by Oliver Tidy
‘He loved his food, especially cake. That was Peter’s problem,’ said Marsh.
James Peters said, ‘Then it was fitting that the last thing he ate was something he described as maybe the best slice of carrot cake he’d ever eaten.’
‘Really?’ said Marsh sniffling again.
‘Yes. A place called Bookers in Dymchurch. I will treasure that memory and the memory of the man for as long as I live.’ He stood up. ‘I’m so glad to have known him. I’m so sorry not to have known him better.’ James Peters threw back his drink, dropped his cup into the rubbish bin and left them without another word.
Romney said, ‘Trust a stranger to say it all for us.’
Spicer said, ‘He is an author, guv.’
Marsh said, ‘I’m going home. Goodnight.’
‘Take the lift from uniform,’ said Romney.
She gathered up her things and left.
Romney poured the last of the bottle into the two remaining cups.
***
33
Marsh managed to avoid interaction with anyone as she made her way out of the building and off the premises. Everyone she passed wanted to say something but the way her head was down and the purpose in her stride did not incline anyone to delay her, to intrude on her very obvious grief. The condolences would keep. They understood.
Out on the pavement and walking towards home, she breathed heavily and deeply. The cold evening air stung her cheeks and scorched her throat.
It was dark and miserable out. A misting rain was swirling about in the dull orange light of the street lamps. There were not many people about. Because of this, she stuck to the main paths and thoroughfares that wound through the centre of the town.
She was not really concentrating on where she was going and so she was given a start and made to stop abruptly when she realised her way was blocked by a pair of smart shoes. Marsh raised her gaze up into the inanely grinning features of James Meakins.
‘Hello. Fancy bumping into you.’
Marsh sidestepped him. ‘Not today, James. I’m not in the mood.’
With some nimble footwork, James blocked her way again, ‘Not in the mood for what, may I ask?’ He was still trying.
‘Your games, James. Now get out of my way, please.’
‘My games?’
‘Yes, your games. All these little chance encounters. All this “bumping into each other”. I’m getting a little tired of it all. You’re like a spoilt child who won’t take no for an answer.’
James’ face underwent a dramatic change, like storm clouds rolling in on a summer’s day. ‘What about your games, you little cock-tease?’
Marsh knew she should ignore him, keep going, avoid the confrontation that was brewing. She’d smelled the alcohol on his breath. Had seen it in his swaying. Heard it in his speech. She turned her face to him.
‘James, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. I think you’ve been drinking. I’ve had some very bad news. I am not in the mood for socialising or for passing the time in the rain on a cold, dark street. If you know what’s good for you, get out of my way and go home.’
‘You bitch. Who do you think you are, talking to me like that? You’re nothing but a common little cock-teasing slut.’
Marsh wasted no more words on him. She slipped her phone out of her pocket and pressed a speed dial number.
James saw what she’d done and said, ‘Who are you calling?’
‘DS Marsh here. Requesting urgent assistance in Cannon Street. D&D with the potential to become violent.’
‘What are you doing?’ roared James – and for the first time since the ‘chance encounter’ Marsh felt a sensible ripple of fear.
‘She said, ‘James...’
He lunged at her, knocking the phone from her hand. It smashed on the ground. The casing broke apart and the battery fell out.
‘That’s it, James. You are under arrest.’ Marsh attempted to grab his arm and get him into some kind of restraining lock. He resisted her with a disconcerting ease. They grappled and the sheer superior physical strength of him frightened her.
‘Get your hands off me. Bitch. Fucking bitch. Cock-teasing bitch.’
He grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back. She yelped with the pain. The noise alarmed him and awakened him to the possibility of being overheard or seen. He put her in a headlock. She kicked at him and caught him below the knee. He released a shout of anger and chopped the edge of his hand down hard on her neck. Her legs gave and she felt the pavement spin up to greet her.
***
34
DI Blanchett burst through the double doors into CID.
‘Problem, Tom. How pissed are you?’
‘Not pissed enough. I’m off duty. Find someone else.’
‘It’s Joy. She’s missing.’
Blanchett summarised the call to the station made from Joy’s mobile not ten minutes before. ‘Dennis took it. He says he heard her use the name ‘James’ before she was cut off. She was reporting a D&D with the potential to become violent. Patrol car was there quickly. Her phone was broken on the ground. She wasn’t there.’
‘James? James Peters?’ said Romney. ‘He left here just before Joy. He wouldn’t have attacked her.’
‘Where is he staying?’ said Blanchett.
‘Premier Inn. On the seafront. But it can’t be him.’
‘He was upset?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘He was involved in a traumatic incident today. Shit, sorry. Tom, we’re all so sorry. But Joy is missing and it looks bad. We can’t ignore what she said. I’ll organise a car for the Premier Inn.’
