by Oliver Tidy
Off duty and on a promise, he had been wining and dining a forensic scientist in a local Greek restaurant when three men had entered the place to collect an instalment on their protection racket. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Romney had felt obliged to intervene. A violent conflict of opinion followed that had disastrous consequences for all three men, the owner of the restaurant and his family, and ultimately Romney’s chances of getting the alluring and increasingly provocative Diane Hodge into bed. (To Romney’s chagrin she had moved on to pastures greener and newer in London before giving him the chance to try again.)
The three men had been standing within feet of Romney when parts of them were suddenly, explosively and unceremoniously dispatched to soil the walls, fixtures and fittings of the restaurant’s kitchen, courtesy of the incensed owner’s remarkable handling of a pump-action shotgun. In the ensuing seconds of utter confusion and temporary ringing deafness brought on by the discharges of the weapon in the confined space, Romney had succumbed to his brain’s worst, if unrealised, fears that he’d been fatally wounded. A plastic catering container of plum tomatoes had exploded, covering him in what he assumed was his life-blood, body tissue and vital organs. As he had lain on the floor clutching at the pulped remains of his ‘entrails’, drifting into unconsciousness – the result of a crack to the back of the head received as his legs gave out from under him and his skull collided with the worktop – a bloodied severed ear had come to rest six inches from his face.
It was this ear that regularly plagued his nights. In his dreams the ear grew legs, sprouted pert breasts and danced for him; in a baffling display of physiology, it mouthed words at him, although he could never hear anything it said; it increased in size, inflating until it threatened to smother him. This was usually when Romney woke sweating and panting, gasping for air, like a drowning man, and possibly shouting.
After two weeks of the oft-recurring nightmare, DI Romney went in search of answers and help the only place he thought he could do so in the strictest of professional confidences. Friday afternoons had been determined for the sessions because Doctor Puchta’s secretary knocked off for the weekend Friday lunchtime. Romney would not even risk being identified as a regular visitor.
The recurrence of the ear in disturbing dreams was, Doctor Puchta assured him, a common symbol of some deep-rooted listening-associated anxiety. In dream culture, the ear was long recognised as indicating issues of the dreamer to do with responsiveness and receptiveness. Often, it carried negative associations. It suggested an over-reliance of the individual in question on their own judgment and intuition and their acknowledgement of their insecurity for it. The talking ear that cannot be heard implies a deep subconscious need on the part of the sufferer for guidance and instruction, she had told him. She could offer no interpretation for the ear that grew legs and breasts and danced for his amusement.
Something long and deeply buried in his subconscious, she had theorised. Something that must be chiselled away at and exposed if Romney were to have a chance of understanding and then successfully putting the whole business behind him and moving on. She said that rarely were such emotionally-disturbing issues simply revealed and dealt with. If he wanted her help, he would have to sign up for a six-session programme and after that they would consult as to whether there was the need for more.
From understanding comes enlightenment and ultimately peace, she had said. And he had believed her, such was his desperation for answers. A month on and he was beginning to have his doubts that there was anything to be found. He was feeling better about it all and he felt that this had more to do with the passage of time than anything he’d learned about himself in her consulting room.
She had tried to regress him, failed to hypnotise him and been unable to unearth any dark boyhood secrets or perverted fantasies. For Romney, it had not all been comfortable participation, but it had at times been cathartic to just talk to someone – something he realised he rarely had the opportunity to do. An enema for his mind. Other than that, he was beginning to think that the whole exercise was a waste of time and money, despite the good Doctor insisting that they must persevere at least for the initial six-week consultation programme she had devised for him. But she would say that at the prices she was charging. Maybe she was saving for a pool.
‘How are you feeling this week, Tom?’
‘Fine. Really.’ And then he couldn’t help himself: ‘Or I was until this morning.’
‘Why? What happened this morning?’
*
‘Why does this always have to happen on Friday afternoons?’ said Grimes. ‘I told the kids we’d go bowling tonight in Ashford, Pizza Hut and then Cineworld.’ He shook his head, tutted and waited with the phone to his ear. ‘You can come along if you like, Sarge. The kids actually liked you.’
‘Thanks. I liked them too, but I’ve got something on tonight.’ A fresh ripple of dismay washed through Marsh at the thought of her evening. ‘No luck?’
‘His phone’s off. Where does he go, do you think?’ Grimes looked unusually agitated.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Marsh suspected that Romney had a regular Friday afternoon assignation with a member of the opposite sex, but she would never share something like that with Grimes. ‘We can go and deal with it and you can tell him all about it over your cocoa before bedtime. Come on.’
CID had been notified by uniform of a suspicious death. A neighbour had smelt burning and raised the alarm. The fire crew had smashed the door down and called for an ambulance. The ambulance team had taken one look at the deceased and called the police. The young uniformed constable had taken one look at the victim and thrown up on the carpet. Everyone had been moved out of the way and they were all waiting for the detectives, forensics and the pathologist.
