by Oliver Tidy
‘Thank you. I hoped you’d say that.
***
37
PC Fower was sitting on a spare chair looking anxious and uncomfortable when Romney pushed through the double doors the following morning. Fower got to his feet quickly. Romney was early. He hadn’t expected to find anyone else there. It showed in the faltering of his step and the surprise on his face.
‘Good morning, Philip.’
‘Good morning, sir. Sir, may I just say...’
‘I’d rather you didn’t. But let’s pretend that you did and save ourselves some mutual embarrassment.’
Romney put his bag down on the nearest available surface and looked at Fower quite earnestly. Based on a limited experience of Romney in charge, the young officer braced himself for some uncomfortable words.
‘Obviously, the circumstances surrounding your assignment to CID are not the best for any of us. I understand that. We all do. I’m sure your second chance with us, much as you wanted it, is not something you wanted to come by this way. You are here because we suddenly need a body and you’ve shown yourself willing and able. So, you’ve got your opportunity. Don’t screw it up. Understood?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘Good. Now make yourself useful and get me a coffee from across the road.’
Fower turned to pick up his jacket.
Romney said, ‘Philip?’
‘Sir?’
‘That was a joke. You’re CID now. We get coffee because we’re going for one ourselves and we want to get it for each other. Yes, you’ll need to show respect and defer to the other members of CID over things as you’re the junior member but we don’t expect you to make or fetch our hot drinks. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Marsh and Spicer entered together, looking much as they had the previous evening. Marsh seemed to have been crying again. They both seemed surprised to see Fower there and dressed in a suit. They looked from the clearly apprehensive new boy to Romney for an explanation.
Romney said, ‘Superintendent Vine told me last night that life goes on. She’s right. Despite our personal feelings, and hers, she’s got a station to run and Dover and district needs policing. It’s not like we’re a restaurant that can close up for the day. Not nice but there it is. We have outstanding cases to work and given... events – no one expected to see you in today. Why are you in? And if you are, shouldn’t you be in court?’
Marsh said, ‘Superintendent Vine said she was going to sort out court, sir. I’m not sorry to be excused for now. And I told you last night: I don’t want to sit at home.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Painkillers are good. Neck’s just a bit stiff. I can sit at a desk, answer phones and type.’
‘Good. Thanks. Where was I? Yes, we were potentially going to be short staffed today. Philip has been kicked up here to try and make a place for himself. I’ve told him that no one in this office is going to hold the circumstances of his opportunity against him.’
Mumblings and body language indicated universal agreement.
Romney said, ‘I suggest the first thing we do is rearrange the furniture out here. I’m sure Philip doesn’t want to be sitting at Peter’s old desk and I for one don’t want to be reminded of the loss of a valued colleague and friend every time I look out of my office window. Any objections?’
It was very soon. Grimes was barely cold. None of them had had a chance to come to terms with his death.
As if sensing some uncertainty, some reservations for his suggestion, Romney said, ‘I’m not intending to wipe Peter’s existence off the face of CID. I actually want to keep his memory alive in here. I’d like your suggestions when you’re ready. Maybe we could install a vending machine.’ None of them realised that his poorly chosen gallows humour was simply a device to help him deal with his own sense of loss. It hung in the air between them, like a fart in a lift. ‘Don’t look like that,’ he said. ‘It was only a couple of days ago that Peter was laughing his head off at poor old Sammy Coker’s fiasco of an attempted burial. He frowned, ‘I’ve got a quick phone call to make. Then we can get organised here and then we can have our morning briefing. And Joy, you are not lifting anything. Clear?’ He didn’t wait for an answer.
Marsh, Spicer and Fower were left standing and staring at each other.
Fower said, ‘Can I just say how saddened and sorry I am about Peter. I know how popular he was here. He was a really nice man. This isn’t the way I wanted it.’
‘We know that, Philip,’ said Marsh. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Anyone want a coffee from the machine?’ said Fower, rather hopefully.
They gave him their orders. When he’d left, Marsh turned to Spicer and said, ‘See what he’s doing?’
‘Who?’
‘The boss. He’s not giving us a chance to dwell on things and mope about. He’s not giving us a chance to grieve, to move on in our own time. He’s probably got a name for it: ‘Positive Bereavement Theory’ or something like that to go with his other stupid theories.’
‘Sarge?’ Spicer had caught something in Marsh’s tone that worried him.
‘What?’ She was still scowling.
He said, ‘He’s just doing what he has to do. I think he’s probably hurting as much as any of us, struggling with his own grief. I don’t think we should...’
‘Don’t think we should what?’
Spicer sighed, ‘Nothing.’
‘He told me you did some detective work last night that made him proud.’
Spicer looked at her suspiciously. ‘He said that? He actually said it made him proud? Did he use those exact words?’ Several years of working with Romney had made Spicer rightly sceptical over such a claim.
‘OK, he might not have used those exact words but he did comment favourably on your police work. Cross my heart.’ And she did.
‘Peter has to take some of the credit,’ said Spicer. ‘It was him that went poking about in your desk looking for the card that came with the flowers.’
‘He what?’