Romney stood up. ‘Ring them. See if he’s there.’
Spicer was already looking up the number. He rang and exchanged a few words with someone the other end of the line. He finished with, ‘Please call Dover police station as soon as he shows up. It’s an emergency.’
‘I’m going to the scene now,’ said Blanchett.
‘So are we,’ said Romney. ‘You’ll have to drive.’
*
Blanchett had a driver waiting. The three passengers got in and the car shot out of the compound with sirens and lights.
‘Circulate a description of James Peters,’ said Romney. ‘I still can’t believe he would hurt Joy.’
‘How well do you know him?’ said Blanchett.
‘Point taken. Try the pubs on the way to his hotel. He looked like he might have needed a drink.’
‘Maybe he had one and it didn’t agree with him,’ said Blanchett.
They arrived quickly. The red and blue lights of three patrol vehicles parked at odd angles bounced around the wet fronts of the buildings. Several officers were actively searching the surrounding area. They were not far from where the River Dour trickled out to sea. The connection brought some unwanted and unhappy memories that turned into frightening possibilities for Romney.
He said, ‘Has anyone checked the river?’
‘I’ve got men down there now,’ said Blanchett.
‘What can we do?’ said Romney.
‘Could be she fled,’ said Spicer. ‘If she was attacked. Maybe she ran. Home, maybe.’
‘We’ll take the car,’ said Romney.
‘Go,’ said Blanchett.
Romney and Spicer got in. Romney issued directions. The driver weaved them expertly and with speed towards Joy’s home in The Gateway. As they tore along the seafront, Spicer shouted, ‘Stop. That’s James Peters.’ The car skidded to a halt on the greasy road surface. Romney was first out and running towards a bench on the promenade.
James Peters turned to see what the commotion was about. When he saw Romney running in his direction, he stood up.’
‘Tom? What is it?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Joy.’
‘Joy? What are you talking about?’
‘Joy’s missing. She’s been attacked.’
‘What? But you can’t think that I...
What are you saying?’
‘She made a call. She said one word: James.’
‘Not me. Believe me. I haven’t seen her since CID.’
‘You’re the only James we know. You’ll have to come with me.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘James, if it’s not you then you’ll want to help her, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then come with me. It’s the only way.’
They hurried back to the car together. James Peters was put into the back and the door was shut. The driver radioed through the situation. Romney asked for another car to meet him at The Gateway. Spicer went with James Peters back to the station.
Romney jogged the remaining distance. His head was clearing quickly. He crossed the road to the flats and made his way up to Joy’s floor. There were no lights on in her apartment. He banged on the door and called out her name. He continued, attracting the attention of neighbours, until the squad car arrived for him downstairs. He gave up, went down and told them to take him back to the station.
*
Joy fluttered her eyelids. She quickly realised that she was lying on her side in semi-darkness and that she was very cold. Ambient street lighting was diffused by the thick, grimy glass. She tried to turn and the shooting pain in her neck made her inhale sharply. Her scalp felt raw and hot. Immediately, the events, the trauma and the losses of her recent hours swamped and incapacitated her.
She closed her eyes and tried to block out the memories and the pain. She felt the disturbing and dangerous presence of James Meakins. She smelled his beery breath and his expensive aftershave. She felt the results of his superior physical strength and the blow that had stunned her senses and done something to her knees. Her tears left hot trails across her face as her body racked with her painful, desperate sobs.
*
Romney bounded back up the steps to CID. He barged through the double doors to find Spicer going through Joy’s desk. James Peters was standing behind him.
‘Any news?’ said Romney.
‘Nothing,’ said Spicer.
‘Joy’s disappearance is nothing to do with me, Tom. I swear it,’ said James.
‘I believe you,’ said Romney. ‘You’re here because you have to be. I hope that under the circumstances you can understand that.’
James Peters looked like he did.
‘What are you looking for?’ said Romney.
Spicer said, ‘It was something Peter said. Weeks, months ago. You remember that time Joy received a dozen roses?’ Romney nodded. ‘They weren’t from Justin. Shit, should we ring him?’
‘No,’ said Romney. ‘What about these flowers?’
‘The card was signed ‘J’. Peter opened it and looked. Like I say, they weren’t from Justin. Joy told Peter they were from someone called James. I wondered if it might be... got it!’ He waved the florist’s card in the air.
Romney said, ‘Track down that florist. Collect them in a police car if you have to. Get them to wherever they keep their records and find out who sent a dozen roses to Dover CID.’
***
35
James Meakins sat on the dirty floor, his strong, straight back against the damp, powdery brickwork. His eyes were fixed on the thick, grimy glass. His jaw muscles flexed as he ground his teeth. His breathing was fast and shallow and he was perspiring.
‘You’re responsible for this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘This is all your fault.’
He titled his head back, closed his eyes and breathed out heavily through his nose.
