by Oliver Tidy
Marsh allowed her stubborn silence to speak for her on that.
Vine said, ‘We also need to be mindful of the way we interact with all members of the public. I wouldn’t like to think that my best officers, those who I have particularly high hopes for, were succumbing to the influences of... shall we say, the more old-fashioned thinking of certain longer-serving officers here.’
As Marsh descended the stairs back towards CID, she wondered whether there could be any truth in the suggestions of Vine and the desk sergeant that she was turning into Romney. Then she wondered whether it should bother her.
Before she hit the bottom step, Marsh’s stomach grumbled, letting her know she’d missed lunch. She thought about her next job and decided to get something to eat before seeking out the station television and video cassette player. She worried that she wouldn’t feel like eating afterwards.
***
18
Romney, Grimes and Spicer returned together. They were empty-handed. James Peters was using Marsh’s computer in the outer office. Marsh was in the CID meeting room with the door shut. The curtains to the outside world were closed. She was watching the television, her arms folded across her chest. She looked up as the three men came in. On Grimes and Spicer’s faces she saw something of the relief they were feeling for the obviously fruitless nature of their searching. Her own face was imprinted with the effects of her feelings for what she’d been obliged to watch for the last hour. Glad of the opportunity to take a break, she used the remote controller to suspend her viewing, stood up and came out to speak with them.
‘I’m glad to see you kept our guest away from this,’ said Romney.
‘Actually, I didn’t need to. He said he didn’t want to be carrying those sorts of images around with him.’
‘I can understand that. Who would, given the choice? How’s it going?’
‘Grim,’ she said. ‘Nothing else at the flat, I take it?’
Romney shook his head. ‘Nothing. Not even a Polaroid snap. He didn’t own a computer, or at least there wasn’t one in the flat.’
‘That’s odd, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I mean that there’s nothing else at all.’
‘Yes. To be honest I’d have expected to find more in the home of a paedophile living alone. I’m not sorry that we didn’t, mind you.’
‘Maybe he got rid of everything when he knew he was dying. Before he went into the hospice. Maybe he just missed the tapes.’
Romney looked to be considering it. ‘How much have you watched?’
‘I’m well into the third. So far it’s all been soft-core. What I mean is, nothing graphic and explicit.’
‘That’s something.’
‘Doesn’t make viewing them any less disturbing or revolting. I’m skimming them. The language is consistently foreign and it sounds like the same man on tape two as on tape one. There’s a home-made quality about them.’
‘Anything in them to suggest an idea of place or whether they were made recently?’
‘Apart from the language, nothing for location that I can see. I could be wrong but the guy sounds Dutch to me. He’s got that sing-songy lilt to his voice. As for time, I think that the fact these are video cassettes says all we need to know on that score. Anything in the last decade would almost certainly have been recorded digitally.’
Romney was nodding. ‘Agreed. Well, as far as the content goes that’s good for us: not local, not recent.’
Marsh said, ‘So far. We haven’t seen them all. Might be some unpleasant surprises on the others.’
‘It still leaves the question of where they came from. Just because they might not have been made recently doesn’t mean that they haven’t been circulated recently.’
After a quiet moment, Marsh said, ‘Forensics confirmed that despite some trauma to the tips of a couple of the digits the prints on the cassettes are a definite match with the prints on the shaving cream canister and the other things from the flat.’
‘Just checking.’
‘Why?’
‘Being sure that Sammy had handled them.’
Marsh frowned at him. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you want to check that? Didn’t you believe her?’
‘It’s not that I don’t believe her. Believe me, if you’d been there when I turned up this morning and seen the look of suspicion she had for me, the barely concealed anger of the woman, you’d have believed her. I’m just wondering if they could have been left there by someone else, maybe even put there by someone else to discredit Sammy’s memory.’
‘Why would anyone want to do that? I mean to what end? And what do you mean: suspicion of you?’
Romney looked a bit uncomfortable and then checked that no one else was within ear-shot when he said, ‘She virtually accused me of being part of a paedophile ring.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because I was the only non-family member to show up at his funeral, and because I dropped everything to rush round there when she called.’
‘So what? She thinks that makes you a co-conspirator? Is she a bit paranoid?’
Romney shrugged. ‘Look at what’s gone on the last couple of years in this country. You can’t blame her, I suppose.’
‘According to the revelations, it’s been going on in this country for decades but no one ever had the balls to do anything about it. It’s only come out in the last couple of years because those responsible have only recently started taking things seriously. She believes you now?’
‘I think so. I bloody well hope so.’
‘Well, we know that Sammy Coker handled them, so that proves something.’
‘Does it? Just because his fingerprints are on them doesn’t mean that he handled them knowing what was on them? They don’t have big stickers on them advertising the content.’
Marsh raised her eyebrows to express her doubt. She said, ‘Why did you drop everything and rush round there this morning?’
