The Detective Deans Mystery Collection

by James D Mortain

They crossed the road and attempted to look as innocuous as possible. Sarah was first to the door. The DCI gestured for her to try the handle. It was locked.

  Number six was one in from the end terrace, but with no obvious access to the rear and limited time, they had to force the issue and hope for the best.

  Deans’ breath spiralled slowly into the sub-zero night sky. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. ‘What do you think?’ he said to the boss.

  She looked at each of the darkened windows and then around at desolate streets.

  ‘Get the van as close as you can to the front,’ she said.

  Sarah brought the rattling diesel to within several feet of the terraced front.

  Romeo Charlie Hotel Two-zero, the radio said breaking the silence.

  ‘Two-zero, go ahead,’ the DCI said.

  As per liaison with the FIM – we can confirm affirmative contact. I repeat we confirm affirmative contact.

  ‘Received.’ The DCI looked at Deans. ‘Do it.’ She stood back with Sarah Gold as Deans used the heavy steel door ram to smash his way through with relative ease.

  Deans turned to the others. ‘If he didn’t know we were coming, he does now.’ He kicked his way through the splintered doorframe and entered the low-ceiling cottage. His heart raced, more than it usually would in these scenarios and his head prickled with electricity. This is it.

  He heard Sarah behind telling somebody that they were the police and not to be alarmed. The DCI drew up alongside Deans.

  ‘Where do you think we should start?’ she asked.

  ‘Let me go alone. I’ve already got a feeling. It’s calling me on.’

  ‘Have you got your spray?’

  ‘Yes,’ Deans said.

  ‘Get it out. We don’t know what to expect here.’

  The three of them stood in silence and strained to listen for noises.

  ‘Okay. Go,’ the DCI whispered.

  Deans held his spray in one hand and a pen-torch in the other. He stepped forwards and peered through the narrow beam of light. The front door opened directly into an open-plan living room area with a small kitchenette looking out into the estuary. The walls were whitewashed and large irregular-shaped flag stoned flooring gave the impression the cottage was old, and going by a noticeable bow in the wall, it probably was. The hard plastic base of his leg boot slapped against the hard floor despite his attempts to make stealthy progress.

  Upstairs, his head said, but not in his voice. It was Maria.

  An open wooden stairwell kinked upstairs from the living room. Deans caught the DCI’s eye and pointed upwards. She nodded and he slowly clunked his way up the awkwardly narrow walkway.

  At the top, he was faced with only two doors – one to the left and one to the right. Both were closed. The hairs on his arms felt like they were being brushed by an invisible hand. His body shuddered. Maria?

  He saw his hand moving for the door handle on the left, even though it wasn’t a conscious decision. He pulled down on the handle and pushed the door inwards.

  The room was dark. The drapes were pulled. Deans felt for a switch and illuminated the room.

  He stood rooted to the spot and took it all in.

  ‘Um,’ his crackling voice said, ‘I think I’ve found what we’re looking for.’

  The DCI and Sarah hurried up the stairs and joined him in the centre of the room. They all took a minute to look around the four walls. Nobody spoke.

  Finally, it was Sarah who asked the overriding question. ‘What is this?’

  Deans shook his head. He’d never seen anything like it.

  ‘Are we forensically sound?’ the DCI asked.

  Deans and Sarah nodded. They were all wearing blue vinyl gloves.

  ‘Don’t touch anything. We leave it exactly as is. Sarah, grab a camera from the raid box. Evidence the room as is. I need to get the crime scene manager here ASAP.’

  Chapter 50

  Crime Scene Manager, Mike Riley arrived with a team of three officers, as interest in the raid was gathering momentum with the locals. ‘What have we got, Heather?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s hard to explain. Just come up and see for yourself.’

  The CSM entered the room and gawped at the walls and ceiling just as the others had done. He dipped the DCI a puzzled gape. ‘This is Stephen Jackson’s home?’

