STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (20 page)

The door chimes signalled his arrival. Denise was at the counter.

‘Hi,’ he said gingerly and glanced around. The room was empty. It was just the two of them.

‘Detective,’ she replied curtly.

‘Look, I’m sorry about earlier,’ he said. ‘I was rude to you and I want to apologise.’

‘I’m sorry about earlier too. I suppose it was my way of showing you that I am for real, that
this
is real.’

Deans nodded and made a point of looking around the room once again.

‘It’s okay, we’re alone,’ she said.

‘Um—’

‘Yes,’

Deans stumbled over his words, ‘What… what did you mean about me and Maria?’

‘I can’t answer that at the moment. Only time will make that clearer to the both of you.’

‘So why say it in the first place?’

Denise sighed. ‘I don’t predict the future but I do interpret the present.’

‘How did you know Maria’s name?’

‘Through the spirit world.’ Denise broke eye contact and looked down to the floor. ‘Have you spoken to your wife yet?’ she asked quickly.

‘No. I haven’t.’

‘Give her a call now. Use my treatment room if you like. There’s no one in there.’

‘Why are you so bothered about Maria?’

‘Just take the opportunity to do it. I can see you are worn out and you may not get a better chance again today.’

‘You’re not going to let this lie are you?’

Denise flared her eyelids. ‘You know the way to the back room.’

Deans smiled. ‘Fine. You win.’

He paced around the room a few times, phone in hand, and then settled on the edge of the treatment couch. He tapped the call button and the ring tone sounded in his ear. It was strange; he did not know what he was going to say.

‘Hello,’ Maria answered neutrally.

‘Hi, babe,’ Deans said cagily. ‘How’s it all going?’

‘Okay, I suppose. I’m home again today.’

‘Oh, babe! Are you still feeling poorly?’

Maria did not answer the question. ‘When are you coming home, Andrew?’

‘I’m going to be here all week. I already told you that.’ He winced, recognising that he could have been a lot less antagonistic.

Maria spoke after a painful hush. ‘The hospital wants us… me in at nine thirty tomorrow for the scan.’

Deans imagined Maria struggling alone with the hospital appointment and all of the associated stress and his heart plummeted.

‘That’s great, babe,’ he said, doing his best not to come across as unsupportive. ‘I’ll speak to my DS down here and see if he will allow me to take the day off.’

Maria was silent for a moment. ‘No. You made it clear that your work was more important to you than the progress of our treatment.’

‘Oh, come on, Maria. That’s not fair.’

‘Well, where are you now, here or there?’

Deans groaned. He could not argue the facts. ‘Look, I’m going to speak to my skipper, see what I can do. I want to be there, Maria.’

‘No. You’d better not let your work colleagues down. Mum and Dad are coming to the hospital with me.’

Deans bit down tightly, and the silence that followed spoke more words than either of them could say. Deans eventually broke the deadlock. ‘I’m really pleased about tomorrow, Maria. You’ll be great, and everything will be fine.’

‘Andrew, we need to talk – properly.’

His whole body fell saggy. ‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll let you know what the skipper says.’

‘I won’t hold my breath,’ Maria said.

Neither will I
, he thought.

They said their goodbyes like two strangers and Deans ended the call. The phone screensaver reappeared and he stared at the image of the two of them on their Greek holiday looking healthy and contented. Those days were like living someone else’s life. A life that he craved for.

He leafed through his papers, found Jackson’s contact number, and dialled.

‘Yes,’ came the curt reply.

‘Hi, Sarge, it’s Andy Deans.’

‘Yes.’

‘I was wondering if I could take tomorrow off? My—’

‘No.’

‘My wife is having a scan at the hospital in Bath.’

‘And you’re working on a murder enquiry.’

‘It’s very important to us both.’

‘Is she dying?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Is she dying?’ Jackson asked impatiently.

‘No, she’s not bloody dying.’

‘Then this conversation is over.’ With that, Jackson ended the call.

‘Wanker,’ Deans shouted and clenched in a tight, knotted rage.

