by Oliver Tidy
‘Keep trying to find her. We’ll be here for a little while yet. If you can get hold of her, we might as well keep going to Chatham. And if you do get her, find out where she is. Tell her to expect a visit but don’t give her any details.’ He ended the call and turned his attention back to the unimpressed-looking site manager. He said, ‘Sorry about that. You know why we want to talk to you, I suppose?’
‘The body in the container?’
Romney nodded. ‘We just need to eliminate you from our enquiries, that’s all.’
‘Go on then. Ask your questions.’
‘Have you ever been in or near the container that the body was found in?’
‘No. ‘
‘Do you know anything about what we found in there?’
‘I’ve heard gossip.’
‘I meant about how it came to be in there?’
‘No. Now can I get back to the drains?’
Romney did not feel inclined to detain her by asking her if she was absolutely sure. He raised one of his false smiles and said, ‘Thank you. That’s all. But before you can get back to work, don’t you need to escort us back through the school in case, left to our own devices, we start abusing children?’
It quickly dawned on Marsh that Mrs Chislett had not received the benefit of Betty’s rather extreme example of why unscreened guests should not be free to roam the school premises. But it was too late to stop the site manager’s ire.
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ she said, stepping forward a pace. ‘And you a senior police officer.’
Marsh said, ‘Thanks for your help, Mrs Chislett. We’ll find our own way out.’
‘What’s her problem?’ said Romney, none too quietly, as they clomped across the hall flooring.
Marsh wanted to say ‘you’ but instead said, ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the mining thing.’ It seemed to placate him.
Romney mumbled something about some people having no sense of humour.
They pushed through the hall’s double doors and into the corridor just as the deafening sound of the bell signalled break-time. They quickened their pace in a bid to reach the sanctuary of reception before the floodgates were opened. But it was a case of too little too late and both officers quickly wished that they’d turned and hurried back to the relative safety of the hall to wait it out.
The children streamed out of the classrooms in fast-flowing tributaries of noisy, congested, scrabbling humanity in miniature. The police were jostled, elbowed, barged, pushed and carried along in the excited din surging towards the playground, like plastic bottles caught in a snowy mountain’s spring thaw river. No other adult had ventured into the corridor while the mini-tsunami of little people headed down-corridor towards the outside world and the limited time of fresh air and freedom in the playground.
They were almost within reach of the door to reception when a small boy attached himself to Romney’s legs, burying his face in Romney’s groin like he was part of a scrum. Romney’s horrified features at the boy’s familiarity made a caricature of his normal expression. He tried to push the boy away but the little lad’s grip was apparently limpet-like. Marsh was dimly aware of Romney protesting, but over the general din she couldn’t make out the words. He might have sworn.
Ms Sullivan appeared and prized the offender away from Romney by the shoulders with the practiced ease of an experienced shepherd managing the lambs of her flock. She shooed him on his way. Romney was staring aghast at the front of his light grey trousers. A glistening smear of something nose related was already turning the fabric a dark and suggestive shade of embarrassment.
Romney made a noise of displeasure, tutted and fished around in his pockets for a handkerchief. He did not have one. The corridor had quickly emptied of all but a few stragglers: disorientated, and feeble-minded looking individuals who appeared overawed and confused in the way survivors of a real tsunami might. Ms Sullivan’s interest was drawn to the attention Romney was giving to his groin region with his ineffective fumblings. Marsh thought she detected a suggestion of a smile hovering at the corners of the senior teacher’s mouth. She knew that she was finding it hard to keep a straight face.
‘Come into the staffroom,’ said Sullivan. ‘We’ve got wet wipes that’ll clean that off.’ She made it sound like a regular occupational hazard.
Without a word, Romney followed her in and Marsh, with little option, followed him.
The small room was quickly filling up with tired, dishevelled and stressed-looking adult females in search of caffeine and unhealthy snacks against the clock – the staples of primary years education staffrooms.
