by Oliver Tidy
‘Turn it off,’ said Romney, his voice barely audible.
She did not and he could not drag his eyes away. ‘You were a friend of his. Did you know about this?’
He closed his eyes. But the damage was done. He would never be able to forget the pathetic victim’s expression on the little girl’s angelic face. He opened his eyes and pinned her with a look that again touched her features. ‘Turn… it… off.’
She turned it off. The picture was sucked into the centre of the screen and down through a black hole. The video stopped its whirring. The room was very quiet. There were noises of traffic going by outside and the sound of a double-decker bus idling over at the stop on the opposite side of the road.
Romney swallowed. He had not taken his eyes off the woman’s unblinking gaze. He shook his head and broke the contact. He breathed heavily. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad. Worse than bad. There are other tapes.’
Behind Romney there was a plastic chair with an empty cardboard box on it. He pushed the box onto the floor and sat down. After allowing his eyes to wander around the room without really seeing anything he brought them back to her face. She hadn’t stopped staring at him.
‘I knew your father. Correction. I thought I knew your father. I knew part of him. I knew him how I told you I knew him. I didn’t know anything about this and if I were not so sickened by what you’ve just shown me, if I were not so shocked by the implications, I would be righteously outraged by your suggestion that I might be guilty of complicity. What is it? You think I might be part of some paedophile ring because I knew your dad?’
‘You were at his funeral. No one else was, apart from close family.’
Romney saw how she’d arrived there with her thinking. The room was crowding him, the smells turning his stomach. ‘I need some air,’ he said. He stood up and walked out, not caring if she followed him or not.
He was standing at the open kitchen doorway looking out through the curtain of rain at the back of the East Kent College campus when he heard her enter the room behind him. He didn’t turn to look at her. He heard her fiddling in her bag and then the unmistakeable flick of a cheap plastic lighter. She must have blown the smoke in his direction. It stole up on him like an encroaching marsh mist, wrapping itself around him in a nicotine embrace. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
He turned and looked at her. ‘Give me one of those, will you?’
She offered the pack and then lit his smoke with a hand that shook violently. Their eyes met again and he held her gaze, trying to fathom her thinking, her feelings, her past. The nicotine rush hit him hard. He had to put out a hand to steady himself on the surface of the sticky worktop. He coughed. But it was worth it. What a high. What a rush. What a feeling.
‘I haven’t had a cigarette for three weeks,’ he said.
‘How long were you a smoker?’
‘Forever. You’re either born a smoker or you’re not. I was born a smoker. I’ve just been in denial.’
He concentrated on his cigarette, like a man might concentrate on the naked contours of a lover he’d been apart from. They smoked in silence. When he was done, he said, ‘Now I need some caffeine.’
‘I can make…’
‘No. Something proper and strong.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s a good job I’m on the wagon, too, or I’d be after something stronger.’
‘There’s a coffee shop round the corner,’ she said.
‘I know. This is my town, remember? Are you coming?’
‘Since you asked me so nicely, I’d feel rude to refuse.’
He looked at her face but got nothing out of it.
‘Lock up,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to lose anything.’
***
13
They turned off Dover Road into Station Road. Joy continued to drive sedately, giving her passenger the opportunity for a good look around. She was a stranger to this road, too. She was surprised how open and agricultural and flat the land was on top of the White Cliffs.
The minor road meandered into the centre of a little cliff top hamlet aptly named St Margaret at Cliffe before entering a more treesey road that continued towards the Channel.
Granville Road branched off to the left before the road dropped steeply down to the beach at St Margaret’s Bay. First impressions were that Mr Christie had done exceedingly well for himself at some time in his life. Or maybe he still was. Or maybe he’d just been lucky and born into money. They pulled into the driveway of the sprawling old three-storey property that was well detached from its neighbours.
‘Nice place,’ said Peters. He looked about them, getting his bearings. ‘Must have a great view of the sea from upstairs.’
Joy said, ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way but maybe you’d better keep out of the way. You not being one of us. He might get a bit funny about having a stranger call on him. He didn’t sound very happy about the police paying him a visit.’
‘Point taken. It’s stopped raining. I’ll have a stroll down the lane.’
Joy smiled. ‘Thanks.’
He flashed her one of his inside reverse flap grins.
They got out of the car together just as a man wearing an unfriendly expression opened the front door of the house.
‘Are you the police?’ he called.
‘That’s right. Are you Mr Christie?’
‘Yes.’
Under her breath, Joy said, ‘He was probably afraid that we were ramblers just parking on his driveway.’
Mr Christie came briskly down the half dozen steps to the driveway and walked towards them. It seemed apparent he wasn’t going to invite anyone in.
‘What’s all this about my mother?’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to her on the phone since your call. She seems all right.’
