Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  The flat had taken a couple of months for her to feel organised and settled in. She’d kept some of her winnings back, preferring to increase the size of the mortgage, so that she could get the place decorated how she wanted it.

  It was Justin’s weekend for his family commitments. Joy was lying on her new and expensive sofa reading a James Peters book that she’d found in Smith’s. She was enjoying it. She was enjoying the whole experience of being in her flat, on her sofa, surrounded by her things drinking cheap wine. Every now and again she would lift her eyes from the page and scan the room, admiring her choices and the way everything went together. She was happy.

  Her contentment was shattered by the intrusive ringing of her mobile phone. Expecting it would be Justin, she was disappointed to see it was the station’s number illuminated on her screen.

  ‘Evening, Joy. Hope I didn’t disturb you,’ said the duty sergeant.

  ‘No. Just reading with a glass of wine.’

  ‘Sounds civilised. You asked to be notified any o’clock should old Mrs Christie in Victoria Park shake us up again.’

  ‘And she has?’

  ‘Yep. Same call as before.’

  Joy thought about how much wine she’d consumed. She swung her legs down from the sofa and said, ‘Have we responded yet?’

  The duty sergeant sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Thought I’d talk to you first. See if you wanted to take a look. Thought that if you did we might leave it for you. She said the intruder... ,’ he said it like he doubted there ever was one, ‘... has left. We’re a bit thin tonight. As well as it being Friday night there’s been an incident in Temple Ewell that’s got us stretched.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her. I can be there in five minutes.’

  ‘Brilliant. Thanks. I can’t help thinking that we’re wasting our time with her. Keep in touch.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ***

  8

  Victoria Park was a park in name only. It was a street lined on one side with houses and a steep bank of overgrown, unchecked greenery and semi-mature trees carpeted with litter on the other. Beyond that was Castle Hill Road, which meandered up the steep incline to a level with Dover castle a good longbow-arrow-shot away. Although the houses that lined the road were enormous and grand they were not built for the uses they were predominantly being put to or the times they were standing in.

  With the subdivision of these huge properties into small flats and bedsits, there were far more people calling Victoria Park home than there were meant to be. And by the looks of the place when Joy arrived a little after ten o’clock, everyone who lived there owned at least one car and they were all home. She prowled along the road looking for a parking space and ended up in the street behind, on the pavement outside a school. It gave her a good uphill walk back.

  Joy identified herself to Mrs Christie through the letterbox when she finally answered her knocking. Joy was relieved that the old woman’s short-term memory had a space for her. Mrs Christie let her in without fuss and invited her through to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m making tea. Would you like one?’

  Joy didn’t really but she said, ‘Thanks. Tea would be good.’

  As the diminutive old woman with her hunched over shoulders shuffled and fussed about, Joy took the opportunity for a good look around. She had been right with her previous assessment of the place: it was stuck in the past. Everywhere she looked were signs of an era long gone. What modern concessions there were – cooker and fridge – looked old and worn. Joy wondered what sort of money Mrs Christie had in the bank. If Joy’s council tax was anything to go by Mrs Christie’s must be about as much as Joy’s monthly mortgage repayments. She wondered how she afforded it.

  ‘Sit down, won’t you?’

  Joy pulled out a Victorian balloon-backed chair – one of a matching set of six – from under the distressed but clean and cleared oak refectory table. She sat and waited for the woman to join her. She was in no hurry. Now that she’d been roused from her warm home into the chilly night she was quite awake. And she couldn’t help feeling strangely privileged to be inside this time warp of a home. It fascinated her. As she sat waiting, she wondered if Justin’s enthusiasm for the past and their trips to National Trust and English Heritage properties were all rubbing off on her. She didn’t used to feel this way about old places. Her surroundings were certainly preferable to being called out to some modern box with dog mess in the carpet, the air cloudy with stale cigarette smoke and ignorance.

  To the woman’s back, Joy said, ‘Tell me what happened, Mrs Christie.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ Mrs Christie turned with a tray of tea-making paraphernalia and made it to the table without dropping it. It looked heavy for her. She took her time pulling out a chair and sighed when she lowered herself onto it. ‘I’ll just let it brew for a minute.’

  ‘Was it the same man?’

  Mrs Christie fixed Joy with surprisingly clear and focussed eyes. ‘Do you believe me?’ she said.

  ‘About an intruder?’ The woman nodded. Joy hesitated and said, ‘Yes, Mrs Christie. I believe you.’

  Mrs Christie smiled. ‘Won’t you call me Helen? I do detest formality.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you, Helen.’

  ‘Thank you. I think that you might be the only one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because you’ve reported an intruder.’ Joy was suddenly a little worried.

  ‘No. I mean why you? I understand enough about the way things work to know that my call should be answered by uniformed police officers.’

  Joy felt a little embarrassed. She also felt that she might have made the same mistake that probably many people did when confronted with a frail-looking, bent old woman, with sparse frizzy hair, dried-parchment-like skin and a faint odour of onions clinging to her.

