by Oliver Tidy
‘Wasn’t she surprised, alarmed even, to find you standing on her doorstep?’
‘She was out of her head on something. It made her... playful... in a nasty, vindictive way. Like a bored cat with something it didn’t really want to eat but wanted to toy with. She heard me out.’
‘So what did she say?’
‘She and Rachael were so alike in so many ways. She laughed at me. She told me to put them on the Internet. She said the publicity would be worth its weight in gold for her and then she’d sue me and bankrupt me.’ He let out a hard, ironic little noise. ‘Bankrupt me. That was almost funny. These days I don’t have a leaky pot to piss in.’
‘What happened at Stephanie’s flat?’ Ric D’Angelo opened his mouth to speak and Romney stopped him with a raised finger. ‘Before you answer that and waste any more police time, Ric, let me tell you a few things. We recovered the ornament that caved in Rachael Sparrow’s skull with Steph’s clear fingerprints all over it and the key to her hotel room, also with Steph’s prints on. Just like you wanted us to. The way it looks to us is that you went there that night not to ask Steph for money but to kill her and then implicate her in her sister’s death. Think about it, Ric. If Steph had given you money and you’d left, as soon as she learned of her sister’s death she’d have mentioned you and we’d have put two and two together and made four. But with Steph also dead and implicated with good evidence in her sister’s death, who’s to point the finger at you or anyone for that matter?’
Ric looked imploringly at Romney and swallowed hard and loud. His darting eyes filled with tears and his face crumpled like a collapsed lung before he put his head on the desk and sobbed his guilt up.
***
26
‘He just didn’t think it through, did he?’ said Romney. He and Marsh were outside the little late-night coffee shop around the corner from the station. The coffee shop that only two days previously they had sat outside with Romney fearing he had rabies and Joy’s mother slipping away. ‘A smarter man could have maybe got away with it. He over-egged his pudding. If he’d kept his mouth shut and his head down we probably would never have given him a second look.’
‘But we should have, shouldn’t we? Or rather I should have. You told me to check him out and I didn’t think you meant it. I’m sorry. I feel like I made a mistake.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up. I wasn’t even half serious. I believed what everyone else believed: that Steph had done for her sister and then herself. And when I got over that error of professional judgement I jumped straight onto the back of another one and galloped off into the sunset. So don’t talk to me about mistakes. Besides, don’t think I don’t appreciate that you’ve been having a tough time of it lately and still been turning up for work.’
Despite his words, Marsh felt he was being exceedingly generous regarding her failings. He’d given her a job to do and she hadn’t taken it seriously. She hadn’t done her job. She’d let him down. ‘Do you believe him about Rachael?’
Romney nodded as he inhaled. ‘Yes. It makes some sense. But Stephanie’s death is something altogether darker. He went there with the intention of killing her and framing her for her sister’s murder, I have no doubt of that. There is nothing else that sits right. He overpowered her – probably not too difficult if she was binging on Temazepam and gin – got her in the bath and drowned her. Maybe she already had the bath run for herself when he turned up and it was just too convenient to pass up.’
‘Very fortunate for him that she was intoxicated and had a bath drawn ready,’ said Marsh with a hint of something akin to dubiousness.
‘Even if she were stone cold sober and eating her dinner, he’d have found a way to make it look like she took her own life. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. No, old Ric was an understandably-desperate man who resorted to desperate measures. His history with both of them, their successes and his sudden plunge to Earth must have coloured his judgement. For the couple of days he was walking around in the clear he must have been fighting to keep the self-satisfied smile off his face.’
*
Romney told Marsh to go home. He had to see about turning Mrs Allen loose and he wanted as few witnesses to that potentially-embarrassing spectacle as possible.
In the event it did not go as badly as Romney had feared. She left the station a lot quieter than when she’d arrived. Mrs Allen was so overcome with relief at her unexpected release that she seemed intent only on leaving the building and getting as far away from Dover as quickly as possible. Romney offered to organise a ride home for her but the prospect of travelling in police transport was evidently something that held no attraction for her.
As Romney watched her hurry away without a backward glance he doubted very much whether that would be the last he heard from her, or her legal people.
He breathed heavily and put all that aside. Perhaps it would not be something he would have to face after all. He’d seen that Boudicca’s car was still outside despite the lateness of the hour. He trudged his way upstairs to her sanctuary.
The only light on was a soft lamp by her desk. She was working. Her great swathe of ginger hair was carelessly piled up and clipped, glasses perched on the end of her strong nose, and an air of focussed determination defined her body language. She looked up at the noise of his approach.
‘I’m surprised to see you still here, ma’am,’ he said.
‘To be honest, I’d rather be elsewhere, but there are things to do today and there will be more things to do tomorrow. Sandra Allen off the premises?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Did she go quietly?’
‘Like a lamb. But I doubt it’s the last we’ll hear from her.’
Boudicca pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. It spoke volumes for her disappointment. ‘What can I do for you?’
Without ceremony, Romney approached her desk and placed his warrant card on it.
Superintendent Vine removed her spectacles, frowned and looked up into his blank features. ‘What are you doing, Inspector?’
