Particular Stupidities (The Romney And Marsh Files Book 5)

by Oliver Tidy

  She shook her head and said nothing.

  ‘Right. You can go. Constable Fower see her out and get Martin back in here.’

  As she got to the door she turned and fixed her red eyes on Romney. They were heavy with tears and contempt. ‘I bought him that belt,’ she said.

  ‘I should thank you then, Sally. Without it it would have taken a lot longer to identify Lance.’

  ‘You’re a horrible man,’ she said and left.

  *

  In a couple of minutes Fower was back with Martin. Martin was looking more concerned than he had been earlier. Romney noticed and was in the mood to capitalise.

  Romney stood up and walked around to Martin’s side of the table. ‘Sit down,’ he said. Martin sat and continued to look worried. Romney came to stand behind him. ‘I want some information, Martin, and I don’t want any pissing about with misplaced loyalties. You understand?’ Martin nodded, became a little whiter and swallowed. ‘Lance’s five-a-side interests. What nights did he play?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’ whined Martin.

  Romney slammed his open palm down on the table inches from where Martin was sitting, making the teacups rattle in their saucers. ‘Answer the bloody question or I’ll arrest you for obstruction. Or were you part of it?’

  ‘Part of what?’

  ‘Part of Lance’s illegal nocturnal exploits?’

  ‘Eh? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Five-a-side, Martin. Did you play with Lance?’

  ‘No. I don’t like football.’

  ‘What nights did Lance play?’

  ‘Tuesdays and Thursdays.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Strood sports centre.’

  ‘What about some names?’

  ‘I don’t know any. Honest. I told you, I don’t like football.’

  ‘And Lance never mentioned anyone to you?’

  ‘No. He knew I hated football so we never talked about it.’

  Romney said, ‘Did you know Lance was involved in something illegal?’

  Martin clasped his hands on the table in front of him. ‘He said things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Nothing detailed.’ He met Romney’s stare. ‘It’s true. And I didn’t wanna know.’

  Romney stared at Martin for a few seconds and said, ‘All right, Martin. You can go back to work.’ Martin pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Martin,’ the youth turned his anxious face towards the policeman, ‘if you’re lying to me let me advise you that before you leave this room is the best time to say something.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said.

  With the door shut Romney appeared quite pleased with himself. ‘That was useful, don’t you think?’

  ‘Fower said, ‘Yes, sir.’ He did not seem enthusiastic and Romney detected this.

  ‘Something on your mind, lad?’

  ‘I just feel sorry for them, that’s all, sir.’

  ‘Do you, now? It’ll wear off. You learn not to feel anything for these people, unless it’s a very special case, of course.’

  ‘But what about her, sir? What about her unborn child?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘It’s all so tragic.’

  ‘So? That’s life for you. It is tragic for a lot of people and most of that’s down to them and their stupidity. But whether it’s tragic or not is none of our concern. And you can’t afford to let it be. You start letting the things we have to deal with get under your skin, you start taking it home with you, you’re finished. To be honest I’m surprised being a beat copper hasn’t cured you of all that crap. Find a way to detach yourself emotionally. We have jobs to do and we won’t be as effective and focussed if we’re feeling sorry for everyone and getting involved on a feelings level. Understand?’

  Fower nodded but still looked a bit sad. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We’re done here and until DS Marsh returns we’re marooned. Fortunately, I noticed a cafe just around the corner. Find out how long she’s going to be and tell her where she can find us.’

  As they walked along the road together towards the cafe, Fower said, ‘DS Marsh mentioned you’ve got another theory I might be interested in, sir.’

  ‘Did she? What’s that then?’

  ‘Something about Particle Theory.’

  Romney turned and looked at the young policeman. ‘I think you must have misheard her. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ He seemed a bit irritated by the suggestion.

  ***

  12

  Returning Mrs Leavey back to work felt to Marsh like taking off a heavy overcoat on a sweltering day. The time she’d been cooped up with and chaperoning the distraught mother had been amongst the most harrowing of her time in Dover. She exhaled her relief and followed Fower’s directions to the cafe.

