by Oliver Tidy
Marsh had been thinking about finding her own excuse for withdrawing from something she had absolutely no interest in but the faintly insulting tone he’d used in his enquiry over her ability to run ‘only five k’ irritated her more than it should have done. Romney’s attitude to it all had hatched something competitive inside her. Not competitive as in CID against uniform and the station head, not competitive as in CID against the town but competitive as in her against him.
She met his questioning look and said, ‘Yes, sir. No problem.’
Clearly, Romney understood something hinted at in her response. In an obviously contrived casual manner, he said, ‘So what sort of distance do you normally run?’
Marsh wasn’t going to give him anything. ‘Oh, I don’t really know,’ she said innocently. ‘I just jog on the treadmill for a bit and watch the telly.’
Apparently pacified, Romney grunted and said, ‘Might be an idea to see if you can actually manage five k and what sort of time you can do it in. Let me know.’
Marsh watched his retreating back and realised that her pulse had quickened and that she was smiling nastily. She checked the time, shut down her computer and changed into her trainers for the walk home. She had one thing on her mind.
*
Joy had still not tired of the pleasure, whatever the weather, that being able to walk to and from work each day gave her. She liked the difference it made in her pocket at the end of the month as well. And she never had to stress over traffic, or whether there would be a parking space available.
She strode down Biggin Street, which then became Cannon Street. She was thinking again of whether to take the plunge and settle in the town, use her Lotto winnings that were just sitting in the bank – making no interest – to get a foot on the property ladder.
A few of the town’s estate agents were encamped at the end of Cannon Street where it let on to the little town square. Joy slowed her pace and ran her gaze over what was on offer. There was something new there. She studied the listing’s accompanying information and photographs and as she did so something of a smile began to form. She checked the price, then the time and went in.
*
Romney left work and drove round to the supermarket in Bridge Street. In answer to his texted enquiry, Zara had replied saying that she wouldn’t be around until later and that he shouldn’t think about her for dinner. He was disappointed. They weren’t spending as much time together as he would have liked. But again he kept any hint of his feelings out of the message he returned. He didn’t want her to feel pressured into spending time with him.
He bought a few things to make a light, healthy supper and then went straight home. Now that he’d be on his own he thought he’d run. He didn’t normally on a Monday evening but his blood was up and he felt the urge. And it was a lovely evening.
He was in his running clothes filling up his water bottle at the kitchen sink when his phone rang. It continued to ring while he thought about ignoring it. He looked over at the display. It was a number he recognised, although he had long ago deleted the details from his contacts list. His stomach did its broken lift impression. He turned off the tap, put down the water bottle, let his hand hover over the thing for a long moment, then picked it up and answered.
‘Tom?’
He tried to make himself sound busy, occupied, and above all ignorant of the caller ID. ‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘Julie. Julie Carpenter.’
He could have asked her why she had kept his number. He could have asked her why she had dumped him to go on holiday with an ex while he lay in a hospital bed. He could have asked her what the hell she thought she was doing. He could have asked her a hundred questions. For the sake of expediency and because he was in mild shock, he settled for, ‘Oh, hello.’
‘Hello. I’m sorry to call you at home. You are at home, I take it?’
That was none of her business, but he said, ‘Yes. Just off out. Something occurred to you about the investigation?’ He hoped something hadn’t. He hoped that she was calling for another older reason. And he didn’t know why.
‘No.’ She sighed heavily down the line. ‘Would it be possible for me to see you? Privately?’
‘About what?’ He almost couldn’t breathe.
‘I... just... I treated you very badly. Seeing you again today, it... it brought a lot of things back. I’ve always wanted to explain.’
In a softer tone, he said, ‘There’s no need, Julie.’
‘There is for me. Please.’
There was a pause.
He said, ‘Let me think about it.’
‘Thank you, Tom. You were always so... good to me. So nice.’ Was she crying?
‘I have to go now,’ he said.
