STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (7 page)

It took a second to gain his orientation and as he lifted his upper body from the floor, he looked over his shoulder. The victim on the ground was no longer surrounded. A startling blow to the back of his head forced Deans to the ground. He instinctively rolled away and up to his knees, just as a swinging leg caught him square in the chest forcing him to rock onto the back of his heels. He activated the emergency button on his Airwave radio and the faint sound of approaching sirens temporarily lifted his spirits, but as he brought himself up to his haunches, still suffering blows from all sides, he then heard a familiar, animated voice above the chaos. It was Finch.

‘Let’s do the cunt, come on. Come on, let’s do the fucking pig.’

Deans looked up to where the voice was coming from and saw Finch, with hatred in his eyes, bounding towards him, prodding a broken wine bottle in Deans’ direction.

The police vehicles were growing louder from both sides, but another knee to the head felled Deans like a sick oak tree. In desperation, he tried to raise himself to his feet, but an impossibly heavy weight pinned him down from behind. He scraped his nose on the paving slab to search for Finch, and found him standing right beside him. Deans buried his face into the concrete, but felt no pain, as at that precise moment, Finch plunged the jagged wine bottle into the back of Deans’ head.

Deans was already unconscious by the time his teammates arrived. He awoke with a crescent of medical staff and bosses around his bedside. The job had been great, not only to him, but also to Maria. His physical recovery took a few months, but the mental healing – much longer. He had managed to avoid viewing the CCTV until the cold-blooded brutality of Finch was dissected in painstaking detail at the trial. It was soon after that Mick Savage approached Deans to join his team, on the basis that he passed the selection criteria. Maria had wept at the thought of Deans escaping the frontline, and that was all he needed drive him on to succeed.

Looking across the table now at Maria he realised how fortunate he was. She was a good woman. He knew she was not happy with the time he spent at work but she would never force ultimatums upon him. They had often discussed where they would live when he retired. It gave them hope, albeit temporarily, as he still had nine years of service to go before he could draw his thirty-year pension.

Deans noticed Maria wiping her eyes.

‘Hey, what’s up?’

She shook her head and trailed strands of her long dark hair through her milky bowl.

He pushed back his chair, knelt beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on, sweetheart.’

‘Sam’s pregnant.’ Maria looked at Deans, her eyes red and desperate.

He waited fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. ‘Work Sam?’

Maria bobbed her head.

‘Well… that’s great news.’ He did his best to sound as disarming as possible.

‘They’ve only been married for seven months,’ she whimpered.

Deans dropped his head, closed his eyes and clenched his teeth

‘Six years.’

‘I know, Maria’

‘Six years, Andy. If someone else tells me not to leave it too long, I’ll bloody blow. “You’re not getting any younger”,’ Maria mimicked, ‘Oh can’t you just all fuck off.’

‘They don’t know the score…’ Deans stopped himself. ‘…I’m pleased for Sam. She’s a nice girl.’

‘I know, and that’s what makes it harder. I should be delighted for her, but instead… well, it only highlights my own failure.’

‘You’re not a failure, Maria,’ Deans said quickly. ‘Remember we’re in this together. It will happen. We’re good people.’

‘Oh come on, Andy. You know better than anyone, that’s utter bollocks.’

He did. Experience had proved that repeatedly.

‘Look, I need to run.’ He gave Maria a kiss on the cheek. ‘You try to keep positive. We’ve done everything we can. We’re going to know ourselves in less than a week.’

She nodded and reached for his hand.

‘I don’t know when I’ll be back. I have to travel to Devon today.’ He squeezed her hand, but she was already letting go.

Deans made his way to work with leaden feet. He wanted to do something nice for Maria, but it would be another full set of shifts before his next complete weekend off.

He arrived at the office and immediately obtained authorisation from the DI to make enquiries in Devon.

The missing person report originated in Bath and so it would remain a Bath enquiry, although technically, her mother in Devon last saw Amy. The Police National Computer had not provided Deans with any answers regarding Scott Parsons – he was no trace, so given the circumstances, the DI allowed a degree of licence with the proviso that Deans inform the CID in Devon of his intentions.

