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

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘Coffee then? My treat.’

  ‘If I can choose the place.’

  Romney gave her a half smile, which she might have missed in the absence of light. ‘All right. Sammy Coker’s it’s not, I take it?’

  ‘You take it right, sir.’

  They didn’t speak again of Mr Sparrow or the children on the short drive to the Premier Inn on the seafront. Romney expressed his disappointment at her choice of location but Marsh put him straight by telling him that as it was only a stone’s throw from her apartment she sometimes dropped in for a coffee in the bar and it was as good as any other she’d found in the town. And there was always plenty of room and comfort and quiet.

  Marsh found a table with two comfortable armchairs away from the main seating area while Romney ordered drinks at the bar. As she waited for him she absently allowed her gaze to swing around the room – a police officer’s habit. Sitting in a secluded alcove were three women that Marsh recognised.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Romney when he returned.

  ‘You remember I told you about three women who heckled Stephanie Lather this morning?’ He nodded. ‘They’re sitting over there.’

  Romney turned to look. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Well that’s a stroke of luck then, isn’t it? Let’s go and make their evening.’ He smiled rather malevolently, certainly without warmth. With a sense of dread, Marsh did hope he would manage to keep a rein on his unpleasant side.

  They had appeared positively garrulous in their ignorance of the police approaching. All talk dried up as Romney’s intimidating form loomed over them.

  ‘We’re not doing autographs,’ said a very thin woman wearing a long vibrantly-green dress and keeping a straight face. She wore a string of fat, green plastic beads, a green beret at a jaunty angle, chunky green earrings, green tights and green shoes. She reminded Romney of someone he’d once seen on the telly dressed as a giant runner bean. Her face was a collection of harsh angular features, like a small bag of door handles, and framed by hair that Romney expected to be green but was in fact rather disappointingly brown. Her friends laughed.

  ‘That’s good because I’m not asking for any,’ he said. ‘I’m only interested in signed books, not beer mats.’ He brandished his warrant card. ‘Dover police. Detective Inspector Romney and this is Detective Sergeant Marsh.’

  ‘Romney and Marsh, as in the place?’ said the bean.

  ‘No. Romney and Marsh as in the police,’ growled Romney. ‘We were told we’d find you here,’ he lied and they weren’t laughing any more.

  ‘And why are Dover police looking for us?’ said an extremely fat woman of less than average height whose voice betrayed an undertone of concern at the news. She looked like she’d eaten all the pies and then the baker.

  ‘Mind if we join you?’ said Romney. And without waiting for a reply he quickly organised a couple of chairs.

  Their coffee arrived at the table they’d just vacated and Romney signalled the man to bring it over. Marsh thought he seemed to enjoy the minute’s awkward silence as things were arranged. She also noticed furtive looks being traded by the three women and had to wonder if Romney’s improvisation wasn’t designed to give them just such an opportunity.

  Romney took a sip of his black filter coffee and made a noise of appreciation in the back of his throat. Then he smiled at the ladies. It wasn’t a disarming smile. It was the sort of smile a drunken Glaswegian might give before head-butting an unsuspecting man who just happened to be at his elbow.

  ‘First things first: can you confirm that you are the three women who spoiled everyone’s morning over at the Dover Marina Hotel today?’

  The runner bean said, ‘If you mean are we the three who called Stephanie Lather to account over her unethical online behaviour, then yes. And we did nothing illegal. And nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘If anyone has behaved in a manner that warrants prosecution it is Stephanie Lather,’ said the short fat one. ‘Hang on. Are you here because she’s made an official complaint? To the police?’

  Romney frowned. ‘You do know what’s happened this afternoon, don’t you? I mean, the Dover Marina Hotel is only a loud shout from this place.’

