Dead By Design Read online

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Deans wheeled his seat out from under his desk and sat down.

  Savage stood up and patted Deans on the shoulder. ‘Brew?’

  Deans nodded and Savage left the room.

  It had only been a short break, but Deans felt like the new boy all over again. He peered around the room, his pulse spluttering and his heart banging through his rib cage. His eyes settled on the case files stacked on the corner of his desk, untouched for three weeks, and he heaved a despondent sigh.

  Savage returned shortly after, a mug in each hand. ‘I am going to be honest, Deano. Bloody good to have you back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Deans said taking one of the coffees.

  ‘It’s been busy,’ Savage continued. ‘The guys have been snowed under with jobs.’

  Deans inclined his head and closed his eyes.

  ‘Not saying that you have to do any more than you are willing to,’ Savage quickly qualified.

  ‘I’m ready, Mick,’ Deans said softly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Deano. I didn’t mean it to sound… the others are managing just fine. You can take it easy… until you’re ready – properly ready.’

  ‘I don’t want preferential treatment. I’d rather be busy than…’ Deans stopped speaking and turned away.

  ‘There’s a job, Deano,’ Savage said hesitantly. ‘Came in early this morning.’ His face tightened. ‘Don’t feel obliged. It’s not going to be nice.’

  ‘Tell me what it is,’ Deans said.

  Savage narrowed his gaze and paused a beat. ‘Suicide pact.’ He did not elaborate until Deans looked at him again. ‘Young couple. Found this morning,’ Savage said.

  Deans bunched his eyes. Why did the first job have to involve death?

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I can give it to Mitch,’ Savage responded. ‘He could use a decent job for his end-of-year performance review.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Deans repeated. ‘I’ll take it.’

  Savage bobbed his head. ‘Thanks, Deano. I know the others will be pleased you’re back.’

  Yep, Deans thought and drank his coffee.

  Detective Constable Daisy Harper and DC Damien Mitchell came in just after eight. Deans couldn’t tell who was more awkward, him or them. Everyone dealt with these situations differently; Daisy simply threw her arms around Deans’ neck, gave him a kiss on the cheek and welcomed him back with kind words. Mitchell greeted him as if Deans had not been away.

  ‘Alright, guys,’ Savage said, flopping a wad of papers onto the desk in front of him. ‘I’m delighted to announce that Deano is back with us, but we’ve got a fresh job, a suicide pact.’

  Harper and Mitchell groaned, but before they could grumble, Savage stepped in to save their embarrassment. ‘Deano has already offered to take the job.’

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ Harper said at once correcting her apathy, ‘I can juggle my workload. Give it to me.’

  ‘Dais,’ Deans said. ‘It’s okay. I want to take it.’

  She cast him a bless you look from across the desk.

  ‘I’m going to head out to the scene with Deano,’ Savage continued, scooping up the papers, ‘but you guys have to pick up anything else that comes in today, alright?’

  The others agreed willingly.

  ‘The duty inspector is waiting for us at the scene. Deano, are you good to go?’ Savage asked.

  Deans accepted, and a short while later they were in transit.

  Deans drove. Savage had an ardent dislike for taking the wheel, especially in poor weather, and this was a dank and miserable early December morning, but Deans was finally glad to be out of the house.

  ‘So?’ Savage eventually said. ‘Have the quacks got you on anything?’

  ‘A-ha,’ Deans uttered.

  ‘Occy-Health?’ Savage asked.

  Deans nodded.

  ‘Any more… news?’ Savage probed hesitantly.

  Deans shook his head, kept his eyes on the vehicle thirty feet in front of them.

  Savage was still for a moment. ‘I know I have said it before, but I’m truly sorry, Deano.’

  Deans’ eyes flicked to his wedding band and his fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

  ‘You need a beer any time, I’m your man,’ Savage continued.

  Deans nodded again. He knew Savage meant it.

  Half a minute slipped by until Deans spoke. ‘Tell me more about this job,’ he said.

  ‘Right, yeah. It’s a couple in their late thirties. Called in by one of the neighbours earlier this morning. Both snuffed it in bed.’