  The closest parking space she could find was a hundred metres away. She was looking forward to a mug of hot strong tea with sugar that she didn’t usually take, and a big plateful of comfort food with chips.

  Romney and Fower were obviously on their second teas. Empty mugs and plates with trace evidence of the daily special littered their tabletop. They were both reading broadsheets, which made them conspicuous in their surroundings.

  Neither of them noticed her arrival until she was at their table. Romney looked up and then at his watch and said, ‘You took your time.’

  Marsh said nothing.

  Romney noisily folded his paper and got to his feet.

  She said, ‘I haven’t had any lunch yet.’

  ‘Really? What were you doing then? Grab a sandwich if you really can’t wait. But we’ll be back in Dover in less than an hour.’

  Marsh met Fower’s eye and received a look of sympathy. As Romney was already walking towards the door, she felt she had little choice but to follow them out.

  *

  Arriving back at Ladywell station, Romney told Marsh to take the DNA sample over to forensics and make them label it urgent. Marsh remembered that there was a vending machine in the building, which cheered her up a bit.

  As Romney and Fower approached the station doors, Fower said, ‘I’m sorry about my cock-up over the tyres, sir. I made a mistake.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Romney. ‘And you cost Kent police time, trouble and money. Try and learn something from it so it hasn’t been a completely wasted morning for you.’

  ‘I’d like the opportunity to make amends, sir.’

  Romney didn’t answer immediately but he slowed his pace. ‘You got transport?’

  Fower pointed towards the gleaming row of new vehicles. He said, ‘The BMW.’ It was very new and nice and shiny.

  Romney stopped walking. ‘An opportunity to make amends, you said?’

  Fower nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You heard Sally: Lance played football twice a week – Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today is Tuesday. I could do with some names.’

  Fower looked a little dubious. Then he said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  Romney said, ‘Get something for me and maybe we can forget all about today’s debacle. Chalk it up to experience.’

  *

  Marsh had dropped Mrs Leavey’s DNA sample off at forensics and was greedily consuming a chocolate bar and a can of fizzy drink from the extortionately priced vending machine in the building when her phone rang. Justin.

  ‘What time will you finish work tonight?’ he asked after they’d said their hellos.

  ‘About five. Why?’

  ‘I thought we could meet up in the town. Have a drink and a meal.’

  Joy remembered her appointment to view the flat after work. She didn’t want to mention her plans to Justin yet and when she did she wouldn’t do it over the phone. She didn’t know how he would react, how he would view her intentions, because he had made it clear that he wanted to share a home with her. Justin viewed Joy’s lottery win as an opportunity for them to contribute equally to the purchase of a property in the next logical ste
p of their relationship. He had spoken about it as though it was the most natural thing for them to do. They loved each other, didn’t they?

  ‘Joy? Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry. I couldn’t hear you for a moment. Bad reception here. Dinner and a drink sounds great, but I’ll want to go home first, change out of my work gear, have a shower. Let’s meet about seven at the usual. OK?’

  *

  Checking his phone, again, Romney found two text messages awaiting his attention. One was from Zara saying that she was going out with a girlfriend in Deal after work and because she’d be drinking she’d be staying over with her. That was fine with Romney. They’d spoken about not suffocating each other. The other message was from Julie Carpenter. It said: Please can I see you tonight? Don’t make me beg...

  Romney responded first to Zara with: Thanks for letting me know. Have a good night. Xx. With that sent, he felt free to give some thought to Julie’s message. Please can I see you tonight? Now that Zara wouldn’t be around he would have the house to himself. It was extremely unlikely that Zara would turn up when she’d said that she wouldn’t. She’d never done it before. Don’t make me beg... This led Romney to believe that she was prepared to. That fact alone gave him reason to flirt with the sensation of control.

  Romney felt something stir in his primitive instinct. Julie Carpenter had been special to Romney in a number of ways that all combined to have made her the one that he truly regretted losing. Despite the way she’d treated him he still felt strongly attracted to her. He realised there was no guarantee that just because she wanted to see him she wanted to bed him, let alone rekindle anything of what they had. She was supposed to be getting married, after all. Was he up to seeing her again on a personal footing? Would he want to risk the wringer again? Maybe it was a chance for him to prove to himself that he was over her. He composed a text message inviting her around to his home that evening. As soon as he’d pressed send the doubts started shuffling in.

