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

What made someone the ideal victim? he speculated.

Were they created that way, right from the start? Was it a case of nature or nurture? On the other hand, was it all down to luck, perhaps? Maybe they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He chuckled. There was no such thing as the wrong time. Everyone had a time, regardless of how it may play out.

He stared down intently at the washed-out family snap as if it was the first time he had seen it. The truth was, he had studied this photo many times before and with equal fascination.

He was alone. There was no noise from the TV or radio, only the sound of his own trancelike, metronomic breathing, eyes refusing to deviate from the photo as he gazed down at Mum, Dad and himself.

To anyone else it would be a classic family photograph: two children, a boy of about six and a girl of about eight, wearing woolly hats and scarves, frolicking in the snow with their parents. For him, though, it was more. It had always meant much more.

Back, then, to the question. He smiled, and closed the two halves of the black faux-leather photo album, carefully placed it into the box and slotted it in the correct position, the right way around, between number 3 and number 5.

He snorted joss stick-scented air through his flared nostrils and cast his mind back. The first was easy – he had been left with little alternative. The second fell somewhere between curiosity and education. And what of the next? He had been counting down her final days since they first met. She was… ideal, but she was not going to be alone. The one after her, he would leave to fate, and for the sporting hell of it.

Carl considered himself fortunate to be with Amy. She was widely regarded as the university babe, especially amongst his mates. He would just smile, go along with what they would say, join in the banter so as not to lose face. If only they knew.

She was stunning, and fun – too stunning, and much too fun. He wished she were less popular, especially with the blokes. He despised the heads that would turn, the eyes that would undress her, the endless attempts to lure her. He carried a snail’s shell of doubt and suspicion. They had been together almost a year, and each month, each week and each day was increasingly destroying who he used to be. Who he
should
be.

His last conversation with Amy was on Friday afternoon in the university’s east car park.

‘So, you’re off to Devon again tonight,’ he said glumly.

She frowned. ‘You know I am.’

‘I was just wondering if something might have changed.’

‘No. But you know I’m back on Monday. We can meet up at lunchtime, if you like?’

Carl looked away.

‘God, what’s wrong with you?’ Amy nipped.

Carl knew that Amy loathed his silent treatment. ‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. The warm, gentle breeze snatched away his answer, adding to its misdirection.

‘Carl, what’s wrong? You have to tell me,’ she said, her face increasingly tight and unforgiving.

He turned to her with a fake smile. ‘Nothing,’ he said again, but inside all he could think about was Amy meeting up with Scotty, and his imagination was filling in all sorts of undesirable detail.

‘Fine!’ she snapped and walked to her side of his car, climbed inside and slammed the door with a thud and rattle.

He waited ten or more seconds. Now he was the baddie. He clenched his jaw and joined her inside the car. ‘Come on,’ he mumbled. ‘I’d better drop you back.’

They hardly spoke during the three-mile drive to Amy’s student home. Carl steered with his left hand, his arm acting as a barrier between them. It didn’t matter to Amy, though, because she spent the entire journey looking out of her window.

When they arrived, she looked over at Carl, but he continued staring ahead.

‘I’ll see you on Monday then,’ Amy said.

‘Yep.’ Carl had not moved. His left hand still gripped the wheel.

‘Okay,’ she said, crestfallen. ‘Bye then.’

‘Yep.’

Amy pulled quietly at the door handle, but before stepping out, she turned to Carl, sank her head and stepped silently onto the pavement.

As Carl pulled away with a squeal of rubber and a scattering of gravel, his gaze met hers for a transitory moment in the rear view mirror.

‘You fucking whore.’

Amy Poole arrived at her parents’ home in the early evening and carefully manoeuvred her car into one of the last available spaces on the street. She used her sunglasses to sweep hair from her face, slid her phone into the front pocket of her backpack, and strolled the short distance uphill to her parents’ house.

She had called ahead, and her mother was already waiting at the open door as Amy crunched her way up the shingle pathway.

