by Oliver Tidy
They exchanged looks and Romney noticed. He said, ‘We should all be very aware of the way we conduct ourselves, the way we interact with members of the public, the way we use our time in the office, the way we speak to each other. Am I making myself clear? That means I don’t want to see any of my officers throwing balls of paper at each other while he’s here. In fact, scrub that – I don’t want to see it again. It’s unprofessional.’
Even after the months that had passed since Aylesham, Romney always felt like wincing when he chastised them on grounds of professionalism. It was something he had to endure in the hope it would get better over time. It was part of his penance for the absolute unprofessional fool he’d made of himself there.
‘It’s a bit late notice, isn’t it?’ said Marsh. ‘I mean, he must have known he was coming here a good while ago.’
‘Good point, Sarge,’ said Grimes.
‘Doesn’t make any difference though, does it?’ said Romney. ‘We just do what we’re told. The message from upstairs is that we bend over backwards to try to accommodate him.’
Grimes said, ‘Homer said something about trying being the first step on the road to failure.’
Romney made a face of disbelief. ‘Homer said that? Where? Not The Iliad?’
It was Grimes’ turn to make a face of incomprehension. ‘Actually, Guv, I think it was his kitchen.’
Marsh said, ‘I think Peter means Homer Simpson.’
Grimes said, ‘Is there another Homer then?’
Romney closed his eyes and breathed. He thought for a moment about repeating what Blanchett had said to him on the stairs, about this being an opportunity for all of them and decided not to. Like knowing when Peters was coming, he didn’t think it would make any difference.
***
6
Romney had first met Doctor Puchta, a psychiatrist with a practice near the seafront in Dover, during a murder investigation. Soon after that, mainly out of curiosity, Romney had taken her up on her offer of helping him to get to know himself better at discounted sessions. He had understood then, as now, that should it become known at work that he was being treated as a private patient of a doctor who specialised in mental illness he would inevitably face some stiff questions at the very least, perhaps some sanctions.
Back then Romney had not renewed the trial programme of consultation after the first six weeks. He claimed to have felt much better about himself and despite Doctor Puchta’s professional opinion that an extension of the sessions would undoubtedly prove beneficial for Romney, he had declined. Privately, he’d felt that what he’d come to understand and appreciate about himself from their meetings were things he either already knew or would have arrived at on his own, given time. And by quitting he’d saved himself some money.
Over a year later and owing to significant, recent emotional trauma – something in his personal life that had threatened to cut short his professional one – Romney had found himself staring into the abyss, feeling the unblinking eyes of something down there looking back, perhaps waiting to pounce out of the darkness, sink its claws into him and drag him back down with it. He’d returned to the consulting chair as a desperate measure. At the time, he feared it was either that or the bottle. And, although a good deal cheaper, drink just made him physically ill.
As before, he visited on Friday afternoons after Doctor Puchta’s secretary had left for the weekend. That way, he felt as protected as he could that his visits were as private as they could be. If anyone had seen him visiting and sounded the alarm, Romney would claim his visits were police-work related. He would tell whoever he had to that he was visiting a source on a case that was about to bear fruit and worry about the consequences of that later. It was either get ready with a lie or wear a disguise, which Romney would have found humiliating – more humiliating even than bearing his most private thoughts to a comparative stranger and paying for the privilege.
Romney hung his coat on the stand and took his usual place. Always the chair. Never the couch. They’d already said hello and commented on the weather when she’d let him in.
‘How was the conference?’ said Romney. They’d missed the previous week’s appointment because Doctor Puchta was in Edinburgh.
‘Interesting, informative and useful. You look like you’ve lost weight.’
‘I have. I haven’t been in this suit for years.’
‘Was it intentional?’
‘Not to wear the suit?’ Romney was wondering if she was going to make something of his choice of black. Maybe relate it to a psychiatric theory about colour and madness.
‘The weight loss, Tom.’
‘Oh, yes. I was getting flabby. I’ve been seeing a personal trainer. Getting back into some sort of physical shape.’
‘Excellent. How’s it going with the alcohol and the cigarettes?’
Romney was feeling pretty smug about things and it showed. ‘I get the cravings for both but I’m in control. I haven’t had a smoke for three weeks or a drink for nearly a month.’
‘Congratulations again. Remind me why you decided to break those habits.’
This was old ground and the clock, or rather her meter, was ticking. ‘I just felt that I wanted to make some life changes. I was feeling unhealthy. I wanted to do something about it. So I did.’
‘You helped yourself, in other words.’
‘I suppose I did. I am.’
‘So why do you need my help, professional help, the help of a third party when it comes to your mental health, do you think? Why can’t you make some decisions and some choices for yourself where your feelings and emotions are concerned?’
Romney was quiet for a long moment. ‘I don’t really know. Can’t you tell me? You’re the expert.’
‘Everyone is different, Tom. A bit like your cases, I imagine. You look like you’ve been to a funeral.’
