STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (28 page)

The PC stood up from the bottom step. ‘Anything up there?’

Deans shook his head and moved towards the door.

The PC followed. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

Deans pressed the heel of his hands into his temples and took several purposeful breaths. ‘You go back outside with your mate, and I’ll come and see you shortly.’

‘Are you okay?’ asked the PC.

‘Yep. See you outside in a moment.’ Deans opened the front door and held it wide until the PC was gone, and then took himself over to the bottom step of the stairs and worked out what to do next.

Emotionally drained, and utterly perplexed, he took out his phone and held the receiver weakly to his ear. Denise answered on the third ring, said she had a feeling something was up. Deans gave her the address and told her to meet him at the house in fifteen minutes, and to wear something businesslike.

He joined the two PCs outside, who were now looking cold and bored. It was time to put his plan into action.

‘Thanks, fellas,’ he said, doing his utmost to sound normal. ‘We’re going to need a controlled search of this place.’

Neither PC attempted to hide their reluctance at the thought of staying on an extended shift.
Just as expected
, Deans thought.

‘Tell you what,’ Deans said, ‘your night shift is on duty now, so why don’t you guys head back and let nights take over here? I’m not going anywhere and I can cover the place until the search teams arrive.’

‘Yeah, that sound good to us,’ the second PC said.

‘Hit the road while you have the chance, and thanks for your help tonight. I’ll call through to the station to arrange your replacements.’

And Deans had every intention of doing that, just not yet.

Deans watched from behind the mesh curtain and darkness of the living room as Denise approached the front door. She looked smart in a thick black woollen jumper and black trousers. He opened the front door and held out a pair of blue vinyl gloves and shoe covers.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘Put them on and come inside,’ Deans said, reducing the gap in the door to the outside world.

Denise did as requested and stepped inside. Deans watched with interest as her eyes darted around the space. She was not lying about having never visited.

‘Where is he?’ she asked after a moment or two.

‘In the cells.’

‘When will he be out?’

‘Not for a while. He’s been arrested for Amy’s murder, which is why I called you.’

Denise stepped backwards onto the doormat. ‘Should I be here?’

‘Technically, no. But I need your help. I am kind of hoping you can do stuff at crime scenes; pick up vibes, that sort of thing.’

‘This is a crime scene?’

‘You tell me.’

Denise ran a hand through her hair. ‘You’ll get into trouble for this.’ She shook her head. ‘No,
we
will get into trouble for this.’

‘Only if we’re found out, and I don’t intend telling anyone.’

She stared at him with hunted intensity.

‘It’s okay, we’re alone,’ he said. ‘But we only have a short window to play with.’

‘Well, whether I like it or not,’ Denise said, ‘Amy is here with us.’

‘I know.’

Denise tilted her head and gave Deans a teacher-like stare.

‘What do you need to do?’ Deans asked hurriedly, leading Denise by the arm further into the hallway.

Denise stopped in her tracks. ‘Upstairs?’ she asked.

She turned to Deans. ‘We need to go upstairs.’

Deans nodded and led the way.

Denise halted halfway up, and looked around in short, sharp, robotic movements. ‘She was here,’ she whispered.

Deans checked his watch. It was nineteen minutes since the two cops had left and he figured they had a window of about twenty minutes more, once nights got wind there were no bobbies on point duty.

At the lip of the landing, Denise stopped abruptly and turned to face the door on the left: the empty white room.

Deans felt another arctic bolt of energy smash through his spine, only this time it was seismic. He made a grab for the handrail.

‘This room, flower?’ Denise asked softly, and positioned herself in front of the closed door.

Deans heaved himself to the top of the stairs, grappling for breath, and waited behind Denise.

She opened the door and tentatively stepped inside. Deans was right behind her. Denise did not move for a few long seconds, and then turned to face the wall on the right.

‘Over there, darling?’ she said softly, and sucked air in through her teeth. She bobbed and weaved and looked in various directions, and then stood completely still. Deans came alongside her.

‘This is it,’ she said. ‘This is the last room Amy saw.’

‘I felt it too, before you came,’ Deans said.