‘They’re looking for you,’ he said.
He scrambled to his feet and crossed to the high window. He stood on a hop-up and peered out.
‘But they won’t find you down here. You’re safe now. The cellars of Meakins’ estate agents are a warren of well-kept secrets.’
Across the street and further up, a few smokers congregated outside the pub. A loud burst of laughter drifted down to where James watched them with a look of distaste on his face.
The flashing lights of a passing police car diverted James’ attention. When it had gone, he said, ‘You couldn’t just be nice, could you? You had to say unpleasant things. Look where your mouth, your temper has got you. I repeat: this is all your fault. You’d better understand that. You need to understand that. You need to learn your lessons.’
*
Spicer rang through to Romney from the home address of the woman who ran the florists. ‘All the sales records and receipts are kept at the shop, guv. We’re heading there now.’
‘Good. Let me know as soon as you find something.’
*
A thought elbowed its way to the front of Joy’s mind. The last word she’d said before the phone had been knocked out of her hand: James. If they’d heard it the other end they’d be looking for James Peters. It would be a natural conclusion. Would they believe him when they found him? How much time would they waste on him? What would they do to him?
And what would happen when they realised that James Peters was not the James they should be looking for? She needed to do something. She tried to lift her head and the searing agony forced a groan from her. She closed her eyes to squeeze back the tears when she thought about Peter. She was sure she’d mentioned James Meakins to Peter. But Peter was dead. Peter had saved her life once before. He wouldn’t be doing it again.
*
Superintendent Vine walked into CID, the ordeals and distress of the day crowding her features. Like worried relatives waiting for the surgeon to report on how the operation had gone, Romney and James Peters looked in her direction for news.
‘We have every available officer out looking for her, Tom. Officers are being drafted in from Folkestone and Ashford. And we have a helicopter on its way. We’ll find her.’
‘We have a possible lead, ma’am,’ said Romney. ‘Derek’s out chasing it up.’ He explained it and as he did so he could see that Vine found it tenuous, unlikely. It made him doubt it. Just a ‘J’ on a card. Months old.
‘Let’s all keep each other informed,’ she said.
Romney’s phone rang.
*
After pacing around the cellar, James Meakins was back at the window, monitoring activity in the street. A distant, barely audible thumping encouraged him to lift his eyes to the night sky, to cock his head for confirmation.
‘A helicopter,’ he said. ‘With a searchlight. Probably got infrared cameras on board too. Looks like I’m staying a bit longer.’
James’ attention was switched with some concern to a police car with flashing lights hurtling up Cannon Street. It stopped outside the florists on the opposite side of the road about five shops downs from Meakins’. Two people got out. He recognised one of them as the woman who ran the shop. He wondered what was going on as they both entered the premises. Lights went on, illuminating the paving directly outside the shop.
He frowned as he remembered ordering flowers from there. He’d sent several bunches of flowers using that florists. He remembered sending a dozen roses to Joy Marsh at Dover police station and a cold concern settled on his consciousness.
Above him and louder, the helicopter continued its sweeps of the town.
*
‘Guv. I think we’ve got something.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘One dozen red roses sent to Joy Marsh of Dover CID were charged to the credit card of one James Meakins. The woman here says she knows him. He’s one of the Meakins estate agents family. They’ve got a place a few doors down. She also says he’s a bit weird.’
‘Take her home and get back here,’ said Romney.
‘You want me to have a look in Meakins’. Just in case?’
‘No. Hurry up.’
‘What are you like with computers, James?’ said Romney.
‘Good. I do lots of online research.’
‘Sit down then. I need your help. I need the home address of anyone we can identify as having a connection with the Dover branch of Meakins’ esta
te agents, especially one James Meakins.’
Romney rang down to Blanchett and brought him up to date while James Peters’ hands skittered across the keys, like hyperactive spiders.
Superintendent Vine sat down to watch and wait.
James Peters quickly got a list of phone numbers up on the screen for the name Meakins. All started with the Dover area code.
‘You start at the top and work your way down. I’ll start at the bottom and work up,’ said Romney. ‘We’re after James Meakins the estate agent. Does he live there? If not, do they know where he does live?’
Romney’s third call bore fruit. He’d rung James Meakins’ uncle, the man who ran the Dover branch.
After Romney had introduced himself, he said, ‘Mr Meakins, it’s imperative that I get hold of James immediately. Do you have a mobile number for him or a home number?’
Mr Meakins gave Romney both.
Romney rang the mobile.
*
Muttering under his breath at her slowness, Spicer had waited for the woman who ran the florists to set the alarm and lock up. When she’d got back into the police car, she remembered she’d left her bag in the shop. While she was back fumbling with the locks and the alarm so she could retrieve it, he had walked down to look in Meakins’ window. Just to be doing something.