by Oliver Tidy
Romney took some grim satisfaction in watching the vicar getting a good drenching as he struggled to make his reading heard over the noise of the protesting wind that seemed to have risen in intensity.
The vicar finished. His robes were saturated and sagging with the weight of water they retained. His exposed hair – what he’d been left with – was plastered to the pink dome of his head. He seemed to Romney to have read his Bible passage very quickly. A signal was given to the pallbearers. Standing two on each side of the grave, they began lowering the box into the earth by playing out the straps it was suspended from.
After dropping a foot, it became clear that the coffin had stuck. The source of the problem was located and while everyone stood around waiting, getting colder and wetter, one of the men got onto his knees, leant over and tried to force the box down past its sticking point by pushing on it. After a good minute of gentle encouragement without success, another man stepped across and put one foot and then his weight on the lid. It did not seem a reverential and fitting end to a life to be stamped into the earth like that. Still the coffin would not go. The man tried harder and then there was a raised female voice telling him to stop because it was disrespectful and it clearly wasn’t going to go. The man, wet and frustrated, shouted something back and doubled his efforts, like someone who didn’t like to be told what was what, especially by a woman.
Without warning, the coffin dropped. One end of it went into the hole, while the other end remained stuck fast. The man who had been kneeling and pushing on the lid was caught by surprise and fell with it. He put out his hands to stop himself but clawed only at the slippery surface of the box. Unable to get a purchase, he fell the six feet head first into the waterlogged trench. There was a loud burst of high-pitched laughter from the young boy who’d chased the hat to the hedge and who now stood beside a tall, obese woman. Romney looked over just in time to see her clout him round the side of the head. The laughter quickly turned to crying as the boy ran away zigzagging in and out of the gravestones until he was lost from sight. Romney watched him go, thinking that the boy’s crime had only been to find something funny.
The man who’d fallen into the grave scrambled quickly to his feet, seemingly unhurt, but his suit was ruined – stained and smeared with chalky wet soil – and completely soaked. He was obviously and understandably mortified at his position. He held up his hand to get pulled out and the man who had been stamping on the coffin grasped it, steadied himself by digging his heels into the Astroturf that covered the edge of the opening, and pulled the man whose feet slipped and skidded for purchase up and out.
The coffin remained almost vertical, like something Dracula might sleep in standing up. Only it was upside down. Romney doubted that he was the only one who was thinking about the dead man, nearly two hundred kilograms of him, upside down in the upended casket. All that weight on his head. Not that it would hurt him now.
As the man who’d fallen in tried to get the mud off his suit and out of his hair, the vicar spoke privately to another man who seemed to be in charge of the burial party. After several awkward minutes when no one seemed to know what to do, God’s representative raised his voice over the wind and rain to suggest that the mourners should retire. The coffin, he said, needed to be righted with the aid of machinery that was not presently available.
As the people walked away nursing their shock and disbelief for what they’d witnessed, Romney turned to see one of the men drape a strip of the fake grass over the end of the coffin that protruded from the lip of the grave. Romney could only guess that this was to hide the evidence and the embarrassment of the professionals who had failed in their duty to ensure that the hole would be big enough to take the specially made over-sized coffin in which it had been intended Sammy Coker would be laid to rest.
The wind dropped abruptly as though its job was done, its protests made. The rain continued to cascade out of the heavens. The mourners hurried back to their vehicles, sodden, cold, miserable and denied.
Romney was fumbling with his car keys when once again he became aware of someone at the periphery of his vision. He couldn’t ignore them because he was parked well away from everyone else. He turned with a frown to be confronted by the tentatively smiling face of the woman of The Resistance.
Without a trace of a French accent, she said, ‘Hello.’ With the fat, heavy raindrops hammering down on her hat and shoulders, she looked like someone out of an old black and white film Romney had seen recently in the middle of a bleak, grey and lonely afternoon as he’d lounged on the sofa in his pyjamas and a dark mood with only the Black Dog for company. She held out her hand. ‘I’m Amy. Who are you?’ She spoke nicely.
