Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  Romney’s brain thought that sounded like the best way forward and then his mouth said, ‘How about you let me buy you a coffee? To say thanks for your trouble.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Or you can just call me. But I was hoping that you’d be able to let me have paper copies of the information I’m after.’

  ‘Copies as in plural?’

  ‘Yes. There was that other thing we talked about too.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better bring your chequebook, Inspector. I’ll be having cake, too.’

  ‘Does anyone still use chequebooks?’ said Romney.

  ‘Showing my age, aren’t I?’

  They arranged a time and place. Romney put the phone down, noting that she’d added a couple of hours to when she’d first said she’d go into work for what he wanted.

  ***

  51

  Romney was on his second cup of coffee and quite enjoying his civilised surroundings along with the opening chapter of the latest James Peters novel he’d picked up on his visit to Waterstones.

  Romney liked Canterbury. In small doses. He found the university city to be noticeably more cultured, refined and apparently better off than its close neighbour on the coast. But visits of more than a couple of hours generally impressed him with a sense of claustrophobic overcrowding. He also found it quite pretentious, pricey and a bit up itself.

  He didn’t believe that Canterbury could boast better geography than Dover; nor could it claim a greater number of interesting buildings – Dover castle was easily a match for the cathedral in his eyes and Dover had a number of other less well known but no less wonderful historic structures to recommend it to tourists and to rival the better known city on its doorstep. Certainly, Romney didn’t believe that an objective study, taking all things into account, would show Canterbury to possess more important history than Dover. And Dover had the English Channel lapping at its boundaries.

  But what Canterbury did benefit from was being a religious centre famous throughout the world. And that, it seemed, always trumped anything. People the globe over never tired of their devotion to focal points of mumbo-jumbo.

  Romney had become so engrossed in his read that Mrs Bauer had to clear her throat to get his attention. Romney stood up and looked, he hoped, suitably apologetic. ‘Sorry. I didn’t see you arrive.’

  She was smiling when she said, ‘That’s all right. I like to get lost in a good book, myself. What are you reading?’

  Romney held it up, wishing he’d been caught with something a little more highbrow.

  ‘Oh, I like him,’ she said.

  ‘He was at our station last week,’ said Romney. ‘Spent a couple of days with CID, actually, doing some research for his next book.’

  She paused halfway through taking off her coat. ‘Really? That must have been exciting for you?’

  A memory of James Peters’ short visit popped into Romney’s mind. It involved a vivid recollection of Grimes and Romney was suddenly and deeply emotionally affected by it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Mrs Bauer. She sounded and looked suitably concerned by his sudden and strange reaction.

  Romney looked up at her with his distress barely buried beneath his features.

  Mrs Bauer tried a smile and said, ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Romney tried to smile back. He felt it was more of a grimace, a losing battle, a brave face on a pain. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just been reminded of someone.’

  They were still standing. She said, ‘I know that look. Is it someone who’s recently died?’

  Romney nodded because he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the drinks. You should have something to eat. Something sweet.’

  Romney didn’t feel the need to argue with her because he wasn’t at all sure about his ability to coordinate his legs to the counter and back, and he’d feel exceptionally foolish if he dropped a tray of drinks and cake.

  He said, ‘Can I have a slice of carrot cake, please?’

  He’d composed himself by the time she returned to the table with the tray. She efficiently arranged her purchases, focussing on the task and not speaking. It gave him an opportunity to study her. She’d obviously made an effort for their meeting, or perhaps she’d put on nice clothes, make-up and perfume and done her hair to impress the weekend staff at the hospice.

  Romney said, ‘Thank you. I don’t usually invite a woman out for coffee and then expect them to wait on me and pay for everything.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I believe you. With most men that usually takes at least a month. Is it the man you’re enquiring about?’

  Romney said, ‘No. A very close colleague and a friend who died this week. And I wish I’d told him that while he was alive.’

  ‘It’s a common thing for the bereaved. Regret. How did he die?’

  ‘Massive heart attack at the wheel. Luckily for everyone else, he was stationary at the time.’ Romney smiled a little sentimentally. ‘James Peters was in the car with him. He said the last thing Peter ate was something he described as possibly the best carrot cake he’d ever eaten. And he’d have eaten a lot of carrot cake.’

  Mrs Bauer smiled with genuine warmth at the man opposite her for his choice of cake and words. She said, ‘Well, let’s hope lightning doesn’t strike twice, shall we?’

  Romney laughed. A lot – and probably more than was necessary or decent. Clearly, gallows humour wasn’t just confined to the police.

  They spent the next two hours talking about life and death and bits in between, the purpose of their meeting apparently all but forgotten. Romney spoke a good deal about Grimes and Mrs Bauer listened with one ear a professional in the business of grieving, the other of a woman who had known life as a policeman’s wife.

  When they tired of coffee, Romney said that he planned to find somewhere to eat in Canterbury as he was there. He asked if she’d like to join him, providing she had no previous engagement. He didn’t offer a reason why. If he’d been pressed, he’d have said that he was enjoying her company and wanted to prolong it. Mrs Bauer seemed genuinely delighted to be asked and, saying she’d only be standing up the vacuum cleaner, accepted.

