Unhappy Families

by Oliver Tidy

  Joy pulled up short of the entrance to Victoria Park, got out and approached Mrs Christie’s on foot. In her right hand she gripped her new Maglite torch. She wasn’t intending to use it to light her way.

  Marsh took up a position in the shadows of the recess into which the large front door was set – where Mrs Christie said the intruder always exited the building. As she waited for her support she heard a banging coming from inside, like someone stamping on a wooden floor. Her adrenalin bubbled in her veins.

  Marsh looked up at the sound of a vehicle crawling along the far end of the street towards her position. She could make out from its silhouette that it was a police car. It stopped. Two large dark shapes got out and started to make their way towards her. She ducked down and scuttled along behind the parked cars to intercept them.

  After identifying herself she explained that she expected the intruder to come out of the front door and they should plan for that.

  At the opposite end of the street, the end that she had parked at, another police car quietly rolled to a halt. Another two officers got out. Marsh used the radio of one of the uniforms to send them around to the back of the property.

  When she felt the situation was secured, the thought occurred to her that the intruder wouldn’t leave until Mrs Christie came downstairs to confront him.

  Having seen what the front door was made of and its proportions, she knew they wouldn’t be getting in quickly without a key or a tank.

  Marsh made a decision. She called the mobile phone she’d given to Mrs Christie and had to hope that it wouldn’t be heard downstairs. Over the continuing banging, she doubted it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Helen, it’s Joy. We’re outside. I need you to flush him out for us. We can’t get in without breaking windows and I don’t want to lose the element of surprise. He could turn violent. Can you come downstairs and show yourself to him? If he leaves like the other times we’ve got him. If there’s any change, if you feel he’s going to attack you, start screaming.’

  Mrs Chrisite said, ‘Why don’t I just open the front door for you? It’s on my way.’

  Marsh was glad the phone was not on loudspeaker function. She said, ‘If you can, that would be better.’

  Mrs Christie didn’t answer and the line went dead. Marsh explained to the two officers waiting with her what should happen and that the moment the door was open it was all theirs. They strained their hearing for signs of anything. Apart from the continuous banging there was nothing.

  The door opened. There were no lights on in the house. No welcoming glow spilled out onto the cold, damp flagstones. Mrs Christie gasped and moved aside as the police hurried in.

  A high-pitched scream suggested someone had suffered a fright. Marsh hurried through to the room where the intruder had been surprised. She could just make out a darkly dressed, fat body squirming under the weight of the two uniformed police officers and breathed a sigh of utter relief.

  Mrs Christie turned the lights on. One of the officers removed the balaclava to reveal the face of a frightened-looking, spotty youth. With his hands secured and a constable on each arm, Marsh stepped forward, resisted the strong urge to smash him in his privates with her torch, and arrested him.

  When the formalities were observed, she said, ‘Who put you up to it?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a friend of the family.’

  Marsh turned to Mrs Christie, ‘Do you know him, Helen?’

  Mrs Christie peered at the face and shook her head.

  Marsh said, ‘No matter. We’ll soon find out who he is.’ She nodded at the uniformed officers and the young man was led away.

  Over his shoulder, he called back, ‘You’re making a big mistake.’

  In a hurry to get back to the station and interrogate the intruder, Marsh asked one of the female officers in attendance to make a cup of tea for Mrs Christie and not leave her until she was sure she was settled.

  Marsh took Mrs Christie to one side. ‘You did brilliantly, Helen,’ she said with genuine warmth. ‘We’ve got him and you won’t ever be bothered by him again.’

  ‘I wasn’t scared,’ said Mrs Christie. ‘I was never scared of him.’

  ‘Good,’ said Marsh. ‘I’ve got to go and process him. I’ll be back tomorrow. Hopefully with some answers for you.’

  *

  By the time Marsh got to the station the young man had been relieved of all his possessions and locked up awaiting his legal representation.

  ‘Did he make a phone call?’ said Marsh.

  The custody officer said, ‘Yeah. We had to give him the number off his mobile. It wasn’t a lawyer, I’m pretty sure of that. Is it important, then?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Marsh.

  ‘In that case,’ said the man, ‘it was written down for him and when he’d finished his call he threw the paper in that wastebasket, if I remember rightly.’

  Marsh thanked the man and tipped the basket out on the floor. She retrieved the scrunched up slip of paper and put the rest of the rubbish back.

  She went up to CID, put on some lights, settled herself at her desk and dialled the mobile number. Mrs Christie’s son answered on the third ring. She hung up as he was demanding to know who was calling.

  Joy went downstairs to the custody suite. She asked to speak with the young man they’d brought in. The duty sergeant sent a uniformed constable along with her.

  The heavy metal door swung open to reveal the youth sitting, sullen-faced on the plastic bench.

  ‘I don’t have to talk to you without my solicitor present,’ he said, not getting up.

  Marsh turned to the constable and spoke quietly to her. The constable moved out of sight. Marsh stepped into the cell and pulled the door almost shut behind her. The youth sat up a little straighter.