‘I have. It’s not me being morose. You remember Sammy Coker? I told you he was in the hospice.’ Puchta nodded. ‘He died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Blessed relief for all concerned,’ said Romney. ‘He went into the ground up at Connaught cemetery this morning. Most of him, anyway. I got another letter from Julie yesterday.’
‘Ah. You want to talk about it.’ It wasn’t a question. As he’d brought it up, it seemed obvious that he did.
‘Not really. I’m just saying.’
‘Did you read this one?’
He shook his head. ‘Tore it up and put it in the bin. I don’t know why I mentioned it.’
Puchta frowned. She thought about touching on his state of denial but something in his eyes made her think again. ‘So, what would you like to talk about this week? Anything in particular.’
He wondered whether to share his dream of the night before. It wasn’t the first time he’d dreamt about Julie Carpenter killing him. He shook his head. ‘No. Actually, yes. But it’s not about me.’
‘We’re here to help you, Tom.’
‘I know. It’s only a quick enquiry. Related to something CID is involved in.’
‘Go on.’
Romney told her the story about the old woman in Victoria Park. ‘Do you think she’s making it up or she believes it but it’s not true?’
‘Impossible for me to say one way or the other without meeting her. It does sound strange. The things you suggest wouldn’t be unprecedented, unusual even, given her age. But she could just as easily be telling the truth.’
‘She’s been living alone up there, rattling around in that enormous place on her own for twenty-seven years.’
‘What do you think about that?’
‘I think it’s tremendously sad. Twenty-seven years. It made me think – what if I live till I’m ninety-two. How many years would I have lived on my own, rattling around in my place?’
Doctor Puchta was frowning. She said, ‘What do you want to do about it?’
Romney sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know. Since Zara has pushed off I feel so…’
&n
bsp; ‘Lonely?’
‘Not that. Alone, not lonely. I’ve never had a problem being on my own. I suppose I’m feeling unfulfilled. Bored. I need something extra, something stimulating in my life. I’d like to leave my mark, if you know what I mean. I don’t know, sometimes I feel I need to escape my life before my life escapes me.’
Puchta was looking at him quite strangely. He noticed and said, ‘What is it?’
‘Tom, that was really quite profound. That bit about escaping your life before life escapes you.’
‘Was it?’
‘Do you want to quit your job, leave your home, go off into the world searching for adventure? You’ve spoken before about a sabbatical and a motorcycle tour.’
‘Not really. Just dreaming. Anyway, wouldn’t that just be running away?’
Puchta smiled. ‘It really does depend on your point of view and your motivations, of course.’
‘I like being a police detective and Dover isn’t so bad. There are a lot of worse places to live. Besides, I’ve got a mortgage. Travelling the world’s all right if you’ve got the money to do it and something to come back to. Not much fun running out of money, sleeping under hedges and without a pot to piss in – excuse my language – when you have to return.’
‘Then what you need to do is find something, an interest that can sustain you outside of work. A purpose. What do you like doing?’
‘DIY, reading. You know I collect books. I like riding my motorcycle when the weather’s right.’
‘How’s the house coming on?’
‘Slowly. Still got a few rooms to finish. And the roof, of course. I really should have done that first.’ He looked a bit distant and sad and quite regretful.
‘How about learning a musical instrument?’
‘I bought a guitar a couple of years ago. Couldn’t get on with it. It hurt my fingers. At school the music teacher used to shout at me because I couldn’t get the hang of the recorder. I think I carry that baggage around with me.’
‘Have you ever thought about writing?’
‘Pardon.’
‘You enjoy crime fiction – you’ve mentioned it before here. You have a crime background, a lot of knowledge and experience to call upon. You have a good command of English and, as you demonstrated just now with that “escaping your life” phrase, you have an ear for language. You’ve got time and a quiet place to write. Why not have a go? You never know, you might find it therapeutic. It might help you to understand things. Writing can be a tremendously powerful medium through which one can express oneself. It might give you the purpose, the direction, you feel your life seems to be lacking at the moment. What’s the worst that could happen?’
*
Before getting into his car for the drive home, Romney walked the short distance to cross Marine Parade and look out at the harbour and the sea. He often did after a session. It had stopped raining and the air was heavy with the sounds and smells of the English Channel and the port. He wanted a quiet focussed opportunity to reflect on and consider Doctor Puchta’s suggestion without the distraction of avoiding the idiots that seemed to frequent the roads everywhere he went.
He felt a tingle of excitement. A crime novel. She was right: he had the time, the knowledge and the experience. He also believed he had a way with words. And through his reading and collecting passions he’d learned a lot about what worked formula-wise in the crime genre. Being a writer, as he understood it, was a solitary life for the most part. That wouldn’t be a problem for him. It was also something that brought opportunities, fame and money if one were successful.
