by Oliver Tidy
Marsh was relieved that the working day was over. She was tired. A series of stiflingly hot nights and the responsibility that Romney had foisted upon her had deprived her of sleep. She’d planned an early relaxed evening at home. She felt she’d savour the pointless trip to some grotty storage depot all the more if she were refreshed and rested in the morning.
*
Wilkie sat in his car surveying the dimly lit street. Now he was here, he remembered it from a visit related to a previous attack – a white BMW M series with racing stripe. Very nice. At least it had been before the crazy had put a neat little ‘parking medal’ in the middle of the bonnet. The owner, barely more than a youth, had been incandescent. Wilkie had not been able to muster much sympathy for him. For one thing, he had left half of the sports car’s body sticking out of the driveway over-night to completely block the pavement forcing pedestrians, wheelchair users and pram-pushers into the road to get around it. For another, the car probably cost more than Wilkie earned in a year, possibly two, and spotty ill-mannered boys with those kinds of privileges couldn’t hope to stir feelings of empathy in someone who had worked hard all his life only to aspire to a basic second-hand family saloon.
Detached houses of varying designs, but all with a strong early twentieth century influence, lined both sides of the completely residential street. Mature broadleaf trees were spaced evenly up either side in the middle of the pavements providing convenient dark patches for seclusion and just about the only suggestion of vegetation. Most of the small front gardens had been concreted over to provide extra parking for the array of vehicles of the affluent households. At this time of night, there still wasn’t enough room for them all. In both directions the curb sides were nose to tail. Whoever planned this development clearly had no idea of the autogeddon that was to befall Mankind.
The street was quiet. Most residents had probably arrived home from work, had their dinners and were lounging on expensive sofas rotting their brains in front of the television. He didn’t expect much traffic. Being a cul-de-sac, it wasn’t something people could use as a short-cut to somewhere else. Being a cul-de-sac also probably gave people more confidence to park how they liked.
At the closed end of it a narrow opening between six foot high fence panels led onto a footpath that linked the road with another behind it. Wilkie selected a narrowing of the pavement near this and bumped his car up the curb to block the way. Satisfied, he took his backpack with drink, some quickly packed foods, his handcuffs, pepper spray and an old truncheon he’d unearthed – he intended to enjoy himself – and hid himself away in the darkened shadows of a large beech tree.
*
Marsh had re-heated the previous day’s leftovers, soaked in the bath for a long time, persevered with a book that hadn’t gripped her – despite the hundred odd pages she’d suffered – turned the television on and, after flicking through the channels, off again. It was only nine o’clock.
Five hours previously she’d promised herself she’d be in bed by now, but her body had found a second wind and sleep was not on her mind. She tried Dorothy Mann’s phone again. No answer, again. Somewhere, in one of the flats around her a couple were arguing. She changed out of her pyjamas into sweats grabbed her bag and her car keys and left.
*
The play, a Noel Coward, was very good. Romney couldn’t remember going to the theatre since his daughter’s pantomime days. In truth he was a film man, but the nature of the live and superb performances was gripping him. The theatre had been Julie Carpenter’s idea and she was as pleased that Romney was enjoying himself as he was surprised.
They’d stepped outside in the interval so Romney could smoke. Having almost kicked it, he was back on nearly a pack a day and hating himself for it. The evening air was mild. The other theatre-going-outcasts, like himself, were dotted around the steps to the theatre talking in low educated tones, puffing away, while their companions enjoyed the obligatory ice-cream. He could see no one under thirty and no sign of poverty. It was all refreshingly civilised.
*
Wilkie risked compromising his position with a stretch and a shuffle-about to straighten out the ache in his back and the tiredness of his limbs. Three consecutive nights stuck out in the open like some homeless hobo was beginning to tell on his body. But the waiting had given him ample time for some deep reflection on where he was in his life. Home was fine, although it would be better when the baby settled its sleeping patterns and became more interesting. Work had been a cause for concern lately. His plans for a meteoric rise through the ranks had stuttered and looked like grinding to a halt since his paternity leave when Marsh had nipped in to usurp his position as Romney’s number one.
Wilkie hated Marsh. It wasn’t just for what she had reduced him to in the office. It went deeper than that. It was a conceptual thing, a sexist prejudice. The idea that maybe she was a better detective than him only deepened his negative feelings towards her. When he had taken care of the crazy he was going to take care of DS Marsh. He gave himself over to the myriad of scenarios that sprang to his mind and warmed him.
*
Marsh took out the town map from her glove compartment. It was something she had bought when she first learned of her posting to Dover but had rarely looked at. She searched out the street Dorothy Mann had been listed as living in during her divorce proceedings: her mother’s home. The street name she could remember. What she was uncertain of was whether it was number twenty-four or number forty-two she should be looking for. She began her drive to it not sure what she would do when she got there. Perhaps she’d just look for signs of life in either and make her decision then. Perhaps, if curtains were not drawn, she would spot Dorothy Mann. Some hope. She could ring the bells of both, of course. Maybe she’d get lucky first time. And, if Dorothy was home, she’d apologise for the lateness of the call, explain she’d been ringing and ringing – as if the woman wouldn’t know that – with an urgent enquiry, and ask her what she knew of the furniture at the storage depot. Marsh suspected she’d know a lot.
