The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  ‘What are you doing?’ Savage whispered. ‘You can’t leave now. These people have come here today for you.’

  Savage looked at Denise Moon and his lips tightened. ‘Might have guessed you’d have something to do with this.’

  ‘Hold on right there,’ Denise said.

  ‘It was me,’ Jackson said, striding in behind Deans. ‘I need Detective Deans to help me out with… something.’

  ‘He’s not fit to work,’ Savage said. ‘He’s just lost his wife and child—’

  ‘It was my choice,’ Deans cut in. ‘Sergeant Jackson didn’t ask me to go. But I have to.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Deano,’ Savage flared. ‘Look around you.’ He pointed at the faces staring awkwardly back at them. ‘What can be more important than this? You need these people. You need them to help you recover. You don’t need more stress.’

  Deans dropped a heavy hand onto Savage’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be alright, Mick. I am doing this for the right reasons – Maria knows that.’

  ‘No,’ Savage said. ‘You’re not.’

  Deans planted his crutches onto the beer-stained carpet, stared at Savage and gave the room one final fleeting look.

  Chapter 4

  Deans and Denise Moon arrived at Torworthy Police Station an hour behind Jackson. It was already getting on for four p.m., and being the depths of winter, it was already dusk outside. Deans left Denise and told her he would find a way back to her house later that evening. He met Jackson in the CID office.

  ‘I’m just waiting for Detective Gold to arrive,’ Jackson said, removing packaged forensic suits and latex gloves from a narrow roller-cabinet in the corner of the room.

  Sarah Gold was a local detective; the OIC (Officer in the Case) for the Amy Poole murder – the first murder in this now, increasingly frustrating investigation. She was a young and talented detective, but had been made a scapegoat by her own department when evidence relating to the Amy Poole murder mysteriously vanished from the detained property store. She took the blame at the time and Deans had fought her corner. It transpired later, that her colleague, Detective Ranford, was most likely responsible for the destruction of evidence, and for a great many other things too. Sarah Gold was not only able, she was also extremely attractive, and despite the fact that Deans was married, she had displayed an unexpected passing interest in him.

  ‘So, what’s the job?’ Deans asked Jackson, who continued to pack his go-bag with other useful items, such as statement papers, exhibit bags and sharps tubes.

  ‘I mean, I know there was a body on the beach, but what else can you tell me?’

  Jackson paused momentarily and cleared his throat. He placed the go-bag on the desk and turned to Deans with an uncompromising expression.

  ‘A dog walker found a decapitated male at Sandymere Bay earlier this morning.’ Jackson raised an eyebrow. ‘The poor woman’s completely traumatised, by all accounts. She lost her dog at the same time, so we haven’t got much from her at this stage.’

  ‘Do we know who the victim is?’ Deans asked.

  Jackson shook his head. ‘He’s been taken to the mortuary – and that’s going to be my first stop.’

  Deans raked a look over to Detective Ranford’s desk and a hot surge of anger burned in his veins.

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ Jackson said. ‘None of this will do you any good.’

  ‘I have to,’ Deans uttered, still facing Ranford’s desk. ‘I made a promise.’

  The door opened and in strode DC Gold. Deans stood taller and their eyes met.

  ‘Andy!’ she said dropping her bag onto the closest chair, racing over to embrace him with a firm, silent hug.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to help,’ Deans said looking over the top of her shoulder at Jackson, whose smirk had diminished.

  Sarah looked at him with the same you don’t need to do this eyes that both Jackson and Denise had given him earlier that afternoon in Bath.

  ‘Now that you’re both here,’ Deans said, putting some distance between himself and Sarah, ‘I want to talk about the interview with Paul Ranford.’

  The brow of Jackson’s bony head ridged like corrugation.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ he said.

  Deans stared again at Ranford’s desk. He walked over to it and sat on the corner of the table. He looked at Sarah and then at Jackson.