  ‘His second home,’ the DCI said.

  The CSM scratched his head and puffed out his cheeks. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘My guess is the words are Runic texts,’ Deans said. ‘Don’t ask me what they mean – I haven’t got a clue, but I know someone who will.’

  ‘The museum proprietor,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Yep. We should get him over.’

  ‘Make it happen,’ the DCI said to Gold. ‘Get him here. I need to know what this says.’

  CSM Riley was in front of the wall behind the bed. ‘This looks like—’

  ‘A family tree,’ Deans interrupted, coming alongside the CSM. The walls were intricately painted with hundreds, if not thousands of ineligible Runic texts.

  ‘It’s extraordinary!’ the CSM exclaimed. ‘This must have taken years to complete.’

  ‘Who is that?’ Sarah asked looking up at a massive portrait taking up the entire ceiling.

  Deans looked at each wall and approached the one where the lineage appeared to start. ‘My guess would be this guy.’ He pointed to the name at the top of the tree. ‘Hubba.’

  ‘Hubba,’ the DCI repeated.

  Deans nodded and stared at the maze of names in front of him.

  The DCI looked at Deans for a long minute.

  ‘It appears from this that Jackson believes he is a descendant,’ Deans said following the lengthy tendrils to the name at the bottom of the tree.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ the DCI inhaled. Her eyes grew wider as she scanned the room. ‘He has been giving his ancestor some sort of offering.’

  ‘That would give us a motive,’ Deans said.

  ‘What about Ranford, Babbage and Annie Rowland?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘He probably needed recruits. Ranford was a local cop, the perfect foil. Babbage had access to vulnerable people – individuals who may not have had family, people who were looking for help, reassurance or just plain interested in psychics – that is how he met Amy Poole. And Annie Rowland had the tools and know how to dissect and dispose.’

  ‘It’s a bit far-fetched isn’t it?’ the CSM interjected. ‘I mean… really?’

  ‘My pregnant wife’s uterus was cut open and my unborn child removed decapitated and stitched back into my dead wife’s beheaded body. How far-fetched do you need?’

  ‘Okay,’ the DCI said attempting to placate the building tension. ‘Let’s not lose our heads.’ She gave CSM Riley a stern glare. ‘Mike, I want you to do the works with this room. Budget is no issue. Just do it. Leave me to deal with your purse-holding superiors.’

  CSM Riley grimaced.

  ‘What?’ the DCI asked.

  ‘We’ll need more staff, more equipment.’

  ‘Then get it.’

  Deans glowered as Riley made his way to leave the room. ‘Wait,’ Deans said. Riley stopped. Deans recalled the enthusiasm Riley had shown at the pebble ridge scene of Amy Poole’s murder. He was different now.

  ‘I want another crime scene manager,’ Deans said.

  Riley placed his hands upon his hips and stared Deans down. ‘I don’t think that’s your shout. Just remember who you are.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Deans glared. ‘I do.’

  The DCI came over and stood between them. She faced Riley, then turned to Deans and they shared a moment.

  ‘Hold on,’ Riley shouted angrily. ‘This is outrageous. Don’t tell me you are considering his whim?’

  ‘Just bear with me,’ the DCI said and left the room. Deans held Riley’s antagonistic stare and could hear the DCI talking on her phone outside in the hallway.

  She returned in less than a minute. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘We’
ll get a new forensic team.’

  ‘Do you think this has something to do with me?’ Riley shouted.

  DCI Fowler gave Deans a silent question mark with her eyes so that Riley couldn’t see.

  Deans did just enough to show her a shake of his head.

  ‘No, Mike, I don’t. But you have been overseeing the Bone Hill excavation and I don’t want a future defence barrister in court suggesting that your presence at both scenes is the reason for any forensic comparisons.’

  The DCI had come up with a plumb reason not to use him that he couldn’t refute.

  ‘I want a fresh forensic team at this scene. Thank you, Mike.’

