STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (8 page)

‘Yes, yes, of course, please do,’ Mrs Poole willingly obliged.

It was devious but given the state of Mrs Poole’s emotions, he did not feel it appropriate at this stage to explain that both brushes could be rich sources of Amy’s DNA.

Having spent almost two hours with the Pooles, Deans concluded that he liked them very much and genuinely felt for them. They were a likeable couple and he imagined Amy would be no different.

‘Just before I go,’ he said, as the said their goodbyes, ‘I found a diary in Amy’s bedroom in Bath. There are references to a DM. You wouldn’t happen to know what or who that could be?’

Mrs Poole put her hand to her face and looked puzzled for a while. She did not ask her husband.

‘I think it could be something she does whilst she is here, looking at the dates in the diary,’ Deans said. ‘Could it be something she was doing for a hobby, or part of her coursework?’

‘How about Denise?’ Mr Poole suggested in a downcast voice.

They both stopped and looked over at him.

‘Denise?’ Deans mirrored. Mirroring was usually an effective technique of obtaining more information without having to ask for it. This was more than appropriate in Mr Poole’s case.

Instead, Mrs Poole once again resumed conversation duties. ‘Denise. Yes. She has been helping Amy with her coursework. I believe her surname is Moon. Yes, there we go. DM.’ She took a step towards her husband and touched the back of his hand. He did not respond.

‘Okay,’ Deans said, ‘how does Denise Moon help Amy?’

‘She’s a medium or something,’ Mrs Poole said, apologising for her husband with her eyes. ‘I don’t understand what they do. I know Amy has been working on the suggestion that mediums can help the police with their investigations. It was all part of her thesis.’

Deans had certainly never experienced such involvement at first hand, and as far as he knew, it was something fabricated for TV entertainment.

‘Interesting,’ he said, trying not to sound dismissive. ‘What do you know about this woman, Denise Moon?’

‘She has a shop in town and I think Amy sees her there. They get along rather well, evidently. I know Amy was enjoying their meetings.’

‘Is Amy into all that mystical, fortune-telling stuff?’ Deans asked.

‘No, it’s not like that at all,’ Mrs Poole said defensively. ‘Denise is a therapist. She helps people. She’s not some fairground attraction.’

‘I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. I’m ignorant on such matters.’

Deans noticed Mr Poole nodding.

‘Would you happen to know where I can find the shop?’

‘I haven’t been in there myself,’ Mrs Poole replied, ‘but I know it’s off the High Street, behind the bank. There is a small walkway leading away from the cashpoint. Follow that and you’ll eventually come to it.’

Satisfied that he had covered all angles, Deans left the Pooles, glad that he had been given an opportunity to spend valuable time with them. Their grief was palpable and he felt happier that some much-needed bridge building had taken place between them.

Back inside his car, he studied the notes he had made in his book. He turned over to a blank page and drew two large circles, one above the other. Inside the top circle, he wrote
Scott Parsons
and inside the second, he wrote
Denise Moon
.

A glance at his watch only confirmed to Deans that time was pressing. Desperate for caffeine, he found a homely-looking coffee shop on the quayside. The Pooles had been lovely company but understandably a little lax on the hospitality stakes. He ordered a double shot espresso and a door-wedge piece of homemade flapjack from the young server, and sat at a small round table at the back of the room, which was something he subconsciously always did. Maybe all cops did the same. It was better to know who was around you than not, although here he knew no one and no one knew him.

It always amused Deans that, no matter where he was, the local shit-bags would sense he was a cop. Some would give a little nod of recognition or a toothy grin. Their way of saying,
I know what you are
. It was a strange occurrence, but then again, he could tell they were shit-bags, so it was fair game.

In this town, specifically in this little coffee house, Deans must have stood out like a sore thumb dressed in his grey pinstriped suit, salmon-pink shirt and matching tie, however the espresso tasted good, and he savoured the bitterness with two full gulps, then opened his daybook and read over his notes. It was already his intention to track down Scott Parsons, but now he had generated an additional enquiry: to locate and interview Denise Moon.

He picked at the remaining crumbs from his flapjack and with a smile handed the empties back to the server as he left.

