Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  Maurice said, ‘I can imagine. A truly awful business. Because of the circumstances surrounding Peter’s death, a post-mortem examination has necessarily been conducted. Not by me. I passed on that one.’ Because Wendell had known and liked Grimes he had not relished the opportunity of making his last memory of the man one in which he was removing and weighing his vital organs. He had, however, requested a copy of the post-mortem results to satisfy his professional interest. He then thought to ring Romney.

  ‘I’ve got a copy of Peter’s PM findings in front of me. I’ve debated over whether to share something with you about it. I want to because I think it might help.’

  Romney thought that they hadn’t hung about taking the knife to Grimes. Then again, given the circumstances and who Grimes was, if there had been a queue he’d have probably jumped it. ‘Help who? Certainly not Peter.’

  ‘No. Not Peter. You and your colleagues. The people who he worked with and who will be grieving.’

  ‘I don’t understand. In what way?’

  ‘How about I just share it? If it’s not something you wanted to hear you can swear at me and hang up. Being in the death trade, I can lack a little sensitivity occasionally, some perspective. That’s science for you.’

  ‘Maurice?’

  ‘Sorry. Peter was living on borrowed time. His heart was a ticking time bomb. He really could have gone at any time. The damage done through a combination of his unhealthy lifestyle and a certain hereditary defect meant that he would not have lived to a ripe old age. In fact, it could be argued that every day was a bonus for him.’

  There was a prolonged silence on the open line.

  Maurice said, ‘As I said, I had hoped that this news might... diffuse the sense of loss just a little. Peter’s life was not a healthy life cut tragically short. His time was up. Still tragic, of course, especially for those left behind.’

  ‘Would he have known?’

  ‘It’s possible. I really can’t say.’

  ‘Maurice, thanks. I appreciate your thinking of us. It helps.’

  Romney hung up and stared out of the window. He was reminded again about his conversation with Doctor Puchta about his desire to leave his mark on life. He didn’t think it could be argued that Grimes had. A family, yes. A place in people’s memories, yes. At least for now. But what about in ten years’ time? Twenty? Who would remember him then? Probably not even his own children. Maybe Maureen would re-marry.

  Romney’s line of thinking prompted another memory. Something that Grimes himself had said when asked why he’d given up part of his annual leave to play soldiers for a film company as an extra for no pay. It had been one of the few things that Grimes had ever said that Romney could actually remember: We’re all going to die, guv. Most of us will leave no mark of our existence behind whatsoever. Not a stain or a smudge or a smear on the face of history. I think that’s sad. If I can be part of something that survives long after I’m dead then I’ll have achieved a form of immortality. I’d like that.

  Romney’s deliberations made him more determined to make something of his own remaining time on the planet. It was time for him to get back to his writing.

  A happy thought occurred to him: perhaps he could write a crime novel, a police procedural in which there was a rather overweight but jolly detective constable called Peter Grimes. A man with his faults and his flaws. Known throughout the station for his love of cake and extended funny stories. The smile that had formed was quickly replaced by a frown when he remembered James Peters’ advice about not using real names in case he got sued. In any case, now he thought about it, perhaps the caricature of a certain kind of police officer that Grimes was in real life was just too much for a serious crime novel.

  ***

  42

  Romney was thinking about whether to drive out to Temple Ewell. When he’d first put the phone down on Mr Mitchell he’d been quite intrigued to find out what it was the man had discovered. But the longer he dwelt on things the more the idea seemed a waste of time that he could ill afford or justify, especially as he’d been telling everyone who would listen it that wasn’t any of CID’s business.

  Then again, it would be good to put one over on uniform, and the local paper, not to mention improve his stock generally if he were able to shed some light on the mystery. In the end he decided that he would visit Temple Ewell but delay until later in the day and combine the outing with another visit he planned to make to Grimes’ widow.

  Marsh and Spicer returned. Romney went out into CID to see what they’d been summoned upstairs for. Both were looking upset.

  ‘What did she want?’ said Romney.

  After a good couple of sniffs, Marsh said, ‘To offer us her personal condolences and to suggest that we take advantage of the counselling services provided by Kent police.’

  ‘Is that all? And will you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not really into pouring out my most private thoughts and anxieties to total strangers. I don’t even like doing that with people I know. Justin calls me a bottler.’

  Romney was reminded of his own weekly sessions of ‘pouring out’ his ‘most private thoughts’.

  He said, ‘I had a phone call from Maurice Wendell while you two were upstairs. It was concerning Peter’s post-mortem.’

  He told them about the findings because when he’d heard it from Maurice is had helped him. A little. He had to hope that it wasn’t just him.

  It was a good ten minutes later before they’d finished discussing things. Romney was glad he’d shared. He couldn’t be sure but he thought that both of them had found something in the news to soften the blow.

  Marsh said, ‘I made Philip useful with some detective work while you were out.’

  ‘Makes sense, seeing as that’s what he’s here for.’

  She said, ‘On Amy Coker. Thought it would be worth a look. Might have turned up something interesting.’

  Romney’s interest was engaged when he said, ‘And did it?’

