Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘I wasn’t, no,’ said Romney who seemed to have lost a few of the sharp edges of his opinion on the subject.

  ‘Thanks to Peter today, I was fortunate to be able to speak with a retired gentleman who lives in one of the cottages on that stretch of road. He said that they’re all pretty upset by things, as I’m sure you can imagine. He goes to bed every night, hardly able to sleep, waiting for the screech of rubber on tarmac and the sounds of another vehicle being smashed up in the trees.’

  There were murmurings of sympathy for those that lived there.

  James hadn’t finished. ‘I’ll tell you a couple of other things I discovered about the incidents: all four vehicles involved were heading east on that road. And according to police incident reports, each of the four vehicles was shown to be travelling significantly in excess of the speed limit. You know it drops from fifty to thirty just as one comes into Temple Ewell. Just before where the accidents have taken place, in fact. Oh, and of course, they were all at night.’

  As the police digested this information, James said, ‘The father of the girl who was killed still lives there.’

  Romney said, ‘Does he? Did you speak to him?’

  James shook his head as he swallowed a large mouthful of his beer. ‘Obviously, he must still be suffering horribly. Totally bereft. And to learn that the ghost of your daughter is appearing to others and causing crashes on the road outside your home…’

  ‘I’d go mad, I think,’ said Spicer.

  ‘As a father,’ said Grimes, ‘that just doesn’t bear thinking about. How does he continue to live there? I couldn’t.’

  Spicer said, ‘Maybe something to do with the spirit of his daughter living on. Maybe he feels he can’t leave her.’

  ‘That’s too sad for words,’ said Marsh. ‘The poor man.’

  ‘What about the girl’s mother?’ said Romney.

  James said, ‘The mother and father weren’t living together at the time it happened. Dad had his daughter at weekends. The old boy next door told me she ran out into the road after a ball. The driver didn’t stop. Dad didn’t even know she’d been killed until a neighbour knocked on his door. But you probably know this already.’

  Marsh said, ‘That makes it worse.’

  Romney said, ‘Unimaginable. And you think this will make a good story?’

  ‘I think it’s a story worth telling. It’s got everything: tragedy, loss, paranormal activity, mystery, death, a bad guy – the hit and run driver – innocent victims – the drivers being scared out of their wits by the ghost...’

  ‘But you don’t actually believe that there is a ghost, do you?’ said Romney. ‘I mean, tell me you don’t actually believe in ghosts, spirits, spectres, phantoms.’ He looked around the table at each of them. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Apparitions from the ‘other side’?’ He described inverted commas in the air.

  ‘But don’t you see, Tom?’ said James Peters. ‘How else can you explain it?’

  ‘There has to be an explanation rooted in the real world. There has to be.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know that there has to be one. These incidents are just a set of unfortunate coincidences. Random acts. Like your lottery number coming up. And attributing it to something mystical is one of the problems that plagues Mankind – we’re always looking to the supernatural to explain things we can’t immediately understand. Because A: we’re basically intellectually lazy and B: obsessed with fantasy. And, or course, blaming supernatural influences for our mistakes allows us to abdicate responsibility. Just like those drivers who’ve been keeping people awake and the emergency services busy. Did you also know that two of them were on their mobile phones at the times of their crashes?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that,’ said James.

  ‘See,’ said Romney, ‘this is what I’m talking about. We need to know all the facts before we can start making unhelpful and obstructive claims about ghosts and the like. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the similar descriptions are the result of gossiping on social media.’

  They sipped their drinks in quiet contemplation for a few long moments before James said, ‘Sorry if I’ve put a bit of a damper on the evening. But like I said, it’s a fascinating story and it’s still going on. I’m terrifically interested to see what happens next. Let’s change the subject. What about some funny stories? I need some funny police anecdotes. I bet you all must have dozens.’

  ‘Funny stories?’ said Grimes. ‘We have lots of funny stories. Here, guv, why don’t you tell him about what happened last week at the graveyard? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages.’

  ‘I’d like to hear the first hand version,’ said Marsh.

  James Peters turned his handsome, tanned face to Romney and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  ‘I wouldn’t call that a funny story,’ said Romney. ‘I thought it was pretty tragic. A man was dead, after all.’

  ‘Was he a friend of yours, Tom?’ said James, sympathetically.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Just a man I knew.’

  ‘You are talking about Sammy Coker?’ said Marsh.

  Romney nodded once and took a sip of his soft drink. Hid behind it.

  Marsh said, ‘I thought he was your friend?’

  Romney took another sip, shook his head and avoided eye contact.

  ‘The paedophile?’ said James.

  Marsh was quite persistent. ‘Why’d you go to his funeral then if he wasn’t your friend?’

  James said, ‘I didn’t realise that the paedophile was a friend of yours, Tom. Were you close? That must be awkward for you.’

  Romney said, ‘He wasn’t a “friend” friend. He ran one of the local cafés that I ate in very occasionally. I just thought it would be respectful to show up at his funeral.’