  Joy took a breath and said, ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mrs… sorry, Helen: I asked to be notified if you called again. Ordinarily, Dover’s pretty busy for the uniforms on a Friday night but to make things worse there’s been a nasty accident that’s stretching them. I said I’d come and see you. As you’d said the intruder had left and you seemed in no immediate physical danger, and given the evening’s circumstances, the station was happy to let me.’

  Mrs Christie nodded her appreciation of Joy’s candid speech. ‘Do your colleagues believe me, Detective Sergeant Marsh?’

  Marsh smiled and said, ‘Call me Joy. The police are taking your calls seriously.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’

  Mrs Christie did not pursue it. ‘Why did you ask to be notified if I called again?’

  Joy smiled and said, ‘Shouldn’t it be me asking the questions, Helen?’

  Mrs Christie looked wounded then. ‘I’m sorry. I talk too much sometimes.’

  ‘Helen, I didn’t mean that how it might sound. I’m sorry. You can ask as many questions as you like.’

  Mrs Christie began to pour the tea but, like a scolded child, said nothing more.

  ‘I asked to be notified if you called because I do believe you and I find the circumstances you’ve described to be odd. Because I believe you, I also think that you are in danger. I don’t want to alarm you. You must be frightened by it all as it is.’

  ‘I’m not frightened,’ said Mrs Christie. ‘Whoever it is he’s a very big man. He could probably squash me like a fly but he doesn’t scare me. Is that odd?’

  ‘Yes. It is. And whether he is scaring you or not, no one has the right to break into someone else’s home and intrude. Was it the same thing tonight?’

  ‘Yes. I heard him downstairs. I came down to look and there he was – just standing in the living room next door. When I spoke to him he walked out of the room and let himself out of the front door without a word.’

  ‘There’s nothing missing?’

  �
��I haven’t looked. He didn’t take anything the last two times. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Are things disturbed? Do you think he is looking for something?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘What do you think he’s doing here?’

  ‘I honestly have no idea. Perhaps he has mental problems.’

  A thought occurred to Joy. ‘Was he wearing a ski mask again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s nothing about him that is familiar? Nothing that reminds you of someone from maybe a long time ago?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just clutching at straws, really. If, as you say, he’s got mental problems maybe he has some association with this place. Maybe that’s what’s drawing him back.’

  ‘You know how long this place has been my home?’ Joy nodded. ‘Although his face is covered, I get the impression that he is not an old person. I would know him if he had an association with this house.’

  Joy sighed. ‘Well, it beats me, Helen. Can I see where he got in this time?’

  At something only slightly faster than a snail’s pace, Joy followed Mrs Christie through a couple of rooms that she hadn’t been in on her previous visit. As Mrs Christie turned the lights on Marsh was thrust into scenes that made her marvel at their period qualities. She had to say something. ‘I love your home, Helen.’

  Mrs Christie stopped and looked around the room they were in as though seeing it for the first time. ‘Thank you. I try to keep it clean.’

  ‘What? You clean this big old place yourself?’

  Mrs Christie looked at Joy as though it was her that was mad. ‘Yes. It’s just me here.’

  ‘Don’t you have outside help? Family?’

  She shook her head and continued on. They went down a short flight of stairs until they reached a small room. Joy imagined it had once been servants’ quarters. There was a small window set into the far wall. It was closed now.

  ‘I closed it,’ said Mrs Christie.

  ‘You shouldn’t have touched it, Helen. We might be able to get forensic evidence from it. You might have disturbed that.’

  ‘He was wearing gloves. He always wears gloves. No one got anything useful from the other times. If you had he wouldn’t have been back tonight, would he?’

  There was some logic there for Joy. She looked at the window. There was no evidence that the wooden frame had been damaged to gain entry. This troubled the detective in her. She checked that it was secure.

  ‘I’ll take a look around outside here,’ she said. ‘There might be something. Footprints maybe?’

  Mrs Christie led the way back. ‘I can’t afford modern security,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be requesting that street patrols come round this way more often,’ said Joy. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Helen. You have nothing to apologise for. This is your home.’

  They ended up back at the kitchen table.

  Joy said, ‘Earlier, you said you thought I might be the only one who believed you. Who did you mean? Not just the police.’

  Mrs Christie blew on her tea, sipped, and in a low voice said, ‘My son.’

  ‘Is he local?’

  Mrs Christie nodded but did not meet Joy’s eye. ‘I had three children. Two girls and a boy. Both my girls are dead. There’s only Stewart left.’

  Marsh didn’t want to intrude on her memories of her dead daughters. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘St Margaret’s Bay.’

  ‘That’s not far, is it? Would you like me to call him?’

  Mrs Christie shook her head sharply. ‘He doesn’t believe me. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘You’ve told him then?’

  ‘I told him the first time it happened.’

  ‘Would you like me to have a word with him? Not now. Tomorrow, say?’

  ‘No. Thank you. He… we don’t get on terribly well and he’s very busy.’

  Marsh waited.

  ‘He doesn’t approve of me living here on my own. He thinks I should abandon my home and go and live in sheltered accommodation.’

