The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  Deans trotted up the stairwell to the CID office and saw Jackson standing in the middle of the room. Gold was at Ranford’s desk and Mansfield was opposite. They both looked at Deans, and then quickly turned away. Nobody acknowledged him, including Jackson whose expression was ferocious.

  ‘Follow me,’ he barked, walking towards the door.

  Gold and Mansfield were now looking over at Deans. Mansfield gave him a wink and a loud chlick with the sidewall of his mouth.

  Deans scowled, turned, followed Jackson and found him pointing into a room with an outstretched arm as if he was directing traffic. Deans had not been to this room before but adhered to Jackson’s silent instruction.

  It was a small box room with a single table and two chairs, one opposite the other – similar in appearance to an interview room.

  ‘Sit down,’ Jackson demanded.

  Deans deliberately took the chair facing the door to dominate the room and therefore exert a degree of control in whatever this was turning out to be. He did not need his astute body language skills to realise this was not a good situation.

  ‘What’s up, Sarge?’ Deans asked.

  Jackson stepped into the room and slammed the door, backing into it with his bony arse. He stood facing Deans, arms folded; probably annoyed that Deans had taken the primary seat. Jackson was biting his bottom lip, his cold grey eyes narrowing. He was not a pleasant-looking man.

  Deans had not been this close to him before and was getting a waft of bad breath. He suddenly felt pity for all the female officers Jackson latched onto.

  ‘You’re off the case with immediate effect,’ Jackson snarled.

  ‘What?’ Deans gasped.

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It has come to my attention that you’ve been carrying on with a witness.’

  ‘Carrying on?’ Deans repeated. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  Jackson closed Deans out. ‘I’m not at liberty at this time to disclose the full details. This may yet take a disciplinary route. All you need to know is that you are no longer welcome here.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ Deans shouted.

  ‘You should’ve thought of that before playing away from home, son.’

  ‘But I haven’t fucking-well played away. This is crazy. I want to see the DI.’ Deans demanded.

  ‘As far as you are concerned, I am the DI. I’m acting on his behalf.’

  Deans slammed both hands loudly onto the table. ‘I can’t believe this bollocks. You lot need me on this case more than you realise. You lot haven’t got a clue who killed Amy.’

  ‘And I suppose you do?’ Jackson said, more as a statement than a question.

  It was time to close up shop. Deans had no idea what was going on but it was clear he could trust no one.

  ‘I’ve already contacted your superiors and they’re expecting you back today. No doubt they’ll want to know what’s been going on, and I’ll personally complete an incident report.’

  ‘Very kind,’ Deans snapped, pushing his chair away from the table with a piercing screech, and walked out of the door before Jackson had a chance to say anything else.

  Deans stormed back into the office and directly over to Mansfield, who was still at his desk.

  ‘I want a word, Mansfield,’ Deans said, baring his teeth.

  ‘I’m busy,’ Mansfield said without looking away from the computer screen.

  Deans leant over and turned it off. ‘Now, fucker.’

  Mansfield looked Deans up and down. ‘What about?’

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘How about a nice coffee then?’ Mansfield suggested calmly. ‘I could do with a posh coffee. You buying?’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Deans stomped out of the room and waited at the top of the stairs.

  Mansfield followed shortly after, sporting a smug expression. ‘You know if you have anger issues there are people who can help you.’

  ‘Put a lid on it, Mansfield, I’m not in the mood.’

  Outside, Mansfield approached Deans with jaunty steps. ‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘What do you know?’ Deans demanded, his eyes blazing.

  ‘About what?’

  Deans stepped in, crowding Mansfield’s space. ‘Why did you wink at me as I left the room with Jackson?’

  Mansfield shrugged. ‘Just being friendly.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Mansfield. I sussed you out the moment I arrived. You’re a sneaky, untrustworthy bastard.’

  ‘Ouch, Andrew. Be very careful what you say.’ Mansfield smirked and made a point of looking up at a CCTV camera positioned nearby.

  ‘Are you setting me up?’ Deans asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘Setting you up for what exactly, Andrew?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Although Deans was seething, he was still observing Mansfield closely, and he appeared to be telling the truth.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Jackson and the complaint against me.’

  ‘A complaint?’ He was lying now.

  ‘Enough of the bollocks, Mansfield. This is my fucking career someone’s trying to ruin.’

  Mansfield broke into a salesman-like grin and shuffled his feet. ‘Before you got back to the office, Jackson was with his little shadow and I overheard them gossiping.’

  ‘Gossiping?’

  ‘About you. Jackson said you’d been watched, shacked-up with a witness.’

  ‘Watched? By who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just overheard it. I wasn’t included in their little tête-à-tête.’

  ‘But Jackson was loud enough to make sure you heard.’

  Mansfield nodded. ‘Yeah. Was like I wasn’t there.’

  ‘What do you know about Jackson?’ Deans asked.

  ‘What? Apart from fungal breath and an eye for the crumpet. Not much. He’s HQ. I try to stay way clear of that corporate crowd.’

  ‘Why would he have it in for me?’

