by Oliver Tidy
‘Come in,’ said Superintendent Vine. ‘Sit down.’
Grimes sat and suffered as his compressed stomach pushed painfully against his belt. It felt like a barbed wire gastric band. That had been a mistake. But not one he could conceivably do anything about now. He could hardly start fiddling with his trousers in the new super’s office while she sat staring at him across the divide of her desk.
Superintendent Vine looked at him over the top of her glasses and then removed them completely, laid them on top of her paperwork and linked her fingers together. ‘This is a private chat between us. And need go no further than this office. Clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ And contrary to the intended effect of her offer, Grimes was instantly put on his guard.
‘Bernie Stark. Tell me why you sought him out on Friday. Whose idea was it?’
‘It was DI Romney’s idea, ma’am. He told me to have a mooch about town, see if I could find Bernie and ask him why he had changed his mind about Jimmy Savage. Just a friendly chat.’
‘That’s all?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And what happened when you found him?’
‘We had a friendly chat. I’ve known Bernie for years. He’s helped us with a bit of information from time to time.’
‘He was an informant?’
‘Not regular. Let’s say he was a public-spirited member of the community. If he got wind of something he thought might be of interest to us he’d get in touch.’
‘Was he paid for information?’ She scribbled a note on the pad in front of her. So much for a private chat.
‘Not to my knowledge, ma’am. I never paid him and I never heard the DI say he gave him money.’
For reasons she chose not to share, that clearly disappointed her. ‘But you bought him a drink on Friday?’
‘Yes, ma’am. I liked the man. It was just a drink. And like I said, he was public-spirited. Pity there weren’t more like him in the town.’ Grimes wondered if, wherever he was now, Bernie could hear him and if he could whether he would think that Grimes had lost his mind.
Vine looked pleased with Grimes’ willing cooperation. She let him see this and then said, casually, ‘Where was DI Romney for the afternoon?’
‘I believe he was seeing an informant, ma’am – a proper informant. But you’d have to ask him.’ Grimes wondered if she saw through him.
‘I understand you have problems at home.’
That was an unexpected change of direction. ‘Yes, ma’am. But it’s not something I bring to work with me.’
‘I hope not, Detective. But a broken home has its effect on everyone.’
Grimes thought that a strange expression to use. ‘We’re dealing with it, ma’am.’
‘Good. Glad to hear it. Do you have children?’
‘Yes, ma’am, two. One of each.’
‘How are they dealing with things?’
‘We’re all coping, ma’am.’
‘Whatever has happened between you both to bring you to this point, never stop talking to your wife, Detective Grimes, and remember: children always come first. It’s not their fault. They shouldn’t be used as weapons.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. I quite agree. They shouldn’t. I’ll be mindful.’ Grimes had no idea what she was talking about.
‘That’ll be all.’
Grimes thanked her once more and hurried out. The first thing he did when he was in the deserted stairwell was to unbuckle his belt. The relief was something quite special, like emptying a particularly full bladder after being stuck in traffic. And she hadn’t mentioned his weight.
Grimes headed straight back to CID and Romney’s office to let him know she seemed to have accepted all they had agreed on.
***
14
‘That’s good then,’ said Romney, pleased with the distraction from the worries generated by his brush with new medical knowledge. ‘Let me know if she tries again. I’ve changed my mind about something. I want you to have a discreet word in The Eight Bells. See if you can find anyone who saw Bernie leaving on Friday and if they did whether he was with anyone. If it was Billy Savage’s motor parked up outside Bernie’s bedsit because he drove him home from the pub then maybe he can fill in some of the blanks for us.’ Romney smiled unpleasantly. ‘I’d like an excuse for a chat with Billy Savage.’
‘Is that wise, gov?’ said Grimes a little uneasily.
‘Don’t worry about Boudicca; I’ll deal with her. And anyway, now Maurice has stamped it natural causes I can’t see there being any sort of official fuss.’
Grimes left to discover what he could. It was a measure of his loyalty to his DI that he should risk the wrath of Superintendent Vine if he were caught poking around where he’d been told not to. He consoled himself that it was just a couple of harmless questions. It was unlikely she’d ever find out. And there was a nice little delicatessen up the high street. They did a lovely pork pie.
*
DC Harmer delivered Maurice Wendell’s post-mortem report on Bernie Stark to Romney’s office. Romney spent a few minutes studying the contents and learned nothing new. Bernie Stark died from a heart attack. The physical effects of his burning were described but whether they occurred while the man was still alive or post-mortem was impossible to say with any certainty.
Romney picked up his phone and dialled Maurice’s number. They said hello. Maurice asked what he could do for the police. Romney said, ‘I’ve read your report on Bernie Stark.’
‘And?’
‘And now I have the medical facts of the circumstances surrounding his death I’d like a second opinion to go with them.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s possible that Bernie Stark was in the company of men who might not have been best pleased with him over something.’
‘There’s no physical evidence to suggest foul play, Tom. Sorry. Something brought on his heart attack. It could have been anything from being terrorised to the last cigarette that broke the camel’s back. His ticker wasn’t in the best condition. Sooner or later he was going to suffer one.’
