by Oliver Tidy
‘Sure.’ Patton moved to the urn, drew off a tea and placed it on the counter.
Romney reached in his pocket but Patton told him refreshments were budgeted for out of the funding.
There was a plate with a couple of sausage rolls on it on the counter. Romney had a sudden yearning for one. He pointed at them. ‘They part of the refreshments?’
‘Sorry, no. Just cake. We’re chucking those out, anyway. Date’s up today.’
‘If you’re chucking them out…’
‘Help yourself, Inspector.’
Romney did and said thanks. ‘You be attending the meeting?’
‘Oh yes, Inspector. Always.’
‘See you in there then.’
Romney borrowed a newspaper from the rack by the door and went out chewing on his pastry. It seemed a bit stale and Romney was forced to wonder whether the best before date was earlier than that day. Still, he was hungry. He took his time traversing the long corridor, admiring the coal mining history displayed in photographs, paintings and artefacts.
Arriving at the viewing panels in the double doors, he used a moment to assess the lie of the land. He had to step back quickly as someone he didn’t know pushed through them, making him spill his boiling tea on his hand and shoes.
The man apologised and held the door open for him. With little choice, Romney went in. He thanked the man through his mouthful of pastry and sausage meat. When the man had moved away Romney called him a name under his breath.
There was a raised stage at one end of the room. On it was a single long table and on that two full jugs of water and some glass tumblers. Romney counted five chairs behind the table. He felt a pang of nervous dread at the idea that one of them was for him. He didn’t enjoy public appearances, public speaking. He definitely wasn’t looking forward to putting his head above the parapet in Aylesham. There was no telling what missiles might be thrown. With any luck, he thought, he wouldn’t be called on to say much. Maybe answer the odd question. He was confident that Boudicca would be after the limelight and his presence was only as a bit of window dressing.
At each side of the stage heavy dark maroon curtains hung. He hoped their runners weren’t going to be exercised in someone’s idea of a theatrical opening to proceedings where the panel, complete with mystery guests, was revealed at the last moment. That would just be embarrassing.
On either side at the rear of the stage was a closed door. In front of the stage he counted twelve rows of neatly set out plastic chairs. Each row had ten chairs, making the maths for a maximum seated attendance both easy and alarming, if all the chairs were filled. It was something he instantly doubted. He’d been to meetings in Dover – big, well-advertised, important meetings – where fewer than a couple of dozen people had turned up, and a good many of those were only there for a warm, a free tea and some company. With any luck, he thought, the idiot’s lantern would be screening a pivotal episode from one of the numerous soaps that blighted the land, society and the English language.
He breathed in and out deeply. The air was heavy with the smells of musty fabric, polished wooden floors and detergent. Illumination was bright and provided by fluorescent strip lights that hung from the high ceilings on chains. The sound of mumbled voices bounced around the cavernous space.
There were half a dozen people there already. He took them in over the rim of his steaming mug. He didn’t recognise anyone. He sat down on the end of one of the rows, unfolded the newspaper and hoped that his message was clear: don’t bother me.
A shadow fell over him before he’d had time to finish the sports pages. He felt obliged to look up and into the bearded face of an elderly, smartly dressed man. Romney got a good look at the man’s bright blue eyes courtesy of the high-magnification lenses in his glasses.
‘Haven’t seen you at one of these before,’ said the man.
Romney kept his newspaper open. He said, ‘I’m with Dover police.’
The man’s surprise showed. ‘Oh, right. I heard you were coming.’ He extended his hand thereby forcing Romney to fold his newspaper and take it. ‘Brian Edwards. Aylesham Town Council committee member. Pleased to have you.’
‘Pleased to be here,’ said Romney. The man’s grip was firm and dry. The skin had a hard, leathery feel.
‘You here to make an appeal about the body that was found in D&DSS?’
‘No. Where did you get that from?’
‘Oh. Why then?’
‘Community outreach initiative. Just trying to get in touch with the people in the areas we police.’
‘Oh. How’s the investigation going?’
‘Sorry. Can’t talk about it.’
‘Oh. Well good luck with things. You’ll need it tonight if they open the floor for a Q&A, I’m sure.’ He chuckled as he moved away to mingle.
Romney felt another wave of wretchedness lap at the fringes of his morale. He really, really didn’t want to be there.
A few more civilians arrived to start filling up the rows of chairs. The noise grew as they engaged in chit-chat and the Lombard Reflex kicked in. Boudicca came through the doors in full uniform, carrying her hat, as usual. She looked immaculate. She was engaged in deep conversation with a man in a suit who was a foot shorter than her and looking worried. Romney watched his boss deal with the man, like a toff dealing with a beggar, and then get rid of him. He was smirking in her direction when he realised she was staring straight at him. He felt obliged to stand up and cross to where she was standing at the front of the stage.
‘Evening, Tom.’
Romney noted the first name terms and wondered if it signified the sense of isolation she felt here – a lone uniformed policewoman in an ex-mining community. ‘Evening, ma’am. Quite a crowd already.’
‘Yes. Encouraging, isn’t it. Your talk all prepared?’
