by Oliver Tidy
Marsh gave him a look.
Romney rolled his eyes. ‘She get a look at him?’
‘No. He was wearing a balaclava and dark clothes, apparently.’
‘How does she know it was a him, then?’
Marsh looked at him like he was an idiot. Then she said, ‘Aren’t they all? And she described him, the intruder, as big and broad.’
‘What was he doing there? Stealing?’
‘She said nothing was missing, which is strange.’
‘Why?’
‘Because from what I saw she’s got some nice antiquey bits and pieces lying around. Portable too.’
‘You watch too much Antiques Roadshow. Most of what people have in their homes is tat masquerading as antiques. How did he get in?’
‘Through an open ground floor window.’
Romney made a served-the-old-girl-right face.
Marsh said, ‘I know. I told her. And the uniforms that called on her afterwards told her. They sent round a home security advisor. She’s got some window locks and similar fitted now but those old properties have all got the old-fashioned sash windows. My nieces could probably get in without too much difficulty. But she says the window wasn’t open. She says she never leaves windows open at night.’
‘Probably forgot it. Most old people aren’t noted for their short-term memories. And the second time? What’s the time span?’
‘Six days. Same thing. She was woken by sounds of an intruder in the night. When she confronted him, he cleared off. Said nothing. Did nothing. Just left.’
‘No violence? No threats? Nothing taken?’
‘Nothing. She thinks it was the same man. From the build and the way he moved.’
‘And he never laid a finger on her?’
Marsh shook her head. ‘Another window open but no sign of a break-in. In fact, no sign that there was anyone there at all. No prints – shoe or finger. Nothing.’
Romney looked dubious. ‘Are you sure she’s not just attention-seeking or imagining things?’
‘She is very convincing. She has no history of this sort of thing. With us, I mean. And she’s lived in that house for over sixty years.’
‘How many of them on her own?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
Romney whistled quietly and looked to be thinking about it. He said, ‘Twenty-seven years. At that age. She’d have been...’
‘Sixty-five,’ said Marsh. ‘The same age her husband was when he dropped dead.’
‘Well the timing doesn’t really make much difference – dementia has to start some time. Any other reports of home invasions round there?’
‘I checked. There have been a couple of incidents over the last year. It’s bedsit-land in that road now. Standards and society have fallen a long way in Victoria Park.’
‘She’s in a flat?’
‘No. Hers is the last one that’s still one residence. About twenty of those mansions in that street and every single one except hers is now split into flats and bedsits. It must have been a very classy street once upon a time.’
Romney made a face to show he was impressed. ‘It was. I remember when I was a lowly beat copper round here that was a very, very upmarket place to live. Blimey. What are they, three storeys?’
‘Four and a bit, most of them. The entrance hall is the size of the front room in my new flat. From the little I saw, they are enormous, opulent and stunningly beautiful. At least hers is. The bedsits are probably not so wonderful. Original fixtures and fittings, too. You should see in there. It’s like stepping back in time.’
‘Maybe I will.’
Marsh looked at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve always wondered what those old places are like inside. Maybe you can make a follow-up call and I can come along.’
‘Just for a viewing? Are we that slack at the moment?’
A few months before, Marsh had saved Romney’s career. At the time he’d known half of it. He learned the rest from Grimes later. Up until then Romney had maintained something of a firewall around himself for those who worked under him. He always had. It was part of the way he operated. It was a bit old fashioned for the times they were policing but it worked for him and it seemed to work for everyone else.
With Marsh, things had evolved to make her different. It wasn’t that she had any sort of hold over him or acted like he owed her for what she’d done. (She had risked her own position; maybe her career, too.) It wasn’t even that he felt he owed her. (Although he knew he did; as well as his job she’d saved him making a particular kind of fool of himself.) That business was done with and not mentioned again.
It was because over the time she had been there she had earned his professional respect as both a police officer and a detective. It was because she had proven herself good at her job. She was a hardworking asset to the department. And it was because he had grown to like her as a person. So it had become all right for her to speak to him like that. She never overstepped the mark and even when she approached it she was usually right. Romney found it hard to be wrong when she was right.
‘No, not just for a viewing. I might be the highest-ranking CID officer in this station but I’m still a detective, just like everyone else.’ He looked out of his office window to where Grimes had just thrown a scrunched-up ball of paper into the back of Spicer’s head. ‘All those in this room, anyway. And she is a vulnerable member of the community who has contacted the police reporting an alleged crime and seeking assistance. I’m taking an interest in her complaint. Maybe I could give a second opinion as well as bring the many years of my policing experience to the mystery.’
Marsh had learned to recognise when Romney knew he was talking tosh – for a start he avoided eye contact. Marsh said nothing. She didn’t think she was expected to.
Romney said, ‘I wonder what those places are worth today. Must be going on a million. And you’re certain she’s not lost her marbles or just seeking attention?’
‘Not certain, no. I don’t really know her. It’s just...’
‘Don’t tell me you’re suffering a case of copper’s intuition?’
‘Something like that.’
