Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  Three of them mumbled something back.

  ‘Tom, sorry, I must run. I’ll leave James in your capable hands.’ She turned to the writer and said, ‘See you tonight, then.’ She left.

  Three of the detectives exchanged furtive glances and did some eye-widening exercises.

  Romney stepped forward and offered his hand. ‘Detective Inspector Romney. You’d better call me Tom.’ Romney flashed a rare smile that got his subordinates wondering about his motives. Romney introduced them all and then said, ‘You’ve just missed our morning briefing – nothing too exciting, unless you’re mystic Meg. As we’re all here, why don’t you tell us what it is, exactly, you’re doing here?’

  James Peters looked a little confused by the mystic Meg reference and then surprised to be asked to address them but his public-speaking experience rescued him quickly. ‘Sure. Happy to. Please, guys, sit down.’

  They sat and Peters perched on the edge of the desk.

  ‘I’m here in your wonderful town to do some research into a book I’m writing.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ said Romney.

  ‘It’s about a man who’s looking for the missing daughter of a good friend. She was last seen entering England by ferry boat at Dover.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ said Grimes.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’ said Spicer.

  ‘No. She’s faking her own abduction, hiding out in the area, so she can get her own back on her uncaring parents.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Romney. ‘And you want to spend some time with us to try to get a feel for the way the police would handle something like this.’

  The others noticed that Romney had become unusually animated. He was using a lot of body language, especially his arms. They made mental notes to quiz each other when they’d broken up. They couldn’t remember him being remotely enthusiastic about the imminent arrival of the author when they’d spoken about him on Friday. Quite the opposite in fact.

  Romney said, ‘Well let’s hope for your central protagonist’s sake that he doesn’t get put through to Detective Constable Grimes when he files a missing persons report. He’ll be stuck in Dover for months.’ Romney’s laugh seemed quite forced and loud. Grimes looked a bit miffed and Marsh and Spicer looked like they both felt bad for finding it funny.

  James Peters seemed a little awkward when he said, ‘Oh, I won’t be using anyone’s real names when I write this stuff up.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ said Romney, seeming genuinely interested.

  ‘Because I could get sued for everything I have if I upset people.’

  Romney became serious. There was a short delay while he took out a notebook and pencil and scribbled something down.

  ‘And how long do you anticipate being with us?’ said Romney.

  ‘Maximum a week in Dover.’

  ‘I thought it was two?’ said Grimes.

  ‘Change of plan. My publisher has got me on a panel at a crime writing festival up north. I’d like to spend a couple a days with CID and then a couple with the foot soldiers and then I’m going to need to see some of the town on my own. Get a feel for the place, you know?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Romney. ‘Nothing like first-hand experience of a location to get those creative juices flowing, is there? One’s got to be authentic or you’ll quickly lose the reader. I remember a book I read – a crime fiction novel – set in Malta but had people driving on the left. That guy didn’t do his homework.’

  ‘They do drive on the left in Malta,’ said Grimes. ‘We were there three years ago.’

  An awkward silence gripped the room before Romney said, ‘Right. We’d better get to work. You all know what you’re doing. James, why don’t you hang around with me this morning? I can fill you in on the way things work.’

  Again the others shot questioning looks at each other. Romney’s invitation and friendliness definitely did not equate with his reaction of Friday.

  ‘Sure you’re not too busy, being in charge?’

  ‘You’re right, I am usually the busiest one here but I can make time for you.’

  ‘In that case, thanks, Tom. I appreciate it.’

  They broke up and went about their business.

  As Romney was leading the author to his office, Marsh caught up with him.

  ‘So, about Mrs Christie, sir, I’ll have a word with her son, yes?’

  ‘Do what you think is best, Joy,’ said Romney. He seemed to have lost interest.

  Once in his office, Romney pointed to the spare chair and invited Peters to sit. He walked around behind his desk and his phone rang. He made a face, which said, it’s all go here.

