STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) (31 page)

Deans frowned. He had expected something to show up. ‘Okay. How has it been left with the brief?’

‘We are to call her once we have a better idea when the next interview will get off the ground.’

‘Excellent. Call her now. Let’s see what Babbage wants to tell me.’

The solicitor requested at least an hour to return, which was perfect for Deans. His energy reserves had depleted days ago and now he was running purely on caffeine and adrenalin. There was not much he could do about one of them, but the other was definitely in his control.

Gold took him to a cafe in the back streets of Torworthy near to an indoor market. It was the best in town, she told him. There were benches rather than individual seats but they still managed to find a space in the corner of the room.

‘Tell me your impression of Babbage,’ Deans asked.

‘Creepy.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. The way he looks at me. The staring. The calmness. Especially considering he’s been arrested for murder.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s just something about him. His… oh, I don’t know.’

‘Do you know what bothers me?’ Deans said. ‘We didn’t find him.’

Gold leant forward, a confused look on her face.

‘He was stopped by traffic cops for something completely unrelated. Something random and insignificant,’ Deans said. ‘He could have driven away and we would be no closer to finding Amy’s killer than we were when all this began. Instead, he makes a big deal about asking for me, and then assaults one of the cops. Why would he do that?’

Gold shrugged.

‘That’s what bugs me,’ Deans said, and took a long swig from his Americano.

They both fell silent; Deans concentrating on his mug, and Gold staring out of the window, chin resting on the back of her hand.

‘Do you mind if I ask a personal question?’ she said after a few minutes.

‘Fire away,’ he said looking up from his mug.

‘Does your wife mind you being away from home for so long?’

‘My wife?’ He turned away. He had never been comfortable discussing personal matters, let alone with a relative stranger.

Deans huffed, wiped his mouth and ran his fingers along the contour of his chin.

‘Yes,’ he said after careful deliberation. ‘In fact… Maria moved out earlier this week. Just couldn’t take it any more.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know. Sorry,’ Gold said, blushing.

Deans chuckled. ‘Why would you know? It’s not something that I have wanted to share.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated.

An awkward silence followed, and then Deans opened up to put Gold at ease.

‘It’s probably been a long time coming, to be honest,’ he said. ‘CID should be the acronym for Crawling In Divorce.’

He had not taken his eyes away from his mug, and did not notice Gold place her hands on the table, fingers pointing towards him.

‘I guess this investigation was just one straw too many,’ he continued, ‘on top of many other straws accumulated over the years.’

Gold wrapped her hands softly around the back of his as he cradled his coffee mug. Deans glanced up. The pooling of his eyes betrayed the emotion he was battling to conceal. She pulled one of his hands away from the cup, and clasped it tightly between both of hers.

He looked back down at the table awkwardly, but Gold did not let go. And, if he was being honest, he did not want her to.

They sat like that for several minutes. No words. Just comfort, and in those moments he realised the state of his current vulnerability.

Deans forged a wide smile and pulled his hand back. ‘Thank you. Do you know? I don’t even know your first name?’

‘Sarah,’ she said tenderly, ‘and you’re very welcome.’

He sighed deeply and downed his coffee. ‘Right,’ he said, placing the mug firmly on the table. ‘Let’s nail this son of a bitch to the wall.’

Sarah led the way to the interview room, which was number four of six identical rooms within an annex off the custody reception area.

Deans compared this facility to his own, where only two interview rooms meant he often spent an inordinate amount of time waiting in queues. Back home it was a case of first come first served, unless the job was juicy or custody time limits were a factor. The new breed of super custody unit might lack character but they won on practicality.

Deans followed Sarah into the room. A smartly dressed woman in her early forties with fresh-out-of-the-salon styled hair was sitting at the table, an empty note pad open in front of her.
The brief
, Deans thought. She had a po-faced expression as they made their greetings but Deans gave a warm and friendly welcome, as he always did.

