by Oliver Tidy
‘No. Yes. One of your big jumpers. You know. Like I used to wear.’ She sounded so enthusiastically nostalgic for the memory.
Romney didn’t tell her he’d given them all away to Age Concern because he had not been able to look at them any more, let alone wear them.
He returned a few minutes later with a blanket and feeling physically deflated. ‘I can’t find them,’ he said. ‘Try this.’
She thanked him and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She said, ‘I wanted to explain to you about why I did what I did.’
‘Julie, there’s no...’
‘Yes there is. For me there is. It was the worst, most cruel thing I’ve ever done in my life. And I’ve regretted it ever since.’ He came and sat next to her and took her hand. ‘I was scared, Tom. I know that sounds silly but it’s true. I loved you. I really did. I still do. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving you. But I got scared that you would eventually dump me. I thought that I was just a fanciful fling for you. I thought that you were going to really hurt me and I ran away from that. I’m sorry.’ In the moonlight the tears glistened on her cheeks and Tom Romney felt something powerful and protective swell inside him to contend with his methane build up.
‘I never understood it,’ he said. ‘I tried to, but it made no sense to me. I thought we were happy. I thought we were good for each other. I won’t pretend that you didn’t hurt me, Julie. I would never have hurt you. I wished that you had talked to me instead of...’
She sighed and sniffed loudly. ‘I know. God knows I wish it now.’
‘What do you mean? Aren’t you happy with your life, your choices, the way things have turned out?’ He rather hoped that she was miserable with it all.
‘No. I’m not. Would I have thrown myself into your arms tonight if I were?’
‘But the man you left me for. You’re engaged to be married to him.’
‘What? Who told you that? That’s not true.’
Romney felt a surge of hope. Had he misunderstood before? ‘But weren’t you on a hen weekend last weekend? Your hen weekend?’
‘Yes. But I’m not engaged to Roddy. I’m marrying someone else.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
***
15
The CID meeting room had the air of a funeral parlour about it. Romney was pensive, Marsh was distant, Grimes was disconsolate because his gums were hurting, and Spicer had suffered a sleepless night courtesy of his sick baby. They were all hoping that Superintendent Vine did not choose to grace them with her presence.
Romney moved across to his whiteboard. With his finger, he erased the pair of question marks after Lance Leavey’s name. ‘Forensics have confirmed that Mrs Leavey’s DNA sample is a match for the body in the container. At least that clears that up.
‘Now we know for certain who it is we can start trying to find out how the hell he came to be there. Aylesham is a long way from Chatham for someone like Lance. He knew no one in the area and according to his nearest and dearest had no reason to be anywhere near here.
‘But what we do know is that he was working the occasional night and getting well paid for it. Mum and best friend claim to know nothing that could help us but the pregnant girlfriend says it was something to do with the lads he played five-a-side with. I’ve got someone looking into that, trying to get me some names we can follow up.’
Marsh looked up sharply at Romney. He hadn’t mentioned anything to her about that.
‘One other development that might be worth bearing in mind: I spoke to someone from the school about Gavin Foyle, the head teacher. As we know, he went on extended sick leave within a time frame that could fit with Lance’s disappearance, although I stress that there is no known connection between the two. Yet. Foyle is off work with stress but his stress is not directly work related, as he claimed yesterday. Apparently, Gavin Foyle is gay. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but things being what they are Mr Foyle chose to keep that side of his life very private. He didn’t even tell us. Working in Aylesham, I don’t blame him. They probably still burn people at the stake for that. According to my source no one at the school had any idea about his sexuality. And then someone found out. As I understand it, a parent saw Foyle and his partner out somewhere, put two and two together and sounded the alarm at school. There was some malicious gossip, some of the older kids in the village got wind of it and began to make his life a misery.’
‘How?’ said Grimes.
‘By hanging around the school gates before and after school and harassing him, often in front of pupils of St Bartholomew’s. His tyres were slashed, his car was covered in paint twice. He took it badly.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Marsh, quite crossly. ‘We’re talking about hate crimes. Maybe that was what his little confession to us was really about?’