  By the time Romney had stood and shrugged on his suit jacket he’d had a reply. The beep beep of his phone had a Pavlovic effect on his stomach acids. Thank you. I’ll cum round with wine at 7.30ish? X

  As well as the encouraging speed of her reply Romney noticed was that the ‘X’ was now in upper case. He was also aware of the fluttering of anticipation deep in his groin.

  *

  Marsh pushed through the doors into CID to find Romney chatting with Spicer and Grimes. The atmosphere seemed relaxed.

  ‘All done?’ said Romney. Marsh nodded. ‘Good. We’re going out.’

  ‘You and me?’

  ‘You and I. We’re going to pay a visit to the head teacher of St Bartholomew’s. He only lives in River.’

  Marsh tried to ignore his rudeness. ‘Is he expecting us?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just spoken to him. See you in the car park in ten.’ Romney retrieved his cigarettes from his pocket and left.

  Grimes said, ‘I thought you shaid he wash on a pipe, Sharge. I haven’t sheen one.’

  ‘What can I tell you? He was sucking away on it like Popeye on Sunday, although, to be honest, with about as much success as Rolf Harris’s defence counsel seeking a suspended sentence. Maybe his ‘pipe-dream’ came to an end.’

  Grimes groaned. ‘That’sh chewible, Sharge. He chold ush about Fower’sh cock-up.’

  Marsh said, ‘It was a bit naive of him. He’ll learn. I might suggest that next time we take a more experienced CID presence with us to mind his car. Maybe two to be sure.’ She looked between them for a reaction. They looked at each other and said nothing. Marsh said, ‘Do you remember his Particle Theory?’

  Grateful for a change of subject, Grimes said, ‘Do I wemember it? I made the mishtake of shawing it with Mauween and the kidsh. No one keepsh their choothbwush in the bathwoom anymore. The childwen are alwaysh claiming choo have put theirsh shomewhere and can’t find it. Half the week they’we not doing their cheeth. Honeshly, they musht have had a doshen new choothbwushesh bechween them shinsh. The money and the argumensh thash cosht ush. I wish I’d keptch itch choo myshelf.’

  Spicer said, ‘I keep my toothbrush in a special box now. I didn’t tell the Mrs. Makes me laugh when I see hers sitting on the edge of the sink.’

  Grimes and Spicer laughed. Marsh shook her head disappointedly. ‘Maybe I can bring it up next time we’re all out together. Have either of you heard his theory of Particular Stupidities?’

  ‘I have,’ said Grimes. ‘We got shtuck in Opewation Shtack a couple of weeksh ago. Bonkersh mosht of it, if you ashk me. All wight, I can acshepch he’sh got a point with shome thingsh but choo inshisch that babiesh are bawn with an innache shchupidichy where weligion ish concerned shoundsh shchupid in ichshelf to me. Weligion’sh all about enviwonmenchal bwainwashing and/or menchal illnesh. Evewy non-shchupid pershon knowsh that. And what about Financial Shchupid? Babiesh don’t know anything about money. How can they?’

  ‘I think he meant that they were born with some sort of predilection for wastefulness.’

  ‘Whachever. I can acshepch kidsh are bawn with low nachuwal abilichiesh in thingsh like coordination and learning and shelf-confidensh but calling it a chype of shchupidichy doeshn’t shound vewy helpful or vewy poshichive.’

  ‘I think you missed his point. But I do disagree with him over one thing.’

  ‘Whash that then, Sharge?’

  ‘That individuals can’t be globally stupid. I mean, look at Derek. I think he could be the exception to the rule.’

  When Grimes and Marsh had finished laughing at Spicer’s stone face, he said, ‘What rule?’

  ‘Romney’s Rule. You should ask him about it. It’s pretty radical. And it makes you think about why you do the things you do.’ She looked at Grimes. ‘You’re definitely Health and Safety Stupid for starters.’

