STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (18 page)

‘Amy, Amy,’ he called out, waving to grab her attention, which appeared to be on the lads that were now stopped to her left. He did not have a strong voice and had to shout as loud as he could until she noticed him, and gestured for her to come across to the car. Without hesitation, she complied.

‘Hello, Amy. What are you doing here?’ he asked with an air of surprise.

‘I’m just waiting to go home,’ she said in an unconvincing effort not to sound drunk.

‘Come on, jump in. I’ll get you home in no time.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she slurred, flapping her arms in an animated fashion. ‘But thanks, you’re so sweet.’

‘Now come on. You shouldn’t be alone out here at this time of night. You never know who might be around.’

‘I’ll be fine. I’ll get a taxi now,’ she waffled, and began to move from the car.

‘I won’t take no for an answer,’ he persisted, and unlatched the handle so the passenger door swung open. ‘Come on. In you get,’ he said with more assertion.

‘Okay, if you’re sure’ she said with a beaming smile, and dropped into the passenger seat.

‘It must be your lucky night that I saw you here. Pop your belt on and let’s get going.’

He watched her pull at the seat belt, exposing more of her right thigh, and as she turned back in his direction, he quickly smiled.

‘I really do appreciate the lift, thank you. I promise I won’t be sick in your lovely car,’ she babbled.

‘It’s not a problem at all,’ he said, lingering on her face with an insincere smile. ‘Where to?’ he asked, as if he did not know.

‘Hemingsford, please, if that’s okay? I don’t want to put you out though,’ she said.

He shook his head and reached over, touching the skin of her leg above her knee.

‘You’re my angel tonight,’ she said, snuggling into the seat.

Bless her
, he thought.
Angels won’t help you now
.

Amy woke up with a thunderous head and a searing pain above her right eye. The light in the room was intense and penetrating. She drew breath and winced as she touched a tender spot on her forehead.

Several moments passed before she realised she was not lying down. Her head was hanging forward and the bottom half of her body was numb. She fought with the pain to open her eyes but each time she tried light jabbed at her retinas like shards of glass.

She groaned as she lifted her head. Had she had a seizure? She patted the small pocket at the front of her denim skirt feeling for her mobile phone, but it felt empty. She moaned loudly and grabbed her forehead. The pain was splitting.
Shouldn’t have mixed my drinks
, she thought, and forced her eyes open and took in the four feet of space in front of her. She was sitting on a white wooden chair with tall arm supports and it felt firm and unforgiving beneath her. She frowned, could not remember Mum and Dad having a chair like this?

As her eyes continued to adjust, she saw that she was inside a brightly lit and box room. Her attention then fixed on a tripod and camera immediately before her and she tracked a thick grey cable to a flash umbrella at the side. She bunched her eyes and swayed her body, her discomfort increasing with each passing second.

How long had she been asleep? Her stomach lurched and the taste of acid came to her throat in a burning instant. She put a hand to her mouth but there was no stopping the upward surge of vomit and she spewed uncontrollably onto her lap and the floor. The taste of aniseed returned to her lips and a steady, flowing slick between her thighs brought unwelcome warmth to her legs.

Her eyes were now streaming and any focus she had briefly gained was lost once more. She blindly reached out for something to wipe herself clean, but there was nothing. Nothing at all. Just the camera, the equipment, the chair and herself.

Where the hell am I?
she thought and tried hard to compartmentalize the night: Scotty, Jumping Joe’s, sambucas, the lift… the lift.

‘Fuck.’ A wave of panic gripped her senses. She looked down anxiously through watery eyes; she was fully clothed.

The right side of her head was pulsing with pain, as if the veins were at bursting point. How did she injure herself?

Amy gently touched her right temple with the tip of her index finger. A pronounced dome dominated the space between her eye socket and the hairline. Perhaps she was in a hospital somewhere. That would account for not recognising her surroundings, the bright lights and maybe the camera.

‘Where are the nurses?’ she whispered gently.