  ‘Did it not strike you as surprising that Ranford admitted everything the way he did; Maria’s murder; Babbage’s; the finer details of Amy Poole’s killing?’

  Jackson rolled his eyes.

  Deans looked at Sarah. Her feelings were less obvious to read, but her wide eyes were fixed upon his.

  ‘No?’ Deans asked filling the silence.

  Jackson grunted. ‘Well, what else could he do?’

  Deans rose slowly from the desk.

  ‘He could have given us a right royal run-around. He knows the law as well as any of us – knew how to dodge the bullets, but instead, allowed himself to be stitched with three counts of murder.’

  ‘He had nowhere to hide,’ Jackson said, a thin smile returning to his lips. ‘You practically caught him in the act of murder.’

  Deans shook his head. ‘No. That’s not the reason.’

  Jackson and Gold looked at one another.

  ‘He was protecting someone… or something,’ Deans said.

  ‘Like what?’ Sarah asked softly.

  The corner of Deans’ eye trembled as Maria’s face came into his thoughts.

  ‘Why cut off someone’s head?’ he asked. ‘Why not simply stab, poison, strangle, or smother them to death?’

  Jackson shrugged. ‘There are no rules to murder.’

  Deans stepped closer to Jackson. ‘Establish why the victims are being beheaded and we might find a motive for the killings.’

  Jackson sneered. ‘Maybe Ranford is just a violent bastard who needed to satisfy his perverse lust for blood and power.’

  ‘Maybe...’ Deans said. ‘Or perhaps he is taking the hit for someone further up the food chain.’

  ‘Argh! Come on,’ Jackson said picking up his bag from the desktop. ‘We could talk about what ifs all night long. I don’t know about you, but I’m keen to see who this latest victim is?’

  Chapter 5

  They were let into the mortuary by a young attendant. Judging by her hurried actions and nervous titter, she appeared not to be expecting them.

  ‘Would you let the pathologist know that Detective Sergeant Jackson is here regarding the murder victim, please,’ Jackson said with an authoritative arrogance.

  ‘Um…’ the young girl hesitated, sweeping straggly dark hair behind an ear. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Bugger,’ Jackson spluttered looking at his watch. ‘He’s usually here until at least seven. How long ago did he leave?’

  ‘No. I mean… he didn’t come in today.’

  ‘But it’s Tuesday.’ Jackson’s voice was increasingly barbed. ‘He’s always here late on a Tuesday.’

  ‘I know,’ the young attendant said tugging at her earlobe.

  ‘Have you tried calling him?’ Jackson barked.

  Deans took a step towards the young attendant. ‘It’s okay; we know it’s not your fault.’

  The girl looked at Deans, her eyes glistening as if she had some kind of connection with him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, still staring at Deans. ‘I’ve tried to page him.’

  ‘Pager?’ Jackson asked with irritation.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, who has been doing pathology around here today then?’ Jackson asked.

  The girl shot a glance towards Gold; she appeared to be way out of her depth.

  ‘Nobody,’ she finally replied down at her feet.

  Deans spoke again. ‘We’re here for the body that was recovered from the beach this morning.’ He positioned himself to partially block Jackson from the attendant’s line of sight. ‘Do you think we could see it – the body?’ he ask
ed.

  The girl peered up again at Deans. She didn’t blink and held his stare for a long moment.

  ‘Could we?’ Jackson asked, nudging Deans off balance.

  The attendant nodded and skulked back through heavy-looking double swing doors, similar to the ones you might see in a restaurant service area, minus the peepholes.

  Jackson followed first, and then Sarah Gold and she held the door open making it easier for Deans to navigate with his crutches.

  ‘You’ll need to wear forensic coveralls,’ the girl said, ‘until the examination has taken place.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Jackson muttered, snatching a white paper suit from her hands, ripping away the clear packaging and tossing it into a bin in the corner of the room.

  ‘Has anyone examined the body at all?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Nobody else has seen the corpse since it arrived… other than me,’ the attendant said and sneaked a glance in Deans’ direction.