  ‘Faiw enough. And whatch are you then?’

  Marsh made a show of thinking. ‘Well... I don’t believe in God; I can catch and throw and reverse park; I’m culturally aware; I don’t have emotional or financial problems; I exercise regularly and eat healthily; I am environmentally conscious – I walk to work for starters and I recycle; I can learn new things quite quickly; I’m quite comfortable with embracing new technology and I don’t have a train crash of failed relationships behind me. Come to think of it, I could be the exception to Romney’s Rule, only in a good way.’

  ‘I think I’d like to hear more about this theory,’ said Spicer.

  ‘Ask his nibs. He’s pretty good in a manic fanatical kind of way. A bit like Hitler must have been in his hey-day. He should write a self-help book. And then he should read it. I might suggest it to him. Stupidity for Beginners.’

  ‘Shchupidichy for Dummiesh,’ said Grimes.

  Spicer said, ‘I think most stupidity is learned, nurtured and developed through environmental influences. Society, our educational and cultural systems, are ‘educating’ our children to be stupid adults.’

  Marsh remembered the little joke she’d thought up. Having never made up a joke in her life she was quite proud of it. ‘What kind of boxing makes you smell nice?’

  Before Marsh had a chance to enjoy even half her moment, Grimes said, ‘Shoapboxshing.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I think it wash in a Chwishmash cwacker. Here, I’ve got one for you.’ Grimes looked around the office to make sure it was still just the three of them – Romney didn’t often approve of them ‘wasting their time’ enjoying themselves. ‘Pwinshe Charlesh paysh a visit choo Buckland hoshpichal. Ash he’sh geching the gwand chour he findsh himshelf in a ward full of patiensh hiding under bedsh and behind bitsh of furnichure, chalking on walkie-chalkiesh. There doeshn’t appear choo be anything physhically wong with them. He frownsh, turnsh choo the Machwon nexsht choo him and whispersh, ‘Ish thish the pshychiachwic ward?’

  ‘No, shir,’ she wepliesh, ‘thish is wadiothewapy.’

  A lichle man in a bowler hat, thweadbare shuit and with a lichle moushchache go
esh by shwinging a walking shchick.

  ‘Ah,’ saysh HRH, ‘well that one musht be one of your menchal patiensh?’

  ‘No, shir,’ wepliesh the Machwon, ‘thash the hoshpichal Chaplain.’

  Spicer laughed.

  ‘No shooner hash the God bothewer waddled off than an upwight bloke in a shpochlessh uniform marchesh pashch, cheshch full of medalsh, cap wammed down on hish head and a shwagger shchick under hish arm.’

  Dechermined not choo getch caughtch again, Charlie shaysh, ‘I shupposhe thash Genewal Shurgery, ish it?’

  ‘No, shir,’ shaysh the Machwon. ‘Thash Mr Jonesh fwom the pshychiachwic ward.’

  Marsh said, ‘You do know they’re not spelt the same, I suppose?’

  ‘Whatch aren’tch?’

  ‘Chaplain and Chaplin.’

  Grimes tutted. ‘It’sh not about the shpelling, Sharge. Ish a homophone. Ish a shound choke.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise it was supposed to be a joke. Aren’t they meant to be funny?’

  ‘You don’tch wantch choo hear whatch happened when he ended up in the dishcharge lounge then?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  Grimes said, ‘Sho what ‘parchicular shchoopidichies’ do you think the bosh shuffersh with?’

  Marsh made a show of looking at her watch. ‘He said ten minutes. My opinion on that will have to keep for the next time I’ve got an hour to kill and an alcoholic drink in my hand.’

  ***

  13

  When they were on their way, Romney said, ‘What did you find out about the man we’re going to see?’

  Marsh consulted her notebook. ‘Gavin Foyle. Age fifty-five. Made Head at St Bartholomew’s a little over three months ago having taught there for the previous two years. Signed off work with stress soon after his promotion, which is one part of the oddness. The other is that I checked with Kent County Council Human Resources and up till then he’d only had two sick days the whole time he was at the school.’