by Oliver Tidy
As much as Romney seemed to enjoy the trips down memory lane that were his visits to Tiffany’s, Marsh felt only soiled for the experiences. The surfaces always felt sticky. The air was perpetually clammy with scents and molecules of fried food. The decor, something Romney seemed to appreciate for its resistance to change, just came across as dingy, grotty and neglected to her. There was no charm of a bygone era for her; only the need for a deep clean or a refit and new ownership. Someone who could drag the place into the twenty-first century.
Sammy Coker, looking much as Marsh imagined Henry the Eighth must have done in his final months – enormously fat, struggling for breath, clothes straining at their seams, a candidate for a coronary – waddled over in his badly fitting trousers, oversized unironed shirt (something several small children could have slept under) and open-toed sandals, which revealed discoloured and stained white socks, thereby filleting what remained of her appetite. He pulled up a chair at their table, in so doing indicating that he’d finally given up trying to kid himself that he could compress and coerce his enormous stomach into the available space between the fixed tables and chairs. She hoped she’d be spared the excruciatingly annoying diet comments.
Romney and Sammy said their hellos. Sammy lowered himself on to the plastic chair with a deep exhalation of breath that reached Marsh’s face, making her want to gag. His buttocks and thighs spilled over the sides of the seat and his bulk tested the load-bearing properties of the furniture. His breath came in great heaving wheezing gasps. He bestowed a friendly enough nod and a smile in Marsh’s direction, which she forced herself to respond to in kind, before the café owner and Romney embarked on the usual puerile chit-chat that characterised the two men’s opening conversational gambits.
Breakfast arrived and after depositing a startling amount of brown sauce on top of his serving of processed food, Romney immediately got stuck into his heart attack on a plate. Marsh used the knife she’d been polishing with a serviette to drag off a good few grams of butter from the cardboard substitute and deposit it at the side of the plate before nibbling at what remained, for appearances’ sake.
Inevitably, talk got around to crime in the town. In his characteristically strained and strangled voice, Sammy Coker said, ‘’S’pose you’re involved in the investigation of that body in the container up at Aylesham?’
Romney nodded with a mouthful. Marsh noticed a bit of egg yolk on his chin and had to put her toast down. He chewed, swallowed and said, ‘You know who owns the field and the self-storage business?’
Sammy blew on his tea and took a noisy sip. Marsh noticed he hadn’t shaved and that there was also food residue discolouring the silvery prickling of growth at the corners of his mouth. Her gaze went to his thinning, lank, greasy, concrete-grey hair. It needed washing and cutting. She reached for her tea and as her hand closed around the handle she noticed a tiny chip in the rim. It made her wonder what bacteria from previous drinkers of the great unwashed variety that typified Sammy’s usual clientele lurked there awaiting an unsuspecting innocent to give a cold sore to. She set it back on the table but kept hold of it, once again, for appearances’ sake.
‘The Holloway boys,’ said Sammy. ‘Hard to believe that either of them would be involved in murder and concealment of a body. These days at least.’
Romney smiled. ‘That’s what we were saying yesterday. It’s not their style at all. They’ve grown up as they’ve got older.’
‘Victim local, was he?’
‘Chatham. There’s a strong link between him and the Holloways.’
Marsh thought Romney was being rather free with the details of an ongoing investigation when speaking to a member of the public who was probably something of an old gossip.
‘Anyone been charged with it?’
Romney shook his head as he crammed another loaded forkful of budget food into his mouth.
‘Still, it wouldn’t be the first time a Holloway was implicated in something outside their usual sphere of influence, if memory serves,’ said Sammy.
Romney stopped in mid chew and said, ‘Go on.’
Marsh had never enjoyed watching other people eat. She liked it less when they spoke with their mouth full.
Sammy leaned back and linked his fingers over his bloated girth. The overall effect was one of an old fashioned medicine ball with a lace. His eyelids fluttered like tiny pale butterflies as he remembered. ‘A while back now. Fact, come to think of it, I’m not sure it ever was a police matter. Travellers trying to muscle in on something or other. One of the opposition went missing. Permanently. There was talk that he’d gone back to where he’d come from. There was just as much talk that he was buried round these parts.’
Sammy wheezed and then subjected them to a phlegmy coughing fit that turned him beetroot purple and made Marsh feel sick. When he’d finished, he shifted in his seat and grimaced. Marsh was forced to consider that the man had actually broken wind at their table, although she’d heard nothing. The train of thought she was unable to resist compounded her queasiness. She lifted the steaming tea – ensuring the mug did not come into contact with her face – to a position just under her nose in the hope that the heat given off from the surface of the brew might function to keep any foul smells from finding their way into her breathing channels.
Sammy said, ‘The word was that Buddy lost his temper and went too far. ‘Course, could’ve been just another urban myth, something talked up to make the Holloways seem tougher than they were. You never really know. They always were pretty tough.’
*
Out on the pavement, Romney lit up and savoured the nicotine rush from his post-cholesterol-intake smoke. As he let out a great plume of smoke he said, ‘You didn’t eat your toast.’
