STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (30 page)

‘Well, in that case,’ the DCI said, ‘that’s even more remarkable. It is instinct and bloody good basic police skills like that which give us a fighting chance against these extremely dangerous criminals. Well done, Andy. You’re a credit to your force.’

Deans nodded to the boss and then quickly looked down at his feet again as he sensed eyes boring into him once more. After a few seconds, he peeked up expecting to see Jackson sneering at him. Instead, he saw Gold’s beaming face.

Aspects of the DCI’s report troubled Deans. A sharps box full of used syringe needles had been located in the bathroom airing cupboard. Babbage had not struck Deans as a user, and the toxicology results had not identified any unexpected substances in Amy’s blood samples, so why did Babbage have a stash of needles?

‘We need to keep an open mind that the suspect didn’t work alone,’ the DCI said. ‘Intelligence suggests that the property is sole occupancy, however, we must be willing to accept that a partner, friend, or acquaintance could also be in some way involved with this crime. We know that the suspect works at a local holistic clinic. As a priority I’d like an enquiry team to trace and interview this work colleague and gather elimination prints and a volunteer DNA sample.’

Deans’ neckline became itchy as his body temperature soared. CSI were conducting a robust sweep – that was good – but that might also mean them picking up traces of Denise. He hooked a finger into his shirt collar and pulled it away from his neck. What had she touched? She had worn gloves, but what if she had taken them off at some point without him knowing, and what if her tears had fallen onto a tested surface? They would find her DNA for sure.

He had put Denise and the entire investigation into jeopardy with his foolishness. Blood drained from his face and his vision tunnelled, but before he had a chance to volunteer for the task, Jackson had already allocated two other detectives.

Deans’ head was spinning. What would Denise say to them? He glanced at Jackson, who was smugly grinning back at him. Jackson knew the DCI was talking about Denise, and probably still believed that Deans was engaged in some sordid relationship with her. Once traces of DNA, or fingerprints were attributed to Denise, she would in turn be arrested and interviewed in connection with the murder, and then the truth would surface about her activities with Deans.

At the conclusion of the briefing, everyone funnelled out of the small room to commence their allocated enquiries. Deans himself was tasked to return to the home address and oversee the search and recovery of exhibits. He slowly walked away from the conference room, completely preoccupied, and had not noticed Gold by his shoulder.

‘Andy,’ she said loudly, breaking his thought process.

‘Yeah,’ he replied mechanically. ‘Hi,’ he said, realising it was Gold. ‘Sorry, I’m in a world of my own.’

‘So? Tonight?’ she asked.

‘Tonight?’

‘My place?’

‘Oh, yeah. Tonight.’ He noticed a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Um, shall we see how today goes first?’

‘So is that a yes?’

Deans lifted a non-committal shoulder. ‘Let’s see how things play out.’

‘Looking forward to it already,’ she said and bounded off to one of the other female detectives further along the corridor.

Deans watched her, motionless, until she was out of view. He had neither the energy, nor the inclination to attempt to figure out what was going on in her mind.

Before he reached the office, Jackson caught up with him.

‘So the instinctive detective thinks he’s got the whole department fooled?’ Jackson was looking for a rise, that much was clear.

‘Sorry, Sarge, I don’t know what you mean,’ Deans said, attempting to side-step Jackson, who blocked his path.

‘I guess a few truths will come out today then? For you, I mean,’ Jackson sneered.

Deans’ mouth curled downwards at the edges. Was he insinuating about the so-called relationship with Denise again? Was he talking about Denise being at the scene, or was he talking about whatever was happening with Gold? Either way, Deans did not plan to hang around entertaining the neurotic sergeant, so simply walked away.

He made his way back to the property, ducked beneath the blue and white police tape billowing in the breeze, and booked in with the PC on the cordon. He had already clocked the two press vehicles parked further along the road and recognised the photographer, Nev, from the beach.

One of the CSI team greeted him with a white paper suit, and soon he was back inside.

Most activity was centralised upstairs. The white wall of the small room, now a wispy metallic grey from fingerprint dust. Mini yellow markers denoted points of interest around the room, and one crucially located beside the skirting board immediately beneath the site of the smear.