  Marsh said, ‘Bad news for you, I’m afraid. A Mr Christie called and said he’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want to be involved. We’re just waiting on the duty solicitor. He won’t be around till the morning, now.’

  The use of Mr Christie’s name brought some colour into the youth’s cheeks and some confusion into his eyes. He said, ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Marsh shrugged. ‘What you believe doesn’t change things, Norman. What’s up? Don’t want to spend the night in five star luxury?’

  Norman Price said, ‘I’ve got work in the morning.’

  ‘Not now you haven’t.’

  ‘I’m on a final warning. I’ll lose my job.’

  Marsh shrugged.

  ‘She won’t press charges. This is a waste of time.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ said Marsh.

  Norman Price didn’t answer.

  ‘I could try to speed things up if you want to cooperate.’

  Norman Price sneered. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Nothing you say to me would be admissible anywhere. I shouldn’t even be talking to you on my own. I could get into trouble for this.’

  ‘So why are you then?’

  ‘I’m curious, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What’s the point? What’s it all about?’

  Norman Price looked at Marsh for a long moment. ‘I know enough about the law to know you couldn’t use anything I say in here.’

  ‘Like I told you, Norman. I’m just interested. Save us both some time, eh? It’ll all come out sooner or later anyway.’

  ‘And you could speed things up for me?’

  Marsh nodded.

  ‘He just wants her out of the house.’

  ‘Who? Mr Christie?’

  The youth nodded.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why d’you think? It’s worth a fortune.’

  ‘And your job was to frighten her out of it?’

  The youth shook his head and snorted. ‘She wasn’t the scaring type, if you know what I mean. The idea was just get her to become enough of a nuisance to the authorities so he could get her sectioned or moved out so
me place else. For her own safety, of course. No one was ever going to hurt her.’

  ‘So, what – you have a key?’

  ‘Yeah. He gave me one. Told me to let myself in, open a window somewhere to make it look like something else, make a noise and when she comes down to investigate clear off. She’s only supposed to have one phone and that’s downstairs.’

  ‘Well, she got a mobile from somewhere and called us.’

  Marsh checked her wristwatch. She’d been in there long enough as it was.

  ‘Now, what about it? You gonna help me out?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Norman.’ As Marsh got to the door she turned back to him and said, ‘Why do you say that she won’t prefer charges?’

  ‘Because Mr Christie’s name is on the title deeds of the property. He’s given me his permission and a key to be in there.’

  Marsh nodded her understanding that they wouldn’t get a sniff of a conviction with Norman Price. She said, ‘What’s he paying you to destroy the life of that defenceless old woman: his mother?’

  Norman Price just smiled back.

  She let herself out and the constable locked the door behind her.

  As they walked back into the custody suite they saw that the legal counsel Mr Christie had organised for Norman Price had turned up. Joy didn’t think that Norman would let on what he’d told her.

  Joy checked the time again and then took a chance and phoned Mrs Christie. She answered the mobile.

  ‘As you’re still awake, Helen, could I come round and have a talk with you?’

  Mrs Christie said she was wide awake and that she’d put the kettle on.

  *

  Marsh explained the cold, hard truth of things to the old woman, who listened attentively throughout without obvious reaction. Marsh then explained what Norman Price had said about not being charged with anything because Mrs Christie’s son had given him permission to be there.

  Marsh said, ‘Is your son’s name on the title deeds, Helen?’

  Mrs Christie indicated that it was with a slow nod of her head. ‘It’s to help avoid death duties, he told me.’

  Marsh was unsure of the reliability of that. She said, ‘At least we’ve rumbled his scheme, Helen. They can’t continue with it, now.’

  Mrs Christie looked quite forlorn in her nightgown, perched on the old chair at the kitchen table.

  Marsh had an idea. ‘The intruder said he had a key. That’s how he got in. When he was in, he opened a window before making his noise so that it would look like you’d left it open or opened it to make it look like someone had gained entry. You could always just change the locks on the front door and keep all the keys, or fit security bolts that can only be worked from the inside. That way no one could get in without your knowledge.’

  Mrs Christie nodded but said nothing. Her focus was still on the quarry-tiled floor.

  Eventually, she said, ‘Would you like your telephone back, Joy?’

  ‘No, Helen. I want you to keep it. Keep it charged and by your bed. I’ll be in touch from time to time and if the credit needs topping up I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Credit?’ said Mrs Christie.

  ‘Never mind. It’s not important.’

  Marsh finished her tea and Mrs Christie saw her off the premises. Marsh waited to hear the key turn in the lock before pulling up her coat collar and walking back to where she’d left her car.

  ***

  57

  It was two weeks to the day since Sammy Coker had failed to be buried. He was properly in the ground now. Horizontally laid to rest. A proud mound of Dover’s chalky soil parodied the dead man’s rotund girth. The site had been cleared of everything but a few remaining dishevelled and discoloured arrangements of flowers around his grave. Romney thought that as a monument to an expired life it looked a little dismal.