  Riley grumbled beneath his breath and left the room.

  ‘What do we do until then?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘We sit tight and wait for the troops to arrive. I suggest we all grab a brew and something to eat. This is going to be a long night.’

  Chapter 51

  It was now nine fifty p.m. Jackson was in the cells and police activity in Hemingsford was high. The road leading to Jackson’s property was shut down. Police cordons kept the public and assembled media at arm’s length and a mobile Major Incident Control Unit parked blocking the view to the entrance of the cottage. Social media speculation was rife and somebody had already posted that a serving police officer lived at the address. Some questioned if he had been killed inside the property, some suggested terrorist activity, and others came to conclusions a little closer to the truth. Either way, there was unrest and alarm permeating through the community.

  The DCI briefed the new team of supervisors inside the fully equipped major incident truck. Deans was the only non-supervisor privy to the conversations. The DCI gave them unconditional access to the house; turn over everything, lift floorboards, search every nook and cranny, swab, dust, photograph, video and seize anything that would help convict Jackson. This was as big as it got. People were dead and one of their own was responsible. There was an air of unsettling anticipation. Anticipation, because cops loved this sort of job – a chance to truly investigate something major and make a difference. Unsettling, because it was the home of a colleague – what else might they discover? Who else might be implicated? Deans prayed that none of the assembled supervisors knew that answer.

  A television inside the mobile unit broadcast live news reports from the scene. It was surreal – Deans was looking out through the one-way glass at a bunch of media vans equipped with large satellite receivers, and one of the reporters, whose camera trained upon the mobile major incident unit, was giving a live update.

  “Dramatic events are unfolding here in the sleepy seaside village of Hemingsford, just a few short miles from where police have discovered the horrific scene of a mass grave,” she said.

  Deans recognised the reporter from the national channels – they had shipped in the big guns.

  “We’ve spoken to neighbours who say that police forced entry to this property at just before seven p.m., this evening. We are still awaiting a police response, and of course, the community in this peaceful and unassuming North Devon village have been rocked by these scenes and are waiting for some kind of reassurance.”

  ‘There’s my cue,’ the DCI said. ‘I’ll see you shortly.’ She gave Deans a wink as she exited the rear of the van, and he watched on the television as the DCI walked in determined fashion towards the mass of onlookers.

  “I can see someone approaching from the control vehicle,” the reporter said to her camera as she pushed her way to the front of the police cordon.

  Deans grabbed the TV controller and turned up the volume.

  ‘Good evening,’ the DCI said confidently. ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Fowler of the Major Crime Investigation Unit. This evening, we are continuing a complex line of enquiries relating to the recent murders in and around Sandymere Bay. I can confirm and reassure the public that the situation is contained and there is no additional threat perceived at this time—’

  ‘Will you confirm that decapitated heads have been found at the Sandymere Bay crime scene?’ the reporter asked, pushing the microphone close to the face of the DCI, as the camera zoomed in.

  ‘I can confirm that a number of skulls have been recovered at the Bone Hill excavation. The investigation is still in its infancy and I would request patience at this time as we pursue further lines of enquiry.’

  ‘Our sources have assured us that you have exhumed six decapitated heads so far. Will you confirm this?’

  Deans could see the DCI’s eyebrows twitching. If he could see this, then so could others.

  ‘Well, I’d be very interested to learn who your sources are,’ the DCI said.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s privileged information,’ the reporter answered smugly. ‘Is it right that the house you have raided belongs to a local police officer?’

  The DCI smiled, turned her back and began walking away.

  ‘And would you also confirm that one of the heads located in the shallow grave is that of Maria Deans?’ the reporter persisted.

  The DCI stopped in her tracks as further questions fired into her back. She looked over her shoulder for a second and then hurried back towards the major incident unit.

  Deans held the door ready for her arrival. She burst into the van and glowered at the uniformed inspector who had also watched the action on the TV.

