STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (9 page)

‘They’ve already gone,’ she said opening the door hurriedly, her Airwave radio chattering nonstop on the front of her body armour. ‘Try tomorrow. Early turn.’

Deans checked his watch; it was nudging five.

‘How do I get in?’ Deans asked before she slammed the door closed.

‘Front office opens at nine,’ she shouted through the glass, turning over the engine and hitting the
999
button on the emergency equipment display panel.

‘Thanks,’ he shouted with a wave, but she was already on her way.

He was now at an impasse. He looked at his watch again, through his gritty, strobe-blinded eyes. He only had two options: drive back home to return in the early hours of the morning, or find somewhere to stay the night. Tomorrow was looking like another long day.

A call to Savage and then home to his wife confirmed that he was staying the night in Devon, and soon he was driving around the area looking for a B&B to throw onto job expenses.

He discovered a small car park set on a hillside overlooking a vast bay. The Atlantic Ocean was pounding into a long ridge of grey rocks way off to his right. He watched, captivated, as growling waves glided gracefully across his path before smashing into wispy white plumes on the shore. The repetitive sequence was sleep inducing. Womblike. It was the first time that day he allowed his mind to rest.

He blinked away his lethargy and focused on a cluster of small black dots in the distant water. Surfers.

The creases of his face softened as the image evoked memories of holidays with Maria, lounging on a beach and messing about in the sea.
Those were the days
, he thought.

It had been a reasonably comfortable night’s sleep and Deans woke early. The sun was yet to rise fully but he was feeling increasingly claustrophobic in the poky B&B bedroom he had occupied since about eight thirty the night before. Breakfast was not for another hour and a half, and so he decided to head back to the small car park overlooking the bay to make the most of whatever peaceful opportunity he had.

This time, the tide had retreated, exposing a large bed of glassy, golden sand and a bank of jagged black rock beneath him. It was a calm morning. The rising sun over the hills had transformed the gossamer clouds into a bed of fire, and aircraft jet-wash left silvery traces against the pure cyan sky high above. Everything he saw was in stark contrast to the mornings he encountered back home, and he liked it.

After breakfast, he settled the bill and tucked the receipt away in a special flap of his wallet kept aside for expenses. He would have to go through a rigmarole of paperwork when he returned to the office to reclaim his costs. Sometimes he felt it was hardly worth the hassle – maybe that was the idea.

He set off and made his way to the police station once again, arriving just after nine. He met up with the two duty detectives: Ranford and Mansfield. It was not the friendliest of welcomes, but it was a start. He established CCTV was well covered in the area and some had automatic number plate recognition – ANPR capability. Ranford provided him with Intel on Scott Parsons, and they agreed to keep in contact through the day.

Deans drove the short distance to Fore Street and found Scott’s address with little effort. A tatty brown VW Transporter adorned with surfer graffiti was parked nearby and he wondered if this belonged to Scott. To be fair though, Deans had never seen so many camper vans as over the past twenty-four hours.

If the Intel was correct, the last time the police had anything to do with Scott he was unemployed and so Deans was hopeful of a response.

He did not have long to wait before the door was opened by a man in his early twenties, wearing baggy shorts and a hoody top. He was more overweight than Deans had expected, but the photograph he had seen next to Amy’s bed was a good few years old.

‘Scott?’ Deans asked.

The man studied Deans’ suit, then yelled back into the house, ‘Scotty, the Feds are here for you.’ He turned away, leaving Deans outside the open door.

‘What are you going on about, you knob-head?’ Deans heard from the first floor, and watched as a man bounded down the stairs, two steps at a time.

‘What is it?’ he queried again before noticing Deans standing at the door. ‘Oh, all right, mate? Did you want me?’

He was only wearing baggy shorts. He was lithe, muscular and heavily tattooed. There was no mistaking; this was Scott.

‘I’m DC Deans. Can I come in for a private chat, please?’

Scott pulled a face and looked like he was about to debate the question.

‘Scott, it’s important, and I’d rather we chatted inside than on the doorstep.’