The visitors were paid little more than initial cursory attention. The ladies in charge had more important things to occupy their thoughts than wondering whether one of them was guilty of wrapping a dead body in plastic sheeting and hiding it in a shipping container next door: coffee, cookies and complaining.
‘I swear the Gambon twins must have shared one brain in the womb. Sweet enough, but hopeless, the pair of them. Absolutely hopeless. Forty watters.’
‘Forty watters?’
‘Dim.’
‘But pretty,’ said another.
‘Unfortunately for them. Living round here, they’ll probably both be pregnant before they’re sixteen. Thank God I’ll be retired before the fruits of their deprived circumstances end up aimlessly wandering the school trying to remember where their classroom is.’
‘Anytime you want to trade your class, you’re welcome to year five. Honestly, if I can make it through to the end of the year without actually throttling one of them I’ll deserve a bloody medal. More vegetables in there than my father’s allotment.’
‘Travis wet himself again.’
‘Did he know?’
‘Didn’t seem to. Not until I told him.’
‘That nasty piece of work in grade two was up to his usual tricks again.’
‘If you’re going to talk about nasty pieces of work in grade two you’ll need to be a little more specific. I really would like to know what had leaked into the water supply the year that little lot of darlings were conceived.’
‘Venom from a secret government research facility, I shouldn’t wonder. Heathcliffe bit Jez again.’
‘Which Heathcliffe?’
‘The Marden boy.’
‘That shows that he’s stupid as well as nasty – Jez is surely one of the least edible in there. He always looks so dirty. Have you seen his fingernails? The faecal matter that must be lodged under those... He gave me one of his biscuits.’
‘Slam dunk?’
‘Yep, straight in the bin.’
After rooting around in cupboards, Sullivan was able to provide Romney with a packet of wet wipes. Rather than stand among a room full of women scrubbing at his crutch, he asked if he might use the toilet. He was given directions, and he and Marsh were asked if they wanted a coffee. Marsh was about to say yes please, but Romney beat her to it with a quick no thanks.
When he’d left the room one of the younger teachers said to Marsh, ‘Is it right that Julie and him had a fling?’
Marsh didn’t know what to say.
‘Really?’ said another, quite loudly.
‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed,’ said one of the older, chubbier ladies, which got a good laugh.
‘Is he still single?’ said another.
‘I’ll tell your husband you asked that,’ said another.
‘You any closer to finding out who it was in the container?’ said one of the teaching assistants. She looked suitably concerned and serious. Marsh detected the local accent, which she hadn’t with any of the teachers.
Glad for a change of subject, Marsh said, ‘Not yet. We have a few promising leads though.’
The same woman who’d made the crude remark about Romney said, ‘Well if DI Romney needs to question us again I’ll have no objection if he wants to take down my particulars.’
From the lavatory, Romney caught the shrieking noise of women’s laug
hter. It did something to the hairs on the back of his neck. He couldn’t wait to get out of the place. He flushed the wet wipe and was dismayed to see that he’d only managed to replace the little boy’s mucus with a large damp patch. He sighed heavily, unlocked and let himself into the corridor just as the children were on their way back in. He stood out of their way to let them pass.
One of the older boys noticed the damp patch on the front of Romney’s trousers and nudged his mate. They both started laughing. Romney heard something about ‘old man trouble’. As they continued down the corridor they spread the word and others turned to look and laugh at him.
He took off his jacket and held it over his arm and across the stained area. His phone rang.
‘Guv?’ said Spicer.
‘Yes, it’s still me.’
‘Got an address for you and she’s expecting you.’
‘Hold on I need to find a pen and paper.’
‘Shall I just text it?’
‘What? Yes. Do that. What does she know?’
‘Just that we want to talk to her. She’s bound to be expecting the worst though.’
Romney knew that but it couldn’t be helped.
‘Is she at work or at home?’
