by Oliver Tidy
There was a chilly silence before Boudicca said, ‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know enough yet, ma’am, to be specific and what I do know probably wouldn’t make much sense to you. I need to make some further enquiries to be on the safe side.’
‘Then make them, Inspector Romney. Make them and keep me informed.’ She hung up.
Romney took no encouragement from her tone. He felt that he had only engineered a stay of, if not execution, then something rather unpleasant. Bob Falkner would have been more sympathetic, more understanding.
He carefully cradled the receiver, wondering whether he’d just done something rather clever or something incredibly stupid. He spent the next five minutes going over every aspect of his thinking and how it related chronologically to what he’d just told Boudicca. He could find no obvious glaring flaw and allowed something resembling a satisfied smirk to touch one corner of his mouth. He felt he could argue that the sleeping pill connection was enough to warrant further investigation and an examination of the dead dog and this in turn would deflect some of the attention from the true cause of his outing. The only strand of his reasoning that would need some attention was how he’d known the dog had died of a sleeping pill overdose until it had been examined? He’d worry about that when the time came and if he still had to.
*
Joy left to do as she was told. She checked her watch. It shouldn’t take her long to find out what she’d been asked to and then she’d talk to him about pushing off early. She’d just tell him the truth. She couldn’t imagine he’d say no. She was her mother after all.
At her desk she checked her email inbox while she waited on the phone to speak to Stephanie Lather’s GP. True to his word, Mr Sparrow had forwarded all of the emails that had been exchanged between Stephanie Lather and Rachael Sparrow. Twenty of them dating back over the last month were queued up in Marsh’s inbox.
When she’d finally tracked down Stephanie Lather’s doctor’s practice, spoken to a real person who had proved unsurprisingly uncooperative, she checked the time again, made a decision, got herself a coffee and settled in for some prying.
The emails began with the usual tedious news of daily life. Each mentioned their children a good deal. It soon became clear that Stephanie Lather had no partner. She was looking, but writing and success and her kids were taking up all her time. Half way through her snooping, Joy was getting a feel for the relationship between the sisters. She believed she felt something of the sadness and regret of the wasted years. Stephanie’s ex-husband, or anything to do with their rift, was not mentioned.
There was the odd reference to the upcoming event in Dover. As the date of the book launch neared, details were finalised. Excitements voiced and shared. Joy found the email where Stephanie suggested that Rachael dress in a matching trouser suit and again, as a woman, it puzzled Joy.
In the eighteenth email, a communication sent three days before the event at the Dover Marina Hotel, Joy finally found something to interest her professionally. She couldn’t say why she felt it might be important. It was something different from the rest of their predictable chatter. It concerned someone else and Joy believed it would be something her DI might be interested in looking at. She finished the twentieth to make sure there was nothing else and went in search of him.
‘I’ve finished going through the emails that Mr Sparrow forwarded on to me.’
‘Anything interesting?’ said Romney. He hadn’t taken his eyes off his paperwork.
‘Maybe.’ Now he did. ‘You want to come and see it for yourself?’
He shook his head. ‘Tell me first and I’ll decide whether it’s worth me getting up for.’ He indicated one of the chairs the other side of his desk. Joy sat.
‘It’s all there as the husband said: Stephanie suggesting that Rachael gets the same outfit as her, even offering to pay for it. She said it would be fun. I still find that odd.’
‘Is that it?’ said Romney. ‘I’m glad I decided to stay put.’
‘No, it’s not. Less than a week before the event, Stephanie sent an email to Rachael with something of a personal bombshell in it. Mrs Allen had, apparently, made an attempt to seduce Stephanie in her office.’
Romney raised his eyebrows at that. ‘And?’
‘And nothing. Stephanie, apparently, had turned her down flat. Mrs Allen had become all apologetic and said that there had been a misunderstanding and that seemed to be the end of it. The girls were having a good laugh about it.’
‘Were they, now?’ Romney reclined and with his elbows on his armrests bounced the tips of his fingers together in thought. ‘As a woman and a police detective what are your feelings regarding the relationship between the sisters?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Do you get a sense of genuine sisterly affection or was Stephanie maybe rubbing her sister’s nose in her success? That sort of feeling.’
‘Nothing like that. I didn’t sense a hidden agenda, no nasty undercurrents. Nothing ambiguously spiteful. They come across as how sisters should be with each other.’ As Joy said this she was reminded of the lack of relationship worthy of the name with her own flesh and blood and she felt a dip in spirit.
Romney seemed not to sense it. ‘Any news yet on whether Stephanie was getting regular prescription drugs?’
‘They won’t tell me anything on the phone, of course. I’ve made an appointment to drive up and speak to her GP tomorrow. I’m hoping I can get her to just deny or confirm it without endangering her Hippocratic Oath.’
‘Maybe we can find out quicker than that. Save you a trip.’
‘How?’
‘Boudicca has a soft spot for you; ask her to help out. She actually has her uses. Flatter her a bit. I’m sure she’ll be only too happy to help.’
Marsh raised one eyebrow at him for that but he declined to take it further. Instead he said, ‘Mrs Allen is starting to interest me.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘In a purely professional way. I told you before, I don’t like coincidences. They make me uncomfortable and suspicious.’
