Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘Oh, look!’ said James, pointing across Grimes. ‘Bookers. I’ve heard of that. Why didn’t I make the connection?’

  As Grimes approached the little roundabout at the end of the High Street, he said, ‘What’s Bookers?’

  ‘A book-themed independent coffee shop. Excellent home-made cakes, great coffee and all in the ambience of a well-stocked bookshop, according to a friend of mine.’

  ‘Did you say cake?’ said Grimes.

  ‘I said excellent home-made cakes. Have we got time?’

  ‘Be nice not to turn up on an empty stomach.’

  ‘My treat,’ said James.

  ‘That seals it,’ said Grimes, negotiating the mini-roundabout to go back the way they had come.

  *

  ‘Can I make a suggestion,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Go on,’ said Romney.

  ‘Let me talk to her.’

  ‘Woman to woman?’

  ‘Yes, it would be. It would also be a sympathetic police officer to a member of the public with a complaint.’

  ‘OK. But won’t she still associate you with Dover CID?’

  ‘Probably, seeing as that’s where I work and she knows that.’

  ‘So what makes you think that she’ll be any friendlier? Any more disposed to having an adult discussion?’

  ‘Because of who will be with me.’

  ‘Tell me you’re not thinking of having Laurel or Hardy with you?’

  Marsh shook her head. ‘Superintendent Vine.’

  Romney was rendered speechless in his confusion.

  Marsh said, ‘The sight of the station chief in her rather impressive uniform backed up by her rather impressive rank will probably intimidate the woman enough to make her more amenable, more... communicative.’

  Romney looked to be considering it. Eventually, he said, ‘Might not be a bad idea, actually.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll just have to hope Boudicca was genuine when she said she was willing to help and that she’s not just looking for an opportunity to gather misinformation about me. Do you want me to ask her?’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘OK. I’ll leave it with you then.’

  *

  The easterly wind whipped up the High Street, nudging the two men towards Bookers’ front door, although they needed no extra encouragement. Grimes’ cake-lust had his saliva running freely and James’ desire to check out the bookshelves propelled him along at a good pace. The air was heavy with the threat of rain and salty sea air. Grimes pushed into the coffee shop with a brrrr and immediately approached the counter.

  James Peters’ interest in the fixtures and fittings and, of course, the book collection encouraged him to divert off to pick his way through the tastefully chosen and arranged furniture. He wandered over to peruse the shelves of books, protected from sticky fingers – in both senses of the expression – by lockable glass doors. He arrived at the jewel in the bookshop’s crown – the complete collection of every longlisted and shortlisted Booker Prize entry in its first edition, first impression state – and didn’t move on.

  Grimes heard his stomach growling and turned to see where the author had got to. His gaze fell on a familiar face. It seemed that recognition was mutual. Grimes momentarily forgot about his imminent home-made-cake-feeding-frenzy and, smiling broadly, crossed the very nice wooden flooring to a table set a little apart from the rest, like it was not available to the public.

  ‘Jo Cash,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Peter.’ She smiled, stood and shook hands. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘You too. A little thin, perhaps.’ Cash raised an eyebrow and flicked her eyes to his stomach. ‘Yeah, I know. Don’t you start. I have enough aggro off my DS. I’ve often wondered what happened to you. We all do. What are you doing in Dymchurch? Don’t tell me you live here now as some kind of penance. After all, you only...’

  She smiled at him for his unfinished sentence. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not sensitive about the way things turned out.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll finish what I was going to say: you only dispatched a couple of scrotes; you didn’t wipe out the inmates of a nunnery.’

  ‘I like it here. I’m doing OK.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Shall we stand or are you going to get something to drink and sit down? Or are you here for the cake? In fact, as it’s a weekday and you’re dressed like that, you must be here for work. What’s going on?’

  ‘Can’t stop thinking like a detective, eh?’

  ‘Actually, no. That’s because I still am one. I’ve gone private, so it helps.’

  ‘Really? The going private bit?’

  A man sitting with Jo and who had been following their exchange closely stood up, smiled and said, ‘Take a seat. What’ll you have?’

  Jo Cash said, ‘This is David Booker. He owns the place. David, Peter Grimes.’

  ‘As in the opera?’ said David.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Jo, rolling her eyes. ‘Peter works out of Dover CID. A DC. You are still there, I take it?’

  ‘Yes. And still a DC, I’m happy to say.’

  David Booker and Grimes shook hands.

  ‘Nice place you got here,’ said Grimes. ‘How do you make something like this work, pay, in a place like this? Isn’t Dymchurch all about fish and chips, ice creams and kiss-me-quick hats? This seems a little refined for your typical London day-tripper.’

  ‘You’re not the first to think so. We’re slowly getting known by the kind of customers we’re after. People, we’re finding, are happy to travel a good way, even in this season, for a brisk stroll on the beach – sea wall if the tide’s in – and then a proper coffee and wedge of good home-made cake in here. We’re getting a reputation.’

  ‘What about in the summer? All those tattooed oiks with their screaming offspring.’

