A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘Are you still there?’ said her sister.

  Joy turned her back to the room, fighting down tears. She knew that speaking would risk them further and she didn’t want the attention. She managed a strained, ‘Yes.’

  ‘When can you come and see her? They’ve sent her home.’ Her sister sounded irritable, impatient, almost angry, presumably at the lack of her sibling’s emotional response, but there was a good dollop of history in there too.

  Joy and her only sister were not close. Hadn’t been for years. When Joy had announced at a gathering of immediate family that she had been accepted into the police she had seen the shutters come down. Neither her sister nor her brother, both older than her, had made any secret of their bitter disappointment. Her mum hadn’t been exactly overjoyed at the news but she hadn’t disowned her. Given the circumstances surrounding Joy’s father’s death, she didn’t blame them. That was the kind of people she’d been born into. Their world was black and white. The rest of her relatives she couldn’t have cared less about. None of them, apart from her mother, had tried to understand her motives. And even she, it seemed to Joy still, remained unconvinced.

  But Joy was her daughter and for a mother like hers that tie would always be stronger than anything Joy, or the scathing opinions of her siblings and other close relatives, could do to break it. It was the chief reason that Joy still loved her mother, still kept in touch, still visited her, although the visits had been curtailed in recent months owing to her sister and her two kids moving in with their mother after Tracy’s marriage to Darren the waster had broken down. No surprises there.

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘How bad is it? What sort of a question is that? She’s your mother, for God’s sake. She’s had a heart attack. Don’t you want to see her? What’s wrong? Too busy playing cops and robbers, are you?’

  ‘Can I talk to her? Can you put her on?’

  ‘What? Joy, haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? She’s had a fucking heart attack. She’s resting. I don’t know why I bothered. Actually, yes I do. I bothered for her, not for you. Stop thinking about yourself for a change. Think of our mother.’ The connection was broken.

  At least her sister’s aggression had tempered her inclination to shed tears. She stared at her desk and breathed deeply. Why couldn’t this have happened the week before? She’d taken two days holiday and done nothing. Not even visited her mum, she reflected guiltily. And now with Superintendent Vine lighting fires under everyone and reducing the staff, and Romney’s motivational vote of confidence still ringing in her ears, she could hardly put in a request for some time off on compassionate grounds. Shit. Shit. Shit. Still, it was Friday. She’d get up to town tomorrow and surprise everyone. Shit. No she wouldn’t, she was doing something tomorrow. Something important to her for a change. She’d go up on Sunday.

  A shadow fell over her and she looked up to see Grimes smiling down on her.

  ‘You all right, Sarge?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, suddenly very tired.

  ‘You don’t look fine. You look like you’ve been crying.’

  ‘Do me a favour, will you? Take your intentions, good or otherwise, and bother someone else for a bit.’

  Grimes looked like she’d kicked him in the shin. He shrugged and walked back to his own desk. Joy felt a wave of self-loathing swamp her for that unnecessary remark. She opened her mouth to call after him but her phone rang.

  ‘CID. Sergeant Marsh speaking.’

  ‘Joy, it’s Superintendent Vine. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good. Pop up to my office, will you?’

  When she looked up again, Romney was standing at her desk. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said, seeing the redness in her eyes.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Touch of hay fever, that’s all.’

  Unconvinced – it was October after all – he left it. ‘Got a job for you.’

  ‘I’ve just been summoned.’

  That raised an eyebrow. ‘Boudicca?’

  Joy didn’t want to get into nicknames concerning her new boss, so she just nodded.

  ‘Fine. I’ll find someone else.’ Romney moved away, but Joy sensed that he wasn’t happy.

  She stood, collected up her handbag and went to visit the ladies before visiting her ladyship. She looked around for Grimes to apologise, but he’d disappeared. She thought about sending him a text and dismissed that as childish.