‘How was the drive, darling?’ Mum asked, holding out an arm to take Amy’s bag.

‘Pretty good actually,’ Amy said, and embraced Mum on the doorstep.

‘How have you been, my love?’

‘Yeah, good.’ Amy looked into the hallway. ‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘Have a wild guess.’

‘At the window?’

Mum laughed. ‘How did you know?’

They both giggled and Amy followed mum through to the kitchen. Amy smiled to herself as Mum’s heels echoed off the old flagstone flooring. She was nothing if not glamorous, even at home.

Mum removed a bottle of white wine from the fridge and topped up an already half-full glass sitting alone on the breakfast bar.

‘Glass for you, darling?’ she asked.

Amy shook her head, noticing the purposefulness of the pour.

‘Cheers,’ Mum said, taking a long swig.

Mum was not a big drinker. Amy waited.

‘I’m afraid Aunty Jayne isn’t well. Your dad and I have arranged to visit her tomorrow.’

‘Oh no! What’s wrong?’

‘We don’t yet know for sure,’ Mum said, ‘but because she’s alone, we thought she might appreciate a little help for a while.’

‘Of course. We can all go up tomorrow.’

‘We’ve already discussed it. We want you to stay here but Dad and I will be leaving after breakfast.’ Mum took a longer guzzle. ‘You’ve a hard year coming up. These times of relaxation won’t come around that often, so enjoy it while you have the chance.’

Amy complied silently with a nod.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ Mum said, with a reluctant smile. ‘How’s everything going with that new boyfriend of yours, darling?’

‘Fine,’ Amy replied, but did not feel much like talking about Carl right then.

‘Why don’t you meet up with Scotty? You always have a nice time when you see Scotty.’

‘Already sorted,’ Amy said. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing him tomorrow night.’

Amy’s dad came into the kitchen.

‘I thought I heard your voice, sweetheart.’ His weighty hands rounded her shoulders and he gave her the gentlest of kisses on the forehead. ‘How are you doing, love?’

‘Hi, Daddy,’ Amy purred. ‘Mum just told me about Aunty Jayne.’

A frown creased his brow, but before he had the chance to say anything else, Mum interjected.

‘Come on, darling, let’s eat. You must be starving. We’ve got beef stroganoff and homemade bread.’

‘How’s the studying going this week?’ Dad asked.

‘Yeah, fine. We started on firearms legislation. I can’t believe how complicated it is.’

‘I’m not sure I can assist you much there, sweetheart. It was never my forte either.’

‘Come on, you two,’ Mum encouraged, ‘you can have your solicitor-talk after food.’

‘We’ll chat later,’ Dad said with a wink. ‘Let’s not keep Mum waiting.’

Next day Mum and Dad had gone by ten. They wouldn’t be back to see Amy off. In fact, they thought they could be in Gloucester for most of the week, which suggested that they knew more about Aunty Jayne’s health than they were letting on.

It was another glorious October morning in North Devon. Amy spent the first minutes of her time alone gazing out of ‘Dad’s window’ towards Adamsleigh and the yachts clustered near to the sailing club, dancing gently on the incoming tide. She had long since realised she was blessed to live in such beautiful surroundings.

She took Mum’s advice and spent the day lounging around the garden, reading a chick-lit book, and soaking up the sun on a recliner. Anyone could be forgiven for thinking it was July, with the warmth.

She had arranged to meet with Scotty around eight, at the quay in Torworthy, and by seven thirty, she was almost ready and glanced at herself in the hallway mirror. She was feeling good. She had no makeup to check, she rarely needed any. Her short denim skirt accentuated her long tanned legs, and she finished the look with her favourite O’Neil short-sleeved blouse.

It was time to leave.

She raced up to her bedroom and scrabbled around for her dependable helpers. Drawing her platinum-blonde mane away from her face she ducked beneath the tap and washed the pills down in one. Deciding against taking a jacket, she set off on the five-minute walk to the bus stop on the quay.