The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

  ‘The remains of at least five other victims have also been recovered,’ she finally said.

  This time, the room swayed.

  ‘Victims, Ma’am?’ one of the senior officers asked. ‘Wasn’t Bone Hill a kosher burial site – a genuine place of rest?’

  The DCI gave the officer an indignant look.

  ‘Their heads have been separated from their bodies, Michael. I’d like to think, if this was a genuine place of rest, then these people would also be buried with the rest of their bodies. This site appears to hold symbolic importance for the killers.’

  ‘Killers?’ the same inspector challenged.

  ‘Yes. Killers. It is clear that some of these victim’s heads have been in situ for decades.’

  The room fell quiet for a moment.

  ‘What do you propose, Ma’am?’ Jackson asked.

  The DCI walked slowly towards the end of the row and stood directly in front of Jackson. Deans could feel the energy between them from the back of the room.

  ‘We are going to find the bastards responsible, and then we are going to throw away the key.’

  Jackson rolled his head and smiled. ‘With all due respect, Ma’am, that’s a rallying cry. But where do we start?’

  ‘We’ve already started.’ She walked back to the centre of the room. ‘We have recovered a spade from Bone Hill.’ She peered at Jackson. ‘It was concealed beneath the same type of netting that hid the mass grave. Our forensic team have examined the exhibit and we should have results soon.’

  Jackson scratched the front of his head where his hairline once lived.

  ‘We need to keep the media at bay,’ the DCI said. ‘Our dig has obviously generated a lot of attention, and speculation is already rife on social media.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Some of it correct, of course.’

  ‘It doesn’t help having Detective Deans here, Ma’am,’ Inspector “Michael” said. ‘No offence, but he was headline news only days ago. How can we keep a low profile when we’ve got “The Angel Detective” on board?’

  Several officers laughed aloud and others scoffed into their hands.

  The DCI walked silently up the rows of chairs until she was alongside the seat where the inspector was sitting, three chairs in. Her faced flushed as she loomed over the heads of the two nearest officers. ‘See me after briefing,’ she said and caught Deans’ eye as she walked back to the front.

  ‘I want an interview with Ranford. See if he’s willing to speak about the Bone Hill. Any volunteers?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Jackson said without hesitating.

  The DCI cocked her head. She considered his offer for a moment before accepting. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You can go with Detective Deans.’

  Deans felt blood rush to his cheeks.

  The DCI looked over to him. ‘Is that okay with you, Detective?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Deans replied, and noticed several faces turning behind to peer at him.

  ‘Good. We’ll meet again tomorrow, same time, same place.’ She glanced at Deans. ‘Keep safe everyone.’

  Jackson was waiting for Deans in the hallway. The post-briefing-chatter was mostly about the discovery of more heads, and of course, there was the obligatory wisecracking of inappropriate jokes, as was the way of the police at times of great tension.

  ‘I just need fifteen minutes before we get our heads around that interview plan,’ Jackson said.

  ‘No problem,’ Deans replied. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘No.’

  Jackson kept Deans in sight as he walked away. ‘Stay there,’ he called out. ‘Start the prep and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Deans found a quiet corner to settle in while other officers hustled about their business.

  The DCI found Deans and quietly confided in his ear. ‘It’ll be interesting to see what happens next,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve told the crime scene manager that no persons are to access the exhibit stores alone. We’ll do what we can to safeguard the evidence we’ve captured so far.’ She looked around the room. ‘Where is Sergeant Jackson?’

  ‘He said he had to go somewhere. He’s meeting me back here shortly.’

  ‘Okay, good.’ The DCI’s focus waned and she stared into space for a moment. ‘Good,’ she repeated. ‘Keep safe.’

  Chapter 42

  Jackson found the detained property clerk in the storeroom sifting through a tabletop covered with brown paper exhibit bags.

  ‘Alright, Sarge?’ the property clerk said.

  ‘Yeah. Good, thanks, Rose. How are you?’

