by Oliver Tidy
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Good man. Take care.’
‘You too, sir.’
Romney stood and watched as his old boss negotiated the parked vehicles and other obstacles of the confined space to drive out of the gate, out of sight and out of the police. He felt a little sad for it. The end of an era.
As he stood indulging his melancholy, he became aware of an insistent tapping on glass. A memory was stirred and it confused him. The only person who ever tapped on windows for his attention had just driven out of the gate. He looked up to see Superintendent Vine staring down at him. In a horrible moment of history repeating itself, she crooked her finger at him and beckoned him up. She wasn’t smiling.
*
Vine was deep in conversation with a man wearing the uniform of the professional painter and decorator: white cap, white dungarees over a white T-shirt. His clothes were splattered with emulsion from previous jobs. After a few seconds of being ignored, Romney rapped on the doorframe. They looked up and stopped their talk.
‘Come in, Detective Inspector. Give us a minute, would you?’ she said to the tradesman. He nodded and left. ‘Close the door and sit down.’ Romney did as he was told. She took Falkner’s old chair the other side of Falkner’s old desk without ceremony or obvious sentimentality.
Superintendent Vine put Romney in mind of Boudicca, or rather the more imaginative and colourful artists’ impressions he remembered from school of the leader of the Iceni. Like the Boudicca of his textbooks, Vine exuded harsh authority. Like Boudicca, she was a tall and well built, athletic-looking woman, but her closest resemblance to the fearsome female warrior was her extraordinarily bright orange and dynamically-curly hair. At present, Romney could see this was restrained using a number of pins, clips, a band and probably a good deal of spray. She had a strong but not big nose, good bone structure and sharp, intelligent, pale grey eyes. Her face was a mass of freckles. She was certainly imposing and striking and therefore probably regarded as photogenic by the powers that be. Good equal opportunities publicity for the force – female and ginger. He guessed she was in her early forties. He looked for evidence of her marital status, but she seemed averse to wearing any jewellery at all. Romney idly wondered what she’d look like with a bit of mud and woad smeared across her cheeks. Or was that the Celts?
He was startled out his reverie by her strong, educated voice asking him a question that he was quite unprepared for. ‘Do you know why I’m here, Inspector Romney?’ Her tone did not suggest she might soon call for tea and biscuits.
He gave the first answer that came to mind, even though as he spoke it sounded a little facetious to his own ears. ‘Because Superintendent Falkner has retired and we need a commanding officer, ma’am.’
She studied him for a long and uncomfortable moment. ‘This station needs a lot of things, Inspector. An effective commanding officer is just one of them. This station needs some discipline. This station needs a bloody good shake-up. This station needs someone to turn it around and lead it by the nose so that it might catch up with the rest of Kent police. That’s why I’m here, Inspector.’
Romney just nodded. It seemed the right thing to do. Speaking didn’t.
‘I’m not revealing any great secrets when I tell you that Area is extremely concerned with the way things have been run and done here over the last year. Area is looking for quick and significant improvement. Area is looking for the depressing reading that is the statistics of this station to alter some of their trends – and soon. And CID is cause for concern. Am I making myself clear, Inspector?’
Romney felt his body temperature rising and had to wonder if she’d put the heating on.
‘Remind me: how many officers work in CID here?’
Romney was tempted to say, ‘about half of them.’ He didn’t think she’d laugh. Instead, he said, ‘There are six of us, ma’am. But one has been on extended sick leave for nearly three months.’
‘Why?’
‘Back injury.’
‘In the line of duty?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He fell off a chair hanging a curtain in CID.’
She raised her eyes to the ceiling and then quietly shook her head.
‘So, there are five CID officers available for duty.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Have they got enough to do?’
‘Ma’am?’ Romney was generally puzzled by what she meant by that.
‘Is CID busy enough to warrant six officers?’
‘We’re actually four and one acting DC. He was taken out of uniform because the four of us couldn’t cope.’ Shit. That didn’t sound good when he replayed it.
Thankfully, she seemed not to feel the same. ‘Where are they all now?’
‘In the CID squad room, ma’am,’ he said, hoping to Christ they all were and not loitering around the cafeteria.
She drummed her manicured fingers on the desktop. ‘In thirty minutes’ time we’re going to have a meeting in CID. Is there a meeting room?’ Romney nodded. ‘I want all five officers present. Organise it. What I have to say I’m only going to say once. I might as well say it to all of you so there is no confusion with Chinese whispers.’ Was that code for she didn’t trust him? She stood and so did Romney. ‘Send him back in on your way out, would you?’
*
Heading back to CID, Romney met his uniformed opposite number hurrying along a corridor.
‘Hello, Tom.’
‘Clive. Where’s the fire?’
‘Under my arse. The new boss wants to see me.’
Romney shared a grin. ‘Good luck. I’ve just come from there. Do you know why she’s here?’ The uniformed inspector shook his head. ‘I won’t spoil it for you then. It’s quite a speech. How’s that PC I shared my coffee with this morning?’
‘She’ll live. You might get a cleaning bill. A box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers might stop her making an official complaint.’
