by Oliver Tidy
Mrs Allen was a furious observer. She was demanding to know under whose authority her loved one had been ripped from her final resting place.
A few passers-by and neighbours had gathered in the street to see what all the commotion was about. They stared at the body bag coming through the garden gate as though it might have contained the hurriedly-concealed dead body of a small child. The bemused officer in muddy wellington boots and soiled overalls handed the lot over to Romney with a show of ironic ceremony. Those gathered stopped their talking and looked on with anxious and concerned expressions. One elderly gentleman removed his cap.
Romney accepted the bag and expressed his brief thanks for the local team’s efforts. He went to the back of the car, opened the boot, tossed the bag in and slammed it shut. The driver hadn’t been allowed to turn off the engine. Romney got back in the car and they were off again. They had been there less than five minutes. The small group of bystanders resumed their conversations, the main topic of which was the callous disrespectful manner in which that officer had dealt with the poor soul of a victim. One of them expressed an intention to write to her MP about it.
When they finally pulled up in front of the building next to the police station where the area pathology lab was housed the driver killed the engine and slumped over the wheel, physically and mentally exhausted. He had been at the top of his game for almost an unbroken two hours and he was wrung out. Romney removed the bag from the boot and took the steps to the building’s elevated entrance two at a time.
Maurice was waiting for him in the bowels of the building, prepped and ready to go. He had understood all too clearly the concern in Romney’s phone conversation. At the mention of a possible case of rabies he had taken all precautions available.
Romney was firmly instructed to take himself off somewhere and get a coffee and a smoke. Maurice Wendell didn’t want him under his feet or looking over his shoulder no matter how much of a right he felt to either. As it happened, Romney didn’t need telling twice; he was in dire need of the staples of his life: caffeine and nicotine.
‘Call me as soon as you have news,’ he said, then left.
Blood samples were taken immediately and sent to toxicology for analysis of the threat they carried with bright red priority stickers all over them. With that done, Maurice set about opening up the rigid body of Chloe the shih-tzu.
Back in the harsh sunlight of the early afternoon, Romney saw that the pursuit vehicle was gone. He hadn’t thanked the driver. He’d catch up with him later, buy him a drink. Romney felt a wave of energy-sapping exhaustion wash over him and he’d only been a passenger. But it was more than the white-knuckle ride. He now firmly believed he could have been infected. His hand was hot, still swollen and stiff in the joints. He took a long moment to stare at a nearby shallow puddle to see if it bothered him. When nothing happened, he went around the corner to the little coffee shop to do his waiting. If he were in danger of becoming a foaming basket case scampering around on all fours and howling at the moon he didn’t want to be at work. He bought himself a large black coffee, took a table outside and savoured the drugs he craved as they coursed through and calmed his system.
At the end of the second cigarette, he called Marsh. They’d spoken while he was in transit. He’d remembered that Rachael Sparrow’s husband was coming in to confirm what they all knew and he needed his DS to ask him some questions.
Romney had shared honestly with her the reasons for his dash to Beckenham. She had listened with incredulity and then alarm at what he was doing. She knew that Superintendent Vine was going to take an extremely dim view of Romney using and abusing the company car and manpower paid for with taxpayers’ money, especially as she was on a personal crusade to reduce the station budget. She had to consider briefly whether he might have just pushed his luck too far, especially by making the station chief an unwitting accessory to it all. Bob Falkner would have overlooked it but this was going to be manna from heaven for Superintendent Vine. If Romney hadn’t contracted rabies from Mrs Allen’s dog – and the notion seemed entirely ridiculous to her; a manifestation of a knee-jerk overreaction on the back of Romney putting two and two together and making seven – he might end up wishing he had.
‘Is she still there?’ said Romney.
‘No, sir. A meeting, I think. But she left word that you were to call her as soon as you were back.’
‘Well, I’m not back yet, am I? Where’s Grimes?’
‘Here.’
