A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4)

by Oliver Tidy

  A murmur of general agreement rippled through the audience. Joy had not been to such an event before but she was surprised at what she had witnessed so far – in a bad way. It was not at all what she had expected.

  To emphasise her point, the businesswoman turned her back and click-clacked back to the desk. Stephanie smiled again, made an apologetic face and took a deep breath to continue. But before she was able to utter another sound a familiar voice from the front, loud and clear, said: ‘Do you practise sock-puppetry, Stephanie?’

  Joy had no idea what sock-puppetry was and she could see from the troubled faces of others around her that she was not alone. She looked back at Stephanie and was not sure that she was looking at the same person. A significant change of expression had settled on her features. Gone was the endearingly-hopeful, friendly mask of the debutant. In its place was the hard, angry, experienced look of someone who had fought for things. Joy now saw a woman who had struggled and battled for something and was preparing to defend it to the death if need be.

  Stephanie came to the front of the stage and folded her arms deliberately. A chair scraped back behind her and she took a moment to wave the woman who had sprung to her defence once for her to stay where she was.

  Arms back in position across her chest, Stephanie said, ‘What?’ and Joy felt that had a rat broken wind behind the skirting board she would have heard it.

  ‘It’s a simple question, Steph – or do you prefer Matron, which I understand is one of your online alter egos?’

  Stephanie Lather flushed a deep, angry crimson. ‘Who are you?’

  Now the woman behind her was coming out from behind the desk and talking. Her expression had changed too. She was now looking worried for her client. ‘I think that we should leave it there for the moment, Stephanie. Let’s take a break, everyone. Get a coffee and reconvene in fifteen minutes.’

  Stephanie gave no indication that she was leaving. Nor did anyone else. They had ringside seats that they’d paid handsomely for.

  The heckler stood, which Joy felt was considerate of her. ‘My name is Jemima Dune. You’ve heard of me, I think, but we’ve never met.’

  The crowd’s collective gaze switched back to the stage. Stephanie’s colour had lightened by several shades of rouge.

  ‘What’s up, Steph? Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Stephanie. But it was clear to Joy that she did.

  She was turning to leave when another female member of the audience was on her feet and calling out: ‘What about me, Steph, or do you prefer Dixie? My name’s Stevie Maybe. Remember me?’

  Stephanie looked to the source of the noise. Her eyes were wide now and Joy fancied she saw something unpleasant and volatile welling up in her – a geyser of fury.

  ‘Over here, Steph, or is it Victoria Sponge?’ Stephanie stopped and turned, unable to resist or ignore the jeer. ‘My name’s Stella Reach. Do you remember me? Why don’t you answer the question? Do you practise sock-puppetry? Here’s another question: do you use fake online identities to slag off your fellow self-published authors while raving about your own books?’

  Stephanie’s mouth opened wide. And then shut to form a hard line above a strong jaw. The look she shot that particular woman might have led to a simple act of violence if Stephanie’s entourage had not physically hustled her from the stage.

  While over a hundred of Stephanie’s fans sat in stunned silence, first one and then the other two who had heckled to such devastating effect seized the moment and the empty stage, like an attacking force seizing abandoned high ground. The only thing they were missing was their flag. Joy sensed a palpable cocktail of confusion, irritation and anger in the conference room. It was something in danger of turning nasty. With a racing pulse, she prepared herself for intervention.

  The one who had identified herself as Jemima Dune held her arms aloft to still the shuffling and murmuring and said, ‘No doubt you are all wondering what that was about. Well let me tell you. Stephanie Lather, that author you all love, is guilty of some very sharp, unethical and immoral practice. Over the last two years she has systematically, spitefully and deliberately sought to rubbish the work of her fellow self-published authors while heaping all manner of praise on her own books through the various Internet outlets available. We three are market-place competition for Stephanie. You may have even heard of us. For those who didn’t or couldn’t hear, I am Jemima Dune, and my colleagues are Stevie Maybe and Stella Reach. We three have seen our books thoroughly and systematically rubbished by Stephanie’s outrageous, poisonous and spiteful online campaigns. And our sales and chances of achieving what she has manufactured for herself have suffered horribly as a result. You should know this. Everyone should know this. It is immoral, dishonest and entirely wrong.’

  After a moment’s silence, someone shouted out, ‘Prove it.’

  ‘With pleasure. Make a note of this web address, ‘InnerWorldofLather.com’ – no spaces – and see for yourself. It’s all there. Evidence of the most damning nature. Comments she’s made. Proof that she is behind the fake online identities she’s created to promote her own books and rubbish ours.’

  ‘Is it illegal?’ said an old woman one row in front of Joy.

  ‘No. Sadly, it is not. It is shameful. It is wrong. It is dishonourable. It is unethical. It is many bad things, but it is not illegal.’

  ‘Why does she do it?’ called another.

  ‘That’s a good question. Why indeed? She doesn’t need to. Her books are great. She delivers on her writing promises. It is a question I would dearly love to hear her answer. But she won’t. We’ve all contacted her privately and she has never replied.’