Deans gathered up his kit and checked out the location on Google Maps. He could be there for around eleven thirty, traffic permitting. He had arranged for a colleague to take Groves’ statement for signing, and bagged himself one of the unmarked pool-cars. It was a burgundy Ford Focus, which might as well have had
CID
printed along the side for all its conspicuousness. To the regular ‘customers’, as the bosses liked them to be called, the unmarked cars were just as noticeable as the brightly adorned response vehicles, which was frustrating to say the least during covert operations.

The journey lasted just short of three hours, most of which felt as if it had been taken up by the North Devon link road with its forty-something miles of endless undulating, tree-lined roads, remote moors and wide open spaces.

Finally, a large bridge appeared before him and beneath, he saw a wide, glistening estuary drenched in sunshine. Dozens of small white craft bobbed on the waters below and the tightness in his shoulders softened noticeably.

According to the satnav, the Pooles’ house was not far away and he approached with anxious anticipation.

He drove slowly up a narrow incline, the estuary in view to his right, beyond the stepped rooftops of the closely packed, whitewashed houses of the village. Cars parked in a line, leaving just enough space to pass. A high stone wall on his left extended ahead with a small void breaking the continuity of this old-looking, solid structure.

The satnav repeated, ‘You have reached your destination’ in a female American voice, so he continued up the hill and finally found a space to park. He gathered up his papers and his thoughts and made his way back along the high wall, gazing all the while towards the estuary.

A nameplate on a six-foot high wooden gate spanning the void in the wall showed him he had arrived at the Poole residence, Tradewinds. He stretched his back, rolled his neck, and then noticed a yellow Beetle just a short distance away, sandwiched between a Campervan and a Land Rover. He approached it and peered inside but there was nothing obvious to get excited about. He tugged on the door handles but they were secure. At least he could scrub that one thing off the list.

He returned to the gate and climbed the fifteen or so slate steps that opened out onto a decorative stone pathway and well-kept lawns. The size of the house surprised him. He was not expecting to see such an imposing property. Amy clearly came from money and he wondered what was waiting for him behind the grey stone walls and church-like wooden front door.

A large black cast-iron knocker signalled his arrival and he waited pensively for a reply.

A man with salt-and-pepper hair opened the door. ‘Hello,’ he said with a hollow voice. He appeared washed out and pained.

‘Mr Poole?’ Deans asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied as if apologising for the fact.

‘I’m DC Deans. I have been speaking with you and your wife about Amy. I wonder if I could discuss the matter further with you both. Is Mrs Poole around?’

At that, Mrs Poole came into view from behind her husband. ‘Please come in. Ian, let the officer through.’

Mr Poole seemed trancelike, vacant and dim. He dutifully moved to the side allowing Deans to enter.

‘I was expecting a phone call from you rather than a personal visit,’ Mrs Poole said, straightening a slumped umbrella beside the door.

‘I’ve other enquiries in the area and I wanted to be more than just a voice on the end of a phone.’ Deans shook both their hands in turn. ‘I’m so sorry that we’re meeting under these circumstances.’

Mr Poole shuffled off into a side room and Mrs Poole smiled fleetingly then guided Deans in the direction that her husband had just gone. They entered a living room and as Deans gaped out through a vast panoramic window, he suddenly appreciated the full extent of the outlook. Being a city lad, he was not used to seeing the coastline and he became temporarily distracted.

‘It’s a special view,’ Mrs Poole said.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Deans replied quickly, turning back towards them. ‘Yes, yes, it is. You’re very lucky to live here.’

Neither of them answered.

They all took a seat, Mr and Mrs Poole together on the sofa and Deans on a single chair that was further away from them than he would have liked.

Deans half-smiled awkwardly, and then began.

‘I’m the officer in the case for Amy’s disappearance, and responsible for the overall missing person investigation, even though I’m based in Bath.’

Both faces stared blankly at him.

‘I’m involved because the original report was made in Bath, so the investigation remains with us, although I’ll be liaising with local officers here.’ He stopped to allow an opportunity for any questions. There were none.

‘As well as formally introducing myself to you today, I’d like to ask you some questions about Amy, if that’s okay?’

