by Oliver Tidy
The shadows created by the dim glow of Romney’s dashboard lights exaggerated the depths of the facial scars that remained and always would to distract the casual observer from Fower’s otherwise pleasing collection of boyish features.
Fower had never appeared to blame Romney for the misfortunes that had befallen him that evening in north Kent. In fact, if anything, he still seemed to revere the detective inspector and hold him in the highest professional regard. He was also desperate for another crack at CID.
‘Evening, sir,’ said Fower. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I live out this way? What’s happened?’
‘The ghost girl strikes again.’
Romney had forgotten all about the ghost girl.’
‘What? Explain.’
Fower said, ‘There’s been another incident involving a vehicle leaving the road and coming to grief, sir. The driver is claiming that she saw a young girl in the road and swerved to avoid her.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘No. Just shaken up. The car’s on its roof. She was lucky.’
‘Is she still here?’
‘Yes. She’s being looked after by the paramedics.’
‘Drunk?’
‘No, sir. Nothing that registers on the machine.’
‘Probably on her mobile.’
‘We’ll be checking, sir.’
On an impulse, Romney pulled off the road, got out and locked up his car. He walked along to the open back doors of the ambulance. A middle-aged frumpy woman bearing a strong resemblance to a Teletubby in the snot-green overalls of the paramedic profession was talking with a younger woman who had a blanket draped around her shoulders and was shivering violently. They interrupted their conversation, turned and looked at Romney. He showed them his warrant card and told them his name. He didn’t tell them this was none of his professional business but that he was satisfying an idle curiosity.
‘You are the driver of the vehicle involved, I take it,’ he said.
An extended rapid nodding, like a novice operating an industrial pneumatic drill, confirmed this. The young woman’s eyes were wide and bloodshot. Her cheeks were streaked with smudged makeup. Her teeth knocked against themselves.
‘What happened?’ said Romney.
‘There was a little girl. I swear there was. She was standing in the middle of the road. She just appeared. She wasn’t there and then she was. Just… there in the middle of the road.’
‘You know the police haven’t found her?’
‘I know. I didn’t hit her. I missed her. She must live in one of those houses. What the hell was she doing on the road at this time of night? I could have killed her. I could have been hurt or worse.’
Romney looked across to the terrace of flint cottages the other side of the road. There were faces at some of the windows. If he remembered rightly, this was the fourth accident they’d witnessed in a month. He wondered how they slept at night these days.
‘Was it just you in the car?’ he said.
‘Yes. Thank God I didn’t have my daughter with me.’ The thought encouraged the woman to burst into fresh floods of tears.
The Teletubby gave Romney a thanks-very-much look over the sobbing woman’s shoulder. He shrugged back and turned to leave just as a car he recognised pulled up behind his. Out stepped the photographer/reporter from the Dover Post.
The photographer/reporter fired off a couple of quick shots. Spying Romney, he walked along the verge to meet him.
‘Evening, Mr Romney. Dover police must be taking this spate of ghost sightings quite seriously to have the head of CID in attendance.’
Romney was sure the man was being good-naturedly sardonic. In any case, Romney owed him. What was worse than owing a member of the local press was that the man knew it and was prepared to hint at it from time to time when he needed a favour or some information, although the tacit agreement was that the man would never push things too far.
On the night, a few short months ago, that Romney had realised the absolute fool he’d been played for by a woman he had trusted, loved even, he had been attending a neighbourhood watch function in one of Dover’s satellite settlements. The enormity of the possible ramifications of his utter stupidity – combined with the effects of a less-than-fresh sausage roll – had encouraged Romney to projectile vomit from the stage while he was in a state of extreme shock and on his feet addressing the gathering. The photographer/reporter had also been in attendance and had almost burnt out his camera’s flash attachment trying to keep up with unfolding events that even Mel Brooks would have been likely to dismiss as too implausible for good satire.
‘How did you hear about this so quickly?’ said Romney.
‘Oh, I was just passing.’
‘Pull the other one.’
‘So is it the mystery of the ghost girl that’s got you out of your nice warm home at this hour, Mr Romney?’
‘I’m actually on my way home. I only stopped to see if I could help. That is the responsibility and obligation of any warrant-card-carrying police offıcer.’
‘Mind if I don’t quote you on that, Mr Romney?’
‘I’m sure you’ll write whatever you feel like. The press usually do, no matter how far removed from reality it might be.’
‘Since you’re here, can I ask for a comment on what’s going on?’
‘Going on?’
‘Here. In Temple Ewell, of course. This is the fourth incident of its kind in a month. And, if this one’s no different, each and every person involved has claimed to have seen the ghost of a young girl on the road.’
‘So?’
‘Come on, Mr Romney, at the very least it’s spooky.’
‘At the very least it’s ridiculous. A few idiots who can’t drive, blaming paranormal activity for their own failings behind the wheel. I’d revoke their licences on the spot. They’re a bloody danger to the rest of us.’
‘I don’t know, Mr Romney. Just sometimes truth can be stranger than fiction.’