‘Maybe,’ said Romney.
‘What confeshion?’ said Grimes.
‘He said he assaulted a young man who was abusing him. Verbally,’ added Marsh.
‘When we called on him yesterday there was no sign of a significant other. Doesn’t mean that there isn’t one, of course. He was pretty shaken up by our visit. Just by dint of the time frames involved, I think we should start digging into Foyle’s and Lance Leavey’s private lives. If anyone finds any sort of link between them, if they have loyalty cards with the same supermarket, I want to know about it. Anything. I don’t care how tenuous it is. Understood?’
*
Back in his office, Romney looked again at the text message Julie Carpenter had sent him that morning: was gr8 2 c u. thanku 4 being so undrstnding. you’ve still got it...X. Romney hadn’t responded.
Almost as soon as he’d opened his eyes that morning he’d felt the weight of his guilt for his stupidity over aspects of the previous evening. He’d lain in bed in the covers soiled with their lovemaking and considered everything again. He didn’t regret seeing her but he regretted the way things had gone and so easily, even if it had been bloody brilliant.
At least Julie had told him she was on the pill, so that was one worry gone. He’d stripped his bed and shoved it all in the washing machine as if that would help to erase the reality of what had happened, launder away his sins.
He looked at his watch and understood that he shouldn’t put it off any longer. He blew out his cheeks and typed, Good to see you too. No problem. Take care. X and pressed send before he wasted another fifteen minutes of his life dithering. The texting culture was something else that was starting to irritate him.
He picked up the desk phone and put a call through to downstairs. Romney was a little disappointed that Fower had not been in contact. He wondered whether the young man had managed to get over to Strood Leisure Centre and, if he had, whether he’d found out anything useful.
‘Young Fower’s not in today, guv,’ said the sergeant.
‘Oh. Day off?’ Romney was thinking he could ring him at home – Marsh had his mobile number.
‘No, guv. Got set upon last night by a gang of youths. He’s in the hospital.’
Romney sat up straight. ‘Where? What happened?’
‘Medway Maritime Hospital, Gillingham. No idea what he was doing up there, guv. He took a bit of a hiding, apparently. Can anyone else help you?’
‘No. Thanks.’ Romney hung up and swallowed. His throat was particularly dry. Marsh walked past his office. He called her.
‘You’ve got Fower’s mobile number, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Write it down for me, please.’
‘Do you want me to...’
‘Just do it, Joy.’
She was back in a minute with a piece of paper and her cross face.
Romney tutted, made a decision and said, ‘Come in. Shut the door. Sit down.’ She did and fixed him with her business stare. Romney exhaled a long deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Unconsciously or not, he then put his hands together in a demonstration of supplication and said, ‘Yesterday, after you’d pushed off to forensics with Mrs
Leavey’s DNA sample, Fower asked for the chance to atone for his mistake. He’s keen so I thought it only fair to provide him with one. I reminded him that Lance played football at Strood Leisure Centre on Tuesdays and that, as it was Tuesday, if he could get me a name or two it wouldn’t hurt his prospects.’
Having close experience of Romney delivering bad news to relatives and loved ones, Marsh recognised the tone and his body language. She understood that something had gone wrong. It led her to stare quite intensely at Romney, something he found profoundly disconcerting.
‘I’ve just phoned downstairs to speak to him. Apparently, he was beaten up last night. He’s in hospital. In Gillingham.’
Marsh closed her eyes and dropped her chin on to her chest.
‘Whatever you’re thinking, I know,’ said Romney. ‘So please don’t feel that you have to say anything. I’m going to see him. It is possible that this was nothing to do with what I asked him to do.’
Marsh’s look indicated what she thought of that likelihood. In an uncharacteristic show of boldness bordering on insolence, she said, ‘I’m coming too.’