  It was also only two weeks since Romney had been in his funeral suit. When he’d gratefully taken it off after Sammy Coker’s funeral he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to put it back on again soon, certainly not until he’d had a chance to lose a little more weight. Because of the mud-spattered and rain-soaked state it had been in after that day, he’d had it professionally cleaned. And then he’d forgotten all about it until the previous day when, with a panicked realisation, he’d hurried to the town’s dry cleaners, making it with only minutes to spare. From the moment he’d put it back on that morning he’d understood that either it had shrunk a little in the cleaning process or he’d put some weight back on. But it was too late to do anything about that then. And without another suit dark enough to switch to, he’d been lumbered with it. It had not put him in the best of humours.

  For a fortnight further into winter, the weather should have been worse. Where Sammy Coker had partially gone into the ground to a disharmony of high winds accompanied by torrential rain, Peter Grimes was laid to rest under unseasonably clear blue skies, warm winter sunshine, cool rather than cold temperatures and a light, fresh English Channel breeze. If the occasion hadn’t been the funeral of a popular man, people would have said it was a lovely day for the time of year.

  The funeral had been well-attended and well-choreographed. Grimes had died on duty and Kent police, with no resistance from the family, had organised things to give the policeman a proper and formal send off – a church service and burial with full honours befitting an officer of the law who had died putting himself in danger, doing his duty.

  Family, friends and work colleagues had turned out in high numbers and their best sober clothes to pay their respects to an obviously well-liked man – a testimony to Grimes’ reputation and standing among people from all walks of his life. There was even a contingent from Grimes’ re-enactment society present, all dressed in their spotless period military uniforms, buttons and buckles gleaming, bearing their dummy rifles. And James Peters had interrupted his busy schedule to make a surprise celebrity appearance – something for the photographer/reporter of the Dover Post to home in on.

  The photographer/reporter did not stay long when he saw the look Romney had for him. Wednesday’s edition of the local paper had carried a large picture on the front cover of Romney shaking the hand of the head of Canterbury University’s Parapsychology Faculty along with the headline Dover CID Consult with Local Ghost Hunters in Baffling Case of Temple Ewell’s Ghost Girl Sightings. At least one good thing had come out of all that embarrassment. The recent coverage that the newspaper had given to the ghost girl sightings and the new claimed sightings – all over Dover and District – that they reported to have been inundated with had prompted the terrified-witless and highly superstitious mother of the hit-and-run driver to shop her son over the incident.

  Fower had taken the call. He said that the woman the other end of the phone had come across as hysterical with fear that the ghost girl was scouring Dover in search of the person who’d run her down. She truly believed that it was only a matter of time before she found out where he lived – with his mother – and wrought paranormal vengeance on the household.

  An arrest had been made the following day.

  Because she had not come forward earlier, Romney had not felt inclined to allay the distraught mother’s fears. In fact, he’d manufactured a moment alone with her to let her know that turning in her son would probably not be the end of it as far as the spectre was concerned – she should have said something the moment her suspicions had been raised if she didn’t want trouble from the spirit world.

  Spying Mr Webb’s white van on the road outside his home in Temple Ewell on his way home, Romney had stopped off to bring him what he hoped was news that might contribute towards his healing process.

  Romney had then gone next door to have a cup of tea with Mr Mitchell and to let him know that Grimes was being buried the following day. Mr Mitchell said he’d be there and he was – well turned out. Romney and the retired copper had nodded to each other but not exchanged words.

  Despite the break in the miserable weather that would lift the spirits of mos
t, the mood had been understandably sombre – highly distressing for those close to the big man, taken from them, as everyone agreed, far, far too early.

  Marsh had stood on the opposite side of the grave to Grimes’ wailing widow and sobbing children and been cruelly reminded of a well-meaning remark she’d made to Grimes not so long before where she’d prophesised just such a tableau because of his eating and lifestyle habits. How those words came back to haunt her then. She was glad she had Justin there for support.

  There were quiet tears from some of the men, too.

  Peter Grimes, a larger than life character, much loved and respected by all who knew him, would be sorely missed.

  Soon after the final act of the official proceedings had been completed, the mourners and those who were there because it had been their job to be there began drifting away. The representatives of Kent police brass left for other engagements. On-duty officers of Dover police station, who had been determined to attend regardless of being on their shift, headed back to work. Distant relatives, friends, members of Grimes’ groups of interests, and his close family departed in dribs and drabs for the wake. Numbers gradually dwindled until only Dover CID and a few other stragglers remained.

  Justin, sensing that their presence was perhaps surplus to the moment, nudged James Peters and nodded in the direction of the car park. They mumbled their excuses and headed over to their transport to wait.

  Romney, Marsh, Spicer and Fower – Dover CID at full strength – stood together in quiet contemplation at the graveside.

  Feeling that a few words from him would be appropriate, Romney said, ‘How everyone obviously feels is testimony to the impression that Peter made on all those whose lives he touched. I know I speak for all in Dover CID when I say that Peter’s presence, his sense of fun, his loyalty and reliability, his company, will be greatly missed. I now intend to go and drink to the man’s memory. He will not be forgotten.’

  Romney’s sentiments met with mumblings of approval from his team. They turned and began making their way back to the cars.