Graham shook Deans’ hand and took him through to the living room where Joyce was sitting in semi-darkness with a tepid cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in front of her. She noticed Deans enter the room and immediately stood up.
‘Andrew,’ she said. ‘We saw DC Aldridge this morning.’ DC Aldridge was the FLO (Family Liaison Officer) assigned to Maria’s parents as a single point of contact for the police.’
Deans pinched his lip between his teeth, gave himself a couple of seconds to think. ‘I saw her too – the other day.’ In fact, he had spoken to her several times, including at his most recent visit to the Major Crime Investigation Team in Bristol.
‘She told us there has been some progress,’ Joyce said.
Deans stared into her despairing eyes. He could see the same hollowness he had witnessed in Amy Poole’s mother. He dropped his head and glanced away.
‘When did you find out?’ Graham asked in a calm voice, moving alongside his wife.
‘Couple of days ago,’ Deans replied. He looked up and saw their disappointed reactions. ‘I had to go to Devon,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, or tell you over the phone.’
‘Jesus, Andrew,’ Joyce snapped. ‘Of all the people that can help us and you decide to gallivant off to Devon again.’
‘I was working,’ Deans replied in a frank voice. He heard Joyce tut and noticed her rolling her eyes. ‘I was trying to find Maria,’ he said and looked at each of them in turn. ‘Not a second passes when I’m not trying to figure out where she is.’
A thorny silence beset the room.
‘Well…’ Graham said comforting his wife with an arm over her shoulder as she slumped back into her chair. ‘Maybe you can fill in the gaps for us, Andrew?’
‘What have you been told?’
‘Maria visited her bank,’ Graham said.
‘Yes.’
‘But they don’t know where she went after that?’
Deans blinked and shuffled his heels. He caught Graham’s stare eating into him, and he looked down at his feet again.
‘What have you been told?’ Graham asked forcefully.
Deans felt his Adams apple rise and drop as he swallowed and considered what he should say. Moreover, would it help them to know? Deans exhaled slowly, and he looked them both in the eye.
‘Maria’s been taken,’ he said.
Neither of them moved for several seconds.
‘W… wha…’ Joyce was trying to speak.
‘The police aren’t having it,’ Deans continued, ‘but I saw it for myself. That’s why I’ve been in Devon – trying to follow up the leads that the police here won’t acknowledge.’
‘Why not?’ Graham whispered, his voice bereft of energy.
Deans shook his head. He felt his face burning. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I’m not going sit back and wait for…’ He stopped himself.
Graham’s mouth dropped open.
‘Did you see that woman?’ Joyce asked.
Deans stood taller and faced her square on. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That woman is also doing all she can to help find Maria.’
Joyce tutted again and faced the other way. Deans glared at Graham, who mouthed silently, don’t.
‘So what now?’ Graham asked, clearly attempting to change the subject from Denise Moon.
‘I’m waiting to hear back from Major Crime,’ Deans said. ‘And in the meantime, I’m going to do whatever it takes to find my wife.’ He leaned over, directing his next words at Joyce. ‘To find your daughter.’
‘Have you heard of a Sergeant Jackson?’ Graham asked.
‘Why?’ Deans snapped, taking a half step backwards.
‘We had the strangest phone call from him yesterday,’ Graham said, now sitting beside his wife, clutching her hand.
‘Jackson phoned you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘What did he say?’ Deans stepped closer towards them.
‘Um… he asked if we’d had any contact from Maria, and general chit-chat—’
‘Chit-chat?’
Graham shrugged. ‘Maria’s work, her social life… her relationship with you.’
Deans narrowed his gaze. ‘Her relationship with me?’
Graham shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘Who did Jackson say he was?’ Deans asked.
‘Well,’ Graham said looking puzzled, ‘a senior detective on Maria’s case.’
Deans’ eyes were now narrow slits and his teeth were clenched tightly.
‘Isn’t he?’ Graham asked now appearing more concerned.