Denise nodded. ‘I know.’ She touched his arm. ‘You’ve done well.’

‘What happened in here?’ Deans asked.

Denise turned away.

‘Denise, what happened?’

‘She… she tried to fight him off.’ She pointed over to the wall. ‘He had a pillow.’ Denise’s voice tailed away. ‘She stood no chance.’

‘Go on,’ Deans encouraged. He had spotted the subtle twitches and flinches in her face. There was more.

Denise swallowed deeply. ‘Amy ended up on the floor. He… he straddled her. Covered her face…’ Denise broke away.

Deans stepped forwards and stared at the wall.

‘The photographs,’ Denise said from behind him.

‘What photographs?’ Deans asked, spinning around.

‘Here, flower?’ Denise said, standing central to the room, facing the doorway.

‘What?’ Deans said approaching Denise. ‘He took photographs of Amy here?’

Denise breathed a heavy sigh. ‘Not only Amy.’

Deans looked at the four corners of the room. The brilliant whiteness suddenly made sense.

‘She touched the wall,’ he muttered moving closer.
That’s why
.

Denise joined him beside the right-hand wall, both facing it like it was an art gallery display.

‘I need to know exactly where she touched this wall,’ Deans said.

Denise stepped closer, and dipped her head, as if listening for a far-off sound. With an outstretched arm, she pointed to the wall.

Deans positioned his head side-on, so that he could now see every dimple of paint, and each imperfection in the plaster. His eyes fixed on a shadow directly in front of Denise’s fingertips that had not been visible from head-on. It was a unique feature on an otherwise typical surface. Within this area, he noticed a shallow gouge and spontaneously suffered a ripping, tearing sensation in his right hand. He recoiled instinctively and flapped his hand through the air. Ranford’s voice then filled his head.

‘The fingernail,’ he cried out.

Police instinct took over and he dropped to his knees and searched the edge of the skirting board directly beneath the mark. Could he really be that fortunate?

‘He dragged her down the stairs to the kitchen,’ Denise narrated in a monotone voice. ‘Used the link door to the garage so that no one would see him.’

Deans stood up. ‘Link door? What link door?’

Denise was staring into space.

Deans left her in the room and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Sure enough, on the other side of the fridge freezer was a closed door that he had previously missed. He tried the handle – it was locked.

‘He pulled her into the car,’ Denise said. She had joined him.

‘Any door keys?’ Deans asked impatiently, checking the worktops.

Denise had taken a seat, her hair matted to her face.

‘Any keys?’ Deans said, now practically shouting.

‘Under the microwave,’ Denise replied.

Deans chased the worktop and settled on a stainless steel microwave in the far corner of the kitchen. He rushed over and lifted it. Time seemed to stop for an instant. He looked over to Denise; she was not even looking his way.

You have to be kidding me
, he thought.

A bunch of keys were marooned amongst age-old food debris. He swiped a Chubb key, and it worked.

He opened the door in a hurry – now was not the time for paranormal analysis. The garage was empty. Spotless would be another way to describe it. Even the concrete floor had a recently vacuumed appearance.

Deans heaved a deep, despondent sigh. The whole place had been primed for his arrival. He glanced at the shelving. There were no tools or junk as you might expect to find. Instead, neatly stacked cardboard boxes. Why should he be surprised?

He turned back to the kitchen and for a fleeting moment, took stock of the situation. It would take highly skilled search teams and forensic experts hours if not days to establish what had happened here to Amy, yet, in ten minutes they’d formed a hypothesis. Moreover, he knew exactly where to start looking for the evidence. If he was a reluctant believer before, he would become a fully-fledged disciple if something tangible came from the police search.

‘Denise,’ he said softly.

She slowly lifted her head. She was tearful.

‘We don’t have long. Can Amy describe the pillow?’

Denise dipped her head once again. Her body language growing increasingly resigned. She shrugged. ‘It was light-coloured, possibly white.’

‘Did he leave it here?’

‘I don’t know.’ Denise’s eyes were bloodshot. She looked exhausted and emotional.