  ‘Task uniformed officers to take that bitch to one side and get her source out of her – I don’t care if it’s done here or at the station.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Leave that to me.’ The inspector scooped his flat cap from the desk and exited the van.

  ‘Who do they think they are? If she’s got information, then we must have it.’ The DCI’s phone rang in her pocket and she answered it with an irritated tone. ‘DCI Fowler.’

  As she listened to the caller, Deans watched anger in her face turn to dismay.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  The DCI held her hand up and nodded across to Deans. She closed her eyes and leaned her body weight against the desk.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Deans said louder.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Treat it as a crime scene. I need to be the first to know of any updates. Do you understand me?’

  She sucked a deep breath through her nose and slowly lowered the phone to her side.

  Deans looked on.

  The DCI took several controlled breaths and turned her head to face him. ‘That was custody.’

  Deans grabbed for the back a chair. He knew what was coming.

  ‘Jackson…’ her eyes broke away for a second or two.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Jackson ingested something.’

  Deans’ lips parted.

  ‘They found him on the floor… convulsing.’ She sniffed and shook her head. ‘They were too late. He’s dead.’

  Chapter 52

  Neither of them spoke. Deans slumped back in a swivel chair, his hands locked behind his head, his eyes searching for answers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the DCI said.

  Deans laughed ironically, but didn’t look at the boss.

  The voice of the news reporter filled the silence as she interviewed local residents and drew out the drama for the viewing public to wallow in.

  ‘They are reviewing the cell CCTV,’ the DCI said.

  ‘Uh ha.’

  ‘They’re going to email me the file so we can see…’

  Deans dropped his chair forwards with a loud clunk and looked at the boss. ‘Why wasn’t he put on constant obs?’

  ‘He was in a camera cell. Just like any other high risk prisoner.’

  ‘Was he given something?’

  ‘They say he was fiddling with a ring, just before he… They think he had a poison concealed somehow.’

  Deans sniggered. ‘Of course he did.’

  The DCI walked over and stood in front of Deans so that he had no choice but to look up at her.

  ‘There’s something he said to the cell camera just before… it wa
s some sort of message. For you.’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘When are they sending the footage?’

  ‘As soon as it downloads.’

  Deans sniffed and looked around the truck. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He felt bereft all over again. ‘What now?’ he shrugged.

  ‘We’ve still got Ranford.’

  ‘Huh,’ Deans chuckled. ‘Jackson was the core. Ranford is a follower.’

  ‘But he may give us more information.’

  Deans sank his head and flopped forwards. A ping on the DCI’s laptop made him look up. She clicked in to her email and a file downloaded on the screen.

  ‘Here we go,’ she said.

  Deans stood up and went across to the desk. He was looking at a familiar scene; a corner-sighted camera looking down at Jackson seated on the thin blue mattress of his cell. Jackson stood up and came to the corner of the wall. His face appeared large in the screen, distorted by the wide-angled lens. He was smiling, almost joyous.

  You probably think you had me, he said. You almost did. He began to laugh. You’ve been good value, Deans. I’ve enjoyed jousting with you. You will probably come to conclusions about me, but they’ll be wrong. I gave you the chance to walk away, but you wouldn’t. You did this to yourself. Think of it like Newton’s law: For every action, there is an equal and opposing reaction. His eye grew large on the screen. For every good, there has to be a bad. Jackson turned his head away from the camera, elongating his nose. He turned quickly back. I’ve got a message for you, Deans. His face got closer to the camera and he whispered. You know what I am, and I know what you are. This… is just an inconvenience. It’s not over… for you. A large smile beamed from his face. He winked and made a click click noise inside his mouth. Jackson went back to the mattress, picked at a ring on his finger and emptied something small into his hand. He looked up at the camera, smiled one last time and stuffed it into his mouth.

  Less than a minute later, Jackson was lying in his own vomit, convulsing on the floor.

  Deans and the DCI watched silently as a further minute went by before officers rushed into the cell.