by Oliver Tidy
‘Don’t be shy,’ said Grimes. ‘I’ll take all the help I can get from wherever I can get it. Only a foolish or a vain man refuses well-meaning advice and assistance.’
Marsh was coming out of the fish tank as James walked away from Grimes’ workstation grinning with the good feeling of the exchange. The utter distress and sorrow etched into her features wiped his expression clean.
Their eyes met. What he saw in hers moved him to think of some platitude, a few meaningless words of comfort. Before breaking eye contact, she shook her head once and walked past him. He felt the anger, the sadness, the helplessness radiating off her and he shut his mouth.
Marsh stopped at Grimes’ desk.
‘Derek and me... well, we’re grateful to be spared having to look at those, Sarge. Thanks.’
She smiled weakly at him. ‘If I had kids I wouldn’t want to see them. Not that I’m enjoying it anyway.’
Sensing there was something else she wanted to say, Grimes said, ‘A penny for them.’
Marsh checked they were alone before saying, ‘I’m not sure he should be so closely involved on this one, that’s all.’
‘Who?’
‘The boss. We should all have learned our lesson about that. I mean, he did know the man quite well. It makes me worry about the way things could turn out.’
Grimes made a face and said, ‘He might have known him but at least he wasn’t shagging him.’ The follow up to Marsh’s Julie Carpenter reference did its intended job and put a smile on Marsh’s harrowed features. Grimes said, ‘Besides, half the people in this station probably knew Sammy Coker. I knew him to talk to. So did Derek. So did you. I wouldn’t worry about it. Not until someone accuses him of being part of a paedophile ring.’
Marsh said nothing.
***
20
The Manstons lived in a small and plain semi-detached house in Colton Crescent, off Rokesley Road, part of a residential development that occupied the high ground, little of it moral, that looked down on the north end of the town. The extended views of greenery that spread out as far as the eye could see behind the indistinct residences that lined the street might have been expected to buoy the novice visitor’s feelings for the location. But Romney felt the place had an uninspiring and slightly depressing air about it. He attributed this in greater part to the unimaginative and budget-looking homes that all looked poured from the same mould. Yet another wasted opportunity. The heavy dark skies didn’t help. Romney had no trouble parking.
The short walk from the car to the flight of concrete steps that led up to the Manstons’ front door was enough to make Romney regret leaving his overcoat on the back seat. High and exposed, as the place was, an unobstructed north-easterly breeze cut across the landscape and through his clothes, chilling him to the bone, before he was standing outside the front door.
Mrs Manston answered the door. Romney recognised her from both Tiffany’s and the funeral. She looked younger than Sammy had been, which would put her probably in her early sixties. Her face was made up under dyed and curled hair. She held a freshly lit cigarette. Romney believed she must have lit it about the same time he’d arrived. That suggested she’d been looking out for him. And that raised the possibility that the looking out and the need for nerve-calming nicotine suggested she had something to worry about.
She showed him through to the lounge. A balding, overweight man filled an armchair that faced a television that was on. He looked a good deal older than the woman. He managed to drag his leaden stare away from the screen to look at the visitor. The disinterested, vacant expression he had for Romney gave new meaning to a backward glance and caused the policeman to wonder whether the old man still had all his mental faculties functioning properly.
‘Go for a walk or something, will you?’ said the woman. She reached for the remote control and killed the telly.
Without a word for Romney or his wife, the man pushed himself up and left the room.
‘Sit down wherever you like,’ she said.
Romney took the sofa. She sat in the other matching armchair, inhaled on her cigarette and then tapped the end into an ashtray she’d picked up. She stared at him expectantly.
Romney said, ‘Obviously, you knew Sammy well.’
‘As well as anyone, I suppose. Why is Dover police interested in my brother?’
Romney noticed the signs of her nervousness: the upright, stiff posture, the quick regular puffs on the cigarette, the continual tapping of it on the side of the ashtray and the intensity of her stare.
Romney said, ‘Can I tell you that in a minute? First I’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘Why can’t you tell me now?’
‘Because if I do my reasons might affect your answers.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Romney felt that he might as well capitalise on the woman’s belief that he was more than just a policeman to her dead brother. ‘Look, Mrs Manston. I was Sammy’s friend. I’m here as Sammy’s friend.’
‘To talk about what?’
‘I promise you, I will get there. Can we, please, do it my way?’
She huffed and inhaled on the cigarette before stubbing it out violently. ‘Go on then.’
‘Sammy lived alone in his flat, yes?’
She frowned and said, ‘Yes.’
‘For how long?’
‘Years. When Evie died he sold the family home and moved above the café.’
‘Evie was his wife?’
‘Yeah. Breast cancer. Poor cow.’
‘Did anyone ever live with Sammy or stay with him that you were aware of?’
She renewed her frown and shook her head. ‘Apart from his daughter, no. No one. I’d have known.’
‘What about friends, visitors?’
‘If Sammy wanted to talk to someone he did it in the café. I never once knew of anyone going upstairs. Even I hardly went up there and I was his sister.’