It was a personal curiosity of Deans’ how clothing could differentiate the detectives from the solicitors. It was tougher with the women, but for the men, as a rule, it was all in their ties. He first discovered the trend when he initially joined CID and he estimated his theory to be around eighty percent accurate. Solicitors liked to attire themselves with dots or spots and shirts that were not necessarily compatible, whereas your average detective preferred bold diagonal stripes and soft pastel or white shirts. In simplistic terms, it was the spots versus the stripes.

He looked down at his own combination; a red, white and black diagonally striped tie over a white shirt and his M&S off-the-shelf, washable suit.

This solicitor was in a black trouser suit and a white blouse. Obviously no tie, so this comparison was invalid. There was nothing obvious between the women. They were both in trouser suits, but one was looking a hell of a lot more appealing than the other.

‘I do hope you have something a little more substantial for me this time,’ the solicitor said. ‘My client and I have yet to hear any evidence remotely implicating him in this grave allegation.’

‘Well, for starters we now have Detective Deans,’ Sarah said.

Deans raised a hand and smiled. ‘Your client asked for me, so here I am.’

The brief maintained a hard exterior. ‘So, I take it that you still have nothing to put to my client?’

Deans dropped his affable facade. ‘Why don’t we wait and see what he wants to talk to me about?’

The brief tutted loudly and placed her pen firmly onto the pad.

‘Detectives, this is a waste of my time, and my client’s time.’

‘Evidence is still being collated,’ Deans snapped. ‘Now, your client has gone out of his way to demand that he speaks with me. And we intend giving him that opportunity.’

‘This is a joke,’ the brief scoffed.

‘I’m not laughing,’ Deans said, his glare intense.

‘Fine,’ she said, standing up. ‘Expect any responses from my client to be appropriate to the deficiencies in your investigation.’ Clutching her paperwork, she tugged at the door and stormed out of the interview room.

‘She is right, Andy. Until we have the forensic reports we have nothing to put to him,’ Sarah said.

‘I need to see Babbage.’

‘But he’ll make no comment.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

As they waited for the solicitor to return, Deans glanced around the interview room. It was larger than those he used back in Somerset but decorated with the same pale green paint. A relaxing colour, allegedly. The verdict was still out on that one, but he was sure Dulux, or Crown, or Farrow and Ball had done quite nicely out of it, thank you.

The table was butted end-on to the far wall and he noticed a small video camera fixed above the entrance door. That was the modern way. Somewhere there would be a hub; a place for all the recording equipment, and chairs placed in front of a TV monitor, for as-it-happens assessment of the action. Helpful if a defendant gave an account that another officer could corroborate while the interview was still in progress.

Deans had not seen the satellite room yet, but imagined Jackson and possibly even the DI to be interested enough to be watching once the show got started. In any event, one of the nameless DCs would be in there operating the recording equipment.

The interview room table and chairs were bolted to the floor. Sarah sat closest to the wall, maybe subconsciously using Deans as a barrier between herself and Babbage. Deans did not like the fixed chair setup. It meant suspects could not use them as a weapon, but it also prevented a chair being used in self-defence; it is quite tricky for a shit-bag to fight when they are pinned against a wall by four chair legs.

The door opened inwards and Deans turned to see Babbage walking in with the brief. The custody sergeant was following close behind, giving him instructions where to walk.

Babbage was still wearing his own clothing, but Deans noticed that he was wearing black custody-issue plimsolls, similar to the ones Deans used to wear as a six-year-old at junior school. He had not identified it before, but Babbage had unusually small feet.

Babbage locked onto Deans the moment he saw him and took the seat directly opposite him with composed confidence.

‘Would you like to sit here, please, Mr Babbage?’ Sarah said, her arm outstretched towards the chair opposite her.

‘No,’ Babbage said, still looking at Deans.

‘Would you like a drink of anything?’ Sarah asked.

‘No,’ he said, and finally faced her for the first time since entering the room.

Deans remained silent as Sarah completed the introduction to the interview. He studied Babbage and began working on a theory that could account for quite a lot.

‘Andy,’ Sarah whispered, interrupting Deans’ concentration.

Babbage was smirking.

Deans nodded. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Here I am.’

Babbage did not speak, just continued grinning.

‘Why did you ask for me?’ Deans said.

