The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  ‘Turns out they knew one another in their youth,’ Jackson said. ‘Had one thing in common: they were both orphaned.’

  Deans did not interrupt and remembered what Sarah had told him in the café.

  Jackson continued, ‘When Babbage lost all his family members in separate accidents he was carted off by Social Services, ending up somewhere near Weymouth in a home with three other children… one of them being Paul Ranford.’ Jackson stopped speaking and negotiated a set of lights.

  ‘It transpires one of the other kids was killed playing train chicken with Babbage and Ranford. They were never investigated and from what I can find out, it was closed down as a tragic accident with lessons to be learned.’

  He turned to Deans. ‘Appears the only lesson they did learn was how to kill.’

  Deans continued staring ahead at the car in front. Denise sitting in the rear appeared transfixed on what she was hearing.

  ‘Did you know Babbage took his brother’s name, but was born Donna…’ Jackson hesitated, ‘… a female?’

  Deans looked out through the side window and saw his partial reflection in the wing mirror. ‘Yes, I knew that,’ he said.

  ‘So, when pretty girls began to vanish several years ago without any detection, someone in the force became suspicious and asked me to monitor the investigations. It turns out Ranford was a key player in all of them. He had prime opportunity to cover his tracks or divert attention away from Babbage and himself.’

  Jackson nudged Deans with the back of his hand. ‘And then you came along.’

  ‘Who was the leader?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ Jackson replied. ‘We don’t know if they always worked together. Maybe we are about to find out.’

  They entered the county custody suite. Denise remained outside in the car.

  Ranford was waiting his turn in the air lock with the uniformed officers. He was sitting on the bench, motionless and silent, his hands still cuffed behind him. He saw Deans and immediately straightened his back and smiled broadly.

  ‘Are you okay to book him in?’ Jackson asked Deans.

  There was nothing he wanted more, maybe apart from seeing Ranford suffer in agonising pain.

  The secure door to the custody room buzzed. ‘On your feet,’ Jackson barked at Ranford.

  Ranford stared at him but did not move.

  Jackson lunged over and hooked his arm through the loop created by Ranford’s cuffed hands. ‘I said on your feet.’ He heaved his arm upwards and Ranford rose reluctantly from the bench with a silent grimace.

  ‘Uncuff him,’ Jackson said to one the PCs and kept a tight hold of Ranford’s arm.

  Ranford shook his hands free and stood nose-to-nose with Jackson.

  Deans scowled; this was a completely different Ranford to the one he had experienced… up until now.

  ‘Andy, you go in first,’ Jackson said.

  Deans entered the charge room and saw a sergeant standing behind the desk with a miserable expression, tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter top.

  ‘Come on,’ the custody sergeant called out, ‘I’ve got a chilli waiting for me in the microwave.’

  He stared at Deans, giving him a once over, obviously attracted by the blood-smeared clothing, legs, arms and face, as well as his walking aids.

  The custody sergeant turned behind him and gesticulated to someone out of Deans’ view.

  Almost immediately two detention officers burst out of a side door and flanked Deans, one of them whipping the sticks away.

  The sergeant looked at Ranford. ‘Okay, Paul, you had better tell me what he is in here for.’

  ‘Not him,’ Jackson said coming into the room behind Ranford, ‘this piece of shit,’ he said, shoving Ranford in the back and forcing him towards the charge desk.

  The custody sergeant dragged his specs to the end of his nose and looked over the top of them at Ranford and then at Deans for an extended moment. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and turned to one of the detention officers.

  ‘Looks like I’m having cold chilli for lunch again boys.’

  The sergeant looked at Deans and then to Jackson. ‘And who might you gentlemen be then?’

  Jackson stepped towards the desk. ‘This is Detective Andrew Deans from Falcon Road CID in Bath.’

  The custody sergeant gave Deans an extended once over.

  ‘And I am Detective Sergeant Stephen Jackson, Professional Standards and Major Crime Investigation Team Leader, Exeter.’

