by Oliver Tidy
Romney had no answer for him. He stood and went and banged on the door. Locking mechanisms were released. ‘Think very carefully, Jez.’ The door opened and Marsh followed him out.
They were standing by the car, alone for the first time since the prison’s interview room, before Marsh could say what was on her mind. ‘Sir, I want to say that that was one of the most moving interviews I have ever had the good fortune to sit in on. The way you reached out to that damaged young man, really let him know he could be helped, that we’re not just in the business of crime and punishment, well, I wish that we could be more like that sometimes.’
Romney looked at her as though she’d suggested something obscene. ‘What? Don’t be soft, Sergeant? It’s all about results. Doesn’t matter how you get them. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you know. It’s all a game, them and us, and we have to do whatever it takes to screw the bad guys and put them away where they belong. Anyway, I doubt that after a chat with his brief he’ll feel like spilling his guts in a neat confession for a second time, so we’ll be back to the square one. Still, it was worth a try in my opinion. Especially with his emotional instability. You never know. I don’t think that shouts and threats would have made him blub or more cooperative, do you?’
‘But the bit about your parents? You are an orphan, right?’ It was very personal but Marsh needed to know how low he’d stooped.
‘They’re sunning themselves in the Algarve at the moment. Lucky buggers. Come on. I’m hungry.’ Romney opened the door and eased himself into the driver’s seat leaving Marsh standing there open mouthed, bewildered and feeling a complete fool.
***
18
‘But you don’t actually have any proof as yet?’ said Falkner, looking at Romney through narrowed eyes for a full grasp of the situation and what could be expected vis-a-vis the clean-up statistics for the month. ‘It’s all just conjecture, right?’
Romney didn’t like this analytical need-to-know side of his senior officer, especially when what he, Romney, was suggesting was uncorroborated supposition. It generally had the effect of dampening his spirits. ‘We’re confident we’ll turn up photographs showing both Jez Ray and Paul Henry attending the event commemorating the ferry boat disaster. There was something on the local news too, so maybe we’ll get lucky with film as well. If we need to, we’ll go looking for independent witnesses. When we tie them both to that we can use Ray’s history of death threats to lend weight to at least up the ante on Involuntary Manslaughter, if he decides he doesn’t want to come clean on the other one that is. If he wants to cooperate I’d be inclined to settle for what we agreed on with the Frenchman’s death, despite how it looks now. Fair’s fair. It would take some proving anyway and while I’m sure he knew what he was doing and who he was doing on that battlefield, I’m not sure it would be worth the effort. If he comes across for Vitriol’s murder he’ll get a long enough sentence that trying him for a more serious offence regarding the Frenchman wouldn’t necessarily add anything to his time. Personally, I don’t see him as a great danger to society. I think that he’s got it out of his system. What would be really welcome, of course, is if he sees that the way to a clear conscience and redemption is a full and candid confession to his crimes.’
‘And what are the chances of that?’
‘By the time his lawyer has finished with him, slim to nil, as usual, I suppose. They all like to think they can get away with it in the end and lawyers like to practise their craft not sit idly by as their clients sign up to their guilt on the dotted line. It’s their game, isn’t it? Win or lose they just walk away after collecting their fat fees.’
‘And in that eventuality?’ said Falkner, refusing to be drawn away from his primary interest. ‘Will we be able to successfully pursue a conviction, do you think?’
‘He as good as admitted his guilt with his reaction when I spoke to him in the prison. It wasn’t so much a case of me thinks he doth protest too much as me thinks he didn’t protest at all. So, at least we know where we’re looking now. We’ll be tracing his movements, making all the usual appropriate enquiries, of course. It’s the bloody hospital that’s infuriating me. I still find it hard to believe he could just walk in off the street, find his way to Vitriol’s room, stab him to death and then walk out again. We’ll be tracing staff who were on duty that day and showing them Ray’s photograph. We might get something out of it. He must have spoken to someone to find Vitriol. That place is like Minos’ labyrinth. I’d defy Indiana Jones to get in and out without a map and a sherpa.’
‘How about Crawford’s film?’ said Falkner, sounding less than satisfied.