  ‘Detective Inspector Romney, Dover CID.’ He winked at James Peters.

  ‘Oh, hello. It’s Amy. Amy Coker.’

  Romney turned his back on his guest and dropped his voice. ‘Oh, hello.’

  ‘I rang on Saturday but they said you weren’t in.’

  ‘No. We don’t work weekends if there’s no need.’

  ‘I left a message. They said they’d pass it on.’

  ‘I didn’t see one,’ lied Romney, ‘but I’ve been bit busy this morning. What can I do for you?’

  Romney turned to make a face of apology to Peters. Peters used actions to say he’d wait outside and before Romney could encourage him to stay put the author had slipped out, closing the door behind him.

  Romney watched the man head over to where the other three were talking in a huddle.

  ‘I wondered if I might see you,’ said Amy Coker. She sounded a little anxious.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ said Romney.

  ‘No. Not really. Everything isn’t all right.’

  Romney wondered if she was crying or on the verge of it. Despite his promises to himself about getting involved again, and so soon, he remembered that she had been quite good looking and chatty. He said, ‘Well, I’m not doing anything tonight that I can’t put off.’ He thought of his writing and how it wouldn’t hurt to miss one night. Something else he remembered from the Internet flashed up on his internal screen: you must try to write something every day. Writing is a habit. He thought he could find time to write a few sentences before bed if she didn’t keep him out too long.

  ‘Can’t you come round today?’

  Romney was a little surprised with her forwardness. ‘I’m a bit…. well, I’m at work today.’

  ‘But this is work, police work I mean.’

  And Romney understood his mistake and was flushed with the heat of his embarrassment. He stumbled over his words. ‘Oh sorry, I thought...’ And quickly shut his mouth hoping that she hadn’t heard him

  ‘My fault. I wasn’t clear. Let me start again. I want to see you at my father’s old flat above Tiffany’s. I’m going there this morning. Please say you’ll meet me there.’

  ‘And it’s a police matter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Romney was intrigued. ‘What time are you heading over?’

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘OK. I’ll see you then.’

  He hung up the phone, frowning. A burst of laughter outside the office made him look up. He noticed that all three of his officers were still standing around gossiping with their guest.

  As Romney stepped out of his office, the frown still stuck in place, they noticed him and decided they’d better get on with some work.

  James Peters said, ‘Tom, look I can see you’re going to be busy. Joy has offered to take me out with her on a call. Seeing as I’m really here to learn about life outside the station I’d appreciate it if I could ride along with her. That OK with you?’

  Romney knew he had little say in the matter. In any case, he was pleased. There had been something in Amy Coker’s voice that worried him and he would rather meet her alone than with some semi-famous, quite handsome author cluttering up the view and his chances. ‘Sure. No problem. Catch up with you later. Maybe we could have a drink after work?’

  ‘Sorr
y, I’m meeting up with Vivian after work.’

  It took Romney a moment to realise he was referring to Boudicca. ‘OK. Another evening, maybe?’

  ‘Sounds good. Catch you later. Thanks.’

  ***

  11

  There was only one listing for the surname Christie in St Margaret’s Bay. Joy rang the number that went with it and the call was answered by a man.

  ‘Mr Christie?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Marsh from Dover CID. I’d like to talk to you about your mother.’

  ‘What’s she done now?’

  ‘Can you just confirm that your mother lives in Victoria Park?’

  ‘Yes, she does. Now tell me why you’re calling. Has something happened to her?’

  ‘Are you in this morning, sir?’

  ‘What? Yes. Why?’

  ‘Would it be all right for me to call on you at your home?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Mr Christie, I’d like to talk to you about your mother.’

  ‘Has something happened to her?’ he repeated.

  ‘She’s not suffered any physical harm. Now, is it convenient for me to come and see you?’

  He huffed down the line. ‘You have my address, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m in until twelve.’