‘What about when he was admitted to the hospice? Did anyone have a key to his place? Did he need anything collected and taken in for him?’
‘You know he shut the café well before he left his home? He knew what was coming.’ Romney nodded. ‘So no one had cause to be there. I’ve got a key to his place but I haven’t been up there since he left. No reason to.’
For the first time since they’d been talking, Mrs Manston broke eye contact. Romney wondered about that. His experiences of, and belief in, human nature encouraged him to always expect the worst of people. With Sammy lying dying in a hospice bed a close relative who had a key might feel entitled to have a poke about before things had to be settled legally.
‘Did Sammy own a computer?’
She actually laughed, a sudden unanticipated explosion at something she found genuinely funny. ‘God, no. What are you asking that for?’
Romney changed the subject. ‘About his daughter.’
‘Amy? She was at the funeral. I thought it was you who gave her a lift to Tiffany’s afterwards.’
‘I did.’
‘Is this about her?’ The woman’s tone had hardened.
‘Indirectly.’
‘What’s she been saying?’
‘She hasn’t been saying anything. She told me she and Sammy hadn’t been on speaking terms.’
‘That’s right. Not since...’
‘Not since what, Mrs Manston?’
A subtle change had come over Mrs Manston’s features. The dawning of limited understanding, perhaps. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘I don’t know. Tell me why they hadn’t spoken for so long.’
Mrs Manston took out and lit another cigarette and Romney’s craving for one increased. She looked at Romney for a long moment before saying, ‘You’re here as his friend, you said?’
Romney nodded.
‘Then as his friend, leave it alone. No good can come of any of it now he’s dead. His poor tormented soul should be allowed to rest in peace.’
‘If you won’t tell me, Mrs
Manston, I’ll have to look for someone who will.’
‘Why? What’s so important about it now? He’s dead, for God’s sake.’
‘Something’s cropped up. Something for the police.’
‘Why not ask her?’
‘Who?’
‘Amy, of course.’
‘I’d rather not at this stage. I’d rather hear about it from someone less personally involved.’
‘You’re so vague.’
Romney shrugged, like it couldn’t be helped.
‘It was all lies.’
‘What was?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. It’s all in the past and as far as I’m concerned that’s where it can stay. My brother has only just been buried. Some of us are still grieving.’ She stood. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d appreciate it if you left.’
‘Don’t you want to know what’s happened?’
‘No. I don’t.’
Romney sat in his car with the engine running and the heater on full blast as he tried to make some sense of his visit and warm up a bit. He’d learned little. Sammy had lived alone above the flat for years and had no visitors. Sammy and his daughter hadn’t spoken for years and the sister knew why they’d fallen out and sided with Sammy. Whatever ‘it’ was it must be something bad to invoke such a reaction in the woman and the comment about letting Sammy’s tormented soul rest in peace.
*
Romney drove back to the station via Pencester Road. He had the intention, if lights were on in the flat, of dropping in to speak with Amy Coker. He pulled up outside Tiffany’s and stared at the building. It looked even grubbier and more run-down than when he’d seen it only a few days before, like it had aged ten years with the divulging of its sordid secrets. There was no suggestion of occupation. He engaged first gear and drove away.
***
21
The atmosphere in CID was subdued. Romney asked where Grimes and their guest were.
Marsh said, ‘No idea. Peter’s probably got him trapped somewhere regaling him with ghost stories.’ Marsh caught herself etching quotation marks in the air and given Romney’s irritating habit of doing the same she felt a jolt of genuine concern. ‘Anything from the sister?’
Romney told her how it had gone and what little he’d learnt.
‘What now then?’ said Marsh. ‘I finished the tapes, by the way.’
‘All of them?’
‘The last two were virtually blank. Just a couple of minutes on each. It was all the same level of stuff. It sounds a terrible thing to say but I’m almost relieved that’s all it was.’
‘I know what you mean. And thanks for doing all of them. I’m not sorry to have been spared my share.’
‘I’m typing up a report but there’s nothing much to go on. No stickers or identifying marks on the casings. No geographical clues as to where they were filmed. The voice is the same on all of them. We could get that translated but I’m pretty sure that whatever he says is just instructions to the girl. It’s the same girl in all of them. She doesn’t appear to age at all over the course of the footage. All she does is undress and turn around naked for the camera. She never speaks. Just looks terrified and as though her innocence is being slowly eroded with every disgusting frame. I hope that’s as far as it ever went for the poor thing.’
Romney remembered the few minutes he’d seen. He wouldn’t forget the look of abject fear on the little girl’s face, the menace of her tormentor reflected in her eyes, the barely contained willingness to please for dread of punishment.
Romney breathed out heavily. ‘I’m prepared to leave it at this. The man’s dead. He had no close friends. These tapes are obviously old. He had no computer that could lead us anywhere. There’s nowhere for us to go with it that would justify the time and effort. Do you agree? We’ll forward them to the unit that deals with that kind of thing.’
After a moment, Marsh said, ‘I agree. We can leave it open. What about the daughter?’