  In the half-dark of early evening a keen wind was blowing up between the opposite fronts of the city’s retail therapy thoroughfare. It was raining again. Romney had his umbrella to shelter them both. She linked her arm through his as she guided them along the pedestrianised street in the direction of the Westgate tower. They branched off before they reached that and were soon standing in front of an Italian restaurant that could have turned a good profit if it could have bottled the smell that seeped out into the street through the cracks around the front door.

  *

  Romney felt an enormous sense of well-being when he pulled up on his gravel driveway later that night, alone. As he sat in the car, the engine ticking cool, he reflected on his afternoon and evening. He couldn’t remember ever having felt so at ease so quickly with a woman. She had seemed refreshingly normal and down to earth and understanding and knowledgeable and funny. Romney thought about texting her and decided against it. Why ruin things?

  He remembered the envelope she’d given him in the coffee shop and which he’d tucked into his jacket pocket without looking at. He took it out and turned on the interior light. He checked the two photocopied pieces of paper. When he felt clear on timings and events, but confused as to what they signified, he folded the paper back into the envelope, got out of the car and went inside.

  ***

  52

  Romney rang Marsh when he felt the time was decent for a Sunday morning.

  ‘Just checking that you haven’t forgotten about today?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir. Have you heard from your source?’

  ‘Not yet. He said he’d call as soon as he sees his car arrive. I got the idea he wouldn’t be moving from his front window.’

  ‘Once a copper always a copper.’

  �
�Something like that – and there isn’t much to do in Temple Ewell when it’s pissing with rain. Might also have something to do with him not being able to sleep and his wife refusing to come home until it’s sorted out.’

  ‘You still planning on not arresting him?’

  ‘Yes. Providing he promises to cooperate.’

  ‘I’ll wait to hear from you, then.’

  Marsh hung up, still quite perplexed at Romney’s promised approach to the matter.

  *

  Romney’s mobile rang as he was watching the football. He’d wondered if he might have used the enforced waiting time to continue with his writing but he had too many distractions bothering him for creative thought to flourish. The match between two teams he couldn’t care less about gave him a chance to switch off and think.

  ‘Hello, Frank.’

  ‘Hello, Tom. Just letting you know, as promised: he’s back.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll pick up my DS and we’ll be over. What does he drive, by the way?’

  ‘A white van.’

  Romney had to drive through Temple Ewell to collect Marsh. He passed the terrace of flint cottages slowly, getting a good look at the van in question before putting his foot down.

  As arranged, Marsh was waiting outside her building. Like Romney, she was dressed in her work clothes. She got into the front passenger seat with an exaggerated shiver and an apology. ‘Sorry you had to come out all this way to get me.’

  ‘No problem. I appreciate you making yourself available for this. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘No idea. It’s in the garage.’

  ‘You in a rush to get back?’

  ‘Not particularly. Why?’

  ‘Justin not about this weekend?’

  ‘Work commitments.’

  ‘Good. When we’ve either talked some sense into this bloke or arrested him, I’ve got something else I want to get your thoughts on.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Romney said, ‘We can discuss it over a pint.’

  *

  Romney brought his car to a stop directly outside the home of the lighting engineer. The white van was still there. As they got out, he glanced up at the bedroom window next door and received a little wave for his trouble. He nodded back and opened the garden gate for Marsh.

  Following Romney’s rap on the front door, it was opened by a man who could have stood in for Woody Allen. The police held up their warrant cards and Romney introduced them.

  The man opened the door wide and said, ‘You’d better come in. Would you mind wiping your shoes properly, please? This carpet’s quite new.’

  He showed them through to a neat and tidy front room. It was still cold from his absence. Both officers kept their coats on as they sat. Mr Webb looked like he had a few layers on.

  The mantelpiece and the wall above it bore a number of framed photographs of a smiling angelic young girl in various poses. To know that she was dead, mangled horribly by a speeding driver who couldn’t even be bothered to stop, made an impression on both officers. It also made Romney’s preferred reason for being there easier on his policeman’s conscience.

  Mr Webb did not offer them refreshments. He sat upright in the remaining chair, clasped his hands together in his lap, crossed his legs and fixed them with an intense and serious stare. He reminded Romney of a Mastermind contender about to start his round.

  Romney said, ‘We’re here about the spate of road traffic incidents that have occurred recently on the stretch of road outside your house.’

  Mr Webb nodded slowly and switched his serious stare between them. He said, ‘No news on the driver who left my daughter for dead, then?’ It wasn’t said sarcastically.

  Romney shook his head and said, ‘I’m afraid not, but Dover police will continue to do everything they can to trace that particular individual. You were here at home on each occasion?’

  ‘Four times,’ said Mr Webb. He uncrossed his legs and then crossed them the other way.