‘I’m round the corner having a coffee. You want to come and join me?’
It was a rare invitation. Given the circumstances, Marsh felt she should go and offer her DI the support he was probably fishing for. She said she’d be there in five minutes.
*
Marsh noticed three short butts of Romney’s brand of cigarette in the ashtray on the table. Romney saw with a sinking heart that she’d brought Grimes with her. Grimes went in to buy himself and Marsh drinks and probably cakes. Romney declined. Marsh plonked down opposite him. Her side still hurt from her kicking and she was tired. She smiled with what she hoped was a sorry-but-he-asked-me-where-I-was-going-and-he-said-he’d-join-me sort of smile. Romney accepted with a look of resignation. He clearly had bigger worries to contend with.
She saw that the strain was infecting Romney even if the incurable disease was not. She wondered whether to voice her concerns regarding Vine’s likely reaction to Romney’s afternoon antics but decided it was none of her business. Besides, he had to be aware of the trouble he was making for himself and he wouldn’t thank her for dragging it up. Not now. And right now he probably didn’t care.
But she couldn’t avoid completely the subject that was the elephant at the table. ‘If you think the dog had rabies, sir, why don’t you just go and have the course of injections? Be sure.’
‘Who’s got rabies?’ said Grimes behind her.
Marsh made her sorry-I-didn’t-know-he-was-there face. Romney replied with his you-idiot face.
‘I might have,’ said Romney and Grimes burst out laughing. When he realised Romney wasn’t joking, he stopped.
‘Are you serious, gov?’ Romney nodded and drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘How?’ said Grimes.
‘This is not for public consumption, do you understand?’ said Romney looking sternly in Grimes’ direction. Unable to speak because of the large bite of muffin he’d just taken, Grimes nodded vigorously. ‘Saturday. The murder at the Dover Marina Hotel. There was a woman there with a dog. It was frothing at the mouth and it bit me.’ Romney lifted up his injured paw. ‘The dog died yesterday morning.’
‘Of rabies?’ said Grimes.
Romney looked about them. ‘Keep your voice down. I don’t know what it died of and neither does its owner. She found it dead on the bathroom floor in her hotel room.’
‘Did it bite her?’ said Grimes.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’
‘Well if you’re not sure what it died of why don’t you get it and have it looked at?’
‘Where do you think I’ve been all afternoon? Maurice is doing a post-mortem on it now.’
‘Bloody hell! Is he allowed? It’s an animal and if it’s got rabies...’
‘He’s doing it as a favour. To me.’
‘If you’re that worried about it why not just have the injection?’ said Grimes.
‘That’s what I said,’ said Marsh.
Romney became temporarily awkward and then said, ‘I don’t do needles. Anyway, do you know how many injections you have to have to prevent rabies after you’ve been infected? Four. The Internet said nerve-tissue-based vaccinations require multiple painful injections into the abdomen with a large needle. I’m not putting myself through that unless I absolutely, positively have to. I’ve still got a couple of days for an intervention programme if the dog tests positive.’
There was a long moment’s quiet around the table. Marsh couldn’t guess at what Grimes was thinking but she wanted to laugh. She felt a rising hy
steria welling up inside her. And she couldn’t say why. And then she couldn’t oust from her mind images of Peter Grimes and his wife sleeping in the garage like a homeless couple. She tried to mask her face behind the coffee cup but it seemed unnatural to leave it obscuring her features for more than a couple of seconds. She took a big mouthful in a bid to give her mouth something to cope with other than clenching back a smirk.
And then Grimes said: ‘What kind of dog was it?’
The coffee came out her nostrils and her mouth to splatter the table top in a most undignified display. But at least it gave her a chance to camouflage her feelings as she coughed and choked and spluttered and dabbed at her face and clothes. In all the fuss, she wasn’t sure if Romney had replied or not.
‘Did you speak to Mr Sparrow when he came in to identify his wife’s body?’ said Romney when Marsh had cleaned up both herself and the table.