  ‘You know.’ The clerk gave Jackson a disgruntled smile. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Where are the exhibits from the ongoing job at Sandymere Bay?’

  ‘You mean the mass grave?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jackson said, ‘the mass grave.’ He showed faked interest in an exhibit label attached to a large brown paper bag of clothing.

  ‘My God, it’s scary to think that has happened here, isn’t it? I mean there’s a serial killer in Sandymere Bay.’ The more the clerk spoke, the more animated she became. ‘I even heard something about it on the local radio.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘They were just saying about a large-scale police operation in the woods. They didn’t say much else – they wouldn’t know I suppose, I mean, how would they?’

  ‘Do you find this all quite… exciting?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘Yeah!’ The clerk beamed. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jackson replied. ‘It is.’

  The clerk stood up from behind her desk. ‘What was it you were after, Sarge?’

  ‘The spade. I just need to take a look at it.’

  ‘Oh, um—’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to give any of these exhibits out.’

  ‘Oh, that’s okay. I’m not taking it anywhere. I’ll look at it right here.’

  The clerk hesitated, but then typed something into the computer and went to a separate storage area behind a locked door. She returned with a spade wrapped in a large clear plastic sack and handed it to Jackson.

  ‘Can I use that desk?’ Jackson asked pointing to a smaller table behind the clerk.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Jackson laid the spade flat on the desk and manipulated the plastic, looking closer at the object. He could still see traces of fingerprint dust on the stainless steel shaft.

  ‘Shall I book it out to you, Sarge?’ the clerk asked.

  ‘No need for that,’ Jackson said. ‘You’ll have it back in a moment. No need to get bogged down with unnecessary continuity. It’s not leaving the store.’

  The clerk looked nervously at the computer screen.

  Jackson fiddled with the exhibit tag that sealed the top of the bag. He smiled. It was loose and there was just enough play. He pulled the bag through the plastic teeth of the seal, being careful not to rip the bag.

  The clerk watched him silently.

  Jackson removed the seal, opened the mouth of the bag and peered inside.

  ‘Um, shouldn’t you…’

  Jackson pulled out the spade. It had a shiny green plastic handle and the stainless steel blade was encrusted with dried soil. He held it up in the air, twisting it several times as he gripped the shaft and handle in several different places.

  ‘Um, Sarge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be wearing forensic gloves to handle that exhibit?’

  ‘Oh bugger!’ Jackson shouted and laid the spade flat on top of the bag. He turned to the clerk with a shocked expression. ‘I’m a total knob. I just wasn’t thinking. I’d better get this back away before I mess anything else up.’

  He slid the spade back into the bag and passed the loose seal back over the top.

  ‘There we go,’ he said. ‘Good as new. No one will know any different.’ He pulled a mischievous face at the clerk. ‘Let’s hope they don’t test this for f
ingerprints and DNA, or I’m screwed.’

  Jackson winked at the clerk. ‘Is it okay to leave it with you to put away? I need to prepare an interview.’

  The wide-eyed clerk nodded and Jackson left the room whistling a jaunty tune.

  Chapter 43

  ‘I want Mansfield to join us,’ Deans said to Jackson upon his return to the office.

  ‘No way,’ Jackson said.

  ‘We need him.’

  Jackson peered at Deans. ‘No. We don’t. He’s a prick and he’s a liability.’

  ‘Nobody knows Ranford better than Mansfield. He may be able to help us.’

  ‘Or he could fuck this whole thing up.’

  ‘Sarah, what do you think?’ Deans asked Gold who was within earshot.

  She glanced nervously at Jackson. ‘I don’t have an opinion.’

  ‘Well, you need one. You are the OIC and carrying this investigation all the way to trial. Would you ask Mansfield to join the team?’ Deans pressed.

  Sarah grabbed strands of dangling hair and pulled it back behind her ear. She was buying time.

  ‘Sarah?’ Deans said.

  ‘I guess so,’ she said.

  ‘Hold on, have we all forgotten who the sergeant is here?’

  ‘That can’t get in the way,’ Deans said. ‘It’s about making the correct decisions.’