  Deans blinked rapidly but did not take his eyes from the road ahead.

  ‘There’s a child,’ Savage continued, ‘with one of the night shift officers.’ He huffed. ‘We are still waiting on Social Services to make some kind of bloody decision. I’m told CSI are already on scene.’ He turned to Deans. ‘We just need to check it out, Deano. Make sure that nothing has been missed and get the hell out of there. We’ll be back in the office by eleven.’

  ‘Sounds odd,’ Deans said.

  ‘Yeah, they don’t happen very often.’

  ‘Why leave a child?’ Deans questioned.

  ‘Why take your own life, Deano? Or that of your missus—’ Savage stopped abruptly, cleared his throat and looked out through the passenger window.

  They barely spoke again for the rest of the journey.

  Deans parked behind a CSI van. Forensic officers, Bradley and Parsons, were waiting to meet them. A veritable double-act – not so much Crockett and Tubbs; more Laurel and Hardy.

  ‘Hi fellas,’ Parsons said in his usual jaunty fashion and extended Deans a special nod and wink.

  ‘What’s the state of play?’ Savage asked.

  ‘Ready for you guys to dive-in. Bodies are still in-situ,’ Parsons replied.

  ‘Anything, Nate?’ Deans asked Parsons.

  ‘Nothing obvious, but wait until you see their faces – like something from a horror movie,’ Parsons grinned.

  ‘Can you guys slide these on, please?’ Bradley said, holding out packaged forensic paper suits. ‘Probably not required, but you never know.’

  As they traipsed towards the front of the house, Deans’ shoulders tightened and he stopped ten paces short of the door.

  ‘Come on, Deano,’ Savage encouraged, ‘before it pisses down with rain.’

  Deans looked up at the brooding sky, then at the three-storey Georgian terraced house, and at each of the ten front-facing windows. He shivered inside and continued walking.

  They gave their names to the officer on point duty and entered the sizeable dust-sheet-clad hallway, like a set from an eighties music video – minus the big hair. The house was clearly in the early stages of a major renovation. The room was cool and the smell of damp masonry clung to the air.

  Bradley walked at the head of the white-paper-hooded train as they clunked their way up the wooden stairway in respectful silence, Deans at the rear.

  On reaching the second floor, Bradley stood outside of one of the many dark wooden doorways, and just as downstairs, dustsheets covered the floor like fondant.

  Bradley pushed the door inwards and stepped aside as the room opened before them.

  Savage entered first. Deans stopped one step beyond the threshold.

  The room was bright – unlike anything Deans had seen in the property up to now – and a whiff of recently applied paint filled his nostrils.

  Deans centred his gaze on the bed before him, sheets pulled back, and two naked corpses lying entangled in the centre of the mattress, and then he noticed the open windows.

  ‘I take it we’ve discounted carbon monoxide,’ he whispered in Savage’s ear.

  ‘If it was carbon monoxide, we’d be fucked already,’ Savage said casually.

  ‘It’s a house under renovation, it has to be a possibility.’

  ‘Perhaps we should get one of the canaries downstairs to sniff the boiler,’ Savage said, squeezing Deans’ shoulder gently.


  ‘She’s quite fit considering,’ Parsons commented.

  ‘What? Considering she’s dead, you sick fucker,’ Savage barked.

  ‘No – considering her little’n is still a baby. She obviously kept herself trim. That’s all I’m saying,’ Parsons said.

  ‘What are you like?’ Bradley sniggered. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t asked her out yet. At least this one can’t run away.’

  Amidst the banter, Deans was taking in the room. The Moses basket inches from the edge of the bed. The bedside cabinets with a thick novel on her side – bookmark hanging out like a tongue and a car magazine on his side, pages open wide. He focussed on the puckered bed covers at the foot of the mattress and the graphic faces of both deceased persons, their bodies tightly entwined. Deans looked along the wall behind him and saw a tall a chest of drawers with nothing more than a baby monitor sitting on the top.