‘He went through your drawers to see who the card was signed by. I told him not to, but you know what he could be like when he got an idea in his head.’
Marsh started laughing – something that obviously caused her significant discomfort. It soon became a hysterical and infectious thing to witness. Spicer found himself unable to resist joining in. Romney was encouraged out of his office to see what could possibly be so funny in the wake of the tragic and untimely death of a much-loved brother officer.
When Fower came back through the double doors a short while later he was stopped in his tracks by the noise and the sight of his new, recently bereaved colleagues doubled up in their shared mirth. Not for the first time, he was forced to consider what he’d let himself in for. But he’d wanted CID and the position of Acting Detective Constable for a long time and with a passion that would even see him fill a recently deceased esteemed colleague’s still warm shoes
Within an hour they had managed to rearrange things to an acceptable level of shared satisfaction. Grimes’ desk had not been cleared out but had been swapped with another that had been serving as a dumping ground for paperwork waiting to be filed. A chair had been pilfered from another room and Grimes’ chair, an item of furniture that exhibited outward signs of heavy use, was tucked away in a corner. They couldn’t bring themselves to throw it out.
Superintendent Vine had decided not to visit CID that morning.
To mark the occasion, Romney ordered cups of proper coffee and pastries to be delivered from his preferred outlet across the road from the station. His treat. By mid-morning all four of them were seated in the fish tank ready to remind themselves of – and bring the new member of the team up to speed on – outstanding investigations.
‘How’s it going with that Borders Agency fiasco?’ said Romney to Spicer. ‘Much left to do?’
‘A few hours yet, guv, I’m afraid.’
‘Tie it up as quickly as
you can, will you? I’m sick of hearing about it. How many totally wasted man hours has that debacle cost us, I wonder?
‘Joy, I want you take over the lawnmower thefts. Liaise with whoever attended in Dymchurch. Find out what’s what. It’s all but solved, isn’t it?’
Marsh nodded and jotted something in her notebook.
To Philip, he said, ‘Shadow Joy. It’s not exactly the Brinks Mat robbery to cut your teeth on, but you’ve got to start somewhere. And try to familiarise yourself with as much other stuff as you can in between times. I don’t expect to see you sitting around twiddling your thumbs. Understand? You have a steep learning curve ahead of you, young man.’
Fower vigorously nodded his understanding.
Romney said, ‘Let’s hope nothing else of a serious nature crops up before Joy’s fully recovered, Derek’s finished and Philip’s settled in.’
‘You haven’t forgotten that I’ve been given responsibility for that other business, have you sir?’ said Marsh.
‘What other business?’
‘The Amy Coker accusations business.’
Fower broke his silence in a bid to contribute something and seem informed. ‘Is this the woman in the local paper who accused you of being a paedophile, sir?’
Spicer looked at the floor. Marsh looked at the ceiling. Romney frowned hard at Fower.
Fower sensed a change in temperature and quickly added, ‘That’s the way the locker room talk was interpreting it. Sorry if that’s incorrect.’ He looked a little distressed.
Romney said, ‘Because you are one of us now, you should start thinking like one of us. We don’t indulge in unsubstantiated locker room gossip. In CID we rise above that sort of thing. Think of it as being a little more adult.’ Romney was suddenly struck with vivid recollections of Grimes and Spicer pelting each other with paper balls recently. The memory momentarily distracted him.
Turning his attention back to Marsh, he said, ‘No, I haven’t forgotten. What do you plan to do there?’
Marsh said, ‘I haven’t had a chance to think about it.’
‘You said yesterday that she mentioned a psychiatrist, that all this came out after she’d consulted with him and that she seemed reluctant to talk about him. What was his name?’
Romney had remembered that Sammy’s sister, Pamela Manston, had mentioned Amy’s claims had come after she’d been seeing a therapist. He thought he might speak to Doctor Puchta, his own psychiatrist, to see if she had any information on her fellow operator. He certainly wasn’t planning on abandoning his own enquiries into things, thereby leaving his professional fate and reputation to other people who wouldn’t necessarily have the same interest as him in digging him out of the shit the local rag and Amy Coker had buried him in.
Just a little suspiciously, Marsh said, ‘Doctor Clavell. Why?’
Romney shrugged, innocently. He had what he wanted and he had something else he wanted to check up on. ‘Nothing. Just taking an interest.’
Romney asked if there were any questions. There weren’t and they dispersed.
***
38
Back in his office with the door closed, Romney called Doctor Puchta’s practice. He would not identify himself when he asked to speak to the psychiatrist. Not even when pressed. He was asked to wait.
‘Doctor Puchta speaking.’
‘Hello. It’s Tom. Romney. Sorry for all the cloak and dagger. Have you got a moment?’
‘Hello, Tom. What can I do for you?’ Puchta sounded a little bemused. But Romney had already explained something of his paranoia at being linked with someone in her profession and she was happy to accommodate him. And then Puchta remembered a news item that she’d caught that morning about the sudden death of a police officer from Dover CID. ‘Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry. I heard on the news this morning. It slipped my mind. My deepest sympathies about the loss of your colleague. Is that what you’re calling about? Do you need to talk? I’m sure I can shuffle my appointments.’