  A tremor of unease rippled round the table. The woman who had so far remained silent was clearly the youngest of the three. She was dressed casually in jeans and fleece top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail to reveal a handsome well-proportioned face, which matched her apparently well-proportioned body, making her something of a freak in the company she was keeping. She said, ‘We three have spent a pleasant afternoon marvelling at Dover Castle, Detective Inspector. We returned about an hour ago and have been in here ever since. Now, I think it might be helpful if you just get whatever you have to say off your chest and let us get on with our evening.’ She had a nice speaking voice, too.

  Romney wasn’t to be so easily cowed in the face of the three who – collectively at least – clearly felt none of the typical intimidation that ordinary members of the public so often displayed when confronted by DI Romney in caustic-offence mode.

  Romney smiled in this woman’s direction and there was something genuine in it. ‘Getting there, Mrs..?’

  ‘Dune. Ms Jemima Dune.’

  Romney looked from one to the other of the other two and waited.

  ‘Stevie Maybe,’ said the runner bean, eventually.

  ‘Stella Reach,’ said the short fat one.

  ‘Thank you. Mind me asking why you’re all here? Are you staying here?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Ms Dune. ‘None of us lives around here and we thought that we’d make a weekend of it.’

  ‘A weekend of what, exactly? Bating Stephanie Lather?’

  ‘Oh really, Inspector. I have to say that I’m finding your “technique” rather parochially predictable and tiresome,’ said Ms Dune.

  ‘Someone who looked a lot like Stephanie Lather was murdered in Stephanie Lather’s room this afternoon. Brutally murdered. I’ve just spent a rather unpleasant half an hour with her husband and two little kids, whose lives will never be the same again. And I’m looking for suspects.’

  That shut them up.

  There was nothing obviously personal or emotional about Romney’s sharing. Just a matter-of-fact recount. In the ensuing silence, Romney noticed that the tides in their glasses were out. ‘Same again?’ he said.

  That surprised them.

  They all looked like they could do with another. His offer was accepted with murmured thanks and he signalled a waiter over. Marsh credited her DI with having worked himself a position with the women where they still could, but probably now wouldn’t, tell him politely to bugger off.

  ‘So you’ve all been up at the Castle for the afternoon?’ said Romney.

  The runner bean reached into her handbag and produced a guidebook and tickets for three. She laid them on the table between them. ‘Not absolute proof, of course,’ she said. ‘But it’s a start. I’m sure there are CCTV cameras there that can substantiate our claims.’

  ‘There are indeed, Ms Maybe. I shall have then checked tomorrow. Now, how do you all feel about helping the police with their enquiries?’

  They looked at each other and there seemed no hint of disinclination.

  ‘Good,’ said Romney. ‘I need to start learning things about Stephanie Lather and a little bird tells me you three might know quite a bit.’

  ‘Just a minute, Inspector,’ said Ms Dune. ‘You said that someone who looked a lot like Stephanie was murdered.’ Romney nodded once. ‘So if it wasn’t Stephanie, why don’t you just ask her what you need to know?’

  ‘She’s rather inconveniently disappeared.’

  Ms Dune’s eyes grew wide. ‘Is she a suspect?’

  ‘Until I find out who did it, Ms Dune, everyone’s a suspect.’

  The three did some shifting in their seats, but not with anything resembling obvious guilty discomfort. It was more like the barely-contained excitement of
juicy gossip and shocking revelations. Perhaps the seed of a plot line had already been planted. After watching their performance that morning, Marsh suspected strongly that this was manna from heaven for these three. Even better than Stephanie dead would be Stephanie wanted for murder – discredited rather than martyred. If it did nothing else, the scandal would provide a vehicle for potential media coverage of the day’s events and that could mean the spotlight falling on them at some point and in turn their accusations would inevitably receive greater attention.

  ‘None of us knew Stephanie personally, Inspector,’ said Ms Dune.

  ‘But you know about her, don’t you? You know enough about her to take a trip out here for the weekend. She must have meant something to you.’

  He looked from one to the other and they seemed to have become reticent again, each waiting for the other’s lead.