  ***

  4

  The air inside The Eight Bells was stale as an old vacuum cleaner bag. It was too early for a drink but Grimes bought two anyway – one for appearances and one for the man he’d come to see. He already had a half-empty pint glass in front of him. Apart from Grimes, Grimes’ quarry, who was sitting with two other local soaks at a table by the window, an elderly couple having coffee and three bar staff, the pub was empty. Hardly surprising; it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  Bernie Stark registered Grimes’ appearance the moment the door protested on its hinges. They made eye contact and the innocuous act left Stark in no doubt that Grimes was there to speak to him. He’d been expecting someone from Dover CID. Might as well get it over with and get that pint off him while it was still cold.

  Stark excused himself from his drinking pals and carried his drink over to where Grimes had made himself comfortable in a secluded recess.

  Stark sat without being invited. ‘MisterGrimes. Itakesityou’rewantingtospeaktome?’

  Shit, thought Grimes. Bernie Stark didn’t have his teeth in. He was going to have to pay particularly close attention and that would mean watching the man’s mouth. What he could see of it. That prospect alone just added to the unpleasantness of having to pass the time of day with, and be nice to, this loser of a piss artist. A thick, wiry, covering of unchecked facial hair, Bernie’s south country drawl and his unusual way of speaking in rushed, unbroken sentences, would make interpretation of whatever he was moved to say problematic at best. Still, at least he’d found him before he’d had a few and was slurring.

  ‘Why would you think that, Bernie?’

  Stark exuded a confidence that disturbed Grimes. He shrugged, made to stand and mumbled, ‘Haveityourway. Ifinyou’renotheretotalktome, Igetbacktomymates.’

  ‘Sit down and stop pissing about, Bernie. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Snotveryniceisit?’ he said, but he sat. He took a good slurp of his pint. The hair around his mouth got a good soaking, like the seaweed around the opening of an outfall when the tide sloshed in.

  If Grimes hadn’t known that Bernie Stark was in his sixties, he would have guessed seventies. He was a worn out and wrinkled little man. Too much grey: hair, beard, thick eyebrows, all grey; grey skin, grey eyes, even his stained crew-neck sweatshirt and his grubby trousers were grey. He could have just had a bag of cement emptied over him. He could have been a ghost. The only bit of colour about him was the end of his drinker’s nose, the broken veins in his eyes and the nicotine stains in his beard. Nice.

  ‘Why the change of heart?’ said Grimes.

  Either Bernie Stark had the good sense not to play games or he wasn’t as worried about having the police call on him in public as he might have been. ‘ThinkImightamadeamistake. Thatsall.’

  ‘Three years on? Pull the other one.’

  ‘Ishouldntbetalkingyouanyhow. Moretothepointyoushouldntbetalkingtome.’

  ‘I’ve just come in for a quiet pint, Bernie. You’re the one who came to sit with me.’

  It was a measure of how much Bernie Stark wanted that spare pint that he didn’t get up and walk away.

  ‘I’m waiting, Bernie.’

  ‘Toldyou. Madeamistake. Cantlivewithmyselfforit. Gottadosomethingputitright.’

  Grimes remained unconvinced. ‘Someone bothering you, Bernie? Someone threatening you? We can take care of that.’

  Stark gave his horrible idea of what a laugh should sound like and then collapsed into a fit of coughing. Grimes waited and sipped his drink whil
e Bernie got himself under control and took another gulp of his cough medicine.

  ‘Perjuring yourself in a court of law is a serious offence, Bernie. Always carries a custodial sentence. No booze inside. Never a drop.’

  Bernie didn’t like that. ‘YouthreateningmeMisterGrimes? Jimmysboygoingtobeveryinterestedinthat.’

  ‘Course I’m not threatening you, Bernie. Just a word to the wise, that’s all. Here, no hard feelings, eh? This is for you.’ Grimes set the pint down on the table in front of Stark.

  ‘TheysayyoukilledamanMisterGrimes. Copper.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Commonknowledge.’

  ‘What about the others? Are they common knowledge too, Bernie?’

  ‘Whatothers?’ Bernie showed his first signs of uncertainty.

  ‘Ask around, Bernie. I’m sure someone knows. The police can get away with murder.’

  Grimes stood quickly, nudging the table and sending the drink toppling into Bernie Stark’s lap. He didn’t apologise and he didn’t look back.

