by Oliver Tidy
He had spent the rest of the morning putting the desk and the chair together and drying out the rug with one of his absent daughter’s hairdryers. Then he had fixed an old battery operated clock to one wall and the cork board to another, not knowing what he could display on it or why he had bought it. Then he enjoyed the process of distributing the writing materials throughout the drawers of the desk. Every little step felt like progress, although he was yet to commit a countable word to paper.
After a satisfied look around he’d broken to enjoy a light lunch. He then made himself a mug of tea and went up to his ‘writer’s room’. He sat at the desk and stared out of the window for several long minutes. Just thinking. Then he remembered that he hadn’t done his weekend laundry. Believing he could think just as well about his book while loading the machine as he could looking at the fallow field under sullen skies, he went to attend to the household chore. Before he left, he jotted down the fallow field under the sullen sky.
As he’d sorted his washing – dividing colours from the whites – he’d reflected on something he’d come across online during his researching of authors. Apparently, they seemed split into two camps regarding the writing of a book. One side swore by extensive and comprehensive planning – mindmapping, they’d called it – before they even thought about putting pen to paper on the first draft. The other remained firmly in the thinking-through-their-fingertips camp: allowing the narrative to evolve gradually, find its own way, develop and twist and turn as it matured, taking on a life of its own. Romney interpreted this as making it up as one went along. He wasn’t sure which sort of a writer he would turn out to be, but he wanted to try the planning avenue first. As an organised person, it appealed to him more than the chaotic, uncertain and running blind alternative.
He had returned to the desk in the middle of the afternoon, having gone from filling the washing machine to emptying the dishwasher and then filling it again with the crockery and utensils that had piled up on the worktop. Again, he found himself staring out of the window. Just thinking. This time a little anxiously. He remembered another mental morsel he’d seen when he’d been researching writers and writing on the Internet the night before: write about what you know. And it was like a well-cut key turning in a well-oiled lock. He began.
Initially, it was just jottings of the more interesting cases he’d worked on. He made notes of funny stories and anecdotes as they occurred to him. He scribbled down some names. He tried to arrange his thoughts onto a diagram, which quickly became crowded and cramped and unintelligible, even though he had used different colours for different strands of thought.
He had a flash of inspiration and wrote two paragraphs without stopping. And he learned something about himself. He would not be able to handwrite a novel. After only two hundred and thirty-three words his hand was spasming like it was about to fall off. His wrist was cramping and there was a muscle in his forearm that ached quite painfully. Among other interesting titbits of information his earlier online research had thrown up was the name of a best-selling author who also happened to be a notorious perverter of the course of justice, a jailbird and ex-MP. He was reputed to handwrite up to seven drafts of his books. Romney had to marvel at the man, despite his obvious ethical and moral faults. He wondered what he was like at arm-wrestling.
He drummed his fingers on the desktop and had to stop quickly because of the tingling sensation in his forearm. He thought about bringing up his desktop computer monitor and tower and all the wires and cables that went with it. But he couldn’t face disturbing all that and spoiling and soiling the newness of his writing room with an out-dated, battered lump of ex-Kent-police hardware. It was a big unsightly old thing that would spoil the economic furnishing and ambience of his writing space. And the fan rattled horribly in its casing. He could not imagine that irritating noise being conducive to the creative process. It was bearable for a few minutes on the Internet and for sending the odd email but nothing more.
He made another decision. He got back in the car and drove back to Whitfield and the big electrical store there. He spent the rest of the afternoon deliberating over the best value laptop that would suit his needs.
By five o’clock in the evening he had everything set up and ready to go. But he felt tired and not at all creative. He closed the door on the room and went to watch some football on the telly and eat his dinner off his lap, vowing that the following day – morning run apart, providing there was nothing that required him to leave the home – he would not move from the chair in his writer’s room until he had made a start with something. Another snippet of wisdom he had picked up from the web: the art of writing was applying the seat of one’s trousers to a chair.
And he had. Sunday morning he had risen early, run, showered, breakfasted on muesli, fruit and yoghurt and with the endorphins of his exercise bouncing around his brain like Lotto balls just before the Saturday night draw – something he was now doing religiously – he began to type. The different approach to getting words down worked for him. Years of report writing ensured that he was not a terrible typist. The reports had also provided him with an opportunity to hone his artistic licence. By the end of the morning he had amassed nearly five hundred words. In the afternoon he’d added another four hundred and eleven before calling it a day and going downstairs to slump on the sofa, mentally exhausted but satisfied by the creative activity. He craved nicotine and alcohol and salty snacks, none of which he had in the house. He ate a banana and felt irritatingly unfulfilled.
Before he went to bed, he couldn’t resist reading through what he’d written. And what he read, while clearly needing work, pleased him more than he would have believed.
He’d woken twice in the night with brilliant ideas that had sprung from his unconscious state and was more than a little cross with himself the following morning when he couldn’t remember either of them. Something else that he remembered from his Internet surfing and that he would implement immediately: writers should always keep paper and pencil by their beds to record the ideas that come in the night. While he was pretty annoyed with himself over these losses, he took some comfort from the fact that he, like other writers, was having ideas in the night. It was another sign.
