Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘It would be your civic duty to report it. To uniform at Dover police station. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Romney turned and, muttering under his breath, headed back to the road. He was the other side of it before he’d realised he hadn’t spoken to the photographer/reporter. He thought about going back but a few fat spots of rain soon changed his mind. He knew where to find him.

  Mr Mitchell had his front door open to receive Romney before the policeman had got half-way up his garden path. They shook hands. The ex-policeman invited Romney inside. Romney didn’t particularly want to hang about passing the time of day with some lonely old ex-job type who had nothing better to do than gossip and reminisce about the good old days, like they really were. In the pause that followed the invitation, the man said, ‘You must be either short-staffed or having a slow week for a DI to come out on this one. To be honest, I’m surprised CID have been involved at all; back in my day all traffic-related incidents were uniform’s business.’

  ‘That’s still true,’ said Romney.

  ‘Well, it’ll be a CID matter now, I reckon,’ said the man.

  Romney perked up. He didn’t usually respond well to members of the public telling him his business but the old boy in front of him should know better than most.

  ‘You want a tea?’

  ‘Thanks, but you were right when you said short-staffed. It’s all go. I’m just covering for a colleague as I’m out this way.’

  ‘The other fella didn’t seem in too much of a hurry,’ said Mr Mitchell. ‘Only to wolf down my best biscuits.’ He offered a little laugh.

  ‘He died yesterday,’ said Romney.

  The man looked at him like he must be joking.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Romney. ‘That was a bit unnecessary. He had a heart attack. Seems he was a bit too fond of his biscuits.’

  The man’s face was a frozen mask of incredulity. ‘You’re not joking?’

  Romney shook his head and wished he’d kept his mouth shut. ‘It’s one of the reasons we’re short at the moment and I’m out here investigating ghosts.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not ghosts,’ said the man.

  Romney said, ‘Look, would that cup of tea still be on offer. I think I suddenly need something with some sugar in it.’

  The ex-copper put his hand on Romney’s shoulder and guided him to an armchair.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on. You like a dash of something in it?’

  Romney smiled weakly. ‘Thanks. A small one.’

  ‘While the man was fussing in the kitchen off the lounge he called through, ‘I saw you talking to that bunch of weirdoes in the field. Mind me asking what they’re up to? We’ve had a steady stream of fruitcakes and rubberneckers dribbling through. The place is getting a reputation – and as a resident, I don’t like it. I’ve seen what they did to Lourdes.’

  ‘They’re from Kent University. The parapsychology department, if you can believe such a thing.’

  The man came back into the room carrying a tray. ‘Oh, I can believe it. It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world as someone once famously said.’ The man pushed a mug of strong brew towards Romney. ‘Look, I’m very sorry to learn about your colleague. He was a really nice bloke, actually. For a copper.’ He winked at Romney. ‘Small station like Dover, you must have been close?’

  ‘We were, I suppose,’ said Romney, relaxing a little. ‘He could drive me nuts sometimes, but he was a good man, a valued colleague and a friend.’ Romney poured a dribble of the proffered bottle of scotch into his mug.

  ‘To Detective Constable Grimes,’ said the man, raising his own mug. ‘May he rest in peace.’

  Romney dinked pottery with the man and said, ‘Amen to that.’

  ***

  44

  Sitting in his car, preparing himself mentally for the visit to Grimes’ widow, Romney rang Marsh. He was feeling a bit smug with his new intelligence from his new friend.

  ‘How did our leader take the news that Sammy Coker was framed and that I am not a lynchpin in a local paedophile ring?’

  ‘She seemed both relieved at the way things are now looking and a little angry with Amy Coker for the trouble and embarrassment she’s caused, not to mention the police time she’s wasted.’

  ‘How does she intend to resolve matters?’

  ‘Superintendent Vine insisted on calling Ms Coker herself and inviting her in to discuss certain developments.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  Romney laughed quietly. ‘What do you think my chances are of getting a seat in that meeting?’

  ‘Excellent, I’d say. Superintendent Vine wants you there.’

  ‘She what?’

  ‘That’s what she said. I think she’s going to demand an explanation and an apology or she’s going to threaten Ms Coker with a charge.’

  ‘Blimey. That’s nice to hear.’

  Marsh made a noise Romney knew.

  He said, ‘You got a problem with that?’

  ‘Yes and no. Remember how it’s possible she’s come by these ‘memories’, these beliefs. I feel more than a bit sorry for her. She needs help, not threats and punishment.’

  ‘Before you get carried away on your wave of sympathy for her, don’t forget how she’s perverted things for her own ends, smearing Dover CID in the process. She didn’t exactly do me any favours, either. And it’s because of her we were obliged to watch those videotapes. There’s an unpleasant experience I won’t forget in a hurry.’

  ‘I haven’t. She should be held accountable for the trouble she’s caused but it’s only half the issue. Have you managed to speak to your Doctor Puchta yet?’

  ‘She’s not my Doctor Puchta. She’s just someone I met.’

  ‘That’s what I meant,’ said Marsh, wondering again at his touchiness on the subject.

  ‘Not yet. I will.’

