STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (13 page)

A wave of sorrow overcame him. He could not explain why. He had seen dozens of dead bodies before and never reacted quite this way. He shook his head and blinked away the building wetness from his eyes. His stomach gargled, his vision tunnelled and a blistering coldness shook him to the core, as if a super-cooled net of air had dropped over him.

He did not need to see her eyes to confirm her identity. Her mouth was ajar, the flesh of her cheeks shredded. Her grey lips framed the white teeth that seemed to be the only part of her to have retained original lustre. They would of course still need to follow procedure but Deans needed no further confirmation of who he was looking at.

He had not even realised the CSM was right beside him.

‘Her underwear appears intact and undamaged,’ he said, taking Deans by surprise. ‘She does have significant bruising and damage to her face and body, but she was of course well covered by these blasted boulders when we first arrived. Only a full examination will indicate whether these injuries were inflicted pre- or post-mortem. Some joints are quite obviously displaced and again we should await any post-mortem findings before reaching premature conclusions.’

‘Can I see the photographs of how Amy was found please?’ Deans requested sombrely.

The CSM picked up another camera nearby and started flicking through the digital images. ‘So, do you think this is your missing person?’ he asked, handing Deans the camera.

Deans studied the small LCD screen, and his imagination created a lucid reconstruction of Amy being dragged across the boulders and dumped, as she now lay. If her final moments in life were treacherous, then equally so was her improvised tomb.

Deans nodded and handed the camera back. ‘Can we get anything from these?’ he asked, pointing to the rocks.

‘Unlikely,’ the CSM replied. ‘The tide would’ve washed away and contaminated pretty much every contact trace, unless we were extraordinarily lucky and found the body between tides. But I would say from the rigor that she’s been here days rather than hours.’

‘Does the water cover the area we’re on now?’ Deans asked.

The CSM nodded. ‘We have a six metre swing down here and I would venture she is well within that range. Talking of which, we’re just a few hours short of high tide so we need to crack on.’

‘One last thing,’ Deans said. ‘Have you seen that before?’ He gestured towards Amy’s face.

The CSM shook his head. ‘No. That’s a new one on me.’

Deans exited the tent, stepping back into the fierce squall. He hugged his North Face jacket close to his body and stared out at the rapidly approaching ocean that was already licking the lowest of the boulders. He looked back beyond the tent and saw the unmistakeable stripe of flotsam between Amy and the summit. A voice from behind intruded on his thoughts.

‘Alright, Andy?’ It was Ranford. ‘He’s good isn’t he?’

‘Where will she be taken for the PM?’ Deans asked.

‘The mortuary at the Royal Devon,’ Ranford replied.

‘Who’ll go with the body?’

‘I can,’ Ranford said willingly. ‘I just need to run it by the Hoff.’

‘Thanks mate. I need to see the family.’ Deans winked and began to walk off.

‘But we don’t yet know for sure who it is,’ Ranford said, reaching for Deans’ arm.

‘I do,’ Deans said ruefully and struggled his way back down the pebble slope towards his vehicle.

He sat silently in his car for a few moments, troubled by the scene. It just was not
right
. The body was no more than fifty metres from the public slipway, when there was probably two miles’ worth of embankment to choose from and hundreds of thousands of tonnes of rock. And little effort had been expended to hide her, which was how she had been found so readily. Why did the killer not find a spot further along the bank where fewer people would go? And why wasn’t the body buried far deeper? It was almost as if the killer wanted Amy to be found, but why?

Deans waited in his car outside the Poole residence, staring pensively towards the estuary.

Notifying family of bereavement was probably one of the most unpleasant and sometimes challenging aspects of the job. He had received no formal family liaison training, but he did the job adequately enough.

He had learnt over the years not to rehearse. There was no set routine to follow. Each time was different. Each time involved reacting to and managing the most undefiled emotion a human being would ever have to deal with – the unexpected death of their child.

He walked up the pathway as he had done previously, and straightened his tie at the doorstep. He sucked in a shaky breath and held it for a long moment, checked his mobile phone was off for the third time in as many minutes and then knocked on the large front door. Those seconds before the door opened, he would gladly swap with anyone. The waiting was probably the worst bit.