Grimes had taken the call while he was making his way through the apology-muffin that Marsh had left on his desk. Say it with cakes. He was glad he’d been sitting down. He knew one of the occupants of the address given. Not four hours previously he’d tipped a pint of lager into his lap.
*
When they arrived, Marsh and Grimes were concerned to see Superintendent Vine standing on the pavement speaking with two male uniformed officers. She was as tall and imposing as both of them and they were wearing stab vests. As Vine noticed them pull up behind one of the two patrol vehicles in attendance, she checked her watch.
‘Bollocks,’ said Grimes.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Marsh.
They’d tried Romney four more times on their short drive to the address of the suspicious death on Folkestone Road. No answer.
A good crowd of Dover’s unfortunates and undesirables had gathered. But only because they hadn’t had far to walk. They were nearly all men – the out of work, the out of luck, the out of ideas. Nothing better to do than hang around their rooms or the street corners all day waiting for something to happen. There was a good number of the town’s increasing variety of ethnic minorities represented, which told another story of Dover’s emerging demographics.
As the detectives approached, Superintendent Vine turned to face them. She was frowning. It looked like part of an exaggerated act. ‘Where is DI Romney?’
As the senior detective present, Marsh said, ‘He’s not answering his phone, ma’am. Could just be in a reception black spot.’
Vine look unconvinced. Grimes thought Romney might prefer black hole when he got wind of this.
‘Doesn’t he say where he is going when he leaves the station?’
‘Normally, yes, ma’am. We’ll keep trying him.’
Vine stored that away for later.
The building at the centre of all the activity and attention formed part of an architecturally-impressive row of Victorian townhouses and was spread over four floors. Once upon a time these properties, this street, had been affluent and convenient. A short walk from the town centre and with close access to Dover train station. Very middle class.
Today they were all cheap B&Bs
– divided up into squalid bedsits, or budget guest houses – gusset houses, as uniform had christened them.
Bernie Stark called a couple of rooms on the second floor of one of them home. Or he used to. He had no need of a home now. They hadn’t moved him. It was bad. The smell was the worst thing – the overpowering stench of burnt flesh, singed hair and smouldering, old, dirty fabric. Marsh put a handkerchief to her face and thought again of their DI and wondered where the hell he was.
What was left of the corpse was sitting in a wing chair in what must have been his front room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchen. Everything was there that he’d need for daily life – a compact living space for a foldaway existence. A small doorway led off to the bathroom.
The fire had been quite localised and suggested the involvement of an accelerant that had burned itself out with nowhere to go. A half-empty bottle of good Scotch lay on its side nearby with a dirty glass. The fire crews in attendance said the blaze had gone out on its own, which was both odd and fortunate.
One look at the deceased and Grimes had his worst fears realised. Until that point there was always a chance – about one in a million – that the dead body would not turn out to be a man who witnesses could attest had been enjoying a lunchtime drink with a member of the local CID, a man that Grimes really shouldn’t have been within a mile of.
Bernie Stark was burned almost beyond recognition. He was no longer the greyest man that Grimes had ever seen. What skin there was left on his face was charred a rich black. His hair, his beard, his eyebrows all gone. Frizzled to nothing. If he’d had his teeth in they would have been exposed in death’s grin because Bernie Stark had no lips left. Or nose. Or eyelids or eyes. Or ears. It was only his shoes and trousers – beer-stained – that Grimes really recognised. That and he was about the right size.
‘Jesus, can’t we open a window?’ said Grimes.
‘Not ‘til SOCO have checked them,’ said a voice behind them. Superintendent Vine entered the room. The expression on her face indicated that this was her first look at the dead man. ‘Fire team think that he probably inadvertently set himself alight while drinking and smoking.’
Marsh thought: why would he just sit there and allow himself to burn to death then? Why not jump up and run to the sink or roll around or try to smother the flames with something? But she kept her mouth shut. She nodded and tried to look deep in intelligent thought.
Grimes was thinking of himself. He was thinking that he was going to be in the shit when it came out that he’d been with Bernie very recently. He didn’t think that now was a good time to share that information.
The sounds of Maurice Wendell and the SOCO team arriving and making their noisy way up the stairs spared the officers further awkward exchanges.
Wendell was first into the room. Before he could say or do anything Superintendent Vine was in front of him.
‘You must be Bob Falkner’s replacement,’ said Wendell looking up at her from his less than average height. He offered his hand.
‘Superintendent Vine.’ The handshake was made. ‘You are?’
‘Wendell. Pathologist.’
‘Good. Pleased to meet you.’ She turned and said to Marsh, ‘As soon as you locate DI Romney, please ask him to give me a call.’ With a smart, ‘Mr Wendell’ she left.
‘She seems all right,’ said Maurice, when Vine had retreated. Neither Marsh nor Grimes took up the thread. ‘Oh, dear. Like that is it? Where’s Tom?’ Neither Marsh nor Grimes took up the thread. ‘Oh, dear. Like that is it? I might as well talk to him,’ he said, indicating the dead man. ‘Got a name?’