‘There was a message on my desk that she called over the weekend. I hadn’t had time to respond to it. Then she phoned me up and was most insistent. She wouldn’t say what it was about but she sounded worried enough for me to take her seriously. Anyway, what’s with all the questions and why am I answering them like I need to explain myself to you?’
Marsh smiled at him for that.
Romney said, ‘You never liked him much, did you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that – I didn’t like him at all would be a more accurate assessment.’
‘Why?’
‘Apart from his disgusting personal habits, his appearance and his dingy little greasy spoon, he made me feel uncomfortable. Something about the way he looked at young women. There was always something creepy about the man.’
‘Doesn’t make him a paedophile though, does it?’
‘No, none of that does. But finding videotapes of naked young girls in the flat that he was the sole occupier of does.’ Marsh gave him her quizzical look. ‘You don’t think he was, do you?’
‘I’m not convinced. I knew him a lot better than you, remember.’
‘Isn’t that what the head of the BBC said about Jimmy Savile when he was first accused post-mortem? Are you going to investigate it?’
‘I’ll see. We don’t exactly have much to go on at the moment. And he’s dead. Not sure our leader would be too happy about us wasting police time chasing cases where there is no hope of securing a conviction. I forgot to ask how it went with Mrs Christie’s son?’
Marsh explained. Then she said, ‘He made a complaint about me to the Super.’
‘Who did?’
‘The son.’
‘Why?’
‘Claimed I was rude and aggressive.’
It was Romney’s turn to raise his eyebrows. ‘And were you?’
Marsh huffed. ‘I might have approached the line. He’s an arsehole and he doesn’t appear to give a shit about his mother. He thinks she’s making it up.’
‘We don’t know for
sure that she’s not, do we?’
‘That’s not the point. Whether she is or she isn’t making it up, she needs help. She’s a very old and lonely woman and he’s her son.’
‘Doesn’t make her his responsibility. You sound like you’re getting personally involved. Letting your feelings cloud your usually good judgement.’
‘There seems to be a lot of it about, sir, wouldn’t you say? Emotional involvement as opposed to good judgement.’
It was Romney’s turn to smile at her.
Marsh said, ‘If you think that’s funny, wait till you hear this: Superintendent Vine hinted at her concern that I might be turning into you.’
Romney’s burst of laughter attracted the attention of the others. From their faces it seemed that more than one of the three men who were chatting together found the idea of the head of CID having a good laugh over the nature of their most current investigation inappropriate.
***
19
Romney had told Marsh to take a break – he’d finish the tapes. And although there were others, for the time being he’d seen enough. He came out of the fish tank fifteen minutes later to find that apart from Spicer CID was empty.
‘Where is everyone?’ said Romney.
‘Joy said she was going out to get something to drink. Peter and James said they’d join her, guv.’
Romney wasn’t surprised that Grimes would grab an opportunity to sit in a coffee shop topping up his sugar levels.
Romney went into his office. He sat at his desk and drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair in thought. He reached for the phone.
A few minutes later Pamela Manston sounded quite surprised to get a call from an inspector from Dover CID. Romney said he’d got her number – she being the next of kin – from the funeral directors who’d been in charge of Sammy Coker’s burial.
‘Those bloody idiots,’ she said. ‘They were told the hole needed to be bigger. We’re still very upset about things. Is that why you’re calling? Are you investigating them?’
‘No it’s not, Mrs Manston. I’m looking for Sammy’s sister. The woman who worked the counter at Tiffany’s.’ Unable to remember her voice and without being able to put a face to the name, Romney had no idea whether he might be talking to her.
Mrs Manston said, ‘Oh. What about?’
‘I can’t discuss it over the phone.’
‘Well it’s me.’
‘Good. I’d like to pay you a visit or you can come here.’
The suggestion of seriousness and attendance at a police station had the desired effect. The woman became guarded. ‘Am I supposed to have done something wrong?’
‘No, Mrs Manston. I’d just like to ask you some questions about Sammy.’
‘Sammy?’
Romney said, ‘That’s right.’
When he didn’t offer an explanation, she said, ‘You were his friend, weren’t you?’
Romney didn’t see the need to spoil things. ‘Yes.’
‘Fine. You can come round this afternoon, if you like. Since Tiffany’s closed I’ve got nowhere else to be.’
*
Marsh, Grimes and James Peters were returning to the station just as Romney was leaving on the way to his appointment. They seemed in good spirits.
‘I’m going to talk to Sammy’s sister,’ said Romney to Marsh.
‘You want me to come?’
He shook his head. ‘No need. Be good if you could finish the tapes, just so we know the full-extent of what we’re dealing with.’
Marsh nodded her understanding and her cheerful features saddened. She headed off in the direction of the fish tank.
To Grimes, Romney said, ‘There was a report of another theft of a ride-on mower while you were out feeding your face. How many does that make now?’
Grimes managed to look suitably concerned when he said, ‘Five, guv.’
‘Five? Who’d have thought that Dover would have such a need? They nicking anything else?’
‘No, guv. Just the mowers. They’re leaving a lot of other decent stuff behind. Obviously know what they’re after. Must have a market for them somewhere.’