Babbage stretched his arms out slowly to the side, and then rolled his neck in a deliberate circular motion. He placed his arms lazily back onto the table, interlocking his fingers, his eyes closed.

Deans waited ten, maybe fifteen more seconds for a response. It did not come.

‘You’ve expressed a desire to speak with me. So, what do you have to say?’

Babbage drew air in deeply through his nose, and out again slowly through his open mouth. Opening his eyes, he slowly tracked an imaginary line between himself and Deans until they were once again eye-to-eye.

Deans flashed the palms of his hands. ‘Well?’

‘Do you like your life, Detective?’

‘Mr Babbage,’ his solicitor interrupted.

What sort of a question is that?
Deans thought and frowned. ‘Something on your mind?’ he asked.

Babbage grinned – the broadest yet. ‘I wouldn’t worry so much about my mind, Detective.’

‘Mr Babbage,’ his solicitor barked.

Everyone, including Babbage looked at the solicitor.

‘I don’t think I need you any more,’ Babbage said to her calmly.

‘Mr Babbage. It would be a good idea to cease this interview, so that we can have another private consultation,’ the solicitor said.

‘Are you saying you’d like to seek alternative representation?’ Sarah asked.

‘No,’ Babbage said.

‘Mr Babbage,’ the solicitor said impatiently. ‘I would like this interview—’

‘I. Don’t. Need. You. Any. More.’

‘I’d like this interview suspended,’ the solicitor said rising to her feet. ‘It would benefit my client to have a further consultation in private.’

‘I just said, I don’t need you,’ Babbage repeated, baring his teeth.

‘Fine,’ Deans said, now also standing. ‘We’ll have to inform the inspector, while you both sort out what is happening.’ He looked up at the camera, used the universal cut gesture, and walked out of the room.

Sarah followed him into the corridor. ‘Well, that was another waste of time,’ she said.

‘No, it wasn’t.’

They left the custody reception and asked for a call in the unlikely event they would be required any time soon. Deans found an empty office, slumped down on a chair and hooked his feet up onto another. Tilting the seat, he closed his eyes, concentrating on nothing more than the sound of his own breathing. The chairs were vaguely comfortable and, desperate for a nap, he felt himself drifting off.

‘How long have you been on the go?’ Sarah asked.

Deans groaned silently. ‘I really don’t know any more,’ he said. ‘Everything’s starting to become a blur. I don’t even know what the date is.’

‘Saturday the eighteenth,’ she replied.

Deans rocked his head.

‘So, are we still on for later?’ she asked.

‘Later?’

‘Opening a bottle? It is the weekend, after all.’

‘Do you really think we’ll be out of here tonight?’

After a beat Sarah asked, ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Hmmm, me?’

‘You. Are you booked in anywhere?’

‘Bollocks,’ he shouted, sitting up.

‘Well, you’re more than welcome to stay over at mine. I’ve got a couch not doing much tonight.’

‘Wouldn’t your partner mind me crashing over?’

‘No. I live alone.’ She paused. ‘…And I’m single.’

Deans rubbed his face and flopped back onto the chairs. ‘Let’s just see if we make it out of here first.’ Everything was becoming all too much to comprehend with an addled brain.

They remained in silence for the next thirty minutes and then the peace was broken when Sarah’s mobile phone rang. She answered – it was custody.

‘That was quick,’ Deans said disappointedly. ‘I was well away then.’

‘I know. You were snoring.’

‘And you still want me to stay over?’

Sarah laughed and gave him a playful twitch of the eyebrow.

‘Come on,’ Deans said, heaving his body up from the makeshift lounger. ‘Let’s go find what awaits us at custody.’

‘You’re going to like this,’ the custody sergeant said as they arrived.

‘Go on,’ said Deans.

‘Babbage has sacked his brief. Apparently thinks he is able to represent himself. We can’t force him to have a solicitor and now I need his detention reviewed, but the inspector is tied up for the foreseeable at a griefy job.’

Deans worked it over in his fatigued mind. For an offence of this magnitude, not having a brief was self-destruction. But it was also conceivable that Babbage knew exactly what he was doing.