  Sarah offered a sympathetic smile. ‘Thanks for your help. I know it must be difficult without Mr Rowland around. Does anyone have a clue where he is at the moment?’

  The girl shook her head and at the same time pointed over to another set of swing doors. ‘Through those doors is the scrubs room,’ she said. ‘You can get ready in there.’

  They followed her directions and dressed in their coveralls and facemasks.

  ‘Check this out,’ Jackson said, fiddling with the buttons on an early-looking Technics Compact Disc stacking system, complete with dual tape decks. ‘I used to have one like this back in the day.’

  ‘You’re not going to break-dance are you?’ Deans said in deadpan voice as he looked out through the glass window of the scrub room at the attendant standing motionless in the centre of the examination room, looking right back at him. Deans checked her over – she was wearing a sage-green hospital gown over pale blue trousers rolled up at the bottom of her stumpy legs. Her pigeon-toed white clogs peeped out from beneath the turn-ups.

  ‘Do you think we should wait for the pathologist before we see the body?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Nah,’ Jackson said from beneath his mask. ‘I’ve done so many of these things now, I know what we should or rather, what we shouldn’t be doing.’

  Jackson led the way out through the flapping doors, Sarah behind and Deans bringing up the rear. They joined the attendant who took them into another room – a pre-examination area. The air temperature was noticeably cooler than where they had just been and the room was featureless, apart from a stainless steel trolley holding the body of the deceased, shrouded by a pea-green blanket.

  They lined up in a row beside the trolley-bed, Deans towards the feet – going by the two pointed objects sticking up from underneath the covers. The smell was uniquely mortuary; the pungent sweetness of the rotting dead, mixed with a chemical cocktail of embalming fluid.

  Deans looked above his head. The extractor fans were on, but not nearly working hard enough.

  ‘This it?’ Jackson asked, speaking from behind his hand. ‘The body from the beach?’

  The girl nodded and took a half step backwards, which did not go unnoticed by Deans who was standing on the other side to them. She locked eyes with him once more and didn’t let go.

  Jackson, now at the head end – if the corpse had one – peeled back the covers exposing a tattered fringe of flesh around a small neck stump and naked torso. With only his cold eyes showing between the facemask and paper hood, it was hard to know if he was smiling or grimacing, but Deans gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  Jackson lowered the cover around the body’s midriff and scratched through the hood of his forehead with a gloved finger.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘What a mess.’

  Deans walked behind Sarah, who hadn’t moved an inch since they first walked over. He stood alongside Jackson and stared down at the jagged edges of the wound – there was nothing subtle about this beheading, no cauterised seam, no attempt at making it look "pretty". If anything, the decapitation looked angry. He had never seen a fully beheaded corpse before. The severed neck of Babbage was probably the closest he had come. Deans blinked to clear his gritty eyes, but instead of seeing the victim before him, he saw the mutilated body of his wife. His breathing began to race beneath his mask. What must Maria have gone through? He gulped air as a nauseas-belch burned the back of his throat. He stumbled sideways and Sarah reached out and grabbed his arm.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he said, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Would you rather wait for us outside?’ Sarah asked him with pitying eyes.

  Deans shook his head, his hand still in position in case of an upsurge from his stomach. He turned back and saw the attendant was watching him with wide, intelligent eyes.

  ‘I think we’ve seen enough,’ Jackson said. He grabbed the sheet material and pulled it back over the stump. ‘We need to see Archie before we go any further.’

  He turned to DC Gold. ‘Have CSI been organised to attend the post mortem examination?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They were notified first thing this morning, but they would normally liaise directly with the pathologist, rather than us.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jackson said peeling down his gloves and walking towards the scrubs room. ‘Find out from CSI what Archie has planned. I need to speak to the detective chief inspector about this stiff.’