Like someone had sprayed his exposed skin with de-icer, he felt a sudden coldness. ‘Talk, ma’am? What do you mean?’
Vine looked strangely at him. ‘You got my email?’
‘About what?’
‘About giving a talk regarding the role of CID in Dover and district.’
‘No.’
Vine frowned. ‘Oh. Well, I’m sure you can think of something.’ She smiled violently and suddenly, almost making Romney take a step back. ‘You are head of CID, after all. If you don’t know what’s going on no one does.’
Romney’s tongue became something numb and useless to flop in his open mouth. Boudicca was buttonholed by the man in the suit with the super-strength NHS spectacles and Romney was left to contemplate his ‘talk’.
A clamminess formed on his forehead, under his arms and across his back. He forced himself to remain outwardly calm but inside his emotions and thoughts raged in a tempest of uncertainty. A talk. What sort of talk? How long should it be? Talk about what? The role of CID in the community? Aylesham crime rates? which he didn’t have a clue about off the top of his head. Maybe he could talk about the bastards who’d slashed six of his tyres, money that would come out of the local police funding and that could have been better spent elsewhere.
A tap on his shoulder made him start. He turned to find Julie Carpenter standing behind him. She was smiling broadly.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said, a little more severely than he ever would have meant.
‘Nice to see you, too.’
‘Sorry.’ He made a face. ‘You made me jump. I was miles away.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Who with?’
He let go a noise of amusement. ‘No one special. My Super has just told me that I’ve got to give a “talk”.’ He etched the inverted commas in the air.
Julie said, ‘Oh dear. Rather you than me. Do you remember? We first met at something like this. Some dreary forced attendance event in Dover.’
Romney did. Something of that very special memory softened him. It made him want to reach out and touch her hair, to cup her face in his hands and kiss her mouth with a tenderness that spoke of his hopeless affection f
or her. Just as quickly, he was conflicted with an equally strong urge to punch her hard in the teeth for how she’d fucked it all up in the sluttiest, most treacherous of ways. He settled for smiling at her and nodding.
He opened his mouth to say something nice. An explosion of light made them both turn to see a short, fat man pointing a camera in their direction.
‘Do you mind?’ said Romney, a little crossly. The man lowered the camera and Romney realised he knew him. ‘Oh, it’s you. What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you, Mr Romney, I imagine – what I’m told.’ He winked. ‘I don’t imagine either of us really wants to be spending our evening in some draughty old hall, bored shitless while the local population torture each other with their opinions.’ He looked at the viewing panel at the rear of his camera and raised an eyebrow at what he’d captured. He met Romney’s eye and Romney felt that the man was letting him know what thousand words that image had caught. The man grinned and walked away.
‘Who was that?’ said Julie.
‘Photographer for the local fish-wrapper. Must be a particularly slow news week for him to be here.’ And then the penny dropped as he saw the photographer composing a shot of a posing Superintendent Vine shaking the hand of a local dignitary. He said, ‘What point is there to public relations exercises if there aren’t any pictures for the record, the latest edition of Kent Police Monthly and the CV?’
‘Pardon.’
He turned his attention back to Julie. He said, ‘Nothing. Just thinking out loud. I didn’t know you were going to be here.’
‘I could say the same for you.’
They laughed little polite and nervous laughs.
Julie said, ‘Attendance by St Bartholomew’s is something that the head before Foyle started. It’s sort of expected that the school will be represented now.’
‘Do you ever have to say anything?’
‘I never have. The one before Foyle used to be quite vocal, I understand.’
Romney nodded his understanding. ‘My super thinks this will help build good relations between the community and the police. I think she’s just been off the streets too long. She’s deluding herself.’
‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.
He looked at her and smiled. ‘Sure.’
‘Maybe you can’t tell me anything because you’re conducting an investigation.’
‘If I can’t I’ll say so.’
‘You know that Joy and Peter came to the school today?’
‘Yes. I sent them. I’ve been thinking about your idea that maybe Foyle has something to do with it. The more I think about it the more I like it. We had him in this morning. He had a fit. Literally. Had to call an ambulance and he was hospitalised.’
Julie was wearing an odd pained expression. Something he hadn’t seen on her features before. ‘You really believe he did it?’ Her eyes had filled with tears.
‘I do. Yes. As far as I’m concerned, his performance this morning was an admission of guilt.’
‘So what were Joy and Peter doing at school then?’
Romney couldn’t resist showing off something of his lead detective side. ‘We still need evidence. I had an idea this morning. It’s to do with the plastic sheeting the boy was found wrapped in and the adhesive tape used to turn him into a parcel. I’d seen plastic sheeting like that before. It’s used in construction. It occurred to me that as the school has had building work done there might have been some lying around. Perfect for wrapping a dead body in. And then use the tape to turn it into a twenty-first century mummy. Joy and Peter were looking for a remnant of plastic that might match and a sample of the school’s adhesive tape for comparison with what we have.’
Julie was visibly shaking. A lot of her colour had fled her face to seek refuge where her body could make better use of it. Romney asked her if she was all right.
She nodded and tried to compose herself. ‘It’s just so awful. I mean, I worked with the man. All those children.’