Romney let out some air. ‘In the meantime, what can we do? Nothing taken. No physical harm done. No suspects. No evidence that anyone was actually there.’
‘I suppose we’ll just have to wait till she’s murdered or raped or cleaned out or beaten to a pulp and too scared to live on her own in that big old house she calls her home.’
The sarcasm wasn’t directed at Romney and he understood this. ‘Unless you want to move in with her, that about sums it up. It’s the kind of society we live in. Why does she hang on to it? Surely she could set herself up very nicely somewhere with a sale. Some warden-assisted place. Never have to worry about this sort of thing ever again.’
‘I did ask her that. She said it’s her home. She doesn’t want to move out. She likes it there. She wants to die there.’
Romney said, ‘Well, let us hope that she gets her wish and that she goes peacefully in her sleep when she’s ready.’
Romney had been flicking through the paperwork on his desk as they were speaking. He came to something that made his face change shape and colour, and then made him swear. ‘She has got to be kidding.’
Marsh waited silently while he read it again. His eyebrows dipped harshly and his lips moved, reflecting the intensity of his re-read, looking for the mistake in interpretation that maybe he’d made first time round. She watched his face go through a limited cycle of quiet emotions, none of them obviously positive. He still seemed upset when he’d finished. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What is it?’
Romney threw the memo across the desk to her. As she reached to pick it up he made some noises that underlined his unhappiness with whatever was written there.
Responding to a request from Area, I have agreed to Dover police playing host to crime fiction author James Peters. Mr Peters will join us on Monday and spen
d time in both CID and uniform. This is just a heads up to everyone. I know that he will be made welcome and treated with respect, kindness and civility.
It was from Superintendent Vine.
Marsh quickly read it again. Then she looked up at Romney. ‘What does he want with us?’
‘How would I know? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. You know as much as I do. Surely by now you understand that Boudicca likes to treat everyone like mushrooms she’s farming. What the bloody hell is she thinking?’
Marsh maintained her silence.
Romney huffed and said, ‘Have you read any of his stuff?’
Marsh shook her head and made a mental note to call into WH Smith on the way home to see what they had of his.
‘In two words: trite, tripe. His central protagonist is a detective inspector. Just another stereotypical, dysfunctional, troubled, middle-aged maverick cop with women problems...’ Romney stopped when he saw a look on Marsh’s face that he didn’t see very often. He said, ‘What is it?’
Marsh was entirely surprised that he didn’t get it. ‘Nothing. Sir. We’ll have to accommodate him, though, won’t we? I mean, if Superintendent Vine has already accepted the idea.’ She rather hoped that there was no course of appeal. The thought of having a writer around was something that might bring a bit of interest to an otherwise dull and gloomy period at the station.
Romney was staring at the piece of paper that Marsh had handed back to him. ‘Why would she do that? Why would she run the risk? Why us?’
Marsh was confused. ‘What risk? I don’t understand.’
Romney was now looking back out into CID. He nodded in that direction and said, ‘That risk for a start.’
Marsh turned in her seat to see Spicer and Grimes pelting each other with paper snowballs from behind their desk partitions.
The phone rang on his desk. He answered it, said little and replaced the handset.
‘Upstairs in ten minutes.’
The western front had just woken up.
***
5
Romney met Inspector Blanchett of uniform in the stairwell. Both were on their way to sample the air in Superintendent Vine’s office.
‘What do you make of her latest stunt, then? Or should that be bombshell?’ said Romney.
‘Probably about the same as you do, Tom: unimpressed. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to babysit some writer who’s probably looking for stories of police cock-ups and ineptitude to pounce upon and sensationalise in his books. Make us all look bad.’
Romney laughed. ‘Why would she sanction something like this, do you think, especially without consulting us first? Why is he interested in Dover, for crying out loud?’
Blanchett stopped mid-flight, looked up and down and then at Romney. He lowered his voice and said, ‘She was probably rightly concerned that we’d be resistant. No one in our positions wants a ride-along looking over our shoulders, making judgements. Have you read any of his stuff?’
‘Yes, unfortunately. That’s a couple of hours of my life I’ll never get back. You?’
‘No. What’s it like?’
‘Formulaic. So why has she done it to us?’
‘Don’t you know her by now? Anything that gets Dover noticed and talked about. If Dover isn’t in Area’s spotlight she has no opportunity to impress people and if she has no opportunity to impress people she risks getting stuck here for longer than she wants to be.’
‘Something like this, though… She won’t have any control over the way he wants to portray Dover police. She can’t dictate to him, can she?’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t backfire then.’
‘Why? Might be fun to see one of her selfish initiatives blow up in her face.’
Blanchett looked seriously at Romney. ‘Tom, think about it. The longer it takes her to convince Area that she’s wasted on us, the longer she’s here. Despite how I feel about this James Peters’ visit personally, being objective, it’s an opportunity for us as well as for her.’
Blanchett was right and Romney understood. ‘Sounds like you’re quite keen to see the back of her sooner rather than later.’
