Authors: James D Mortain
This was a high stakes situation, without the added impediment of the intervening distance, or the fragility of his domestic situation.
Even the clearest-cut of murders involved a high demand on resources and complete dedication on the part of the OIC, and it would take months of grafting for the case to become trial-ready. How could he provide that level of service from one hundred and twenty miles away?
He was torn. His head told him not to get involved any further because family had to be his priority. His heart was telling him to fight his corner and keep the case. After all, he informed the family of Amy’s disappearance and took the time to comfort them and establish the bond of trust that was so important in these investigations. He had tracked down the witnesses, obtained the statements and established that Groves was a prime suspect when no one else seemed that bothered about the investigation.
Something else was nipping away at him: Denise Moon. It felt abnormal for Deans to think it, but if there was the faintest element of truth in what she told him then he owed it to Amy and her family to continue. If only it was his decision.
The clock continued to tick away. Another seventeen minutes gone. Seventeen minutes less to deal with Groves. Seventeen minutes less to get himself down to Devon. Seventeen minutes less time at the end of the day to be at home with Maria.
Deans began to pace the floor. He had picked up a ball of Blu-Tack from Harper’s desk and was working it eagerly in his hand as he tread a channel in the carpet tiles. His makeshift stress-reliever was doing a reasonable job, however his thoughts kept returning to Denise Moon. How had she known that Amy took a taxi, and why was she suggesting Amy’s dead body had been found. She had called Deans at just gone seven thirty. According to Ranford, the body at the beach had been discovered at seven twenty. If it turned out to be Amy, there was no possible way Denise could have known.
The DI’s door opened and out walked the boss with Savage following close behind.
‘Deano, I’ve contacted my equivalent in Devon,’ the DI said. ‘They obviously need to establish the identity of the deceased before they’ll give me a final decision about the extent of your involvement.’
Deans nodded.
‘As it stands, they’re happy for you to be on board, but they’ve also made it clear you’re not to tread on any toes, you get me?’
Deans raised his brows with a twitch.
‘Obviously a lot of their resources will be tied up at the scene and with statement-taking so I think they’d be grateful for a little help. If this turns out to be sinister, they’ll be pulling additional resources from County HQ to supplement the local DCs. And that’s certainly how it’s looking.’
Deans gently nodded again. He was waiting for a ‘but’.
‘Our problem, Deano, is the young lad locked up downstairs. His eggs are already hard-boiled and I feel we should definitely wait for more news before we interview him.’
Deans finally spoke up. ‘Our options are limited, boss.’
‘I know, Deano. I know.’ The DI put a hand on Deans’ shoulder. ‘Good work so far, Deano. Well done.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
Deans punched a number into his desk phone, and after a long delay, Ranford answered the call.
‘Paul, it’s Andy Deans again.’
‘Hello?’ Ranford bellowed back, causing Deans to recoil. ‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear very well.’
Ranford might have been having difficulty hearing him, but Deans and anyone else in the immediate vicinity had no problems hearing Ranford.
‘Paul, it’s Andy Deans again,’ he said at hands-free-volume. ‘Can you hear me now?’ This time Deans pre-empted the booming reply and held the receiver away from his ear.
‘Just about,’ came the distorted reply. ‘You can probably hear it’s like a bloody hurricane down here.’
‘Are you at the scene yet?’
‘Sorry?’
Deans huffed and spoke louder still. ‘Are you at the scene?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you with the body?’
‘Sorry, I got something about the body?’
Deans looked across the desk at Mitchell, who appeared to be enjoying his obvious frustration.
‘Are you with the body?’ Deans was now shouting his question, as if semaphorically.
‘Nearby, yes.’
‘I need you to describe any clothing.’
‘Clothing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hold on. Let me go back into the tent.’
There was a long delay and Deans waited with the phone held at arm’s length for Ranford to speak again.
‘Hello, Andy.’
This time, Deans could just about make out Ranford’s voice.
‘Yeah, go on. That’s better.’
‘Yeah, I’m inside now. You wanted to know something about the clothing?’
‘Can you describe any, please?’
There was another short delay.
‘I can see a bit. Looks like an elbow sticking up out of the rocks, and some white and green material.’