  People were making noises now – more dark whisperings and fidgeting on furniture. Sensing this, the little group’s speaker raised her voice once more: ‘We are genuinely sorry your morning has been ruined. Perhaps you feel that this is nothing to do with you, not your fight, and we should have kept you out of it. That is not how we feel. As Edmund Burke could have famously remarked: the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good women do nothing. Well, we are doing something. Stephanie needs to be brought to account for her actions, her evil practices.’ She interrupted herself to turn as two large and slightly uncomfortable-looking men came through the entrance at the rear of the stage behind her. Jemima Dune held up her index finger to them and said very loudly, ‘We are leaving now. We can find our own way out. We hope that Stephanie will honour her obligations and return to finish her talk with you and carry out her book-signing event. Again, we apologise to you and urge you to think hard on what you have witnessed and to use the web address to investigate further. Thank you.’

  With that the three of them turned and, heads held high, walked to the back of the stage and out of the door. No one seemed to know what to do. Some stood and looked about themselves vaguely. Everyone, it seemed, was waiting for someone else’s lead.

  The door at the back of the stage opened once more. The stern-faced woman click-clacked quickly and crossly to the front of the stage. Quiet fell on the room. When she spoke it seemed that she was bearing those who had turned up to support Stephanie some barely-concealed malice, maybe even holding the audience partly responsible for sitting mutely and tamely by as the author was given her mauling.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Stephanie has been greatly distressed by the accusations levelled against her by those... women. I’m afraid that she will not be able to continue and the book-signing event will not now proceed. Stephanie hopes that, as her fans, you understand.’

  ‘Is it true?’ shouted a fat middle-aged woman emboldened by precedents that had been set and, perhaps, also by her displeasure at the accusations.

  ‘We will be seeking legal advice regarding what has happened here. You can be sure of that.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked?’ said the woman.

  ‘Until Stephanie’s lawyers have had a chance to consider what action is appropriate,
that is all I am prepared to say on the subject.’

  ‘What about our ticket money?’ called out another brave soul. This got a good deal of noise going.

  The ice-maiden got colder. ‘Keep your tickets,’ she said. ‘We’ll work something out if it’s so important to you.’ She cast one final venomous look in that particular person’s direction and left.

  Along with everyone else, Joy had little choice but to leave disconsolately. They left the conference room grumbling and mumbling as they were entitled to and looking and sounding like a workforce who’d just been told redundancies were likely.

  Joy helped herself to another coffee and a couple of biscuits and went to sit in the sun on the little veranda that overlooked the beach. She was as disappointed as everyone else but there was nothing to be done about it. She thought about phoning Justin and surprising him with news of her availability to meet up with him and the children. But that idea didn’t last long. What she wanted, what she needed, she realised, was a good walk on her own in the fresh air and the sunshine. She finished her drink and set off in the direction of the Prince of Wales Pier.

  *

  Tom Romney woke late, fully clothed and lying on his bedroom floor. He felt physically sick and his head ached horribly. That hadn’t happened for a very long time. He struggled in vain to recollect how he got there – what had gone before. He had a fuzzy recollection of Grimes’ involvement. He hadn’t got in such a state for years and he had to go and do it with Grimes staying in the house.

  He managed to sit on the edge of the bed. A wave of nausea washed through him and he fought it down. He belched and tasted pizza and beer and something sweeter – whisky. He shuddered. A couple of deep breaths and he forced himself to believe he could make the bathroom without incident. With a concrete resolve, he gritted his teeth, stood, focussed completely on the task and put one foot quickly in front of the other. He pushed open the bathroom door to be hit by a wall of trapped fumes – evidence of Grimes’ recent flouting of the rules again. Unable to help himself, he rushed to the toilet and – with little care for his nearness to the scene of Grimes’ latest house-guest crime – gripped the sides of the bowl and roared up the contents of his stomach.

  One hour, two slices of dry toast, three cups of black coffee and four aspirin later, Romney was slumped in a plastic chair in the back garden in the sunshine. He felt a little better. Showered and in clean comfortable clothes, he had his eyes closed. He was really quite hungry. He had searched for the remains of the previous evening’s pizza but found only the empty box stuffed inside the bin. He didn’t remember eating it all. He didn’t remember clearing up. But then he didn’t remember much of anything. He wondered with a sinking spirit what sort of a spectacle he had made of himself in front a man who made Ena Sharples appear the soul of discretion. And then he remembered his intention to go and watch The Whites play in the cup that afternoon and quickly changed his mind. In his condition he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d just have to hope that they’d scrape through without him and get another home draw. When he’d finished with that pointless exercise he hoped to a god he didn’t believe in that nothing happened in the town that necessitated his attendance.

  He had been dozing comfortably for some time when his mobile phone beckoned from the lounge.

  ***

  8

  The seafront was unusually busy with cars and people. Romney had to double park or leave himself a walk of some distance – something he didn’t want in his fragile state. He double parked. An ambulance and a brace of police vehicles showed that the cavalry had arrived. Uniforms in their fluorescent jackets stood around being present and correct.

