by Oliver Tidy
With his sharing of the conversation that he’d had with PC Harker, Romney could sense that Marsh, where she might have displayed a certain tepid reluctance to commit to Romney’s theory that Avery had something to do with Claire Stamp’s death, was beginning to warm to it.
When everyone else had gone home he sat in his office and brooded. He was overwhelmed with his lack of real progress and his irritation with the cases. To further darken his mood, on his desk he had found DC Harmer’s idea of what a definitive list of ways to get hold of someone’s mobile phone number looked like. The multitude of possibilities from the straight forward to the convoluted threatened to give the DI a slight headache. Despite, or in spite of, his weariness and gloomy mood, he left for his gym to give vent to some of his frustrations.
***
8
Julie Carpenter called a little after nine. Seeing her name illuminated on the screen of his phone did something childish to Romney’s insides. His exertions at the gym had invigorated him and, as it could sometimes do, awakened that animal instinct within him that craved physical contact with the opposite sex.
The teacher had not been far from his thoughts since they had spoken last. It had been almost a week since he and she had last lost themselves in each other and the promise of that as a more permanent part of his life, only to be snuffed out so suddenly and cruelly, had had its impact upon him. More than once, he’d been tempted since their last phone conversation to risk his pride and call her, but always he’d managed to suppress that inclination, knowing instinctively that to succumb to it could prove counterproductive in the long game. And, if it truly was over between them before it had really started, he didn’t want to know. He’d rather go on hopefully ignorant, until his emotional investment had been diluted by time – the architect of his own downfall.
‘I want to see you again,’ she said.
A sensation, warm and satisfying was released somewhere in his stomach to flood throughout him. ‘I want to see you too.’
‘I want to believe your explanation for the other night. Maybe you don’t feel that you should have to explain yourself to me?’
‘I understand why you need an explanation. I like you Julie. I can only say that I’m not the kind of man that would mess a woman about like that. It’s not in my nature.’
‘I hope so, Inspector. I really do. Come over, tonight?’
‘I can be there in half an hour.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
Putting down the phone, Romney became acutely aware of the blood pumping hard through his system. Julie Carpenter’s words and the way that she had delivered them had left no part of him in any doubt that she wanted him physically.
In his sexually agitated frame of mind, Romney began his hurried change of the sweats he’d thrown on after his shower and the collection of what he must take with him. In fifteen minutes he was on the road.
*
The Dour Nursing Home had been named after the river that ran through the middle of Dover. Rising at Temple Ewell, just outside the main settlement, the little watercourse meandered the four miles or so through the town to exit into the English Channel.
Often, during its ten year existence, the ambiguous title of the home for the elderly had been used in an adjectival sense to describe the ambience of the retreat.
The rest home – a converted grand Victorian building – built by a successful local merchant around the turn of the century, sat on several acres of land that fronted the Dour. Situated on the outskirts of the town and surrounded by mature woodland, it was more secluded than remote.
The Dour Nursing Home for the elderly had a maximum capacity of twenty residents. All rooms had their own bathroom and pleasant aspects of the woodland, the fields or the river. Four of the rooms were currently vacant.
Borne of routine, at ten o’clock, residents – who presently ranged in age from a seventy year old woman to a ninety-two year old man – who hadn’t already taken themselves off to their rooms and their beds were gently encouraged to do so. By eleven o’clock whoever was on duty would do the rounds, making sure that everyone was in their right place and that there was no one standing confused in their nightclothes in the middle of some darkened hallway.
The founders and current proprietors of the home – Mr and Mrs Logi – retained a suite of rooms on the ground floor. This was not their main residence but merely a home from home. The Dour was their primary business concern and they were both actively involved on a daily basis in running the place. But as the business had returned decent profits over the years they had bought themselves a home in the town so that they didn’t feel constantly confined at the nursing home. That, they had jointly agreed, had become depressing over time with the smells and sounds a constant reminder of what the future probably held for both of them. At nights, particularly, the Logis were happy to pay the minimum wage to have others watch over the residents.
At a little after eleven o’clock, Jane Goddard – the thirty-six year old in charge of the home for the night – completed the first of her nightly rounds. Mrs Avis had been her usual tiresome, insomniac and surly self, but apart from that all was pretty much as it should be.
Goddard walked into the kitchen to find Peter Roper sat in front of the television, as usual. Peter had been at The Dour for five months. He’d come from an agency in the town and was satisfactory enough to be offered a regular position employed by The Dour. Even though he was young, he didn’t seem to mind the kind of work or the anti-social hours. He was friendly enough and he got on well with most of the old folks. He kept himself to himself largely; he just got on with whatever was asked of him.
Goddard made them both a tea, and while Roper seemed happy enough to sit staring at the little screen, she heaved her text books on to the table and began organising herself for the couple of hours study she hoped to be able to fit in before her mind refused to absorb anymore.