‘I lost my appetite.’
‘Or drink your tea.’
‘There was a chip in the rim. I don’t want herpes.’
‘I don’t know why you bothered coming.’
‘Home was a bit depressing this morning.’
‘Must have been more than a bit.’
‘Yeah. It was. I told Justin last night that I’ve made an offer on a flat.’
‘And? How’d he take it?’
Marsh breathed in and out heavily. ‘Let’s just say badly enough for me to accept your invitation for breakfast at Tiffany’s.’
Romney phoned ahead to make sure that at least one of the Holloways was going to be about and was rewarded with the news that both Buddy and Elvis were on the premises. Romney said he’d be up shortly.
*
Elvis was the only one in the office when the police arrived. He didn’t seem overly bothered at being called on by them, again, and so soon after being arrested. In fact he seemed oddly relaxed at the visit.
‘It’s a lovely morning, Mr Romney,’ said Elvis. ‘Shall we chat outside in the sun? Bit stuffy and smelly in here.’
Romney said that would suit him fine. Plastic chairs were arranged. They sat and Romney removed the paraphernalia of his pipe-smoking fixation from his pockets. Marsh new that as soon as he managed to get it going – if he managed to get it going – she’d be once again reminded of the ‘few’ who had lounged around outdoors on the airstrips of Kent waiting to be scrambled in defence of the realm. She fought against the images and the inclination they gave her to laugh. And then found herself wondering what Romney would look like in fleece-lined flying jacket and chunky flying boots, maybe a white silk scarf and a handlebar moustache.
‘Sergeant Marsh?’ It was Elvis.
‘Sorry. What?’
‘Anything to drink?’
After the consumption of a bottle of cheap white wine the previous evening – on her own – Marsh had a significant thirst but she shook her head and smiled a polite no thank you. She knew that if mugs that got regularly washed up in a café could disgust her like they had, then the stained, chipped and filthy beakers that a brew would probably be served up in at a do-as-you-likey’s scrapyard in the back of beyond wouldn’t encourage her t
o quench it. Romney accepted and once again Marsh had to wonder at his personal standards.
Elvis disappeared into the converted container that served as the office. The gentle whir of electrics and technology drifted out to where they were sitting. Elvis returned with two disposable cups of good-smelling machine coffee. Marsh felt her tongue moisten. She bit it.
Romney was puffing away on his aromatic blend with some satisfaction. Elvis tapped out a cigarette, lit up and looked at Romney expectantly.
‘This isn’t about the lead,’ said Romney.
‘I guessed that,’ said Elvis, tilting his head back and blowing smoke. ‘That’s why I’m talking to you. Nothing to hide.’
‘In that case, the body in the freezer, Elvis. Let me share with you what we have and see if you can help me out with how it came to be in one of your containers.’ Elvis made a face that indicated he was willing to give it a go. ‘The deceased hails from Chatham. He was part of the gang of church desecraters who we found here the other night.’ Elvis’s reaction to that news showed on his face. ‘Didn’t you know that?’ said Romney.
‘How could I, Mr Romney?’
‘Lance Leavey is his name.’ Romney paused to see if this might prompt something further from Elvis. It didn’t. ‘Lance had absolutely no business, no history and no connections in Dover other than trading in stolen lead. Of course, that connection and the witnesses who can place him as being here before his death are not going to work in your favour over the receiving charges, but to be honest I’m confident that we will have enough for the CPS to take this one forward without that. So you see, Elvis, why I’m back talking to you about him. His only connection to Aylesham was here, with you. He’d been here. He was found in a container that you not only had access to but kept things in. How can you expect us to believe that his death and concealment is nothing to do with the Holloways?’
Elvis had grown increasingly uneasy through Romney’s little speech. He said, ‘Look, if all that’s true, I can see how it looks, but I swear to you that what we found in there was the first we knew of it. Remember it was us who rang the police about finding him. How does that fit in?’
‘I admit it’s… odd,’ said Romney, ‘but not unprecedented for murderers to feel that clever and confident that they’ve covered all their tracks.’
Elvis lit another cigarette with the smouldering end of his previous.
‘What about Buddy?’ said Romney. ‘He’s always had a temper on him. There are rumours of a member of a rival outfit disappearing without trace a few years back after Buddy lost it with him.’
Elvis became defensive and redder in the face. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about there, Mr Romney. But I know my brother, my twin. He couldn’t keep something like that from me.’
‘We’re chasing up Lance Leavey’s phone records, Elvis. I do hope that we don’t find another connection to either of you there.’
‘You won’t because there is no connection. Why would there be?’
‘Something someone said about when Lance was up here before. They said he either made or received a video on his phone while he was here that excited him. Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t have, eh? I’m wondering if Lance tried a little unfriendly blackmail, not quite appreciating who he was dealing with.’
Elvis smiled. ‘You’re barking up trees, Mr Romney. Are we off the record for a moment?’
‘You haven’t been cautioned, Elvis.’