‘Is that the first contact you’ve had from Jackson?’ Deans asked.
‘Yes, as far as I know.’ Graham looked at his wife, pulling her hand into his lap. ‘Is there some kind of problem?’
Deans did not answer.
‘Andrew.’ Graham’s voice was hardening.
Deans looked away.
‘Is there some kind of issue, Andrew?’ Joyce cut in with harsh tones.
Deans bit his lip. Shook his head.
‘We don’t get along. That’s all.’
Chapter 22
Deans awoke with a muzzy groan. He was still on the sofa and still in the clothes from the day before. He brought himself up into a seated position and grabbed the sides of his face. He looked at the whisky bottle on the coffee table. Most of it was gone.
He found his mobile phone on the floor and grumbled his way through to the kitchen, connected a power lead to his dead phone and flicked the switch to the kettle. His breath was stale and his eyes gritty and unforgiving. His phone vibrated, once, and then twice. He looked at the screen through tender eyes. A voicemail and a text message were waiting for him. His hearing needed less effort than his sight, so he dialled in and waited for the voicemail message.
“Deano, stick the kettle on, I’m coming around.” It was Mick Savage.
Deans scratched the back of his head and peered at the clock on the microwave. 9:48 a.m. Shit.
He took a tall glass of Alka-Seltzer, nailed three painkillers and crashed back onto the sofa.
A loud knock at the door woke him. He shuffled through and opened it up. It was Savage, complete with a shopping bag held out in front of him.
He looked Deans up and down. ‘Thought you might want a fry up and a decent brew, but it looks like you need a damn good kick up the arse instead,’ Savage said.
Deans stepped aside without speaking and let Savage through the doorway.
‘Didn’t make it to bed I see,’ Savage commented, lifting up the whisky bottle from the coffee table in the living room.
‘Mmm,’ Deans grumbled, shaking his head.
‘Show me where the pans are and get yourself freshened up,’ Savage said.
‘Does Sandra know you have another man?’ Deans said, trying to make light of his embarrassing situation.
‘You wish. Go on. Get showered – you stink,’ Savage said, sparking the gas hob.
‘Why are you here, Mick?’
‘I want to help you. And I can’t afford for you to fall apart, Deano.’
Deans moaned and rolled his eyes.
‘These past few weeks…’ Savage continued. ‘Well, they’ve changed you.’
Deans peered at Savage through hooded lids.
‘I’m not criticising you, Andy – I’m really not. But I need the old Andy back now… you need the old Andy back.’ Savage sniffed the air, sucked his lips and stared at Deans. ‘Maria’s situation,’ he said. ‘It’s really not looking good.’
‘I know.’
‘And you are going to need to be firing on all cylinders to get through this,’ Savage said raising the bottle of Jameson’s whisky from the table and holding it out in front of his face.
Deans glimpsed the bottle and returned his gaze to Savage.
‘What did you do with your rest days, Deano?’ Savage asked. It was obvious from his raised brows and glaring eyes that he already knew.
‘I went to North Devon,’ Deans replied neutrally.
‘Do you think that was wise?’
Deans shrugged. ‘I can go wherever I like, Mick.’
Savage groaned and spoke with guarded tones; ‘Andy, you might hinder any investigation into…’ he stopped short.
‘Into what, Mick?’
‘Well, they are still looking into Maria’s disappearance for one—’
‘Are they?’
‘Oh come on, you know they are.’
Deans huffed and turned away.
‘The perception is that you are getting involved when you really shouldn’t be.’
‘Whose perception?’ Deans snapped. ‘Come on, whose perception?’
Savage blinked quickly. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes it does.’ Deans was not about to let it drop. ‘Was it Sergeant Jackson?’
He saw enough in Savage’s face to know that it was.
‘Don’t blame him, Deano. He just wants to keep the investigations on track, you get me?’
Deans dismissed Savage with a backhand swipe of his hand. ‘He’s a twat.’