‘Would you like to discuss it out here, Mr Christie or inside?’ said Marsh.
‘Here’s fine. I told you, I haven’t got long. I’m a busy man.’
‘We’re all busy Mr Christie. I’m busy. But I’ve made the time in my busy day to come and speak to you about your mother’s welfare.’
Mr Christie smarted from Marsh’s tone. ‘Can I see some identification?’ he said. ‘I like to know who I’m talking to so that I know who to complain about.’
Marsh showed her warrant card and then gave him a business card. ‘That should save you some time,’ she said.
Mr Christie looked expectantly across at Peters.
Marsh said, ‘This is Mr Peters. He is here as a civilian observer.’
That seemed to bother Christie. ‘Regarding my mother?’ he said.
‘Mr Peters is observing the police. If you’d rather he wasn’t privy to our conversation he can go for a walk.’
‘Observing the police, is he? Good. He can stay. Now what is it you want to talk about?’ He looked at his watch, although Marsh was sure he wasn’t checking the time.
‘You are aware that your mother had a break-in at her home recently?’
‘Yes. Or rather, I’m aware that’s what she’s claiming.’
‘You don’t believe her?’
‘I have my doubts.’
‘You think she’s making it up?’
‘It’s possible that she’s fantasising.’
Marsh regarded the man with obvious distaste. ‘Did you also know that she claims to have had two other more recent intrusions into her home?’
Mr Christie remained outwardly unconcerned. ‘Did these intruders take anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did they do any damage?’
‘No.’
‘Did they threaten her? Hurt her?’
‘No.’
‘They just let themselves in and did nothing until she came down to investigate and then they left?’
‘That is how your mother describes events.’
‘Did she say how she became aware there was someone in the house?’
Marsh hesitated. ‘She said she heard them downstairs.’
‘She heard the
intruder not doing anything, not breaking anything, not taking anything? She heard the intruder just standing there waiting for her to come down and find them?’
Marsh did not respond.
‘Are you aware of my mother’s hearing problems, Detective Sergeant?’
Marsh could have punched him for that ‘Detective’. Instead she said, ‘No.’
‘Then I suggest you find out. That way you might stop wasting tax-payers’, police and my time. My mother sleeps upstairs. There’s no way she could have heard someone downstairs doing nothing. Her hearing is poor.’
Marsh started to feel a little foolish. ‘The fact remains, Mr Christie, that whether your mother’s claims are genuine or not, she needs some help.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I rather think that’s a family matter or a social services matter – or are the police in Dover so under-worked these days that you’ve got time to drive around town having tea with little old ladies encouraging their fantasies? If you are looking for some real police work, maybe you can look into the theft I suffered last week from my garden shed. Nothing has been done about that that I can tell.’
‘Arsehole,’ said Marsh. They were back in the car and Mr Christie had already disappeared back into his home. She looked across at Peters. ‘I don’t expect to see or hear anything of that conversation in one of your books.’
He smiled back. ‘His lawnmower comment was pretty good. Can I use that?’
‘Only if you can work it in that it’s returned to him and he falls into it.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘About Mrs Christie? Wait till someone beats her up, I suppose.’
It began to rain, again.
***
14
Side by side, they hurried along the wide pavement in the direction of the town. The rain fell in sheets from the heavens, danced on the pavements and ran riot in the gutters – a mini-tsunami dragging human and Nature’s litter with it to clog the drain covers. Romney had forgotten to pick up his umbrella. He thought of it now as he turned the corner and rain ran down his neck. He swore quietly. A car went through a puddle sending up a spray of water that caught his legs. He swore a bit louder. There was hardly anyone else on the streets. Neither of them spoke.
Romney entered the coffee shop first and held the door for her. He scanned the tables. Seeing one empty near the back, he pointed it out. ‘Grab that table and I’ll get the drinks. What do you want?’
‘Just a white coffee.’ She took off her beanie hat, which was soaked through. Her hair fell down, damp and black and crushed.
His phone rang while he was waiting to be served. He checked the display and killed the noise without answering. Everything could wait.
She looked whiter when he arrived at the table with the tray. Even her lips had paled. Her sodden clothing, wet hair and deathly countenance combined to give her a recently drowned look. Only her eyes, the darkest brown – almost black – like a couple of fresh conkers, gave her an idea of life.
He passed her drink over and she mumbled a thank you.
He said, ‘You didn’t answer my questions.’
She made a face indicating her confusion. ‘What questions?’
‘The day of the funeral you said you knew who I was and that your father liked me. But you said you hadn’t spoken to him in years.’
‘At the cemetery. I asked my aunt who you were. I don’t accept lifts from strangers.’
‘I don’t know your aunt.’
