by Oliver Tidy
‘Well if we find our culprits there then the place might have more in common with Lloyd’s than you might think – another bunch of crooks.’
‘Why would Dover’s ride-on lawnmower community all insure their garden tractors with a parochial insurer in the back of beyond?’
Grimes smiled. ‘I asked the owners that. It was the only time I heard any of them sound less than cocksure of themselves. Premiums. Nobody does it cheaper, apparently.’
Marsh nodded appreciatively, either at the insurer’s possible lure for business that would open up a profitable sideline of ride-on mower theft or Grimes’ research.
She said, ‘Well, take care down there. It’s below sea level, you know. Does something to their brains, apparently. And remember what we were told: keep him out of harm’s way.’
‘Don’t worry on that score, Sarge. First sign of trouble I’ll be on the bugle. Harm’s way doesn’t interest me. I’ve got things to live for.’
‘You mean your children?’
‘Yeah, them too.’
Grimes rang James on his mobile to give him the good news. James said he’d need to make his excuses to Inspector Blanchett and he’d meet the detective in the car park. Grimes rang off after telling him to pack his trunks and a towel.
*
The ascent of the stairwell and the reason for it did not help Romney’s headache. He halted at the top and took a couple of deep breaths before pushing through the fire door in the outer office. It was unoccupied.
Superintendent Vine called out from inside her office. ‘Come in, Tom. Sit down.’
Romney did as he was told and said nothing.
‘About this article in the paper,’ said Boudicca, laying a hand on the offending organ, which was lying on her desk. ‘You understand that I just need to be in the picture, so to speak. Up to speed on things and events.’
‘Which article is that, ma’am?’ said Romney. And prepared to demean himself in the hope that it was something trivial, he said, ‘The ghost girl?’
Boudicca frowned. ‘No. The one about Dover police and the paedophile ring.’
‘What is it you’d like to know, ma’am?’
Boudicca cleared her throat, perched her half-moon spectacles on the end of her nose and made a show of looking at the paper. ‘It says here... When asked why she felt Dover police were not apparently interested in pursuing an investigation into her claims, Ms Coker suggested that the resistance of the police to do anything other than simply dismissing them hinted at something dark and deeply disturbing. What do you think she means by that?’
‘If she said it then I suppose we’d need to ask her because I don’t have the first idea of what she might be getting at. Ma’am.’
Boudicca took and released a deep breath. ‘I see. Well, my interpretation is that she is using the paper to make thinly veiled accusations of certain officers in CID having a personal interest in suppressing enquiries into the possibility of a paedophile ring operating in the town. What would you have to say to that?’
‘Can I speak candidly, ma’am?’ Romney was aware that he was about to say something he could live to regret but his self-respect would not allow the suppression of his anger.
‘Of course, Tom.’ Boudicca looked at him with a thin and fragile smile.
‘It’s a complete loads of bollocks.’
To Boudicca’s credit she did not flinch. ‘Gooood. Would you care to explain why you feel that way?’
Although he didn’t much care to explain himself, Romney spent five minutes talking solidly about the history of the case so far, including his visit to Amy Coker’s home and her outburst. Boudicca listened without taking notes and Romney wondered whether she had graduated to hidden recording devices in her office. When he’d finished, his throat was quite dry, his head felt a little tighter and he was a little warmer under the collar.
‘So this Sammy Coker, the alleged paedophile, was a good friend of yours?’
‘No, ma’am. He was someone who ran a café I ate in from time to time because they did about the best full English breakfast in town. He was also a man who helped the police out from time to time with useful bits of information. He never received payment or favour for his assistance. We did not socialise outside of his premises.’
‘I understand. Thank you, Tom. Please remember, I’m on your side.’
Romney doubted that but was sensible enough, just, to keep any sign of it to himself.
‘They’re virtually accusing you of being a lynchpin in a local paedophile ring,’ she said.
