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

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘Maybe Rachael Sparrow was the intended victim then.’

  ‘Another possibility. But why there? Why then? Maybe there was no premeditated victim. Maybe it was something spontaneous, opportunist. Maybe the assailant had no idea about whom he or she was murdering. Maybe Stephanie and her sister had a fight and things boiled over.’ Romney yawned loudly. ‘We can argue the toss till the cows come home but we really need to speak to Stephanie Lather. Something tells me she’ll have pertinent things to tell us. Find out how the search for her is going and let me know, will you?’

  Romney sighed heavily. ‘Traditional publishing is the new vanity publishing. Can you believe it? Ereaders and ebooks. What’s the world coming to?’

  ‘It’s called technological advancement, sir.’

  ‘Not by me, Sergeant. Not by me. Is nothing sacred? Caxton must be spinning in his grave.’

  ‘Actually, sir, I think he’d approve.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Well, the printing press was a revolution in book production. Ebooks are just another step on the reading evolution timeline. If he were alive today, I think he’d be at the forefront of the changes.’

  Romney grunted. ‘You want me to drop you off?’

  ‘No thanks, sir. I think I’ll stroll back along the front. Get some fresh air.’

  ‘Suit yourself. And mind how you go. You get some nutters down here when the sun goes down.’

  ‘Thanks for the warning. You didn’t pay for their drinks, did you?’

  ‘Now you mention it, I don’t think I did.’ Romney yawned loudly for the second time. ‘The waiter must have just assumed they were to go on their tab. Goodnight, Joy.’

  Marsh was so stunned at hearing her first name from her DI’s lips that she didn’t form a reply until after his car door was shut and his engine was running. With a quick wave, Romney pulled out of the car park and drove away.

  She was still shaking her head at him as she crossed the road to walk on the wide promenade that ran alongside the sea. She decided she’d take a stroll as far as the clock tower on the Esplanade by the pier before going home to an empty flat. She inhaled deeply the fresh night-time sea air and felt it rasp her insides. The coastal air was a pleasure she still enjoyed even after her many months in Dover.

  A cruise liner was moored over at the Western dock. The hundreds of little yellow cabin lights flickered across the dark water. Joy thought it a rather enchanting and spectacular sight. She’d seen the ship on her walk around the harbour area that afternoon. She wondered again where it had come from, where it was going to and for how long. And she speculated whether she would ever be able to afford a cruise – something she realised she could really enjoy every time she saw one of the big liners on one of their ever-more-frequent visits to Dover. Maybe she would take her mother when she had recovered. She’d often expressed a liking for the sea.

  She looked over at the front of the Dover Marina Hotel as she passed. Multi-coloured disco lights flashed and rotated randomly in one of the big downstairs rooms. The music pumped out, as disco music at weddings always will. A couple were having an argument on the little front terrace where she’d sunned herself that morning with a coffee. Joy wondered how the big day had turned out for the happy couple and whether their room shared the same corridor as the murder scene. Not very romantic.

  Walking back towards home, as she came alongside the big seafront shelter that had had most of its windows put out by the bored and anti-social element of the town’s youth she saw what looked like a body lying prostrate on the ground in the shadows. Shifting quickly back into police mode, she hurried across to it, prepared to offer assistance. As she knelt beside it there was the subtle noise of a quick movement behind her and then another came out of the darkest recess. In the split second before the first blow was landed Joy realised she had made a fundamental and stupid error.

  ***

  11

  Romney’s phone rang as he was driving. He didn’t stop to answer it.

  ‘Inspector Romney?’

  Romney recognised the clipped and chipped educated tones. ‘Hello, Mrs Allen.’

  ‘I thought you would like to know, I’ve managed to get in touch with Stephanie.’

  Romney pulled off the road. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At her London home. I gather she may have been drinking.’

  ‘What did you tell her, Mrs Allen?’

  ‘Of course, I told her what had happened.’

  ‘Did you describe the victim to her?’

  ‘Yes. I said we thought it was her at first.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m calling you. She took it very badly. I’m concerned for her welfare, Inspector. She sounded very drunk.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘My room at the hotel. You told me to stay here. When can I go home?’

  ‘I’ll get someone to come and take your statement tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Not before eleven, please. I treasure my Sunday lie-ins.’

  Romney asked for Stephanie Lather’s home address. Mrs Allen recited it and he wrote it down on the back of a parking ticket. When he’d finished with her, he sat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The previous night was catching up with him and the excitement of the afternoon and evening was ebbing to leave him feeling exhausted. An idea occurred to him, which broke his face into something resembling a smile.

  He called Superintendent Vine. He explained the situation to her and told her where Stephanie Lather was now believed to be and that when last spoken to she had seemed alarmed and desperate to her agent, which was only a slight exaggeration. He also stressed the possibility of her involvement in the death at the hotel and the strong likelihood that she was intoxicated with alcohol. He crossed his fingers. Superintendent Vine told him to leave it with her. She would have her picked up and brought back to Dover. Romney thanked her for her assistance, hung up and grinned. Then he turned off his phone and turned on the radio. As he drove he learned that Dover Athletic had done the town proud and thumped their opponents three nil. He continued home to a bottle of antiseptic for his throbbing hand and a bottle of beer for his pleasure.