‘She worked the counter in Tiffany’s sometimes. She knew you from there.’
The dawning of understanding relaxed his features a little. Only then did he realise how tight his face had been.
They sipped their drinks in silence. He was thinking and she was watching him, waiting for what he had to say.
‘I could kill for another cigarette,’ he said. ‘When did you find them?’
‘Saturday. I went to his flat to start clearing stuff out.’
‘Why you?’
‘Because I’m his daughter and now the place is mine. It’s no secret. If I don’t do it I’ll have to pay someone else to and I don’t make that kind of money.’
‘He left the place to you even though you weren’t on speaking terms?’
She shrugged as if to say, I’m his blood. What else was he going to do?
‘What do you do for a living?’ said Romney.
‘Can we talk about those tapes?’
He breathed out heavily through his nose. ‘Sorry. Yes. We should talk about those tapes, although I’d rather talk about anything but.’
‘They look old,’ she said. ‘I mean, no one uses video cassettes any more, do they? It’s all Internet files and DVDs. I imagine the sex trade is as up to date as everyone else.’
Romney looked about them to make sure they weren’t being listened to. ‘I agree with you: they look old. How many are there?’
‘Six.’
‘How do you… did you watch them all?’
‘I didn’t watch any of them. I sampled after I found the first one.’
‘What made you play a video cassette?’
She reddened and hesitated with her answer. ‘I was curious. The tapes had no markings or stickers on them. No indication of what they were. I was… curious. There is no other word for it.’
Romney was shaking his head. ‘I can hardly believe it. Sammy was always so… straight. I mean straight in the right and wrong sense of the word.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘I suppose there’s no question that they could be someone else’s, is there? He never shared the flat with anyone? Had people staying with him?’
‘Not as far as I know. But, like I said, we’ve had no contact for years. Even if they weren’t his they were in his home.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘They were in a drawer in the unit the telly is sitting on.’
Silence wandered back to their table and plonked itself down between them.
Romney looked into her face and said, ‘Why call the police? Why did you call me, specifically, especially if you had a suspicion that I could have knowledge of them?’
‘I’m sorry for that,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I made that jump. Just because you turned up at his funeral. I apologise.’ Romney waved it away while privately finding the ‘jump’ more than odd and a little unsettling, a neurotic or paranoid overreaction, perhaps. ‘Of course, it would have been easy for me to just destroy them, burn them, whatever. No one would have been any the wiser. And now the stigma that comes with my father being outed as a paedophile is something that I risk.’
‘So why?’
She met his stare and held it. ‘Because what people choose to think of me doesn’t matter to me. My father was one of society’s monsters. He must have monster friends. Who knows what else they got up to, how far they took their perversion? I’m an honest person and I try to do what’s right in my life. If I didn’t notify the authorities about this I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night thinking that my cowardice kept paedophiles free and abusing young children.’
Again he looked around them. She’d got louder. But no one seemed to be paying them any attention. Most were too busy shouting at their children or scowling at people who were shouting at their children. Romney was struck by the flaring of her passion for her subject.
She said, ‘Would you rather I’d dealt with it myself? Got rid of them?’
Romney almost smiled. ‘Because I knew him, you mean? Because this might be embarrassing for me personally? No. Not at all. I know lots of people in this town. For what it’s worth to you, you’ve done absolutely the right thing in notifying us.’
‘And what will you do with that information, Detective Inspector Romney?’
‘Open an investigation and devote time, resources and energy to it, just like we do with any crime brought to our attention. Sammy’s memory will get no favours from me and anyone associated with this who is still around had better start worrying.’
Th
ey drank their drinks.
Romney said, ‘You’re in there cleaning up. What are your plans for the place?’
‘Sell it. As quickly as possible, I just want to get rid of it.’
‘How much have you done so far?’
‘I started in the lounge. As soon as I found those, I stopped. I was too upset to carry on.’
Romney was nodding. ‘OK. Here’s what I propose. I get a search team around there. We go through the place looking for whatever we can find. You’ve considered there could be other items?’
‘Yes. If there are, I don’t want to be the one to find them.’
‘Good. I can get a search warrant if you prefer or you can just give us your permission and avoid delay.’
‘You have my permission.’
‘Might be best if you were there.’
‘When?’
Romney checked his watch. ‘I think I can get the ball rolling this morning.’
‘Do it then.’
‘I’ll go back to the station. Organise things.’
‘I don’t want to go back there on my own.’
Romney thought about it. He didn’t want her going back there either but for different reasons. ‘You can come with me if you like. We won’t be long.’
She thought about it and nodded. Romney finished his coffee. She’d barely touched hers.
It was still raining but it had eased. As soon as they were outside, she lit up. She offered him the pack and he instinctively moved to take one and then pulled his hand back.