That was enough; Deans did not need to hear any more. He knew it was Amy and he knew he had to be at the scene. He quickly ended the call and dashed off to find the skipper who was chatting in the DI’s office.
Deans interrupted their conversation. ‘Excuse me, boss. Sorry to disturb you. I’ve a further update from the scene in Devon.’
Two faces looked attentively his way.
‘My contact from D and C is at the scene. The body is still in situ and I believe it could be Amy.’
Their expression simultaneously became quizzical.
Deans carried on. ‘From the accounts I’ve been given it sounds like there are similarities in the clothing.’
The DI nodded.
Deans grasped the moment. ‘We’ve roughly ten hours left on Groves’ clock. Let me go back down to Devon, suss out the scene and the body. If it is Amy then…’ He paused. ‘Well, then Groves has an awful lot to answer for. If not, then no harm done. I could know definitively within three hours from now, including travelling time. Best case scenario, we then request an extra few hours from the Superintendent. Worst case scenario, we go for the full twelve and fill our boots.’
Savage was the first to respond. ‘Deano, I admire your determination with this job, I really do, but we don’t yet know if it’s our MISPER.’
‘My gut’s telling me it is, Sarge.’ Deans had last called him ‘Sarge’ on the first day he joined the team. ‘I can’t just sit around and wait for the phone to ring. This is crucial. If it is Amy then I’m going to need to see the body anyway.’
‘Gut feeling isn’t enough, Deano,’ Savage rebutted.
‘We have a couple of options, gents,’ the DI interjected. ‘We interview Groves, get a first account and allow the D and C boys and girls to do their thing. That way we lose nothing and potentially gain a talking Groves. Another seven or eight hours in our humble B&B and Groves may be less than congenial. Alternatively, we do it Deano’s way.’
‘Boss,’ Deans persisted, ‘so let’s say we’ve interviewed Groves and we have an early account. We’re potentially still waiting on D and C to feed us, and how hospitable do you suppose they’ll be, dishing out fresh murder details to another force?’
The DI puckered his lips as Deans continued, ‘So, what do we then do with Groves? The custody clock would be down to three, maybe four hours. We may not even get an extension because we’d have already secured his initial account and without some game-changing evidence coming to light from Devon we might be forced into a position of charge or bail. And I don’t want my name anywhere near that if bail is our only option.’
The DI put his hand up to stop Deans. ‘Okay. Okay, fine. We will stand more chance of the custody extension if Groves has yet to be interviewed, so long as we can show that our other enquiries have been diligent and expeditious. If we do too much, too soon this end, we may be forced to consider bailing him and I don’t want my name on that either – if he’s our man.’
‘Fact is, Deano,’ Savage said, ‘I can’t spare anyone else to buddy up with you. You’ll have to fly solo.’
Deans understood. His problem was not a partner for the trip; it was going to be Maria’s reaction.
‘Leave the superintendent to me,’ Savage said. ‘Just make sure you keep me in the loop. Okay?’
‘When I know, you’ll know,’ Deans replied.
The DI patted Deans on the shoulder with a firm hand. ‘You’d better hit the road, Deano, time’s a-ticking.’
They had arranged to meet up directly at the scene. Deans dropped down over the familiar hill, revealing the same wide expanse of frothing water at which he had previously marvelled. He picked out a cluster of police vehicles in the distance, the alternating blocks of high visibility markings making them stand out against the dull greyness of the pebble ridge. A solitary white tent perched on the precipice of the mound and black dots scurried about its perimeter.
Deans approached via a long, pothole-strewn track and showed his warrant card to a forlorn-looking PCSO on point duty. He parked next to a marked van and could see plenty of activity going on around him. Forensic officers adorned in white paper cover suits huddled beside a CSI van, and Support Group officers in black overalls crawled in a tight line against the buffeting onshore wind, like some absurd-looking slug race.
The forensic shelter stood proud of the vast stone elevation, its pop-up joints straining hard against the wind; undoubtedly, every guy-rope employed to keep the tent from blowing away.
