by Oliver Tidy
They compared the belt buckle shot Marsh had taken at the post-mortem with the one on the screen. They seemed alike. Romney said so and added that the date also fitted with the timeframes that Maurice Wendell had suggested.
To Spicer, Romney said, ‘Follow this up. Top of your list is whether he has any blood relatives in the area. Find out where he lived and who reported him missing. I want to know if he had form and if he was known to the locals. Find someone who can tell you what he was into. Let me know as soon as you have something.’ To Marsh, he said, ‘We’ll be off to Aylesham soon.’ And then he went to his office.
Romney phoned Inspector Blanchett to ask a favour. Blanchett agreed. Romney drummed his fingers on the desktop, wondering whether he would need to run it by Boudicca. Then he remembered that he hadn’t seen her car when he pulled into the station car park. He crossed to his window and looked down to see her parking space empty. That settled it.
*
Marsh was already down there when Romney exited the building. Instead of getting in the car, he took out his phone and his cigarettes and lit up without explanation for the delay. In answer to Marsh’s look, he said, ‘We’re waiting for someone.’
As he smoked and texted, Marsh leaned up against the car and checked her emails. It was too early for the estate agent to have got back to her on a couple of queries, but it didn’t hurt to check. The conversation she’d had with the friendly man the other side of the desk the previous evening had further encouraged her to explore the chances of a purchase.
The place had been unoccupied for five months, Joy had discovered. The current owner had moved abroad for work and had now decided to settle where he was. He was looking for a quick sale because he’d found somewhere to buy.
The estate agent revealed that the asking price was flexible. Marsh had scheduled a viewing for that evening. She would need a mortgage but, thanks to her great good fortune, it would not need to be crippling. (There had been four members of the Ladywell police station lottery syndicate who had opted to pay two pounds each week instead of the normal one pound. Joy had been one of them. Consequently, she and three others had scooped double what everyone else had. She had over eighty thousand pounds to put towards the purchase.)
A flash of reflected sunlight bouncing off the station’s side doors as they were opened caught Joy’s attention. She squinted into the morning glare to see Constable Fower jogging down the steps. He was not wearing his uniform. Joy guessed that he must have knocked off late from a night shift.
Just before the station had entered a new era with Superintendent Vine, Fower had been made up to Acting Detective Constable, something that had obviously given him great pleasure, an ambition realised.
In the short time he had been with CID he had proved very keen and competent, willing and energetic. He was young, eager to please and motivated, but not in an annoying way. There was something about his boyish good looks and his aura of positive energy that made it difficult to take against him and his ways. Even though his youthful enthusiasm had made her feel old and somewhat lacklustre by comparison, Joy liked him.
Fower had confided in Joy that he wanted to make Inspector within ten years. She believed that he could. She felt that given time he would prove to be a valuable CID asset. And she quickly came to realise that she had more in common with him as a human being than the other two service dinosaurs she shared an office with – not so much Keystone Kops (although there was often an element of that in their police work) as canteen cops. So she had felt particularly sorry for Fower, and just a little sorry for herself, when, on her first day at the helm, Vine had taken the decision to send him back to uniform. A decision, Joy strongly felt, that was as much about punishing Romney and CID as it was about legitimate logistical deployment of station manpower. Joy also had another very good reason to have developed the soft spot that she had for Fower – over eighty thousand good reasons. It had been Fower who had volunteered to take over the running of the lottery syndicate when its founder retired from the service. For months and months Fower had good-naturedly toiled and pestered and chased up and nagged his colleagues for their contributions, filled out the forms and kept everyone informed of the results by posting the weekly figures on the locker room notice board. A thankless task until their ship docked. And what a ship. It was largely because of Fower that everyone who worked in the station had gone to bed one Saturday night at least forty thousand pounds better off than when they had woken up that morning. Fower was popular with everyone. Except, perhaps, one man.
Fower arrived at Romney’s car and stopped, which confused Marsh. He was beaming like a schoolboy who’d just won something on sports day.
Romney ground his dog end into the tarmac under his heel and said, ‘Let’s go.’
Marsh took shotgun. Fower got in the back, shifted across to the middle of the seat and sat forward. He reeked of garlic and anticipation. Marsh waited for Romney to explain what was going on.
‘Thanks for this opportunity, sir,’ said Fower. ‘I’d just like to say that I’m so regretful that my stint in CID wasn’t longer.’
‘Just so long as you understand whose decision that was,’ said Romney, shooting through an amber light.
Sensibly, Fower didn’t want to explore that topic of conversation. ‘Inspector Blanchett said you needed me for a last-minute surveillance job,’ said Fower.
Romney said, ‘That’s right. Do a good job today, maybe make an arrest, and it won’t hurt your chances of getting back to CID.’
Marsh was frowning as she turned to look at Romney. She was under the impression they were going to the school. ‘I thought we were going to the school,’ she said.