  *

  Joy got back to her flat without bumping into any of her neighbours. She did have to rouse the flat’s superintendent with whom she’d had the foresight to leave a spare key when she had first moved in. She told him she’d simply locked herself out, again. He didn’t look like he believed her but took the hint and handed her the spare. He probably had enough on his plate without becoming embroiled in a stranger’s problems late on a Saturday night. And a football match was playing out in the background.

  She was embarrassed, angry, hurt and she’d been robbed: warrant card, mobile phone, keys, purse with cash and credit cards – all gone in the handbag she hadn’t felt it worth fighting and risking serious injury for. It was what they advised victims of street robbery to do – give it up without a struggle. There weren’t many people outside the movies who could take on three determined and violent young men and be the last man, or woman, standing. There had been nothing to lose that was irreplaceable. Nothing worth risking teeth or an eye, broken bones or worse for.

  Joy looked around the drab untidy living space that suddenly felt so lonely and empty, and with a sharp pang she realised that what she craved more than anything was someone to come home to, or to look forward to them returning. Could it be Justin? Could it be Justin and his offspring?

  Her depressing thoughts were interrupted by a light tap at the door and she was instantly put on her guard. Her heart rate hastened as she wondered whether the thieves of her belongings had wasted no time in finding out from the contents of her handbag where she lived and, as they had the keys to the place, decided on paying her flat a quick visit in the hope that there might be something quick and portable worth stealing. She held her breath and looked through the spyhole. The building superintendent’s wife was standing there, har
shly illuminated by the bright corridor light. Joy let her breath go and opened the door.

  The woman’s arms were folded tightly across her, holding her thin cardigan closed. She was wearing slippers. She smiled. It was a smile of knowing and support and concern. ‘My husband said you looked like you might have had some trouble. I thought I’d see it you’re OK. Are you OK, love?’

  Joy felt hot tears prickle her eyes. She swallowed and nodded and formed a tight smile. ‘Yeah, thanks. I’m fine. Thanks for coming up. It was really good of you. Please thank your husband for his concern.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  Joy nodded.

  ‘If you need anything you know where I am. Kettle’s always hot.’ She began shuffling away.

  Joy said thanks again but it stuck somewhere in her constricted throat. She shut the door, leant her back up against it and allowed the tears to roll freely down her cheeks.

  She went to the bathroom, removed her clothes and inspected the damage in the full-length mirror under the unflattering yellow light. She’d curled herself into a ball when she’d realised what was happening, arms over her head and face. They’d kicked her while she was down. The bruising had started on her side and her legs and arms. She gently probed her ribs. She was tender but she was sure nothing was broken. She didn’t want medical attention. A boot had glanced off her shoulder and connected with her head. There was some dried blood in her scalp, but again, nothing serious.

  Joy didn’t have a home phone – with a mobile, she’d never needed one. She managed to manipulate her sore and stiffening body into her bathrobe and went to rummage through the drawers in the kitchen. She had an old mobile somewhere. A Pay-As-You-Go. If she could also find the charger she might be able to make a call if there was still credit on a SIM card.

  ***

  12

  When Romney rose on Sunday morning he was surprised to find that Grimes wasn’t in the house. The big man hadn’t shown himself an early riser.

  With some reservations, Romney tentatively put his head around the door to Grimes’ room. It was empty but, as Grimes didn’t appear to consider making his bed something of a daily ritual, Romney couldn’t tell if he had slept in it or not. He baulked at the idea of placing his hand on the sheets to test for warmth.

  Romney had been in bed and out cold for the whole night and so hadn’t heard whether his guest had returned and then gone out again. There was no note in evidence.

  Safe in the knowledge that he had the house to himself, he began organising breakfast to some Mozart. A low sun came in through the kitchen window that looked out over farmland. It brought welcome warmth to combat the early morning chill. Romney turned his face to it, closed his eyes for a long moment and lamented that the heating would soon have to go on. More expense. He considered whether he could ask Grimes for a contribution.

  It was as he was waiting for his toast to pop that he noticed his phone and then remembered turning it off the previous night. As he typed in the pin code he idly wondered if Boudicca had done his job for him and organised the collection of Stephanie Lather. He hoped the author was sleeping it off in a Dover cell. That should make her nice and cooperative – not to mention save him time, trouble and paperwork.

  He had a text message, eight missed calls and two answerphone messages. He diverted his attention to savouring the first sip of his first filter coffee of the day and his craving for nicotine was awakened. He fought it down and his self-control pleased him. He was down to between five and ten a day and wanted to reduce his intake further. The longer he put off the first of the day the fewer he ended up smoking; a simple approach that was working for him.

  He opened the text message: Staying over at Maureen’s sister’s. See you some time tomorrow. The message from Grimes discomfited Romney as much as it cheered him. While it meant that he wouldn’t have to share Sunday breakfast with a man whose appetite and eating habits were only excelled in the revulsion stakes by his penchant for parading around the house in his enormous boxer shorts – garments which had a tendency to gape open widely at the flap – and threadbare misshapen T-shirts, Grimes’ absence also meant that Romney would not be able to have the quiet and confidential word regarding the events that he barely remembered of Friday night. This was something he keenly wanted to do before work on Monday.