  There were a lot of smartly dressed couples walking in the sunshine on the promenade – suits and dresses. There were lots of hats. And little boys and girls wearing silly outfits. All became clear when Romney noticed the highly-polished Rolls-Royce complete with an isosceles triangle of white ribbon tied between wing mirrors and bonnet mascot. That’s all he needed – a wedding fight and a fatality. The local press would be all over it.

  Romney spotted Marsh, trod out his cigarette, stuffed two sticks of chewing gum in his mouth and walked over to where she stood outside the Dover Marina Hotel speaking with a thin and tall elderly woman dressed completely in brown – not very weddingy. The old woman was wearing a wide-brimmed beige hat. She put Romney in mind of a standard lamp his last ex-wife had taken when she cleared out. He hadn’t been sorry to see the back of either of them. Marsh saw him coming and made her excuses.

  Marsh took in his grey complexion, sunken eyes and tired expression. He looked much older than the last time she’d seen him. ‘You all right, sir? You don’t look so good.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He sounded irritable.

  ‘Sorry about the game.’

  ‘What game?’

  ‘Dover FC. I thought you had plans to watch them this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, that. That’s the life of a copper for you. And it’s not Dover FC; it’s Dover Athletic FC. You might like to remember that if you’re thinking of staying long in the town. The locals can be a bit touchy about it.’ He didn’t want to answer any more questions about why he wasn’t there so he changed the subject. ‘Station said to expect a suspicious death. Don’t tell me they were at each other’s throats before they’d even cut the cake?’

  ‘Station were right, sir. I haven’t been in yet. I’m not sure if I should.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was here this morning for an event.’

  ‘Really? What event?’

  ‘A talk by an author and a book-signing.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the wedding?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So why are you talking about it?’

  Marsh looked suitably confused. ‘Why are you talking about the wedding?’

  ‘Hasn’t there been trouble at the wedding?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  Romney massaged his temples. ‘Someone’s died in suspicious circumstances but they weren’t part of the wedding?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Who was the author this morning?’

  ‘Stephanie Lather.’

  ‘Never heard of her. What does she write?’ Romney’s interest was piqued, as it always would be by any mention of writers and books. He was also a little disappointed to have missed something like that. It didn’t happen very often in Dover. There was no Waterstones to tempt the big names out into the sticks with promises of bolstering sales and bathing in the adoration of sycophantic readers.

  Signed books were special objects to the DI. He had a decent collection still boxed up at his home awaiting the renovation of the room that would one day house his collection.

  ‘Choc-lit.’

  ‘Chocolate?’

  ‘Choc-lit. It’s a term used to describe a genre.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Choc is short for chocolate and lit is an abbreviation of literature.’

  ‘Chocolate literature? I still don’t understand. Is that a reference to what they write in, on or with? Or is it something to do with the shelf-life of the writing?’

  Marsh decided he couldn’t be too off colour if he had the energy and inclination to exercise his awkward side. ‘It just means the sort of story you’d read while eating a box of chocolates, I suppose.’

  ‘There are established genres for what you’d eat while reading? That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘You’re over-simplifying. Being too literal.’

  ‘What sort of stories?’

  ‘Romantic fiction, mainly.’

  ‘Oh.’ And like a candle’s flame between spit-moistened finger and thumb his interest was extinguished. ‘Victim got a name yet?’

  Marsh resisted the temptation to correct him that the victim had had a name since she’d been born. ‘Stephanie Lather. She was the author we all came to hear speak.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’


  ‘You didn’t give me a chance, sir.’

  ‘Lather? Writing romantic fiction? Is that her real name?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Amazing. What do we know?’

  ‘Just that she’s died in suspicious circumstances, sir. I beat you here by about five minutes.’

  ‘You only live down the road.’

  ‘I was out.’

  Romney followed Marsh’s wandering attention. To their shared dismay, a bouffant of piled-up ginger hair – or a wedding guest with a particularly odd taste in hats – could be seen working its way through the little sea of heads that had gathered at the arrival of the emergency services and the rumour of the suspicious death of a somebody. Superintendent Vine’s hairdo cut through the throng like a shark’s fin heading for the feeding frenzy.

  The station’s matriarch broke free of the crowd and, spotting her officers, made a beeline for them. Although it was Saturday she was dressed in her police uniform and it was clear to both Romney and Marsh that she was probably not one to view weekends as days of rest. She carried her regulation hat at her side and it struck Romney that the reason she wasn’t wearing it was that she understood how ridiculous it would look balanced on top of her piled-up mane, like some pointless, inedible cake decoration.

  ‘Shit,’ said Romney under his breath. ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector Romney. Joy.’

  They offered their ma’ams.

  ‘Another suspicious death?’

  ‘What do you mean, another one, ma’am?’ said Romney worrying for a moment that he might have missed something important while he was comatose on his bedroom floor – a killing spree, perhaps.

  ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten about Bernard Stark already, Inspector? It was only yesterday. Are you all right? You look ill.’

  The chide brought a little colour back into Romney’s cheeks. ‘I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.’