‘We are,’ said Romney. ‘And what happened last time we went to the school?’
He’d lost her. ‘We interviewed people?’
‘Yes, we did. And what had happened to the car when we got back to it?’
Marsh could have groaned with embarrassment for young Fower. Romney had seconded him to keep an eye on his car.
To Fower, Romney said, ‘You got your phone on you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Trade numbers with DS Marsh and then I’ll tell you what I want you for. And put your seatbelt on. I have no wish to be killed by you flying through the car head first if we have an accident caused by some idiot who shouldn’t be on the road.’
*
Romney dropped Fower off a couple of hundred metres before their destination with the instruction that he should hurry up and get to the railway station.
When he was out of the car and had started jogging along after them, Marsh said, ‘Why couldn’t he have ridden all the way with us?’
‘I’d have thought that was pretty obvious. Because if we’d pulled up in the car park with him in the vehicle then any one around would know that he was with us. I’m a little disappointed that I have to point that out to you, you being a detective sergeant.’
‘You’re assuming that whoever is responsible for slashing our tyres before just hangs around the train station all day on the off-chance the police decide to park there. Sir,’ she added when she caught the disrespectful tone in her voice.
‘No, I’m not. What I’m doing is leaving nothing to chance. A short jog won’t hurt him. He’s young and looks fit. I wonder if he’s taking part in the fun run.’
Romney gave the signs that he had drifted into deep thought and Marsh left him to drown in them.
*
As Fower jogged after the retreating car he reflected on his role in the operation. Initially he had been a little disappointed to learn that he’d been pulled off street duties just to mind DI Romney’s vehicle while he visited the school. He felt ever so slightly demeaned. But when Romney went on to explain what had happened twice before on the previous visit, Fower began to understand how personally important it was to Romney to catch the culprit. Fower sugar-coated the assignment for himself with a layer of his typically upbeat and positive spin and began to consider how
a successful outcome might benefit his prospects of being reinstated in CID. As Romney had said, a good outcome wouldn’t hurt them.
It didn’t take the young policeman longer than a couple of minutes to reach the road bridge that spanned the railway line. He slowed to a walk. From there he was able to see Romney’s car parked well away from the other few. The detectives had already left.
Fower walked nonchalantly through the car park looking for trouble of the tyre-slashing variety. There were just two people waiting for the next train at the unmanned station. He went through the little gate and on to the platform to join them. He made sure that he had a good and uninterrupted view of Romney’s car and began his vigil, wishing that he’d been given the opportunity to pick up a newspaper to help his cover. He also wished that Romney hadn’t insisted that Fower conduct his surveillance from the station platform and then gone and parked at the opposite end of the car park. He thought about deviating from Romney’s explicit instructions and then thought again. From his brief stint in CID he hadn’t had the time or opportunity to learn a great deal, but he knew enough not to risk the wrath of the boss by making maverick decisions. Besides, if he followed Romney’s instructions to the letter he couldn’t be held responsible if something went wrong.
***
9
It was not break time when the police arrived at the school gate. Romney pressed the intercom buzzer and they were made to wait. He said, ‘You think all this security is to keep the children safe from the monsters in our society or vice versa?’
‘A bit of both probably,’ said Marsh.
‘Didn’t I see on your CV that you used to work in a youth detention centre?’
Marsh gave him her full attention and wondered why he had been looking at her CV. She said, ‘Actually, I worked with young offenders diagnosed with special educational needs.’
‘You were a teacher?’
‘No. On paper the job description was classroom assistant.’
‘And in reality?’
‘I spent most of my time restraining and subduing angry young teenagers and dragging them off to rubber rooms.’
‘Rather you than me.’ Romney stabbed the buzzer again. ‘Come on, for Christ’s sake. We haven’t got all bloody day.’
Romney started as Betty’s distorted voice said, ‘No need for bad language. I can’t be in two places at once.’
The gate buzzed. Romney waited until they were walking across the playground before saying, ‘Not sorry to be out of it then?’
‘It was the most depressing, wretched, hopeless, soul-destroying job I’ve ever done – and I’ve stacked shelves in supermarkets.’
Marsh sensed that Romney spent the last twenty metres of their approach preparing himself for another meeting with his ex. She noticed that he stuffed some gum into his mouth, cleared his nasal passages with a bit of sniffing and ran his hands through his hair. He touched the knot of his tie, did up a button on his suit jacket and then quickly undid it again.
Betty’s reception was understandably a little frosty. Romney asked if Julie Carpenter was in. Betty said that she was out. She didn’t say where. Romney sagged a little and resisted asking. He enquired after the site manager and was given directions for where to find her.
Romney and Marsh were just about to go through the door into the main area of the school when Betty said, ‘Where are you going?’
Romney looked at her like he thought she must be joking. Seeing that she was serious, he said, ‘To speak to Mrs Chislett, of course. Didn’t we just discuss that?’