Because she’d used the exact same phrase he’d used downstairs, Romney wondered whether she had CID bugged as well. Or was it just how the article influenced thought?
‘I’m not sure that they are, exactly,’ said Romney.
‘Seems pretty clear to me,’ said Boudicca. ‘Anything I can do to help, let me know. And, of course, you have my full support and the support of Kent police legal team should you feel you need it.’
Romney felt a slight chill settle on the back of his neck. He turned to see if Boudicca’s gatekeeper had slunk in behind him. When he understood that they were still alone he reflected that it could have been Boudicca’s choice of words that had induced the cold feeling of apprehension to his exposed skin.
‘But they haven’t named me,’ said Romney, remembering Marsh’s contribution. ‘They just say a senior CID officer. They could, in theory, be referring to DS Marsh.’
Boudicca gave him her can-you-honestly-believe-what-you’re-saying look and said, ‘But she’s a woman.’
Romney had no answer for that.
One thing in Romney’s and Dover CID’s favour was that the Dover Post had already fallen foul of the station chief. Their particular ‘crimes’ were not something that Romney imagined Boudicca being able to forgive and forget too easily.
At the height of the farcical proceedings that provided the evening’s entertainment at the Aylesham debacle, Superintendent Vine had intervened rather violently to disarm and arrest a knife-wielding, blood-spattered teenage girl with learning difficulties. The ensuing melee saw Boudicca slip in Romney’s sick and fall to the stage gripping her prisoner in a non-regulation chokehold. The camera that had been recording Romney’s humiliation and public display of projectile vomiting had been pointed in the station chief’s direction to capture the unfolding events in high resolution digital imagery. And the Dover Post had used three of the shots in the story it ran under the banner heading: The Strong Arm of the Law. Boudicca’s bloody nose – courtesy of a wayward elbow – snarling features, aggressive tactics and non-regulation underwear had featured prominently. Romney had ordered and paid handsomely and happily for a full set of glossy prints as well as several others that the paper did not have the room to print. He also bought what he was assured was the complete and only digital record of his own part in proceedings. But they had been worth every penny.
*
In the stairwell on his way down, Romney bumped into his opposite number from uniform hurrying up.
‘Hello, Tom,’ said Inspector Blanchett. He looked a bit angry, a bit concerned, a bit frustrated. Romney noticed that Blanchett was carrying a copy of the latest edition of the Dover Post. ‘What’s the weather like up there this morning?’
‘Frosty with a risk of hailstones,’ said Romney. ‘Why? Problem?’
‘Seen the local rag?’
Romney snorted. ‘Yes.’
‘Is that why you’ve been upstairs? Formulating an official response?’ There was a twitch at the corner of Blanchett’s mouth.
‘To what?’
‘Come on, Tom. They’ve all but accused you of being the lynchpin in a local paedophile ring.’ Blanchett was smiling now.
Romney was getting worried. Including himself, that was five people out of six who he’d met that morning and who’d read the article who saw things that way, and Marsh might have been trying to spare his feelings, or, now he came to think about it, diffuse his ire.
; Romney said, ‘Can I have a word some time about this spate of accidents in Temple Ewell?’
‘Please don’t tell me you believe in this ghost girl rubbish?’ said Blanchett, all his good humour evaporating.
‘Certainly not. There has to be a real-world explanation.’
‘Thank Dog for that. I was beginning to think I was the only one. You should see the way the night shift are taking it. The things I’ve seen on their utility belts lately: rabbits’ feet, garlic cloves, holy water and little wooden crucifixes.’
Knowing some of the uniforms, Romney couldn’t be sure that Blanchett was joking. ‘Is that what she wants to see you about?’ said Romney. ‘The ghost girl?’ Now he was smiling a bit.
‘No. It’s this.’ Blanchett jabbed a finger at Romney’s quote about idiots on the road. ‘I’ve a good mind to seek legal advice myself. As senior officer in attendance on Monday, I did not say anything resembling those remarks.’