‘And the burning?’
‘Like I said, nothing conclusive. The shock of finding himself alight could have triggered the heart attack or he could have suffered the burns immediately afterwards as part of some unfortunate chain reaction of events – spilling a high proof-level spirit into his beard and hair. The result, physically speaking, would be the same. He had a high level of alcohol in his system.’
‘So I saw.’ Romney sighed heavily. ‘Any news on our body from the hotel?’
‘All done. Just got to write it up. Pretty straightforward. Someone smashed her skull in from behind.’
Romney thanked him and hung up. He rang for news of the forensics report. It was not finished. He looked out the contact number Mrs Allen had provided. He was still cross with her for clearing out of the Dover Marina Hotel without a word to the authorities. No answer. He checked his watch, thought about nipping out for a cigarette and decided instead to use the time to have a good read through the file that he’d had sent up that dealt with the case against Jimmy Savage for the murder of John Stafford. It would be both wise and prudent, he told himself, to be quite familiar with everything to do with that.
Thirty minutes later, Romney closed the file and reclined in his chair. He breathed out some relief. He had seen nothing in the file to set him worrying; there was nothing obvious of a procedural nature for the police to reproach themselves over. In fact everything seemed quite uncomplicated. Everything pertinent to the case was there. Everything was as it should be. The only slightly unusual aspect of the whole business had been the length of sentence handed down to Jimmy. Clearly the judge had been in a bad mood. Still, it was nice to see that just now and again the judiciary viewed the manslaughter of one human being by another as deserving a longer custodial sentence than insurance fraud.
Romney chewed his biro and stared vacantly at the far wall until his thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of
his mobile. He heaved out a big breath and answered it.
‘Inspector Romney?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Sandra Allen. I have a missed call from you.’
The report he’d just read and his morning so far had put him in no mood for pleasantries. ‘You left Dover without providing us with your formal statement, Mrs Allen. I distinctly remember you said not to call before eleven yesterday morning. When one of my officers did call, soon after eleven, we were informed you’d already left the hotel.’
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I was upset about something. I’d suffered a bereavement. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘Of course,’ said Romney, softening a little. ‘I understand. The proximity to sudden and violent death of another human being is always going to be a terrible shock.’
‘I’m not talking about her – Chloe passed away on Saturday night.’
Romney was knocked off his mental stride. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. A close relative?’
‘What? Chloe was my dog.’
Romney felt as though every pore in his body had opened simultaneously to release liquid the temperature of thawing ice. The dampness bonded his clothing to his skin in a chilling fusion and froze his hair to his scalp. He became aware of his heart beating in his chest like the erratic, frantic flapping of a broken-winged bird being stalked. The high tide of his lifeblood roared in the depths of his ear canals. His eyes came to rest on his bandaged, bitten hand and he felt it throb beneath his amateurish, indifferent wrapping. He felt a cocktail of anxiety, confusion, agitation, paranoia and terror drown his thinking. And one sentence blazed in the darkness of his mind with the intensity of a distress flare in an English Channel night: the animal from which the bite was received should also be examined for rabies.
‘How did it die, Mrs Allen?’ said Romney, barely suppressing his inclination to shout.
‘Chloe was a she, not an ‘it’, Inspector. I don’t know. I woke up on Sunday morning and she was lying dead on the bathroom floor. I’m afraid it’s really upset me.’
‘What did you do with her? Where is she now?’ Romney’s tone carried more than a hint of alarm and desperation at the sudden thought that the woman might have seen fit to have the creature incinerated at the vet’s. All thoughts apart from three fled: (1) the dog was dead, (2) the dog had bitten him two days before, (3) his hand ached and now he was thinking about it his whole arm felt stiff and his shoulder. ‘Mrs Allen?’
‘Why do you want to know that? Why is that important?’ There was deep suspicion in the woman’s voice now.
‘Mrs Allen. Will you please just answer the question?’ Romney realised he was now closer to shouting than not.
‘I buried her in my garden.’
His relief was palpable. ‘What is your address?’
‘Are you coming for the statement today?’
‘Yes. Are you at home?’ Lying seemed the easiest and quickest way to find out what he needed to know.
‘Yes.’ She read her address out to him. North Kent. It could have been worse. Romney made a decision.
‘Stay there, Mrs Allen. Don’t go out. I’m sending a vehicle with officers immediately. Do you understand?’
‘Am I in some sort of danger?’ she now sounded quite frightened.
‘Possibly. Hold tight.’
Romney was only thinking of himself. He called down to his opposite number in uniform, Inspector Blanchett. There was an emergency. Could he spare a fast car and a good driver? It was potentially a matter of life and death. He didn’t add that it was his life and death.
Superintendent Vine stood at her office window sipping from her mug of green, herbal tea. She looked out over the dismal little compound at the rear of the station. The high brick wall was topped with barbed wire. A rather ironic and depressing reality of modern society – they had to stop people breaking in to the police station now. Beyond that she could see the well-cared-for small patch of lawn that represented the site of a long-gone historic landmark or monument. Next to a bench, on which sat two men, advanced in years, drinking alcohol from cans, there was an information board she felt she should make time to go and read soon.