‘He had his children with him. I didn’t feel it was appropriate. They were all still very upset. I made an appointment with him to talk to him tomorrow at his home. He said he’d have the children looked after.’
‘Talking of birds,’ said Grimes, with some seriousness. ‘Did you hear about the pigeon that went to the vet?’
Romney didn’t answer and Marsh couldn’t just ignore him. It was probably easier, she thought, based on experience, to hear him out and get it over with – and it would provide a distraction from the pall of anxiety that hung over the table. ‘No. What happened?’
‘This isn’t a rabies joke, is it?’ said Romney. ‘Cos I’m not in the mood.’
‘No, gov,’ said Grimes, looking appalled at the very idea that he could be so insensitive.
‘I don’t feel so good,’ said the pigeon.
‘Hop up on the bed,’ said the vet.
The vet examined the pigeon but couldn’t find anything wrong. ‘I’ll do some blood tests,’ he said. ‘Come back and see me in a week.’
In a week the pigeon was back on the vet’s window cill. He was still feeling run down.
‘Afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ said the vet, looking uncomfortable. ‘You’re HIV positive.’
‘What?’ said the pigeon. ‘I can’t be. How?’
‘Have you had unprotected sex?’ said the vet.
‘I’ve never had sex,’ said the pigeon.
‘Do you do drugs?’ said the vet. ‘Have you been sharing needles with other birds?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said the pigeon.
‘How about a recent blood transfusion?’
The pigeon shook its head.
‘Are you in a homosexual relationship?’ said the vet.
‘No way. I’m straight as an arrow,’ said the pigeon.
‘Then there’s only one other possible explanation,’ said the vet. ‘One of your parents must have been a carrier.’
Grimes was grinning absurdly. Romney was just staring at him, presumably in bewilderment at his crassness during his hour of torment. Marsh opened her mouth to say something but before she could speak Romney’s phone began dancing and making music on the table in front of them.
***
16
Marsh and Grimes walked the short distance back to the pathology building with Romney. It was on the way to the station, they said. Romney hadn’t asked for company but he hadn’t told them to bugger off either. Maurice was waiting downstairs. His face was grim. And then he smiled broadly.
‘The animal died an unnatural death but it wasn’t rabies, Tom. You’re in the clear.’
Romney blew out a long rancid breath: coffee and fags on an empty stomach. ‘Thank Christ for that,’ he said. ‘And thank you, Maurice. I owe you.’
Marsh believed she would never see such relief on a man’s face again if she lived to be a hundred.
‘So what did it die of?’ said Grimes.
‘Who cares?’ said Romney. ‘It’s what it didn’t die of that matters.’
‘A drug overdose,’ said the pathologist. ‘It had ingested Benzodiazepines, Temazepam to be precise – heavy duty sleeping pills and the dosage had been too much for its system. Probably left lying around by its careless owner. It happens.’
‘Poor mutt,’ said Grimes, looking a little sad.
‘Don’t forget it bit me,’ said Romney.
‘What do you want me to do with it?’ said Maurice.
‘I’ll have to get it back to the owner,’ said Romney. ‘Can you keep it on ice for me till I can arrange it?’
Maurice raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t take too long about it. And it would be best if this remained between us,’ he said. ‘The powers that be would take rather a dim view of this, I’m sure.’
They all understood and nodded.
‘If anyone’s interested, I’m buying tonight,’ said Romney. ‘Dodging the grim reaper at worst and needles at best has put me in a good mood.’
‘Is that the hand that was bitten?’ said Maurice. Romney held up his bandaged fist and it was clear that it was. ‘Looks a bit swollen. Take the wrapping off a minute.’