‘Come on, Andy. As a friend I’m just saying – don’t make things any harder than they already are.’
Deans scoffed.
Savage smiled for the first time in minutes and stepped towards Deans, embracing him with a backslapping hug. ‘We’ll get you through this, buddy,’ he said. ‘You can count on me.’
Deans washed, changed and sat down at the kitchen table opposite Savage, who was tucking into a ketchup-dripping bacon and egg butty.
‘I was hoping you’d be free today,’ Savage said between obscenely large mouthfuls of food. ‘Someone I think we should go and visit.’
‘Who?’ Deans asked, turning his face up at the slobbish sight of Savage eating.
‘I had a call from Nathan Parsons a couple of days ago,’ Savage said. ‘He was a bit excited – he’s only managed to get a DNA hit on that envelope you sent off.’
Envelope?
‘Better than that,’ Savage continued, wiping a blob of red sauce from his chin. ‘The fucking perv only lives in Swindon – we’ve got an address and everything. Three hours – bish-bash-bosh!’
It took a moment for Deans to register the information and then it struck home. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘What the baby-cam footage?’
‘Yep,’ Savage said, sucking grease from his fingers with lip smacking kisses. ‘So, fancy a little drive today – unless you don’t feel up to it?’
Deans sat bolt upright and blinked comfort back into his eyes. Bloody hell, he thought and sank his coffee.
Deans and Savage were in Swindon by twelve twenty-five. The address they had been given was not far from the local football stadium. The perv had pre-cons for exposure; flashed his penis at a bunch of school kids on a bus stop. He had received a community order, but most importantly for Deans and Savage, his DNA was taken while he was in custody, which was how they could identify him now.
The block of flats looked quite swanky, privately owned by the appearance of them. They walked to the communal entrance and discovered from the mailbox names that their target was on the sixth and top floor level.
Savaged buzzed flat number one.
A frail, elderly voice came over the intercom. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Good morning, my lovely,’ Savage said. ‘This is the police. There is nothing to worry about, but we are just trying to enter the building and we can’t get a response from the flat we need. Would you be a love and let us in, please?’
‘Who are you after?’ the reply came.
‘You don’t need to worry about that, but you can see our identification before we enter, if you like?’
The intercom went silent.
Deans heard the sound of an unlocking door and an elderly woman shuffled out from the nearest flat entrance and came up to the glass of the door.
Savage waved a hand, and they both pressed their warrant cards up against the glass and smiled warmly. The woman was saying something, but neither of them could make it out and in any event, she opened the door.
‘Thank you, my love,’ Savage said passing her. ‘I very much appreciate it.’
The woman mumbled something, but Deans and Savage were already making their way up the first flight of stairs.
They reached flat number twenty-two and Savage knocked loudly on the door, but there was no reply. He knocked again, this time louder – same result.
Deans removed a small torch from his day-bag and used the butt end to tap against the door, being careful not to mark the paint with the metal.
Savage screwed up his face. ‘Can you smell that?’ he asked.
Deans sniffed the air and looked blankly at Savage. He dropped onto one knee and smelled the air through the crack of the door. Deans nodded. ‘We’d better ask the neighbours when they last saw him.’
The result was not for at least a week and his pushbike was still downstairs near to the entrance. According to the neighbours, Gary Coxley, the perv, worked in a nearby factory – regular hours, routine kind of bloke – until this week.
Deans cocked his head. ‘It’s your call, you’re the skipper.’
‘Thanks,’ Savage replied sarcastically.
‘We can justify it,’ Deans said. ‘Reasonable grounds for suspecting an offence has been committed. We’ve confirmed Coxley lives here and we’ve got his DNA.’
‘Shit!’ Savage cursed. ‘What if he just decided to walk to work, or take the bus, or he’s on holiday and hasn’t told anyone? What if he’s got a smelly cat or a dead rat under the floor boards?’
‘One way to find out?’ Deans said.