  Joy started to say thank you but he’d already put the phone down. Joy put her phone back in the cradle and said pig.

  Joy turned to James Peters and said, ‘We’re on. I’ll fill you in on the way.’

  James smiled with brilliant teeth. He had a set to rival Grimes’ but Joy believed the author’s were probably his own.

  *

  Marsh took the CID car. They headed up Jubilee Way. At the roundabout at the top they would take the last exit and drive along the top of the cliffs in the direction of Deal. The turning for St Margaret’s Bay was along the Deal road on the right. James Peters was turning in his seat to stare out over the English Channel as they gradually got higher and higher.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said.

  ‘You should be here in the summer. You can see France from the cliffs most days. Shame it’s so grey and overcast today. Not much to see.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind the British weather. Brooding skies and all that.’

  ‘Been here before?’

  He shook his head. ‘First time in Dover. I’ve never been further south than London. How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Couple of years. Dover has some wonderful history. You been up to the castle yet?’

  ‘I only got in yesterday. It’s on my to-do list.’ He turned to where Marsh was pointing, although he could hardly have missed it. The castle dominated the skyline and the town from its elevated position. ‘Magnificent,’ he said.

  ‘There are other things, too. What period in history are you interested in particularly?’

  ‘Oh, pretty much anything older than me.’

  ‘You’ll need more than a week then. I’m reading one of your books.’

  He turned to look at her. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Language of Bullets. It’s good.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s OK. I’ve written better. I don’t have any pretensions about what I write. I enjoy it and the books pay the bills. Beats working for a living. So tell me about this case. Who are we going to see?’

  Joy knew for a fact that the man was critically acclaimed and well regarded among his writing peers. He was a multi-million-copy best-seller and his books had been translated into several languages. Joy had gleaned this knowledge and more from his Wikipedia entry. She appreciated that he was modest.

  ‘It’s an interesting one. No blood and guts. Sorry.’

  He smiled. ‘I see enough of all that in my books.’

  Joy became serious. ‘This is more psychological. Although crimes have been committed, no one’s been hurt. Yet.’

  ‘But you think they will be?’

  ‘It would be a natural escalation of things. I want to try to stop that happening.’

  ‘Preventative policing.’

  ‘We don’t often get the chance for something like that in CID. Usually, it’s our job to come along and shut all the stable doors, clean up the mess.’

  Joy told him all about Mrs Christie as they drove along the top of the White Cliffs beneath those brooding skies. It began to rain.

  ***

  12

  It had started raining again before Romney left the station. If it had been nicer out he might have walked the short distance to Tiffany’s. He parked his car around the back of the row of commercial properties in Pencester Road. He could see the windows of Sammy’s flat from where he was. There were lights on. Sammy had lived alone. He guessed the dead man’s daughter was up there.

  Romney’s feet clanged on the metal treads of the external staircase. He rapped hard on the uPVC door at the top. It was opened quickly. Amy Coker stood back to let him in out of the deluge. He shook out his umbrella behind him and stood it by the door, which opened into the little kitchen. A quick glance around and a quick sniff told Romney this was not a place that had been cherished or cleaned regularly.

  ‘Thanks for coming out at such short notice,’ she said.

  Romney noted the neutrality in her voice and in the look she gave him.

  She was dressed for work: old paint-stained jeans, a baggy sweatshirt and trainers. She wore a beanie hat. The hat framed her face. She was definitely an attractive woman. Romney looked for evidence of marriage and found none. But she might have just removed her rings for the duration of her labours.

  ‘No problem. We’re not that busy at the moment and Sammy was a friend. Besides, your phone call intrigued me. Professionally,’ he added.

  His little speech was designed to put her at ease but he could see in the way her skin was pulled tight around her jaw and the hardness of her stare that it would take more than chit-chat to put her mind at rest regarding whatever was bothering her.