*
The pace of the farce livened to make the second half of the performance riveting entertainment. It ended to a standing ovation. As they left the theatre arm in arm Romney was brimming over with feelings of culture, goodwill and pleasure. He was also ravenous. They walked the short distance to the restaurant to find it busy with other theatre-goers making the most of the evening by finishing it off with a meal and a few drinks. Romney felt he could get used to it.
They didn’t have to wait long for their table, which was nicely positioned away from the kitchen and the toilets in a secluded alcove. Like a nervous boy he felt in his pocket for the umpteenth time that evening to check he had the key with him. It wasn’t a ring, but aspects of the proposed gesture had implications equal to one. All his piddling little doubts had been dispelled by now. He only had to look at her to realise that for him this was serious. He was as sure as he could be she felt the same way. There would be ample time to consider and discuss the ramifications of the bridge they were about to cross. To his thinking, the iron was scorching and crying out to be struck with.
*
Wilkie yawned widely and pulled his thin jacket tighter around him. He wished he’d gone with the fleece. He was very tired, very bored and getting cold. He checked his watch. He’d give it three hours. If the crazy didn’t show he’d pack it in. This would be his last night. He must be mad himself to be doing this. He became aware of a gentle ticking noise above him in the lush foliage and then the spotting of the pavement around him. His spirits sank a notch. The rain steadily increased in intensity to become a light summer drizzle. His thermos was empty and his bladder was full. He looked around for somewhere to relieve himself. He was loathe to compromise his position by moving away from it. Even though there were no signs of life anywhere. Finally, he decided to simply piss where he was up against the trunk of the tree. He unzipped his trousers, took a last look around and froze. Emerging from between the fence panel
s that flanked the narrow pathway was a dark, slow-moving figure. Wilkie removed his hand from his flies and, fixing his gaze on the ambling body, gently lowered himself to fumble in his backpack. His hand tightened around the grip of the truncheon, his heart rate accelerated. He moistened his lips, watched and waited.
*
Marsh had missed the turning once and, being on the one way system and not knowing the shortcuts, had decided to go around again. On her second circuit a light pattering of rain began to fall. She left her window down and savoured the damp air that it funnelled in.
It had taken her longer than she had expected to locate Dorothy Mann’s street. What had seemed a just about justifiable time to go making house calls when she had thought of it now looked highly unreasonable. But, since she was out she saw no harm in driving by and familiarising herself with somewhere she might have to visit in daylight. She turned into the quiet road and began to crawl its length peering between parked vehicles, through shrubbery and the dark at house numbers.
*
Romney pushed his dessert plate away with a satisfied sigh. Rarely had he tasted such exceptional cheesecake. He helped himself to another glass of the wine, although it wasn’t something he particularly wanted. He wasn’t driving. Julie Carpenter had managed a small one and he intended to leave as little as he could, costing, as it did, three times what he could buy the same bottle for in his local supermarket. But it wasn’t the kind of place or evening where he felt that being cheap and ordering as they consumed was appropriate. They ordered coffee.
He was craving nicotine, but was equally keen not to break the spell of the wonderful meal by skulking off for a smoke, leaving his date twiddling her thumbs while he got his dirty little fix. Several times during comfortable lulls in the conversation, he’d found himself preparing to broach the subject of the key. Each time, he’d either bottled it or been diverted by attentive staff. With the arrival of the coffee and complimentary chocolates, he realised a window of opportunity had opened. Romney felt in his pocket and brought his closed hand to the table. As Julie Carpenter raised a questioning eyebrow a shadow fell across their table.
*
The pressure on his bladder was intense. Wilkie watched with bated breath and an overwhelming feeling of inevitability and destiny as the figure moved in the direction of his car. He was pleased to see that whoever it was was not particularly large. Not broad, not tall. Manageable. A long dark overcoat and dark hat further added to Wilkie’s gut instinct that this was the crazy. Normal people wouldn’t wear such clothing on a summer’s night. As the figure reached his vehicle, he reflected it would have been better if he could have parked nearer to a streetlight. It also would have been better if he’d pissed five minutes earlier. The darkness seemed to consume and merge car and human. The figure had stopped. Wilkie could no longer make out individual details through the gloom and the steady rain. When it came, the crack of metal striking metal made him start. Like a pistol shot it resounded around the houses. And, like a single pistol shot, it was swallowed up in silence in an instant. Wilkie tensed waiting for the crazy to make a run for it, to expose himself and his direction in guilty flight. The adrenalin coursed freely through his system and he realised with a silent curse that he was in danger of wetting himself. When he saw the culprit emerge into the faint lighting, continuing on his way, as though nothing had happened, he left his position. At least it looked like he wouldn’t have to sprint for an arrest with a thermos of instant coffee sloshing about his insides, threatening to embarrass him.
