by Oliver Tidy
‘Busiest we’ve been since I moved here.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Thinking of property, Joy was struck with an idea. She said, ‘Can I pick your brains for a moment?’
James managed to look like nothing would give him greater pleasure. ‘Of course. You want to come in the shop, or we could pop over to the pub for a quick drink.’ He indicated the Eight Bells almost opposite them.
After the briefest of pauses, during which Joy felt that to refuse him once again when he’d always been so nice might be considered churlish, she said, ‘One drink. Then I must get off.’
James looked like he could actually wet himself.
Joy accepted James’ offer to get the drinks while she got a table. As an actual Meakins, he would be able to afford it, and the estate agents had earned enough commission through her purchase.
James set the drinks down and then perched opposite Joy on a stool.
She thanked him and said, ‘Is that a shandy?’
He nodded with his mouth full, swallowed and said, ‘Nothing to beat it for refreshment after a day of showing the indecisive and the time-wasters around properties they either can’t afford or have decided against before we’re even over the threshold.’ He smiled a little guiltily. ‘I don’t include you in that, of course. You were refreshingly decisive.’
‘I did have the advantage of already living there. Do you mind talking shop?’
‘Surely you’re not thinking of moving again already?’
‘No. Like I said, I’m very happy where I am. Do you have any experience of property in Victoria Park?’
‘Those enormous mansions under the castle?’ Joy nodded. ‘Yes. There’re all divided up into small flats and bedsits now. Such a shame, what they’ve been allowed to do to them. Once upon a time that must have been one grand postcode to call home. What do you want to know?’
‘They’ve not all been ruined. There’s one that’s still intact as a single residence. Better than that, it’s still got original features throughout. It’s like a museum inside.’
James’ drink came to a halt halfway between the table and his mouth. ‘Really? I had no idea. Are you going to tell me that the owner is looking for an estate agent to facilitate a sale?’
Joy smiled. ‘Put your tongue away, James. It’s nothing like that. Not yet, anyway.’
James slumped theatrically. ‘Shame. So what is your interest?’
‘What do you think it would be worth on the open market?’ Before James could put another question, Joy said, ‘I’m really just asking out of curiosity. I am not acting on anyone’s behalf. And as far as I’m aware, the owner is not looking to sell.’
James took a deep breath, as though he needed the extra oxygen to consider the big numbers. ‘I could give you a roundabout figure. A between-this-and-that idea. But it really would just be ballpark. There are so many factors that would impact on the sale price. Things like...’
‘I do understand, James. Ballpark is good.’
James took another thoughtful sip of his half while he knitted his eyebrows in concentration.
Eventually, after some obvious internal struggling, he said, ‘Half to three-quarters of a million. That really is a conservative guess. Emphasis on the guess. I’m sorry. I just can’t remember ever having anything to do with a property like that in Dover before. If you like, I can talk to some of my more experienced colleagues and get back to you.’
‘Thanks, James. That’s not necessary. I appreciate your time.’ Joy threw back the remainder of her Coke and gathered up her things. She stood and so did James.
‘Sure you won’t stop for another?’ he said, a big toothy smile dominating his pleading face.
‘Can’t. But thanks. See you around. And thanks for the drink.’
As she walked towards the door she caught sight of James reflected in the large front window. He was still standing and staring after her. His arms hung at his sides. She noticed that the smile was not fading. It had vanished completely to be replaced with something hard and almost angry. She also noticed that his hands had balled into fists. Joy felt something akin to mild fear tingle at the base of her neck, almost as though she expected him to launch himself at her back. She resisted the urge to turn around, to see that she had not misinterpreted his body language. She pushed through the front door and into another cold, breezy and miserable Dover evening, but it was not the outside temperature that made her shiver.
*
Romney was a great deal more impressed with Amy Coker’s home address when he was there than when it had just been a scrawled note on a piece of paper. Undercliffe Road, Kingsdown, ran alongside the shingle beach. The opposite side of the road from the English Channel was the setting for a small number of individual, well-detached properties of varying pedigree, age and square metreage, which, for the most part, sat on large plots of land.
As he dawdled along the narrow strip of tarmac that divided shingle and sea from overgrown verges, peering into the falling gloom of dusk for the number of Amy Coker’s house, his impression of the residential development thereabouts was of people not communicating. There was a definite feel of uncoordinated and unregulated growth, albeit stunted. But even in the semi-dark the place hinted at expensive and exclusive. Somewhere people came to live who’d had enough of keeping up with the Joneses. Somewhere people came to find a bit of space and peace, with a sea view and distant neighbours.
He parked up on the verge and rang to let her know he was there. Given the quiet remoteness of the place, it seemed the right thing to do.
He’d learned a lesson from earlier in the day: he’d not left his coat in the car for the short walk. He was glad he hadn’t. The cold wind whipped off the sea in sharp, blustery gusts, cooling his body’s core temperature by several degrees in a handful of seconds. Or that’s how it felt. Considerately, she had the front door open before he got to it.