‘Do me a favour, will you? Ghosts on the road? Whatever next? The tooth fairy spotted in Boots?’
‘You’ll have to move your cars, gentlemen,’ said another uniformed officer. ‘They’re creating an obstruction.’
Romney didn’t need to be asked twice. He’d seen and heard enough. Ghosts! The only question surrounding that for him was whether it was a case of Cultural Stupidity or Belief Stupidity.
By the time he finally arrived home, he realised he was really quite tired. Then, with a guilty pang, he remembered he hadn’t written anything that day. He’d promised himself he would write something every day because that’s what conventional wisdom in the online writing community preached. He wanted to make it a habit.
He did his teeth and went to bed. Tomorrow he’d knuckle down. Make up for it.
***
24
‘How did Ms Coker take your decision to drop things?’ said Marsh.
CID was attending its compulsory morning meeting, a daily routine instigated and enforced, through unannounced visits, by Superintendent Vine. James Peters sat apart with his notebook on his knee. Romney felt a little uncomfortable for this, like he was being judged.
‘We’re not dropping things,’ he said, flicking his gaze meaningfully in the author’s direction. ‘The enquiry will remain open in the hope that we can uncover new information that will enable us to take it forward.’
‘Right,’ said Marsh. ‘How did Ms Coker take the news that we are leaving the investigation open but reducing our input?’
Romney gave her a look. ‘I like to think that she understands. Let’s move on.’
‘Another incident on the Alkham road last night, I hear,’ said Grimes. He seemed unprofessionally pleased about the news.
Romney looked at the ceiling. ‘I thought I banned any mention of paranormal activity in these meetings,’ he said.
‘I only said there was another incident,’ said Grimes. ‘I didn’t mention the ghost girl.’
‘For your information, I was one of the first on the scene. I was on my way home.’
‘You must have been at Amy Coker’s till late then,’ said Marsh. ‘I heard the ghost girl crash didn’t happen till gone ten.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ said Romney, ‘but while I was out that way I had dinner at an Indian restaurant in Deal.’ He looked across at where James Peters was scribbling and said, ‘Actually, I called in to the Premier Inn on my way back, James. Thought I might catch you in the bar and we could have had a drink.’
The rest of CID exchanged looks.
James Peters looked quite relaxed and not at all embarrassed when he said, ‘Sorry to have missed you. I went to bed early. Tiring day and things to do.’
‘That’s what they said,’ said Romney.
James Peters seemed a little confused when he said, ‘Sorry, who?’
‘The staff. I asked them if they’d seen you and they said you’d gone up.’
Romney maintained a mask of innocence as he waited for a response, maybe a blush, a fidget, a suggestion of discomfort. Nothing.
Grimes said, ‘So what happened, guv? With the gho… at Temple Ewell last night?’
A little disappointed not have got a reaction out of James Peters and a little irritated by Grimes’ persistence, Romney said, ‘Some woman, probably on her mobile phone, misjudged the lie of the land or the camber in the road. Car ended up on its roof in Russell Gardens. Luckily, no one was hurt.’
Grimes whistled quietly. ‘Someone’s going to be killed soon.’
‘Someone was killed, if you remember. A young girl.’
‘Did you speak to the driver, guv?’
‘I did. She wasn’t making much sense.’
‘But did she mention… something that couldn’t be explained?’
Romney said, ‘Yes, she claimed she’d seen a girl on the road. She didn’t say it was a ghost. She said it was a real girl.’
‘Strange,’ said Grimes, obviously not keen to move on. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s definitely strange.’
‘Peter filled me in on this story yesterday,’ said James. ‘I’ve got to say, I’m intrigued.’
Romney nodded back with a tight, indulgent smile.
‘Would it be a problem for you if I went out and had a look? Maybe spoke to a few people?’ James laughed a little self-consciously. ‘I have to admit to more than a passing interest in the unexplained, the supernatural. I’ve got aspirations to write something in that genre.’
‘No problem for the police,’ said Romney. ‘It’s a free country, just about.’
‘I could drive you out there if you like?’ said Grimes, avoiding eye contact with Romney.
‘Would that be OK, Tom?’ said the author, looking for Romney’s approval.
As Romney had been instructed to offer the author every assistance and courtesy – and as he would rather he spent his allotted time with CID away from any active and ‘real’ investigation – he said, ‘Of course.’ To Grimes, he said, ‘Maybe you can take the opportunity to have a look around while you’re there, ask a few pertinent questions. You know, some police work. What you’re paid for.’
Grimes looked happy. ‘Right you are, guv.’
Romney said, ‘Dare we hope for any progress on the lawnmower thefts?’
Grimes said, ‘I have a new line of enquiry that I’m just waiting for a couple of replies to, guv. I am guardedly hopeful that I may have something more concrete later today.’
Romney managed to look unconvinced.
In response to Romney’s enquiry about his workload, Spicer said with a depressing air that he still had hours of computing ahead of him, finishing up loading reports.
Marsh reminded Romney that she had an approaching court case to prepare for.