*
Next stop was the gents. Preferring the privacy of the cubicles to the exposure of the urinals, he was standing preparing to perform his bodily function when two officers burst through the main door, speaking loudly.
‘Yeah, well, you can take it from me, things won’t be the same around here any more. Old Falkner might have been one part soft, three parts useless but trust me, after a few weeks in the grip of the ginger-ninja, we’ll wish he was back turning his blind eyes.’
Romney heard them relieving themselves and had to clench his buttocks tightly to prevent betraying his presence, something he suddenly didn’t want to do.
‘Mate of mine, works traffic out of Maidstone, says she went in there like a blood-thirsty Eskimo on a timed seal cull. Half of CID kicked out, demoted, put back into uniform or moved on. Even a DI got taken down to DS.’ They were washing their hands, now. ‘One person’s shoes I would not like to be in at the moment is Romney’s. Not for all the chicken chow mein in China.’ They laughed.
As Romney heard the door open and close and the still-laughing men leave, he let his stream go. His great relief at that was tempered by his niggling anxiety at what he’d just overheard.
***
2
Romney went to CID and spoke to DC Harmer and the young man new to upstairs, acting DC Fower, about making themselves available in the meeting room shortly.
Detective Sergeant Marsh was at her desk. Grimes tested the properties of a chair next to her. Both were staring intently at the monitor of her computer. As Romney approached, they looked up – a little guiltily, he thought. By the time he was with them it was Marsh’s desktop image that filled the screen. He said nothing. If it wasn’t work-related, he didn’t want to know.
He perched on the next table, something he hadn’t been able to do comfortably for a while. ‘Our new super has called a meeting of all CID personnel. Don’t go anywhere. She’ll be up soon.’
‘What for, gov?’ sai
d Grimes.
‘No idea. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up she’s handing out merit badges or homemade cookies. Did you use the bathroom scales this morning?’
‘Might have.’
‘Well you’ve broken them. They don’t go back to zero. And you left a plate in there.’
‘Sorry, gov. I was in a rush once I saw what the time was.’
‘And what did we agree about using the toilet? If you want to take a dump use the WC by the laundry room. I keep my toothbrush in the bathroom. You could at least have opened a window.’
‘Right, gov. Sorry. Won’t happen again. I was caught short just as I was getting in the shower.’
Romney made a face, checked his watch, stood and went into his office.
‘What did he mean: he keeps his toothbrush in the bathroom? Where else would you keep it?’ said Marsh.
Grimes let a small belch escape him behind his hand. ‘It’s not that. It’s his Particle Theory.’
‘You mean the kinetic theory of matter?’
‘Eh? How do you know about that?’
‘I’m interested in physics.’
‘Really?’ said Grimes, sounding quite unimpressed. ‘No, it’s not quite as complex as that. Governor has this theory about poo particles. That’s why he doesn’t want me crapping in his bathroom.’
‘Poo particles?’
Grimes reclined and the chair protested. He folded his hands across his impressive waistline. ‘When I moved in, he gave me this big lecture about dos and don’ts. Part of that was his poo particle theory. He reckons that because shit stinks that proves there must be tiny poo particles circulating in the air after someone’s pinched a loaf. Think pollen. If there weren’t, we wouldn’t be able to smell it. Right?’
‘Makes sense.’
‘So, these poo particles are obviously invisible to the naked eye, like dust particles. But reason suggests that they must be heavier than the normal air particles because of their extra ingredient. Right?’ Marsh was nodding. ‘When they eventually stop flying around in the air they must succumb to gravity and fall to rest on whatever surfaces are around. He says that because a bathroom stinks after a dump the air must be full of particles of poo, which suggests some will inevitably settle on anything and everything in there, including toothbrushes. He says he doesn’t want to be brushing his teeth with my shit. His words not mine. He gave me a good demonstration to back up his theory. It certainly makes you think.’
‘Hang on. Demonstration?’
‘Tipped some talc into the palm of his hand and just blew on it. It went everywhere.’
‘He’s really thought about it, hasn’t he?’
‘It’s also why he’s imposed a moratorium on farting anywhere in shared spaces. He doesn’t want something that’s come out of my arse, through the gusset of my underpants, to end up in his nasal passages. Again, his words not mine.’
Marsh looked like she might be sick and nodded. ‘I can completely understand his sentiments even if some of his science might be a bit shaky. Other than that, how’s it working out?’
‘Fine. My room’s bigger than mine and Maureen’s back home. Bed’s a bit small though and soft for my liking. He’s got a great big widescreen plasma TV and satellite. Don’t think much of his bread though. Full of seeds. I’m still picking bits of toast out of my teeth.’
Marsh worried that Grimes was taking a rather egocentric view of being a guest in someone else’s home, particularly as it was the home of a senior officer they shared, a man with a reputation for irritability. ‘How long before they finish putting your place back together?’
‘Could be months. Builder reckons structural damage might be worse than they first thought.’