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside of Rayon Vert Therapy and Treatment Studio, on the backstreets of Torworthy town centre.

He had never given the idea of mediums any thought before and now he was about to speak to one. He did not know what to expect and struggled to rid his mind of the classic image of an older woman with a silk bandana and crazy eyes.

‘If only the guys could see me now,’ he muttered beneath his breath, pushing at the small entrance door, and stepping inside.

He was surprised to be greeted by a man in black spectacles that were too large for his head, seated behind a narrow stone counter top.

‘May I help you, sir?’ the man asked gently.

‘I’m looking for Denise Moon,’ Deans said, wondering if Dennis Moon was more accurate.

‘She’s with a client at the moment.’

The man had a deadpan look and said no more.

After an awkward delay, Deans asked, ‘Do you happen to know how long she’ll be?’

‘Have you made an appointment, sir?’

‘No,’ Deans chuckled, and then cleared his throat. ‘No, no, I haven’t.’

The man watched Deans with a humourless, poker-faced expression.

God, he is one intense cookie
, Deans thought. He whistled a muted tune and looked around the room.

The man’s eyes were still upon him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Deans said. ‘I’m Detective Constable Andrew Deans. I need to speak to Ms Moon about a police matter.’

The man looked over his right shoulder towards a closed door, and then turned his focus back on Deans.

‘I tell you what,’ Deans said. ‘I’ll sit down here and wait until she’s free. I’m doing fine for time,’ he lied. It was getting late and he still had lots to do.

As Deans bided his time, he noticed a small CCTV camera positioned in the corner of the wall behind the counter, pointing towards the front door. It looked real enough but could easily be a dummy, which was exactly how Deans was feeling right then. This place was certainly out of his comfort zone.

Eco-warrior music played softly in the background, and glass shelving displayed exotic-looking crystals and stones as if they meant something. To him they were just curious rocks. He looked closer. Each one had a black label with gold handwriting describing the stone’s powers and the price. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered. Eighty-five quid for a small black pebble.

Deans shook his head at the desperation people must feel to spend so much money, and the exploitative ways in which some were willing to cash in on the vulnerabilities of others.

After twenty more minutes of awkward silence, the rear door opened and a pretty, young woman full of verve and smiles entered the room. Deans sat up straight and adjusted his tie. She noticed him and smiled pleasantly back. Deans was about to ask if she was Denise when another woman walked in behind her. Denise Moon, he presumed.

She was not as he had expected. In her late forties, with long dark hair, pale skin and a friendly, almost familiar face. Although she was still quite young, she was mumsy at the same time.

The smiling woman paid with a card and left the shop, announcing that she would return next week. Deans looked over to the man, expecting him to relay his message, but instead he said nothing and remained seated behind the counter. Needing to take the initiative once again, Deans stood up.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘Denise Moon?’

‘Yes. Hello. How may I help you?’ She was holding out her hand to shake. Deans noticed that she had near-flawless skin. She was naturally attractive with large, brown intelligent eyes. A black, sparkly stone around her neck on a long slender chain caught his eye, and he wondered what it was. He could only imagine how much it would cost going by the prices of the other pebbles on display.

‘Hello,’ he said again, taking her outstretched hand. ‘I’m Detective Constable Andrew Deans. I was wondering if I could trouble you for a short while. You may be able to help me with an investigation I’m conducting.’

She had a look of surprise. ‘Yes, of course.’ She turned to the man behind the counter. ‘How’s the diary looking, Ash?’

‘Next appointment in fifteen minutes,’ he replied, without taking his eyes away from Deans.

Denise smiled warmly and welcomed Deans through to the back. He followed her into a low-arched hallway and through to a room similar in appearance to a spa salon. There was a treatment bed in the centre, leather seating was against one wall and peaceful music playing in the background.

‘I do hope you haven’t been waiting long, Detective?’ she asked. ‘I’m afraid Ash can be a little protective of my schedule.’

‘No, no, not at all,’ he lied again and she gave him a knowing smile. ‘Please, call me Andy,’ he said.

‘How may I be of assistance to you?’

