The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  ‘Where is your brother now?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Somewhat indisposed,’ Babbage said disturbingly.

  Deans waited and silently debated the appropriateness of his next question. He couldn’t give a toss about being ‘PC’ anymore.

  ‘So, what are you, post-op, or just playing at it because you’ve got no tits?’

  Babbage glared at Deans and oozed resentment. ‘Whatever happens to me now,’ Babbage said calmly, ‘at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I destroyed you.’

  Deans laughed, and closed the covers of his daybook. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, it’s my job. And unlike you, at least I’m getting paid for being here.’

  Babbage broke out into riotous laughter.

  Deans shook his head and bundled up his papers, as the insidious noise from Babbage intensified. That was enough. He could not remember dealing with anyone more detestable at any time of his career. Why did it have to be Amy? He thought. It saddened him to think that Babbage was the last human being that she had encountered.

  ‘The time is now twelve zero-eight hours,’ he said disconsolately. ‘I’m concluding this interview.’

  Deans pulled on the door handle and as a DO entered the room, he took a prolonged look over his shoulder at Babbage before making his way towards the satellite room, from where he saw Jackson exiting.

  ‘You can leave it for us to deal with now,’ a deadpan Jackson said.

  Deans had not expected hugs and kisses, but that was a strange reaction.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied warily. ‘But he’s going to need working over. All that stuff about family—’

  ‘No longer your concern.’

  Deans hovered, waiting for Jackson to say something else – he didn’t.

  ‘Fine,’ Deans said, pointing at Jackson. ‘Make sure you follow that stuff up.’

  ‘Last I heard; I was wearing the stripes around here,’ Jackson snarled.

  ‘Last I heard; I was the only one Babbage was talking to.’

  Jackson’s steely glare lingered just long enough to become awkward.

  ‘I’d better say some goodbyes then, I guess,’ Deans said.

  Jackson turned and walked away, clearly not wishing to be the recipient of one of them.

  Deans entered the satellite room. Sarah was watching the screen. He looked at the monitor and saw that Babbage was still laughing and defiantly resisting two DOs who were attempting to remove him from the room.

  ‘Was that all an act in there?’ she said.

  ‘It’s all about the body language,’ Deans smiled.

  Sarah stood up. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Well, it seems I’m leaving. Jackson just relieved me of my duties.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Deans said. ‘At least you guys now have something to work on. Besides, I’ve got important things to do back home.’

  ‘Andy, how did you know that stuff in there?’ She shook her head. ‘We didn’t have intel for that.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Deans smiled. ‘It’s been staring at us throughout. Make sure you finish this off. Don’t let Jackson fuck it up.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘Well, hopefully there’ll be a trial some way down the line. Maybe I will get to see you then, if not before.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Sarah lunged forwards and embraced Deans with a firm hug.

  ‘Take care of yourself, Sarah,’ he said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  He was more than ready to return home. Ready to sort things out with Maria and ready to return his life to normality. First, though, he felt compelled to see Denise.

  She was in the shop behind the counter. She appeared restless.

  Deans bounded over. ‘My time here is up. I’m heading home.’

  ‘Did he admit anything?’ she asked anxiously.

  Deans rocked his head. ‘Kind of, though I don’t think you need worry about Babbage coming back here any time soon.’

  Denise looked away.

  ‘I just wanted to thank you, before I head off… for everything. You’re a very special lady.’

  She gave a half-hearted smile and held out a hand, which Deans took.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get to work with you again sometime?’ he said.

  ‘You will.’ Denise had tears in her eyes and her voice was brittle.

  Deans kissed the back of her hand and gently pulled her into an embrace, which they held for a long silent minute.

  ‘I really must get going,’ Deans said. ‘It’s been an eye-opener, and an absolute pleasure.’

  She snatched for his hand and held it firmly in her grasp. ‘Promise me you’ll keep going,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m serious. No matter what.’

  He laughed. ‘I promise.’

  Denise looked disturbed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Denise,’ Deans said. ‘He’s not coming back.’

  She shook her head and released his hand.

  Deans walked to the door and stopped at the exit. ‘Goodbye, Denise. Thank you.’

  She raised a hand, tears streaming down her face, and he was gone.

  Driving up the M5, the sound of Deans’ ringtone interrupted his music.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘Deano, it’s Mick. Where are you?’ There was urgency to his voice.

  ‘On my way back up, mate. I’m no longer required.’

  ‘Good. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s fine. I was hoping to take a few days off though. I’ve accrued a boatload of—’

  ‘I really need to speak to you now, Deano,’ Savage interrupted.

  ‘Okay, that’s fine. I’m on hands-free.’

  There was a break in the conversation.

  ‘Hello, Mick? I must be in a bad area – try me again in a few minutes.’

  ‘No, I’m still here, Deano.’

  ‘Come on, Mick. Stop messing around. I’m too tired for games.’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Deano. We’ve got another missing person.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Mick. Give me a chance to settle back in will you.’

  ‘No, Deano. You don’t understand. It’s Maria.’

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  DEAD BY DESIGN

  James D Mortain

  For my wife Rachael, without whom, dreams would mean nothing and sacrifice would have no purpose.