When they’d broken up and were back outside in the main CID area, Romney said to Marsh, ‘Nothing new on your Mrs Christie?’
‘No. I might give her a ring before I get my head down over this. Just check that she’s all right.’
Romney went back to his office and his own paperwork.
Marsh was standing in his doorway a couple of minutes later looking concerned.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, grateful for any interruption to the mundane side of his job.
‘Mrs Christie isn’t answering her phone. I could ask uniform to look in on her, but she knows me. I think I’ll pop round, make sure she’s OK. I’ve got something for her anyway.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.
*
Marsh was not happy about Romney accompanying her to Mrs Christie’s. It wasn’t that she doubted his motives – he’d made no secret of the fact that all he was interested in was seeing the old place. She, on the other hand, was there to check the well-being of the little old woman. She wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the conflict of interest, to having to possibly spin out her visit just so Romney could gawp at the place. But she also had the spare mobile phone she’d dug out and bought a cheap SIM card for to give to the woman. (Joy felt guilty for not getting that to her sooner.) Showing her how to use it should take a good few minutes if the experience she’d had with her mum was anything to go by.
Being the morning of a weekday, there were plenty of available parking spaces in Victoria Park. Marsh was able to roll to a stop outside Mrs Christie’s home.
Looking along the street, Romney said, ‘Just as impressive as I remember. They don’t build them like this any more.’ In his enthusiasm he managed to sound like the man who hosted the architecture programme on the telly.
Marsh put the heavy and ornate brass knocker on the huge front door to its intended use. They waited.
After a minute, Marsh banged again. Romney stepped to the side so that he might be able to see in through one of the downstairs windows. Marsh was on the verge of deciding to take a look around the back of the property when she heard noise inside. The letterbox squealed and, to her relief, Mrs Christie peered through it.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, Helen. It’s Detective Sergeant Marsh from Dover police. Joy.’
‘What do you want?’
The old woman’s tone was not friendly. Marsh wondered if she remembered her. ‘I was around the other evening regarding your report of an intruder? I’ve come to drop off that mobile telephone I talked about.’ Marsh held up the little carrier bag.
Romney bounded up the steps behind Marsh and she felt the need to explain him. ‘This is my senior officer, Helen: Detective Inspector Romney.
‘Why did you talk to my son?’ said Mrs Christie. ‘I told you not to.’
For a moment, Marsh was thrown by the woman’s hostile attitude. She shared a look with Romney, who did not look happy with the conversation so far. ‘I’m sorry, Helen, if I did something wrong. I felt he should know what’s going on. I’m just worried about you.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone to him. I expressly remember asking you not to talk to him.’
‘Can you open the door?’ said Marsh. ‘It’s awkward discussing this through the letterbox.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ said Mrs Christie. ‘I want you to go away and leave me alone.’
She dropped the heavy brass letterbox flap, leaving the police to stare dumbly at the door.
Marsh reached for the knocker and Romney said, ‘Leave it. You heard her.’
‘But...’
‘You’ll only make it worse.’ He turned and started down the steps.
Marsh didn’t move.
From the pavement, Romney said, ‘Joy.’ She dragged her disbelief away from the door to look at him. He noticed that her eyes were filled with tears. In a softer voice, he said, ‘Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee.’
*
They were at the same coffee shop that Romney and Amy Coker had visited after the discovery of child pornography in her father’s flat. The memory did nothing to cheer Romney. Romney wanted to sit outside so that he could smoke. It was chilly but they had their coats
. At least it wasn’t raining.
Romney sipped his strong black drink and said, ‘You were right: James Peters seems a nice enough guy.’
Marsh didn’t answer immediately. She had made no attempt to touch her drink, either.
‘Joy?’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
Romney sighed heavily. ‘You tried to help her. You went beyond your remit. I mean that in a good way. It speaks volumes for you as a person and a police officer. But surely you know by now that you can’t help everyone. You just can’t.’
‘But the other night. When I was round there. She was nothing like that.’
‘Maybe the other night was the exception. Maybe today was her normal self.’
Marsh shook her head. ‘No. I can’t believe that. She seemed... I don’t know.’
‘Obviously, the son’s been round there after you visited him. Probably given her an earful for your meddling. Chalk it up to experience. There’s nothing else you can do.’
Marsh rubbed at her face and huffed. ‘You’re right. I overstepped the mark with him. And she did ask me not to speak to him. I’m not surprised she’s cross with me. I upset him and he’s taken it out on her. Idiot.’
‘I’m sure he is.’
‘Not him. Me.’
‘Bit strong. Learn from it, though.’
Marsh touched her drink and said, ‘As well as being concerned for her welfare, I really wanted to put something to the test.’
‘What?’
‘The son said she’s got hearing problems. He clearly didn’t believe that she’d have been able to hear an intruder downstairs.’
‘She obviously heard you banging on the front door.’
‘That was probably magnified to be very loud with the acoustics of the hallway. She really would have to be deaf not to have heard it. Besides, maybe she saw us coming. She could have been looking out of a window. Or maybe she was close by.’