Jane Goddard was enrolled in a local college course that could see her eventually gain a qualification that would get her into Kent University as a mature student. There she intended to complete a nursing degree. She was, if a little late in her life, determined to improve herself and her lot.
At about eleven-thirty Jane Goddard looked up from her books. ‘Did you hear something?’
‘Eh?’ said Roper.
‘I thought I heard a noise downstairs.’
‘Want me to go and have a look?’
‘Yes, please. It might be Mr Clark again. You know what he’s like. You’ll be able to get him back to bed quicker than me. He doesn’t fancy you.’ She smiled at the youth and he got up, stretched and went out of the kitchen.
Three minutes later he walked back into the room. The first thing that struck Goddard when she looked up from her books was the look of sheer terror on his face. The second thing she noticed was the person who came in behind him, a pistol extended in front of him. He was dressed darkly and wearing the kind of latex gloves that they used at the nursing home. He had his hood pulled up and he was wearing a balaclava type mask. She froze to her chair. Jane Goddard would later remark to the police that when the intruder barked out his few instructions, he was affecting an eastern European accent, rather than being a native of that region. She felt strongly that there was something definitely fake about him.
*
When Romney had arrived at Julie Carpenter’s home he had been surprised to see no lights on anywhere. As he raised his hand to tap on the front door it opened a fraction. From the orange light cast over his shoulder by the street lamp across the road behind him, he caught a glimpse of a vision that set his heart racing. Her eyes glinted in the shadows. Her black hair framed her pale face and was arranged to fall over her shoulders. The shiny fabric of the one-piece lingerie that she wore shimmered as she shivered with the influx of chill night air. The white flesh of her long slim legs was exposed down to her bare feet. Romney feared he might actually moan with anticipation.
She said, ‘Are you just go
ing to stand there and let me freeze to death?’
He slipped inside the narrow opening and pushed the door closed behind him. Further words seemed unnecessary. Gently he pushed her back against the stud walling their open mouths melded in a hot frantic wetness. He inhaled the fragrant cleanliness of her freshly bathed body. Sliding his cold hand upwards over her thinly sheathed naked firmness, he felt her tense against the cold and then the hardness of her nipple pushing against the gossamer fabric. She let out a small moan and began frantically grappling with his trousers.
He had her furiously against the wall that protested and popped in rhythm to his thrusting. A picture dislodged and fell unheeded. He felt her strong fingers beneath the jacket that he still wore dig into his back urging him deeper. Harder, he pounded against her, indifferent to their disturbance of the night’s quiet. She gasped and moaned in harmony with his strokes, until with a desperate release of pent-up energy and a barely suppressed primitive groan, he flooded her with his seed and was repaid with a similar hotness that squirted across his exposed thighs, as she cried out in response. Almost immediately, he felt his legs tremble and threaten to buckle under him. She smothered his face with kisses and for several long moments, he bathed in her adoration and the feeling that, once again, it was good to be alive.
Later, in the heat of her bed, fully naked and again spent, he drifted into the deep untroubled sleep of the exhausted and sated.
*
The insistent trilling of Romney’s phone dragged him slowly up from his state of deep slumber. He fumbled around in the darkness for it, cursing quietly. The station’s number flashed on the panel, and reluctantly he answered it.
‘Sorry to disturb you, gov,’ said the duty sergeant.
Romney knew immediately that for him to be woken at this time it must be important. ‘What is it, Tony?’
‘There’s been another rape, gov.’ When Romney didn’t answer right away the duty sergeant continued, ‘It looks like a carbon copy of the attack at the garage last week.’
Romney’s heart sank. ‘Where? Who’s there?’
The sergeant said that at present only uniform were in attendance. He gave the address.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Get DS Marsh there too.’
‘I know,’ said Julie, from beneath the duvet. ‘You have to go.’
‘I’m sorry. I really am.’
She reached out a slender warm hand and stroked his face. ‘I understand,’ she said, and he felt that she meant it. ‘Call me, soon.’
He leant over her and finding her mouth kissed her tenderly for reply.
*
Despite having thrown water over his face to both wake himself up and rid himself of the residue of his encounter with Carpenter, Romney could detect the faint musky hint of sex in the air around him. He hoped that this was extremely localised and stuffed several pieces of gum into his mouth to compensate for it.
A heady blend of emotions swirled around his head as he drove the few miles to The Dour Nursing Home. He found himself unable to prevent his thrilling recent sexual exertions playing out again in his mind. His union with Julie Carpenter was a fantasy come true and he had played his part in their erotic coupling with a performance that both surprised and delighted him. Overshadowing this wonderful feeling – that he felt with a rising resentment he was being prematurely cheated out of basking in – was the spectre of what he was about to encounter at the old peoples’ home.