Deans looked around, taking in the scene: the long potted entry road bisecting the large, green expanse of flatland. The steep pebble ridge, with millions of rounded boulders – some hand-sized, others clearly too heavy to lift. The makeshift slipway, the lifeguard hut, the position of the forensic tent, the rough-surfaced car park, and to his dismay, two men inside the perimeter of the police vehicles – one in a suit, the other in jeans and an anorak clutching a scratch pad and camera. The press.
Deans went across and instantly recognised DC Mansfield in the suit.
‘Can I have a private chat, please?’ Deans insisted, and ushered Mansfield away with him.
‘Who’s that?’ Deans barked.
‘Nev, from the
Herald
,’ Mansfield replied obstinately.
‘What the hell’s he doing here? Who authorised media contact at this stage?’
‘Chill out, city boy. He’s all right, I know him. He just wants first dibs.’
‘Who’s in charge here?’ Deans demanded.
Mansfield looked Deans up and down. ‘Sure as hell isn’t you.’
‘Where’s the CSM?’
‘In the pod, I guess, slick,’ Mansfield said, gesturing towards the tent on the ridge.
Deans stomped away, headlong into the bitter gale force wind. He clambered up the steep embankment of boulders to the summit, losing his footing several times. Ranford was just the other side, decked out in a white paper cover suit. His normally well-trained jet-black hair fluttering like ribbons into his face.
‘Hi, Andy,’ he said, clearly happy to see Deans. ‘She’s still in there. We’re just finishing off the final photographs.’
Deans pointed with a thumb. ‘Why is Mansfield speaking to a reporter down there?’
‘I didn’t know he was. Christ. I’ll go and have a word.’
‘I already tried. What’s his game?’
‘Who knows? Mansfield’s a chancer at the best of times.’
The tent flap opened from the inside and another officer in white coveralls emerged and fought against the pommelling wind to secure the entrance flap once more.
‘Mike, this is DC Deans who I told you about,’ Ranford said.
Although only his eyes were showing though the mask and tightly drawn hood, Deans could tell the officer was smiling. He lifted an index finger, creating a momentary interruption, and gently placed his camera into a metal carry case on the rocks. He turned back to Deans and removed his mask, exposing a magnificent grey handlebar moustache.
‘Hello. I’m Mike Riley, Crime Scene Manager. Thank you for travelling down.’ He nodded back to the tent. ‘This is an interesting one,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘Any ID yet?’ Deans asked impatiently. ‘Is it Amy Poole?’
‘I believe it could be, given the information we have,’ the CSM replied. ‘We’ll have to go through the normal channels of identification, unless she has her passport with her.’ He chortled and twisted his moustache through thin blue vinyl gloves.
Deans was not finding anything at that moment remotely humorous.
‘We currently have her boyfriend in custody. What can you tell me?’
The CSM looked down briefly at his notebook. ‘This appears to be more than a random, senseless killing.’
‘How so?’ Deans asked.
‘Someone’s been bothered enough to glue her eyes shut.’ He looked sternly at Deans. ‘And her face has been disfigured.’
Deans frowned. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, yes, actually. There was a rather questionable attempt at concealing the body. I don’t think this would be my first choice of locations.’
The CSM unzipped the entrance to the tent and held the wildly flapping material high on an outstretched arm, inviting Deans to venture inside.
Deans took three steps forwards ducking beneath the CSM’s arm, and crossed the threshold of the tent. Another forensic officer was squatting beside the body, which was face-down and twisted into an unnatural position. The tent was much quieter inside, tranquil even. Deans nodded over to the CSI officer, who nodded back towards a box of clear-packaged forensics clothing, and returned to her work.
Deans gazed at the body. It was as if she had leapt from the top of the slope and belly-flopped into position. Of course, that was not the reason why she was there. Her head faced away and her right arm stood proud, forming a triangular shape at the elbow. Her left arm was flat – the forearm bent at a sickening angle of two hundred degrees or more. Deans winced. Her legs were together, feet folded one over the other. She was dressed as Ranford had stated, in a white and green top, and a denim skirt, just as Scotty had indicated. Deans needed to see her face.
He ripped open one of the packaged paper suits and donned a facemask and overshoes, becoming aware of his own shallow, urgent breathing. He rolled on a pair of forensic gloves and, fully kitted out, took tentative steps across the unstable pebble floor until he was facing the entrance of the tent, and maimed corpse of Amy Poole.