She leant forward and took some weight through her legs, just as another powerful rush of pain overcame her. She blindly stumbled forwards onto her knees with a loud echoing thud. The floor was hard, smooth and cold, like wood or laminate. She felt behind, took hold of the chair leg and hauled herself back to her feet in a crouching position as another torrent of vomit escaped her control. The smell of fear was disgusting.

Steadying herself with the chair, she stood tall and performed a three hundred and sixty degree sweep. There was nothing. Bare white walls and nothing else.

She shuffled gingerly over to the camera using the tripod to steady her progress and looked down at the viewfinder. As expected, the chair from which she had just woken up was front and centre.

She looked towards the closed door and back at the camera. It was on standby, good to go, ready to view. She looked behind again and stared intently at the door handle, then the rest of the room. She gagged from the pit of her stomach. This was no hospital. ‘Oh my God!’

Amy edged closer to the small LCD screen, her mouth slack, saliva trickling down her chin. She needed to know. Another glance over her shoulder and a flick of a button, the silence of the room evaporating in electronic resonance as the equipment came to life.

She turned sharply towards the door and held her breath, her watering eyes fixed on the handle.
Please don’t move, please don’t move
, she willed.

Shallow breath and heart pounding, Amy stared down at the screen, and saw herself, sitting in the chair – asleep, head back and rolled to one side, her hair swept away from her face. She looked at the injury to her head, and instinctively touched the tender spot and immediately regretted it.

She flicked the images backwards through the camera and saw more shots of her slumped in the same chair. Some were close-ups and others full-length, and all fully clothed. She paused on another shot. This time it was a surveillance-type shot, taken somewhere on the High Street.

She studied the image, noticing the clothes she was wearing at the time, working out from the shops in view where the photo had been taken. She searched further back. There were more shots of her, but also other women in similar circumstances.

The door burst open, Amy spun around, her heart in her mouth. She was once again face-to-face with her captor, who this time was gripping a white pillow between both hands.

Amy was stood beside the camera; hadn’t been given the opportunity to turn it off. Her captor squinted at the display, sneered menacingly and gave a Mediterranean-style shrug of the shoulders.

Amy reached out with her hands. ‘I promise, I won’t say anything to anyone,’ she pleaded.

Her captor smirked and replied simply, ‘I know.’

Deans made it home in the early hours of the morning. A cab had cost him eight quid and twenty minutes of his time queuing in front of the abbey with the piss-heads. He had hoped to bum a lift from the night shift but they were all committed with various jobs.

The bedroom door was closed. That was a statement of intent on Maria’s part; the door was never closed. He grabbed a blanket hanging over the banister, took up an uncomfortable foetal pose on the sofa and did his best to relax.

As he stared at the walls, grinding his teeth, he contemplated the situation he was now facing. Truth was, the only time he had managed a work/home balance was when he had been a single man and could work hard and play harder. These days he was all played out and it was a case of work hard, work harder. Back in the day, the only person he could let down was himself, and he had been disappointed plenty of times, but always managed to make up for it. These days he disappointed Maria far too frequently and rarely managed to make amends.

Over the years, he had watched colleagues’ good relationships go down the pan. Strong couples, simply caved in, could not make it work any longer. The job was a relationship graveyard but Deans was not ready to commend his to the depths just yet. He swore that this would be the last time he would sacrifice himself for the cause. After this investigation, he would find a way to harmonise his life once again, even if it meant taking some boring desk job.

Deans awoke to the sound of Maria coughing in the bedroom above. He rolled over onto his side, pressing his face firmly into the upright of the sofa. His head was banging from yet another night of inadequate rest and repeated dreams of Amy dumped on the rocks. Daylight was streaming into the living room through a gap in the white drapes, but Deans was completely unaware of the time. The house was silent apart from Maria’s sporadic dry cough.

He cursed his timing. He was going to spend the day at home and at some point, he would have to inform Maria that he would be working in Devon for a month, starting tomorrow. Worse than that: he was not going to be around for the scan.