  Romney told Marsh where he was heading and that he didn’t plan on going back in until the morning.

  ***

  45

  The visit to the Grimes household had been, if anything, more harrowing for him than when he’d broken the news of the death of the big man the day before. Maureen had wailed almost constantly, the daughter had sobbed uncontrollably. The son had locked himself in his room with his grief and Romney hadn’t been sorry for that.

  Maureen’s parents had been there. While visibly upset, their position as relatives once removed from Peter Grimes’ influence, coupled with their stronger characters formed from long lifetimes of being exposed to bad news, made them people Romney could at least communicate with.

  He hadn’t stayed long. A quick cup of tea. A discussion with Maureen’s father about arrangements. Some worthless words of sympathy and promises of any assistance for the widow. And he’d made his excuses.

  Romney went from there to his gym, where he spent an anonymous hour punishing his body on contraptions that the Tower of London in its heyday would have been proud to own. Half an hour in the pool, a shower and he felt as good, physically, as it was possible for him to feel. He drove home in the dark and more rain.

  He was pleased he’d renewed his relationship with alcohol. It was hard to imagine a cup of the strongest tea being able to compete with the feeling he’d got from the long, cold, satisfying slug of beer he’d taken from the chilled bottle, hastily snatched from the refrigerator within a minute of getting in the front door.

  After his evening meal and the post-dining cigarette, he took himself off to his writing room with the remains of the second beer he’d opened with his dinner.

  He sat at his desk and powered up the laptop. While he waited for programs to load, he read through the few notes he’d made in his notebook. He sighed. He read through what he’d committed to computer memory. It failed to move him, to excite him, to stimulate him.

  He took a mouthful of beer and started again.

  *

  Thursday nights were not nights of the week that Justin would normally visit Dover. This Thursday he had i
nsisted. He had only found out about Grimes’ passing when he’d finally managed to get hold of Joy very late the previous night. She was back home by then: sedated, strapped up, sobbing and struggling with the twin horrors of her assault and the death of a friend. Justin had only been aware of one of those.

  Justin had his children on Wednesday evenings and with them already in bed it had been impossible for him to drive over and offer her the support and comfort he wanted to. Joy had not been sorry. She had not wanted him to see her like that. And she had wanted to be alone.

  A little before Justin’s scheduled arrival, Joy removed her neck brace and hid it. She didn’t want to have to explain it with a lie to Justin almost as much as she didn’t want to worry him over the truth of what had happened. Justin did not like the danger of physical harm that came with Joy’s job. She didn’t want to give him ammunition for his caring arguments.

  Her neck remained stiff and painful when she turned her head without thinking. The discomfort without the brace gave her movements a certain robotic quality, which made her feel silly. Despite her striving to reduce the effect and biting back the jolts of pain, it was the first thing that Justin noticed. Joy shrugged off his concerns by claiming to have slept awkwardly.

  They were soon discussing the reason Justin was there. It was a necessary and necessarily distressing conversation for Joy. Justin listened patiently as she related the circumstances of Grimes’ death. The mood lightened a notch as Justin encouraged her to remember Grimes in life: his sense of fun, his devotion to his family, his caring nature for his work colleagues.

  ‘He saved my life once,’ said Joy through more tears. ‘I’ve never told you about it. It’s not something that I like to talk about – how close I felt to death. And I know how you feel about the dangers involved in police work.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me now?’

  ‘Yes, I would. Because it will help me to remember Peter and I want to.’

  Joy told him about the night she had been dragged to the edge of a waterfall in the town’s Kearsney Abbey gardens by a man who had lost the plot and dislocated her shoulder. He had made it clear to her that he was intending to throw her onto the barely submerged rocks where she would certainly have injured herself further and gone on to drown. She had honestly believed she was going die.

  ‘And then, out of nowhere, Peter turned up, like my guardian angel. He fought with the man and ended up giving him the fate he wanted to give me. Peter then carried me in his arms back to the car park. He was my hero, Justin. Not just for that, but because afterwards he never mentioned it. Didn’t milk it.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how much I’m going to miss him.’

  Joy was out of alcohol. An unusual oversight. Justin volunteered to nip into town and pick some up. Through sniffs, Joy said that would be great.

  Justin had been gone a couple of minutes when his phone started ringing. He’d left it in his briefcase – something he’d never leave in his car. Joy retrieved it in case it was one of his children calling. She didn’t recognise the caller ID and slipped it back in the bag without answering it. As she was removing her hand she caught sight of a word printed on the cover of what looked like a spiral bound document. The document type was familiar to her from students’ work that Justin had sometimes brought along to read and mark. The word was familiar to her from only one other context.

  All other thoughts were temporarily banished as she withdrew the document to see if her worst fears were to be confirmed. The title of the document read Particular Stupidities: The Ying to Multiple Intelligences’ Yang.

  *

  ‘You promised me, Justin. You promised me faithfully that it would stay between us. What is this?’ Joy flung the offending document down onto the sofa beside her and winced at the shot of pain in her neck.

  Justin’s body language hinted strongly at the kicking he wanted to give himself for getting caught. He sat down heavily on one of the armchairs, the forgotten bottles clinking at his feet in the plastic bag.