Mr Poole did not respond but Mrs Poole nodded compliantly and said, ‘Yes, of course.’

‘I take it that you’ve had no further contact from Amy since we last spoke?’

‘No,’ Mrs Poole said softly.

‘How often would you normally expect to hear from Amy?’

‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from her until yesterday evening,’ Mrs Poole said, glancing over to her husband. ‘That’s why we had no idea she had gone missing.’

Deans imagined they were both feeling an element of guilt for not knowing Amy was missing.

‘Please, don’t think that you could’ve done anything differently to avoid this situation.’

Mrs Poole acknowledged the gesture with a subtle nod of the head. ‘Thank you.’ Mr Poole did not move.

‘Tell me more about Scott Parsons.’

‘Well, he’s a lovely boy,’ Mrs Poole replied. ‘They used to be an item actually, for many years.’ She paused and looked towards her husband again. ‘Long-distance relationships rarely work in my experience, and it wasn’t doing either of them any good.’

‘He hasn’t tried to contact you?’

Mrs Poole leant forward, and gripped her knees. ‘No. Do you think he should have?’

‘I don’t know,’ Deans replied. ‘I’m just trying to gather all the information I possibly can at the moment, Mrs Poole.’

Truth was, he thought it was strange Scotty had not shown any concern given his alleged closeness to Amy. Unless he did not know she was missing either.

‘Would Amy have met up with anyone else while she was down in Devon?’

Mrs Poole shrugged. ‘No, I don’t think so. She has many other friends but I wasn’t aware that she intended meeting anyone specifically, other than Scotty, of course.’

‘I noticed a yellow Beetle out on the road. Is that Amy’s?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

Deans detected that Mrs Poole was becoming distracted.

‘Mrs Poole, would it be possible to see Amy’s bedroom, please?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve already looked around it, I hope that’s okay?’

‘Of course, Mrs Poole.’

She raised herself up from the sofa but Mr Poole remained seated. Deans stood up simultaneously and followed her upstairs to the first floor and a closed door.

Deans pulled on a pair of vinyl gloves and noticed alarm in Mrs Poole’s face.

‘Standard practice,’ he said in a reassuring tone.

Mrs Poole turned the handle, opening the door a fraction and then moved to the side allowing Deans to do the rest. It was a large, pristine bedroom with views to the front of the house and an en suite stone-tiled wet room. Deans had always wanted a wet room himself but Maria was less keen, so that meant they did not have one.

It was far bigger than his own bedroom and contained expensive-looking furniture. Framed photographs were dotted around. One caught his eye on the bedside cabinet. It showed Amy with a male of around her age and both looked very happy. Probably taken several years before, going by the picture Jessica had shown him. They were both wearing beach gear and looked well suited. He was a handsome-looking lad, and the position of the photograph in relation to others in the room suggested he must have been special to Amy.

‘Amy and Scotty,’ Mrs Poole said. ‘Taken at Sandymere Bay.’

Deans answered only with a nod and a smile but he was taking everything in. A daypack buried beneath an untidy pile of clothing in the corner of the room caught his attention.

‘May I look inside?’ Deans asked, exposing the bag.

‘Yes, of course. Oh my, it looks like Amy’s university bag.’ Mrs Poole held her hand to her mouth as Deans bent down beside the bag and unzipped the main compartment. He removed several law books and then found Amy’s student ID attached to an O’Neil lanyard. He looked closely at the badge. It was current.

‘Is it okay to take a look in the bathroom?’

Mrs Poole followed Deans into the en suite. He took a quick glance around, and then saw what he was after: Amy’s toothbrush and a hairbrush. He also saw a wash bag containing various other makeup and toiletry items, and a medicine box. He picked it up and saw that it was the gabapentin. Inside he discovered seven complete blister strips of ten small, white pills, plus four others. He checked the prescription label – 26
^th
September. A hundred capsules dispensed. Three per day, twenty-one per week. Twenty-six missing from the box. He performed a quiet calculation in his head. That would take them up to the night Amy went missing, unless she had others in reserve.

He cleared his throat and pointed to the toiletries and brushes. ‘Do you mind if I keep these all together and take them away with the bag? Amy will probably need them when she returns to university.’