After hanging up his coat, she led him through to the kitchen – a long, wide, lived-in room at the front of the house, something created from perhaps two rooms – with an aspect of the sea. In the open plan living room there were clearly designated areas for homely activities: eating, cooking and relaxing on a couple of old sofas in front of a glass-fronted wood-burning stove. From one of the sofas, a mongrel dog lifted its head to sniff out the stranger and then, seemingly unimpressed, dropped it back onto the upholstery and continued to stare at the flames dancing around the glowing logs.
‘Nice place,’ said Romney.
‘Thanks.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
Amy Coker had gone back to where she’d been chopping vegetables on a worktop. She hesitated as she considered her answer. ‘Eight years.’
Romney wanted to ask if it was rented or mortgaged; whether she managed to afford it on her own or whether she’d had financial help – a generous divorce settlement, perhaps. Then he remembered that he wasn’t there on a social visit but as a police officer about to disappoint a member of the public with a decision he’d made. He decided not to get too comfortable. She hadn’t offered him a seat or refreshment, which made that feeling easier.
‘Can you just give me a couple of minutes to finish this preparation and get things in the oven before you tell me what you’re here for or I’m going to be very late?’ She didn’t say for what.
‘Of course,’ he said. He might have added that he was happy to wait until she’d put down the rather chunky, sharp knife she was currently using to devastating effect on root vegetables.
To fill the waiting, he said, ‘You said you work from home.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you do?’
She looked across at him and he had difficulty reading her face. It was almost, he thought, as though she expected a smart remark, something flippant or derogatory.
Eventually, she said, ‘I’m a designer.’
‘Really? Of what?’
‘Clothes and accessories.’
He lost interest qu
ickly and turned his attention to staring out of the window as the skies darkened to meld with the sea. He checked his watch and forced himself to wait politely.
By the time she’d slid the diced vegetables off the chopping board and into a pot, shoved it in the oven, run her hands under the tap, dried them on a tea towel and turned to face him, his back was half-way to being up with the delay. She’d collected a glass of wine from somewhere.
Still without having the good manners to at least offer him either a seat or a drink he must surely refuse, she took a sip and said, ‘So, Detective Inspector, what have you driven all the way out here to tell me? I get the feeling it’s not good news.’
‘I don’t think there’s any good news to be had from this business, Ms Coker,’ he said. ‘We’ve been through the tapes you found. All of them. It’s obvious that they are old enough to be nothing recent. They are foreign. There are no identifying marks on any of them. None of the content hints at anyone’s identity or geographical location.’
‘What about the language?’
‘We think it’s probably Dutch. There are several million Dutch men.’
‘So what is it you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying that we’re at a dead end...’
‘After less than one day?’
‘...and that Dover police do not see this as something we are prepared to expend further valuable resources and working hours on.’
‘What about the poor, terrified girls on the tapes? Are you just going to abandon them?’
‘There is only one girl featured. It’s our belief that, given the apparent age of the film, she will no longer be a young girl.’
‘And the men involved in circulating this filth, this destruction of childhood innocence, are they to just be left alone, free to continue their depraved, sordid and predatory practices on defenceless children?’
‘We’ve not been able to establish any decent leads regarding friends or contacts your father may have had – people who could be involved in the circulation of the tapes.’
‘After barely half a day of investigation?’
‘To be honest, it wouldn’t matter if we spent a month on it. The strong likelihood is that we wouldn’t be able to find out another thing that might help us bring anyone to account.’
Barely suppressing her anger, she said, ‘To say I’m disappointed would be a gross understatement. The ease and rapidity with which you’re giving up the investigation into a prospective paedophile ring operating in Dover inclines me to revisit my first instinct about your relationship with my dead father, Detective Inspector. Are you sure you’re not involved?’
‘Because of who you are, I’m going to ignore that for the last time, but I strongly suggest that you never repeat something like that in a public place.’
‘Are you threatening me now?’
‘I’m leaving. I came here to inform you of my decision out of courtesy. Reports will be made and filed. The tapes will be passed along to a specialist Kent police unit on the off chance they might be able to help. This investigation will remain open. If you have any complaints to make about the way I’ve handled it, I suggest you take them up with my senior officer.’
‘And what’s his name?’
‘He’s a she. You two would get on famously. Superintendent Vine. I’ll see myself out.’
He turned to go and then turned back. ‘What did your father do to you to make you feel this way about him?’
‘My father was a paedophile. I should know.’
‘Wait a minute. Are you saying you were physically abused by Sammy Coker, your father?’
‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying. I can see that you don’t believe me.’
Romney stood rooted to the spot in shock at her outburst and accusations.
She said, ‘I have memories. Horrible, disgusting, perverted, damaging memories.’
Romney remained unable to move or speak.
She said, ‘I think you should do as you said, Inspector: leave.’ When he didn’t move, she said, ‘Now!’
There was a growl from the sofa.
With a final glimpse of the loathing she had for him, he turned and walked away. He snatched his coat off the hook in the hallway and, without stopping to put it on, slammed the door behind him. He marched back to his car, swearing loudly and without repetition.
