have a couple of options, gents,’ the DI interjected. ‘We interview Groves, get a first account and allow the D and C boys and girls to do their thing. That way we lose nothing and potentially gain a talking Groves. Another seven or eight hours in our humble B&B and Groves may be less than congenial. Alternatively, we do it Deano’s way.’

  ‘Boss,’ Deans persisted, ‘so let’s say we’ve interviewed Groves and we have an early account. We’re potentially still waiting on D and C to feed us, and how hospitable do you suppose they’ll be, dishing out fresh murder details to another force?’

  The DI puckered his lips as Deans continued, ‘So, what do we then do with Groves? The custody clock would be down to three, maybe four hours. We may not even get an extension because we’d have already secured his initial account and without some game-changing evidence coming to light from Devon we might be forced into a position of charge or bail. And I don’t want my name anywhere near that if bail is our only option.’

  The DI put his hand up to stop Deans. ‘Okay. Okay, fine. We will stand more chance of the custody extension if Groves has yet to be interviewed, so long as we can show that our other enquiries have been diligent and expeditious. If we do too much, too soon this end, we may be forced to consider bailing him and I don’t want my name on that either – if he’s our man.’

  ‘Fact is, Deano,’ Savage said, ‘I can’t spare anyone else to buddy up with you. You’ll have to fly solo.’

  Deans understood. His problem was not a partner for the trip; it was going to be Maria’s reaction.

  ‘Leave the superintendent to me,’ Savage said. ‘Just make sure you keep me in the loop. Okay?’

  ‘When I know, you’ll know,’ Deans replied.

  The DI patted Deans on the shoulder with a firm hand. ‘You’d better hit the road, Deano, time’s a-ticking.’

  Chapter 19

  They had arranged to meet up directly at the scene. Deans dropped down over the familiar hill, revealing the same wide expanse of frothing water at which he had previously marvelled. He picked out a cluster of police vehicles in the distance, the alternating blocks of high visibility markings making them stand out against the dull greyness of the pebble ridge. A solitary white tent perched on the precipice of the mound and black dots scurried about its perimeter.

  Deans approached via a long, pothole-strewn track and showed his warrant card to a forlorn-looking PCSO on point duty. He parked next to a marked van and could see plenty of activity going on around him. Forensic officers adorned in white paper cover suits huddled beside a CSI van, and Support Group officers in black overalls crawled in a tight line against the buffeting onshore wind, like some absurd-looking slug race.

  The forensic shelter stood proud of the vast stone elevation, its pop-up joints straining hard against the wind; undoubtedly, every guy-rope employed to keep the tent from blowing away.

  Deans looked around, taking in the scene: the long potted entry road bisecting the large, green expanse of flatland. The steep pebble ridge, with millions of rounded boulders – some hand-sized, others clearly too heavy to lift. The makeshift slipway, the lifeguard hut, the position of the forensic tent, the rough-surfaced car park, and to his dismay, two men inside the perimeter of the police vehicles – one in a suit, the other in jeans and an anorak clutching a scratch pad and camera. The press.

  Deans went across and instantly recognised DC Mansfield in the suit.

  ‘Can I have a private chat, please?’ Deans insisted, and ushered Mansfield away with him.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Deans barked.

  ‘Nev, from the Herald,’ Mansfield replied obstinately.

  ‘What the hell’s he doing here? Who authorised media contact at this stage?’

  ‘Chill out, city boy. He’s all right, I know him. He just wants first dibs.’

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ Deans demanded.

  Mansfield looked Deans up and down. ‘Sure as hell isn’t you.’

  ‘Where’s the CSM?’

  ‘In the pod, I guess, slick,’ Mansfield said, gesturing towards the tent on the ridge.

  Deans stomped away, headlong into the bitter gale force wind. He clambered up the steep embankment of boulders to the summit, losing his footing several times. Ranford was just the other side, decked out in a white paper cover suit. His normally well-trained jet-black hair fluttering like ribbons into his face.

  ‘Hi, Andy,�
�� he said, clearly happy to see Deans. ‘She’s still in there. We’re just finishing off the final photographs.’

  Deans pointed with a thumb. ‘Why is Mansfield speaking to a reporter down there?’

  ‘I didn’t know he was. Christ. I’ll go and have a word.’

  ‘I already tried. What’s his game?’