‘Do you know a Miss Amy Poole?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Denise replied without hesitation. ‘She is a wonderful girl and extremely bright. I have been helping her with some work. She’s interested in the power of mediumship.’

Ms Moon was clearly skilled in non-verbal communication and subtly encouraged Deans to expand.

‘I’m afraid Amy is missing,’ he reciprocated.

She half-stepped backwards and covered her mouth. ‘Oh my God! Since when?’

‘Saturday last week. I am trying to trace her movements to establish where she may be or whom she may be with. I found a diary with what I believe to be your initials beside certain dates and I’d just like to check these out and ask you about Amy.’

‘Yes, of course. Poor Amy.’ She waved towards the sofa. ‘Her family must be beside themselves. Yes, of course, I’ll help you all I can.’

‘Thank you. When did you last see Amy?’

‘Would you excuse me a moment while I get the diary from outside? I know it was sometime within the last few weeks but I’m not sure when exactly.’

‘Of course.’

As Denise left, Deans studied the room.

She returned carrying a desk diary and started to flick through the pages.

‘Tuesday, three weeks ago,’ she said. ‘That’s right; we had a quick thirty-minute session.’

‘What exactly would you do with Amy?’

‘Well, just talk really. Amy has a very sensitive soul and the potential to develop the gift. We mostly discuss her thesis. And how she can harness the gift to enrich her life. She’s an excellent student and a pleasure to be around.’

‘The gift?’ Deans mirrored.

Denise smiled. ‘How long do you have, Detective? Your fifteen minutes wouldn’t begin to scratch the surface even if I tried to explain.’

Deans liked Denise. He felt comfortable in her presence. Not at all how he thought she would be.

‘Would it be possible to have a list of the dates and times you met with Amy please? It might be beneficial for me to piece together her movements over a period of time,’ he said.

‘Of course. I can’t let you have the book for client confidentiality reasons, but I can jot down the relevant details for you, if that would be okay?’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ve only been seeing Amy for a few months, so it shouldn’t take long.’

Denise swivelled in her chair and started to write on a sheet of headed paper. Deans politely waited. A provocative question kept rebounding inside his head. Would it be rude of him to ask? He did not know. He leant forward, about to speak, then stopped just short of the words coming out.

‘Something you want to ask?’ Denise said without turning around to face him. She was good.

Deans paused before speaking. He did have one vitally private question to ask, but at the same time, he did not want to hear the answer. Instead, his query sounded amateurish.

‘So, do you read people’s future and stuff?’

Denise chuckled. ‘You’re thinking of a clairvoyant. I’m not necessarily a clairvoyant, so I suppose I do “stuff” as you put it. But there is so much more to it.’ She turned back to face him. ‘Perhaps if you have a couple of hours free sometime you could experience some
stuff
for yourself?’

Deans leaned back. ‘Oh, I’m afraid I’m not local. My patch is in Somerset.’ He noticed Denise had a quizzical expression. ‘Amy’s reported missing from Bath.’

Denise shook her head. ‘It’s such a shock. What a dreadful, dreadful shock.’

She held out a sheet of paper, which Deans took with thanks.

‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Detective. I’m pleased Amy is in good hands.’

Deans wafted the compliment aside. ‘Thank you for your help. It was very nice to meet you too.’ He removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to Denise. ‘Would you call me if you hear anything from Amy?’

‘Without question,’ she said and placed the business card onto her treatment couch.

Deans led the way back to the shop entrance. Ash was still behind the counter. Deans exchanged a handshake with Denise, nodded to Ash and went on his way to his next task.

A ten-minute stroll later, he found the police station at a picturesque setting overlooking the old town bridge and estuary. The entrance was locked and the front office in darkness. A laminated notice to the public was stuck to the inside of the glass informing them of front office closures and restrictions to opening hours, effective from nine months ago.
Cost cutting
, Deans thought. The same thing had happened in Bath.

A uniformed officer emerged from the side of the building, and Deans jogged over to her before she stepped into a marked vehicle.

‘Hi,’ Deans said, catching his breath. ‘I’m DC Deans from CID in Bath. Would you know if there are any DCs around I can chat to please?’