by Oliver Tidy
Romney was surprised not to see Superintendent Falkner’s wan, fleshy features at his window-pane vigil. Surprised and pleased. After stowing his cushion, he was walking towards his morning coffee when Falkner swept into the car park in his Jaguar. Romney’s spirits sank. Falkner drew up next to him and the electric window was lowered. Romney noticed the local paper on the seat next to him.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘I take it you’ve seen this, Tom?’ said Falkner, tapping the offending article.
‘Yes. Grimes and Spicer are going to see whoever wrote it first thing. It’s outrageous that they didn’t speak with us before going to press.’
‘Did we know about them?’
‘No, sir. They’re probably just making it up to make them look good and us look bad.’
‘I sometimes wonder whether we need any help,’ said Falkner, giving Romney a jolt of déjà-vu. ‘I’ve had a rather uncomfortable conversation with the CC this morning, Tom. He doesn’t like this kind of thing. Doesn’t like it all. Makes everyone look bad.’
‘Well, with respect, sir, we can’t stop them printing something like this.’
‘No, but perhaps we could have worked out who took the film rather than reading about it in the local fish-wrapper.’ He shook his head and tutted. ‘Animal rights activists. God help us.’
‘We have been investigating the theft properly, sir. I’ve had two officers on it. I’ve also got more important cases to devote my time and resources to,’ Romney shut himself up realising he was in danger of crossing a line.
‘I know, Tom. I know. I think I’ll speak to someone over at the paper myself about this. You’re right, of course. It isn’t on. Still, on the bright-side at least we have a lead to pursue. Find those films, Tom, and get the chief constable off my back would you?’ The window was raised and the Jaguar eased away.
*
As Romney entered the building a uniformed officer behind the counter called him over and delivered the message that Hugo Crawford had tried to get hold of him several times and would be most grateful if the Inspector could return his call at his earliest convenience. Romney took the hand-written message, crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the bin without reading it.
‘Why are you here?’ said Romney, on finding Grimes and Spicer drinking coffee at their desks. ‘Shouldn’t you be interrogating whichever arsehole at Dover Today wrote that article?’
‘I rang them, gov,’ said Grimes, ‘but Claire Wright isn’t going to be in the office until late morning apparently.’
Romney made a face of exasperation. ‘So, find out where she lives, get round there and bring her in for questioning if she won’t tell you what we need to know. We are investigating a serious bloody crime you know. What about Animal Rights Enforcers? What do we know about them?’
‘They must be a new outfit, gov. There’s nothing on an organisation of that name anywhere. Not even the Internet.’
‘Right, off you go then and don’t come back without good news or someone we can beat it out of.’
Grimes and Spicer scraped their chairs back on the flooring, gathered up their jackets and left. Laurel and Hardy was about right, thought Romney.
Marsh was working diligently at her desk. ‘How do you want to follow up the contact details for the women from Vitriol’s laptop, sir? You want me to phone them or call in person?’
Romney leant against her desk and blew out his cheeks. ‘Why do I pair those two together?’ Marsh looked to where Grimes and Spicer had just left and said nothing. ‘Let’s have a look at what you’ve got.’ She passed him a sheet of paper with the names, phone numbers and addresses of ten females. All were local to the area.
Romney glanced at it. ‘I thought you said that there were only six?’
‘There are only six involved in the filming, but in one of his computer files he had the names and contact details of ten. I can only hope that the six come from them. If they don’t then we’re a bit stuck, especially as he was such a gentleman and blurred their faces for the website.’ Romney was smiling now, his full attention was on what he was reading. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘Well, Sergeant. While it may not be true that all women are prostitutes, there are two on this list who certainly are. I should know. I’ve arrested them for it.’
*
The front door of the small terraced property was opened by a woman who looked like she’d had to get out of bed to do so. She probably used to be quite attractive, thought Marsh. Maybe she still was with a bit of face paint and kinder lighting. She stood squinting into the sunlight and up at Romney, shielding her eyes with one hand while holding a faded bath-robe around her with the other. There were smoker’s lines around her lips giving her mouth a puckered definition. It aged her.
‘Hello, Annie,’ said Romney. ‘Long time no see. How’s business?’
With trace of neither malice nor affection, Annie Moses said, ‘Inspector Romney. If this is an official visit, you’re going to be disappointed.’
‘It is, but not what you might be thinking, Annie. Can we come in?’
The woman hesitated weighing up her rights and the trouble they might bring her. ‘Come on then,’ she said, standing back to open the door wide and admit them.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Marsh, by the way,’ said Romney. The women nodded at each other.
Annie Moses showed them through to a comfortable, small sitting room and they all sat.
‘I hope we haven’t called at an inconvenient time, Annie,’ said Romney, a ghost of amusement hovering around the corners of his mouth.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Inspector,’ replied the woman a little primly. ‘I gave all that up a long time ago.’
Romney knew for a fact that she hadn’t, but understood she must have her little pretence. ‘So how do you make a crust these days then?’ he said.
‘This and that,’ she answered, curtly. ‘What is it that you think that I can help you with? I’ve got better things to do with my time than sit passing it with the law. No offence.’