Mrs Poole opened the door with a smile. Deans lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes, no greeting expression of his own.

She knew in an instant and began sliding down the edge of the doorframe as her legs failed to support her weight, and her face melted into misery. Her hands half-heartedly grabbed for the door but could not resist the downward momentum and she crumpled to the floor, wailing hideously, before Deans could reach her.

Deans quickly entered the house. ‘Mrs Poole, please allow me to help you.’ He thrust his hands beneath her armpits and took the deadweight in his arms. Her cries of anguish bellowed in his ear.

Mr Poole entered the hallway and on seeing his wife on the floor and Deans struggling to hold her, he stopped walking and crashed onto his knees, arms reaching out towards his wife.

‘Please, no,’ he appealed. ‘No, no, no. Not Amy.’ His voice fractured and he began to weep.

‘Mr Poole,’ Deans shouted sternly, ‘please help me. We need to get your wife to a chair.’

Like a zombie, Mr Poole scraped himself from the floor and helped Deans drag his wife into the living room.

‘Mr Poole, please sit down, sir. I have some regretful news that I must give you.’

Deans gathered up a chair, pulled it directly in front of them, and sat down so they were all on the same level. He hesitated, and asked himself how he would want to hear it.

‘I’m very sorry to have to say that, this morning on Sandymere Bay, the body of a young woman was discovered.’

He paused, anticipating the next reaction. It did not come. He drew breath.

‘I’ve been to the scene and viewed’ – he coughed nervously – ‘the body, and I believe that it may be Amy.’ He stopped again. This time, Mr and Mrs Poole crumpled into one another’s arms.

Deans remained silent, his eyes welled and he coughed away the makings of a whimper. He stood up. It did not go unnoticed by Mr Poole whose eyes, reddened and resigned, acknowledged Deans as he left the room.

He took a few steps away – far enough to be respectful; close enough for them to know he was with them. But right then, at that moment, he recognised he was both the henchman and the healer.

Denise Moon was coming to the end of a client session. She had not been efficient that day. She was feeling disturbed and exhausted and was hoping to have some time alone for reflection. It had been a long day.

She had been disappointed with the officer’s reaction to her phone call and self-doubt had weighed her down since that time. She would not pass on information unless she believed it to be valid. It was true that the flow of communication was meagre; however, she had deciphered the necessary elements. There was no denying she needed more detail but somehow her attempts to achieve clarification had failed. She took a moment to block everything out and lay down on the treatment couch, slowly drifting into meditation.

Am I too close to Amy?
She thought, breaking her transition. ‘Was it the way she died?’ she questioned aloud. She groaned, rolled off the couch and ambled through to the shop front where Ash was sitting behind the counter as usual. The waiting area was empty and the LEDs burned brightly in the display cabinets. Ash confirmed there had been no calls during the previous hour and no other appointments were planned for the day.

‘Are you feeling okay today?’ he asked.

‘Yes, flower, I’m okay, thank you.’ She rubbed a hand down the front of her face. ‘I’m just experiencing a rather confusing connection. Struggling to extract clarity.’

‘Can I help at all?’

‘Not at the moment, darling, thank you.’

‘Is it anything to do with that policeman?’

Denise whimpered. ‘Well, yes. In a way, I suppose it is.’

‘Why was he here? Are you treating him?’

Denise laughed at the irony. ‘No. I can’t imagine that one would ever drop his barriers enough for that to happen.’

‘I know what you mean. They’re a different breed, the police,’ Ash said. ‘I guess it’s the way they have to work to all those rules and regulations. It’s black or white, nothing in between, no stone left unturned and all that. I wouldn’t want to do it for a job.’

‘The saddest thing is, we could help them if only they’d allow themselves to open their minds,’ Denise said dejectedly. ‘Together we could help provide unspoken words, help mend broken bonds or reassure loved ones left behind.’

‘That will never happen, Den. Don’t get your hopes up. Our poles are too far apart. The police would never give any credence to the gift.’ He touched her hand. ‘I’m worried about you. Don’t set yourself up for a fall.’