*
Fower was awake but drugged and drowsy. He was propped up on half-a-dozen pillows, watching the ward go by through a purple and green slit surrounding the eye that still opened. One arm was in a full cast from fingertips to shoulder; a swathe of bandages covered the top of his head, like a hurriedly wound turban; the shape of the sheets suggested that there was some sort of cage under them to protect his abdomen. Apart from those obviously serious injuries, his distorted and swollen face, between the stitched cuts and taped lacerations, was a palette of dark greens, purples and deep hues of blue. He looked like something Picasso might have daubed on to canvas after learning that his wife had left him for his best friend. When Fower saw DI Romney with his angry features striding in his direction, his reaction implied that he feared another beating.
For reasons obvious to all but the visually impaired, the nursing staff had resisted providing the young constable with a mirror, despite his requests for one. They had brushed off his questions regarding the extent of his facial injuries, preferring to give him time to come to terms with them mentally first. Romney took one look at him and said, ‘Jesus Christ, son. You look like you’ve gone ten rounds with Tyson.’ Marsh accidentally trod on Romney’s foot, but did not apologise.
When Fower spoke he managed to sound like a cross between Grimes with his new teeth and Marlon Brando’s Don Corleone. ‘Sorry, guv. I let you down again.’ Execution and sentiment were pitiful.
‘What happened?’ said Romney.
‘I went to Strood. Did as you said. Tried to get some names. Martin was there. He saw me.’
‘Martin from yesterday? Lance Leavey’s friend Martin?’
Fower closed his eye and nodded.
‘You think he told them who you were?’ said Romney.
‘I don’t know, sir. Maybe. I think so.’
Romney was incandescent. He had it under control but Marsh noticed his breathing was quicker and heavier, like a phone pervert approaching his climax, and he had seemed to have expanded and grown taller, like a Marvel superhero with a chemical imbalance.
Romney patted Fower on the arm, which made the young man wince. Romney seemed not to notice. ‘You did well. You just got me a lead.’
‘I did?’
‘Don’t you remember? Martin said he hated football. He said he never went to five-a-side and he didn’t know who any of them were. He lied to me.’
‘How are you feeling?’ said Marsh, addressing Fower but sending a rebuke to Romney with her eyes.
‘To be honest, Sarge, I’m so pumped full of drugs I don’t actually know. I know my arm is broken and some ribs. And they had to take my spleen out.’
‘You’ll recover,’ said Romney. ‘And spleens don’t do anything. You’re better off without it. Listen, you concentrate on getting well and back to work. I’m going to have another word with Superintendent Vine about getting you transferred back to CID. I need detectives like you.’
Fower was made happy and tried to smile but gave up quickly.
‘Just one thing,’ said Romney, leaning in close and lowering his voice. ‘Best if what you were doing there last night remains between us. Understand? I’m thinking of you. It could look bad for you if the brass thought you were some kind of maverick officer acting on impulse. You get me? Knowing her quite well, I imagine that Superintendent Vine would take a very dim view of that kind of initiative.’
Fower nodded.
‘Good lad. Right, we’ll leave you to your rest.’ Romney turned to go.
Marsh said, ‘Do you need anything?’
‘Thanks, Sarge, but my mum’s coming back soon. She’s got it covered.’ Marsh smiled at him and squeezed his good hand. Get well soon, Philip.’
As they walked down the long hospital corridor towards the exit – Marsh almost jogging to keep up – she was intending to say something to Romney about his priorities when addressing a junior and naive officer who was lying beaten to a pulp in a hospital bed as a result of acting on his senior officer’s rather dangerous and misguided instructions, but Romney had other things on his mind. He said, ‘That fucking Martin. That snidey little shit. Probably had a good laugh at us yesterday. Well he’s just made a big fucking mistake. I’m gonna give that spindly streak of piss a memory to put on his sleeve. Come on.’
Marsh had no idea what Romney meant by that last remark. She said, ‘Where are we going?’
‘To find the little fucker, of course. What do you think?’