‘Our enquiries are on-going, sir.’ Romney explained the idea they had arrived at regarding the likelihood that the film had been appropriated from the ARE for profit. ‘While we’re still trying to find it ourselves, it’s just as likely the film company might receive some kind of demand directly. And then, of course, we would expect them to involve us. We can’t help them if they won’t let us, sir.’ Romney was glad of the opportunity to plant the germ of this argument in his senior officer’s fertile conscience. When the matter was resolved –assuming Crawford was able to reach some sort of agreement with whoever was now trying to sell his film back to him – and the Crawfords – both major and minor – started criticising the role of Dover police, the germ might have matured to a healthy perspective and Falkner might be encouraged to close ranks to protect his station’s officers and reputation. It would all reflect on him ultimately anyway and so would be in his self-interest.
Falkner allowed himself to seem placated with this. It was as much as Romney should be hoping for, for now. However, now that he had volunteered a good line of enquiry very soon, no doubt, his senior officer would be hounding him for results.
‘There is something else I need to speak to you about, Tom,’ said Falkner. The gravity of what was occupying his mind tugged at his features so that his jowly face seemed to sag further than usual. Romney could think of nothing that he, personally, should be worrying over. ‘It’s a bit delicate. And I have to say, as commander of this little outpost of the law, a little disturbing. It’s related to a complaint I’ve had from one of the civilian staff.’
‘About me?’ said Romney.
‘No, no. Not about you, Tom. Not this time.’ Falkner smiled a hollow, mirthless smile. ‘But the complaint relates to your department. I want you to deal with it. I don’t want to make it anything official by getting involved myself. It wouldn’t look good for anyone and could be quite damaging for the individual concerned. I hope you can have a quiet word and that this can be nipped in the bud, Tom. I think I’ve managed to mollify the plaintiff by passing it off as an unfortunate lapse by an officer who left sensitive material relating to a current investigation open on his computer. If there is no repeat of the problem, I’m confident we can leave it at that. Just make sure that it doesn’t happen again.’
Romney’s worry was replaced by a strong sense of intrigue. He wished the superintendent would just get on with it. ‘Who is it, sir? What did he do?’ he said.
‘One of the female evening cleaners – an elderly and deeply religious woman by all accounts – was vacuuming around CID and, apparently, knocked into one of the workstations activating the monitor screen on one of the computers. The cleaner in question claims to have glanced at the screen and been confronted with an image involving,’ he consulted his notes through his half-moon spectacles, “a naked man in a state of arousal defecating on the leg stumps of a naked female double-amputee in a wheelchair.” She hasn’t been back to work since. She is claiming she’s been traumatised by the event, which she describes here as, “deeply disturbing”. No one’s talking about legal action yet, thankfully.’
‘Quite a detailed description for a glance,’ said Romney.
Falkner shrugged. ‘As you probably know, we have to monitor and record Internet traffic and online behaviour from the station’s terminals. Here is a print out of webs
ites which have been accessed recently by one of CIDs computers. Knowing your case load at the moment, I doubt any of them are work related.’
Romney didn’t know and wondered where his senior officer would have got such information and was minded to be more cautious about his own personal use of the facilities.
Falkner gingerly pushed across a sheet of paper slashed with fluorescent green ink as though he were afraid of catching something from it. ‘I’ve taken the trouble of highlighting some that give me cause for concern and others that I can’t even begin to pretend to understand what they are about. I have no idea regarding the content of these websites and I have no wish to know. I can’t even make sense of most of these domain names if I’m honest.’
Romney picked up the paper and registered the terminal’s operator: Grimes. He looked down the list, his eye naturally attracted to the garish colouring made by the random strokes of the highlighter pen: www.lickmystumps.com, www.pooporgy.com, www.pukeonmyprivates.co.uk.
Romney had read enough to understand what had happened. He opened his mouth to explain the conversation he and his officers had engaged in that might have then prompted Grimes out of curiosity – or more likely childish foolery with Spicer – to investigate further and find amusement in the sexual irregularities of others in the way that boys, big and small, always had and always would. Then Romney realised he would only serve to implicate himself in the issue, something he didn’t find necessary. He also remembered how Grimes had been responsible for leading Falkner to believe that he, Romney, had been seeking professional mental help at the local psychiatrist. He owed him for that.
‘Leave it with me, sir. I’ll speak to him.’
‘Perhaps, he should seek some counselling help. Talk to someone. I mean, the work aspect aside, it doesn’t strike me as a particularly healthy interest for a middle-aged married man with children. Each to their own and all that and it’s still largely a free country, but perhaps he might need a gentle reminder that as a serving police officer it is expected that he must conduct himself in an exemplary way both on and off duty.’