He sat in his car for several long minutes seething and angered by her behaviour, her total lack of reasonableness and her accusations. At the same time her wrath had been so focussed, so real, so disturbing, that he felt great sympathy for the experiences of which she obviously had clear and raw recollections.
He smoked two cigarettes and felt better. He wondered whether to knock on her door again but decided to leave well alone. He also decided that he would do some further checking on Amy Coker and Sammy, a man who he’d believed he’d known and now doubted that.
Bouncing his car over the lane, Romney realised he was hungry. He was also tired. He didn’t feel like shopping, preparing, cooking and then having to wash everything up. Sometimes the benefits of eating out did justify the expense. He headed back into Deal to a very nice Indian restaurant he’d visited with his daughter while she had been staying with him.
Thinking of his relationship with his own daughter got him thinking about the relationship between Sammy Coker and his daughter. What, he wondered, could lead a man to have any interest at all in sexually abusing his own blood child? Any child? To Romney’s way of thinking, the idea of child abuse was more simple and straightforward than being a taboo of a civilised society, revulsion of it should be part of every decent human being’s genetic programming.
***
23
It was well past eight o’clock by the time Romney was back on the road to Dover. With a bellyful of Indian food washed down with a bottle of cold lager, he was feeling a lot better. Calmer. The post-meal cigarette he’d enjoyed as he’d walked back down the old High Street to where he’d parked his car had been among one of the pleasantest he could ever remember savouring. It had certainly contributed to the improvement in his spirits.
He drove slowly back along the top of the cliffs with the windows down and his coat done up, enjoying the fresh sea air that filled the car, and that kept him from dozing off behind the wheel.
Approaching the roundabout at the top of Jubilee Way, he experienced a decision-making conflict. His most direct route home would be to take the third exit, which would put him on the A2 to Whitfield. From there he would drop down onto the Alkham Valley Road and nearly home. But as he bore down on the roundabout he experienced an inclination to take the first exit, a detour that would take him down Jubilee Way in the direction of the sea and in turn to within a convenient stone’s throw of the Premier Inn on the seafront. The fact that this route wouldn’t necessarily add that much to his journey, combined with his sudden desire for a good cup of filter coffee in comfortable surroundings, encouraged him to take it. The mischievous thought that he might be able to surprise the station chief enjoying a candlelit meal for two with a famous author only served to motivate him further. By the time he was pulling into the hotel’s car park, he was feeling quite awake.
Romney was pleased to see Boudicca’s car still there. He sat in his and enjoyed another cigarette before braving the stiff sea breeze in his dash for the door. He checked the time. Just gone nine.
Romney pushed through the doors into the eating area with a blank look fixed to his face. He scanned the room. There were several couples either dining or enjoying a drink. Superintendent Vine and James Peters were not among them. He frowned.
Romney walked around the entire downstairs that was open to the public looking for them. When he couldn’t find them, he went back outside to make sure Boudicca’s car was still there and that he hadn’t just missed her when he was coming in. It was still there. He went back inside. He looked in the toilets then went back to the restaurant.
He sat down and ordered a coffee. When it was brought
to him, he described both Boudicca – a stack of bright red hair – and James Peters – young enough to be her son, bleached blonde hair – and discovered from the slow-witted young man in the ill-fitting uniform that, yes, they had been in earlier and had a meal.
‘Where are they now?’ said Romney.
‘They went up about fifteen minutes ago,’ said the youth.
‘Up?’ said Romney, hardly daring to believe the implication.
‘To their room, I suppose,’ said the youth.
‘Together?’ said Romney.
‘Looked like it. Why you asking, anyway?’
Romney tipped well and waved the young man away. He sipped his coffee and allowed his imagination to run riot.
*
Romney was still thinking about Superintendent Vine and James Peters enjoying a sordid scuffle in the Premier Inn as he drove home. It wasn’t the grubby details of the encounter that occupied his thoughts or their individual motivations. Romney was wondering how his knowledge could possibly be used to his advantage.
As he came into Temple Ewell, he noticed the stroboscopic display in blues and reds of an emergency services vehicle lighting up the trees ahead. He reduced his speed. Someone in a high-visibility jacket was soon waving him to a stop. Romney lowered his window. A policeman’s face appeared. It was PC Fower.
PC Fower had more history with Dover CID than most other uniformed officers at the station. He’d been made up to Acting Detective Constable for a very short while before being sent back to street duties through no fault of his own. He’d then been seconded for what Romney had termed a ‘low-key’ surveillance operation, which had turned out to be an exercise in keeping an eye on Romney’s car in territory hostile to the police. He had failed to prevent the slashing of two of Romney’s tyres and had subsequently not apprehended any of the culprits.
His last involvement with CID had been another covert one and off the record. Romney had hinted that if the young man could get him some names associated with an investigation he was conducting then his chances of getting back into CID could be greatly improved. For his efforts, Fower found himself on the wrong end of a terrible beating at the hands and feet of those he was asking questions about. A week in hospital plus several more recuperating at home had followed, as his broken body slowly mended.