  ‘Has anyone had a good look around the place?’ Deans asked the duty inspector, who had just joined them in the room.

  ‘My guys did a cursory search. Nothing stands out,’ the inspector replied.

  ‘Deano and I will mooch around and we’ll tie up again downstairs,’ Savage said.

  The others agreed and moved away, leaving Deans and Savage staring in silence at the naked bodies lying before them.

  ‘Are you up for this, Deano?’ Savage asked, eventually.

  Deans thought for a moment and then concurred.

  ‘I can easily give the case to Mitch. You can have a backseat role?’

  ‘It’s time I was back on the horse, Mick.’ Deans had not taken his eyes away from the female. She was of similar age to Maria and had the same raven-black hair.

  ‘Major Crime won’t touch this, unless we suspect murder,’ Savage said. ‘It could be yours for a while.’

  Deans turned and faced Savage. ‘We’d better crack on then.’

  Chapter 3

  Three hours later, and the bodies had been removed to the mortuary. Deans was now alone inside the house. He had toured the property several times. It was a cavernous old place, and in dire need of updating. The victims were named Mike and Helen Rose. They had only been living there for three months. It appeared that they were renovating the home one room at a time, beginning with the bedroom they shared with the baby. The kitchen was clearly a work in progress, but it had one of those large American-style fridge freezers – the kind you could practically walk inside. It looked new and was stocked full of fresh food, milk and several bottles of white wine. Deans had spoken to the neighbour who had alerted the police after what she described as hearing screams while she was outside in the street with her recycling bin at five a.m. She thought they were having a domestic ding-dong so called the police. She confirmed that she did not really know much about them – said they seemed a normal, young couple with an eight-month-old daughter, named Molly. Both worked. He had a high-powered job in Bristol. She was in advertising. The Roses had certainly embarked on a challenging renovation, which made their deaths even more puzzling to Deans.

  A loud clunk from upstairs grabbed Deans’ attention. He moved silently to the base of the stairs and looked up to the first level. The hairs on his arms lifted in the cool still air.

  ‘Mick, is that you?’ he called out.

  There was another bump – sounding as if it had come from the second floor.

  Deans frowned. He knew he was alone; Mick had left ages ago with the CSI Chuckle Brothers and said he would return once he had sorted out a few issues back at the station. Mick was not exactly svelte-like and Deans was certain he had not missed his return. Deans’ chest pounded through his shirt.

  ‘Mick?’ he called out again, but not at full volume. He listened intently for a reply, but heard silence.

  He began up the steps and felt his pulse quickening.

  Thud.

  Deans stopped dead in his tracks and held his breath.

  He waited ten, maybe fifteen seconds, and then crept forward.

  He moved beyond the first level of rooms, his eyes looking as far ahead as the winding stairs would allow and he made his way to the source of the noise; the couple’s bedroom. He hesitated with his hand on the door handle and felt something unusual, something he had experienced only recently.

  He became aware of his juddering breath but felt a strong desire to look inside the room. He took a deep gulp of air, pushed down on the handle and shoved the door inwards.

  He saw it at once; something obviously different from before: a large, golden picture frame now lying face down on the floor, on Mike’s side of the bed.

  Deans turned to the window. It was still open and the mesh veils were billowing inside the room. Death was still in his nostrils, but he gently lowered the sash window and tightened the latch.

  He looked over toward the bed and could still make out their body impressions in the mattress. He moved back over to the fallen frame, keeping half an eye on the dented white bed linen. He pulled a deep morbid breath from the air and in one swift movement, heaved the frame up from the floor and stared at it for a while.

  It was an oil portrait of the family. Mum and Dad were cradling the little one. Deans ran his thumb carefully along the intricately designed edge of the frame. It was a grand and expensive looking portrayal of pride and love. An abstract departure from the Pompeii-esque remains he had earlier seen.

  He looked at the wall and frowned. There was no hook.

  He heard the thump, thump, thump of slow and deliberate footsteps coming up the stairs. A chill dropped through his spine like a boulder of ice tossed into a deep well.