‘Bernie Stark,’ said Grimes. ‘I think.’
Marsh shot him a questioning look.
‘Right, well if you two will excuse us, I need to get better acquainted with the unfortunate gentleman.’
Marsh and Grimes made way and as SOCO and Wendell were talking, Marsh said, ‘You know him then?’
Grimes looked furtively around them before saying, ‘We need to have a quiet word, Sarge. Somewhere private.’
*
‘How did we end up talking about my mother?’
‘Because that’s where we’ve been heading ever since you walked in the door asking me for help and that’s where everything usually starts.’
‘Everything?’ What do you mean everything?’
‘Men’s problems with the opposite sex.’
‘I don’t have a problem with the opposite sex. I hope you’re not going to suggest I could be queer.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying, Tom. I suspect strongly that we’ve been building up to this ever since you started coming to see me.’
‘Why didn’t you say something earlier? Could have saved me some time and money.’
‘I wanted you to get there in your own time. It’s important for you to be ready to discuss something like this. Properly. Very important. It’s hard to admit that you might have feelings of intense dislike towards your own mother, isn’t it?’
‘Hate my own mother. What are you talking about?’
‘I don’t mean what you think I mean.’
‘How do you know what I think you mean?’
‘Stop stalling and listen to me. Carefully. Of course you love her. She’s your mother. But you must recognise your resentment of her regarding aspects of your upbringing. You have to identify and admit to it before you can deal with it. You have to acknowledge your feelings of negativity, otherwise they will, as they have in my opinion, come to define you.’
‘You know my mum’s dead?’
‘No. You didn’t mention it.’
‘You never asked?’
‘How do you feel about her being dead, Tom?’
‘How do I feel about my own mother being dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Of course.’
‘Relieved.’
Doctor Puchta smiled. ‘Good. Well done. Now I can start to help you.’
As Romney sat in the comfortable leather chair he felt a weight lifted from him. A feeling that he might have experienced if someone had removed a rather heavy woollen blanket from his shoulders. And then a troubled frown settled on his features.
‘What is it?’
‘Where does the big dancing ear fit into all of this?’
*
‘What is it?’ said Marsh. The look Grimes had given her in the house had released something unpleasant in her gut. By the time she and Grimes were standing by the car they’d arrived in she was decidedly anxious. Thankfully, there was no sign of Superintendent Vine. Irritatingly, there was still no answer from Romney.
‘I know Bernie Stark,’ said Grimes.
Marsh rolled her eyes and let out a breath. ‘I guessed that. I thought it was something important.’
‘It is. Lunchtime today I was having a drink with him in The Eight Bells.’
‘You what?’ And the unpleasantness in her gut resumed and was intensified.
***
5
Romney stepped out of the grand old building in New Bridge where Dr Puchta had her practice and into a fine Dover afternoon. Ignoring his car, he walked the short distance between the equally impressive and well-maintained buildings of this part of town that so put him in mind of the posh residential streets of popular London boroughs to the nearby Waterloo Crescent and the seafront beyond. He sat on an empty bench, on a largely-deserted promenade and took a couple of deep lungfuls of salty Channel air. He shook free a cigarette, lit it and reflected.
Staring out over the calmed waters of the pond of sea protected by the embracing concrete arms of the port’s breakwater, he considered the essence of Dr Puchta’s theory. Bombshell, more like. And for the first time in his life, because it had been so eloquently, convincingly and forcefully put from a respected and learned source, he had to face up to the possibility that she was on to something. Was he really a closet misogynist? A woman-hater in denial? It would certainly explain a lot. It would explain why he was unable to susta
in relationships, for a start. Then he wondered whether it went deeper than that – why stop at misogyny? Perhaps misogyny was simply the tip of the iceberg. He didn’t really have any male friends. Usually, with a barely concealed contempt, he could tolerate people only for short periods of time unless they were job. He didn’t like most of those who strayed into his orbit. He viewed humanity on the whole with a detached disdain. People bored him. He wondered if it should be such a revelation for him. Then he wondered whether it mattered. Then he thought to turn his phone on. It rang almost immediately.
‘Gov?’
‘Yes. What is it?’ Romney stifled a yawn and thought about going for a coffee.
‘Thank God for that. Where are you?’
‘None of your business. What’s up? You sound strange.’
‘Bernie Stark’s dead.’
‘What?’ Romney sat up.
‘We’re just leaving the scene.’
‘Who’s we? How? Where? Suspicious? Come on, spit it out.’
‘At his home. Burned alive, it looks like. Could be an accident. Superintendent Vine was here. Asking after you, gov. Joy said you were probably in a reception black spot.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘That’s what we said.’
‘Is Joy there?’
‘Yeah. You want to speak to her?’
‘Put her on.’
A short delay.
‘Sir?’
‘Is he winding me up?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘You two still there?’