  Romney stared at the man for a very long moment before saying, ‘Mr Webb, I’m going to ask you a question that will determine the direction this informal discussion goes in. Before I ask it, I’m going to be candid with you about what I have so far.

  ‘It’s my belief that human activity is responsible for the appearance of “apparitions” on the road. Certainly, they are not products of paranormal activity because there is no such thing. I’ve been having a look around outside, reading through the eyewitness testimonies and surfing the Internet to find out how hard it would be for someone... experienced in such matters and with the right equipment to create the appearance of a ghostly figure at night.

  ‘I found some very interesting and informative videos showing tricks that can be played in the dark with mirrors, water spray and a decent projector, for example. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re a lighting engineer who specialises in laser shows, aren’t you? That’s not the question by the way.’

  Mr Webb swallowed and said, ‘Yes, I am.’

  Romney nodded. ‘To my question then: do you want to be arrested and charged with a number of serious offences to do with causing those incidents on the road outside your home?’

  Mr Webb cleared his throat. He looked again between the two police officers. This time his stare was tempered with a degree of confusion. A little uncertainly, he said, ‘I suppose I don’t, really.’

  Romney smiled. ‘Good. No one has been seriously injured yet. The only damage is to cars and property. That’s lucky for all concerned.’

  ‘They were all speeding,’ said Mr Webb. ‘All travelling well in excess of the speed limit for this stretch of road. Just like the driver who killed my daughter.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Romney. ‘I read the incident reports too. I’m not too sympathetic for them. I said I’d be candid with you: I could obtain a search warrant and have your home taken apart. I could get our own experts in here and have them work out how the mirror that’s been installed across the road on the lamp-post – something that obviously serves no pulling-out-into-traffic purpose because you can’t park on the property at the front of these places – could be used with a projector to create a ghostly spectre. We could ask about your skills and experience at your work. We could take away your computer and look into your Internet browsing history. These are all just for starters, Mr Webb. But it’s my belief that you have had enough grief and suffering over the tragic loss of your daughter. I don’t think that you really need any more.’

  Behind the lenses of his glasses, Mr Webb’s eyes began to swim. His bottom lip quivered. He sniffed hard, swallowed again and said, ‘I will not stop suffering for that loss. Not ever. It would help if the culprit could be found. I hate to think of whoever it is driving around thinking that they’ve got away with it. But nothing will ever be able to bring my beautiful little girl back to me.’

  ‘I know. Now take a moment to think about how some other poor sod of a parent might feel if their young offspring, driving too fast like we all have at one time or another, died as a result of some misguided light show designed to teach them a lesson. It wouldn’t be the parent’s fault. Would you wish your life-time of suffering on them?’

  Mr Webb looked at the carpet and shook his head.

  Romney said, ‘I’m glad to know that.’ He breathed in and out heavily and audibly as though making a decision on the spot. ‘At the moment, I have no proof of anything. If I did, I’d be obliged to make an arrest. I want to believe, no, I need to be absolutely positive that there will not be another incident on this road attributed to a sighting of the ghost of a young girl. I don’t want to be lying awake at night waiting for a call from the station. Do I make myself clear?’

  Mr Webb nodded.

  ‘Are you able to give me that assurance, Mr Webb?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man, quietly.

  ‘Good, again,’ said Romney. ‘Please know this: I only live down the road. I drive past here twice a day, at least. I don’t want to see that mirror on the la
mp-post next time I come this way. And I shall be leaving word at the station that I’m to be notified the moment they should receive another report of a similar incident out here. The first thing you’ll know about it is when the police are battering down your door. Have I made myself perfectly clear?’

  Mr Webb met Romney’s stare and said, ‘You have, Detective Inspector Romney. And thank you.’

  Mr Webb saw them out. The door clicked quietly shut behind them as they made their way in the drizzle to the little metal gate. As Romney opened it to let Marsh precede him onto the pavement, he looked up at the bedroom window of the place next door. He nodded at Mr Mitchell before shutting the gate and hurrying to his car.

  Marsh sounded a little bemused when she said, ‘That was different. I’m still not sure why you needed me there.’

  ‘I told you, strength in numbers,’ said Romney. You never know, if I’d turned up all alone he might have been encouraged to go for me with the bread knife, hack me up and put me in the freezer. And who would have known?’

  ‘The nosey old boy at next door’s upstairs window didn’t look like he’d miss much.’

  Romney laughed. ‘You saw my source, then?’

  ‘I bet he wasn’t often first choice when they needed bodies for surveillance work. Do you think he’ll listen to you?’

  ‘I can only hope so.’

  ‘And what if he doesn’t? What if he carries on?’

  Romney pulled out onto the road and drove in search of a place for his necessary u-turn. ‘One: I’ll have to accept the burden of my mistake and hope that no one is seriously injured. Two: I’ll be the one arresting him. Three: remember that we have no proof – certainly nothing that the CPS, which is becoming fussier by the day, is likely to go for – and the only way we’re likely to get it is immediately after it happens. Now he knows I know what he knows, I don’t think there are going to be any more sightings of the ghost girl, do you?’