The scale of Deans’ dilemma then struck him; this house offered evidential avenues, possibly enough to place Amy within its confines and suggest signs of a struggle, but the source of the information was a psychic, who should never have been at the scene in the first place.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to be smart. He checked his watch; 10.55 p.m.

Time’s up.

Deans paced the hallway as he waited for the troops to arrive. He was experiencing a strange excitement; a mixture of knowing he had broken the rules, and overwhelming anticipation, wondering if the search would throw up anything to support his far-fetched encounter. He prayed that Denise had not left a trail that would screw up the forensic examination. Any of his DNA profile could be easily explained away – it would be embarrassing, but he could justify it. Not so Denise.

He was potentially standing in the midst of a forensic-rich environment. Ironic, given the immaculate show home feel. He needed to place Amy at the house, to prove she was there, but more importantly, he needed to show that this was where Amy had been attacked. Babbage must have known this day was coming and been able to prepare accordingly. Deans just prayed he had missed that wall.

The CSI team would not want blind examination of an entire house. They preferred direction, specific rooms, bedding or clothing, but not a complete house. Just like cops, they did not have endless resources or finances in which to luxuriate. Deans knew exactly where to take them. The problem playing out in his mind was explaining how he had come to those conclusions.

He could say that he was looking around and noticed the shadow. It was something unusual, and in a house like this, unusual was a good place to start. He could argue; for the sake of a few quick swabs or dabs, what was there to lose? As for the rest, he would just have to wing it. It was uncharted territory but it was exhilarating.

Moving to the kitchen, Deans attempted to contain his restlessness, by checking on Denise while he was still alone. Rummaging for his phone, he heard a noise in the background. He turned. It was close – muted music – Rihanna, if he was not mistaken. He followed the direction of the sound to the garage, just as the music cut off. It was a ringtone. Why would Babbage have a phone in the garage? Deans frowned. Babbage had not struck him as an R&B, Dance fan.

‘Holy shit,’ he said, and as he did so, stumbled forwards as if jostled in the back. He turned a one-eighty within the blink of an eye, but no one was there. His limbs stiffened, and he saw his breath once again.

‘Amy. Is that you?’

He froze, desperate to hear a response, but he was talking to himself.

‘Christ, I need a break,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, while diving into his pocket to remove his phone. The screen was glowing – he brought the phone closer to his face – he blinked, and looked again. This was absurd; he was looking at the dialled number for Amy Poole.

It was an old police trick. Input the number of a missing or stolen phone, call it in the presence of a suspected thief or locality, and listen out for a ringtone. It had landed a number of shit-bags over the years and out of habit, he had saved Amy’s number on his phone from the outset of the investigation.

He moved closer to the link-door, his entire body buzzed with energy and his addled mind raced with permutations.
He’s only got her phone stashed in the garage
, he thought.
Bingo
.

Deans’ face beamed as brightly as the screen before him. He needed to find that phone. Grabbing the key once again, he unlocked the door. His limbs jerked with excitement as he stood in front of the stacked boxes; his thumb poised on the call button. He pressed it.

‘Number unobtainable,’ a female voice informed him. ‘No,’ he shrieked, clawing at his hair. He tried it again, with the same result.

The temptation was to wade through the boxes, but he had to be patient. Instead, he rifled through his call history; three recent calls to Amy Poole. He had not imagined things.
It has to be Amy
, he thought.

The sound of vehicles slowing outside of the metal garage door snapped him from his daze. He closed and locked the link-door and dashed to the front room of the house, where he saw a CSI team and uniformed officers gathered outside. There was a knock at the door, and on the doorstep was the CSM, Mike Riley.

‘Hello again, Detective. You’re keeping us busy,’ Riley said.

Deans stared beyond him at the congregating police staff.

‘Are you all right?’ Riley asked.

‘Yeah. Sorry,’ Deans said, focusing on Riley. ‘I’m just a bit knackered.’

‘Anyone else been inside?’ Riley asked.

Deans paused for a second. ‘Not beyond the hallway, no.’

‘Have you had a look around?’ Riley said, stepping onto the doormat. ‘What do we know?’