She ended the call without another word. He stood staring out at the back garden through the kitchen window. Memories of his short time with her filled his thoughts. Why would she want to open all that up again? Why not leave it? He dared not contemplate the answers to those questions for long. She’d called him nice. He snorted at that. Nice. It made him feel old and safe, neither of which he wanted to feel. He needed his run now.
***
8
It was another striking morning on the south coast of the garden of England. A morning to stand and stare, like sheep or cows under boughs, marvelling at Nature’s abundant bounty. But Romney had no time for Leisure. He gave it thirty seconds of his day, a couple of deep ins and outs and a good-to-be-alive grin before getting into his car and leaving for work.
Handsome morning aside, Romney was in good spirits. The previous evening spent with Zara had been wonderful. He woke feeling closer to her, hoping that she felt the same.
Zara had turned up late and hungry, as he had known she would. He felt he’d scored good points with her for not interrogating her over where she’d been and who she’d been with, by having something good and healthy already prepared for her and by displaying a good-natured interest in her day. They sat and shared a bottle of wine on the patio with the little chiminea keeping them warm under the darkening skies before they headed off to bed.
He’d run well, too – a good time, he felt, for the distance and with energy to spare. And it had been punishing. His runs typically involved ups and downs of terrain and an element of cross country on public footpaths roughly worn out of the landscape by the boots of those determined to keep them open. The prospect of five kilometres on level, even tarmac gave him no cause for concern, even against people younger than him. Romney didn’t set a lot of store by what most young people considered being fit these days – jogging on treadmills watching TV. He was brimming with confidence that he’d give uniform a run for their money and earn some kudos from his CID team. But there was only one person he wanted to beat to the finish line. No, not beat – thrash: the ginger ninja.
There was also the call from Julie that had both thrilled and disturbed him in equal measure. Part of him wanted to risk the opening of closed wounds by seeing her again, privately. He had loved her, after all. Properly cared for her. Wanted a close, shared future with her. And part of him wanted to resist the temptation, to prove to himself that he was bigger than the memories.
He wanted to show Julie Carpenter, or at least make her believe, that he’d moved on easily and quickly, had not allowed the experience to dent his enthusiasm for further relationships, like it had; hadn’t let it affect him, like it had. He wanted to make her regretful if she wasn’t already, to make her suffer something unpleasant even, for what she’d done to him, by encouraging her to believe that she’d made a terrible mistake. The only way to achieve that would be to see her. And then he would have to put on a performance Olivier would have been proud of.
He’d thought about her a great deal, more than he wished he had – during his run, in the shower, preparing his dinner, eating it with a cold beer at the patio table, and then as he lay wide awake in bed. Only the interlude of Zara’s presence had been something to distract him from his self-made torment
.
His dwindling good sense was screaming out at him to steer clear of a ‘private’ encounter, something that he knew in his most honest reflections – those patches of temporary mental clarity beyond the limits of his stupidity – would be worse for him than anything she might be tempted or persuaded to feel. But already he understood that good sense, in this instance, was unlikely to be listened to such was his curiosity for her motives and his hope, however slim, that she might still feel something for him.
Romney was reversing his car into a tight spot between two shiny new motors when his phone signalled the arrival of a text message. He waited until he had managed to extricate himself from his car without banging his door into the metallic paintwork of the adjacent BMW before looking at his messages. He experienced that familiar long-dormant anticipation as he opened it.
Just wondering if you’d made a decision x
Of the thirty-four characters Julie Carpenter had employed none meant more to him than the last.
*
Such was the spectacular quality of the morning that all CID staff were encouraged out of their beds and into work either early or on time. When Romney entered their inner sanctum clutching his take-away black coffee and pastry – the staples of his working day breakfast – he found Grimes, Spicer and Marsh standing together chatting. Marsh and Spicer looked over in Romney’s direction, which encouraged Grimes to turn and do the same. Romney instantly saw that something was wrong with the big man’s face. He closed the distance between them frowning with his good morning for all stuck somewhere in his throat.