  The custody sergeant looked at Deans again. ‘You’ve had an interesting morning by the looks of it, detective,’ he said.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Right, who is going to tell me why Detective Ranford is standing before me now?’ the sergeant asked, nodding for the detention officer to return Deans’ sticks to him.

  Jackson faced Deans and held out his hand in a, be my guest gesture.

  ‘Paul Ranford was arrested by myself this morning on suspicion of murdering Ash Babbage. Conspiracy to murder Amy Poole…’ Deans stopped and looked down. He coughed into his hand and swivelled so that he was now facing a smiling Ranford. ‘And the abduction and murder of Maria Deans… my beautiful wife and mother to my unborn child.’

  Everyone in the room apart from Ranford and Deans were motionless.

  The custody sergeant cleared his throat and peered at Jackson who slowly nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ the sergeant said. ‘Sounds like we have a lot to talk about. How recent was the latest alleged murder?’

  Deans pouted and looked at his watch. ‘About an hour ago,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ the sergeant said to Ranford. ‘You know your rights better than anyone. Do you want a brief?’

  Ranford grinned and shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Ranford did not reply and continued staring at Deans.

  ‘Alright,’ the sergeant said. ‘Take him straight into cell one, strip him and stick him in a forensic suit… and somebody please get me the duty superintendant.’

  The detention officers led the way through the narrow cell complex corridors with Deans following slowly behind on his crutches. They reached the open door to cell one and the detention officers encouraged Ranford inside with a gentle hand on the back.

  Deans stood in the entrance to the cell, just as he had done following Babbage’s arrest for Amy Poole’s murder.

  Ranford stared continuously at Deans as the DOs removed his belt, clothing and placed him into a white paper forensic suit.

  The DOs left the cell, leaving Ranford standing front and centre facing Deans.

  The corner of Ranford’s mouth lifted, but before he had an opportunity to say anything, Deans curled his hand around the edge of the door and slammed it shut with a solid engagement of the latches.

  Chapter 49

  An hour and a half later, and Deans and Jackson were back on the road with Denise Moon. Ranford was going nowhere, and the DI had authorised Section 18 PACE search warrants at all the relevant properties – including Ruby Mansell’s place – allowing the officers to search for all evidence relating to any of the alleged murders. The balloon had just gone up, as the police had a habit of saying when things got interesting.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Deans asked Jackson who was driving with a purpose in the opposite direction to Sandymere Bay.

  ‘I hope you like boats,’ Jackson said. ‘We are starting with Ranford’s accommodation.’

  ‘Ranford lives on a boat?’

  ‘It appears that Mr Ranford is full of surprises.’

  They arrived in Mullacombe, an attractive tourist trap with a small harbour and thriving fishing fleet, just half-an-hour north of Torworthy.

  Jackson spoke with the harbour master, flashed his ID and led the way down to the sheltered shingle beach. A picture perfect post-card fleet of fishing vessels, tethered by long seaweed encrusted ropes waited worthlessly in the dry for the incoming tide. The harbour master showed them to a small i
nflatable boat and pointed out toward the far side of the harbour and in the direction of a large solitary boat tied up against the sheer rock face of the headland.

  ‘Christ!’ Deans said. ‘He lives on that?’

  ‘Yep,’ Jackson said, taking the controls of the small boat as the harbour master pushed them off the shingle bed.

  Jackson directed the rib and within moments they were alongside Ranford’s vessel.

  The water bobbed and chopped as the wake they had created caught up and passed beneath them. Ranford’s boat looked imposing from their small craft; at least fifty feet in length and seemingly just as tall. The grey painted hull appeared tired and forgotten, and although it was clearly afloat, Deans guessed this boat had not seen action in open water for a while.

  ‘Shall we?’ Jackson asked, tying their boat to the side of the rusting hull.

  ‘I can’t get up there,’ Deans said, ‘not with my leg.’