Denise did not make a big deal about his arrival, just continued with her work. Deans liked Denise. Her presence was relaxing in a strange kind of way. He would never understand her vocation but he did not need to in order to feel comfortable around her. He checked his watch: 4:46 p.m. He wondered how Ranford was getting on and contemplated heading back to the nick, though he did not trust himself around Jackson. What he really needed was to head back to the B&B for a power nap.

‘Andy, can I make an observation?’

‘So long as it’s not about Maria,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. They both chuckled.

‘You’re a sensitive man.’

Deans snorted, unsure if this was intended as a compliment or a criticism.

He noticed her looking at him with a strange curiosity.

‘Um, thanks?’ he said.

She raised a smile. ‘That’s okay. That’s really okay.’

‘Well, I’m glad we sorted that out then.’

Denise laughed. ‘What are you doing tonight, Andy?’

He sucked in deeply and shook his head.

‘If you have no plans then come over to my place. I can cook you some proper food. I think it will do us both good to have some company.’

‘Okay,’ he said after considering everything. ‘But only if it doesn’t put you out.’

‘Not for a moment. I enjoy cooking and rarely get the chance to have stimulating company.’

He laughed. ‘I can’t necessarily promise the stimulation, but I’d be delighted to come over. Thank you.’

They agreed to meet up at seven, and clutching her home address on a scrap of Rayon Vert headed notepaper, Deans set off back to the B&B, picking up a bottle of red wine en route, and taking the opportunity to break the news about Jackson to Maria.

He arrived at his compact accommodation and checked his phone: no messages. He set the alarm for 6:30 p.m., drew the blinds, removed his suit jacket and loosened his shirt and tie. Within moments, he was sleeping.

The alarm woke him with a startling abruptness, as planned. Deans sat upright and wiped his puffy eyes. He was beginning to ache from sustained sleep deprivation.

He flicked on the small TV at the end of the bed, bolted to the wall on a crude-looking cradle, and he fiddled with the controls until he reached the local news. Increasing the volume, he went to the bathroom.

He considered cancelling Denise. The snooze appeared to have had a detrimental effect on his general wellbeing and he felt significantly more jaded than before, similar to jet lag, but much worse. Sadly, there was no hot and sunny destination waiting for him to take the edge off the tiredness and he had no idea where the endpoint of this journey was taking him.

From the TV Deans heard: ‘Today the parents of murdered local woman Amy Poole were speaking to the cameras.’

He rushed back into the room and stared intently at the fourteen-inch screen as the news reporter relayed details of Amy’s disappearance and subsequent discovery.

Janet and Ian were sitting behind a desk housing numerous microphones and recording devices. Their faces stared absently into the room and told the observing world of the extreme agony in which they were now living. The camera closed in mercilessly to track down every last nuance of their grief. Two senior officers whom he did not recognise were either side of them and they were all in front of a bright blue felt board adorned with the constabulary crest.

The officer in the suit spoke and gave a short statement on behalf of the family. She delivered it respectfully and accurately. She was a good public speaker. Deans was glad, he had seen too many ranking officers fumble and stutter their way through televised interviews or statements, but he certainly wouldn’t fancy the job himself.

The segment changed to a reporter speaking live from the pebble ridge, the now sodden and greying teddy the focus of their shot. The reporter emphasised that the killer was still at large and the police were working tirelessly to piece together the horrific events that led to Amy’s death. A photograph of Amy then filled the screen before the programme returned to the studio and a news report about a fire at a farm building somewhere Deans had never heard of.

He wondered if the killer was watching the same thing and his thoughts drifted back to the comments made by the outside broadcaster –
horrific events
– and he wondered just how much the press knew. A vision of Mansfield cheerfully wagging with the news reporter at the scene came into his head.

He caught himself daydreaming and fumbled with the controller to switch the box off.

Denise lived in a very old-looking small stone cottage at the end of a private road, in a small village not far from Torworthy. It was a warm house, both in temperature and atmosphere.

Denise ushered Deans through to the kitchen area where the unmistakable smell of bolognese filled the air.

‘Thanks for inviting me,’ he said politely.