Denise broke into a resigned smile. ‘I suppose you’re right, but there was no harm in trying. I’m going to take a lie-down, close my eyes for twenty minutes. Be a sweetie and take care of anyone coming in.’

Denise shuffled away to the back room, slipped off her shoes, lowered the blinds and spent the next five minutes taking deep, controlled breaths.

Betrayal
.

Chameleon
.

Denise immediately recognised Amy’s voice. Two spoken words, but what was the meaning? She felt Amy’s presence again. Denise had not searched for it. Amy had come to her. Amy needed salvation and she was showing Denise the way.

‘Tell me, Amy,’ Denise whispered. She was attuned, her senses acutely aligned.

‘Use me,’ she implored louder.

She tried to lift her head but a downward pressure pinned her to the couch. Her eyes were open but could no longer see daylight. A dull resonating sound confused her mind.

A pressure in her chest increased with every breath, a tightening band of fear began to take hold. She fought to bring her hands up to her face but they were unwilling. There was no feeling of movement in her legs. The crushing sensation grew stronger. Every cell of her body was now super-fuelled with the effects of surging adrenalin and she could sense a building panic in Amy, and within herself. Her own heart was now racing and she could feel the connection to Amy was slipping away as her own body prepared itself for self-preservation. Denise sensed the killer.

‘Show me,’ she pleaded. ‘Show me, Amy,’ she screamed, clawing at the material beneath her.

‘Denise? Den? Den!’ Ash had charged into the treatment room on hearing the disturbance. He grabbed her hand and held it tightly between his. Denise was breathing fast and shallow. Her skin had turned pale and clammy.

‘Jesus, Denise. Come back,’ Ash said, slapping the back of her hand, but she was unresponsive. He swiftly placed her into the recovery position and squatted beside her. ‘Den, Den, come on. Break the contact,’ he said, rocking her forcibly by the shoulders. Her eyes were open, but it was as if her soul had left her.

Ash snapped his fingers inches from her face and shook her more violently until finally, he saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes.

‘Christ, Den, are you okay?’ he gasped, a bead of sweat forming on his own brow.

Denise blinked rapidly and attempted to raise herself.

‘It’s okay,’ she panted, pushing herself up to a seated position. ‘I’m all right, thank you.’ She slumped forward, shaking life back into her arms.

‘Let me grab you a drink,’ Ash said in a dither, and rushed out of the room.

‘Any chance of making it a stiff one?’ Denise joked weakly, but Ash was gone.

The shop door opened, setting off the bell chimes in the reception. Ash was there and could deal with whoever it was, so Denise lay back down and pondered Amy’s message. The words
betrayal
and
chameleon
repeated in her head. What did they refer to, and how was she supposed to decipher them?

The gift allowed a practitioner to connect between the here and now and the afterlife, and occasionally communication was effortless, but more frequently it was jumbled, almost coded, and that is when the skill of the medium is measured. Denise prided herself on her ability to untangle any web of words but this particular scenario was unique, as well as personally upsetting.

The door to the therapy room opened and Ash walked in.

‘Den, I’m sorry. That policeman is back. He wants to speak to you. I told him you were otherwise occupied but he’s rather insistent.’

Denise was relieved. Their last contact had left her feeling unusually downhearted.

‘That’s fine, flower, let him through. Would you be a darling and put the kettle on, please?’

Ash nodded, but his disapproval was evident for Denise to see as he left the room.

Deans knocked politely and poked his head around the door.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Hello, Detective. I wasn’t expecting to see you again.’

‘Funnily enough, I wasn’t expecting to be back,’ he retorted with a smile, which was one of awkwardness rather than friendliness.

‘How may I help?’ Denise asked.

Deans’ day-old stubble crackled beneath his fingertips, as he thought about her question. He could not fathom if he was anxious about what he was about to ask, or what he was about to hear.

‘You said Amy had a lift from her killer, and then you said Amy was dead before I knew about it. Where were you getting your information from?’

Denise smiled knowingly and patted the sofa seat next to her as she sat down. Deans responded and noticed her studying his face.