  ‘And I make them,’ Jackson glared. His eyes drifted for second or two. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Mansfield can come on the team, but the moment he screws up, it’s on your head, Deans.’

  Jackson phoned down to the box room and ushered Mansfield to join them in the CID office.

  Mansfield came in and locked eyes with Deans.

  ‘Detective Mansfield,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Sarge.’

  ‘It would appear you have a supporter among our ranks. I’m offering you a chance to be part of our team.’

  Mansfield looked at Deans and suppressed a grin.

  Jackson tilted his head. ‘You, more than anyone, know how sensitive this investigation is, particularly given the current status of your erstwhile colleague.’

  Mansfield turned to the white board. Deans watched his reaction as he read all of the names.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Mansfield asked.

  ‘We are taking a little journey,’ Deans said. ‘We’re going to pop in on an old friend.’

  The custody sergeant at the charge desk gave Deans a quick once over. ‘Are you the cause of all this hassle?’

  ‘Hassle?’ Deans repeated.

  ‘The reason we’ve had to ship our prisoners off to outlying stations, so that you can have the custody area to yourself.’

  Somebody had obviously decided it was safer to have Ranford as the sole prisoner in the unit – less chance of escape, mishap, or collusion.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Deans said.

  ‘Is Detective Ranford here?’ Jackson asked.

  ‘You know, I’m not very comfortable with this,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘This should be happening somewhere else.’

  ‘Well, it’s not,’ Jackson said. ‘Just point us to the interview room.’

  The sergeant opened his arms out wide. ‘Take your pick, there’s nobody else here – just you, me, a couple of DOs, and Torworthy CID detective, Paul Ranford.’

  ‘Can you get him out, we’re ready to roll,’ Jackson said passing the sergeant.

  Deans entered the same interview room he used to grill Ash Babbage and placed his go-bag on the stainless steel chair, directly opposite the ‘hot seat’.

  ‘Are the bosses coming to listen remotely?’ Deans asked Jackson who was fiddling with the recording equipment.

  ‘Don’t know. But we’ll have the disks to play back if needs be.’

  Deans looked over at Mansfield who was hovering near the door. A waft of perfume assaulted Deans’ senses. Maria. The sound of chatter further down the corridor made Deans’ heart race. He heard laughter and a voice that he recognised: Detective Paul Ranford.

  The desk sergeant appeared at the open door and Ranford stepped into the room.

  ‘Manny,’ he said noticing Mansfield. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Mansfield shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  Deans stared at Ranford and their eyes met. Ranford gave him a nod and a smile. Deans did all he could to restrain his wrath as Ranford walked towards the opposing seat.

  ‘Sit down,’ Jackson said.

  Ranford winked at the desk sergeant who closed the door on his way out.

  ‘This interview is being visually recorded,’ Jackson said. ‘Oh, you know the score, being the trained police interrogator that you are. Do you want a solicitor?’

  Ranford shook his head and hooked one leg over the other in a display of unflustered ease. He clutched his bent knee, drew a long disinterested breath and licked the corner of his mouth as he peered back at Deans, Jackson and Mansfield in turn.

  ‘When they told me I had visitors, I have to be honest, I wasn’t expecting you, Andrew. So what’s all this about?’ Ranford asked. ‘I was rather enjoying my prison suite. These cells are rather basic, you know.’ He peered directly at Deans. ‘It’s actually not that bad in the clink…’ he smiled. ‘So long as they keep the scrotes away from me.’ He lifted the flap of his top lip and displayed a broken tooth.

  ‘Sarah Gold is dead,’ Deans said.

  Jackson swung around, his eyes burrowing into the side of Deans’ face.

  Deans saw a flicker in the corner of Ranford’s eye and the slightest twitch of his brow.

  Interesting. ‘Does that surprise you?’ Deans asked.

  Ranford blinked and looked at Jackson. ‘I’m not the prophet here.’

  Jackson leaned forwards, his moist palms squeaking as they slid across the stainless steel desk, but before he could intervene, Deans continued. ‘She was burned alive.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this? It obviously wasn’t me.’