  Jackson raised a finger. ‘One moment,’ he said and scaled a rope ladder that hung from the side.

  He reached the top and then called down to Deans. ‘Try this. I guessed he’d have something to hoist larger objects aboard.’

  A large wooden platform with thick ropes on each corner clanked its way down the side of the steel barge. Deans turned to Denise and pulled a face.

  ‘Don’t expect me to get in that,’ she said.

  Deans chuckled and climbed on top of the level platform. He looked over at Denise again.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said.

  Deans raised his thumb to Jackson, and he slowly jolted his way up the side of the boat.

  If the hull looked un-seaworthy, then the top was barely habitable with crudely erected tarpaulin sheets positioned to divert rainfall, or capture it in large black plastic water butts. Arm sized logs were stacked neatly against the cabin wall and covered with a taught sheet. Disused tyres were dotted about the deck and filled with soil, a couple of which were sheltered by plastic sheeting like mini-greenhouses.

  If nothing else, Ranford was resourceful.

  Deans approached the main doorway and found an axe, chainsaw and a large shiny machete knife inside a makeshift storage box to the side of the entrance.

  ‘We’d better take those,’ Jackson said.

  Deans looked closer at the teeth of the chainsaw and scowled.

  They moved inside the cabin and discovered a chaotic mess of tools and kitchen utensils scattered on any available surface. Clothing and bed linen hung from a wire, suspended throughout the entire length of the compartment.

  They dropped down three narrow steps into the sleeping quarters and walked into the first room on the left, quite obviously Ranford’s bedroom. It was a simple affair and probably the tidiest part of the boat, so far. Opposite, Deans found the confined shower and toilet area.

  Deans continued further in toward the bow and a larger space opened out. He saw mobile clothing racks and Ranford’s clothes, including work shirts and several suits hanging neatly in a row. The hairs on the back of Deans’ neck lifted and he sniffed the air.

  His eyes narrowed. She was here. As the scent of perfume strengthened, he came across a small bedside unit next to a wooden wardrobe.

  He pulled the drawer and found an old-style SLR camera and many rolls of old school sealed film.

  He stood against the wardrobe, that was almost as tall as he was, and tugged on the door but found it to be locked.

  Why would you need to lock a wardrobe?

  He drove a hand deeper inside the small cabinet drawer and located a key dangling from a hook at the back.

  Schoolboy error, Paul. He stuck the key in the lock and opened the wardrobe door.

  ‘Come over and see this,’ Deans called out to Jackson.

  Jackson joined him in front of the opened unit. ‘What is it?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘Tell me what you see,’ Deans said.

  Jackson shrugged. ‘A cupboard full of coats.’

  ‘Three coats,’ Deans said. ‘And this door was locked.’

  Jackson pulled a face.

  Deans swept the coats to one side and stuck his head inside. There was nothing else.

  He patted down the jacket pockets – there was nothing inside of them.

  ‘This was locked for a reason,’ he said to Jackson and stepped inside the unit. He tapped the rear wooden panel and immediately stopped, turning to Jackson.

  Deans had found a sliding door made to look like the back panel of the wardrobe.

  He opened it up and illuminated the torch on his phone. He threw his crutches to the floor and crawled through into another open space at the bow of the boat.

  Jackson followed behind and helped Deans back to his feet.

  Daylight streamed in through small blisters in the steel, and narrow rods of bright light criss-crossed like laser beam trip-wires.

  Deans shone his light around the entire space and Jackson did the same. They were standing amongst strings of hanging photographs, apparently developed the old-fashioned way. There must have been dozens of strings and hundreds of photographs.

  Deans edged to the nearest string and directed his light onto the photographs. He straight away recognised Amy Poole, and she was in the makeshift photo-studio at Babbage’s house. Ranford was leaning across her, thumbs up to the camera, as she lay slumped in the chair, her face sliced and blooded.

  Deans carried on down the line, shining his light on each image, and then he stopped abruptly. He recognised the scenery; it was Bath. It was his driveway and front garden, and it was Ranford’s vomit inducing joyful face.