‘There’s no need to be facetious,’ said Betty. ‘You can’t go anywhere unaccompanied in this school until I’ve seen your DBS checks paperwork. More than my job’s worth.’
Romney said, ‘Pardon.’
‘Disclosure and Barring Service. It’s a legal requirement. If you haven’t been vetted you can’t go through those doors without supervision. If I let you in there and you started abusing children it’d be me who’d be in trouble.’
Marsh didn’t often see Romney lost for words. She rather enjoyed the moment.
Before anyone could explain to Betty that their status as police officers covered the requirement, she’d lifted up a section of the counter top to come through. Images of pub bars were conjured in the minds of the police. They fell into step behind her. Marsh could almost see the irritation coming off Romney, like hot-morning vapours off a swamp.
Betty buzzed the doors and they pushed through them in the direction of the bowels of the establishment. The familiar institutional smells wafted up to taint their clothes, their memories and their outlooks. Without talking, they walked along the gloomy, tunnel-like corridor, heading for the light at the end of it.
Efforts had been made to cheer the place up and obscure the peeling paint, the scuffed walls and the general air of datedness. A variety of colourful and interactive displays, obviously adult-produced, jostled with the rather pitiful crudely produced daubs and creative efforts of the children. As they moved along, the quality of the handwriting and artwork improved incrementally, suggesting to the novice visitor who was paying attention to such things that the age and ability of the children was growing with every few yards and that there was a definite and discernable limit to local talent and/or teaching.
The eyes of the police strayed through the windows to what was going on inside the classrooms. There was a good deal of shouting, mostly by the teachers, and a lot of general noise. There was some crying and some laughter; one shaven-headed, red-faced young lad was standing on a table with his chin stuck out in defiance. He looked to be about seven. His taunting peers kept him on the boil as the teacher attempted to talk him down and shut them up. The last classroom in the corridor was graveyard quiet, suggesting emptiness. Closer proximity revealed a couple of dozen heads bent over their separated desks while the short-haired, frumpy and bellicose Ms Sullivan prowled between them with a ruler in her hand and a wintry expression on her face. She looked up and in their direction as they passed and her appearance did not alter.
Mrs Chislett was somewhere around the school’s hall. Betty told them to wait there while she roused the site manager from wherever she was hiding.
The ceilings were high and curved, suggesting a religious influence. Ornate and bulky plaster cornice work ran around the walls about three feet from the top. There was plenty of light from some decorative and original-looking arched, stained glass windows but the floor space did not look big enough to have provided an indoor PE area for a normal class size that involved anything more than running on the spot.
The space seemed different, older, compared to the rest of what they’d seen of the school – and the basic construction of corridor, classrooms and reception area had not suggested a late twentieth century influence. Aspects of the hall’s design and decoration hinted at an era that might have seen an unamused queen on the throne.
It occurred to Romney that the hall was the original school building. It made him wonder whether there had been a small existing settlement in Aylesham before it was earmarked for development and expansion to accommodate the proposed influx of miners. Or perhaps whoever commissioned the building just wanted it to look that way in the hope that something of the Victorian values of the period it was aping might surreptitiously rub off on the community.
Mrs Chislett trailed Betty out from a small room off the hall. She was wiping her hands on a filthy-looking rag and Romney hoped sincerely that she wasn’t the sort who insisted on making acquaintances with a handshake. To give her a hint, he rammed both of his hands in his trouser pockets.
Mrs Chislett had a figure like the little teapot – short and stout. The dungarees and workman’s boots ensemble, when combined with her shortly cropped thick hair and sinewy exposed forearms, suggested that she would not be one to back down from a physical challenge. Her unsmiling expression did little to encourage them to believe that their interruption of her working day was appreciated.
Betty spoke to the
site manager as though they were not there and paying attention to the conversation. ‘I’ve got to get back to reception. Escort them back through when they’re done, will you?’ Betty clip-clopped off across the antique parquet flooring with the speed, grace and accompanying noise of a startled pit pony.
As they hadn’t been introduced, Romney said, ‘Mrs Chislett?’
‘That’s right.’ Her voice was almost as deep as his. ‘You the copper who rang me on Saturday night?’
Romney felt that shoving his warrant card in her face might be something assertive for them, something to establish their authority. ‘Detective Inspector Romney,’ he said. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Marsh. We’re from Dover Police Criminal Investigation Department.’
Marsh wondered why he was spelling everything out. He didn’t usually.
‘I know,’ said Mrs Chislett. ‘What do you want to talk to me for?’
Romney’s phone rang. He checked the display and said, ‘Excuse me a moment.’ He moved away to answer it, leaving Marsh and Mrs Chislett staring at each other. Marsh smiled, Mrs Chislett didn’t.
‘Guv?’ It was Spicer.
‘Obviously. What do you want?’
‘News on Lance Leavey: he lived with his mum in Chatham. It was her who reported him missing.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No. I rang the contact number that I was given but there was no answer.’