‘None taken. Does the name Edy Vitriol mean anything to you, Annie?’ Annie Moses was a poor liar. She shook her head slowly while giving a bad impression that she was thinking just as hard as she could. ‘Perhaps it will help if you think about getting a starring role in one of his films, Annie,’ prompted Romney. She stared at him with a more astute and knowing expression. ‘Did you know he was filming at the time?’ Now her face had resignation written all over it.
Then she smiled, a little tight smile. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. He’s dead, Annie.’
‘Well then, if he’s dead you can’t exactly prove anything against me, can you? I do know how his word against mine works, you know. If he can’t talk he can’t say anything can he?’ She looked a little pleased with her logic. ‘There was no money involved and we were doing it for fun. There. That’s not illegal is it?’
‘No, Annie. But I told you that our visit might not be what you’re thinking. I couldn’t care less about whether you earned anything out of it – I hope you did by the way because he was planning to. We’re here because he’s dead. Do you know he was murdered?’
She nodded. ‘Saw it on the news.’
‘His death might have something to do with his filming.’
‘That’s got nothing to do with me.’
‘I do hope not, Annie,’ and for the first time since arriving at the woman’s address Romney exuded something serious. ‘I just want your help, Annie. There is a lot we don’t know at the moment and as soon as I saw your name on his contact list I thought you’d be willing to help. In case you are still unclear, I’m not here to charge you with anything, or even seek to, unless you killed him, of course, or know who did.’ He raised his eyebrows in question.
‘What do you think, Inspector?’ she said. And to neither officers’ ears did it sound like she did.
‘That’s good then. So will you tell us what he was playing at?’
‘In Dover?’ said Romney.
‘Yeah. No harm in talking about it now. It’s not there anymore. I believe it was you lot shut it down. The Pelican.’
‘Blimey that knocking shop.’ They smiled at each other with a shared memory of days long gone. ‘What did he do there?’
‘I don’t know, really. He just hung around a lot out the back. Anyway, I still saw him around town from time to time. We’d chat. Well, I’d chat. He’d flirt. I never did him before and I think he always hoped he’d get a free-be out of me. I’m not that cheap. Never was. A girl’s got to eat. A couple of months ago he called me up. I don’t know how he got my number. He said he’d always fancied me and if he was prepared to pay for it would I play his game. To be honest, I’d always fancied him a bit too. He was quite cute and he had the gift of the gab. So I said all right, did he want to come round? He said, no, he had a place in mind in town.’
‘Where?’
‘Some dreary office off the High Street. Harold Street. Above the solicitors. It’s still there. The solicitors I mean.’
‘So you went along?’
‘Yeah, I went along. He was offering very good money. It was a bit unusual, you see.’
‘Go on.’
She flicked a long end of ash into a mug at her feet. ‘He wanted me to play a part. He wanted me to pretend that I’d gone to see him in the hope of getting an acting role in a film. It had to look like an audition. And I had to look innocent and hopeful and desperate. Those were his words by the way.’
‘Was there a script?’ asked Romney.
‘No. He told me he wanted me to make it up as I went along. He said it would be easy because he’d lead and I just had to follow. He wanted it as natural as could be, he said. He said, he didn’t want it to sound like I’d been learning lines. I had to dress in a special way for him, sort of sexy, but not, if you know what I mean. Smart casual.’ She snorted a little self-conscious laugh. ‘It all seemed a bit silly after and sounds it now, but at the time it was, well it was certainly different. It made a change from the usual.’ She flicked a look at Marsh to see how she was taking this, but Marsh just stared back professionally impassive. She wasn’t there to make a judgement.
‘Did you know he was filming you?’
‘Yeah. We had a chat about it before he started. It was all set up. It was no secret and he guaranteed that when he came to use it he’d hide my identity. It actually wasn’t that original. He started off by saying he wanted to see how I looked through the camera, got me to pose a bit, and then he asked me to take a bit of kit off and, well you know how the rest goes I suppose or you wouldn’t be round here.’
‘I haven’t seen it, Annie,’ said Romney, but DS Marsh has.
‘Like it did you?’ said Annie and there was a hint of a barb in her tone.
‘It’s just work for me, like it was just work for you,’ said Marsh, as neutrally as she was able to. ‘Someone had to watch it.’
‘S’pose,’ said Annie. ‘I wasn’t the only one though, was I?’
‘How do you know that?’ said Romney.
‘Every profession has it network, Inspector Romney.’ She was almost smiling again. ‘Actually, Edy asked me if I knew anyone else who might be interested, half-decent figure and capable of giving him a good performance. He needed a few. I told him I’d speak to a couple of girls I knew.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yeah. Like I said it was good money. He was promising to hide our identities. I like to help others out when I can. You never know when they might be able to return the favour.’
‘So who did you recommend?’ said Romney. For answer Annie dropped her glowing fag end into the mug with a hiss. ‘Tell you what,’ said Romney. ‘How about I read some names and you just nod or shake your head?’ She nodded. Romney took out the list and began reading. Annie nodded her head three times and shook it twice. Romney marked the names with ticks and crosses. ‘Thank you, Annie. I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have killed him, do you?’