‘What about her?’
‘Who’ll tell her?’
‘I will.’
Romney went back into his office and looked out the number he had for Amy Coker. He wanted to get the business over with but not before he’d found out a few more things.
Ms Coker answered on the third ring. Romney identified himself. He said, ‘I called round to the flat above the café but couldn’t see any sign of life.’
‘No. I wasn’t in the mood. I couldn’t face being there on my own. Not in this weather. It’s just too depressing. What did you want?’
‘To talk.’
‘You’ve discovered something?’
‘I’d rather not do it over the phone. I can either come to your home or call round to the flat next time you’re there. Or you can come here, of course, given your... feelings for my relationship with you father.’
‘I’m sorry about that. I overreacted. I was emotional. Your response to things has put my mind at rest on that score. It doesn’t sound very urgent.’
‘I suppose it isn’t.’
‘Well I don’t know when I’ll be back there. I have a job. I need to work.’
‘Most of us do.’
‘I work from home. If you like, you can come here.’
‘When would be convenient?’
‘Are you thinking today?’
Romney checked the time. It was close to home time but he had no plans for the evening. And he wanted to conclude matters as soon as possible.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Kingsdown.’
She dictated the address.
‘I’ll be leaving work soon. I could drive straight over.’
She said she’d be expecting him.
He replaced the phone in its cradle just as a burst of noise outside his office signalled the return of Grimes. He was on his own. Romney went out to talk to him.
‘What have you done with James? Hasn’t run away, has he? Are we going to have to file a missing persons report on him?’
Without acknowledging Romney’s little joke at his expense, Grimes said, ‘He asked me to drop him off at his hotel, guv.’
‘Migraine?’
‘No, he was fine.’
‘I hope you didn’t embarrass us all by mentioning your ghost girl to explain the town’s recent spate of traffic incidents.’
Grimes managed to look and sound like he was being evasive when he said, ‘We talked about a lot of things.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘Premier Inn. Said he’d seen enough for one day and had some work to do. And he’s got a date tonight.’
‘Oh, yes. With our leader. Where’s he taking her? Somewhere posh and extortionately expensive?’
‘He said they were having dinner at the hotel.’
‘Cosy.’
Their conversation attracted the attention of the other two. ‘He’s a nice bloke,’ said Marsh. ‘Down to earth for a famous author.’
‘You know many?’ said Romney.
‘What I mean is, he’s got no airs and graces. He seems refreshingly normal.’
‘Not bad looking, either,’ said Spicer. ‘Lucky sod. Fame, fortune and good looks. What more can a man ask for?’
Marsh said, ‘I’m sure he’s had to work very hard for his fame and fortune. No one gets to be a best-selling author with a clock-watching mentality.’
Romney was reminded of his own aspirations and it gave him a little nudge of pleasure. He briefly wondered whether one day he might make a success of his writing. He knew it happened. He’d read on the Internet about overnight writing successes. They’d even had one in the town a while ago. She’d been bludgeoned to death in her hotel room. Romney experienced another jolt of creative electricity at the memory. He was struck with a creative writing idea and, having learnt from his mistakes of the night, wasn’t about to let another one get away.
Marsh, Grimes and Spicer exchanged looks as Romney pulled a little notebook out of his pocket a
nd hurried back into his office, shutting the door behind him.
‘What’s with the notebook?’ said Grimes. ‘I’ve never seen him with one before. Either of you?’
They shook their heads.
Marsh said, ‘What could be so important that he has to keep writing things down?’
‘Maybe he’s developing memory problems,’ said Spicer.
‘He’s a bit young for all that, isn’t he?’ said Grimes.
‘He’s talking to himself too,’ said Spicer.
‘You what?’ said Marsh.
‘I heard him earlier. He talked to himself and then wrote in his little book.’
Romney came out from his office minutes later with his coat on. Stopping at Marsh’s desk, he said, ‘I’m off to speak with Amy Coker. Tell her what we’ve decided and why.’
‘Good luck,’ she said.
Before Romney was off the premises, they all had their coats on.
***
22
As Joy walked past Meakins’ estate agents in Cannon Street – the agents she’d bought her flat through – James Meakins – one of the Meakins family – came out of the front door talking on his mobile phone with his leather document case under his arm.
James Meakins had introduced Joy to her new home. He was a well-turned-out, personable young man, quite handsome, with a smooth manner, expensive clothes and a posh accent. Soon after Joy had made her decision to buy, she’d received a dozen red roses from Meakins’. She’d felt there had been more to the gesture than simply keeping clients happy. James had also ‘bumped’ into her a couple of times as she’d walked home after work. Each time, he’d asked her to join him for a drink. Each time, Joy had politely declined. If she hadn’t been quite happy in her relationship with Justin things might have been different. He seemed to have got the message.
Not wishing to appear rude, Joy stopped and said hello.
James’ features brightened. He closed his phone and said, ‘Hello. How are you? How’s the flat working out?’
‘I’m good, thanks. Flat’s great. Couldn’t be happier. How’s business?’