  ‘Tell me what she did to upset you all. That would be a start. I don’t know anything about her. I didn’t even know she existed until I had to look at some poor woman’s smashed-in skull.’

  ‘She deliberately and consistently rubbished our writing on public forums. She did it anonymously and that sort of thing is inexcusable and unforgiveable,’ said Ms Maybe.

  ‘If she did it anonymously, how do you know it was her?’

  ‘She was sloppy. She didn’t cover her tracks very well. She let a few things slip and you of all people should know, Inspector, that there is no such thing as absolute Internet anonymity.’

  ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘Because we are competition for her in the genre and we were doing quite well. She saw us as a threat to her ambitions of being a best-seller,’ said Ms Reach.

  ‘And because she is a ruthless, desensitised paranoid and a driven woman,’ said Ms Dune.

  ‘It’s that important then, is it?’ said Romney.

  ‘Yes, Inspector. A few bad reviews and ratings can drop dramatically. And when ratings drop readers are statistically shown to be less inclined to download one’s books. In short, sales are affected. Our writing is our main source of income.’

  ‘Really?’ said Romney, showing his genuine surprise. ‘You can make money out of vanity publishing these days?’

  ‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t use that term, Inspector,’ said Ms Maybe. ‘There is very little of the vain about self-publishing today. It’s big business. If one is doing only fairly well royalty cheques each month can support a modest lifestyle.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It varies greatly depending on many factors.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as the number of books one has available, price, promotions, ranking, reviews. There are many complicated factors to consider. Many permutations.’

  ‘Have any of you got real books to your name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you want them?’

  ‘Speaking for myself, not really. You used the term vanity publishing, Inspector. If you ask me, traditional publishing is the new vanity publishing,’ said Jemima Dune.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘This whole sentimental and ultimately-vain wish to have real books, as you call them, of one’s writing. It all comes at a price. You have to have a literary agent and a publisher. They all tell you what to do; they take their cut of your money and you still have to do most of your own self-promotion unless you’re really big. You give up control of your writing. You get locked into contracts. All just so that you can have a physical book to put on your shelves and impress the neighbours. We three have ebooks, readers, income, control and satisfaction. None of us needs, or desperately wants, industry recognition. Of course, it is always nice to have one’s work recognised, whatever one does, but in this case seeking book deals would be simple vanity because none of us needs it. Don’t just take my word for it, Inspector. Have a look around the web. You’ll find an increasing number of traditionally-published authors lining up with those who have decided to take control of their own writing and enjoy more of the profits of their hard work by self-publishing.’

  ‘So why did Stephanie Lather get into bed with traditional publishing if it’s so wonderful being independent? Wouldn’t she have been giving up control and profits? Isn’t it like sleeping with the enemy?’

  Ms Reach said, ‘Stephanie is part of a new chapter in publishing, Inspector. Oh dear, please forgive that awful pun. Quite unintentional, I assure you. She is a new breed of author, if you will. Up until only a few years ago the publishing path was laid out in stone: one got an agent and then a traditional deal and then a publisher and the machine might make one rich and famous. Of course, there was always the real vanity publishing: filling one’s garage with a run of books that one had paid to have printed. All that’s being turned on its head, now. It is an increasing trend that if one can prove oneself in the market place – you’ll notice I’m talking in business terms, not the quality of writing; it’s always just business to them – then the agents and publishers will be forced to sit up and take notice. They come prowling around like hyenas circling a big juicy carcass and they offer their deals. Because what you’ve done as an author is proven yourself as a financially-viable investment. You’ve shown and created a significant demand for your product. And in doing that you’ve taken all the risk out of their interest in you as a marketable presence. Of course, this comes at a cost to the gatekeepers. They have to appreciate that this puts them in a position of weakness when it comes to thrashing out the details of a deal. And if one has really proven oneself, as Stephanie has, then the hyenas must also fight each other for the privilege of representation.’