  Prologue

  BATH 1975

  George Fenwick leaned back against the cushions of his new cane Peacock armchair and admired the stonework of his freshly crazy-paved patio area.

  His daughter, Samantha, had made fun of him ever since he purchased the wicker furniture, saying it looked more like a royal throne. Now that the final concrete slab was laid and set, he could finally take his place upon his ‘throne’ and enjoy the delights of his lush and verdant garden.

  He smiled to himself and returned a lit pine match to the tip of his imported Montecristo cigar and sucked his cheeks until the leaves glowed orange once again. He inhaled a lungful of the sweet tasting Cuban smoke and watched Sammy playing on her bespoke oak swing at the far end of the garden, under the shade of the majestic weeping willows.

  Her mother died three years before. It was sudden and shocking, and as a six-year-old at the time, it knocked the stuffing out of the poor little girl, but now, she was able to have fun again. When the time was right, he would too.

  George tapped his shoe on the thick paving slab beneath his chair and a smile curled upwards from the corner of his mouth. Life was good, life was great and now, things would only get better.

  Sammy came running over to him. ‘Daddy, can I have a bottle of cola, please?’

  George smiled, ‘Of course you can, Sammy. Why not bring one back for Daddy, there’s a good girl.’

  Samantha skipped off towards the house, leaving George to his thoughts. He was making significant improvements to the home, Sammy was doing well at school and tomorrow, George was taking
the new E-Type Jaguar Coupe for a test-drive. It had long been a desire of his to have a flash set of wheels to drive along Pulteney Street and impress the neighbours even further, and now that he was able to, nothing was going to stop him.

  He scratched beneath his ear. Where is Sammy? He looked back towards the house, but there was no sign of her. He leaned his head against the high fan of the tall wicker chair and closed his eyes.

  A fly buzzing around his face caused more than a degree of annoyance. He swatted the air, took a satisfying deep breath and listened to the birds chirping happily in the nearby trees.

  Samantha returned soon after. ‘Daddy we haven’t got any Coke.’

  ‘We do, Sammy. Look closer.’

  ‘But Daddy, there isn’t—’

  ‘Sammy,’ George said glaring at her. ‘Look in the pantry, you will see a crate on the floor, I know it’s there, I only bought it yesterday.’

  ‘But I did look there— ’

  ‘Look harder,’ George said. ‘I’m hot and I want a drink. You really do not want me to have to get up out of this seat…?’

  Sammy stood in front of him. Her arms rigid by her side. Her eyes wide and unblinking.

  George suddenly sprang up from the seat and grabbed Sammy by the shoulders. ‘Come on, Samantha, step out of my sunshine and get me that ruddy drink.’

  Samantha let out a squeal, turned quickly away, and her long tousled hair slapped her in the face.

  Standing two paces away from him, she huffed loudly and stomped back towards the house.

  George sank back into his chair, shaking his head and mumbling something beneath his breath about a ‘lazy, ungrateful brat’, he returned his cigar to his lips and puffed with more vigour, creating a blur of smoke around his head.

  This was turning into a very pleasant day, if only he had that drink!

  The flies continued to bug him, buzzing close to his face. He puffed more smoke and blew it in the general direction from where they appeared to be coming – which unusually was beneath his seat. Several insects were getting through the shield of smoke and pitching around his neckline. It was a warm July day, and he was perspiring. He could feel the dampness of his skin around his collar and continued to waft his free hand around his head as he did his best to relax, leaning back in his luxurious new armchair, eyes closed and face turned towards the sun.

  ‘Daddy, I can’t get in the pantry, the door is locked,’ Sammy shouted running back towards him.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ George spluttered and sprang up from the comfort of the seat. ‘I said to you, that if I had to move…’

  Sammy stopped dead in her tracks and covered her face with her hands. She looked at him and let out a shrill scream.

  ‘What the hell is wrong now?’ George said making his way with a heavy foot towards her.

  Sammy cowered away and screamed again.

  ‘The pantry is not locked. You were in it five minutes ago! For Christ’s sake!’ he shouted. His teeth were bared and his shoulders were tight.

  ‘Daddy what have you done?’ Sammy mouthed, breathlessly, taking two steps backwards.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ George seethed as he stomped beyond her towards the concrete steps leading up to the back door.

  ‘Daddy you’re bleeding—’

  ‘I am most certainly not bleeding.’

  Samantha screamed again and George turned angrily.

  ‘Daddy, your shirt has turned red.’

  George looked down and frowned as he shook his head, his shirt was fine.

  ‘Right,’ he snapped. ‘I’ve no idea what has gotten into you, but you are no longer having a Coke. I’m not going to tolerate any more of your nonsense.’

  George climbed the steps and looked back towards his daughter. She was standing ten feet into the garden and she was still clutching her mouth.

  He grumbled and walked into the kitchen and made direct for the pantry. He opened the door and there on the floor was the unopened crate of cola that he had picked up the day before.

  How the hell could she miss that? He sighed deeply and removed one of the bottles, yanked off the cap with a nearby bottle opener and made his way back towards the door.