The directness of the question from a total stranger took him by surprise. With little choice, if he were not to seem rude, he shook her hand. Her grasp was firm and frozen, like an ice- lolly. ‘Just a customer from Tiffany’s,’ he said.
The woman nodded and smiled. ‘There’s a bit of a get together back at Tiffany’s. You’re welcome to join us. It’s only sandwiches and hot drinks, I’m afraid.’
‘I thought it was closed,’ said Romney. ‘All shut up.’
‘It is. But for this... We thought it would make a fitting tribute to him. Something he would have appreciated.’
Romney understood and liked the idea. And the woman intrigued him. He looked at his watch. And then he remembered things about himself and his resolutions. He decided he wouldn’t go. ‘When is it?’
‘Straight away.’
‘OK. Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you there.’
‘Would you mind giving me a lift?’ she said. ‘I got a taxi here. All the cars are pretty full.’
Hiding his feelings as best he could for the way he felt he’d been manipulated, he said, ‘Sure. Hop in. I can’t stay long though.’
‘I only want a lift,’ she said. She smiled more confidently. She had good teeth too.
Romney dropped his umbrella in the boot and threw his coat across the back seat. She got in the front. When they were settled, she said, ‘Sorry. I’m going to make your car seat rather wet.’
He told her it didn’t matter and started the engine.
‘You didn’t tell me your name,’ she said, as he pulled out onto the main road.
‘Tom. Tom Romney.’
‘The policeman?’
He glanced across at her to see what she thought of that.
‘Look out!’ she said.
Yanking his attention back to the road, he managed to avoid the promised collision with a car that had pulled out from a side street. Romney stopped himself from shouting at the driver. Instead, he said, ‘Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘Neither was he,’ she said.
Romney liked her a bit more.
He said, ‘Who are you? I mean, what were you to Sammy?’
‘Is that the policeman asking?’ She noticed he didn’t return her smile. His eyes were fixed on the road. She touched his arm. ‘Sorry. Bad joke.’
He shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t. I’m just concentrating on trying not to crash into anything.’
She laughed. A natural and not unpleasant sound.
After a brief pause, she said, ‘I’m his daughter.’
He couldn’t stop himself turning to look at her after that. Forcing his attention back to the road, he said, ‘I didn’t know Sammy had a daughter.’
‘We were not on speaking terms.’
‘Oh.’
She said, ‘He never mentioned me, then?’
‘We… Sammy and I weren’t particularly close. We knew each other and we’d chat when I popped in.’ After a few long moments, he said, ‘I liked your father. He had the town’s best interests at heart. He would help me with information if it came his way.’
‘He was a police informer?’ She sounded almost appalled by the idea.
‘No. Not really. Just, like I say, if he heard something he’d pass it on. It’s a citizen’s responsibility, after all.’ Re
alising that might sound a bit pompous, he said, ‘He got nothing out of it other than knowing he’d done some good.’
Romney turned into Pencester Road and looked for a parking space outside the row of shops where Tiffany’s squatted. He couldn’t see one and that gave him an idea. He checked his watch again, rather obviously, and said, ‘Maybe I should be getting back to work. There’s nowhere to park.’ He believed there’d be parking spaces around the back. He’d parked there plenty of times before.
He pulled into the bus stop opposite and left the engine running. He really didn’t feel like going in. He hadn’t intended to.
She seemed to understand something of his reluctance. With a forced brightness, she said, ‘Well, thanks for the lift.’ She put her hand on the door handle and then turned back to him. ‘He liked you too.’
It was nice to hear. He said, ‘How do you know if you haven’t spoken to him for years? And how did you know I was a policeman.’
She smiled again. There was some warmth there. She wiggled her eyebrows and said, ‘I have my sources, Detective Inspector.’ And then she was gone.