‘What happened to you?’ said Romney.
Grimes not so much smiled as peeled his lips back over what they had concealed and the effect was literally dazzling. The low morning sun coming in through the south east facing window bounced back off Grimes’ dental work like a laser beam off a mirror. Romney squinted reflexively. For the briefest of moments there was something of the toothpaste-commercial-twinkle about Grimes’ mouth and then he managed to dim the room by encouraging his top lip back over most of it.
Grimes said something incomprehensible.
‘I didn’t get a word of that,’ said Romney.
Grimes worked his mouth, exercised his jaw and said, ‘They’we a bich big, guv. Buch they’we meantch choo be.’
‘I don’t understand. Have you had dentures fitted?’
Grimes shook his head and said, ‘I’m having shome work done. Theshe crownsh are chemporary. They make them big choo make shure people go back and have the weal onesh fitted and pay the bill.’ He sounded like a middle class vicar or a Tory MP.
‘Apart from frightening members of the public, is it going to interfere with you doing your job?’
Grimes looked a little hurt.
‘How long do we have to put up with you sounding like that?’ said Romney.
‘I’m back on Thurshday for the weal onesh.’
Romney said, ‘As long as that?’
‘Besht they could do, guv. And thatsh quick. Cosht me exshtwa.’
‘Oh well, it’s your money.’ Then Romney thought it was probably Lotto money burning a hole in Grimes’ pocket and the idea injured him. ‘Did you get your doctor’s note?’
Glad for a change in topic, Grimes rooted around in his jacket pocket and brought out a crumpled piece of paper. Romney took it from him and read it.
‘I told you back or knee.’
Grimes said, ‘That’sh the besht he would do, guv, withoutch further examinationsh, and he wash pushed for chime.’
Romney folded it neatly and said, ‘Meeting room in ten everyone.’
When Romney had drifted away, Marsh said, ‘What did the note say?’
Grimes moistened his lips before saying, ‘High blood pwessure.’
‘Have you?’
Grimes was preoccupied with trying to get the wrapper off a chocolate bar. ‘Appawently.’
‘That’s serious, Peter. What are you going to do about it?’
Grimes shrugged and said something like. ‘He pwescwibed shome pillsh.’
Something extraordinary and alien welled up in Marsh’s consciousness. In its nature it was like a rage without the anger. It was a viewpoint that wouldn’t be silenced, a reaction, that couldn’t be stopped. ‘Can I say something, Peter?’
Grimes looked suspiciously at her, a cylinder of something knobbly and chocolatey suspended inches from his mouth. ‘Whatch?’
Marsh took a deep breath. ‘How old are you?’
‘Mind you own bushinesh, Sharge.’
‘Late forties?’
Grimes spluttered in his indignation.
‘Well you look it. How old are your children?’
Grimes actually had to think. ‘Chen and chwelve.’
‘Do you love them?’
‘You know what they shay, Sharge: kidsh are like fartsh – genewally people like their own. Anyway, what kind of a queshtion ish that? Courshe I do. Mosht of the chime.’
‘Have you ever seriously thought about the effect on them as young people of having you keel over and die courtesy of a fatal heart attack? Have you ever thought about how Maureen would suffer? About how she would cope on a pittance of a pension and on her own with two children to bring up?’
Grimes looked visibly upset. ‘Why would you shay shomething like that, Sharge?’
‘I’m trying to frighten you. I’m trying to make you understand something that you either can’t or don’t want to – some sense. Peter, obesity brings terrible health consequences for a lot of people. You don’t have to die of it but statistically you will – and early. Heart disease, breathing problems, organ failure, diabetes followed by blindness and amputations. Shall I go on?’
‘I wish you hadn’t shtarched.’
‘Look, I’m your friend as well as a work colleague. I’m speaking to you as a friend. You are digging your grave with your teeth and I hate to think that one day all your carelessness with your eating habits is going to come back to bite you. I don’t want to find myself standing on the opposite side of a six-foot hole in Connaught cemetery in a few years’ time watching them lower you down into it as Maureen and the kids bawl their eyes and their hearts out.’