  ‘Funny thing is, it seems we have a mutual aversion to each other: they don’t want to come in here as much as we don’t want them to come. Mostly. The odd one or two, but there’s something about the surroundings that makes people behave differently. It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘I don’t think it is,’ said James, who’d quietly joined them. ‘It’s like being in a library and we all know what that does to most of us. We can’t help ourselves.’

  ‘The Library Reflex,’ said Grimes.

  They laughed.

  Grimes said, ‘Allow me to introduce someone who you for one, David, should get a kick out of having in here...’

  ‘James Peters,’ said Booker.

  ‘You two know each other?’ said Grimes.

  ‘No,’ said Booker, ‘but books are my passion. I enjoy yours,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘I remember a strapline from one of your books, can’t remember the title, sorry: redefines edge of your seat.’

  James Peters laughed a little embarrassedly. ‘Quite a claim. Thank my publisher for that one.’

  ‘Welcome to Bookers. You may have noticed I’ve got one of yours on the shelves, Murder for Dummies.’

  ‘I’m flattered. It’s nice to know. I’m very happy to be here – in book and human forms. I’ve heard about you from friends who’ve visited and I must say that the place is beyond their descriptions. I love it.’

  The handshakes were concluded. Chairs, coffee and cake were arranged.

  ‘Is DI Romney still running CID over there?’ said Cash.

  ‘Yeah. He’s all right when you get to know him. Change at the helm though. New super’s a woman. Vivian Vine. Mean anything to you?’

  Cash shook her head and smiled. ‘Tom Romney’s immediate boss is a woman? Bet he loves that.’

  Grimes felt comfortable enough to say, ‘It certainly makes life interesting sometimes.’

  ‘So what does bring you two to not-so-sunny-Dymchurch?’ said Cash.

  *

  ‘Come in, Joy. You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. It’s about this business with the DI and the woman using the local paper t
o grind her axe.’

  Boudicca looked suddenly interested, like a gambler about to be given the number of the round that the fight was going to be thrown in and by whom. From her barely contained manner, Boudicca might have been thinking that Marsh was there to voice concerns regarding Romney’s innocence. She pointed to the comfy chairs and came round to join Marsh.

  ‘You were saying?’ said Boudicca.

  ‘We’ve been discussing a response to this article, ma’am. We don’t feel we can ignore what has been printed. Despite believing that we have certainly done the right thing, we can’t help also thinking that if we don’t do something then we’ll look bad.’

  Boudicca was nodding. ‘While I’m not of the opinion that we should ever allow ourselves to be manipulated by the media, in this case I have to agree with you. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘We speak to Ms Coker, ma’am.’

  ‘Who speaks to her? Because I’m not sure that DI Romney...’

  ‘You and I, ma’am. Together.’

  Boudicca thought for a moment and smiled broadly. ‘That does sound like a good idea, Joy. I’ll bet it was one of yours.’

  Marsh did not feel the need for modesty.

  *

  ‘That could be about the best carrot cake I’ve ever eaten,’ said Grimes, sounding like he meant it.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Booker.

  ‘Coffee’s great too,’ said James. ‘I can see why you’re reputation is growing.’

  Grimes looked at his watch and said, ‘We should get moving. Thanks for the map.’ He picked up the napkin onto which Booker had sketched the route they would need.

  ‘What do we owe you?’ said James.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Booker. ‘A friend of Jo’s and a famous author – my treat. Pass the word around about the place and I’ll be very happy. Word of mouth is what’s working for us.’

  They all stood and shook hands once more.

  James Peters said, ‘Have you got a card, David? I’ve had an idea for something.’

  Booker fished one out from behind the counter and handed it over.

  ‘Thanks,’ said James. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Grimes and James Peters stepped out into the late morning, which suddenly felt more hostile, more miserable after their pleasant pit stop in the cultured warmth.

  *

  ‘What did she say?’ said Romney.

  ‘She agreed. She’s asked me to invite Ms Coker to the station for a chat. Do you have her phone number? Save me looking it up.’

  Romney dug out his mobile, scrolled down to the number and read it out. Marsh jotted it down. He stood next to her desk, waiting.

  ‘Was there something else, sir?’

  ‘Are you going to ring her now?’

  ‘Yes. I’m just waiting for some privacy.’

  ‘Oh. I’ll be in my office then. Let me know what she says.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Marsh waited until he had left and dialled Amy Coker.

  *

  Following James’ navigational suggestions, Grimes was soon pulling up at their destination.

  ‘You sure this is right?’ said Grimes.

  He had rolled to a stop at the end of an unmade track. There was no roadside sign to indicate that any business operated down the other end.

  James looked around them and then back down the track. ‘According to this we’re in the right place.’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ said Grimes.

  He manoeuvred the car to advance and they bumped their way down.

  The track was deceiving. The end of it opened out into a wide turning circle. There was a small huddle of temporary office-type structures. A variety of small businesses appeared to be operating out of them. One of them had a Martello Insurance Services sign screwed to the wall.

  Grimes and James got out and, wrapping their coats tightly around, them hurried in spitting rain to the office door. It was open and they went in.

  A receptionist looked up and smiled.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Grimes took out his warrant card and showed it to her. Her smile dipped.