She became aware of activity below. A uniformed officer jogged out to one of the station’s new pursuit vehicles. The flashing lights began to twirl. The engine was gunned. And then DI Romney was running across the concrete and getting in. The car accelerated away quickly and out of her sight.
Superintendent Vine frowned. She crossed to her desk and put down her hot drink. She checked herself quickly in the mirror and went for a walk down to CID to find out what all the fuss was about.
The police car quickly joined Maison Dieu Road. Traffic was not light. Romney told him to put his sirens on and his foot down. The shaven-headed sergeant at the wheel grinned and seemed only too happy to oblige.
The car ran the light at the junction with Castle Hill Road and they began the steep winding ascent up past Dover’s finest monument, standing proud and sentinel over the town. Neither Romney nor the driver had even a glance for it. They went through the sets of temporary traffic lights that punctuated the recent roadworks without delay or incident, then past the Duke of York Royal Military School and hard into the bend. They were soon leaving traces of rubber at the roundabout at the top of Jubilee Way before moving into top gear to tear up the A2 to Whitfield. With a bit of straight dual carriageway in front of them, Romney could ease off the tension in his legs. He still had things to organise.
He called Maurice Wendell’s office and was told the pathologist was engaged in a procedure and could he phone back at a more convenient time. Romney said that he didn’t care if Maurice was trepanning himself, he needed to speak to him urgently. He said he wouldn’t hold. But he insisted that his call be returned in the next five minutes. If his phone was engaged the pathologist should keep trying.
The squad car made easy work of the busy Whitfield roundabout and they went flying up the rest of the A2 towards Canterbury. Under different circumstances Romney would have been able to admire the driver’s skill and enjoy the buzz as they negotiated the other traffic on the inferior road with a seeming effortlessness at such high speeds. Ordinarily Romney revelled in the high-speed pursuit experience. He saw it as a perk of the job – a licence to thrill. As it was, he was barely aware of any of it as he turned his mind to what must be done and done quickly.
He’d left the station without speaking to anyone other than Inspector Blanchett – the officer who had organised his transport. They would probably be wondering where he was and – if any of them had seen him hurrying out of the station – what the hell was going on. He called Marsh. No answer. He called Grimes. No answer. He called CID. The phone was answered by DC Harmer. He sounded bored.
‘Seen DS Marsh?’ said Romney.
‘No, gov.’
‘When she comes in get her to call me urgently. Got that?’
‘Yes, gov. Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Superintendent Vine would like a word, gov,’ said Harmer.
Romney had opened his mouth with his natural retort to that when the unmistakeable voice of the station matriarch crackled down the line. ‘Good timing, Inspector. I’ve just come down to see what all the fuss is about. Where have you gone off to in such a hurry in one of my new pursuit vehicles? Something to do with our unsolved murder from Saturday, I hope?’
‘Could be, ma’am,’ said Romney. He’d take whatever flak he was due when he’d sorted out his personal problems – maybe saved his own life – assuming that he would still be around to take it. And then a thought occurred to him. ‘I need your help again, ma’am.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have an emergency and if you could flex some connections you could save me a lot of valuable time and trouble.’
‘What is it?’ To Romney, Boudicca sounded cautious but not unwilling – intrigued, perhaps.
Romney explained what he needed doing and where. He was aware of his drive
r taking his eyes off the road to check Romney wasn’t winding him up. Romney jabbed a finger in the direction they were heading.
‘I don’t understand what this can possibly have to do with the murder in the Dover Marina Hotel, Inspector.’ And Romney thought she wasn’t going to come through for him. For one horrible moment he thought she was going to order him to turn around and come back to explain himself.
‘I really need your help, ma’am,’ said Romney. ‘It could literally be a matter of life and death. I can explain when there’s more time but right now I have to ask you to trust me and I need to make some other important calls. Can you help or not?’
Put on the spot, Boudicca huffed down the line but said she’d do her best. She asked after his ETA. He covered the phone and asked the driver. The driver thought about it and gave his best guess, providing there were no traffic issues. Romney relayed this to Boudicca and terminated the call.
Romney breathed out with some relief. His forward thinking was interrupted by his phone ringing.
‘Maurice?’
‘What’s up, Tom? Jane said it was urgent. Has something happened?’
‘I need a favour, Maurice. A big and urgent one.’
‘Go on.’
‘I need you to do a post-mortem for me.’
‘Is that all?’ Maurice sounded disappointed.
Romney shifted in his seat so that he was facing out of the side window. He lowered his voice and, half covering the phone with his bandaged hand, said, ‘On a dog.’
***
15
The next two hours passed without a hitch and therefore, to Romney’s great relief, without delay. The traffic gods smiled on their progress. Boudicca had once again come through for him and he was beginning to appreciate her usefulness and willingness to assist.
By the time the squad car had braked hard to a halt outside Mrs Allen’s semi-detached home in a quiet residential street of North Kent, the body had already been exhumed from its shallow grave. A body bag had been rustled up and the bin liner, containing the now-stiff corpse of the toy dog had been put into it.