‘Work, but she said you can call on her there, no problem. She sounded anxious.’
‘Of course she did. Her son’s missing and police from out of town want to talk to her.’
Romney pushed back into the staffroom to find Marsh on her own, sitting in a comfy chair going through a glossy magazine and eating biscuits. She could have worked there.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Derek’s tracked down Lance Leavey’s mum. She’s expecting us.’
*
As they walked back across the playground, Romney said, ‘Did you see how much interest they paid us?’
‘I felt a little invisible, actually,’ said Marsh.
‘Exactly. They didn’t look like they were living in fear of exposure as murderers.’
After a couple more paces, Marsh said, ‘I didn’t hear anything from Philip.’
‘Who’s Philip?’
‘Constable Fower.’
‘Oh, blimey. I forgot all about him.’ And then Romney tutted and said, ‘Shit. That means we’ll have to drag him up to Chatham with us, I suppose.’
‘There might be a bus back to Dover,’ said Marsh. She was joking.
Romney said, ‘That’s not a bad idea, actually.’
When they got back to the car there was no sign of Fower but the car had two slashed tyres. Romney closed his eyes for a long moment and focussed on his breathing. It made him look very Zen. He opened his eyes with a deep inhalation, tilted his head back and stared up at the heavens as though seeking divine explanation. Marsh prepared herself for the outburst. But calmly and quietly, he said, ‘I’ll be in the cafe when it’s fixed.’ He walked off without another word or a backward glance.
Marsh phoned Fower. He answered quickly and sounded out of breath.
‘Philip, where are you?’
‘There were youths. I chased them off before they could do anything.’ He stopped speaking to take in some air. ‘They were fitter than they looked and on bikes.’
Marsh said, ‘You didn’t catch them then?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. We just got back to the car and we’ve got two flats.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘The DI’s gone across the road to the cafe. He’s not happy. Any idea where they went?’
‘No. Lost them completely.’
‘You’d better get back here.’
Marsh ended the call and rang maintenance. She prepared herself for some smart remarks.
***
10
Romney finished his cigarette and looked for somewhere to stub it out before he went into the building. Finding nowhere, he dropped it on to the tarmac and trod on it.
‘I hope you’re not going to leave that there,’ said a voice behind him.
Romney turned to find Mr Patton just a few feet away and closing fast carrying a couple of loaves of sliced white bread. He was wearing a pair of flashy-looking over-sized sunglasses. Realising who he’d addressed, Patton lost a little of his colour and a lot of his confidence. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise it was you.’
Romney tried a smile. ‘Doesn’t matter. You’re right. I was just looking for somewhere to put it.’
Patton had lost interest in the cigarette end. He said, ‘Are you looking for me?’
‘Yes. I need a cup of tea. Maybe some cake.’
*
Fower came jogging down the lane five minutes later. He was perspiring and breathing heavily. He looked as deflated as Romney’s front tyres. Marsh was leaning against the car smiling.
‘They must have known I’d chase them off and one of them hung around. I can’t believe I’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book. How stupid.’
‘Don’t worry about it. At least not until you see the boss. Then you should start.’ She was smiling as she said it.
*
Romney was served by a dowdy-looking woman with shoulder-length, greasy hair, blank grey eyes, a dreary expression and some large moles on her right cheek. Her stained tabard did little to hide her weight issues.
While Romney was waiting at the counter for his tea, Patton said, ‘So what brings you back to our little cafe, Inspector? Is it our specials board?’
‘Unfortunately not. We have another couple of flat tyres.’ Romney didn’t feel like mentioning that the car was meant to be under surveillance at the time by a plain-clothes police officer.
Patton made some sympathetic noises and said, ‘Sit down, Mr Romney. The wife’ll bring it over to you.’
Romney said thanks and went to find a table, thinking that ‘the wife’ didn’t look the kind of woman he would expect the not bad looking, smartly dressed host of the establishment to be married to.