A second rape. A carbon copy the sergeant had said. The probability that he had a serial rapist on his patch sank in as he made his way along the hedge-flanked back roads. He found the prospect a miserable one. His only comfort came from the knowledge that empirical evidence regarding the apprehension of those who repeat their crimes suggested that the more often a criminal perpetrated their particular crime, the greater the chances of them being caught. Sooner or later a mistake would be made; something left at a crime scene; a neighbour or family member suspicious. Romney had had to concede to his superintendent that with the Claire Stamp rape investigation they had come to a temporary dead end. If this was a crime committed by the same person then he would have to take whatever perversely positive hope it offered of finding the man responsible.
*
In the time it took to travel from Julie Carpenter’s home to the crime scene his mood underwent the transition from ecstatic to grim. By the time he could see the flashing lights of the emergency services lighting up the sky and surrounding woodland with its pyrotechnic display he was, he felt, somewhere back near to the objective and focussed police officer that he needed to be.
Romney’s headlights swept across the scene in front of him like some swinging searchlight beam as he rounded the turn of the driveway. He recognised faces highlighted by the shaft of light as his tyres crunched over the gravel driveway: a uniformed constable from Claire Stamp’s death plunge; a paramedic from the petrol station incident.
He felt their eyes on him as he strode across the pea-beach. Were they thinking that maybe this was his fault; that if he were a better copper none of them would be here witnessing such cruelty?
A vehicle came swooshing across the surface behind them like a wave up a shingle beach and Romney caught a flash of a tired looking Marsh at the wheel. He waited for her to join him before going in. They didn’t exchange pleasantries.
‘Is it the same bloke?’ she said.
‘I’ve just arrived myself.’
As they entered the front door they could hear a woman’s raised voice. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she screeched.
She was answered in calm, soothing tones. Rounding the corner of the hallway, Romney and Marsh were confronted by a ghostly apparition of an old, old, woman flailing her feeble arms in her flannelette nightgown at a woman PC who was staunchly blocking her descent from the staircase on which she was teetering. There was something of an animated Miss Haversham about the woman whose sparse grey hair had fallen loose from its confinement and swished about her like a skewed wedding veil.
‘Problem, officer?’ said Romney.
The harassed but patient PC said, ‘The lady refuses to go back to her room for the moment, sir.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ shouted the woman at Romney, emboldened by her elevated position on the staircase.
Mustering as much sternness as he was able to in the face of this pathetically sad spectacle, he said, ‘Detective Inspector Romney, madam. Please go back to your room and remain there until someone comes up to speak with you.’
‘You can’t order me about.’
‘I’m not ordering you. I’m asking you, madam. If you come down here you will be in the way.’
‘That’s right, get me out of your sight. I’m always in the way. You sound just like my son. Did you stick your mother in a home for the walking dead too?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Arrest me will you?’
‘If we have to,’ chided Romney, gently.
The woman noted his serious expression, turned on her slippered heel and began stomping back up the stairs. ‘Fascist pig,’ she muttered.
‘Are there anymore like her loose down here, Constable?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Well, see to it that none of them get past you. That’s all I need, a bunch of lunatic geriatrics tearing around.’
The ubiquitous powder-blue disposable jumpsuits of the SOCOs painstakingly going about their business always gave Romney a sense of calm and order. He liked the way they worked: at their various stations, performing their allotted tasks without the need for conversation, engrossed only in their responsibilities.
One of them got up from where they were kneeling and came across to Romney and Marsh. The androgynous form lowered its mask to reveal an attractive young woman. ‘Hello, Detective Inspector.’
Romney thought that her greeting was remarkably friendly given that he had no idea who she was and the circumstances of the occasion. Romney assumed the look of someone who shou
ld know the identity of the person who he was being addressed by but was embarrassed by a temporary inability to be able to place them.
Unflustered by the lack of recognition, the woman said, ‘I’m Diane Hodge. It was me you spoke to about the possibility of there being a saliva sample on that contraceptive packet.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Sorry, I didn’t recognise you.’
‘No reason why you should,’ she said, smiling widely.
Romney indicated the area that the other suits were poring over. ‘What happened here? Is it the same man?’
Diane Hodge looked first surprised and then pleased to be asked her opinion. ‘It certainly bears the hallmarks of the incident at the petrol station.’
‘Go on.’
‘Right. Two victims, again, one woman was raped, the other – her co-worker – knocked unconscious. She was restrained over the table with electric cable ties, which appear to be exactly the same brand as those used at the garage. Same position from what I understand: face down. I believe that he also used a hood. We can’t find any trace of the attacker. I suspect he wore a condom again, but he has been more careful about what he did with the packaging. He doesn’t seem to have ripped the top off with his teeth and spat it out for us to find.’
‘Do we know how he got in?’
‘That’s a strange thing. We’ve checked every possible entry point. No sign of a forced entry anywhere. He might have walked straight in the front door.’
‘Thank you,’ said the DI.
‘My pleasure,’ said the woman.
If Romney didn’t recognise it, Marsh did. Maybe her woman’s intuition gave her that added edge. The SOCO was burning a candle for her boss.