  ‘Oh dear. Look, it’s not mine. I didn’t write it.’

  ‘I don’t care who wrote it. It’s the fact that it’s been written at all.’

  ‘Please, Joy. This is really awkward for me.’

  ‘Awkward? Awkward is nothing compared to how this is going to make me look and feel if he ever finds out.’

  ‘I made a mistake. I discussed it with someone in the Education faculty.’ Justin held his hands up. ‘I know I shouldn’t have. But I did. And that person saw something in it. Something worthy. And they wrote a paper on it.’

  ‘What are you doing with a copy?’

  ‘They’ve asked me to help with proofreading.’

  ‘To what end?’

  Justin’s throat distorted visibly as he swallowed. ‘They want to submit it to a journal for publication.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Bloody hell! Thanks very much. If he ever gets wind of it... Have you any idea of how long it’s taken and how hard it’s been for me to build up a trusting and honest working relationship with him? You’ve betrayed me, Justin.’

  ‘Joy, please. That’s a bit strong.’

  ‘It’s not. Because betrayed is how I feel.’

  ‘I can only apologise. Things got out of hand. It was only meant to be an informal chat over coffee. And then it turned into this.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s some merit in it as an argument regarding the discussion of intelligence.’

  ‘It’s not a piss-take?’

  Justin saw some light. ‘No, most certainly not. This is a serious academic paper written by a Doctor within the education faculty.’ Justin risked moving over to sit on the sofa next to her. She allowed him to take her hand. ‘Joy, he need never know. Academic journals don’t turn up on the shelves of Smiths or the local petrol station. We’re talking specialist publications with readerships limited to those in the profession and university libraries.’ Justin was suddenly struggling with his enthusiasm. ‘Actually, there’s been a tremendously exciting development.’

  Joy looked at him with great suspicion and waited for it.

  ‘Howard Gardner, Mr Multiple Intelligences himself, has been made aware of the alternative theory and is said to have taken an interest.’

  ‘That’s good, is it?’

  ‘Let me pour you a glass and we’ll discuss it.’

  Joy sighed. ‘Go on then. I’m telling you, Justin, if I wasn’t already suffering from one bereavement, I could kill you for this.’

  ***

  46

  Amy Coker looked like she’d made an effort: clothing, make-up, hair. What she did not look was pleased to enter Superintendent Vine’s office the following morning to find DI Romney sitting there. Her triumphant, self-important countenance quickly altered to give a good impression of someone who’d had a bucket of water thrown in her face. Romney smiled at her and didn’t stand up.

  Boudicca was all bureaucratic efficiency. For the record – the official record – Boudicca’s secretary had been taken down from whichever dark place she’d been hanging upside down in and sat with pad and pen poised. Boudicca invited those that weren’t currently sitting to do so. Amy Coker undid a button on her jacket and arranged herself in the only available chair – opposite Romney, legs almost touching.

  As Romney revelled in his anticipation of what was to come, it occurred to him for the first time since entering the room that coffee and biscuits were notable by their absence. The little red table’s emptiness a statement for the observer to work out, a bit like Richter’s red mirror, although a good deal less precious.

  Boudicca smiled a chilly thin line in Amy Coker’s direction. It put Romney in mind of the smile a big ginger cat might have for a cornered mouse. She said, ‘Firstly, thank you for coming in again at such short notice.’

  ‘I just want this sorted out as quickly as possible,’ said Ms Coker, who had encouraged her features to rally.

  ‘As do w
e,’ said Boudicca. ‘To that end, you’ll be pleased to learn that our investigations have uncovered further information pertinent to the accusations you have made both in this office and in the local press.’

  Ms Coker was suddenly not looking quite so sure of herself. ‘What information?’

  ‘Before we get into that, Ms Coker, I want to make something very clear to you. And you would do well to listen and consider very carefully.’

  Romney was quite enjoying himself and Ms Coker’s reaction to that.

  Boudicca said, ‘Detective Sergeant Marsh, perhaps you would be so good as to provide Ms Coker with what we have.’

  Marsh cleared her throat and said, ‘If I may, ma’am, I’d just like to ask Ms Coker a different question first – something that might help us along the way.’

  With a regal tilt of her head, Boudicca assented.

  ‘You said you were at your father’s home to begin clearing the place out. Correct?’ said Marsh.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘As many things as I could in the time I had.’

  ‘How were you planning to dispose of “things”?’

  Amy Coker reacted like Marsh had called her a rude name. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You agree you were clearing the flat out, how were you proposing to do it?’

  ‘I... don’t understand.’

  ‘OK. We saw no skip, no van, no boxes and no bags, plastic or otherwise, that would have enabled you to remove anything. I repeat: how were you proposing to do it? To get rid of stuff? And let me remind you that CID thoroughly searched that flat. Everyone who was there has been questioned and no one could say how you were going to do it.’

  Amy Coker flushed a deep crimson and pushed her lips together. ‘I don’t have to answer that. What’s that got to do with what I’m here for?’

  Marsh said, ‘True. You don’t. But if you don’t and with a plausible answer it will only lend weight to our belief regarding what has happened here.’