As Romney organised himself, he caught a brief unfriendly-sounding exchange behind him between husband and wife. It was Patton who delivered his tea. He said, ‘You want me to ask around? Someone is bound to know something. Probably bloody kids who should be in school. We have some trouble round here from time to time. They’re bored. I know it’s no excuse. But how would they know the car belonged to the police, and so quickly?’
With genuine menace, Romney said, ‘The answer to those questions I would be very interested in.’
*
When Marsh called him he was on his second mug and halfway through a crossword in the local paper. Expecting to have rattled the parochial puzzle off pretty quickly, his chagrin at the solving being dragged out had only served to irritate him further.
‘All fixed, sir.’
‘Pick me up then. I’ll be waiting outside.’
Romney thanked Patton, who had not charged for either tea or the large slice of home-made chocolate cake, and went outside to enjoy a quick smoke before Marsh turned up.
When she did arrive Romney was disappointed to see Fower sitting in the back. Fower did not look like he was particularly pleased to be there either.
Thoughtfully, Marsh adjusted the seat back before Romney got in. He still wanted to fiddle with mirror and seat settings though. As they pulled away, he said, ‘What happened?’
Assuming that Romney’s tone meant he was addressing him, Fower said, ‘I saw a small group of youths come into the car park and stop next to your car, sir. I ran across to confront them but they took off. I gave chase and lost them. They were on bicycles. When I got back I learned that they must have tricked me. Sorry, sir.’
Romney breathed out heavily through his nose. His lack of comment was worse for Fower than if he’d ranted at him.
‘Why didn’t he go back to Dover with maintenance?’ said Romney to Marsh as though Fower were no longer there.
‘Maintenance wasn’t going back. They had something to deliver or collect from Maidstone. I forget which.’
Romney rooted around in his pocket for hi
s phone and nearly clipped the kerb in his distraction. Marsh tensed her legs for it. He handed it over and said, ‘Check my messages for the address of Mrs Leavey. Derek sent it through. Write it down and then phone him back and tell him to get on to Google and get us some directions.’
‘I’ve got maps on my phone,’ she said. She opened his messages. She opened the wrong one. She read the message from Julie Carpenter and wished she hadn’t. Quickly she found the one she was looking for and made notes. She was sure that Romney hadn’t noticed what she’d done. She settled back for the ride, wondering what the hell Julie Carpenter and her DI were thinking of.
She was brought back to her present by Fower saying, ‘I nearly went into teaching.’
Romney didn’t answer. Because she liked Fower and didn’t want to seem rude, Marsh said, ‘Really? What happened? Why the police then?’
‘It was a toss-up in the end. I was equally keen for both. I think I could have been happy being a teacher. I like kids. I’ve done quite a bit of youth work. And what other job gives thirteen weeks paid holiday every year, six weeks of it in the summer and doesn’t make you work weekends?’
‘What would you have gone for, primary or secondary?’
‘Secondary. I’ve got a degree in English literature. But I prefer the younger ones to the older ones.’
Romney said, ‘Lucky for Kent police then that you chose heads. Or was it tails?’
‘Well it wasn’t literally decided on the toss of a coin,’ said Fower, missing the sarcasm. ‘What I meant was it was a very close decision.’ Almost as a guilty after-thought, he said, ‘But I’m very happy that I chose the police.’
After another mile or so of relative quiet, punctuated only by the noise of the car and traffic outside and Romney’s heavily nasal breathing inside, Fower said, ‘I’ve always been interested in the process of teaching and learning, particularly the role and influence of supposed intelligence on the learning process.’
Marsh noticed Romney shift in his seat and fiddle with the knot of his tie. She stole a quick glance across at him. His jaw muscles were working, a sure sign of his irritation at the interruption to his thinking. Romney said, ‘Really?’ It was the driest, most disinterested ‘really?’ Marsh had ever heard. It was a ‘really?’ that was meant to end the conversation.