He was disappointed that work was going to get in the way.
***
10
There was a handwritten message on station notepaper on Romney’s desk. It gave the name and phone number of someone who had been trying to get hold of him over the weekend. He recognised the caller’s name. It gave him a minor jolt of pleasure until he reminded himself of a few things in his recent and painful history. He became businesslike once again. He’d give it an hour and return her call.
His team arrived and he gave them five minutes to organise themselves and then to get into CID’s little meeting room – a compact few square metres of the original open plan floor space that had been crudely cordoned off with a half-glass wall, which made it seem a lot bigger than it was.
Grimes, Spicer and Marsh looked like people Bob Geldof had sung about in the seventies. Romney felt a little disappointed in their lacklustre posturing and tired-looking features.
‘Did any of you work the weekend?’ he said.
They looked at each other and then all shook their heads. They were also frowning unitedly – if they had worked he would’ve known about it because it would have been his decision.
‘So what’s wrong with everyone? You look like you’ve been on twenty-four-hour surveillance.’
‘After a weekend with my kids that’s how it feels, guv,’ said Grimes, yawning. ‘Actually, I’d probably feel less tired if I’d been sitting in a car all night.’
Before Romney could tell them it had been a rhetorical question followed by a rhetorical statement, Spicer said, ‘We had a wedding this weekend. Had to drive up to Lincoln Saturday morning. Didn’t get back till gone ten last night. Driving knackers me.’
Grimes said, ‘I come to work for a rest.’
R
omney cut their moaning off. ‘I don’t really need explanations,’ he said. ‘What you do with your time off is up to you, but as your supervising officer and head of this department it would be nice see some enthusiasm and vibrancy on a Monday morning.’
No one moved or spoke. Marsh wondered if she were the only one quietly rolling the word vibrancy around her mouth.
‘Let’s go through what we’ve got on.’
Spicer said that he was still tied to his desk with paperwork relating to a joint investigation that Dover CID and the UK Border Agency had mounted. Something that had borne no fruit and therefore been a complete waste of time and effort.
Romney told him not to let it waste too much more of either before turning his attention to Grimes.
Grimes said, ‘Did we all hear about the accident on the Alkham Road on Friday night?’
Spicer shook his head.
Marsh said, ‘I did. And you can’t call them accidents. They’re incidents.’
Romney said, ‘What’s that got to do with CID?’
Grimes said, ‘It’s the third one in a month. Exactly the same place. Just as you enter Temple Ewell.’
Marsh said, ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘Apparently the first two were just cars leaving the road and ploughing into fences and shrubbery. Friday night someone hit a tree head on. If there’s one thing you never want to hit head on with a moving vehicle it’s a mature oak. Unforgiving.’
‘Why are we talking about this in a CID meeting?’ said Romney, checking his watch. ‘Uniform haven’t asked us for anything, have they?’
‘No, guv. Just saying. I don’t think we could help them anyway. Not unless one of us can communicate with the spirit world.’
Romney said, ‘What are you talking about?’
Grimes said, ‘Three accidents in a month. Same place. All late at night. None of the drivers tested positive for drinking under the influence...’
‘You mean driving under the influence,’ said Marsh.
‘What did I say?’ said Grimes.
‘Please,’ said Romney, ‘can you just finish your story so that we can get on?’
Grimes said, ‘All sober, of sound minds and good character – and do you know what they’re all saying caused them to crash?’
As Grimes smiled at them, the holder of superior knowledge, awaiting their suggestions, Marsh noticed that even Romney looked half-interested now.
Spicer said, ‘Cats?’
Marsh said, ‘The wrong kind of leaves on the road?’
Romney said, ‘I don’t care if it’s ghosts.’
Grimes said, ‘It is.’
‘Is what?’ said Marsh.
‘Ghosts,’ said Grimes.
‘What?’ said Romney.
‘The three drivers and two of their front seat passengers have all claimed exactly the same thing – a young girl just appeared on the road in front of them and they had to swerve to avoid her. Two of the drivers are sure that they hit her, couldn’t manoeuvre in time. But there was never any sign of a girl, hit by a car or otherwise. They’re swearing it was a ghost. I can’t wait to see what the local rag is going to make of it.’
Romney said, ‘That’s insane.’
‘But guv,’ said Grimes, ‘you haven’t forgotten what happened on that road only last month?’
Spicer said, ‘A young girl was killed in a hit and run.’
‘Correct,’ said Grimes. ‘According to uniform, this ghost girl appears in exactly the same place that poor little sod was knocked down and left for dead.’ Grimes enjoyed stunning his audience into silence before adding, ‘And that’s not all. The descriptions that those involved have provided not only all closely resemble each other but also the dead girl. Now, tell me that’s not spooky.’
After another short silence, Romney said, ‘I use that road twice a day and I’ve never seen a ghost. What am I talking about? There are no such things as ghosts.’
Grimes shrugged, as if to say you couldn’t hope to explain the unexplainable.