  Mansfield shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re some kind of threat.’

  Deans turned away. A threat.

  ‘What did you talk to the reporter about at the scene?’

  ‘Reporter?’

  ‘At the ridge, where the body was found.’

  ‘Oh, Nev, he’s okay, we’re mates. He’s a photographer, not a reporter. I didn’t tell him anything I shouldn’t. And I didn’t know anything anyway.’

  ‘Did you mention who I was?’

  ‘He did ask, obviously hadn’t seen you before and you didn’t exactly blend into the background.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Something like “city-slick come to show us hicks how to do it”, you know – something complimentary like that.’ Mansfield grinned.

  ‘Has Ranford given you any of my contact numbers?’

  ‘No, don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Deans looked away, sucked in a lungful of briny air. ‘Who else knows how to contact me?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Look, I’m being stitched up. God knows why, but someone wants me out.’

  Mansfield shrugged again. ‘Makes no difference to me either way.’

  Chapter 36

  Within minutes Deans was at Rayon Vert and the shop front was empty.

  ‘Denise, are you here?’ he called out impatiently.

  She appeared from the rear corridor. ‘Yes, of course I’m here. What on earth’s wrong?’

  ‘I need to know who this is Denise. Right now. The bastard’s made it personal.’

  ‘Oh my God! What’s happened?’

  ‘Maria had a crank call this morning.’

  Denise looked nonplussed. ‘I’m sorry, Andy, what’s the significance of that?’

  ‘Some bloke called my wife saying weird stuff about her eyes not seeing the truth.’

  Denise shook her head.

  Deans had no choice, if he wanted her h
elp he would need to divulge details of the case. ‘Amy’s eyelids were glued together. It has to be the same man.’

  Denise gasped and covered her mouth. ‘My God! Why would someone do that?’ The colour drained from her face in an instant and she broke into rapid-fire blinking.

  ‘What is it?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Tell me again about the phone call. What did the man say about the eyes?’

  ‘I don’t know it wasn’t word for word. Maria wasn’t exactly with it when she told me.’

  Denise pressed her hands to her cheeks and turned away.

  ‘What is it?’ Deans asked impatiently.

  She shook her head, still masking her face.

  ‘Denise?’ Deans said firmly.

  He waited for what seemed like an age. She was visibly trembling.

  She then asked softly, ‘Could it have been “The eyes show you what you want them to believe?’”

  ‘Possibly.’ Deans scowled. ‘Why?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Tell me,’ Deans commanded.

  She covered her face once more.

  ‘Denise. He knows where I live. He knows my wife’s name. He’s already contacted her—’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Denise held her hands up to stop Deans talking, reached for a glass of water on the counter, and took a purposeful sip.

  ‘Did anyone see what car it was? The lift, I mean?’ she asked.

  ‘VW Golf. Dark. Tow bar.’

  ‘Do you still have Amy’s diary on you?’ she asked, holding out a hand.

  Deans sifted through his bag, keeping an eye on Denise. He knew what was coming. He handed the diary over and watched closely as she flicked through the pages as if looking for a specific date. She slowed and stopped with the pages open.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said glumly and began skimming through her own desk diary before again stopping on an open page. She viewed Amy’s diary a second time and then back to her own.

  Deans noticed wrinkles on her face for the first time.

  Denise gestured for Deans to go through to the back room as she flipped the shop sign closed.

  She joined him in the treatment room and sat down. Deans remained standing. She held Amy’s diary delicately in her palms, and for a moment, did not move.

  ‘Amy has several dates in her diary that don’t match mine,’ she eventually said. ‘Sundays are my one day off.’

  Half a minute of silence slipped by.

  ‘Where is he?’ Deans said sternly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly, and looked up at Deans through misted eyes. ‘He was here this morning but then left. He was agitated. Angry.’ She paused, shook her head. ‘How could I miss it?’

  Deans observed her anguish in silence.

  ‘Ash must have met up with Amy on those Sundays.’ Denise’s voice wavered. ‘He… he has a saying.’ She coughed behind her hand, and hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ Deans demanded.

  ‘…Your eyes show you what you want them to believe.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning all is not as it might appear.’ She rubbed a hand across her face.

  ‘And?’

  Denise sighed, hesitated. ‘…And …he drives a dark blue Golf.’

  Deans scrunched his fists; finally, he had something to work with. It was minimal but for the first time in over a week, he had reason for optimism.

  ‘Where does he live?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘I’ve never been there in all the fifteen years that I’ve known him.’

  ‘You’ve known him fifteen years and never been to his house?’

  Denise snapped back, ‘Have you been to everyone’s house that you’ve worked with?

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism.’

  She glanced at the closed door. ‘I have his personal file.’ She spoke in secretive tones.

  ‘Great,’ Deans said, moving a rolled white towel away from the treatment couch, clearing a space for the documents. His pulse was racing, and his energy levels revitalised. He looked over at Denise bent double in the chair. ‘Any chance of a brew, Denise? I’m gagging for caffeine.’

  Denise nodded, rose to her feet and slowly stepped out of the room.