  Marsh said, ‘But he must have meant more than that to you, for you to go to his funeral. I mean, you buy coffee from that café opposite the station every morning but would you go to the funeral of anyone who worked there if they dropped dead tomorrow?’

  ‘No. But... Sammy was different. He helped the police with information from time to time.’

  ‘A paedophile was a police informer. I like that as a plot device. Conflict of interest for his police handler, perhaps? Favours for favours. A blind eye turned for a regular trickle of good intelligence.’

  ‘I can assure you that there was never anything like that going on,’ said Romney with some indignation.

  ‘I mean in a fictional way, of course, Tom,’ said James. ‘What did he die of?’

  ‘Health complications surrounding his state of enormousness,’ said Marsh, looking at Grimes who was working his way through another bag of crisps. He ignored her.

  James said, ‘He died of an obesity-related illness?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marsh was still looking at Grimes. Grimes was still ignoring her. ‘Killed by his cholesterol.’ Marsh turned her attention back to Romney. ‘So what did happen at the funeral?’

  Romney was spared having to repeat a story that he didn’t find particularly funny or respectful by the arrival of Justin. Joy introduced Justin to James. Justin said hello to the rest of CID, who he already knew from the odd night out. A drink was ordered for him.

  ‘Sorry. I’m late,’ he said, shrugging off his jacket. ‘Did I interrupt anything?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Grimes. ‘Perfect timing, actually. The boss is just about to tell the story of the burial of Sammy Coker. Trust me: you’ll be glad you didn’t miss it. It’s hilarious.’

  Romney was staring at Grimes with what Marsh recognised as undisguised irritation. But, like much of Romney’s ire directed in the big man’s direction, he seemed quite oblivious to it.

  ‘Sounds like a painting by El Greco,’ said Justin. ‘After the day I’ve had, a beer and a funny story is just what I need, bad taste or not – the story, hopefully, not the beer.’

  Romney could have groaned. Perhaps things would be different if he felt that th
e story was funny. But he found it to be another instance of great tragedy. And, for personal and professional reasons, he wanted to veer away from conversations in which he was linked with an accused child-molester.

  Feeling trapped and their eyes on him, he took a mouthful of his orange juice, swallowed, sighed and said, ‘One of the pall bearers fell in the grave when Sammy’s coffin got stuck. The man tried to force it into the hole by standing on it.’

  Only Grimes and Spicer were laughing.

  ‘How come Sammy Coker didn’t go in the hole?’ said Marsh.

  ‘They hadn’t dug the grave big enough for his over-sized coffin.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I just said. It got stuck. Someone tried kneeling on it. Then some other idiot tried stamping on it. One end dropped. It ended up vertical. Head first. One of the men fell into the trench, which must have had a good foot of water in it by then. The vicar told us all to go home. They needed machinery to move it and it wasn’t there. Someone cocked up big time.’

  Grimes had tears rolling down his fat cheeks. Romney was a little disappointed to see both Marsh and Peters fighting back grins. Justin just looked mortified.

  Justin said, ‘Are we talking about Sammy Coker the paedophile?’

  Romney looked at Joy. Joy looked at Justin. Justin was still looking at Romney.

  Spicer said, ‘There is only one.’

  ‘And is that why you were at his funeral?’ said Justin to Romney. ‘Because you knew he was a paedophile and the police wanted to see which of his associates turned up to pay their last respects?’

  James said, ‘No. It’s because they were friends.’

  ‘You were friends with a paedophile?’ said Justin. ‘Really? Did you know or suspect he was a paedophile before he died?’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Romney, a little tiredly. ‘And although as police officers we shouldn’t be discussing the details of open cases with members of the public…’ Romney was staring quite hard in Marsh’s direction, ‘… I will say this: he has only been accused of being a paedophile post-mortem. The man can’t even defend himself.’

  ‘You don’t believe he was, then?’ said James, possibly sensing another plot device.

  ‘The evidence isn’t strong and there was never a hint, a suggestion of it, when the man was alive.’

  ‘Maybe he was just clever,’ said Spicer. ‘They have to be, don’t they?’

  ‘And maybe he wasn’t one,’ said Romney. ‘Maybe someone is just trying to sully his memory.’

  Marsh said, ‘Why would anyone want to do that? What would be the point?’

  Romney huffed again as his reasoning came to another dead end. ‘No idea. And it doesn’t matter now. He’s dead. Case closed.’

  ‘Are the police not going to trace his known associates, maybe uncover a paedophile ring?’ said Justin.

  ‘We’ve explored all avenues of enquiry open to us. There’s nothing. Now, can we change the subject?’

  Grimes said, ‘I’ve got a good graveyard story. My brother had two tickets for last year’s FA Cup Final. Best seats in the house. Just as the game was about to kick-off, this bloke behind him taps him on the shoulder, points to the empty seat next to my brother and says, “Is that seat empty, mate?” “Yeah,” says my brother a little sadly. “That’s incredible,” says the man. “This is the biggest game of the year. Who in their right mind isn’t going to come if they’ve got a ticket?” My brother says, “Actually, the seat belongs to me. My wife was supposed to come with me, but she passed away. This is the first FA Cup Final we haven't been to together since we got married.” “Oh, dear. That's terrible. I’m very sorry to hear that,“ said the man. “And I suppose you couldn't find someone else, a friend, or relative, or even a neighbour, to take the seat?" “No,” says my brother, “they're all at the funeral." ’

  Fearing that the lull in the conversation might encourage one of them to start talking about Sammy Coker again, Romney said, ‘I’m sure Justin will side with me on this.’