  As Stark fired off a volley of incomprehensible expletives, Grimes walked out and took a deep lungful of fresh Dover air. Bernie Stark didn’t smell too good. And Grimes had got what he came for: a name.

  Grimes crossed the pedestrianised Cannon Street and slipped down the narrow passageway that ran alongside St Mary the Virgin church to where he’d left his car opposite the Roman Quay. As he regained his vehicle a big, black and shiny Range Rover with tinted windows swept too fast around the corner from the direction of Stembrook. It shot past him in a low gear and braked to a hard stop in the disabled parking bays by the church. Four young men got out and quickly followed the route he’d just taken. Grimes didn’t see much disabled about any of them.

  Normally, he would have left it; he was CID and that was a uniform job. But he didn’t like flash young men driving cars that cost more than he’d paid for his house thumbing their noses at society. He called it in and asked if there was anyone local who could give them a ticket. Feeling better, he drove back to the station.

  *

  ‘Sit down, Joy.’ Superintendent Vine had dropped the sacking cloak of the warrior she’d been wearing downstairs and replaced it with something softer. Something furry. It made Marsh instantly wary. ‘You’re quite new here, aren’t you?’

  ‘Almost a year, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ve been looking at your file.’ In response to Marsh’s look of concern, she said, ‘I’m looking at the files of all CID officers. You were at Gravesend before here.’

  It wasn’t a question but Marsh felt she should say something. ‘Yes, ma’am. I was a DC there for two years.’

  ‘Who was your DCI there?’

  ‘DCI Hellewell, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, I remember him.’ It didn’t sound like a fond memory. ‘So how have you ended up in Dover?’

  ‘When I made sergeant I was offered this posting.’

  ‘Offered? Was it a Hobson’s type of offer?’ Vine was smiling. Marsh was reminded of a big spiteful ginger cat of her youth.

  ‘I was strongly encouraged to consider it, ma’am. Besides, I fancied a change. I’d worked out of Thames Way since I was a probationer. I liked the idea of going somewhere I didn’t have a reputation for making the tea.’ Marsh surprised herself with that.

  ‘I fully understand, Joy. Despite what the powers that be would like us all to believe, within the rank and file it’s still very much a macho man’s type of job. It’s not easy for us to claw our way out of that primitive way of thinking. We have to stick together and look out for each other.’ Marsh did not like the implications that sprung unbidden to her mind for that. But a little of her senior officer’s friendly behaviour was explained. Vine reclined and looked sternly at Marsh. ‘Are you ambitious, Joy? Do you want more than this? Do you want rank and respect?’ That was unexpected.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I would like to be the best detective that I can. Maybe one day specialise in something in London.’ Marsh’s response seemed to please Superintendent Vine, much as Marsh felt Boudicca would have been pleased by the arrival of an informer with good contacts among the Romans.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I haven’t thought that far ahead yet, ma’am. For the moment I’m concentrating on my work here. I have a lot to learn.’ That sounded nice and humble.

  ‘Quite right. Good attitude, Joy. There is much work to be done here.’ Was there a cryptic message in there? And now Vine was on her elbows, leaning forward and staring intently. ‘I need someone who I can trust in CID, Joy. I can’t be everywhere. Help me and I can certainly help you with your professional aspirations when the time comes. In case you are still in any doubt after this morning’s meeting, I have grave concerns regarding the way CID has been allowed to run and changes need to be made. Make myself clear?’

  Marsh nodded and said, ‘Perfectly, ma’am,’ although she didn’t want to believe what she felt sure had just been suggested to and asked of her.

  The intercom buzzed. An appointment had arrived.

  ‘That’ll be all for now, Joy. We’ll talk more later.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Marsh stood and hurried out. She walked confidently through the outer office and down the flight of stairs to the CID corridor. She went back to the toilets, locked herself in one of the cubicles, sat down and put her head in her hands.