  ‘Who knows? Mansfield’s a chancer at the best of times.’

  The tent flap opened from the inside and another officer in white coveralls emerged and fought against the pummelling wind to secure the entrance flap once more.

  ‘Mike, this is DC Deans who I told you about,’ Ranford said.

  Although only his eyes were showing though the mask and tightly drawn hood, Deans could tell the officer was smiling. He lifted an index finger, creating a momentary interruption, and gently placed his camera into a metal carry case on the rocks. He turned back to Deans and removed his mask, exposing a magnificent grey handlebar moustache.

  ‘Hello. I’m Mike Riley, Crime Scene Manager. Thank you for travelling down.’ He nodded back to the tent. ‘This is an interesting one,’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘Any ID yet?’ Deans asked impatiently. ‘Is it Amy Poole?’

  ‘I believe it could be, given the information we have,’ the CSM replied. ‘We’ll have to go through the normal channels of identification, unless she has her passport with her.’ He chortled and twisted his moustache through thin blue vinyl gloves.

  Deans was not finding anything at that moment remotely humorous.

  ‘We currently have her boyfriend in custody. What can you tell me?’

  The CSM looked down briefly at his notebook. ‘This appears to be more than a random, senseless killing.’

  ‘How so?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Someone’s been bothered enough to glue her eyes shut.’ He looked sternly at Deans. ‘And her face has been disfigured.’

  Deans frowned. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, yes, actually. There was a rather questionable attempt at concealing the body. I don’t think this would be my first choice of locations.’

  The CSM unzipped the entrance to the tent and held the wildly flapping material high on an outstretched arm, inviting Deans to venture inside.

  Deans took three steps forwards ducking beneath the CSM’s arm, and crossed the threshold of the tent. Another forensic officer was squatting beside the body, which was face-down and twisted into an unnatural position. The tent was much quieter inside, tranquil even. Deans nodded over to the CSI officer, who nodded back towards a box of clear-packaged forensics clothing, and returned to her work.

  Deans gazed at the body. It was as if she had leapt from the top of the slope and belly-flopped into position. Of course, that was not the reason why she was there. Her head faced away and her right arm stood proud, forming a triangular shape at the elbow. Her left arm was flat – the forearm bent at a sickening angle of two hundred degrees or more. Deans winced. Her legs were together, feet folded one over the other. She was dressed as Ranford had stated, in a white and green top, and a denim skirt, just as Scotty had indicated. Deans needed to see her face.

  He ripped open one of the packaged paper suits and donned a facemask and overshoes, becoming aware of his own shallow, urgent breathing. He rolled on a pair of forensic gloves and, fully kitted out, took tentative steps across the unstable pebble floor until he was facing the entrance of the tent, and maimed corpse of Amy Poole.

  A wave of sorrow overcame him. He could not explain why. He had seen dozens of dead bodies before and never reacted quite this way. He shook his head and blinked away the building wetness from his eyes. His stomach gargled, his vision tunnelled and a blistering coldness shook him to the core, as if a super-cooled net of air had dropped over him.

  He did not need to see her eyes to confirm her identity. Her mouth was ajar, the flesh of her cheeks shredded. Her grey lips framed the white teeth that seemed to be the only part of her to have retained original lustre. They would of course still need to follow procedure but Deans needed no further confirmation of who he was looking at.

  He had not even realised the CSM was right beside him.

  ‘Her underwear appears intact and undamaged,’ he said, taking Deans by surprise. ‘She does have significant bruising and damage to her face and body, but she was of course well covered by these blasted boulders when we first arrived. Only a full examination will indicate whether these injuries were inflicted pre- or post-mortem. Some joints are quite obviously displaced and again we should await any post-mortem findings before reaching premature conclusions.’

  ‘Can I see the photographs of how Amy was found please?’ Deans requested sombrely.

  The CSM picked up another camera nearby and started flicking through the digital images. ‘So, do you think this is your missing person?’ he asked, handing Deans the camera.

  Deans studied the small LCD screen, and his imagination created a lucid reconstruction of Amy being dragged across the boulders and dumped, as she now lay. If her final moments in life were treacherous, then equally so was her improvised tomb.

  Deans nodded and handed the camera back. ‘Can we get anything from these?’ he asked, pointing to the rocks.