He watched as she hurried across the wet road and let herself in through the café’s front door. The big front window was running with condensation, any possible view of the inside obliterated by it. He stared at the front of the place: missing and peeling paint, window and woodwork streaked with run-off from the faulty guttering and peppered with seagull shit. It looked tatty and run-down, neglected. He was glad he hadn’t gone in. He didn’t think it would have been the best last memory of the place. He could imagine the state of it: the stale smells the chipped and tacky surfaces. Tolerable in a nostalgic way when the place was running as a going concern but after sitting empty and neglected for weeks while Sammy lay on his deathbed in the hospice, Romney could not imagine the venue providing a cheery atmosphere for a wake.
He engaged first gear, checked his mirror, signalled and manoeuvred back into the traffic.
***
4
Romney walked into CID just before lunchtime clutching a proper coffee from across the road. He hadn’t gone home to change even though the suit didn’t feel right on him – it was still tight under the arms and across the hips when he sat down. It only felt comfortable when he was standing up straight with his arms by his sides – something he didn’t do very often. But it had done a job. He’d probably keep it for a funeral suit and hope they weren’t too frequent. He’d need to get it to a dry-cleaners first though. It was damp and spattered with mud.
Detective Constable Peter Grimes was talking on the phone. From what Romney could gather, it seemed like a genuine police call. Detective Constable Derek Spicer was tapping away at his computer. Romney looked over to see the screen was filled by HOLMES 2 forms. Detective Sergeant Joy Marsh was absent and as far as Romney was aware Boudicca was locked in her office balancing budgets and probably would be for the rest of the day. All was quiet on the western front.
Dover CID didn’t have any current investigations that required the contribution of a detective inspector. Romney planned on having a run at his paperwork for a couple of hours and then pushing off for his Friday afternoon appointment with introspection.
Spicer and Romney exchanged hellos over the top of Grimes’ head.
Romney took off his jacket, loosened his tie and slumped in Marsh’s chair. He felt the waistband of his trousers cut into him and it irritated him.
Grimes finished his call, put down the phone and said, ‘Morning, guv. How’d it go?’
‘It pissed with rain, blew a gale and one of the pallbearers fell in the grave. And then they couldn’t bury him.’
Grimes made him tell the story. Spicer stopped what he was doing and swivelled on his office chair to listen.
When Marsh entered CID five minutes later Grimes was still wiping the tears from his eyes and apologising to Romney.
Marsh frowned, expecting that they’d been sharing smutty jokes. ‘Morning, sir. I thought you were going to Sammy Coker’s funeral.’
‘It’s over.’
‘That was quick. The fat man has sung, I take it.’
Romney tutted. ‘How long did it take you to think that one up? Not a very respectful lot in here, are we? The man is dead.’
‘No wake?’ said Marsh.
‘Only when someone fell in the waterlogged grave, apparently,’ said Spicer, setting Grimes off into another fit of giggles.
Romney gave him his stock blank look and said, ‘That would be ripples. Falling objects make ripples. Moving objects, like boats, make wakes.’
Marsh looked between Spicer and Romney and said, ‘Eh?’
Romney shook his head and said, ‘Never mind.’
To Grimes, Marsh said, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ which sent Grimes off again.
‘I’m glad you didn’t decide to come along,’ said Romney to the big man. ‘That would’ve been embarrassing for the police. Mind you, I can think of someone up there who would have put you in your place.’
‘I’m sorry, guv. Really, I’m sorry. I’ve just got this mental image.’ He broke off again to shudder in his merriment.
‘Is someone going to tell me what’s so funny?’ said Marsh. ‘I could do with a laugh.’
‘Later,’ said Romney. ‘Have you been up to see the woman at Victoria Park, yet?’
‘That’s where I’ve just come back from.’
‘In that?’ said Romney.
Marsh got ready for it. ‘Yes. Is there a problem?’
‘It just seems a bit...’