‘Hold on,’ Scott said and closed the door three-quarters of the way, leaving Deans once again standing alone.

He returned a few moments later and nodded Deans inside. Scott led the way through to the kitchen. He walked with short, stabbing steps as if he was walking on broken glass. Deans imagined that was from years of negotiating hot sand and stones to get to the surf.

Deans entered the kitchen, looked at the clutter and made an early decision not to accept any drinks, if offered.

‘Scott, I understand that you are Amy Poole’s ex-partner and you are still good friends?’

‘Yeah, me and Ames is tight, man.’ He screwed his face. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Amy is missing.’

Scott lurched forward. ‘What? Where is she? Is she all right?’

‘That’s what I need to find out, Scott.’

‘What do you mean?’ Scott’s voice was getting louder. ‘Where is she?’

‘Missing.’

‘Missing? How, when?’ Scott asked impatiently.

‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.’ Deans employed a calm voice. The last thing he needed was to be isolated in an unfamiliar house, in a town he did not know, with an over-excited man half his age, built like the proverbial shithouse.

‘When did you last see her, Scotty?’

‘Saturday night.’

‘Where?’

‘Joe’s’

‘Joe’s?’ Deans mirrored.

‘Jumping Joe’s.’

Deans shrugged and shook his head.

‘In town, mate. It’s our usual hangout.’

‘Is it a club?’

‘Yeah, well, more of a late-night bar than a club. Ames doesn’t do clubs.’

‘Why not?’

‘The lights affect her head.’

‘You know about her condition?’

‘Course I do.’

‘Do you know if she had her medication with her on Saturday night?’

Scotty shrugged and shook his head. ‘No idea.’

‘What time did you last see Amy?’

Scott shrugged again. ‘Maybe about one, something like that.’

His eyes were wide, he was leaning back and holding the underside of the worktop as if to let go would cause him to fall. Reminiscent of Jessica.

‘Who else was with you?’

‘Jacko, Gemma and Soph.’

‘Did anyone leave with Amy?’

‘No,’ he replied softly. ‘She went home and we all stayed at Joe’s.’

‘Did you see where she went after leaving the club?’

Scott scratched at his ribs with a scraping noise.

‘I think she went to the rank.’

‘Scott, have you had any contact from Amy since Saturday night?’

His head dropped. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘She was heading back to uni, so that was it until the next time.’

‘Can you remember what Amy was wearing on Saturday night?’

Scott puffed out his cheeks. ‘Uh… a white and green O’Neil top, and probably jeans or a skirt, or something like that.’

Deans made a note in his book and gave Scott a moment or two without questions.

Scott then spoke with urgency, ‘Have you been to her house? I can take you there.’

‘There’s no need thanks, Scott. I’ve already been there.’

‘Oh my God! Janet and Ian.’ Scott gripped the sides of his head, elongating his eyes. Clearly, this man genuinely cared not only for Amy, but also for the entire family.

‘Scott, I need to you sit down with me, please,’ Deans said, trying to deflate the ever-growing emotion spilling out from the lad. ‘It’s possible that you were the last person to see Amy…’ He fell short of the word he felt compelled to say. He was so used to dealing with more serious cases that he temporarily forgot that Amy was still just a simple MISPER.

‘What, alive?’ Scott said, his face full of horror.

‘No, I’m not saying that. Look, to the best of my knowledge you were the last person to see Amy.’

Deans observed Scott wiping his face and saw a glistening bead stream down his left cheek.

‘I tell you what, Scotty,’ Deans said gently, ‘you’re my best chance at the moment of getting a clearer picture of what happened on Saturday night. I think I will need a statement, but right now isn’t the best time. You have a lot to take in. Could you meet me in a few hours at the station?’

‘What, the police station? Are you going to nick me?’

Deans raised his hands. ‘No. I promise. I need you focused that’s all. We can find a quiet room. I need to know everything that happened on Saturday night, no matter how insignificant you may think it is. Can we do that?’

Scott nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’

‘Okay, good. Bring any phones or cameras you may have had with you on Saturday night in case we need to look through them, all right?’