  He waited, still holding the picture out in front of him and counted – three, four, five more heavy steps. They were getting louder and slowing.

  Deans threw the picture onto the bed and hurriedly closed the angle of the opened door, leaving just enough space to peek through. His breathing was shallow and the hairs were standing up on his ice-cold arms. He patted his pockets; he had nothing with which to defend himself. Each step was now growing louder and practically upon him.

  The front door slammed shut.

  ‘Deano,’ he heard being shouted from downstairs.

  It was Savage.

  Deans did not respond. His eyes were trained on the space between himself and the top of the stairs.

  ‘Deano, you here, mate?’ Savage bellowed.

  Deans’ skin prickled with adrenalin. The sound of footsteps had stopped the moment Savage had entered the house.

  ‘I’ll… I’ll be right down,’ Deans shouted from behind the door.

  He heard the heavy plod and panting of Savage stomping up the second flight of stairs.

  Deans stepped back away from the door and breathed.

  ‘Where are you?’ Savage called out.

  ‘In here,’ Deans said, lifting the picture from the bed and gently leaning it, portrait side to the wall.

  ‘Ah,’ Savage puffed. ‘I was calling you.’ He wiped a hand across his brow.

  Deans stared at him.

  ‘I need you to trace the previous owners,’ Savage said getting his breath back. ‘We’ve spoken to Helen’s mother.’ He shook his head and smiled between gasps of air. ‘She reckons all manner of things have been going on in this house.’

  ‘What things?’ Deans asked without hesitating.

  Savage gave Deans a quizzical look. ‘Odd things,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’ Deans asked.

  Savage cast him a dismissive look from beneath his clammy brow. ‘The kind of things a woman who has just lost a daughter would say. This house was advertised through Fox’s Estates. I need you to chase up the agent and find the details of the sellers. Pay them a visit and try to establish a recent history.’

  ‘Of what?’ Deans asked.

  ‘Of the house,’ Savage smiled wryly. ‘Of the house.’

  Chapter 4

  Fox Country Estates was located in a prime position for the obscenely wealthy, just metres from the Royal Crescent in Bath. Deans liked this
part of town. It was uncluttered, peaceful, historic, and romantic. He entered the shop and was immediately greeted by a well-groomed agent.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ the agent said. ‘Just browsing, or might I offer assistance with something in particular?’

  Deans sniffed in a lungful of leather-soaked air. He loved that aroma. It was comforting and warm.

  ‘I’m looking to speak with the manager, if possible,’ Deans replied, noticing the two luxurious brown hide sofas.

  ‘Of course,’ the agent replied. ‘I will check to see if Miss Small is available. May I ask if this concerns a sale or purchase, sir?’

  Deans looked around the room. They were alone. ‘Police enquiry,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ the agent said. ‘Certainly, sir. Can I offer you a drink while you wait?’ He stretched a hand out in the direction of a fancy-looking coffee maker.

  Wait? Deans questioned silently in his mind. How long does it take to grab the manager? He smiled at the agent. ‘Lovely,’ he said.

  Deans did not hesitate and the moment the agent had stepped out of the room he was into the coffee and a comfortable lounge on one of the sofas.

  He scanned the advertised properties as he sipped from his steaming cup. One-point-five million, one-eight – these were high-end properties, even for Bath.

  ‘Hello again, sir,’ the agent said awkwardly approaching Deans. ‘Miranda will be with you very shortly.’

  The agent backed away with a low bow.

  Deans smiled. They obviously did not get many visits from the cops.

  Not long after, a woman walked into the room from the rear part of the building.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. Her voice was flat, like Deans was interrupting her from important business. ‘My name is Miranda Small. I am the manager.’

  Deans placed his designer cup and saucer onto the small glass table, stood from the comfort of the sofa and shook her hand.

  ‘Would you care to come with me, please?’ she said and walked back the way she had come.

  ‘How can I help?’ she asked, leading Deans up a narrow flight of winding stairs to a pristinely tidy first floor office.

  Even though the window was open, Deans could smell the remnants of a recently smoked cigarette.