  Marsh didn’t know what to say. She was reminded of her own mother who had died a little while ago. Joy had not found the time to spend with her when she should have. Joy’s sister and her two girls had been back living with their mum and Joy had used that as an excuse to stay away. She’d told herself that her mum had company and didn’t need to have her cluttering up the small terraced home. It had been a convenient arrangement for Joy. And she had realised it too late. Her mother had contracted cancer and died quickly.

  ‘I wish there was more we could do, Helen. I’m going to give you another of my cards.’ She took one out of her bag with a pen and wrote her mobile and home numbers on it. ‘Don’t lose this. It’s got both my phone numbers on it. If he comes back, if you even suspect that there might be an intruder, ring me immediately. If I’m close, I’ll drop everything and get straight round here. If I’m not, I’ll make sure someone else gets here quickly. It seems that he waits until you come downstairs to confront him before he leaves. I don’t want you to confront him if he comes back. A: he might turn aggressive one night and B: the longer you leave him in the house the more chance we have of catching him.’ Joy pushed the card across the table and Mrs Christie picked it up and stared at it.

  ‘I only have the one telephone. It’s downstairs. In the hallway.’

  Marsh was stunned. ‘You don’t have a telephone upstairs?’ Mrs Christie shook her head. ‘Or a mobile?’

  ‘Sorry, a what?’

  ‘A mobile telephone.’

  Mrs Christie smiled back a little stupidly. ‘Sorry, no.’

  Joy closed her eyes. She hadn’t thought to ask the woman on her previous visit if she had more than one phone in the house. She had just assumed. She was so angry with herself. She opened her eyes to see Mrs Christie looking up at her with a worried look.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  Understanding that the old woman must have misinterpreted her reaction, she said, ‘No, not at all. You’ve done nothing wrong, Helen.’ She tried a smile but she felt it was a sad imitation. ‘I’m cross with myself. I never thought to ask you. If anyone’s sorry it’s me. I’ve got an old mobile telephone at home. Why don’t I bring it over? Show you how to use it? Then you would be able to call from anywhere. There really are very easy to work. It would save you having to come downstairs to make a call. Really, you should have one anyway. In case something happens to you and you need to summon help.’

  Mrs Christie looked unsure. ‘I don’t know. I’m not good with technology. What if I broke it?’

  ‘There’re indestructible. Sort of. And it wouldn’t matter. It’s an old one. I’m only going to throw it away. Let me bring it over. I’ll feel a lot better if I know you’ve got one. I’m surprised your son hasn’t organised one for you.’ Joy knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that she shouldn’t have said it, but Mrs Christie seemed not to be offended by her forwardness.

  ‘He did mention something once. As I said, he’s a very busy man.’

  Joy kept her feelings for Mrs Christie’s son to herself.

  She smiled at Joy then. ‘Thank you, Joy. You remind of my eldest. She was kind and thoughtful. I bet you’re good to your mum, aren’t you? You must be a tower of strength for her.’

  Joy was overwhelmed with a rush of grief and guilt. She just managed to nod back. She stood and said, ‘Please stay away from the window where he got in. I’ll organise a forensics call-out. There might be something there. I’ll have a look around outside when you let me out and then I’ll push off. And remember, Helen. Anytime: day or night. Don’t lose my number.’

  ***

  9

  Romney couldn’t remember the last time he’d last felt so enthusiastic for something. He guessed it was probably when he was negotiating the purchas
e of the property he was currently living in – the money pit. The way that had turned out gave him pause for thought. He almost didn’t want to go into work. Not that that was an unusual state of affairs in the last few months but this time it was for positive reasons rather than because he was feeling miserable.

  As planned, he’d gone into town on Saturday morning. First he’d visited Smith’s in the High Street and bought some notepads, Post-it notes, a cork display board, some different coloured highlighter pens and some pencils – everything he felt he’d need for planning and writing a novel.

  While he was in town he did the charity shops and picked up a couple of nice, cheap, good condition hardbacks. The one cloud over his morning had been the realisation that he would no longer be able to drop into Tiffany’s for his full English breakfast on his occasional weekend visits to the town centre. He’d need to find somewhere else eventually; a full English breakfast was one of his few remaining unhealthy pleasures. But that could wait.

  With his car boot full of office supplies, he’d headed up to Whitfield and the big DIY store. There, he’d bought himself a flat-pack desk and an office chair, both of which were in the fifty percent off sale – something else that rang his serendipitous-coincidence bell. Another sign, perhaps. On impulse, he also picked up a large rug that was reduced. He felt it would be nice, homely even, to have something on the floor rather than just bare floorboards, which could be draughty and bleak – something that made him think of Bernard Shaw’s unwelcoming garden hovel.

  The rolled up rug was too long for the longest interior dimension of the car – that trusted, last throw of the impulse buyer’s dice: the diagonal arrangement from the corner of the rear seats to the opposite corner of the front. He’d had to drive to his home in the Alkham valley with it sticking out of the front passenger window. It had started to rain just as he was leaving the store car park. Within half a mile it was coming down in stair rods. By the time he got home the end two feet of the rug that had been poking out of the window were saturated. He tried not to let this dampen his spirits.