Free STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) by James D Mortain Page B

catching his breath. ‘I’m DC Deans from CID in Bath. Would you know if there are any DCs around I can chat to please?’
    ‘They’ve already gone,’ she said opening the door hurriedly, her Airwave radio chattering nonstop on the front of her body armour. ‘Try tomorrow. Early turn.’
    Deans checked his watch; it was nudging five.
    ‘How do I get in?’ Deans asked before she slammed the door closed.
    ‘Front office opens at nine,’ she shouted through the glass, turning over the engine and hitting the 999 button on the emergency equipment display panel.
    ‘Thanks,’ he shouted with a wave, but she was already on her way.
    He was now at an impasse. He looked at his watch again, through his gritty, strobe-blinded eyes. He only had two options: drive back home to return in the early hours of the morning, or find somewhere to stay the night. Tomorrow was looking like another long day.
    A call to Savage and then home to his wife confirmed that he was staying the night in Devon, and soon he was driving around the area looking for a B&B to throw onto job expenses.
    He discovered a small car park set on a hillside overlooking a vast bay. The Atlantic Ocean was pounding into a long ridge of grey rocks way off to his right. He watched, captivated, as growling waves glided gracefully across his path before smashing into wispy white plumes on the shore. The repetitive sequence was sleep inducing. Womblike. It was the first time that day he allowed his mind to rest.
    He blinked away his lethargy and focused on a cluster of small black dots in the distant water. Surfers.
    The creases of his face softened as the image evoked memories of holidays with Maria, lounging on a beach and messing about in the sea. Those were the days , he thought.

Chapter 12
    It had been a reasonably comfortable night’s sleep and Deans woke early. The sun was yet to rise fully but he was feeling increasingly claustrophobic in the poky B&B bedroom he had occupied since about eight thirty the night before. Breakfast was not for another hour and a half, and so he decided to head back to the small car park overlooking the bay to make the most of whatever peaceful opportunity he had.
    This time, the tide had retreated, exposing a large bed of glassy, golden sand and a bank of jagged black rock beneath him. It was a calm morning. The rising sun over the hills had transformed the gossamer clouds into a bed of fire, and aircraft jet-wash left silvery traces against the pure cyan sky high above. Everything he saw was in stark contrast to the mornings he encountered back home, and he liked it.
    After breakfast, he settled the bill and tucked the receipt away in a special flap of his wallet kept aside for expenses. He would have to go through a rigmarole of paperwork when he returned to the office to reclaim his costs. Sometimes he felt it was hardly worth the hassle – maybe that was the idea.
    He set off and made his way to the police station once again, arriving just after nine. He met up with the two duty detectives: Ranford and Mansfield. It was not the friendliest of welcomes, but it was a start. He established CCTV was well covered in the area and some had automatic number plate recognition – ANPR capability. Ranford provided him with Intel on Scott Parsons, and they agreed to keep in contact through the day.
     
    Deans drove the short distance to Fore Street and found Scott’s address with little effort. A tatty brown VW Transporter adorned with surfer graffiti was parked nearby and he wondered if this belonged to Scott. To be fair though, Deans had never seen so many camper vans as over the past twenty-four hours.
    If the Intel was correct, the last time the police had anything to do with Scott he was unemployed and so Deans was hopeful of a response.
    He did not have long to wait before the door was opened by a man in his early twenties, wearing baggy shorts and a hoody top. He was more overweight than Deans had expected, but the photograph he