‘A bit what?’
‘Gay, for police work.’
‘Gay?’
‘Old fashioned gay: bright, showy.’
Marsh sagged a little. She’d thought the same herself when she’d caught her reflection in a shop window walking to work. By then it was too late to do anything about it. Romney’s remark made her feel bad. She said, ‘Oh.’
‘Not exactly one for covert operations, is it Sarge?’ said Grimes
Marsh was attuned to Grimes’ sense of playfulness and she detected some in the offing. ‘Good job we don’t do any then, isn’t it, Detective Constable? And talking about standing out in a crowd: pots and kettles.’
Romney stood and headed towards his office. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Come in and tell me how you got on.’
When Romney was out of earshot, Grimes said, ‘Where did you get it, Sarge?’
‘Ebay. It’s a Fair Trade overcoat.’
‘Did it look like that in the photo?’
Marsh breathed our defeatedly. ‘Not really. There was less purple and orange. And it didn’t seem so long.’
‘It looks heavy.’
‘It is. I think it must hold the water, too. It’s definitely got heavier with the rain.’
‘Maybe it sucks the moisture out of the air,’ said Spicer. ‘What’s it made of? It looks like animal hair.’
‘I can believe it. It’s itchy. Even through clothes.’ She took it off, made a sound of relief and dumped it on her chair. She rotated her shoulders backwards and forwards.
‘Be all right for those harsh winters up in the Andes,’ said Grimes. ‘Why don’t you send it back if it’s not what you expected?’
‘It’s Fair Trade. I’d feel bad.’
‘You could always donate it to UNICEF. Keep a few kids warm at night in a refugee camp,’ said Spicer.
‘Or an animal rescue shelter,’ said Grimes. ‘There’s one at West Hougham. It’s local. I think it’s got donkeys. They’ll be cold this time of year.’
Marsh said, ‘Sometimes you two are even funnier than the original pairing. Unfortunately, it’s usually when you’re trying to be policemen.’
She turned her back on them and headed for Romney’s office. She was smiling.
‘Sit down,’ said Romney. ‘Look, about the coat...’
‘I know, sir. It was a mistake. I realise that now. It’s not appropriate for CID.’
‘I was going to say, sorry for me
ntioning it in front of Laurel and Hardy. Getting them started.’
Marsh smiled. ‘I think they got to work on their material as soon as I went out.’
Romney said, ‘You want me to speak to them?’
‘Thanks, but certainly not. I can deal with them. They’re quite harmless, really. And now and again they’re funny.’
‘Boudicca isn’t letting us have Fower back.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘It’s official.’
‘Poor Philip. He’s got his heart set on CID.’
‘Maybe we’ll lose him, then.’
‘Transfer, you think?’
‘Up to him. But if he’s looking for opportunities, they’re not here. She does make one concession, though: she says that if we get something that needs an extra body he’s first in line.’
‘It’s something. Will you tell him that?’
Romney nodded. ‘I still feel bad about what happened to him up at Chatham.’
Without saying so or letting on with her body language, Marsh thought that he should.
Romney said, ‘So. What happened with... what’s-her-name?
‘Mrs Christie.’
‘Right. Anything for us?’
‘She might be old but she’s still bright as a button. And I don’t think she’s a fantasist. I believe her. It’s an odd one. I can understand why uniform asked us to take a look.’
‘Tell me.’
‘She says that the first time she was woken by an intruder in the middle of the night. She confronted him.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Ninety-two. She’s about five feet tall and probably weighs no more than this chair.’
‘Bloody hell. She’s lucky she didn’t get hurt. Did she get hurt?’
Marsh shook her head. ‘She said that he left when she walked in on him. Didn’t say a word. Just went.’
‘She frightened him off? A ninety-two-year-old woman? What does she look like? Actually if she’s ninety-two and was in her nightie she probably looked pretty scary. Maybe he thought she was a ghost.’