Romney was not averse to the idea of coincidence when it suited him. He couldn’t sign up to the idea that events were predestined, driven by fate, controlled by unseen forces. But as he stood with his hands almost in his pockets watching the seagulls wheel and shriek in the wake of a ferry that was making its lumbering way out of the harbour, he allowed himself to consider the idea that the coming of the crime writer might be something fortuitous for him. He might be able to pick his brains. And wouldn’t it be a great way to get back at some people, settle some scores? Truly therapeutic. He absently patted his pockets for cigarettes and then remembered he’d given them up. But the craving was strong. Strong enough to startle him. He scowled and then smiled. He didn’t need them; he might have just found his purpose?
***
7
Romney baked himself some salmon and ate it with salad. He washed it down with a glass of mineral water. He would have preferred wine but he’d promised himself that he would not drink alcohol for a month and then after that he’d see how he felt. The month was an important personal challenge. His drinking had never been a problem but he needed to prove something to himself. He was pretty sure he’d go back to it in moderation. A bottle of beer and a glass of wine at the end of the working day were two of his life’s pleasures and he had few enough of those at present.
After he’d cleared away and washed up, he powered up his home computer. While that was going through the excruciatingly lengthy boot up process that comes with hardware of a certain age he had time to make a pot of real coffee. He finally settled himself at his desk and after logging on to the Internet typed ‘writer’s rooms’ into the search bar.
Half an hour later – after discovering that writers wrote in beds and sheds, in mess and clutter and chaos and sanitised order; staring at the wall or staring out the window; with pencil and paper, typewriter and computer; on ergonomically designed executive-styled office chairs or standing up or cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, even lying down – he understood one thing about a writer’s space: it was anywhere the individual felt comfortable. He supposed that, like reading a good book, when one was deeply into the narrative it wouldn’t really matter where one was so long as one was comfortable and warm and could hear oneself think.
He found a lot of images on the web and took his time perusing them. Some of them looked not at all conducive to the art of writing. One that caught his eye was a poky, cramped draughty-looking wooden shack stuck at the bottom of a garden. The fixtures and fittings looked miserable and distinctly uncomfortable. He checked to find it was the workspace of George Bernard Shaw. From what Romney remembered of reading him, he felt the images explained a lot. At the other end of the scale was Kipling’s writing studio, a luxurious, well-appointed large room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with antiques. It looked like a museum. It looked a space to pace around in deep thought without fear of bumping into things.
He got ideas for what he wanted and ideas of what he didn’t. He felt that he needed to get this aspect of his shot at being a writer right from the beginning if he were to feel comfortable enough to have a proper go at it.
He wandered around the house with his mug of black coffee looking for the room that he thought would work best for him. He had plenty to choose from. He wanted a space that he could dedicate to writing. Somewhere that he could walk into and get straight on with the project at hand and when he’d had enough walk out and shut the door on it. Romney felt that a dedicated space could encourage a mindset, a mental zone as well as a physical one that had no conflict for him about its purpose. The more he thought about things, the more enthusiastic he became.
He chose a room on the second floor. During the day it was light and had wonderful uninterrupted views across the fields and countryside at the back of his house. And there were trees, too. It was not a view to distract but one to induce calm and promote peace. He set about clearing everything out immediately and dumping it all in one of the other spare rooms. When it was empty, with bared floorboards, he leant against the wall with his arms folded, visualising what he would want in there and where.
He went to bed with a notepad and pencil. He leant back against the headboard and made a list of what he needed. Tomorrow, he thought, he would head into town and make his purchases.
As he lay in the dark drifting off he began to give some thought to what he could write about and was mildly dis
turbed to realise that he didn’t have a clue.
*
Joy Marsh had been in her new flat for six months – her first ever property purchase. There wasn’t a day went by that she didn’t take great pleasure and pride in her decision and her choice.
She had lived in The Gateway complex of tower block apartments that looked out over Dover harbour since she had been transferred to the area. Initially, she’d rented a smaller, darker apartment a couple of floors down from where she was now. Then, along with all the people (bar one), both civilian and police, who worked out of Ladywell police station, she’d woken up one Sunday morning tens of thousands of pounds better off thanks to the station’s National Lottery win.
She had made a selfish decision to invest the money in a flat for herself and her own needs rather than consult with her significant other, Justin, a history lecturer at Kent University in Canterbury. The decision had threatened to leave a stubborn stain on their relationship but what Joy’s purchase did provide them with was a platform from which they could honestly discuss their individual aspirations for their relationship.
Justin was a good deal older than Joy. When she’d met him he’d recently separated from his wife. He had two young spoiled children who ruled him. Apart from his baggage, both physical and mental, he was perfect for Joy, and that is why they were still together. Their discussion of their future had led to an arrangement that seemed to suit them both. On the weekends that Justin had his little monsters he would devote his time to being their dad, a single parent twenty miles away. And on the weekends that he did not have his children Joy and he would inevitably spend the time together. Joy had been honest with him, as she knew she must be – step-motherhood, she said, was not on her bucket list. Joy wasn’t even sure she would ever want children of her own.