Deans checked his watch: just gone eleven a.m. His mind wandered; they would have got to Denise by now. If only he could have spoken to her first, but the risk of a phone trail after the meeting with the DCI was too great.

Over the next few hours, Deans followed the CSI team closely, primarily ensuring they missed nothing, but also in the hope of intercepting anything that could implicate Denise.

It was 2:48 p.m. when he received the call.

‘Deans, this is Sergeant Jackson. I want you back at the station, now.’ The line went dead.

The nausea that Deans had been staving off all day rose in a lump and burned the back of his throat. Taking his own counsel, he waited at the top of the stairs and spoke to the first CSI officer who passed him.

‘I’ve been told to head back to the nick,’ he said.

‘Coming back again later?’ she asked.

Deans shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

He left the scene knowing it would be the last time he would be there. He guessed it would be Jackson who would take most pleasure in ripping him to shreds; he would just have to take it and try to remember that at the end of everything, he would be going home. Who knew what the larger ramifications would be?

Each tread of the stairway to the CID office felt like a stride closer to his executioner. At the top, he heard voices inside the office and stopped for a moment to adjust his tie and smooth down his jacket.

He first saw Ranford, who was wading through a bunch of papers, but there was no acknowledgement. A couple of other detectives who had been at the briefing nodded in Deans’ direction.

‘Anyone seen DS Jackson?’ Deans asked glumly.

‘Hi, Andy,’ Ranford said turning around. ‘He is looking for you too. I think he’s with the boss somewhere.’

Shit
. Deans nodded, and found the corner of an empty desk to perch on temporarily.

‘You okay, Andy?’ Ranford asked.

Deans was staring at a patch on the floor. He did not look up, but replied, ‘Yeah.’

He did not need to wait long before he heard the droll tones of Jackson in the corridor. Deans raised himself from the desk and stood upright, shoulders back, facing the doorway.

‘Deans,’ Jackson said coming to an abrupt halt. ‘With me, please.’ He turned and walked back towards the corridor.

Deans followed and patted Ranford on the shoulder as he passed him. His heart was beating quickly. He was culpable for everything, but that did not make it any easier.

Jackson was first into the little bollocking room and this time took the chair facing the door. Deans could not help but smile at the man’s comedic value.

‘Sit down, please,’ Jackson said.

That was twice now he had said ‘please’.

Deans manoeuvred the door closed, pulled back his chair and faced Jackson with unreserved resignation.

‘It seems we have a problem,’ Jackson said, keeping his eyes down on his daybook.

Deans bit down, did not reply.
Here it comes
, he thought.

Jackson looked up, his repulsive beady eyes squinting.

Deans nodded and sank his head.

‘I’m not sure what you’ve done,’ Jackson said through tight lips. ‘But it seems our prisoner will only speak to you.’

Startled, Deans looked up. ‘Pardon?’

Jackson huffed. ‘We have had two attempts at interview and all we get out of him is, “Let me speak to Deans”. He clearly has something he wants to share with you, and all we are doing is pissing into the wind and getting our legs wet.’

Deans leant forwards in the chair. ‘He will only speak with me?’ he repeated.
That is what this is about
, he thought. ‘Okay,’ he replied.

‘So, you’re off exhibits as of right now and I want you to tie up with Gold, who will run through the two interviews so far.’ Jackson prodded a finger inches from Deans’ face. ‘She is still number one interviewer. But if you are with her maybe between the two of you we might make progress.’

‘Of course, Sarge. Certainly.’ Deans ran a hand down his face. ‘Are there any updates regarding the other enquiries today?’

‘Your lady friend, you mean?’ Jackson answered as if he had been waiting for the question. ‘Seems she’s rather shocked about the whole episode. I don’t think she’ll be anything other than a character witness.’

Deans leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘What about the phone and photographic kit from the house?’

‘Still developing the evidence, pardon the pun.’ Jackson tilted his head expectantly. What was he after, applause?

Jackson narrowed his gaze. ‘We should have it by end of play today.’

‘Good,’ Deans said.