  ‘I’m going to ask you a question, Detective Inspector Romney. I trust myself to know whether your answer will be the truth. If I doubt you, then I’ll ask you to leave and you should go immediately. Do you understand?’

  Romney understood her language but nothing of what was going on – why she should phone him and invite, no implore him, to come round and then threaten him with immediate expulsion? He wondered if he should have brought company, or whether he should ask for some before they continued. His copper’s intuition was rearing up, like a big old dog. Its paws were on his shoulders and it was trying to lick his face for attention.

  ‘You should know that I have told people I am meeting you here this morning.’

  ‘That’s… sensible, I suppose,’ he said. ‘You can’t be too careful. Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you…’

  ‘I wish you would, Ms Coker, because I’m getting an uncomfortable feeling about being here on my own.’

  There was a slight adjustment of her features and Romney was not sure what it indicated.

  ‘The fact that you have dropped everything to hurry round here makes me suspicious.’

  ‘What? Look, you called me. You asked me to come round here.’

  ‘And you have. Quickly. I thought that the police were supposed to be permanently stretched. This isn’t an emergency call-out.’

  ‘I’ve already explained that. Now are you going to let me in on whatever it is that’s got you worked up and, if I’m honest, acting a bit weirdly, or shall I come back later? Maybe with some company?’

  ‘You were a friend of my father’s.’ A statement.

  ‘I’ve already told you that.’

  ‘Close?’

  ‘No. Not a close friend.’

  ‘Have you ever been up here?’

  ‘Once. Sammy had a tape for me from his CCTV camera downstairs. He didn’t want to be seen giving it to the police.’

  She searched his face f
or the truth.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said. She turned and started across the grubby, stained and warped kitchen lino. Romney didn’t move. She stopped and turned to look at him

  ‘How about you tell me what’s going on first?’

  ‘I have to show you.’

  He took a deep breath and let it out. He followed her into a little corridor. Romney realised that the flat was cold. The smell of damp trapped air got worse. At first he couldn’t place the underlying odour and then he understood it was the smells of the café that had filtered up through the decades and the floorboards to seep into the carpets and the fabrics of the furniture and the dingy curtains that hung at the windows. To coat everything with its sticky, staining, stinking residue.

  The corridor was not long, perhaps twenty feet. At only three feet wide, it seemed longer. Romney counted that they passed four closed doors as they headed towards the open one at the end. This gave out onto a spacious lounge that was cluttered with junk and equipment and paraphernalia of the catering industry. It was like a dumping ground, a storeroom for a miserly man who never threw anything away.

  There was furniture. A threadbare sofa, with a grubby throw over the back. Romney could discern the grease stains where years of heads had lolled against the headrest. There were a couple of dirty cushions that didn’t match, an armchair that didn’t match the sofa, a coffee table with a stained mug and lots of rings where hot drinks had been allowed to spoil the surface. A plain old gas fire was stuck on the wall. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographs, no books, no knick-knacks, no bits and bobs. It was not a homely place. There was a television and a video cassette player. There was always a television.

  She stepped over a stack of unused polystyrene take-away trays to stand by the television. She picked up the remote control and Romney said, ‘Stop.’

  She turned to look at him and her face had darkened with anger, her eyes glittered with angry tears. She said, ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘What are you about to show me?’

  She didn’t answer him. She didn’t take her eyes off his face. She pressed play and the video cassette machine whirred into noisy life and the TV lit up with a static crackle. The screen was quickly filled with images of a frightened-looking semi-naked girl of about seven years old. She was standing against a dark backdrop. There was nothing to see but the girl. A man spoke to the girl but it was not in English. She responded by turning around slowly. Her hands were tucked under her chin and her arms and elbows pulled tightly into her body. The man said something else and the girl smiled at the camera. It was the saddest most anxious smile Romney had ever seen. It was a smile to destroy the concept of smiling. It was a smile of a terrified child, eager to please, afraid of the menace she’d detected in her controller.