‘It’s my warrant card, ma’am.’
‘I can see what it is. I said what are you doing?’
‘I mucked up and that was the deal. I’m not one to welsh on a deal.’
Vine massaged her eyes. ‘Sit down, Tom.’
‘I’d rather stand, ma’am.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, man, stop being such a pompous arse for five minutes, will you?’ Romney shrugged and sat. ‘Yes, you made mistakes. From what I’ve seen you can be a bit like a blindfolded bull in a china shop when you get the bit between your teeth – all charging about, not enough contemplation. But that’s you and the way you’ve been allowed, and therefore encouraged, to behave.’ She managed to make him sound and feel like a naughty toddler. ‘But basically you’re a good policeman and an honest detective. You weren’t completely wrong with your theory regarding the circumstances surrounding Rachael Sparrow’s death – just the person you believed responsible.’
‘That’s quite a big error of judgement, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I believe your actions are the result of the best of intentions and it’s clear that you aren’t interested in covering up your mistakes. Why do you think I’m so intent on seeing the back of you?’
‘You haven’t exactly kept your feelings to yourself, have you? You’ve made it quite clear that you’re unhappy with Dover CID. And everyone knows what happened when you took over at Maidstone – the demotions, the kicking outs.’
‘CID in Maidstone was infected with the twin diseases of apathy and corruption. Heads rolled there because they were bad at their jobs, lazy and dishonest. If they made a mistake they’d rather cover it up than own up and take the flak or better still try to do something about it. That’s what happened at Maidstone and that’s what the difference is between Maidstone CID then and Dover CID now.
‘Dover CID is far from my idea of what an effectively functioning CID should be like but for want of a better expression, from what I can s
ee, its heart is in the right place. There is integrity here. There is loyalty. There is honesty. There is a willingness to work hard to get the right result.’ To Romney, it almost felt like a compliment. ‘So please pick up your warrant card and put it back in your pocket and stop acting like an overgrown schoolboy with a taste for amateur dramatics.’ Romney did as he was told. ‘Don’t think I don’t want and expect change around here. There is more to modern policing than – what was it you said? – catching the bad guys. But for now, all’s well that ends well. I view this as a satisfactory outcome. Now, instead of wasting what’s left of my evening and yours, why don’t you go home?’
Romney had his hand on the door handle when Boudicca said, ‘Oh, there is just one thing more that’s been bothering me: how did you know the dog had died of an overdose of Temazepam before you had it examined?’
Romney coughed into his hand for a couple of seconds and gulped. ‘Sorry. Copper’s intuition, ma’am. I’m a great believer in it.’
*
As Romney was driving, he received a call from Gareth Hedges, the superintendent of the Gateway. A resident had called Hedges with concerns about three young men acting suspiciously on the level where Joy had her flat. When Hedges had threatened to call the police they’d scarpered. Hedges had called Romney, as per Romney’s discreet request of a few days before.
It was not so unusual for muggers who suddenly found themselves with keys and an address to try their luck. And it wasn’t so unusual for them to be rewarded – changing locks was an expensive and time-consuming business and too many householders would procrastinate or just not have the money to spend on pricey new locks and their fitting, hoping instead that follow-up crime was too remote a possibility to warrant the time and expense after they’d lost their keys. People were lazy and stupid and a lot of them learned the hard way what a false economy it was to hope for the best.
Romney thanked his old colleague for the heads-up and asked him to call the local station – not the emergency number – and report it and then forget all about this call. He asked which direction they’d headed off in and was told the seafront. He was there within five minutes.
He parked up by the Customs House opposite the entrance to the Prince of Wales Pier, locked his car, shrugged on his Crombie overcoat and started walking in the direction of the Gateway. Under the gently glow of the street lights that stretched out before him, it looked like he had the whole promenade to himself.
As he walked he felt the adrenalin seeping to his extremities and tightening his senses. He welcomed it like an old drunk welcomes good spirits. He took out a cigarette, lit, inhaled affectionately and crossed his fingers. He was in the mood for it.
He slowed his pace as he neared the shelter with the smashed windows and he began whistling loudly and tunelessly as he allowed his progress to take on a slight meander. His brogues sounded heavily on the tarmac footpath as he dragged his erratic footsteps in the stillness of the night that was only underlined by the gentle sloshing of the English Channel against the shingle.
As he came abreast of the shelter, Romney noticed a body lying half in the shadows. He stopped and called across with speech that didn’t sound like his normal voice – a bit slurred.
There was no reply. He moved across to investigate. As he got close there was quick movement in the dark behind him and to his right. The body on the ground was stirring. A voice was raised.
Romney flicked his wrist and was rewarded with the satisfying sound of metallic action. He stepped to his left, swung around and brought the extendable baton down hard across the shoulder of a would-be assailant, felling him instantly. One down, two to go. The body on the ground was almost up. Romney aimed a toe-punt of one of his brogues into its ribcage. He heard the breath expelled like something pneumatic ruptured.
Number three was almost on him but the effective show of resistance and the telltale noise of a weapon caused him to hesitate.