‘Thanks for your thoughts and your offer but that’s not why I’m calling.’
‘Oh.’ Puchta thought he sounded a little too businesslike, a little too detached when he should probably be sounding quite the opposite. She wondered if he was in a state of denial and jotted a note to herself. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Are you familiar with a fellow practitioner of yours called Doctor Clavell?’
Doctor Puchta’s tone changed noticeably. ‘Tom, as your consultant I strongly advise you to stay well away from seeking professional help – I use the word reservedly – from that man. Anyway, he’s been retired for years. So you can’t.’
Like someone turning up a gas ring, the heat of Romney’s interested was increased. ‘I’m not. I’m happy with where I am.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘So what can you tell me about him? And why don’t you like him.’
‘James Clavell has achieved a certain notoriety in the world of psychiatry regarding accusations of FMS.’
‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘Not a bit of it. He is not a universally popular man in the profession.’
‘I meant the bit about him being called James.’
‘What? Why? I don’t understand.’
‘Nothing. Sorry. You were talking about accusations of FMS. Must you talk in letters? It does annoy me.’
‘Something for us to chat about, perhaps?’ said Puchta – and Romney could tell she was ragging him.
‘Remember, I’m only paying for this call, not your time.’
Taking the hint, Puchta said, ‘In that case, I suggest you Google False Memory Syndrome. Wikipedia have quite a good entry. That should save us a few pounds. I mean minutes, of course.’
Romney made a note on a piece of paper. ‘Is it how it sounds?’
‘Pretty much. Clavell made recovered memory therapy his specialty.
Slowly, Romney said, ‘Recovered memory therapy,’ as he wrote it down for looking up later.
Doctor Puchta assumed he was seeking illumination. ‘The term recovered memory therapy concerns the processes and tactics practitioners employ to evoke a memory.’
Romney said, ‘False or otherwise.’
‘Yes. One of the problems with substantiating allegations of malpractice in memory recovery therapy is that memory, obviously, is not something that can be challenged easily. It needs substantiating evidence, which isn’t always available. In fact more often than not, because memory is such a subjective thing, it’s damn near impossible to ascertain what is a real memory and what is not. It’s one of the reasons some therapists have been able to get away with doing what they do for so long unchecked. For example: if you go to a garage and get a new exhaust put on your car and something goes wrong with it, you can take it back to that garage because you not only remember where you had the work done but you have substantiating evidence in the form of the exhaust system and accompanying paperwork to reinforce the truth and accuracy of your memory.’
Romney seemed to remember that Puchta had used a car analogy in his previous series of sessions. Or it could have been a false memory. He risked the memory being a true one and mentioned it.
She said, ‘I often do with men. For obvious reasons.’
Enjoying his banter with the therapist, as he invariably did, Romney said, ‘I seem to remember that Freud had a few things to say on the subject of memory.’
‘One or two. You should look him up. It’s very interesting.’
‘Maybe. Getting back to Doctor Clavell. What do you know about his track record?’
‘He’s had a few comebacks regarding his results over the years.’
‘How many?’
‘Couldn’t say. Enough to get a reputation. You want me to find out?’
‘On your own time?’
‘If the police are taking an interest in him I’d be happy to contribute. We can look on it as a sort of pro bono work. Are the police interested in him?’
‘Sorry
. Can’t talk about it. Not now, anyway. Maybe tomorrow. There is a personal angle.’
‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with that article in the Dover Post accusing you of being a paedophile would it?’
Romney bristled. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Shall we talk about it tomorrow?’
‘Probably. Thanks.’
Romney woke up his computer and did his Internet research.
False Memory Syndrome is a condition in which a person's identity and interpersonal relationships centre around a memory of a traumatic experience that is objectively false but that the person strongly believes. Note that the syndrome is not characterized by false memories as such. We all have inaccurate memories. Rather, the syndrome is diagnosed when the memory is so deeply ingrained that it orients the individual's entire personality and lifestyle—disrupting other adaptive behavior. False Memory Syndrome is destructive because the person assiduously avoids confronting evidence that challenges the memory. Thus it takes on a life of its own; the memory becomes encapsulated and resistant to correction. Subjects may focus so strongly on the memory that it effectively distracts them from coping with real problems in their life.
Romney liked what he’d read so much that he read it again.
He noticed that the next part of the article was about recovered memory therapy – according to Doctor Puchta, Doctor Clavell’s specialty. He thought he might as well familiarise himself with that, too. He scanned it in search of the salient points.
Recovered memory therapy is used to describe the therapeutic processes and methods that are believed to create false memories and False Memory Syndrome. These methods include hypnosis, sedatives and probing questions where the therapist believes repressed memories of traumatic events are the cause of their client's problems.
Memory consolidation becomes a critical element of false memory and recovered memory syndromes. Once stored in the hippocampus, the memory may last for years or even for life, regardless that the memorized event never actually took place. Obsession to a particular false memory, planted memory, or indoctrinated memory can shape a person's actions or even result in delusional disorder.