‘You know the local fish-wrapper. They print what they like,’ said Romney, checking his watch. ‘Good luck. Must get on.’ He hurried down the concrete steps.
***
29
Not being in the mood for social pleasantries, Romney did not phone ahead to warn Mrs Manston that he would be visiting.
Mrs Manston answered the door in a housecoat, hair curlers and obvious surprise. She did not immediately stand aside and invite Romney in.
‘What do you want now?’ she said. ‘I told you, I’ve got nothing more to say about my dead brother.’
Romney waved his copy of the newspaper in her face. ‘Have you seen this?’
Mrs Mantson shook her head and looked worried. ‘Why?’
Romney decided to try some scaremongering of his own. ‘Amy has been to the local paper. After I told her that Dover police were not going to be pursuing our enquiries she’s decided to go another route.’
‘Another route to where?’
‘To making sure the world knows that Sammy was a paedophile.’
His bluntness visibly shook her. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’ she said, but she was looking like she had an idea.
‘Do people round here know that Sammy was your brother?’
Her silence indicated that they did.
‘It’s only a matter of time before names are named. Have you seen what angry mobs do to paedophiles and their nearest and dearest? Seeing as Sammy is no longer around to defend himself, the righteous public of limited intelligence in this town will be looking for other windows to start throwing bricks through. I hope your household insurance is fully comprehensive and up to date.’
‘Sammy wasn’t a...’ She stopped and looked up and down the road. ‘Come in. You’re letting all the heat out.’
She led him back into the front room. The same man was sitting in the same seat watching the same channel. Mrs Manston told him to make himself scarce, again. And once more he got up and left without a word or a fuss.
Romney sat without being asked. Mrs Manston took her usual chair.
‘Sammy wasn’t a paedophile,’ she said.
‘So you keep saying,’ said Romney, ‘and I want to believe you. You know I had history with the man. I liked him. Trusted him. This article,’ he shook the paper again, ‘is suggesting things that concern me as well as your brother. I want to refute all allegations and sort this mess out, but I need help. And I rather think I’ve burnt my bridges with your niece.’
Mrs Manston took a long moment to explore and settle something in her mind before saying, ‘Years ago...’
‘How many?’ said Romney.
‘I can’t remember. More than ten. Amy turned up at the café out of the blue and started raving at Sammy. She accused him of having molested her as a young girl.’
‘And this was the first time she’d said anything like that?’
‘Yes. They hadn’t been what you’d call close as father and daughter but they were in contact from time to time.’
‘Amicable contact?’
‘When she needed money.’
‘But these allegations weren’t true?’ said Romney.
Mrs Manston shot him a sharp look. ‘No, they weren’t true. You say you knew him. How can you ask that?’
‘Because typically paedophiles are very clever and cunning with their double lives. They have to be. Believe me, I don’t want Sammy to have been a child-molester. But two nights ago I went to see his daughter at her home to tell her that we were winding down our enquiry and she took it very badly. She was hysterical and she made some very damning accusations about her father. She didn’t behave like a person who wasn’t sure. She behaved like someone with painful memories.’
‘She’s wrong.’
‘Wrong? What does that mean? How can she be wrong? Wrong as in mistaken? That doesn’t seem very likely. You don’t just misinterpret something like your dad interfering with you.’
Mrs Manston released a big breath and with it went some of her fight. ‘I can’t explain it. One day Amy just turns up at the café making all these wild accusations. It was a bloody good job we were closed at the time.’
‘What happened?’
‘Sammy tried talking to her, tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t listen. Just kept shouting that she’d remembered. She’d been seeing some therapist over Deal way. Filling her head with ideas. She’d always been a bit strange, weird, suggestible. She was blaming him for the mess her life was in. The things she was saying... they were things an innocent father should never have to hear from his child. And he was innocent. He was... so upset by it all. We just couldn’t understand it.’
