STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (23 page)

Denise snapped back, ‘Have you been to everyone’s house that you’ve worked with?

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism.’

She glanced at the closed door. ‘I have his personal file.’ She spoke in secretive tones.

‘Great,’ Deans said, moving a rolled white towel away from the treatment couch, clearing a space for the documents. His pulse was racing, and his energy levels revitalised. He looked over at Denise bent double in the chair. ‘Any chance of a brew, Denise? I’m gagging for caffeine.’

Denise nodded, rose to her feet and slowly stepped out of the room.

With Denise out of the way, Deans turned to the diaries. The most recent Sunday appointment was four weeks before Amy went missing.
Why would Amy meet Ash without Denise knowing?
He pondered it a while and then frowned.
Why contact Maria?

Denise came back into the room with two steaming mugs and colour back in her cheeks. She handed Deans his drink and clutched hers as if she had heat-resistant palms. She took a seat on the couch and Deans followed suit.

This was a potential game-changer. Deans sympathised with her situation; not only had she lost someone she clearly cared about, the killer was likely to be her prodigy.

Denise spoke first. ‘Amy doesn’t deserve to be where she is right now. I will do all I can to help you.’ She turned to face Deans. ‘And if that means Ash is found responsible, then I’ll support you all I can.’

‘Thank you, Denise. I’m sure this is difficult for you.’

She nodded, and crumpled into floods of tears.

Deans wrapped his arms around her, placing her head on his shoulder, and that was how they remained for the next few minutes until she spoke again.

‘If it’s okay with you, I will try to contact Amy now.’

‘Okay,’ Deans said with uncertainty, and released his arms.

Denise stood up, walked to the window and pulled the blinds. Deans searched her face; she was already somewhere else.

‘Would you like me to communicate out loud or in my head?’ she asked, pinching the inner corners of her red puffy eyes.

Deans shrugged. ‘Whatever works for you? Will I hear any of the responses?’ He scratched his nose nervously.

‘No,’ Denise said. ‘Only I receive the answers.’

‘I’m in your hands.’ A wave of anxiety flushed through him, and his stomach erupted into a loud rumble. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pressing a hand against his belly. ‘I must be hungry.’

‘No,’ she replied, surprise evident on her face. ‘That’s a good sign. Your body is tuning-in.’

Denise pulled the single seat over, sat down immediately in front of Deans, and gazed directly into his eyes.

An icy blast of energy surged downwards through his core in a juddering split-second.

‘She’s here,’ Denise said simultaneously, and then studied Deans’ face. ‘You felt that, didn’t you?’ She leant forward, gently touched his knee and closed her eyes. Her fingertips still pressed lightly through his trousers. ‘I can feel your energy.’

Deans coughed. ‘Can I… speak through this?’

‘Yes. Amy knows you are with me. She’s pleased you’re helping her.’

‘Um, thanks. I’ll do my best.’

‘She knows that already.’

Denise took a series of deep breaths, and then spoke. ‘Amy, do you know your killer?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Did you get that?’ she said breathlessly.

‘No. I didn’t pick up—’

Denise gasped and turned abruptly towards the door.

‘What is it?’ Deans said, rising instinctively to his feet.

‘I’m not safe,’ she said, curling herself into the chair.

Deans was now standing between Denise and the door, his body taut with anticipation. Half a minute raced by.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

Denise slowly raised her head, revealing a wounded grimace.

‘Don’t trust her,’ she said, her voice fading.

‘Don’t trust who?’

Denise did not reply.

‘Don’t trust who, Denise?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is he married? Who is she talking about? Is there someone else we need to find?’ Deans was growing impatient.

Denise dropped back into the chair.

‘What? What is it?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone where? Get her back.’

‘I can’t. She’s gone.’

‘Well, how long for?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Argh,’ Deans growled and tight-lipped mouthed an expletive.

‘Amy will make contact again when she needs to,’ Denise said. ‘This is how it works. I can’t dictate the flow of communication. Amy has told us enough for now.’

‘Enough?’ Deans said sharply, ‘We have nothing. No evidence whatsoever.’

Denise glared at him, her eyes cloudy and red. ‘We know it was Ash.’