The smile had curdled on Romney’s face. He removed the bandaging and held it out for Maurice to inspect. The pathologist made a noise in the back of his throat. It was not a noise to encourage optimism. ‘I’d forget about the pub if I were you and get myself along to my local GP. That looks infected.’ He gave it a squeeze that made Romney yelp and a little bit of clear liquid leaked out of the wound. ‘Sooner rather than later,’ said the pathologist, ‘unless you want to risk sepsis.’
Grimes seemed the only one disappointed at having to miss out on a couple of free drinks at their new local. Romney only went back to the station to collect his car. He went straight to Buckland Hospital in the search of a second opinion from a ‘proper doctor’ and anti-biotics.
Marsh went back up to CID to collect her things. There was a message on her desk to call her sister. Her spirits sank.
‘Why don’t you answer your phone? I’ve been trying to ring you since lunchtime,’ said Tracy.
‘Oh crap. Sorry. I should have let you know; I lost my phone on Saturday night. I’m using an old one.’
‘Mum’s taken a turn for the worse. They’ve taken her back in. She could hardly breathe.’
‘Where?’
‘Chase Farm. Where dad died.’
‘I need to go home and get the car and then I’ll drive straight up. Where are you?’
‘Home. I can’t take the girls up there and there’s no one to leave them with.’
‘Will I drop in after I’ve seen her?’
‘Give me a call and we’ll talk about it. I’ve got to go.’ Tracy hung up, leaving Joy feeling angry. And she didn’t know who she was angry at or why.
Joy was fortunate to get a lift from a patrol car as she was walking out of the gate. Home. Quick change. And down to the car park. No car. She looked around but she knew where it should have been. The space was empty. With a sense of crushing realisation, she was forced to accept that whoever had robbed her had found the car keys in her bag along with her address and just walked in and driven it away.
She traipsed back up to her flat and called it in. Then she looked out her sister’s mobile number from her old phone bills.
‘I can’t come up tonight,’ said Joy, when Tracy finally wrestled the phone off her daughter. She explained why.
‘Well, if you can’t make it you can’t make it,’ said her sister, sounding like it was Joy’s fault. ‘I’ll explain to mum when I go up and see her tomorrow after I’ve taken the kids to school. You want me to give her a message?’
‘Tell her I’ll try to find a way to get up soon.’
‘Right. Will do.’ Once again the disconnection was abrupt.
Joy slumped down into her armchair and stared at the wall.
She was still sitting there in the dark when the station called her back to tell her the car had been found crashed and burnt out at St Margaret’s-at-Cliffe. No arrests had been made. Such was her level of desensitisation after some months in th
e town she wasn’t surprised on either count.
Justin had come through for her though. Although busy with work commitments that evening, he promised to drive her up the hospital in Enfield the following evening after work. It seemed the best offer she was likely to get.
***
17
Romney drove to work the next day with the twin serpents of worry and anxiety slithering and writhing over each other in the confinement of his stomach. His intense relief at having been declared free of the threat of rabies had been short-lived and overshadowed by the hospital diagnosis.
After waiting over an hour in A&E he was informed he had an infected wound and that if he wanted to avoid blood poisoning he needed to take a course of antibiotics. That would necessitate staying away from alcohol for the duration of the treatment.
His state of euphoria was further curtailed by a call from Superintendent Vine late in the evening, which he had stupidly answered. Distracted by something he had been listening to on the radio, he had picked up his mobile and accepted the call without looking to see who it was. He’d already avoided two calls from Boudicca by then. When she had finished upbraiding him for not returning her calls he had opened his defence by playing his sympathy card.
‘Sorry, ma’am. I had to turn the phone off. I’ve been in the hospital receiving treatment. Just got in.’ He had actually been home for over two hours but Boudicca wasn’t to know that.
‘Treatment for what?’
‘A dog bite. I’ve nearly got blood poisoning.’
‘One doesn’t nearly get blood poisoning, Inspector. One has it or one does not.’
‘That’s what they said in A&E, ma’am.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? Fascinating as your health issues are, Inspector, I’d rather hear about your afternoon. What exactly have you been up to?’