He stumbled through to the kitchen and sank two paracetamol with a tall glass of water, flicked the switch on his coffee machine and stared emptily out of the window.

As the coffee machine warmed up, he looked for messages on his mobile phone. Only a handful of hours had elapsed since he last checked his phone at the office, but the result was the same. No messages.

It was 9:13 a.m. Deans made a tactical decision – make a drink, or two, then call Ranford, and then find the courage to face Maria.

The coffee part was the easiest and most fulfilling, and probably the only stable aspect of his life right then. He spoke to Ranford just over half an hour later to be informed that the murder squad from County HQ had taken the investigative lead, but were expecting Deans on Monday morning for a full detailed briefing. He was already earmarked to make up an enquiry team with Ranford, which suited him fine. It was a given that he would have to relinquish any hopes of becoming the OIC because of the boundary politics, but at least he would still be hands-on and able to influence proceedings.

He arranged to meet up with Ranford mid-morning, allowing time to sort accommodation and settle in before the murder squad picked his brains apart. He ended the call and moved on to the third task of the day. The one he was dreading most.

Deans arrived in Devon by eight thirty, Monday morning. It was an early start. Maria had barely spoken a word to him the previous night and he felt distance was probably the best, for both of them. He was wise when helping others in times of extreme circumstances, but less apt at dealing with his own strife.

He found a B&B that would be his home until Friday and threw his kit bag onto the floor beneath a lamp table in the corner of the room. He had packed light: a clean shirt for each day, the same suit, enough clean underwear, his work shoes and a small bag of toiletries. If he needed anything else, he would buy it in town.

The room was small, with a single bed up against one wall and the lamp table in the opposite corner. A thick mesh curtain masked what view there may have been, although he was on ground level so did not feel a desperate need to check. Looking at the end of the bed, he hoped his feet would fall short of the stud wall. The en suite was a basic affair: budget shower cubicle, sink and toilet, and just enough room between them to be practical. The Bellagio it most certainly was not, but clean and functional it was, along with cheap. This was coming out of his own pocket until he could claim back expenses, so it just had to do.

He sat on the edge of the bed. A small shelf was screwed to the side of the wardrobe, housing a white mini plastic kettle and long-life beverage facilities. Deans unplugged the kettle and filled it under the bathroom sink, thinking that there must be some place that did a roaring trade in supplying miniature kettles to guesthouses. Then thought, as he plugged the kettle back in, that somewhere else should supply longer leads, as he battled to reconnect the male and female connectors.

After waiting several minutes for the world’s loudest kettle to finish boiling, he made a drink and rummaged through his work folders. He was not sure what reception to expect from the County HQ Murder Squad as every department was different. Even his own CID office did not always see eye-to-eye with their uniformed brothers. There was often an underlying ‘them and us’ atmosphere that only really came to the surface when blame needed to find an owner. It was then the labels would be tagged: lazy, clock-watching woodentops, or doughnut-dunking tea-drinkers on the pleasure deck. Of course, none of it was true. Most detectives he knew drank coffee.

Deans headed out and almost straight away found a small café where he took his obligatory seat in the corner of the room. Soon he was into a seven, maybe even eight-out-of-ten Americano with a slice of yoghurt-coated flapjack. One of life’s great breakfast combinations – fully loaded with caffeine, carbs and sugar, he was ready to begin the day.

He figured he had roughly two hours until he would head to the nick, so in the meantime he would revisit Rayon Vert.

He opened the door and saw Denise standing at the counter.

‘Detective, what a pleasant surprise.’

Deans closed the door and scanned the room. They were alone. ‘Hello, Denise. How are you?’

‘Fine, thank you.’ She tilted her head and gave a wary smile. ‘I take it this is for business?’

‘Of course. Is there somewhere we can talk, please?’

‘I’m free all morning as it happens. Come on through to the back. I can close the shop for a bit if you’d prefer?’

‘You really don’t need to do that,’ Deans said, hoping Denise was not putting too much emphasis on his visit.