Marsh didn’t like the sound of that or the way Grimes said it. She had been working out of Dover CID for only a year, but one case as Romney’s sergeant was long enough to have learned what a misery guts her DI could be if he had things or people in his orbit to annoy him on a regular basis. And if he was made miserable he wasn’t the type to keep it locked inside – everyone around him bore the brunt of it. She didn’t like to think what the atmosphere in CID could degenerate to if Grimes imposed on his hospitality for months.
Grimes had been living with the DI for a less than a fortnight. Already she sensed that Romney’s uncharacteristically generous offer to put the big man up while the builders were in was probably something that he was bitterly regretting, especially if Grimes wasn’t making an effort to be a considerate guest.
She had been forced to wonder what Romney had been thinking of to even consider such a thing, let alone actually offer it. Even at work it would be clear to a blind man that Romney found Grimes’ personal habits disgusting. He made no secret of, or attempt to hide, his disdain for the man’s general manner. Maybe all that was just an act. They seemed to get on well enough on the occasions they went out for drinks after work.
It had been good of him. No doubt about it. A truly charitable act. (Romney had vetoed the term Christian). When Grimes had shuffled into work looking like something out of the latest Hollywood zombie movie, claiming that he hadn’t slept a minute of the previous night because of his changed circumstances, Romney had taken pity on him. And in truth, he had looked both pitiable and pitiful.
In the small hours of a weekday morning in sustained and furious gales, a large tree from a neighbouring garden had been toppled to crash through the roof of the Grimes’ residence. The damage was substantial.
Grimes’ sister-in-law had offered to put up husband, wife and two teenage children but their place was so small that Grimes was sleeping on a two-seater sofa with the dog. It was not an ideal arrangement for a member of CID or someone of Grimes’ size.
When Grimes had told his sorry story over morning coffee an awkward silence had fallen on those gathered. Of the four other members of CID present one still lived with his mum, one was married with a baby, one was Marsh – a single woman with a one-bed flat – and the other was DI Romney, who was not only a Godparent to one of the Grimes’ offspring but also lived alone in a large four-bedroom country house.
‘Isn’t there somewhere else you can stay?’ said Marsh.
‘Not for free. And we couldn’t afford to pay for it. Besides, I quite like the governor’s place. It’s big and quiet. I don’t mind a break from the kids for a few weeks. I miss Maureen though. I wonder how he’d feel about her coming to stay if the kids stayed at my sisters. Maybe just on weekends?’
Marsh hoped he was joking. ‘Don’t even think about asking him. Look, I hope you don’t mind me shoving my oar in here but I do have to work with him, too. Number one, you’ve got to tell him how long you might be there for. That’s only fair. Two, if you go on breaking his rules and ticking him off for the next how-ever-long you’re there he’s going to become insufferable. And that won’t be fair on the rest of us. You saw what he was like after Julie dumped him. Make myself clear?’
Grimes looked a little affronted. ‘Not really. Anyway, I think there was more to his mood then than just being jilted.’
‘Whatever. All I’m saying is: do us all a favour, will you, and toe the line while you’re there. Stay off his scales, stop leaving plates in the bathroom – what were you doing with food in the bathroom anyway? – and stop shitting on his toothbrush.’
It was quite a speech and Marsh was proud of herself. But it was also an illustration of how her relationship with Grimes – the man who had literally saved her life – had evolved. It wasn’t that she had recovered from that horrible and terrifying brush with the Grim Reaper in the form of ex-DS Wilkie feeling the need to constantly display her indebtedness to Grimes. As a police officer and his sergeant in a small CID, that would never have done. She had said at the time that he shouldn’t presume she was going to be bringing him homemade cakes into work every day. It was more that she had reassessed her opinion of him as a person. She would be eternally grateful for his intervention and bravery when former and disgraced DS Wilkie was trying
to throw her into the River Dour after dislocating her shoulder. More than that, his care and concern at the scene and his downplaying of his heroics during and since the whole episode – when he could have been expected to milk it – had made her see Grimes in a different light. They had got on well enough as colleagues before that incident, but with his actions and subsequent behaviour Grimes’ had found a place in Marsh’s affections. And that, she felt, entitled her to speak her mind to him, like adult siblings, without fear of any serious harm or long-term damage being done to their relationship. Besides, everyone knew that as well as the appetite and bearing of an Ice Age mammoth, Grimes had the hide to match.
So, like a well-meaning sibling imparting good advice to a fool-to-himself brother, Marsh was a little peeved to see that Grimes’ attention had wandered. He stood up. She looked around to find Superintendent Vine standing behind her clutching folders to her ample bosom, and made a mental note to remember that the new station chief had the ability to make a silent approach.
‘Who is shitting on whose toothbrush?’ said Superintendent Vine.
Marsh got hurriedly to her feet. ‘Just a figure of speech, ma’am.’
‘I’m not a big fan of bad language, Joy. It demonstrates a sad lack of vocabulary and laziness on the part of the speaker. That’s something else I need to talk to CID about. Where is the meeting room? And where is Detective Inspector Romney?’
As the station’s new matriarch turned to the sound of Romney exiting his office, Marsh looked at Grimes, who mouthed her first name at her and made a face.
*
Superintendent Vine declined Romney’s offer to have refreshments organised.