Romney made a noise of sympathy. ‘The good news is that the plastic sheeting, at least, matches. When Mr Foyle comes out of hospital he’s going to have some explaining to do. And we’ve requisitioned his phone records. When we cross reference them with Lance Leavey’s I’m hopeful we’ll have something concrete on him.’
There was a loud noise behind them. Romney turned to see Patton blowing into a microphone that had been placed on the table. He announced that the meeting would start in five minutes.
Romney heard a familiar high-pitched and irritating laugh. He turned to see Father Frank, the Catholic priest he’d run into at the school, grinning inanely and helping himself to one of the chairs on the dais. Romney’s heart sank. He hoped the old God-botherer wasn’t going to try and lead them all in prayer.
Boudicca was arranging herself on another seat. She made eye contact with Romney and her meaning was clear.
Romney realised he needed a smoke for his nerves and a piss for that tea that had gone straight through him. He thought about going without both but having some experience of parochial meetings he knew how they could drag on. The five minutes they’d been given would not leave him time for both. He made a decision. Julie was disappearing through the double doors, presumably answering a similar call of nature.
With his body language he made it clear to Boudicca that he’d be back shortly. He hurried through the doors, didn’t turn left for the toilets but right for the exit. He jogged up the corridor and went out into the night. He took a moment to look around the car park that was now in semi-darkness. He was being watched and he knew it. He took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He turned sharp right on a narrow strip of concrete that led into the darker depths around the quiet side of the building. He already had the cigarette alight by the time he’d got his flies undone. The relief of his bodily function as he released his stream up against the side of the building was something to rival the pleasure of his nicotine fix.
As he waited, he became aware of voices. He looked up and saw a small fanlight window was open a couple of feet above his head. He noticed the glass was frosted. The voice was a woman’s and familiar, although he couldn’t make out what she was saying. He understood it was the ladies’ toilet and that the voice belonged to Julie Carpenter. It made him smile.
He was fumbling with his zip fastening before hurrying back to the hall when he heard a man’s voice, which puzzled him. He recognised this one also. And then he could make out the conversation they were having because they both raised their voices in angry whispers.
‘Will you keep your voice down? And calm down.’
‘There’s no one in here and don’t tell me to calm down. They came to the school again today.’
‘They were in the café too. The woman and a fat guy. What did they want?’
‘He’s worked out that the plastic sheeting came from the school building work. Betty said they took a roll of our adhesive tape. What are we going to do? I’m scared. I’m really scared.’
‘You said he was keen on Foyle now.’
‘He is. But when they work out it’s not Foyle they’re going look harder at others. At me. He said they’re waiting on the boy’s phone records. They’ll know he called the school. He called you. They’ll find out.’
‘So he phoned the school and he phoned the café. That doesn’t prove anything. Try to hold it together, Julie. You have to hold it together. We’ll go to prison if you don’t. Both of us. For a very long time. Look, sort your face out. I’ll go back in and delay things for another couple of minutes. We’ll get through this. We can’t talk now.’
‘When then?’
‘Soon.’
Romney believed he heard the sound of their lips meeting.
‘I love you, Julie. Remember that.’
Romney leaned against the pebble-dashed wall and listened to the sound of the toilet door opening and closing. He heard Julie blow her nose. He heard the noise of her rummaging in her handbag. She would be applying lipstick, powd
ering her cheeks, touching up her mascara. Putting her face back on and composing herself.
Romney felt the bile rise in his throat. He staggered away towards the inky blackness at the back of the building and threw up the rest of the tea and the sausage roll in the bushes.
*
Romney was one of the last to take his seat. He could not have said how he navigated his way back to the hall or why he had bothered. But he was there and it seemed the right thing. Julie Carpenter was already there. He stole a quick glance at her and saw the anxiety on her heavily made up features. He slumped down next to Superintendent Vine and his head reeled with understanding of how he’d been played for the definitive fool.
Next to him, Boudicca wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you been sick? Good God, Tom, you look awful. What’s wrong with you?’
Romney breathed out hard. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. ‘Something I ate. Been bothering me all evening.’ He gulped more air.
He felt the heat rise up through his stomach. It got to his neck then spread across his face. He gave an involuntary shudder and forced himself to master it.
‘Do you want to go outside and get some air?’ she said, sounding quite concerned.
He shook his head. He didn’t trust his legs to get him off the stage. He took out his sick-stained handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. His fringe was damp.
He stared at the wall at the far end of the hall, outwardly a study in disciplined attention, although a few had private thoughts about the haunted desolate look in his eyes, the sweating of his brow, the ghostly pallor of his waxy skin.
He was dimly aware of someone to his right addressing the gathering. The droning of the speaker was just background noise to him – the presence of others of no consequence or interest. He was there in body only. Until he heard his name. Coming back to his present, he realised that they were all looking at him.
Somehow he got to his feet. He stared around him, like a man woken from a cryogenic sleep. The audience waited and watched and then fidgeted a little uncomfortably in the prolonged silence. A few exchanged worried looks. Romney swallowed painfully where his barely digested sausage roll had scored the lining of his throat as it had been expelled from his body under intense pressure. He worked the knot of his tie.