‘Right,’ Jackson said, standing up. ‘You need to get your arse over to custody. Make sure you grab some grub en route. I think we’re all in for a long day.’ And with that, he left the room.

Deans remained seated. He did not know which he was more surprised at: not dropping in the stinky stuff, or actually having a civilised conversation with Jackson.

His strategy was risky, but so far, so good. It would only be a matter of time before the forensic results would trickle back through to the office.

Deans arrived at the charge desk just as a young-looking PC was reluctantly patting down a dishevelled vagrant. An obscene smell hit Deans the moment he walked into the room.
Those were the days
, he thought, and gave the PC a sympathetic smile, while trying not to inhale too much of the choking air. Behind the charge desk, the custody sergeant was less convivial, holding a wad of tissues over his mouth and nose. A detention officer further behind covered his face with a sleeve and held a can of air freshener high above his head like an air horn, ready to marinate the room with an equally toxic plume of artificial fragrance.

The detainee appeared to be having a drunken conversation with himself as the PC ran his gloved hands down the inside of each leg.

‘Just stay there, Charlie. Stop moving forwards, mate,’ the PC directed, his head as far away from the prisoner as his elongated neck would allow.

Deans then noticed the damp patch down the inside of Charlie’s left leg – like a balloon strung to his unlaced boot.

The sergeant turned to Deans and gave a shrouded welcome with his eyes. ‘Be with you shortly,’ he muttered from behind the muzzle of tissue paper, and the three of them watched in pity as the PC completed his routine and stepped back away from his prisoner, who was still chuntering incoherently. The PC was the only one of them not covering his face. He had probably already spent so long with Charlie that the pungent cocktail of ammonia and excrement had killed off any sense of smell.

The sergeant completed the formalities in double-quick time and sent the prisoner off to a cell with the PC following behind clutching a pair of custody-issue tracksuit bottoms. Not far behind him, the DO was emptying a can of Wild Orchid into the room, and further back the custody sergeant and Deans were spluttering from the heady mixture.

‘Welcome to my world,’ the custody sergeant said with outstretched arms.

Deans chuckled. ‘I’m here for Babbage.’

‘Ah, another quality guest in our humble establishment tonight,’ the sergeant joked. ‘Your colleague is through there.’ He pointed to a nearby door.

Deans found Gold in one of the interview rooms, amidst piles of case paperwork.

‘Hi,’ Deans said and sat on a chair next to her.

‘God, what’s that smell?’ she replied.

‘Nice to see you too.’ He must have dragged the nasal cocktail in on his clothing. ‘So, how’s it going?’ he asked her.

Gold screwed her face up. ‘Not too well, but probably better than the poor bugger dealing with whoever dragged that stench in.’ Both of them giggled.

‘Jackson actually had a civilised conversation with me,’ Deans said. ‘I understand Babbage isn’t playing ball?’

‘No. He apparently only has eyes for you,’ Gold said mischievously.

‘It’s about time someone did.’

‘I’m sure you have lots of admirers,’ she replied with a toothy grin.

Deans rolled his eyes. ‘Jackson told me to come down and tie up with you if that’s okay?’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you. This was starting to do my head in.’

‘So, what’s been put to him so far?’

‘He’s heard the grounds and reasons for his arrest. I’ve been able to explain the interview process and he has been given an opportunity to give an initial account, but all he does is ask to see you, before being censored by the solicitor.’

‘Well, that’s better than nothing, I guess. Has he been given any detailed information, or been asked specific questions regarding the murder?’

‘No. We haven’t got that far,’ Gold said.

‘Good. Until we get the forensics back, the interviews will need to be benign. How has his brief been?’

‘She’s been no problem.’

‘His brief is a woman? Has anyone been chaperoning their contact?’

‘Not to my knowledge. She’s been on cell camera during their chats.’

‘Was she requested by Babbage or is she a duty solicitor?’

‘Requested, I think.’

‘Have you seen her before?’

‘No. I think she’s from Plymouth or somewhere down that way.’

‘Interesting,’ Deans said. ‘Has he been put through Livescan yet?’

‘Yes, we’ve got his fingerprints, and DNA, and a photograph.’

‘No issues?’

‘Not that I’ve been informed of.’