Romney was understandably angry. It was a side of him that worried Marsh, especially when they were on duty and together. In this case, however, she was quite angry with Martin herself. And she’d never met him.
They were almost at the end of the corridor when around the corner came Superintendent Vine and Inspector Blanchett. Boudicca’s orange hair was looking particularly enormous piled high on her head. She held her little hat by her side. They all recognised each other immediately. To do anything other than stop and speak would have been unthinkable.
‘Morning, ma’am,’ said Romney and Marsh. Romney winked at Blanchett, who was doing his best to suppress a smile at the meeting.
‘Good morning, Tom, Joy. What are you doing here?’
Boudicca seemed genuinely puzzled and this obviously pleased Romney. ‘We’ve just been in to see how young Fower’s doing, ma’am,’ said Romney, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Boudicca was frowning. The lines joined up a lot of her freckles. ‘Why? Fower is no longer in CID.’
Romney made a meal of his surprise at her thinking. ‘I know that, of course, ma’am, but he was one of us. Admittedly only for a very short spell but that’s the sort of department I try to run, ma’am. We never forget our brother officers. I suppose you could call it a musketeer mentality.’
Superintendent Vine seemed genuinely astonished. Astonished enough to have lost her capacity for speech, which Romney enjoyed.
‘To be honest,’ said Romney, pushing his luck, ‘I was a bit surprised to hear young Fower say that he hadn’t had a visit from you yet, ma’am, him being uniform and all. He seemed a bit... upset by it. Or it could be the drugs they’ve pumped into him. Anyway, if there’s nothing else we’ve got a strong lead on our outstanding murder enquiry to follow up.’
Just a little coolly, as if she had the measure of Romney’s remarks, Boudicca said that there was nothing else and bid CID good hunting. They thanked her and continued on their way.
‘Right,’ said Romney, sounding a good deal cheerier, ‘let’s go and ruin someone’s day.’
*
Martin was not at work. He’d phoned in sick. Romney asked the young female on reception how common that was and was told that Martin hadn’t had a day off work in months. With the face he had on and the mood he was in, it didn’t take Romney long to get Martin’s home address out of her. They thanked her and turned to leave. Ro
mney had a thought. He turned back to fix the anxious-looking receptionist with a sincere and stony look. He said, ‘I don’t know if you consider yourself a friend of Martin’s but know this: if you phone him to let him know we’re on the way round, I will know about it. And then I’ll be back looking for you. Do I make myself clear?’
Wide-eyed and without speaking, the girl nodded and slowly mimed zipping her mouth.
*
The address was a pokey little terraced property in need of redecorating. It sat on a narrow, cluttered road running behind one of the town’s main arterial highways. It had taken them a long time to find it – Marsh had had trouble loading the maps application on her smartphone – and then almost as long to find a parking space. By the time Romney was banging the heel of his fist on the peeling door that opened almost right on to the pavement he was in no mood for pleasantries.
Martin’s second mistake of the day was finding out who was thumping on the door by opening it. His first had been not securing the chain before he did that. As soon as he recognised the angry features of DI Romney on his doorstep fuming and looming in his direction it was too late. As an instinctive reaction, he tried to slam the door shut – thereby indicating to both officers his complicity in Fower’s kicking – but Romney already had his brogue in the way. And then his shoulder slammed into the woodwork, sending door and then Martin flying backwards. Martin ended up on the floor with blood streaming from his nose.
Romney stepped into the opening and stared down at him. With the sun behind him he looked to Martin like some avenging angel. ‘Not very welcoming, Martin. Any one in?’
Clearly dazed, Martin shook his head.
Romney smiled wickedly and said, ‘Good.’ He turned to Marsh and said, ‘Wait there a moment. I’m just going to help Martin to his feet after his nasty fall.’
Marsh had her mouth open to say something but Romney had already entered the house and slammed the door shut behind him. Marsh had little choice but to stare at it. She heard Martin scream once. She looked about the street in case anyone else was around to hear it.