  ‘I bloody meant it,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘She’s not having one. All this fantasising—’

  George suddenly stopped. His eyes were wide and gaping. He took several backwards steps the way he had just come, turned about, and looked at his reflection in the window.

  Mouth ajar, he leaned in closer. His shirt was crimson red; in fact, it was seeping with blood. He cautiously looked back down at himself and he shook his head. His shirt was still pale blue. There was nothing on it. He quickly looked back into the reflection of the window and the bottle of pop dropped from his hand and splashed in an arc of exploding bubbles.

  He leaned in again and looked at his throat. Small wells of blood were oozing from under the surface. He reached for his neck and rubbed beneath his ear as another small balloon of red gloop burst from his skin.

  Frantically he rubbed the area, but the more he did so, the more the blood leached out.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy, are you okay?’ Samantha’s voice came from outside the door.

  George quickly turned. ‘Stay there, Sammy. Don’t come in.’

  ‘But Daddy—’

  ‘I mean it, Sammy. Stay the hell outside…’ George turned back to his reflection and saw a perfect line from ear to ear of weeping blood under his jawline. He gripped his neck with both hands and tried to stem the flow of blood, but the more he tried, the quicker it flowed.

  ‘Daddy!’ Samantha screamed. She was in the kitchen.

  George faced her with horror in his eyes. He cried out ‘Don’t see me’ and waved her away with a completely blood-dripping hand. He turned back to the window and his heart stopped.

  Written on the glass in his blood, were the words:

  IT BELONGS TO ME.

  ‘Peter?’ George breathed.

  He turned and ran to the top of the steps. He looked over to his chair on the patio – the entire area was now infested with flies and the sound of buzzing filled the air. He noticed Sammy two steps below him, pointing up at him, her other hand across her mouth.

  George followed the direction of her finger, it was pointing at his chest. He looked down – his shirt was pale blue once again. He rubbed his neck – there was nothing. He looked back towards the chair – the flies had gone. He settled on Sammy. She was now crying and laughing at the same time. George held out his arms and Sammy came running into his secure grasp.

  George looked around him in slow motion – to the patio – over his shoulder at the doorway to the kitchen and finally back down at his hands. He rested his chin on the top of Sammy’s head and directed his eyes once again on the patio area.

  ‘He’s back…’ George whispered. ‘Oh God… Peter… Peter.’

  Chapter 1

  Detective Andrew Deans backed wearily onto the narrow patch of concrete at the front of his semi-detached house. He was fortunate: parking spaces, let alone driveways, came at a premium in Bath – but that was one reason why they had chosen to live on the outskirts.

  The engine stayed running. Deans stared ahead, eyes swollen and heavy. He blinked once, long and slow, and uncurled his fingers from the leather steering wheel that he had gripped so tightly for the last three hours – like peeling chipolatas from flypaper. He killed the engine and dragged his heels to the front door.

  The hallway was dark, cold and silent. He dropped his bag beside the telephone table, threw his keys on top and went straight through to the kitchen without turning on any lights. He ran water through the pipes for thirty seconds, filled the kettle and opened the wall cabinet. Instead of taking a mug, he reached for a heavy glass tumbler and searched for the bottle.

  He moved through to the living room, lit only from a beam of streetlight sneaking in through a gap in the drapes, and he was already into his second glass of Jameson’s before the water had bo
iled. He slumped onto the sofa, kicked off his shoes without unlacing them, and rested the nape of his neck against the cool brown leather. Maria filled his head. Delightful, ditsy, fragile Maria. He took another swig without lifting his head, the hard-hitting spirit splintering the back of his throat. He sucked a shallow breath from the solemn air and closed his eyes. If only he had listened to her; he would not have gone to Devon, would not have become so catastrophically immersed in the Amy Poole murder, would not have flirted with fantasy evidence, and would still be sitting beside her.

  A heavy noise above his head snatched his breath away. He gawked at the ceiling, as if he had the superhuman ability to see through plasterboard, his jaw wide and slack.

  There it was again.

  He slammed the glass onto the coffee table, whisky splashing onto the back of his hand, and he raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Their bedroom door was closed but was framed with light seeping from inside the room. Deans burst in, his anticipation beyond ecstasy.

  ‘Maria,’ Deans whimpered.

  His wife faced him, kneeling tall on top of the bed sheets.

  ‘Do it,’ an urgent voice sounded from somewhere behind him.

  Deans shot around, his arms held before him ready to embrace Maria, but they dropped like concrete blocks when he saw Ash Babbage emerging from the shadows of the back wall.

  ‘Do it, now.’ Ferocity spewed from Babbage’s lips.

  Deans spun back facing Maria; her face was wild and desperate. It was only then that he registered the arm across her forehead.

  ‘Maria,’ he shrieked, lunging forwards but falling short. Then he saw it: the glint of steel chasing the clenched fist beneath her chin followed by the sickening nick and popping sound of sliced muscle and sinew.

  ‘Maria! No!’ he screamed, clawing the fringe of the duvet but making no ground.

  The corners of her mouth lifted for a millisecond, and her hands gently cradled the mound of her stomach.

  And then he awoke… and she was gone.