  ‘Nothing for us. No police record. Not even a parking ticket.’

  His interest slipped back into neutral. ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘Do you know what she does for a living?’

  ‘She told me she designs clothing and accessories.’

  Marsh was smiling. ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘I know that look. What is it you want to share?’

  ‘She has a website. Why don’t you take a look?’

  Marsh punched a couple of keys and her computer screen was soon filled with images of fully-clothed dogs. Dogs in one piece suits, dogs in matching twin-sets, dogs in coats, dogs in frilly dresses, dogs wearing hats, dogs wearing boots. The range, it seemed, would rival any human clothing catalogue.

  Romney made a noise to indicate that he thought he’d seen it all only to be astounded once more. ‘Do people actually buy this stuff?’

  ‘Presumably.’

  He shook his head. ‘Words fail me. Who’s this Natassa Bam?’

  ‘The brand name. It’s Amy Coker’s company. She doesn’t operate under her own name though. I suppose Amy Coker sounds a bit dull. Certainly not as internationally cosmopolitan as Natassa Bam, with two esses.’

  ‘If that’s what bought her her home then there must be money in it. Knowing people, I don’t know why I’m so surprised.’ He went back into his office.

  Romney was soon tapping away at his own keyboard. He caught himself thinking about the woman from the hospice. He was wondering if she was still on her own. If he’d still been off the cigarettes and on the wagon he might have been more determined about his third resolution – but seeing as he’d succumbed to two of his weaknesses that he’d sworn himself off, he didn’t have quite the resolve he might have had to fight the third.

  Thinking about her made him think about Amy Coker – the woman he blamed for getting him smoking again – and how else she could have got Sammy’s prints on the videotapes. And then he remembered something
and had another idea. He phoned the hospice, identified himself, and asked to speak to Mrs Bauer.

  ‘Hello again, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Hello. Sorry to bother you. I can imagine how busy you must be.’

  ‘No problem. I don’t suppose it’s a social call, is it?’

  Romney found that a little forward, but he liked it. ‘Afraid not. Not this time, anyway. I’ve got another name that I was hoping you’d be able to check for me. A visitor to the gent we spoke about earlier.’

  ‘Go on then. In for a penny. But you’ll owe me.’

  ‘I always pay my debts. Natassa Bam.’

  Romney listened to Mrs Bauer tapping out Morse code on her keyboard.

  ‘Second time lucky. She visited once. I hope that’s good news.’

  ‘Very. Thank you very much. I suppose it would be too much to hope that there’d be complementary CCTV evidence lying around.’

  She actually laughed. ‘Dream on, Inspector. You’re lucky that we’re the sort of establishment that keeps full records of all our patients’ visitors. They don’t all, you know.’

  Romney thanked her again and rang off. Spying Marsh at her desk, he wondered whether to let her in on his discovery. The ringing of the phone on his desk startled him out of his reverie. It was Boudicca.

  ‘Glad I caught you, Tom. I’d like a word in my office when you have the time.’

  ‘If it’s about counselling services, ma’am, thanks but no thanks.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s about this article in the local paper.’

  ‘I thought Joy was looking after that one now,’ said Romney.

  ‘Not that article. The one about the... alleged apparition in Temple Ewell.’

  ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that CID get involved in that, ma’am?’

  Patiently, Boudicca said, ‘No, I’m not. Specifically, I wanted to ask whether you know anything about the reported comments of a senior police officer who attended the scene. You may remember them. From the paper, at least.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Romney, ‘can’t say that I do and I put my copy in the bin.’

  ‘So you weren’t there? At the scene?’

  It was obvious that Romney’s presence had been mentioned and the information had filtered through to the station chief. Romney was suddenly angry about Vine’s enquiry – the pettiness, the timing and insensitivity of it. So what if he’d spoken his mind. As far as he’d been concerned it was off the record. And it was probably true.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I was on my way home. You may remember I live out that way. I stopped to see if I could be of any assistance. I don’t remember what I said to whom. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ve got some urgent enquiries to pursue and, as you know, we’re short staffed down here.’ He cut the connection without another word.

  *

  Marsh appeared at his office doorway looking stern.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were pursuing your own enquiries with the hospice in Canterbury?’ Romney was a bit too shocked at being rumbled to speak. ‘Could’ve saved me some time and embarrassment, sir, if you’d shared.’ Now Marsh was looking a bit hurt.

  ‘I was going to,’ said Romney, a little lamely. ‘Anyway, how do you know I’ve been talking to them?’

  ‘Because I just have.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Same reason as you. To see if Amy Coker visited Sammy Coker there.’

  ‘So you know she did. Under a different name.’

  ‘Yes. Or that’s how it looks. After I’ve been to made to feel a bit stupid.’

  ‘Sorry, Joy. As for her pseudonym on the visitor’s list it’s something but it’s not proof that she got his prints on those cassettes, is it?’

  ‘Not on its own. But there’s something else that might make a good case for it.’

  ‘Come in. Sit down.’