‘Yeah, thanks, man,’ Scott said, wiping his running nose with the top of his left forearm.

Deans headed for the front door. ‘And do me a favour as well, Scotty?’

Scott nodded.

‘Leave the weed at home, mate, we don’t need that causing unnecessary complications at the nick, okay?’

Scott turned away.

‘It’s in the air. Don’t put me in a position I can’t get out of. See you later.’

The thrill of excitement was overwhelming, as he extracted box number 9 from the shelf. There was no one else around, but he still checked furtively behind. His cheeks glowed and he could feel a pulse in his neck as he gently held a leather-bound album, removed from the box, in both hands.

He was sitting perfectly still, and opened the album cover, slowly turning the pages to his latest creation. He drew sharp breath and his eyes rolled behind their lids. Pleasure oozed through him like a narcotic hit.

She was a beautiful girl and the images brought the moments they had experienced together back to life. He turned the page excitedly. Another sequence of photographs accelerated his breathing.

His smile narrowed as his thoughts took him back several weeks. She was the kind of girl who would never know suffering. Always be accepted. Always be popular. Never have to fight to be noticed. Never be constantly compared and judged.
Not any more
, he thought,
the little slut deserved everything she got
.

The side of his face broke into spasm.

‘Go away,’ he screamed through a warped grimace, gripping his head with both hands, and knocking the album onto the floor.

Mummy loves me more than you
.

He cowered and dropped to his knees, squeezing his skull between his hands.

Mummy loves me more than you
.

‘Go away,’ he fumed. ‘Just, fuck off you little shit.’

The voice ended.

He lifted his head tentatively, his entire body trembling. He knew it was not over. He waited. Scanned the room frantically.

‘No,’ he whined. ‘Please…’ He bunched his eyes and curled his body as tightly as possible, using all his willpower to stave off the accompanying apparition. Nevertheless, the vision of his doting mother invaded his senses.

Don’t you have beautiful eyes, Douglas? Who is my extra-special one?

‘Go away, bitch,’ he bellowed. ‘Fuck you both.’

She was dead. They both were, but the torment was as fresh now as all those years ago.

He snorted deeply, filling his lungs with air and his throat with mucus. He shielded his face, held his breath, and bobbed to comfort himself. His chest burned to release the trapped air, but he had found this was the only way.

The voices had fallen silent, but had they really gone? He snatched the album from the floor, held it tightly against his chest. This was his reality now. This was what made
him
special, and this would set him apart.

He spluttered and heaved, and his thoughts shifted to the detective. There was something about him, something… extraordinary.

A wide smile returned to his face. He could not wait for the games to begin.

Deans weighed up the possibilities of Amy’s location. There was so much that did not sit comfortably in his stomach. She was not in any of the local hospitals and her bank account and social media sites had not altered. He had also been checking out the taxi companies from Intel. His instinct was telling him to probe deeper, although there was nothing out of the ordinary from the reports he had read so far.

Several years before, Deans had been OIC on a case that had terrorised his home community. Six women sexually assaulted under extreme levels of violence, and then dumped on the roadside like disused commodities. Seventeen months of investigation, endless hours at the office and countless sleepless nights finally brought the offender, a late-night taxi driver, to justice. All his victims were heavily intoxicated, all of them lone female students on their way home late at night, and now all of them emotionally scarred for life.

Deans had put out a media warning following the attack on the second victim, and it haunted him to think that perhaps the subsequent victims had tried to do the right thing by getting a taxi, rather than walk home.

It was hard not to have a prejudiced opinion from time to time. Impartiality was rammed home from day one of training school. It was an easy concept to deal with until a job came along that tainted and distorted all reasoning. Perhaps his thoughts were being misled now. All he knew was that he did not fancy getting into another investigation like that, and certainly not when it was not on his patch.

The police logs relating to the taxi company over the last six months were not throwing much up. There was not a huge amount to go through; it was a small town. He discovered the usual kind of complaints: non-payment of fares, criminal damage to fleet vehicles and the taxi booking office. Several reports of aggressive driving by taxi staff, but nothing suggesting a rogue operative.