‘You think? Any chance we could make some progress on this one? You know, before the lawns of Dover’s landed gentry are so overgrown that they can no longer enjoy an afternoon’s croquet.’
‘I don’t think anyone’s contemplating croquet in this, guv,’ said Grimes.
Romney just stared at him before saying, ‘I left the details on your desk.’
James Peters said, ‘Sounds interesting. Something organised.’
‘Yes,’ said Romney staring disconsolately at Grimes who was hitching up his shiny-seated trousers as he ambled back to his desk. ‘There goes Dover CID’s response to organised crime: disorganised Grimes.’
James Peters felt a little uncomfortable with the joke. He already quite liked the big policeman and his down to earth and jolly ordinariness.
Romney headed out of CID and James walked over to Grimes’ desk. ‘Mind if I ask you about the mower thefts?’
‘Pull up a chair.’ As James did this, Grimes said with a smile, ‘I wouldn’t have thought that garden machinery theft was exciting enough for a best-selling thriller author. Hardly James Bond, is it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Fleming wrote Moonraker; maybe I can top it with Gardenraker.’
Grimes said, ‘And there was that film in the nineties: The Lawnmower Man.’
‘A cult classic,’ said James.
Grimes said, ‘A load of crap, if you ask me. Sex scenes were all right in a soft-porn way.’
‘Crime’s crime, Peter. I’m interested in all of it. Authors keep their ears and eyes open for material to adapt. It might just be lawn mowers to CID but to me it could be...’
‘Top of the range sports cars?’ finished Grimes.
‘Exactly! You’re thinking like an author.’
‘I wouldn’t mind the trappings but to be honest I can barely put a shopping list together before my mind wanders off. I’m a bit hyperactive, you see. But you probably worked that out just by looking at me. Smart bloke like you.’
A straight-faced Grimes allowed a heavily pregnant pause to go into labour before relieving the author of his discomfiture by bursting out laughing and smacking him on the back.
When James had recovered, he said, ‘Mind me asking whether one of the victims of the lawnmower man is a Mr Christie out at St Margaret’s?’
Grimes rummaged around on his desk, found a scrap of paper and said, ‘How did you know that?’
James explained.
‘Small world,’ said Grimes.
‘Can I ask what you’re doing about things?’
‘Sure. No problem. We’ve been instructed to extend you every courtesy.’ Grimes ran through the lines of enquiry he’d followed so far.
When he’d finished, James said, ‘I agree: there’s got to be a link to all these victims.’
‘You mean other than they’re all stinking rich?’ said Grimes. ‘It’s probably opportunist thieving. Couple of blokes driving around the countryside looking out for the kinds of properties that would have this kind of machinery sitting around the maintenance sheds. Or maybe they were doing that in the summer and marked a few cards to come back to out of season.’
‘You know Joy and I visited Mr Christie’s property. From the road it really didn’t look the kind of place anyone would just drive by. As I remember, it’s stuck well out of the way and the road’s a dead end. Have you considered the possibility of an inside job?’
Grimes nodded confidently. ‘First thing was to ascertain whether each of the properties in question had employed the services of anyone in any capacity who might have had access to the sheds or just knowledge of what was in them. Nothing. No builders, odd-jobbers or landscape gardeners. No delivery companies they all had in common.’
‘What about the supplier of the machines?’
‘All purchased from different outlets.’
‘Diff
erent makes of machines?’
Grimes sat forward and tapped at the keyboard with his chubby, heavily freckled index fingers.
‘Different makes,’ he said.
Grimes turned the screen so that the author could have a look.
‘Mind if I...’
‘Be my guest,’ said Grimes, relinquishing the mouse. He shoved off from the desk and skated backwards on his wheeled seat to make room for the author.
James Peters spent a couple of minutes going through what scant information the reports contained. ‘The thefts seem too random to be... random,’ he said.
‘Eh?’
‘I know I’m contradicting myself there. It’s the way my mind works.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m used to that from the wife.’
‘How about repair and maintenance services?’
‘Checked. All different.’
‘Insurance?’
Grimes’ response was not so quick-fire. ‘How do you mean?’ he said, perking up.
‘If the thefts are not simply random, there’s got to be a connection between them. Just considering possibilities. Ride-on mowers are not cheap to replace. Some of them cost more than a car.’ He smiled a little awkwardly in answer to Grimes’ questioning face. ‘Yes, I have one. So I know about insurance on them. The companies that underwrite the insurance are specialised, and few and far between.’
Grimes frowned and reclined. His office chair groaned. He knitted his fingers across his stomach and tapped his thumbs together as he thought. Then he sat up and said, ‘One way to find out.’ He reached for his desk phone. Before he began dialling his first number, he said, ‘Thanks, James. Whether your suggestion bears fruit or not, I appreciate your time and input.’
James Peters smiled back and stood up. ‘Will you let me know?’
‘Of course.’
‘And if anything else occurs to me...’