  ‘Unlikely,’ the CSM replied. ‘The tide would’ve washed away and contaminated pretty much every contact trace, unless we were extraordinarily lucky and found the body between tides. But I would say from the rigor that she’s been here days rather than hours.’

  ‘Does the water cover the area we’re on now?’ Deans asked.

  The CSM nodded. ‘We have a six metre swing down here and I would venture she is well within that range. Talking of which, we’re just a few hours short of high tide so we need to crack on.’

  ‘One last thing,’ Deans said. ‘Have you seen that before?’ He gestured towards Amy’s face.

  The CSM shook his head. ‘No. That’s a new one on me.’

  Deans exited the tent, stepping back into the fierce squall. He hugged his North Face jacket close to his body and stared out at the rapidly approaching ocean that was already licking the lowest of the boulders. He looked back beyond the tent and saw the unmistakeable stripe of flotsam between Amy and the summit. A voice from behind intruded on his thoughts.

  ‘Alright, Andy?’ It was Ranford. ‘He’s good isn’t he?’

  ‘Where will she be taken for the PM?’ Deans asked.

  ‘The mortuary at the Royal Devon,’ Ranford replied.

  ‘Who’ll go with the body?’

  ‘I can,’ Ranford said willingly. ‘I just need to run it by the Hoff.’

  ‘Thanks mate. I need to see the family.’ Deans winked and began to walk off.

  ‘But we don’t yet know for sure who it is,’ Ranford said, reaching for Deans’ arm.

  ‘I do,’ Deans said ruefully and struggled his way back down the pebble slope towards his vehicle.

  He sat silently in his car for a few moments, troubled by the scene. It just was not right. The body was no more than fifty metres from the public slipway, when there was probably two miles’ worth of embankment to choose from and hundreds of thousands of tonnes of rock. And little effort had been expended to hide her, which was how she had been found so readily. Why did the killer not find a spot further along the bank where fewer people would go? And why wasn’t the body buried far deeper? It was almost as if the killer wanted Amy to be found, but why?

  Chapter 20

  Deans waited in his car outside the Poole residence, staring pensively towards the estuary.

  Notifying family of bereavement was probably one of the most unpleasant and sometimes challenging aspects of the job. He had received no formal family liaison training, but he did the job adequately enough.

  He had learnt over the years not to rehearse. There was no set routine to follow. Each time was different. Each time involved reacting to and managing the most undefiled emotion a human being would ever have to deal with – the unexpected death of their child.

  He walked up
the pathway as he had done previously, and straightened his tie at the doorstep. He sucked in a shaky breath and held it for a long moment, checked his mobile phone was off for the third time in as many minutes and then knocked on the large front door. Those seconds before the door opened, he would gladly swap with anyone. The waiting was probably the worst bit.

  Mrs Poole opened the door with a smile. Deans lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes, no greeting expression of his own.

  She knew in an instant and began sliding down the edge of the doorframe as her legs failed to support her weight, and her face melted into misery. Her hands half-heartedly grabbed for the door but could not resist the downward momentum and she crumpled to the floor, wailing hideously, before Deans could reach her.

  Deans quickly entered the house. ‘Mrs Poole, please allow me to help you.’ He thrust his hands beneath her armpits and took the deadweight in his arms. Her cries of anguish bellowed in his ear.

  Mr Poole entered the hallway and on seeing his wife on the floor and Deans struggling to hold her, he stopped walking and crashed onto his knees, arms reaching out towards his wife.

  ‘Please, no,’ he appealed. ‘No, no, no. Not Amy.’ His voice fractured and he began to weep.

  ‘Mr Poole,’ Deans shouted sternly, ‘please help me. We need to get your wife to a chair.’

  Like a zombie, Mr Poole scraped himself from the floor and helped Deans drag his wife into the living room.

  ‘Mr Poole, please sit down, sir. I have some regretful news that I must give you.’

  Deans gathered up a chair, pulled it directly in front of them, and sat down so they were all on the same level. He hesitated, and asked himself how he would want to hear it.

  ‘I’m very sorry to have to say that, this morning on Sandymere Bay, the body of a young woman was discovered.’

  He paused, anticipating the next reaction. It did not come. He drew breath.

  ‘I’ve been to the scene and viewed’ – he coughed nervously – ‘the body, and I believe that it may be Amy.’ He stopped again. This time, Mr and Mrs Poole crumpled into one another’s arms.