‘Are you suggesting she might have had something to do with one of the deaths? Actually she’d have to have been involved in both if she was involved in one and they’d both be murder.’ Marsh was making no attempt to hide her dubious feelings about that idea.
‘Why not?’ said Romney, a little stubbornly.
‘Motive? Opportunity?’
‘Keep an open mind, Sergeant. Remember? If I haven’t encouraged you to do that in your time here, I have failed in my duty as your DI.’ Marsh struggled to remember a time when he’d sounded more ridiculous. ‘Being a good copper is all about revisiting intelligence, taking fresh looks at the evidence. Above all, a good detective develops a nose for when something’s not right,’ he said and with that he turned his attention back to his paperwork either signalling that she should push off or because he didn’t have the nerve to look into her eyes when he was being such a knob.
*
After a quick call to see if Superintendent Vine was in and could give her a minute, Joy made her way up to her office. Her step was heavy with reluctance but she was only doing what she was told. She’d half hoped that the station commander would be out or otherwise engaged. She was neither. Looking up from her desk and spying Joy speaking with her gatekeeper, she called out that Joy should come in and sit down.
As Joy did this Superintendent Vine removed her glasses and arranged a smile for her subordinate. ‘What can I do for you, Joy? No problems in CID?’ she said, almost hopefully it seemed to Marsh.
‘No, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of anyway,’ she added, feeling she needed to cover herself and then feeling cross with herself for it.
A hint of disappointment scudded across the freckled features but the smile remained fixed and encouraging. Vine waited.
‘DI Romney suggested that you might be able to assist CID with something, ma’am.’
‘Did he now? DI Romney seems to
think that rather often.’ Marsh was naturally oblivious to Vine’s references and it showed on her face. ‘What I mean is that Detective Inspector Romney has asked for my help a couple of times already this week. Was he so reliant on my predecessor, I wonder?’
‘I’ve no idea, ma’am.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Stephanie Lather. We need to know whether she was receiving prescription drugs for insomnia. I have tracked down her GP but she is, naturally, reluctant to discuss her patient’s medical history with me. I have an appointment to drive up and see her tomorrow. I’m hoping that she can just confirm whether she was prescribing Temazepam to Stephanie or not. I think I can get her to do that. DI Romney is keen to know sooner rather than later. He said that you’d shown willingness to help and that if you were to make the request I might be saved a journey and he might be saved the wait.’
‘Why did he send you to ask, do you think?’ said Vine.
Marsh was surprised and a little uncomfortable. ‘I can’t say, ma’am. Delegation, I suppose. He’s busy.’ Marsh noted that Vine didn’t look convinced.
‘How’s everything else going down there?’ said Vine, changing the subject to something that Marsh had feared she might take the opportunity to raise.
‘As far as I’m aware, ma’am, everything is going well.’
Vine looked both troubled and concerned. ‘I have to say, between ourselves, Joy, that I’m finding some of DI Romney’s methods and decisions quite disquieting. You haven’t forgotten our little chat, have you?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Were you with Inspector Romney when he was bitten by that dog?’ said Vine, rather too nonchalantly for Marsh’s liking.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘He says there was a strong possibility that it had recently been out of the country and that it was sick – foaming at the mouth, I believe was the expression he used. Was that your understanding?’
Marsh suddenly hated what Vine was trying to use her for and it took all her self-control to maintain an indifferent expression. ‘The dog was certainly agitated and there may have been something around its mouth, ma’am. But, honestly, I’m not good with animals unless they’re on the menu.’
‘And what about recently being out of the country and avoiding quarantine procedures?’
‘I must have missed that bit, ma’am. I was in and out.’ Marsh wasn’t going to lie for him but she wasn’t prepared to drop him in it either.
Vine breathed deeply and Marsh experienced a feeling of the station commander’s disappointment being projected to settle on her like a fine sprinkling of noxious talc. ‘Are those the details?’ said Vine, indicating a sheet of paper Marsh was clutching. Marsh nodded and smiled. Vine put out her hand for them. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’
Marsh stood. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘And tell DI Romney from me that I do have better things to do with my time than continually helping CID out with their difficulties.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marsh and left.
When she passed the message on to Romney, he just smiled and said, ‘I can imagine. Updating the inventory of her desk, perhaps.’
Superintendent Vine called down to Joy within the quarter hour. According to Stephanie Lather’s GP, Stephanie had not been to see her for over three years and there was no record within the practice of Stephanie having seen another doctor or locum. If Stephanie was taking prescription sleeping pills, the GP had said, she was not getting them through her. Marsh thanked the superintendent and went in search of Romney.
When she told him, he said, ‘Told you she had her uses.’
*
Joy’s mobile rang as she was walking back from the pathology lab where she’d gone to collect a sample of Chloe’s hair. When pressed, forensics had suggested that the hair recovered from Rachael Sparrow’s clothing was from a breed of toy dog. Joy had instantly been put in mind of Chloe and decided she’d go across and get a sample for forensics to make a comparison with on her own initiative rather than wait until she’d mentioned the toy dog angle to Romney and then waited for his light bulb to come on and send her across anyway.