  With Denise out of the way, Deans turned to the diaries. The most recent Sunday appointment was four weeks before Amy went missing. Why would Amy meet Ash without Denise knowing? He pondered it a while and then frowned. Why contact Maria?

  Denise came back into the room with two steaming mugs and colour back in her cheeks. She handed Deans his drink and clutched hers as if she had heat-resistant palms. She took a seat on the couch and Deans followed suit.

  This was a potential game-changer. Deans sympathised with her situation; not only had she lost someone she clearly cared about, the killer was likely to be her prodigy.

  Denise spoke first. ‘Amy doesn’t deserve to be where she is right now. I will do all I can to help you.’ She turned to face Deans. ‘And if that means Ash is found responsible, then I’ll support you all I can.’

  ‘Thank you, Denise. I’m sure this is difficult for you.’

  She nodded, and crumpled into floods of tears.

  Deans wrapped his arms around her, placing her head on his shoulder, and that was how they remained for the next few minutes until she spoke again.

  ‘If it’s okay with you, I will try to contact Amy now.’

  ‘Okay,’ Deans said with uncertainty, and released his arms.

  Denise stood up, walked to the window and pulled the blinds. Deans searched her face; she was already somewhere else.

  ‘Would you like me to communicate out loud or in my head?’ she asked, pinching the inner corners of her red puffy eyes.

  Deans shrugged. ‘Whatever works for you? Will I hear any of the responses?’ He scratched his nose nervously.

  ‘No,’ Denise said. ‘Only I receive the answers.’

  ‘I’m in your hands.’ A wave of anxiety flushed through him, and his stomach erupted into a loud rumble. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pressing a hand against his belly. ‘I must be hungry.’

  ‘No,’ she replied, surprise evident on her face. ‘That’s a good sign. Your body is tuning-in.’

  Denise pulled the single seat over, sat down immediately in front of Deans, and gazed directly into his eyes.

  An icy blast of energy surged downwards through his core in a juddering split-second.

  ‘She’s here,’ Denise said simultaneously, and then studied Deans’ face. ‘You felt that, didn’t you?’ She leant forward, gently touched his knee and closed her eyes. Her fingertips still pressed lightly through his trousers. ‘I can feel your energy.’

  Deans coughed. ‘Can I… speak through this?’

  ‘Yes. Amy knows you are with me. She’s pleased you’re helping her.’

  ‘Um, thanks. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘She knows that already.’

  Denise took a series of deep breaths, and then spoke. ‘Amy, do you know your killer?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Did you get that?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘No. I didn’t pick up—’

  Denise gasped and turned abruptly towards the door.

  ‘What is it?’ Deans said, rising instinctively to his feet.

  ‘I’m not safe,’ she said, curling herself into the chair.

  Deans was now standing between Denise and the door, his body taut with anticipation. Half a minute raced by.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  Denise slowly raised her head, revealing a wounded grimace.

  ‘Don’t trust her,’ she said, her voice fading.

  ‘Don’t trust who?’

  Denise did not reply.

  ‘Don’t trust who, Denise?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is he married? Who is she talking about? Is there someone else we need to find?’ Deans was growing impatient.

  Denise dropped back into the chair.

  ‘Wha
t? What is it?’

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where? Get her back.’

  ‘I can’t. She’s gone.’

  ‘Well, how long for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Argh,’ Deans growled and tight-lipped mouthed an expletive.

  ‘Amy will make contact again when she needs to,’ Denise said. ‘This is how it works. I can’t dictate the flow of communication. Amy has told us enough for now.’

  ‘Enough?’ Deans said sharply, ‘We have nothing. No evidence whatsoever.’

  Denise glared at him, her eyes cloudy and red. ‘We know it was Ash.’

  Deans paced the room, wrought with frustration and conflict. Had he really witnessed some paranormal event or was Denise having him on?

  Several minutes went by with neither of them speaking. Each of them deep in their own thoughts.

  ‘Will you go and arrest Ash now?’ Denise finally asked, her vulnerability increasingly evident through her fragile voice.

  Deans shook his head slowly. ‘We need more evidence.’

  ‘Surely there’s something you can do?’

  Deans walked to the window, lifted the blind and stared distantly out. ‘Yep. Good old-fashioned policing.’ He turned and smiled insincerely. ‘One small problem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m off the case.’

  Chapter 37

  Neither of them spoke. Deans did not know what to think. Just how much could he rely on Denise? How could he verify the information she had just given him? And what the hell was he meant to think about his supposed untapped potential? His mind was galloping, yet he had little option but to trust Denise if he wanted to find Amy’s killer and safeguard Maria.

  He desperately needed to find Babbage and his car, and certainly a whole lot more evidence than a series of dates in a diary to link him to Amy’s death. Above all, he wanted a lot more luck.

  Denise had been flaky about the quality of the information. Was that because everything she had alluded to was pure fiction and she had struck lucky with a few comments to hook his interest? Again, validation was in scarce supply. How could he tell his Devon colleagues how he came by the Babbage information? They would laugh him all the way back up the motorway to Somerset.