  Boudicca wanted a snitch and she’d been chosen. Because she was a woman. The carrot had been dangled and there was little doubt about whose head the new station chief wanted on a spike over the front gate. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  *

  When Joy came back from the early lunch she’d decided to take, Grimes was sitting in with Romney. They were talking earnestly with the door shut. It was an unusual sight. She wondered whether they were talking about her. Were they in there drawing lines? Forming plans? She shook her head. Stupid paranoid cow.

  Her sister hadn’t answered her mobile on any of the three times she’d rung it. Stupid childish cow. Tracy wouldn’t be able to comprehend her position, her dilemma, even if Marsh drew her pictures. Other than her kids, she’d never gone in for duty and even that most grave of responsibilities she’d largely shirked.

  Joy experienced a fresh wave of guilt and sorrow. Poor old mum. How bad was it? She’d drive up after work. Take the flak.

  *

  Tom Romney wasn’t going to alter his plans for the afternoon just because Boudicca was tearing around on her chariot putting the wind up everyone. He put his time in at work. The public got their money’s worth out of him. Besides, he’d paid up front for it. Rescheduling, he had been given to understand, would be both inconvenient and potentially harmful. He believed the first and doubted the second for a scare tactic. They must have their illusions.

  Four sessions behind him, another two to go. After that they’d agreed they’d talk again about the best way forward for him. If indeed there should be a clear path. As a private patient, he didn’t have the luxury of the NHS to supplement his indulgence and he was beginning to wonder whether the money would have been better spent on paving slabs.

  ‘Hello again, Tom. Come in. Welcome. Chair or couch this week?’ Doctor Puchta managed a barely suppressed smirk.

  ‘When have I ever consented to the couch?’

  ‘Just asking, Tom. Just asking.’

  Romney hung his coat on the rack and took the seat he’d taken on his four previous visits to the psychiatrist. In his reasoning, to take the couch would be to make his attendance more real, more serious, more clinical. Sitting in the chair chatting for half an hour felt none of those things.

  Doctor Puchta came around from behind her desk to sit almost opposite him. She had neither pen and pad nor electronic device poised for any kind of recording. That was the way they had agreed to proceed. That was the way Romney wanted it – unofficial and casual. Nothing on record.

  Although Romney had not wanted to spend time exploring his preference for this condition of their ‘sessions’ – a term with implic
ations that he chose to shy away from – Dr Puchta sensed strongly that it was something to do with his state of denial regarding what they were exploring.

  Despite his initiation of the programme of introspection and his insistence that he would like to spend some time trying to get to know himself better, Romney had proved, at times, to be an extremely sceptical ‘client’, almost to the point of being uncooperative. But slowly Dr Puchta had encouraged him out of his mental shell and Romney would have to admit that just occasionally the experience of trying to understand his feelings and perspectives better had not been unpleasant, possibly even therapeutic, if, sadly, not yet useful.

  Romney had first met Doctor Puchta during his investigation into the murder of Edy Vitriol, a local man with a big, noisy skeleton rattling around his wardrobe. It transpired that the doctor had been treating Vitriol, courtesy of the NHS, long enough to have bought a small terraced house in a fashionable part of the town with her fees if she had so wished. However, with homes in both River and the south of France, she had not.

  Romney had struck up a comfortable and fortuitous rapport with the lady head-doctor. And so it was with an odd sense of the predetermined that when Romney had felt the overwhelming need to seek out the professional help of someone specialising in mental health, Doctor Puchta’s card had been confronting him from the top drawer of his work desk.

  Romney’s visits were not something he shared with another living soul. That was going to the grave with him. For a start, his ego wouldn’t have permitted it. Secondly, he couldn’t have risked the ridicule, but more importantly, he believed that Kent police would take a rather dim view of the head of Dover CID being treated, to all intents and purposes, as a psychiatric outpatient.

  His idea to consult with a qualified professional to see if he could benefit from a programme of analysis had arisen after a particularly dramatic, horrific and gory near-death experience that had left him deeply troubled, emotionally scarred and regularly disturbed by night terrors. With Grimes now staying with him, he could only hope that the shouting he experienced in his dreams wasn’t something he was actually doing out loud in his sleep. He couldn’t imagine the big man being able to keep such a rich vein of gossip to himself.