  ‘No,’ Deans repeated. ‘Obviously not.’ He noticed Ranford looking at his left ring finger. Good. Keep it coming. Deans made a point of lifting his hand and spinning the ring between his fingers – the ring he had borrowed from Denise. ‘Like it, do you?’ he said looking at the ring himself.

  Ranford dipped his head lopsidedly and shot another glance the way of Jackson.

  ‘I think we should start this again,’ Jackson said in a commanding voice. ‘Sarah Gold is not dead.’

  ‘What?’ Ranford said and scowled at Deans.

  ‘There was an attempt on her life, but she survived,’ Jackson continued.

  ‘Why would you say that?’ Ranford asked Deans.

  ‘I was seeing if you already knew.’

  Ranford looked beyond Deans’ shoulder at Mansfield who was still standing close to the door.

  ‘Well, I obviously didn’t. Is this right, Manny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was chained to the cellar beneath Ruby Mansell’s house and then somebody set fire to it.’ He watched Ranford’s pupils constrict as if he’d just had a hit of heroin.

  ‘Will she be okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Why are you so bothered about Detective Gold?’ Deans asked.

  Ranford brushed the question aside with a pout. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘How many others are there?’ Deans asked. ‘Four… five? Twenty-four… twenty-five?’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘In your twisted cult.’

  Ranford chortled and shook his head.

  Deans beckoned Ranford closer with a double-twitch of his index finger. Ranford looked at Jackson and partially complied.

  ‘I’m not gunna stop,’ Deans whispered. ‘You fucked with the wrong person this time.’

  Ranford stared back with a steely abstinence that told Deans all he needed to know.

  ‘Are you willing to tell us who else is involved?’ Jackson asked.

  Ranford peered at Jackson and frowned.

  ‘We found the shall
ow grave,’ Deans said.

  Ranford didn’t react.

  ‘At Bone Hill.’

  Ranford blinked twice at half-speed.

  ‘Tell us exactly who we are going to find there?’ Deans said.

  Ranford flashed his eyes wide and pinched his lips tightly together with his fingers.

  ‘You’re looking at mass murder,’ Jackson said. ‘It’ll be entirely on you if you decide not to speak. Everything will be on your shoulders.’

  Is he passing Ranford a message?

  ‘We found camouflaged netting concealing the grave – just the same kind you used on your boat,’ Deans said.

  Ranford bobbed his shoulders.

  ‘Explain how that got there,’ Deans asked.

  ‘That doesn’t mean a thing,’ Ranford said. ‘You can get that netting anywhere.’

  ‘We also recovered a shovel,’ Jackson said.

  Deans noticed Ranford baulk slightly. ‘That’s right, Paul. It’s not a shovel, it’s a spade. There’s a subtle difference with its usage.’

  ‘Same thing,’ Jackson mumbled.

  ‘Tell us what we’re going to find when we examine the spade?’ Deans asked. In his peripheral vision, Jackson wiggled in his seat. Deans was taking it all in. ‘Your prints, DNA?’ Deans asked.

  Ranford sniffed and rolled his shoulders.

  ‘Somebody else’s?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ranford said.

  Deans allowed ten seconds of silence to frame his question.

  ‘My wife. Archie Rowland and now Annie Rowland…’

  Ranford’s left eye half-closed. He didn’t know about Annie.

  ‘Who else are we going to find down there?’ Deans asked.

  Ranford appeared to drift off. Was he imagining their faces? ‘Who else is in this with you?’ Deans asked, making a point of looking sideways at Jackson.

  ‘This is a waste of time,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Was my wife sacrificed as an act of war?’ Deans said through clenched teeth.

  Ranford peered at Deans beneath heavy eyes.

  ‘If it’s a war you want, a war you’ll have.’

  Ranford looked over to Mansfield and twirled his index finger beside his temple. ‘Is he alright?’ He looked back at Deans. ‘I think you left something at that train crash… your marbles, perhaps?’