‘What happened afterwards?’
‘She disappeared. Sammy tried to get in touch with her from time to time but she never returned any of his calls or letters. In the end, Sammy reconciled himself to their separation, that it was irreparable. He stopped talking about having a daughter. It was like she’d ceased to exist for him. But he never fooled me. I could see it in his eyes sometimes. The pain. The hurt. The frustration of having a mentally ill daughter.’
‘Is that what she is? Mentally ill?’ Romney’s hope at the suggestion was practically indecent.
‘It’s the only thing that can explain it.’
‘Why did she come to the funeral if she felt like that about him?’
‘I don’t honestly know. It was quite a surprise for us.’
‘And she went back to Tiffany’s afterwards?’
Mrs Manston shrugged. ‘It was her property. She knew that. I suppose she felt she could do what she liked. Maybe she wanted to rub our noses in it.’
‘She didn’t mind the wake being held there?’
‘Tough if she did. We were having it.’
‘How was she?’
‘She’s always been odd. She didn’t stay long. At least she knew when she wasn’t welcome. I’ll never forgive her for the hurt and sadness she caused my brother.’
‘Why did Sammy leave the property to her?’
Mrs Manston had tears in her eyes when she answered. ‘It was no secret. He said that she was still his daughter, his only child. He knew he’d done nothing wrong. He knew that what she’d accused him of was lies. But he forgave her. He said he had unconditional love for her.’
Having a daughter of his own, Romney knew all about feelings of unconditional love for a child. He wondered how it might be tested if she ever turned up at his workplace accusing him of being a paedophile.
The tears ran down Mrs Manston’s distorted face. Romney said he was going but she didn’t answer him. He left knowing that if he wanted answers he was going to have to speak with Amy Coker again.
***
30
Grimes drove at a sedate pace. He was only too happy to grant James’ wish that they avoid motorways and main roads where possible so that the author might get a better idea of and a better feel for the surrounding villages and countryside. In particular, he expressed a wish to hug the coastline.
The two men had chatted amiably as
they made their way through Capel-le-Ferne, down into and through the town of Folkestone, then Sandgate, then along the Hythe coast road, eventually joining the A259 that would take them onto Romney Marsh proper.
Grimes was the perfect guide: pointing out local places of interest as they went and recounting anything of the local history that he could remember. As they’d come down the steep hill at Sandgate, the Channel view opened up to reveal the promontory at Dungeness, complete with nuclear power station squatting under low and threatening gunmetal-grey skies.
‘There it is,’ said Grimes. ‘Feast your eyes. Romney Marsh: sheep, shit and shingle.’
‘Don’t suppose our trip will take us as far as there, will it?’ said James, pointing towards the tip of the curve in the bay’s far distance. ‘I’ve heard of Dungeness. It’s supposed to be a special place.’
‘Afraid not,’ said Grimes. ‘I haven’t been out there for years. Can’t see what all the fuss is about, myself. Stones as far as the eye can see, a rather boring-looking power station and a few beach huts that have been spruced up by the arty-farty movement. Nice pub out there, though. Does a lovely fish and chips. You need the weather for it. Horrible on a day like today. We’re going about halfway around the bay. The land of smugglers and Dr Syn – you must have heard of him?’
‘Of course. I didn’t realise the books were set there. Fascinating.’
They were soon driving into Dymchurch, their destination. They passed a renovated Martello tower, which Grimes was happy to explain the history of. Stuck in a field around the bend, a large roadside billboard, in need of a good clean and a touch up, proclaimed the village The Children’s Paradise.
‘Why’s that?’ said James.
‘The beach,’ said Grimes. ‘Lovely. Gently shelving, acres of golden sands when the tide’s out. Nothing to touch it on the south coast.’
From consulting a map prior to leaving Dover, Grimes had a good idea of where they were heading. He drove along the High Street looking for the turnoff to Mill Road.