  Deans sucked in a juddering breath and dropped to his knees clutching his head.

  ‘Don’t look at any more,’ Jackson said from behind. ‘Come on, Andy. We had better call a search team to recover all of this evidence.’

  Jackson lifted Deans to his feet and helped him outside into the mist and cold.

  ‘It’s probably best you don’t see any more for now,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Deans sighed. ‘You’re probably right. Not here anyway.’

  Jackson waved to Denise in the inflatable boat. ‘I’m lowering him down to you,’ he said and helped Deans onto the platform.

  Deans grabbed Jackson’s arm. ‘Sarah Gold,’ he said.

  Jackson frowned. Deep creases appeared in his brow.

  ‘She’s a good kid,’ Deans said. ‘She doesn’t deserve the treatment she’s getting.’

  ‘I know,’ Jackson said. ‘I’m going to make sure the investigation into her goes away.’ He heaved a big sigh. ‘It’s obvious now that Ranford had a major part to play in the exhibits going astray.’

  The wrinkles in the corners of Jackson’s eyes lengthened. ‘You like her – don’t you?’

  Deans turned away and blinked. He did.

  He shook his head and looked back at Jackson. ‘I don’t think that is proper for either of us to discuss, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Just so you know,’ Jackson said. ‘If the time ever comes in the future… she likes you too.’ He smiled with his tight lips and readied the winch.

  They rejoined Denise in the inflatable and Jackson called for additional units on his Airwave radio.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Denise asked.

  ‘We wait for the troops to arrive and then you and Andy need to go back to Torworthy nick. We need your statements about what happened with Ranford at Babbage’s house.’

  ‘What will happen to Ash?’ Denise asked.

  Deans looked at her, realising that he wasn’t the only one to lose someone close to him during this entire mess.

  ‘He will go to the mortuary,’ Deans said.

  ‘The Independent Police and Complaints Commission will be all over this,’ Jackson said with his head in his hands.

  ‘Nothing we or anyone else could have done to prevent any of this,’ Denise said.

  Deans noticed Jackson lift his head slightly and stare reflectively at Denise. Their eyes met for a moment and Jackson looked away agai
n.

  Chapter 50

  Six-twenty p.m. and Deans was still with Denise at Torworthy police station. He had updated DI Thornton and Mick Savage with the events of the day and suffered a heart-breaking conversation with Maria’s father. The small coastal station was now a hive of activity. The narrow CID office was once again a hub of productivity and Jackson was running the show.

  Sarah Gold came into the room and ran across to Deans, hugging him. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked with a tear in her eye. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m fine, Sarah thanks. Are you back in the fold?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Jackson reinstated me this afternoon and he even apologised to me.’

  Deans smiled. ‘Good. I wouldn’t want anyone else taking your position in the investigation. What can you tell me?’

  ‘All the scenes have been forensically searched and still locked down. Paul Ranford is apparently behaving himself in custody and we have a meeting at seven to discuss the next steps. Your colleagues from Bristol are coming down to interview Ranford because we can’t get involved, as he is one of ours. Are you joining us?’

  Deans shrugged. ‘I haven’t been asked. I think I may be too close to the action this time.’

  Sarah faced Denise and smiled. ‘You must be exhausted,’ she said.

  Denise nodded. ‘We are okay. You have all been looking after us, but I would quite like to go home soon.’

  ‘There’s nothing else we can do,’ Deans said. ‘It’s a waiting game now. Jackson has to decide how he plays it. Ranford is looking at three murders, that we know of, and I’m just praying Jackson’s not going to mess this one up.’

  ‘Why don’t you both go home now,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll call you if anything happens.’

  Deans checked the time. ‘That’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘It’ll be tomorrow before any questions are put to Ranford, and in any case, I need a drink.’

  ‘Come on,’ Denise said standing. ‘I think we’ve all had enough excitement for the day and I need a drink too.’