  ‘Remember you asked me to take the video cassettes and the other personal items we removed from his flat over to forensics for fingerprinting and confirmation that the prints all came from the same source?’ Romney nodded. ‘They did, as I said. No forensic doubt about it. But there was a small anomaly. I think I mentioned it but it didn’t seem important. The prints taken from the tapes: two of the digits on the right hand had suffered trauma that showed up. The same trauma hadn’t been present on the other items.’

  ‘Trauma?’ said Romney.

  Marsh nodded. ‘I’ve just spoken to a rather bemused-sounding Mrs Bauer.’ Marsh paused for effect. ‘Because they are obliged to keep a record of even the smallest of accidents that befall their residents, she was able to tell me when I asked that during his stay at the hospice Sammy Coker burnt the tips of two of his fingers.’

  Romney’s smile was as close as he could get to ear to ear without tearing something.

  ‘What on earth made you ask them?’

  ‘It’s called police work, sir. The painstaking thoroughness of investigating every possible influence and lead in search of the truth of a matter.’ She was almost smiling and Romney was pleased to see it. It was certainly preferable to her crying. ‘If the hospice hadn’t had anything I’d have chased up his nearest and dearest. The trauma was a way of dating his last contact with the tapes. Because of the way things have gone, it had to be investigated.’

  Romney settled his appreciative gaze on Marsh. ‘You are a good detective, Joy.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘He never left the hospice alive, so without someone else being involved those tapes could not have got back into his flat with his prints on them. You’ve proved that. You’ve expunged an ugly smear from the memory of Sammy Coker and possibly cleared my name into the bargain.’ Romney looked understandably pleased. ‘We have a record of his daughter visiting Sammy in the hospice – I distinctly remember her telling me that she hadn’t spoken to him for years. Has she ever been directly asked if she visited him while he was on his death bed?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. And with respect, sir, even with what we’ve got we can’t prove that it was her. Not unless there is any CCTV evidence of her visit...’

  ‘Mrs Bauer told me not likely.’

  ‘Then all we’ve got is a name and proof that the prints on the tape were obtained when Sammy was in the hospice.’

  ‘Why the hell would she do it?’

  ‘Maybe she wanted to prove something to some people. The family that shunned her and her claims.’

  ‘Her false claims, you mean.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain that they’re false.’

  ‘It’s the way it’s looking. What a mess. That Clavell wants striking off and then striking with lightning.’

  ‘Might be best if we hear all the evidence first, sir.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I have instructions to consult with Superintendent Vine regarding any developments. I think she’ll be very interested to hear this.’

  ‘Good work again, Joy. I’m going out.’

  Marsh’s expression said where to?

  ‘It’s called police work, Joy. The painstaking thoroughness of investigating every possible influence and lead in search of the truth of a matter.’

  ***

  43

  Romney arrived in Temple Ewell while there was just enough daylight left to drive without lights. Heavy grey clouds smothered the area, threatening another deluge to follow the one that had just abated. It occurred to Romney that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the sun on his face. He parked in the little lay-by outside the pretty terrace of flint cottages that positively gleamed in their rain-soaked state, like they’d been freshly varnished.

  Almost opposite the cottages, in the place where vehicles had recently left the road to plough into fences, hedges, trees and the local paper, Romney spied a small group of people huddled together.

  He decided to go and see what their business was before tackling Mr Mitchell.

  As the last incident had flattened a section of hedging, Romney was able to walk straight through. One o
f the group noticed him and said something to the others. All five turned to look in his direction. He knew one of them. And he’d been wanting a word with him for a few days.

  ‘Allow me to make the introductions,’ said the photographer/reporter from the Dover Post. ‘Professor Dickie Dawkins, head of the parapsychology faculty at Kent University, and team, this is Detective Inspector Romney of Dover CID.’

  If he didn’t want to appear incredibly rude, Romney had little option but to accept and shake the outstretched hand of the rather odd-looking Professor Dawkins. The man’s obvious personal grooming preferences and clothing suggested strongly to Romney a Catweazle fixation.

  While Romney was going through the motions of introductions to the group, the rest of whom were students, he was conscious of the photographer/reporter firing off a few shots. Romney gritted his teeth and made a note to speak to the man about those not turning up in the local rag.

  ‘What brings Dover CID out here on this wet and miserable afternoon, Detective Inspector?’ said Professor Dawkins. ‘Is it a sign that the fuzz are taking the interest of the parapsychology department seriously? Think we can help you solve your mystery, eh?’

  ‘Let me assure you,’ said Romney, as good naturedly as he was able to manage, ‘that my appearance while you are here is a complete coincidence. I’m visiting someone, a witness, across the road.’

  Dawkins tapped the side of his nose, conspiratorially and said, ‘Don’t worry, Detective Inspector. Your secret is safe with me. I understand from my colleague at the university who put us onto this very interesting local phenomenon that the police have come to something of a dead end in their investigations. I gather that you’re at a loss to explain events.’

  Romney was quickly tiring of this berk. ‘I really couldn’t comment,’ said Romney. ‘Road traffic incidents are uniform’s business. CID prefer to limit our investigations to the real world.’

  ‘So if we discover something that might help the police with their enquiries...’