‘Sorry. That was the last time I saw him, or spoke to him. What’s happening to the film he made of me? I regretted it a bit after.’
‘You’re not recognisable on it,’ said Marsh. ‘He kept his promise. He blurred the faces of everyone.’
‘Why would he do that?’ said Annie, although she seemed relieved about it.
‘We think he was after an effect,’ said Romney. ‘He wanted whoever watched them to believe the women involved were unwitting participants in some deviousness.’
‘Sounds a bit weird. Why would he want that?’
Romney shrugged as though it didn’t interest him. ‘The women you recommended to him, are they all on the game too?’
She looked a little hurt at the casual use of his expression. ‘The first two are, but you didn’t get it from me, OK?’
‘And the third?’ Romney looked at his ticks. ‘Melissa Gardner?’
‘She’s not “on the game”,’ said Annie, ‘just bloody hard up. I thought she might like the chance to make some easy good money.’
‘How much did he pay you?’ asked Marsh.
‘Hundred in cash.’ Annie saw on Marsh’s face that she did not consider that a good sum of money to prostitute oneself for, on camera.
Romney got to his feet. ‘Thanks, Annie. I appreciate your help.’
‘You never know, Inspector, I might need a favour myself one of these days.’ She saw them out and quickly shut the door after them.
As they walked back to their car Marsh sensed something sad about Romney. She wanted to ask him about it, but realised it wouldn’t have been appropriate. Instead she said, ‘Catherine Stone next, sir?’
Romney stopped walking and looked around him like he’d forgotten where he was. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ he said, as though he hadn’t heard her.
‘Sure.’
‘Come on then. We’re not far from Tiffany’s. Come and meet Sammy Coker.’
***
11
Sammy Coker owned and ran Tiffany’s, one of Dover’s better quality greasy spoons. Romney had been an irregular since his days as a beat constable and Sammy had seemed old then.
It wasn’t just the promise of an exemplary British fry-up that kept Romney reoffending against his self-imposed health regime of latter years. Sammy knew things that went on in the town. He had a long and varied list of customers, not all of them pillars of the community, and Sammy listened. He had not joined the ranks of paid informer, and he was always quick to point out that he was no grass, but he loved the town he had lived in all his life and if he became aware of something that he felt threatened an aspect of the town’s character, its people or its integrity, such as it was these day, then he would pass it on to Inspector Tom Romney out of conscience and community spirit. Romney wished there were more like him. A lot more.
Sammy didn’t like it much and did what he could to dispel the idea, but Tiffany’s was in danger of becoming fashionable. A trendy hang-out. Somewhere to be seen. It was a reflection of its longevity and uniqueness, Sammy’s refusal to update the decor, fixtures and fittings. A hot drink at Tiffany’s was a shot of nostalgia.
Sammy wasn’t visible when Romney and Marsh entered. The place was half-full. A mixture of old regulars and young pretenders. The cloying atmosphere was thick with the fragrance of fried bacon and hot drinks. The police found themselves a seat and ordered tea.
‘This place has hardly changed at all since I started coming in here when I was a beat copper,’ said Romney.
‘I can believe that,’ said Marsh, looking around unimpressed. ‘Still, I suppose it’s cheap enough. Somewhere for the old and lonely to meet and socialise.’
‘It’s more than that,’ said Romney, defensively. ‘Tiffany’s is an institution. You want something to eat?’
/> ‘No thanks, sir.’
‘You don’t look too enamoured with the place,’ he said.
‘Just not my kind of thing, that’s all. I prefer a decent coffee shop given the choice.’
‘One of those sterile carbon-copy franchise places that all look, sound and smell the same and have a reputation for ripping off their impoverished coffee bean suppliers in the third world? Snob. At least with somewhere like this you haven’t got some board of shareholders creaming off the profits abroad and avoiding taxes. And the food is all home cooked and locally sourced.’
A middle aged woman in matching tabard, T-shirt and trousers brought them two mugs of strong tea. Marsh noticed the heavily nicotine-stained digits and felt a little repulsed.
Romney ordered a bacon sandwich with her. ‘Sammy around?’ he said.
‘Out the back. Who wants him?’
‘Tell him Tom Romney’s here, if he’s got a minute.’
The woman moved off in no great hurry. Marsh picked something out of her drink with her little finger.
‘What’s that?’ said Romney.
‘Looks like an eye lash?’
Romney tutted and swapped their mugs. Marsh made no attempt to claim either.
‘You remember Sammy gave us something that helped us with that creep Simon Avery?’
Marsh nodded. ‘Is that why we’re here, for information?’
‘No, I want a tea, but I’ll ask him if he knows anything that can help us. You never know.’
Sammy Coker’s huge bulk loomed over them. He had a ready smile for Romney and seemed genuinely pleased to have the pleasure and custom of the police. Romney and Sammy shook hands. Romney introduced Marsh and Sammy, who had given up trying to squeeze his huge girth in between the fixed tables and chairs, pulled up a seat to perch at the end of their table. They exchanged pleasantries and talked of business for a minute, as they must, before Romney said. ‘You know a man called Edy Vitriol, Sammy?’