  Strangely and annoyingly, the message also made Romney feel responsible for the big man in some way – or at least that some sort of unspoken accountability existed between them. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like it at all. Still, at least he had his own home to himself for the Sunday morning. He should look on the bright side and thank his lucky stars for that. His little chat could wait till the evening. At least the bathroom wouldn’t smell like a cow shed.

  Grimes’ imposition had done one thing for Romney; it had reminded him how much he valued his own space and privacy – how much better off he felt living on his own. He fleetingly wondered how things might have turned out with Julie Carpenter if she hadn’t proved to be such a crushing and bitter disappointment and they had taken their relationship to the next level, something that Romney had been keen enough to do to get her a key cut. Now it was Grimes who was using that left over reminder of a very near miss. And then Romney found himself wondering whom Julie was waking up with on Sunday mornings and the thought threatened to overshadow his satisfactory start to the day. With some effort he pushed the depressing reflection aside and went to his answerphone messages.

  The first was from Superintendent Vine. She did not sound happy at having to leave a message. Romney checked the time of it. Gone midnight. What did she bloody well expect on a Saturday night? Still, Romney managed a half smile at the idea that Boudicca had been bothered with police business in the middle of the night on a weekend. His police business, probably. It explained something of the rebuke in her tone that she was unable to reach him. The message instructed Romney to get in touch with her as soon as he could. She could wait. He had breakfast and coffee to enjoy.

  The second missed call was from DS Marsh. Romney checked the time of that. That was bloody late too. What was wrong with everyone? Didn’t they have beds to go to? He retrieved the answerphone message and learned that she had been assaulted and robbed on the sea front on her walk home from the Premier Inn. Her injuries weren’t serious but her handbag with everything in it had gone. She was calling to let him know a temporary phone number that she could be reached at should she be needed.

  Romney’s spirits sank just as a cloud moved to obscure the sun’s warming rays. He’d warned her. He’d told her. What the hell had she been thinking walking alone there at night? He’d have to ring her. See if she was all right. Then he thought he’d phone Boudicca first. It was still early and he’d enjoy rattling her cage, hopefully wake her up, get her out of bed. She might have something to say about Joy and she might have something to say that he needed to discuss with Joy. He absently slurped his coffee, scalded his tongue and swore. Then he noticed black smoke billowing out of the toaster. He hurried over to it. Grimes had turned the dial up to maximum. The acrid smell of burnt bread assailed his nostrils and he leaned over to open the kitchen window before the smoke alarm went off. In his haste, his pyjama sleeve caught on the mug tree that Grimes must have moved there. It should’ve been over by the bread bin. It clattered to the worktop. Romney swore but this was drowned out by the shrilling of the smoke alarm. He fanned it quiet with a tea towel and picked up the mug tree. One of the set of Marks and Sparks’ finest had lost its handle. He threw the bits in the bin and swore some more.

  His toast ruined, he dialled Boudicca’s number and mentally braced himself.

  ‘Inspector Romney.’ She sounded perky, awake and a bit annoyed.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. Sorry to call you so early but you said to get in touch as soon as I could.’

  ‘I tried three times to call you last night and another three this morning, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m a heavy sleeper, ma’am,’ he said, rather
pathetically while thinking that he should have checked who all those missed calls were from before doing the rounds.

  ‘Have you heard about DS Marsh?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. She left me an answerphone message. I’m about to call her.’

  ‘Don’t bother. She’s here.’

  ‘At your home?’ Romney instantly wished he hadn’t said that.

  ‘What? What are you talking about? We’re at the station, Inspector. Working.’

  ‘At six o’clock on a Sunday morning?’ Romney was incredulous and then panic-stricken. What could have happened in the town to warrant such an early all-hands-on-deck and why the hell hadn’t he been called? But, of course, he had.

  ‘Inspector Romney, it is almost ten o’clock.’

  Romney stared hard at his battery-operated kitchen clock. The second hand wasn’t moving. He reached for his cigarettes.

  *

  It was almost eleven by the time Romney reached the station. He had not eaten anything. He had not finished his coffee. He had smoked three cigarettes. Superintendent Vine and DS Marsh were in CID. They had take-away coffees and pastries from the little delicatessen around the corner from the station that Romney favoured. Cosy. He stared at the food and felt his mouth water and his stomach grumble.

  ‘Nice of you to turn up, Inspector,’ said Boudicca. She stared at his roughly-bandaged hand but said nothing.

  ‘It is Sunday, ma’am, and I didn’t think that with Stephanie Lather sleeping it off in a cell – if you’ve managed to have her picked up and brought in that is – there would be such a rush to get going on things. If she was as drunk as her agent led me to believe last night she’d need some time.’ Romney had rehearsed this little speech on his way in and was quite pleased with it. He couldn’t be blamed for what had happened to Joy. And he couldn’t be blamed for not knowing about it. So Boudicca could kiss his arse.