Romney looked at Marsh expectantly. ‘I hope you’ve got something rooted in the real world to talk about.’
Marsh wore an expression that suggested she might be about to disappoint him. ‘I got called out to Mrs Christie’s on Friday night.’
Romney frowned. ‘The old woman at Victoria Park?’ Marsh nodded. ‘How come? That’s not our job. What’s going on? Why have we all got our noses in uniform’s business?’
Marsh explained the circumstances and Romney relaxed. He appreciated and admired this caring quality of his DS. He’d seen it many times in her. It was one of the attributes that made her a good copper as well as a decent human being.
‘So that’s, what, three times in a week?’ Marsh nodded. ‘And you’re still sure that she’s not making it up, not attention-seeking?’
‘She’s not an attention-seeker, I’m sure of that, and as for her mind, like I said she’s still sharp. Each time he’s come in he’s come in through a window. He’s chosen a different entry point each time, too. He leaves no evidence of his being there; there’s no damage to anything. It’s almost like he’s taunting her, showing her that he can get in anywhere he likes, anytime he likes. At the moment it just feels like extreme intimidation. I’m very worried for her.’
‘To what end?’ said Romney. ‘If you’re intimidating someone, especially with such extreme measures, there’s got to be a point to it.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Grimes. ‘Maybe he’s just another loony on the loose. If he’s breaking and entering, not taking anything and not smashing the place up he must need his bumps feeling.’
‘I wondered about that myself, actually,’ said Marsh. ‘Whether he might be a disturbed person with some association to the place. Someone who was drawn back to it, but it doesn’t stand up. I mean, why now?’
‘Maybe he’s just got out of somewhere,’ said Spicer.
‘Or maybe he’s only recently tipped over the edge,’ said Grimes.
‘What did she say?’ said Romney.
‘She couldn’t think of anyone.’
‘And he’s not looking for anything?’ said Romney.
‘Not obviously. He doesn’t disturb anything, she says. And as soon as she appears downstairs he just leaves without a word.’
‘Couldn’t be another ghost, could it?’ said Grimes.
‘Tell me you’re joking,’ said Romney. ‘And don’t say another ghost, like you’re actually giving credence to a stupid rumour put about by people who can’t drive and are looking for anything to blame apart from their own shortcomings behind the wheel.’
Grimes looked like he wasn’t joking. And he obviously wasn’t prepared to be so easily talked out of the idea of a supernatural element causing mayhem in Dover. ‘But how would you explain that all the people involved in the accidents – sorry, incidents – gave the same descriptions of the ghost girl?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said Romney. And before Grimes could offer a response to his dismissal, Romney asked Marsh, ‘Is there a pattern?’
‘With Mrs Christie or sightings of the ghost girl?’
‘Yes, with Mrs Christie. Further talk of paranormal activity...’ Romney described speech marks in the air ‘... in these meetings is hereby banned.’
Marsh said, ‘No. Six days between the first and second and then consecutive nights.’
‘What about the times?’
‘All before midnight.’
Grimes said, ‘How about suggesting someone move in with her for a bit? Family?’
‘She says she only has a son and they don’t get on well. He lives at St Margaret’s Bay. I’m thinking about looking him up.’
‘That’s sad,’ said Grimes. ‘Does he know about what’s going on?’
‘She said she’d told him but he didn’t believe her. She didn’t want to talk about him.’
‘Is it wise to go sticking the law’s oar in then?’ said Romney.
‘He should know. And then he should
be encouraged to do something to help her before things escalate and she gets hurt or worse,’ said Marsh quite fiercely.
‘If she’s telling the truth,’ said Romney.
‘I’m sure she is. But if she’s not, she’d still be needing help, just a different kind.’
‘Well tread carefully. You know what they say about families – they’re not all happy.’
Grimes looked like he wanted to say something. Romney indicated that he should speak.
‘What will be the arrangement with James Peters?’
‘Oh shit, I’d completely forgotten about him.’ Romney looked at his watch. ‘Probably Boudicca will want to hang on to him for a while, impress him with her personality, make sure he remembers how to spell her name…’
Movement outside their fish tank caught Romney’s eye. Because the others had their back to the glass they didn’t see Superintendent Vine with their guest push through the double doors of CID and walk towards the meeting room.
Without moving his lips Romney said, ‘No one turn round. Speak of the devil.’
They all turned around and watched them approach.
Boudicca opened the meeting room door and stood back to allow James Peters to go through. CID sat up straight and three of them smiled at the newcomer. He smiled back and said hello.
‘Good morning everyone,’ said Vine.
They chorused ma’ams.
‘Being detectives, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who this is.’
Three of them laughed politely.
‘James Peters, this is Dover CID.’
Peters was taller than Romney, which put him over six feet two inches. He looked in good shape – lean and well-proportioned. He had a good, even tan, clear blue eyes and shoulder length bleached blond hair. He wore narrow jeans with a fancy belt, a suit jacket over a jean shirt and work boots. He reminded Marsh of a surfer with his clothes on.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He was quietly spoken. ‘Pleased to meet you all.’
