Read Online STORM LOG-0505: A Gripping, Supernatural Crime Thriller (The First Detective Deans Novel) by James D Mortain - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James D Mortain
Ads: Link
‘Denise is a therapist. She helps people. She’s not some fairground attraction.’
‘I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. I’m ignorant on such matters.’
Deans noticed Mr Poole nodding.
‘Would you happen to know where I can find the shop?’
‘I haven’t been in there myself,’ Mrs Poole replied, ‘but I know it’s off the High Street, behind the bank. There is a small walkway leading away from the cashpoint. Follow that and you’ll eventually come to it.’
Satisfied that he had covered all angles, Deans left the Pooles, glad that he had been given an opportunity to spend valuable time with them. Their grief was palpable and he felt happier that some much-needed bridge building had taken place between them.
Back inside his car, he studied the notes he had made in his book. He turned over to a blank page and drew two large circles, one above the other. Inside the top circle, he wrote Scott Parsons and inside the second, he wrote Denise Moon .
Chapter 11
A glance at his watch only confirmed to Deans that time was pressing. Desperate for caffeine, he found a homely-looking coffee shop on the quayside. The Pooles had been lovely company but understandably a little lax on the hospitality stakes. He ordered a double shot espresso and a door-wedge piece of homemade flapjack from the young server, and sat at a small round table at the back of the room, which was something he subconsciously always did. Maybe all cops did the same. It was better to know who was around you than not, although here he knew no one and no one knew him.
It always amused Deans that, no matter where he was, the local shit-bags would sense he was a cop. Some would give a little nod of recognition or a toothy grin. Their way of saying, I know what you are . It was a strange occurrence, but then again, he could tell they were shit-bags, so it was fair game.
In this town, specifically in this little coffee house, Deans must have stood out like a sore thumb dressed in his grey pinstriped suit, salmon-pink shirt and matching tie, however the espresso tasted good, and he savoured the bitterness with two full gulps, then opened his daybook and read over his notes. It was already his intention to track down Scott Parsons, but now he had generated an additional enquiry: to locate and interview Denise Moon.
He picked at the remaining crumbs from his flapjack and with a smile handed the empties back to the server as he left.
Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside of Rayon Vert Therapy and Treatment Studio, on the backstreets of Torworthy town centre.
He had never given the idea of mediums any thought before and now he was about to speak to one. He did not know what to expect and struggled to rid his mind of the classic image of an older woman with a silk bandana and crazy eyes.
‘If only the guys could see me now,’ he muttered beneath his breath, pushing at the small entrance door, and stepping inside.
He was surprised to be greeted by a man in black spectacles that were too large for his head, seated behind a narrow stone counter top.
‘May I help you, sir?’ the man asked gently.
‘I’m looking for Denise Moon,’ Deans said, wondering if Dennis Moon was more accurate.
‘She’s with a client at the moment.’
The man had a deadpan look and said no more.
After an awkward delay, Deans asked, ‘Do you happen to know how long she’ll be?’
‘Have you made an appointment, sir?’
‘No,’ Deans chuckled, and then cleared his throat. ‘No, no, I haven’t.’
The man watched Deans with a humourless, poker-faced expression.
God, he is one intense cookie , Deans thought. He whistled a muted tune and looked around the room.
The man’s eyes were still upon him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Deans said. ‘I’m Detective Constable Andrew Deans. I need to speak to Ms Moon about a police matter.’
The man looked over his right shoulder towards a closed door, and then turned his focus back on Deans.
‘I tell you what,’
‘I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. I’m ignorant on such matters.’
Deans noticed Mr Poole nodding.
‘Would you happen to know where I can find the shop?’
‘I haven’t been in there myself,’ Mrs Poole replied, ‘but I know it’s off the High Street, behind the bank. There is a small walkway leading away from the cashpoint. Follow that and you’ll eventually come to it.’
Satisfied that he had covered all angles, Deans left the Pooles, glad that he had been given an opportunity to spend valuable time with them. Their grief was palpable and he felt happier that some much-needed bridge building had taken place between them.
Back inside his car, he studied the notes he had made in his book. He turned over to a blank page and drew two large circles, one above the other. Inside the top circle, he wrote Scott Parsons and inside the second, he wrote Denise Moon .
Chapter 11
A glance at his watch only confirmed to Deans that time was pressing. Desperate for caffeine, he found a homely-looking coffee shop on the quayside. The Pooles had been lovely company but understandably a little lax on the hospitality stakes. He ordered a double shot espresso and a door-wedge piece of homemade flapjack from the young server, and sat at a small round table at the back of the room, which was something he subconsciously always did. Maybe all cops did the same. It was better to know who was around you than not, although here he knew no one and no one knew him.
It always amused Deans that, no matter where he was, the local shit-bags would sense he was a cop. Some would give a little nod of recognition or a toothy grin. Their way of saying, I know what you are . It was a strange occurrence, but then again, he could tell they were shit-bags, so it was fair game.
In this town, specifically in this little coffee house, Deans must have stood out like a sore thumb dressed in his grey pinstriped suit, salmon-pink shirt and matching tie, however the espresso tasted good, and he savoured the bitterness with two full gulps, then opened his daybook and read over his notes. It was already his intention to track down Scott Parsons, but now he had generated an additional enquiry: to locate and interview Denise Moon.
He picked at the remaining crumbs from his flapjack and with a smile handed the empties back to the server as he left.
Fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside of Rayon Vert Therapy and Treatment Studio, on the backstreets of Torworthy town centre.
He had never given the idea of mediums any thought before and now he was about to speak to one. He did not know what to expect and struggled to rid his mind of the classic image of an older woman with a silk bandana and crazy eyes.
‘If only the guys could see me now,’ he muttered beneath his breath, pushing at the small entrance door, and stepping inside.
He was surprised to be greeted by a man in black spectacles that were too large for his head, seated behind a narrow stone counter top.
‘May I help you, sir?’ the man asked gently.
‘I’m looking for Denise Moon,’ Deans said, wondering if Dennis Moon was more accurate.
‘She’s with a client at the moment.’
The man had a deadpan look and said no more.
After an awkward delay, Deans asked, ‘Do you happen to know how long she’ll be?’
‘Have you made an appointment, sir?’
‘No,’ Deans chuckled, and then cleared his throat. ‘No, no, I haven’t.’
The man watched Deans with a humourless, poker-faced expression.
God, he is one intense cookie , Deans thought. He whistled a muted tune and looked around the room.
The man’s eyes were still upon him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Deans said. ‘I’m Detective Constable Andrew Deans. I need to speak to Ms Moon about a police matter.’
The man looked over his right shoulder towards a closed door, and then turned his focus back on Deans.
‘I tell you what,’
Similar Books