She fished the phone out of her bag. Tracy. Shit. She answered it. ‘I’m just finishing off something important and then I’m hoping to knock off early.’
‘There’s no rush now. Our mum died ten minutes ago.’ Her sister’s voice was hard, accusing. But it was a brittle hardness; something under strain that could snap at any moment. ‘I was holding her hand when she went. She thought I was you. She called me Joy. I’m the one who’s nursed her, looked after her, been there for her, and she wanted you. So, no need for you to leave your precious job early. No need for you to come up at all now. I’ll let you know when the funeral is, just in case you’re interested in coming.’ Tracy terminated the call.
Joy stood stunned with both the shocking news and her sister’s strikingly callous delivery of it. She stared at the device in her palm and felt the hot tears of sadness, anger and frustration, resentment and unfairness prickle her eyes. She wiped at them with her sleeve, but there was no stemming the flow. A hollowness opened up inside her and she fell into it. She felt dizzy, lightheaded. She stumbled to sit on a nearby bench, put her head between her knees and breathed. When she felt she’d stabilised herself she sat up again and began to shake with the outpouring of her grief.
*
At the end of the working day Romney shut up his office, deposited his bag in his car, locked it up and set off in the direction of Dover’s cheapest watering hole. As the purveyor of the cheapest pint in town and because of its central location, The Eight Bells was a natural magnet for the local booze-hounds.
Romney ordered himself a pint of Spitfire, thereby completely disregarding doctor’s orders. He didn’t intend to drink enough of it to matter to his course of antibiotics, but appearances must be maintained. He couldn’t have those of the town’s drinking regulars who knew and recognised him thinking he’d gone soft.
He turned his back on the bar while he surveyed the clientele.
This was his first evening on reconnaissance looking for particular drinking pals of Bernie Stark and it was first time lucky. Romney wryly reflected that, given the price of a decent pint in most of the competing hostelries in the vicinity, it would have been a safe bet that he’d find them there sooner rather than later.
Clearly his entry hadn’t been missed. Before long he caught the eye of a man he knew to be a close associate of Bernie’s. An understanding passed between them in the briefest of glances. Romney turned back to the bar and waited. A couple of sips more and a figure appeared near his elbow.
‘I need to talk to you about Bernie,’ said Romney not turning to the man nor acknowledging him.
‘Aye. Guessed as much.’ The man had a heavy Scottish accent. ‘No here though, eh?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Romney, his glass to his lips. ‘I’m just off to the library. You do know where that is, don’t you?’
The man grunted. ‘Sure I’ll find it, eh? If no, I can always ask a policeman.’
‘Don’t take too long, Sweaty. I’m a busy man.’ Romney put down his unfinished drink and walked out without a backward glance.
*
Romney was flicking through a magazine on sailing that was three months old when Sweaty walked in. Aesthetically, Sweaty put Romney in mind of a poor relation of Rab C. Nesbitt. Sweaty had lived and worked in the town since before Romney had joined the local force. Despite his lengthy immersion in Dover culture, Sweaty’s accent was as strong as the day he left Glasgow. Sweaty, like many of his fellow countrymen, was proud of his race, his history and his homeland and after a few drinks he didn’t generally take too kindly to people suggesting that if Scotland was so bloody great why didn’t he piss off back there. As a police constable in uniform, this is how Romney had come to know him.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Romney.
‘Nae bother. What can I do you for, Mr Romney?�
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‘You were pretty thick with Bernie, weren’t you?’
The Scotsman smiled knowingly. ‘Aye. I was.’
‘You’ll know then that he’d had a rethink over whether it was in fact Jimmy Savage he saw smashing John Stafford over the head three years ago.’
‘Aye. He did mention it.’
‘Did he mention why?’
Sweaty settled his surprisingly clear blue eyes on Romney’s and there was a trace of an enigmatic smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. As enigmatic as the puffy features of a drink-sodden, battle-scarred sixty-something-year-old Scot could hope to achieve. ‘He did confide in me, as it happens, Mr Romney.’
‘I can’t make you tell me, Sweaty. But it would be nice to know. There’s nothing that you could ever be called on and I’d give you my word that it would stay between us. And it’s not like it could hurt Bernie now, is it?’
Sweaty considered for a long moment. ‘Actually, Mr Romney, I’d like to tell you. I think it’s a story worth telling to someone who’d give a shite. And I honestly don’t think Bernie’d mind. Like you say, it can’t hurt him now, can it? It’ll be thirsty work though, Mr Romney.’
‘I’m quite thirsty myself, Sweaty. How about the Roman Quay?’
‘Quay’s a bit popular at the moment. The Flotilla should be quiet.’
Romney smiled conspiratorially. ‘The Flotilla it is then.’
*
Deep within herself Joy had found some resilience, pulled herself together and made it back to the station. She navigated her way to the ladies without incident and did something about her appearance. She kept repeating to herself that she just had to get through the next half hour, avoid everyone, and then she could leave, go home and deal with it. With an iron will she locked her emotions down, touched up her make-up and took the sample of Chloe’s dog hair to forensics.