‘It might turn out that there is something in the scrap that we’ll have to answer for, although, where it came from is nothing to do with us and no one can say it is, but this murder business… I can promise you on my father’s soul, may he rest in peace, that that is nothing to do with a Holloway, even though a blind man could see how it looks.’
*
Romney was still tutting and shaking his head in frustration. ‘I believe him. Maybe I’m just going soft, but I don’t think he is lying to me.’
‘He was quite convincing,’ said Marsh.
They were driving down Jubilee Way so that Romney could drop Marsh off at home. The English Channel was glittery and bustling with shipping. The midday sun encouraged some spectacular hues of blue and green out of the watery canvas.
‘At times it looks almost like the Med,’ said Romney, thinking aloud.
‘Supposing it does turn out to be nothing to do with the Holloways,’ said Marsh, ‘that would only leave one other place to look.’
Romney’s stomach clenched and he felt suddenly hot. ‘St Bartholomew’s. Let’s hope that Elvis is just a bloody good liar then.’
‘What are we going to do about Martin?’
‘I’ve dealt with him.’
‘Oh. How?’
Romney fiddled with the mirror. ‘He’s had a warning. A close call.’
‘You’ve let him off? No charges?’
‘He managed to evade capture on the night and no one has implicated him. His name was not given up by any of the others. So we can’t prove he was there. If we can’t prove he was there we can’t prove he was part of it. What can I charge him with?’
‘We could at least drag him in for questioning over Philip’s beating.’
‘He’s another one I sort of believe when he said he wasn’t part of it and he didn’t mean to give away Fower’s identity. I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt for now. But I will speak to Fower about it. If Martin was actually involved and Fower can testify honestly to that effect then Martin will be dragged in and charged. In the meantime Martin is more use to me and my investigations out of custody and indebted to me for keeping it that way. And don’t forget that without his assistance we wouldn’t have had Operation Scrap or ended up with that valuable link between Lance and the Holloways.’
‘Which, incidentally, isn’t looking like such a valuable link after all. If we believe Elvis.’
Romney shrugged. ‘True. OK at least we have a solid link between Lance and Aylesham. I’ll leave the chasing up and cross referencing of phone records to you, OK?’
*
With a heavy step, Joy traipsed up the stairs to her floor. Stepping on to the walkway that led to her flat she noticed a figure sitting on the ground with his back to her front door. She couldn’t see his face because he was holding up a broadsheet newspaper. At the sound of her approaching shoes he lowered it, looked up and smiled a little sheepishly.
*
After dropping Marsh off, Romney continued on along the seafront and pulled into the kerb. He hadn’t replied to any of Julie’s texts from the night before. He opened his phone to do so and saw that she’d sent another.
‘just wondered if you doing n e thing this afternoon. i’m not…XX’
He thought about what he did have planned and realised it wasn’t something that couldn’t be put off. Being an advocate of Wilde’s views on temptation and knowing that Zara was away with friends for the weekend tempted him to invite Julie to his home. He composed something suitable and pressed send. Then he looked at the time and hurried back to clear up in case she took him up on his offer.
*
‘I’m sorry. I behaved like a, like a… well, less well than I should have done. I was just incredibly disappointed. And hurt. Hurt that you hadn’t mentioned anything about it to me. I thought we were close, Joy.’
Joy smiled at him and took his hand. ‘We are close, Justin. Yes, it all happened very quickly but I should have mentioned it to you. I felt… feel bad about that.’
‘It’s your money. I know that. I was just under the impression – something I realise I created all by myself – that we might move in together. Buy a place together.’
‘Do you want to talk about it on the step or do you want to come in and sit down?’
‘How about you let me buy you a pub lunch. Somewhere within walking distance so we can both have a drink. Unless you’ve eaten, that is.’
‘I am starving. I’d even manage tea and toast at Tiffany’s.’
‘Where’s that?’
<
br /> ‘Never mind. With any luck you’ll never have the misfortune to find out. Come on. I’m in the mood for a drink. The White Horse is open and I‘m so hungry I could eat one.’
*
When Julie arrived Romney was showered, changed and sitting in the back garden sun with a glass of wine and his pipe. The moment he saw her he felt a familiar ache in his stomach. Her presence made him feel younger, more carefree, less dull, reckless.
They kissed on the mouth and embraced warmly and he asked her how long she could stay. He’d already taken some steaks out of the freezer and left them to defrost. He’d made a quick salad and shoved it in the fridge and he’d scrubbed up and pricked a couple of jacket potatoes, all on the off chance that she would stay for something to eat.
‘Colin plays football Saturday afternoons. They’re away in Deal today. He usually stops on for a pint after. We’re going out tonight so I’ve only got a couple of hours.’
Although his name had not been mentioned before, Romney had to assume that Colin was the fiancé. The use of his name made him more real. It made Julie’s relationship with another man more real. It made Romney feel suddenly cheap and a little sordid to be part of that particular kind of deceit. And in a light-bending moment of clarity, something of his deep affection for the beautiful woman in front of him was irreversibly damaged by the knowledge that she would cheat in such a blasé and calculated manner on the man she was planning to marry. He took another slug of the cold wine.