  He said, ‘Dover CID. We’d like a chat with whoever’s in charge.’

  ‘OK. Just a moment.’

  The woman stood up and went through a door behind her into a larger office. After a short while she returned, smiling again. It seemed forced and false.

  ‘Sorry. Mr Ward isn’t in. He’s in charge.’

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ said Grimes.

  ‘No one. Just myself.’

  ‘So if he’s not in, why didn’t you know that? Why did you go back there?’

  ‘I didn’t know he wasn’t in,’ she said. She was looking a little afraid. ‘Can I ask what this is concerning?’

  ‘No,’ said Grimes, ‘you can’t.’

  He lifted up the flap in the worktop and started through to the back office.

  ‘Hey! You can’t just barge in like you own the place,’ said the woman.

  But Grimes wasn’t listening. He opened the door and found himself in a bigger office with a couple of desks. There was no one there. But another door in the back wall was ajar. He opened it to see a man in a suit hurrying across the open ground to sheds against the far fence. As Grimes watched him go, the man looked back over his shoulder. When he saw the unfamiliar figure of Grimes staring after him he started to run.

  James Peters had arrived at Grimes’ shoulder.

  ‘Is that him?’ he said.

  ‘Probably,’ said Grimes.

  ‘Are we going after him?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Grimes.

  ‘Why?’

  Grimes didn’t answer. He turned around and went back into the outer office. The woman was still there. She hadn’t sat and she looked a little terrified.

  ‘How many ways are there out of this yard?’ said Grimes.

  ‘One,’ said the woman. ‘There’s only the track in and out.’

  ‘Come on, James,’ said Grimes.

  The big policeman led them back to his car. He got in the driver’s side and James Peters felt he should get in the passenger side.

  ‘Where are we going?’ said James.

  ‘Not far,’ said Grimes.

  He started the engine and drove back the way they had come. At the top of the track he manoeuvred his car so that it completely blocked the exit. Only a bicycle could get through.

  Peter James smiled. ‘I thought we were leaving.’

  ‘They’ve got something to hide,’ said Grimes. ‘Maybe a couple of ride-on mowers. Who knows?’

  ‘You’re calling for back-up, then?’

  ‘Yes, James. I’m calling for back-up. Better to be safe than sorry. Remember: you are not to be put in harm’s way. To be honest, I don’t much enjoy it either. And there’s no need. If we were to rush in, there’s no telling what might happen. We might be outnumbered by some nasty sods who’d rather take their chances in a punch up. And then where would we be? No, my philosophy is to let the system do its job. That’s why we have systems, after all.’

  Grimes took out his phone to ring Romney’s mobile.

  ***

  31

  With a heavy sigh, Romney moved a pile of forms to one side of his desk, making room for the baguette, banana and coffee that was his lunch. He looked out into CID to find it strangely empty. He thought of where they all were.

  Just as he lifted the baguette to take a bite, his mobile started ringing. He glanced at the caller ID, considered ignoring it, changed his mind, put down the baguette, picked up the phone, pushed the green button and said, ‘Yes, Peter. I hope the weather’s better in Dymchurch than it is here.’

  Staring out of the windscreen with the phone clamped to his ear, Grimes was about to respond to Romney’s enquiry when James Peters grabbed his free arm and gestured down the track. Grimes turned in his seat to see a large lorry that filled the width of the track approaching them at speed.

  Romney tutted an
d said, ‘Hello! Can you hear me?’

  James Peters shouted: ‘He’s coming straight for us. Move, Peter, move.’

  Romney believed he’d heard the voice of James Peters issuing a desperate instruction. He felt his mouth dry and his breathing still. With a focussed intensity, he continued to listen.

  Grimes: ‘Shit. He’s going to ram us.’

  James: ‘Peter, start the car.’

  Grimes: ‘Get out, James! Get out!

  James: ‘Just go!’

  Grimes: ‘Get out! I’ll never manoeuvre in time.’

  James: Come on! Come on!

  Romney yanked the phone away from his ear as a deafening burst of noise issued forth from the device. He put the phone back to his ear but the line was dead.

  He frowned and tried ringing Grimes back. No answer. He gave a few seconds’ thought to wondering whether the pair of them might just have been having a prank. It was possible but unlikely. He drummed his fingers on his desk and thought.

  He rang Marsh’s mobile.

  *

  Marsh apologised for the intrusion and turned her phone off.

  Marsh understood that Amy Coker was enjoying the attention. She felt there was a smug, self-satisfied aura about her. Marsh also felt quite disposed to removing it from her features using the back of a shovel.

  The three of them were in Boudicca’s office, seated in the island of comfy chairs and coffee table.

  ‘Thank you again for coming in to see us at such short notice, Ms Coker,’ said Superintendent Vine. ‘We appreciate that you must be busy, what with everything you need to sort out and regular life getting in the way.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Amy. ‘I was in the town anyway. I’m glad that Dover police seem to be taking things seriously at last.’

  ‘You don’t think that we were before?’ said Vine.

  ‘No, I don’t. Detective Inspector Romney seemed suspiciously keen to dismiss my claims without any sort of thorough investigation. I mean, how can you carry out a thorough investigation in half a day?’