Romney swung with the baton and missed. He swung again without contact. It was close enough for number three. He turned and ran. Romney wheeled around to face two and one. Two was on his hands and knees again. Not being one to shy away from kicking a man when he was down if the situation warranted it, Romney toe-punted him in the upper thigh and was rewarded with a cry that mirrored something of the intense pain the impact must have brought. This pleased him. A dead leg would slow up two if he managed to get back up before Romney had finished with him. One was back on his feet. He was clutching his shoulder and backing away. Romney growled and went for him but he turned and sprinted off into the night. That was fine. Romney had his bird in the hand and he would make sure it sang.
For luck, Romney kicked two hard up the backside, which propelled him forwards a couple of feet. Then he pulled out his handcuffs, knelt on the youth’s back and shackled his hands behind him against policy guidelines. To the youth’s vocal protests, Romney pulled him up.
With the young man’s arms behind his back, Romney was able to manoeuvre him easily into the deepest, darkest recess of the shelter, away from prying eyes and security cameras if anyone was watching. He forced the youth face-first up against the woodwork. Leaning into the ear nearest him, his breathing heavy after his exertions and excitement, he said, ‘What are their names?’
The youth’s high-pitched voice illustrated his fear and concern for his position: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. I never done nothing to you. I think you’ve broke my fucking leg. You’re a fucking pig. I’ll sue you for everything you got. You made a big mistake, mate.’ The sudden confidence and contempt for the law in his outburst made Romney angrier still.
Romney eased the youth’s extended arms upwards. The youth opened his mouth to protest at his treatment or scream with the pain but got the chance of neither as Romney rammed his handkerchief into the open orifice. A muffled cry was all he managed.
Romney eased off. He removed the handkerchief. ‘What are their names?’
‘I ain’t no fucking grass. You can’t do this. I know my rights.’
Romney lifted him sharply back up onto his toes. The mouth came open. The handkerchief went back in.
‘I’m going to count to three. Then I’m taking out the handkerchief and you’re going to tell me who your friends are. Or I’m going to dislocate one of your shoulders and then you’ll tell. You’ll tell me you wank off next door’s dog if that’s what I want to hear. You’ll tell me anything I want to know to stop me dislocating the other one. It hurts, you see. A lot. I’m told it’s the most painful thing you can imagine. Nothing comes close. Not even this.’ Leaning on the young man with his full weight, Romney reached around, took hold of the youth’s testicles and squeezed hard and long. In the weak street lighting that Romney’s eyes were becoming accustomed to, he saw the young man’s eyes bulging and watering. More agonised screams were muffled by the wadding in his mouth. Romney let go. ‘One, two, three. Ready?’
Shaking like a shitting dog, the youth nodded vigorously. Romney removed the handkerchief.
‘Paul Turner and Adrian Whitehead.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘Tower Hamlets.’
Romney believed him. ‘That’s better. Now, where do you want it?’
‘What you on about? I told you their names, didn’t I?’ There was real fear there now and Romney allowed himself the satisfaction.
‘You need to think up a new approach, you fuck-wit. You’ve given yourself away with unimaginative repetition. That’s lazy thinking. You deserve a slap just for that.
‘Saturday night you assaulted a police officer. A female police officer. My sergeant. She was offering assistance to someone she thought was injured. You betrayed her trust and her goodness. On top of all that, you had to go and steal her car, have your fun and games and torch it. You don’t know what you cost her with that and what’s worse I don’t think you’d care. You’re scum. And you get special attention for that. That’s the way it is. Call it Romney’s Law. We can’t hav
e the town’s scrotes thinking they can get away with that sort of thing, can we? Where would we all be? You can tell your mates to expect me too in the fullness of time. Oh, and her handbag with everything in it had better turn up back at the station within the next twenty-four hours.’
After a moment, the youth began to laugh. It was not a convincing sound. He guessed that Romney was joking. ‘Look, I done it, right? I’m not denying it. Arrest me for it. That’s all you can do, mate. And we both know it. And don’t think I ain’t gonna make a fuss about police brutality. You can’t do this.’
‘You just don’t get it do you? But that’s probably society’s fault. You and your kind make me puke. You’re not worth a dog’s life.’ The policeman sounded more tired than anything. Romney took a quick look around and then a handful of the youth’s thick curly hair. He twisted it in his strong fingers, pulled the youth’s head back and slammed his face into the wooden structure of the shelter. He let the youth slip to the floor. It would look better that way. Romney couldn’t be sure whether the crunch had been nose bone and cartilage or teeth. Unconcerned about that, he squatted down and had to raise his voice over the low moaning to be sure he was heard. ‘That was a nasty trip,’ he said. ‘See what happens when you try to run off in the dark with your hands behind your back? Don’t forget it because in less than an hour I’ll know where you live.’
Romney stood, moved away, took out a cigarette and lit up. He inhaled deeply and savoured the hit. Could he really ever hope to give them up? He took out his mobile to call for assistance. As it rang he looked out across the inky blackness of English Channel and the night sky. He took in the harsh ferry terminal lights, the softer twinkling of the illuminated shipping in the Channel and beyond that a rare glow coming off the northern coast of France and he thought he might take his old Beemer across the water for a couple of days before the weather properly turned.