  ‘I still don’t understand the benefits to Stephanie. If she was doing so well on her own, why give it up?’

  Ms Reach smiled benevolently at Romney as she prepared to prove her point. ‘Vanity, Inspector, for one thing. But if you can make the right deal then it also makes good business sense. Stephanie made the right deal. She held onto the rights for her ebooks and got into bed with the enemy, as you put it, for physical books and audio books and translations of her books into foreign languages – all things she couldn’t do on her own. There are some things that are beyond even the best of us. There are limits if one is to keep actually writing.’

  ‘Sounds like she’s doing very well for herself.’

  ‘She is and that’s what makes us so angry with her. She hurt us all and she didn’t need to. There has always been plenty of room for all of us.’

  ‘So why choose today to voice your disapproval?’

  ‘It seemed such a wonderful opportunity,’ said Ms Dune. ‘You must think us such heartless, unfeeling, jealous bitches.’

  ‘Not really, but I have heard someone else say something similar today.’

  ‘The sad fact is, Inspector, that Stephanie would have made it big without her campaigns of relentless vitriol. Her books and her writing are really very good.’

  ‘She wrote chocolate, I believe,’ said Romney, and Marsh gave him a sidelong glance.

  ‘It is pronounced choc-lit, Inspector,’ corrected Ms Reach.

  ‘Right. Choc-lit. Do all of you write chocolate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there a collective noun for people who write chocolate? Chocolatiers, perhaps?’

  ‘There is a collective noun, Inspector. The word you’re looking for is writers.’

  ‘I think that the Detective Inspector might be having a bit of fun with us, girls,’ said Ms Dune – and a smile teased at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Then the Inspector should be careful,’ said the fat one.

  ‘And why is that,’ said Romney, suppressing his own smile.

  ‘Because as writers we have unique opportunities to take our revenge on those who upset us. And I’m not talking about anything as crass as murder.’

  ‘What might that be then?’ said Romney.

  ‘Let me give you an example, Inspector. One quite impudent male reviewer who made the mistake, among others, of not hiding h
is identity made some rather derogatory comments online about my writing and found himself featured in my next novel.’

  ‘What’s so terrible about that?’

  ‘As a child-molester.’ She smiled tightly at him.

  ‘Do you know you’re dripping blood onto the carpet, Inspector?’ said Ms Dune ‘Someone else you’ve upset this afternoon, perhaps?’

  Romney and Marsh left the bar – and left behind enough business cards for the women to look like they were playing a few hands of pontoon before going into dinner.

  *

  The Premier Inn car park was as dark as the light pollution in that area of town would ever allow it to be. The rain of earlier had ceased. There was a salty tang in the air that hadn’t been noticeable earlier. The autumn of cold fronts, wet backs and Channel gales wasn’t far away.

  ‘That was interesting, don’t you think?’ said Romney.

  ‘We didn’t learn much.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I mean about the case, sir.’

  ‘No. Not about that. I don’t fancy any or all of them for it, do you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Still. We’d better check the CCTV. Take care of that, will you?’

  ‘For the sake of keeping an open mind, if Stephanie Lather isn’t the murderer, are we assuming that Rachael Sparrow was a case of mistaken identity? That Stephanie Lather was the intended victim?’

  ‘It’s certainly something to consider. Her agent, the manager and you all mistook her for the author.’

  ‘From behind.’

  ‘So that might tell us something else. If the assailant struck from behind in a surprise attack maybe he or she thought it was Stephanie. Then again, Rachael Sparrow must have been in the room with her killer and so the killer would have known, if not her identity, at least that she wasn’t Stephanie Lather.’

  ‘Unless she wasn’t in the room with her killer. Maybe she was in the room alone and the killer came in for a surprise attack and hit her from behind.’

  ‘What would she have been doing in the room on her own? And if the killer had come to the door and Rachael Sparrow had answered it then the killer would have seen her face – that it wasn’t Stephanie.’