Deans paced the room, wrought with frustration and conflict. Had he really witnessed some paranormal event or was Denise having him on?

Several minutes went by with neither of them speaking. Each of them deep in their own thoughts.

‘Will you go and arrest Ash now?’ Denise finally asked, her vulnerability increasingly evident through her fragile voice.

Deans shook his head slowly. ‘We need more evidence.’

‘Surely there’s something you can do?’

Deans walked to the window, lifted the blind and stared distantly out. ‘Yep. Good old-fashioned policing.’ He turned and smiled insincerely. ‘One small problem.’

‘What?’

‘I’m off the case.’

Neither of them spoke. Deans did not know what to think. Just how much could he rely on Denise? How could he verify the information she had just given him? And what the hell was he meant to think about his supposed untapped potential? His mind was galloping, yet he had little option but to trust Denise if he wanted to find Amy’s killer and safeguard Maria.

He desperately needed to find Babbage and his car, and certainly a whole lot more evidence than a series of dates in a diary to link him to Amy’s death. Above all, he wanted a lot more luck.

Denise had been flaky about the quality of the information. Was that because everything she had alluded to was pure fiction and she had struck lucky with a few comments to hook his interest? Again, validation was in scarce supply. How could he tell his Devon colleagues how he came by the Babbage information? They would laugh him all the way back up the motorway to Somerset.

Deans was disillusioned, frustrated to be kicked off the case, to be falsely accused of having an affair, let down by the reaction of his Devon colleagues, but overriding all of this, bitter regret for Janet and Ian Poole.

He wondered how they were coping and if their FLO – Family Liaison Officer – was doing a decent job. It was no longer his responsibility to be concerned by it, but he was. That was his way. That was what made him good at what he did. That was what made him so angry about what was happening. It was not just the effect on him – he was letting them down too.

Somebody had gone out of their way to ensure he was off the case. He thought about the people he had recently met, and silently questioned if there more to Jackson than simply being an arsehole with stripes.

Deans was on the precipice of exhaustion. It had been far too long since he had a suitable rest. He knew he should be at home, spending a few uninterrupted days with Maria, forgetting everything else, but this case… it was absorbing.

The door chime sounded, making both of them turn.

Denise leapt towards Deans. ‘It’s him,’ she whispered breathlessly, desperately grabbing Deans’ arm.

‘It’s alright,’ Deans said. ‘It could be a customer.’

Denise dived behind him, still clinging on tightly.

‘Do you want me to take a look?’ Deans asked.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was timorous.

‘Don’t worry,’ Deans said, patting her hand. ‘I’ll sort out whoever it is.’

As he walked towards the shop front, his pulse rate quickened. Even if Ash was there, he could do nothing – officially.

He paused at the door, pulled down softly on the handle and took a tentative step into reception. Ash was rummaging beneath the counter, just feet away. Blood rushed to Deans’ cheeks and Ash stood upright in apparent surprise. For several seconds they faced off with their finest death stares, and then Ash broke into a wolfish smirk.

‘Denise out back?’

Deans nodded. His stance was solid and unyielding, and he was blocking the exit from behind the counter.

‘You two playing
detective
again, Detective?’

‘Perhaps you’ll find out someday.’

Ash snorted loudly. His eyes narrowed and his crow’s feet lengthened. Deans noticed a small ring-bound notepad in Ash’s hand.

‘Got what you need?’ Deans said.

‘Ha ha,’ Ash tittered. ‘Oh, I’ve
almost
got everything I need, Detective.’

Ash scrutinised Deans with a purpose as tiny ridges appeared on his brow. He peered over the top of his glasses. ‘Huh,’ he murmured, and for a fleeting moment, displayed outward concern. ‘Well, I’ll be off now, Detective.’ He chuckled and grinned. ‘I’ll see you again… someday.’

‘You’d better count on it,’ Deans said, taking half a step to the side allowing Ash to brush past.

‘It’s actually you that can count on it,’ Ash said as he reached the door. ‘Cheery-bye for now.’

Deans heaved a sigh once Ash was gone and toyed with the idea of following, but what would that achieve, except frittering away valuable time later with Maria, and chasing fantasy evidence that was no longer his problem.