Grimes was staring at her wide-eyed and open-mouthed now, his chocolate bar forgotten and melting in his chubby grasp.
Marsh wasn’t finished. ‘You’re chucking how many thousands of pounds at a new set of teeth when you should be prioritising. If I were you I’d invest in some gym membership, a personal trainer maybe, make some lifestyle and eating habit changes, and save my life.’
They stared at each other for a long moment, Marsh waiting for a response, Grimes incapable of providing one, before Romney called out, ‘Come on, you two. I haven’t got all day.’
There were no cakes. They arranged themselves in the chairs.
Romney recapped the previous day’s developments regarding the body in the freezer and updated his whiteboard accordingly.
‘So that’s it,’ he said. ‘School staff spoken to – no one’s got anything helpful to say. PTA key-holder spoken to – nothing helpful to say. The Holloways spoken to – surprise, surprise, nothing helpful to say. Forensics spoken to and all we found out from there is that it looks like the lid hadn’t been deliberately raised. Forensics lifted some good prints from the outside of the freezer, apparently, but we’ll have to wait to find out whether they can’t be accounted for. The school key is missing, which could be significant. The Holloways’ key was kept where anyone could have helped themselves. The PTA’s key is with Patton and according to him hasn’t been out of his possession, so if it’s not him – and he didn’t exactly drop to his knees and confess when we spoke to him yesterday – then I think we can rule out the PTA line of enquiry, which leaves us someone to do with school or someone to do with D&DSS.’
‘Or someone with access to both,’ said Marsh. ‘We’ve still got to speak to the school site manager.’
‘Did she call you back?’
Mar
sh nodded. ‘Last night. She’s at the school doing something most of today. She said if we want to we can see her there.’
Romney thought about seeing Julie Carpenter again. He hadn’t replied to her text. If he were going to the school, he’d have to. ‘We should talk to her as soon as possible.’
Spicer said, ‘Don’t D&DSS keep a log of people who come and go to the units?’
‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’ said Romney. ‘The only logs they’re interested in are the ones they burn on that old range in the winter. Anything new on the metal thefts?’
‘I’m going to shpeak to shomeone thish morning, guv,’ said Grimes.
‘You need an interpreter? Maybe the Holloways’ scrap business is worth another look. There aren’t too many places round here that that much lead can be disposed of, legally or otherwise.’
‘They were mosht coopewachive before,’ said Grimes. ‘Nothing to hide.’
‘Or just clever. Anything back about MisPers from out of town?’ he asked Spicer.
‘Should be in my inbox if there is, guv.’
‘OK. Let me know either way, will you? Some good news: you two are off the hook for the fun run.’
Spicer and Grimes’ relief was more defined than Marsh’s enthusiasm when Romney added, ‘Joy and I will fly the flag for the department. Might be nice if you two turned up and showed some support on the day. You could make it a family occasion.’
Spicer and Grimes made noises and faces to suggest he could count on them. Marsh didn’t believe either of them for a minute.
Romney dismissed them and took out his phone. He was on his fourth text message, having composed three and deleted each of them, when Spicer put his head around the meeting room door and said, ‘Guv. Might have something.’ Romney put away his phone and followed him out.
They went to Spicer’s desk to stare at his monitor. Spicer said, ‘Got this back from Medway, guv.’ The screen was filled with a missing persons alert. It gave details of one Lance Leavey, who had last been seen in Chatham on a date that tied in with where they were looking. He was described as a white man around five feet ten inches tall. It didn’t give his age but the accompanying photo suggested he was in his early twenties. The photograph was a clear and full-body picture. The young man was wearing a black T-shirt, white trainers and blue jeans. The jeans were held up by a leather belt with a distinctive beer barrel buckle. Romney signalled Marsh over. He told her to bring her phone.