‘She is making my life a misery. And if you ask me, her window of opportunity for moving on and up the ladder has probably started to swing shut. If she doesn’t hurry up and get rescued she risks getting stuck here. I don’t have to tell you what that will mean for the rest of us.’
Romney carried those salutary thoughts with him as they ascended the remaining flight.
Hearing the sounds of her two station inspectors come through the fire door at the top of the stairwell, Superintendent Vine called them in and stood to welcome them with a bright and slightly frigid regulation smile. Her gatekeeper, someone Boudicca had brought with her when she’d transferred, an outsider who Romney had never seen smile, a woman he could believe slept either in the cupboard suspended upside down from a peg or in the fridge, was, unusually, not at her post.
Boudicca already had the chairs organised in an informal group around a low table. They said their hellos and she gestured to the comfy seats. As they made themselves comfortable there was movement at the door. Romney turned to see the gatekeeper enter carrying a tray with cups of coffee sitting on matching saucers. There was sugar and biscuits, too. Romney exchanged a look with Blanchett. In Romney’s experience this was unprecedented.
Romney was reminded of what Blanchett had said in the stairwell and thought Boudicca had been well ahead of them. As much as anyone in the room, she would be looking to make the most of the opportunity and would be equally anxious for her subordinates to toe the line. Maybe the refreshment constituted something of a peace offering, an olive branch for actions she knew she shouldn’t have taken without proper consultation. Perhaps she was feeling that she should have spoken with them before foisting the writer on the station and, if she was, maybe she was right. Perhaps she feared a united opposition to her railroading decision. Perhaps she’d been in Dover long enough to feel that much longer and her boat might sail leaving her standing on the docks staring forlornly after it, executive briefcase at her feet.
Since images of her less-than-regulation stockings and suspenders had been emblazoned on his retina at the height of the Aylesham farce, one of the first thoughts that inevitably came to Romney’s mind whenever he saw Boudicca in her uniform was what she had on underneath. It was always involuntary and, like thinking of his parents having sex, something he immediately shunned and felt distinctly uncomfortable for. But he could never shut it out completely. As they sat and reached for their drinks, his eyes strayed to the skirt that was pulled tight across her big thighs, looking for the tell-tale signs of what lurked beneath.
‘So,’ she said, ‘with a slightly false-sounding cheerfulness. I suppose you must both be wondering why I didn’t consult with you first over this?’
Both Romney and Blanchett assumed blank expressions and shook their heads.
Romney said, ‘It’s your decision, ma’am. I can’t see it being a problem for CID. I think I can speak for all of us down there when I say that we’re quite looking forward to having him.’
Boudicca was stunned into silence. She looked to Blanchett.
‘I’ll echo Tom’s thoughts, ma’am. Certainly no problem for uniform to accommodate him. Just tell us how you want us to play it and we’ll prepare to welcome him.’
After another long moment of looking between them and getting nothing out of it, Boudicca said, ‘No reservations you’d like to air and share? Nothing at all?’
It was a bit late for that, thought Romney. If he remembered rightly the deal with the devil was already done. He took some enjoyment from the hint of confusion that Boudicca radiated. He realised that perhaps she understood that they should really have been consulted before things were confirmed and was worried about the effect of her lack of consultation on her two most senior officers – the men she relied on to run her station for her. The men who had the power to make life difficult for he
r if they chose.
When neither man indicated that there was anything they wanted to say, she said, ‘Excellent. I’m very pleased to hear you both sounding so positive. In that case, I think we can move straight on to discussing how he should be treated, what he can have access to and so on and so forth. Help yourselves to biscuits.’
*
‘The plan is that he spends a week with us and a week with uniform,’ said Romney. ‘Because we’re unusually quiet at the moment, I offered to have him first. Maybe he’ll get bored and move on to uniform quicker, looking for some excitement. If he suggests it I don’t want to hear anyone talking him out if it. Right?’
Marsh, Grimes and Spicer nodded. And they all looked a little disappointed by Romney’s attitude.
Marsh said, ‘What’s he doing here? Why us?’
‘Apparently, he’s writing a book where his central character is searching for a missing person who was last seen entering England from France. He wants some local police experience to make his writing more “authentic”.’
Marsh was disappointed that Romney had not yet outgrown the habit of describing inverted commas in the air with his fingers to emphasise certain words and phrases.
‘Sounds exciting,’ said Grimes and the other two made noises of agreement.
Romney shook his head in disappointment. ‘Have you read anything he’s written?’
Grimes said, ‘No, I’m not really into fiction, but Maureen has mentioned him a few times. She reads him in bed. She says he writes great sex scenes. He must be doing something right, if you get my drift.’
Romney made a noise and face of distaste. ‘This guy is connected. I mean he must have friends in high places to wangle an attachment like this. Or more likely his publisher has. We need to be mindful of that. All of us. Our instructions are that he’s to have free rein about the place within reason. He can go pretty much where he wants, talk to who he wants, observe what he wants. He’s not allowed to get directly involved with any investigations. He’s not allowed to attend interviews without clearance. And under no circumstances is he to be allowed in harm’s way.’