  ‘On what?’ said Justin.

  ‘The plausibility of the existence of ghosts.’

  ‘You believe in ghosts, Tom? I must say I am surprised.’

  ‘No, not me. This lot. Common sense, logic and reason are definitely in the minority around the table tonight. It’s like having a drink with a coven.’

  ‘Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m with them. I’ve seen the light. Or the darkness, whichever way you want to look at it.’

  ‘Tell me you are joking,’ said Romney, visibly sagging.

  ‘Not a bit of it. Did you know that the university has a parapsychology department these days? And I must say that having attended a few of their seminars and lectures, I have come round to the idea that they might be onto something. Their arguments and evidence, both anecdotal and real, are really quite compelling.’

  ‘A department for parapsychology?’ said Romney still reeling. ‘What do they all wear? Cloaks and pointy hats?’

  Justin shook his head. ‘You’re thinking of the KKK. It’s one of the best-funded faculties on the whole campus. A lot of people are taking it very seriously indeed.’

  ‘Funding from where? The estate of JK Rowling?’

  Justin said, ‘It’s easy to be flippant about things we don’t understand. I think it’s a mistake, if you don’t mind me saying so, to simply dismiss an idea, a body of work and research, without considering and analysing its achievements, just because one has a personal prejudice against it.’

  Before Romney could launch into his standard response about logic and reason, Grimes said, ‘Why don’t we invite them down to look into the ghost girl?’

  ‘What’s the ghost girl?’ said Justin.

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t that be awesome?’ said James Peters. ‘Tom, do it.’

  ‘What’s the ghost girl?’ repeated Justin.

  Marsh explained. Justin listened. Spicer drank. Grimes crunched on unhealthy snacks. James glowed. Romney excused himself and went to the toilet.

  Once inside the sanctum of the gents, Romney leant on the washbasin and stared at himself in the mirror. He did a few jowl exercises as he pondered the way the evening was going. He wished he hadn’t bothered. He wished he’d made his excuses, gone home and got on with his writing.

  He went to the toilet and washed his hands. Then he went back out to join them.

  ‘I know the head of the parapsychology faculty personally,’ said Justin. ‘If you like, I can have a word with him. This sounds right up his street and being a local supernatural phenomenon will make it that much more attractive to the department, I’m sure. I know for a fact that they are always looking for material to investigate.’

  They all looked at Romney.

  ‘Why are you all looking at me?’ he said. ‘This is nothing to do with CID. Do I have to remind everyone what CID stands for? No crime has been committed that I’m aware of. We are not involved in road traffic incidents and for that I’m grateful. And even if we were, I wouldn’t involve an outside agency that specialises in things that go bump in the night. How the hell would I explain that to our leader? The local fish-wrapper would crucify us. That said, if they do want to get involved that’s up to them. But don’t expect me to take an interest.’

  ‘Shall we eat?’ said James.

  ***

  27

  Romney took his copy of the local newspaper and take-away coffee into his office for a quiet ten minutes before his team arrived and the day began. He was nursing a sore head. He was bitterly disappointed with himself. As well as being back on cigarettes, he’d fallen off the wagon quite spectacularly. He always knew he’d go back to alcohol as a relaxing-agent – something to help him unwind at the end of a busy day – but he had anticipated easing himself back into the saddle with the odd glass of wine, not galloping off into the sunset bareback.

  After two glasses of orange juice and the direction the evening’s conversation had veered in, he’d changed his mind, told Grimes and Spicer he’d pa
y for a taxi, switched to pints of real ale, drunk a couple quickly in a bid to catch up and then, as the evening was free, moved on to doubles of expensive whiskey.

  He had also added nothing to the word count of his writing project.

  He massaged his tired eyes, rolled his head on his shoulders, made himself comfortable, savoured the first sip of his Costa Rican fair trade coffee and then unfolded the newspaper. Romney read the front page headline shaking his head and wondering, once again, about people’s idea of news.

  Ghost Girl Claims Fourth Victim

  For the fourth time in a month – twice in four days – the residents of Alkham Villas, a charming little terrace of period cottages on the outskirts of Temple Ewell, have had terror visited upon them in the night when they were forced to witness the aftermath of yet another road traffic incident on their doorstep.

  On Monday night a motor vehicle travelling eastbound on the Alkham Road left the highway to plough through fences, greenery and residents’ sleep to come to rest on its roof in an adjacent field. The driver, who was travelling alone, sustained no physical injuries, although she needed to be cut out of her car by the emergency services. She was reported as suffering from severe shock.

  In the previous Friday night’s incident two people needed treatment for shock after the vehicle they were travelling in left the road and collided with a tree.