‘You’re most welcome. I hope spag-bol is up your street?’

‘One of my favourites, thank you.’

Denise filled a glass with Merlot and handed it to Deans with a clink of her glass, and they both sat at the table. Deans did not feel uncomfortable about being with Denise in her home. There were no pangs of guilt associated with being with another woman. This was different, this was purely platonic, and a very kind gesture.

‘Amy’s gone national,’ Denise said. ‘Leading headline on the six o’clock news.’

‘Really?’ Deans said. ‘I saw the local report, but hadn’t expected wider interest.’

‘Her poor parents. They looked dreadful,’ she said.

Deans nodded. Every murder was tragic, and brutal, and unfair in its own right. Some had desperate circumstances while others linked to loved ones, or involved persons in the public eye, and something was making Amy’s case particularly attractive to the newshounds.

‘The reporters already seem to have the daggers out for the lack of police results,’ Denise said.

Deans shrugged a noncommittal shoulder.

‘What’s your take on it, Andy? What do you think happened?’

He pulled a face. ‘We don’t really know.’

‘Not we. You. What do you think?’

He hesitated. ‘I honestly don’t know. I thought I was getting somewhere a couple of days back, but that scenario has gone. I guess time will tell, and how much time we have before this whole thing turns into a circus is anyone’s guess.’

Denise scowled and lifted her glass in symbolic cheers and Deans followed suit. He savoured the smooth, velvet taste and held it in his mouth longer than he normally would. He usually liked to drink in the evenings, but the way the shifts had been recently this felt like his first drink in a year, and it was one to relish.

‘We’ll need to be cautious about the press,’ he said.

‘We?’

‘They’ll have their own investigators sniffing about, trying to speak to witnesses, attempting to bag the next breakthrough.’

‘Why should I be concerned by that?’

‘I’m not saying be concerned, just be careful who you speak to about Amy.’

‘I already am.’

Deans took another large mouthful of wine but this time it went straight down. ‘So how did you get into this medium thing?’ he asked.

Denise chortled and took a sip of her own. ‘It kind of chose me,’ she replied nonchalantly.

‘Well, it seems I have all evening,’ Deans said, ‘so please, I’m seriously interested to know.’

Denise pulled gently at a strand of hair trapped in the corner of her mouth and smiled. ‘I had an alternative upbringing. My father moved away before I had any memory of him and so I ended up alone with my mother, who was into all sorts of things from tarot card reading to clairvoyance services. So, I guess, from a very young age I was surrounded by the alternative lifestyle. And as I grew older, Mother introduced different techniques for me to learn and practise. I kept it quiet from my friends at school and Mother was good at not making a big deal out of it. I wasn’t embarrassed by her; I just didn’t want her to be branded a witch by the other kids.’

Denise paused for a moment, and looked to the floor. Deans waited.

‘When she passed away I was already quite skilled in many aspects but decided to progress the gift further.’ She tittered. ‘You could call it an homage, I suppose.’

Deans smiled, took a sip of wine.

‘Therefore, I read up on specific facets that interested me and I travelled the world to meet some of the practising legends, who in turn gave me one-to-one tuition, guidance and foresight. You see, everyone has the ability within them to do what I do. The human brain is underutilised with daily life and all I’ve done is unlock a gateway and opened a flow of communication.’

‘Wow,’ Deans said. ‘And the shop name, does that have some meaning?’

‘
Rayon Vert
– the green flash. Next time you see a sunset over the ocean, particularly here at Sandymere Bay, look closely for the final second before the sun drops away and you may well witness the green flash. The significance is that the sun sets every single day of our lives but some days our view is shrouded by cloud and on others its magnificence burns bright to the very end. Yet, either way, there are individuals that have never seen the rayon vert. It’s not simply looking but
seeing
.’

‘So when did you decide to make a living from it?’

‘I wouldn’t say it makes me a living but it’s enough to pay the bills. You see, only a relatively small percentage of the population open themselves up enough to embrace the gift and so, unless there becomes an influx of believers or the greater powers dictate another direction, I will be satisfied following this path in life.’

‘What brought Amy to you?’