The rain was harder out of the shelter of the leafy canopy. Wilkie wiped at his eyes and saw The Parking Medal Fucker moving slowly up the street, head lowered. Wilkie had to admire his cool. A smile cracked the sergeant’s face as he appreciated that, given the noise of the rain, he would be able to gain ground from behind and probably surprise the suspect with unreasonable force and little risk to himself if he could get a good blow in first.
*
Marsh drew up outside number twenty-four leaving the engine running as she occupied the middle of the road. There were lights on in what looked like the kitchen. She squinted looking for movement. A female crossed the room and Marsh’s belief that it could be Dorothy Mann was strong enough to encourage her to park and take a closer look.
She was walking back towards the house when she heard the screaming – the high-pitched distress of a female. The hair on her neck stood erect as she froze, rooted to the spot. Marsh had spent long enough in uniform on the lively weekend streets of North Kent to recognise the difference between drink induced loudness and sheer terror in a woman’s screeching.
Before she had managed to pinpoint the direction it had ceased. She strained her hearing, her whole body alert for the assistance she would be obliged to give as a serving police officer, on duty or not. She looked up and down the street and saw nothing. The clarity of the noise encouraged her to believe the scream had been out of doors. Perhaps it was in a garden. Angry male voices rose to fill the vacuum and Marsh was moving, running, not wasting a second. The noise was to her left, but to her left were only high fences. Ahead she spotted a narrow opening, a footpath. She took it running still, although she was nearly blind in the darkness. It exited onto a parallel road. She stopped, breathing heavily. Fifty yards ahead of her, beneath a streetlight, a small gathering filled the little road. Their voices were charged with fury. As she ran towards them lights came on in the houses and people began to spill out of their homes.
In the violent tableau she arrived at, two bodies lay on the wet tarmac. They were receiving wildly differing treatment. One, apparently injured, had people fussing around it, the other had three men kicking it as it huddled itself into a ball. Excited voices competed for attention and position.
Marsh shouted the only thing she could, ‘Police!’ and held up her identification for all to see, thankful that it was the one thing she had stuffed in her pocket as she left her vehicle in search of Dorothy Mann.
*
The shadow had clearly been drinking. It wavered as though in a stiff breeze and its words, when they came, lacked clarity. It clearly knew Julie Carpenter and from the horrified look on her face she clearly knew it. It ignored Romney completely. It embarrassed itself and them with ill considered statements. It was big and handsome and ten years younger than Romney. To her credit, Julie Carpenter did her best to politely, but firmly, dismiss the man who stood too close to their table. She looked mortified at the intrusion. The man prattled on oblivious until Romney stood. An onlooker might have described Romney’s behaviour as aggressive. Romney would have countered by declaring himself restrained.
At six feet two inches tall Romney was only slightly shorter than the oaf in front of him. He put his hand on his arm and applied gentle steering pressure. In the man’s drunken state, it didn’t take much to get him moving, but he protested loudly at it. People turned to observe the commotion and the spectacle. Another man: shorter, fatter, meaner looking and clearly with the drunk moved over to offer his comrade his support. He coloured the air with his opening remarks and Romney saw nothing for it but to take out his police identification and give them both a good close look. Then he offered them a simple, reasonable choice: leave or get themselves arrested. The drunk made to protest, but his friend pulled him away. With fewer witnesses Romney would have hit him without leaving a mark, like only an experienced policeman could, and then arrested him anyway. He wouldn’t forget him. He’d just ruined the best night of his year.
The staff were apologetic. Julie Carpenter was apologetic. Romney got some appreciative nods from fellow diners, but nothing would repair the evening torn apart by a visitation from a drunk ex-boyfriend. As Julie Carpenter explained the man away, as she felt she must, Romney sat listening sympathetically, wishing they were talking about anything else, as he got an insight into her romantic past. Inevitably, the key found itself safely back into his pocket.
Romney was waiting for the waiter to return with his credit car
d when his phone began vibrating silently in his pocket. If things had continued to plan, he might have ignored it pleading a poor signal, if it turned out to be important. Marsh’s name lit the screen. He looked across at his date and noticed with a pang that the light had gone out of her eyes. For the distraction, he answered and was glad that he did. At least what he heard took his mind off his own situation.
***
12
Despite Julie Carpenter’s insistence, Romney stubbornly wouldn’t hear of her driving him to the hospital. He organised a car to pick him up from in front of The Marlow Theatre and saw her safely to its car park and the vehicle they had travelled to Canterbury together in. He waited for her tail lights to disappear around the curve of the road before lighting the cigarette he’d craved for the last half an hour. It began to drizzle and he lifted his face to it.
*
Marsh was waiting for him in a dry rectangle of brightly lit flagstones outside the hospital entrance. He noted her casual clothing and her worried, drawn expression; she, his clenched jaw, his purposeful walk and then the barely suppressed fury burning in his eyes. She stepped towards the entrance as he approached and the automatic doors slid back. The hospital smells rushed out to greet them.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I need a cigarette.’