Savage whined and shook his head. He pushed his hand against the top, then the middle and finally bottom edges of the door. ‘Well it looks like a single Yale lock. Fancy that one?’ he asked Deans.
‘Why does it have to be me?’
‘You’re better at the paperwork than me, plus I’ve got new shoes on.’
Deans dropped Savage a come on look.
‘Need a run up?’
Deans huffed and shook his head. He pushed his foot against the sweet spot and imagined the strike. He looked over his shoulder.
‘Go for it,’ Savage said.
Deans smashed the door open with one mighty boot, the frame splintering at the lock.
‘Phwaaah!’ Savage choked, covering his face with his hand. ‘You first then, Deano,’ he said.
The smell of death was overwhelming – not so much a matter of if, as where?
Deans edged through the hallway and listened for the beacon of feasting flies. He found the body, lying face up on the living room floor. The carpet was crimson all around him.
‘He’s in here,’ Deans shouted back to Savage who was still coughing and spluttering in the entrance hallway. ‘He’s totally drained.’
Savage peered around the doorway. ‘Shit,’ he said, from behind his finger-mask. ‘Looks like an aneurism.’
Deans agreed. He had seen the same thing several times before, but this was clearly an unexpected death and would need forensic opinion. He looked at the face; sure enough, there had been a nosebleed. Deans knelt down at the top end of the body, the crusty tide of claret near to the tips of his shoes. ‘Look at his hair,’ Deans said.
Savage came over, squatted beside Deans and coughed near his ear. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Look at that grey streak.’
‘So,’ Savage said.
‘You don’t think that’s unusual?’
‘People have grey hair, Deano. And this one now has a little rouge to complement it.’
‘People get grey streaks when they’ve experienced extreme shock. I’ve seen images…’ Deans’ voice tailed away.
‘Well, we’d better get the local CID on the blower,’ Savage said. ‘Go and have a look out in the bedroom, I think you’ll find something interesting.’
Deans did as he was told and found numerous shoe boxes full of CDs, the same brand as the one he had been sent in the post.
‘The bloke was a fucking pervert,’ Savage said coming into the bedroom. He pointed back towards the living room. ‘And I believe that is called Karma.’
‘We’re going to need to seize these,’ Deans said, lifting one of the shoe boxes full of disks.
‘Jesus, Deano. We’ve got enough on our plate now.’
‘There could be more in here to help me,’ Deans said, rummaging through the stack of disks.
‘Deano?’ Savage said, getting Deans to look his way. ‘Are you sure you are not a shit magnet?’
Deans puffed air into his cheeks and tilted his head. ‘It’s certainly starting to look that way.’
Chapter 23
They spent the next five hours at the local CID office. The ‘incident’ had gone all the way up to the Detective Chief Inspector and District Commander, who were not impressed with Deans and Savage. Not only were they on another constabularies patch ‘uninvited’, but they had caused damage to a door and discovered a sudden death. A headache at the best of times, but not for Savage and Deans, they had the M4 corridor to act as a buffer from the justifiable questions that were sure to follow.
The body had been certified and removed for an autopsy, and the boxes of recorded perv-material had been sifted and it was agreed that Deans could take the three other murder disks back to Bath for analysis.
Deans’ Team had all gone by seven, and the late shift was working a fresh GBH assault. Although he was beyond tired, he felt compelled to view the footage that night and took the disks to the small video room within the nick, and made sure he was alone by locking the door. These images were for his eyes only.
The first disk whirred and loaded without issue. Deans stared intently at the screen and the couple’s bedroom brought light to the video room. Deans rocked in his seat and searched for clues, but instead he faced Mr and Mrs Rose bang at it on top of the sheets.
Out of instinct, Deans checked over his shoulder, even though he knew nobody else was in the room. He felt awkward – watching two people enjoying one another, knowing that in a small flat in Swindon, someone else was most likely deriving similar pleasure from their intimacy.
The Detective Deans Mystery Collection Page 37