He returned to the back room. Denise was curled up on the sofa, her knees tight to her chest.

‘Was it him?’ she asked.

Deans nodded. ‘It’s okay. He’s gone.’

‘What if he returns?’

Deans was in no position to offer protection, and had no magic answer.

‘Act normal and pray that we’re wrong.’

The pitiful look on her face highlighted his inadequacy.

‘He took something from under the counter – a small notepad or something?’ Deans said.

Denise shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

‘Can you shut up shop for a few days, until the guys find something solid on Ash?’

‘I don’t know. I have appointments.’

‘Tell them you’re going on holiday. Take some time out. Visit friends, go somewhere.’

‘He would have sensed your abilities.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘An intuitive can identify the gift in others.’

‘He’s psychic too?’

‘His methods are different to mine, but he’s extremely gifted.’

‘Look,’ Deans said, helping Denise to her feet, ‘take care of yourself, and don’t be scared to call on the nines if you need to, okay?’

She nodded.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t do any more.’

She reached out and hugged him, and as he held her tightly in his arms, he felt as helpless as at any time in his career. Jackson had forced him into an untenable position.

Outside on the quay, Deans observed a squabble of seagulls battling for the remains of a dropped bag of chips. A salted breeze clung to his face. He checked his phone – missed call from Maria. He called her back, but Maria did not answer, must have been busy, so he left a voicemail informing her he would be back by seven and was no longer needed in Devon.

There was one last thing he had to do, and soon he was on the doorstep of Tradewinds.

Mrs Poole answered the door. Deans saw through the facade of
normality
– the makeup, subtle fragrance, faux smile.

‘Have I come at a convenient time?’ he asked.

‘You are welcome here, any time,’ she said, her twitching mouth exposing the inner strain.

Deans nodded courteously and followed her through to the living room. Mr Poole was sitting in his cane armchair, staring out through the large panoramic window. Mrs Poole smiled apologetically, invited Deans to sit down, and called over to her husband.

‘Ian. Ian, dear. Detective Deans has come to see us.’

Mr Poole turned partially and acknowledged his wife with a solemn dip of the head.

‘How have you both been holding up? I saw the press conference,’ Deans said to Mrs Poole who was mouthing
I’m sorry
as she lowered herself onto the sofa.

Deans shook his head and held out a hand. Mrs Poole reached forward and took a firm grip.

‘We are managing. Thank you,’ she said and encased his hand in hers.

Mr Poole’s anguish was obvious, as it had been from day one, but Mrs Poole remained spirited, at least to the outside world. Deans wanted to hold her close and not let go until her emotions spilled out. He was concerned that she had not acknowledged Amy’s death. She did not need to understand it, but for her own good, she should give up the battle against it. There was no escape from grief. The further you run, the harder it hits. Thoughts turned to his own unborn child. He looked at Mrs Poole and struggled to imagine the enormity of her sorrow.

‘I just wanted to see you in person before I leave,’ he said.

‘Leave? Where are you going?’

Deans broke eye contact. ‘Something has come up back home, so I’m afraid I have to return. My colleagues here are doing all they can.’

The firmness of her grasp highlighted her despair.

‘How are you finding your liaison officer?’ Deans said, shifting focus.

‘Fine. He’s fine,’ she said, still clinging onto his hand.

Deans did not try to pull away. When they first met, he wanted Mr and Mrs Poole to count on him and trust in all he did. Now he was abandoning them.

Deans cleared his throat. ‘His job is to be someone from the police that you can talk openly with and deal with any questions or issues that may arise. Someone you can rely upon.’

Mrs Poole loosened her grip. ‘Why couldn’t that be you?’

‘I wish that it could. I sincerely do.’ He gave a gentle squeeze and Mrs Poole slowly released her hands. ‘I hope you and your husband find resolution soon. My thoughts are with you both.’

Mrs Poole began to weep. It was incredible to think she had any tears left to spare. What must it take to find the courage to start each day, let alone survive it? Deans hoped he would never in his lifetime need to find out, and made his way to the door.

‘Thank you for coming over, Andy. It was a lovely gesture,’ Mrs Poole said, dabbing her face with a tissue.