  Jackson didn’t stick around to chat and was gone with a determined mettle. As Sarah and Deans drove back towards Torworthy along the pitch-black lanes, the horrific image of the decapitated body remained in the forefront of Deans’ mind.

  ‘How fresh did that body look to you?’ he asked Sarah after a few minutes of silence.

  ‘Very,’ she replied.

  Deans sucked in his cheeks and pinched a flap of flesh between his molars, biting down to the point that it hurt. He looked ahead with a thousand-yard stare.

  ‘Fresher than if the wounds had been made two weeks ago?’ he asked.

  ‘Definitely.’

  Deans faced his ghostly reflection in the side window. It wasn’t Ranford.

  ‘Does it strike you as odd that these bodies are being found so bloody easily?’ he asked, after a further pause for thought.

  Sarah didn’t answer immediately. She kept her eyes on the road ahead.

  Deans watched her eyebrows twitching as she appeared to be considering his question.

  ‘Yes,’ she eventually replied.

  ‘I mean… all of that ocean. Not to mention the miles of desolate moors right on the doorstep, and yet, all of the innocent victims have been located near to that one beach.’

  He whispered and leaned forwards, putting his face in his hands. ‘But where are their heads?’

  Sarah looked forwards, her hands tight around the steering wheel.

  ‘Why do you suppose that is?’ Deans asked

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah muttered, still declining to take her eyes off the road.

  ‘A challenge,’ Deans said. ‘The killers are provoking a reaction.’

  ‘From who?’

  Deans leaned back in the seat and rested his hands in his lap. ‘From me,’ he said softly. ‘They are goading me into a battle.’

  He heard the blinking of the indicator, and the car suddenly slewed to the side of the road, onto a small bumpy lay-by and Sarah ground the car to a rapid halt.

  ‘Do you think other killers are still out there?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Deans said. ‘That body has been dead a day, maybe two at the most. Ranford has been in custody for well over two weeks now, and Babbage has been dead longer still.’ Deans stared at Sarah. ‘There are others.’

  ‘But why?’ Sarah asked.

  Deans shrugged.

  ‘I mean… why carry on killing? Why kill that man in there if the “challenge” was intended for you?’

  Deans bunched his eyes tight for a moment and tried to remove the face of Maria from the forefront of his mind.

 
‘I guess we’ll find that out once we discover who once lived in that body. Ranford was clearly shielding others with his open admissions in interview, knowing that we’d concentrate on him.’

  Sarah’s mouth was wide.

  ‘We need to work backwards from this murder,’ Deans said. ‘And our person of interest may just show themselves.’

  ‘But…’ Sarah spluttered. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘We start by finding out who is lying on that slab.’

  Chapter 6

  As Deans and Sarah Gold drove deeper into the North Devon countryside, the lanes appeared to grow narrower and the hedgerows taller. Jackson had given them Archie Rowland’s home address and told them to pay him a visit and arrange a meeting at the mortuary. This was different scenery to the one Deans had become accustomed with in North Devon. The air was still with inactivity. They parked in the centre courtyard of three developed barn conversions, each designed to a high specification from the looks of it. Deans had guessed pathologists were good earners – this was the proof. He looked down at the tyre tracks in the shingle driveway. He sniffed and caught Sarah making for one of the stable-doors.

  ‘I suppose this is the main entrance,’ she said.

  Potted fir trees and curly nut bushes either side of the doorway meant that she was probably correct in her assumption. She knocked on the door and they both waited silently in their own thoughts.

  ‘Do we know what he drives?’ Deans asked. ‘There’s an old Land Rover over there.’ He pointed to the end of the side property, to where the nose and front wheels of a silver-coloured Freelander was visible.

  ‘No idea,’ Sarah replied. ‘I’ve never met him.’

  Just at that moment, the door opened and a woman of retirement age stood in the narrow gap. The smell of baking escaped out into the still, cool air and made Deans feel hungry. His mind wondered and he realised he had not eaten anything since yesterday lunchtime.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said abruptly.