*
The message was waiting for Romney that Jez Ray and his legal representation would like to speak with the police at their earliest convenience on a matter relating to a recent serious crime. That language, coming as it did from the legal representation, prompted feelings within Romney akin to what he imagined he would experience if he found himself checking his lottery ticket on a Euro millions roll-over draw as the numbers were being called and realising he had the first four.
*
‘It’s not often you’ll hear of cases where someone facing a charge of Involuntary Manslaughter then asks for a charge of murder to be taken into consideration. Bit of a turn up for the books, wouldn’t you say?’ said Romney to Marsh, as they sat enjoying proper coffee round the corner from the station.
It was Romney’s idea and his treat after they had seen Jez Ray and his solicitor off the premises. The interview had gone well. Jez Ray had proved particularly cooperative and helpful. Images of lambs being slaughtered had played around Romney’s mind. As Romney had stood on the station steps and watched the patrol car shuttle Jez Ray back to Canterbury and incarceration, it had taken a good measure of his self-control to stop himself from smiling and waving him off, like some distant relative after a family gathering.
‘I’m still struggling to come to terms with how that’s turned out. My arm’s covered in pinch-bruises where I have to keep checking I’m not dreaming,’ said Romney, still thinking and now behaving and talking like a lottery winner. ‘What do you think made him do it?’
‘Obviously, your speech at the prison touched something deep and powerful within him, sir,’ said Marsh. She was struggling to contain her disappointment in him at the way he had, disgracefully in her opinion, pulled the wool over the young emotionally unstable man’s eyes. To her mind the whole business had been low and unsavoury. And she couldn’t quite put her finger on why.
Jez Ray’s sworn statement, with the ink of his signature still drying, sat on Romney’s desk. He had confessed to stabbing Edy Vitriol on the doorstep of his home. When he discovered he had not been fatally wounded, he went the next day to the hospital to finish the job in an ironically clinical fashion. He had taken two lives deliberately. The first of which Marsh could believe had been a spur of the moment thing. Not forgivable, of course, but perhaps understandable on some level. The second was clearly pre-meditated and was beyond justifiable. So why did she feel sorry for the young man? Why did Romney’s underhand treatment of Ray, simply to get a result and see justice done, bother her so? These were not questions she wanted to own up to. The answers would be something she would search for alone, later, with alcohol in front of her.
‘I’m sure you’re right. I just wanted confirmation,’ said Romney, smirking. ‘Perhaps we should try that nauseatingly woolly-liberal practice of reaching out to our criminals on an emotional level more often. Sorry they’re victims too aren’t they, somewhere in their deep and impoverished pasts. We’ll have prisons full of blubbering, conscience-riddled, scrotes all looking for redemption and the nearest official to confess all their past misdemeanours to. And the NHS can fund all their subsequent programmes of therapy.’
In what could have been a contender for understatement of the year, Marsh said, ‘You sound like you don’t approve of the criminally convicted having access to programmes of mental health treatment and counselling that could help them understand themselves better, aid the recovery process and maybe prevent them from reoffending.’
‘And you do, I suppose?’
‘Research has demonstrated that therapy and education of the self can have a strong positive impact on reoffending statistics and the subsequent threat to society that convicted criminals pose.’
‘At what cost to the public purse? When I think of some of the hard-cases I’ve put away in my time, I can’t imagine any of them thinking much of a programme of therapy other than as a soft prison option. An opportunity to lie to some arsehole who hasn’t got the first idea of what most of these shit-bags who ruin people’s lives are really like. In case you’re in any doubt over my position, it’s the victims of crime I feel for. They’re the ones who should be supported and helped. Life is tough for most of us and most of us don’t resort to breaking the law because of it.’
Even though she knew she was wasting her breath, Marsh said, ‘But if money were spent on prevention, in the long run the public purse could be spared the expense of housing and looking after repeat offenders.’
‘It shouldn’t be about the money,’ said Romney, performing a quick U-turn. ‘It should be about the principles involved. If you know the law and then you break the law you should suffer the consequences and stop bleating about it. Take it like a man. If you can’t do the time blah, blah, blah. Actually, it’s something that I respect about young Jez Ray. I’m astounded by his admission, but I really respect him for it. He’s broken the law. It’s going to cost him a lot of his freedom, but he’s held his hands up. I wish him well. Fancy some cheesecake? I’ve got a funny story for you. You look like you need cheering up.’
*
‘If anyone’s interested, Duke of York straight after work. I’ll be buying the first round and dedicating it to villains who come clean. God bless each and every one of them. What a lot of work they save us,’ said Romney. There were smiles and nods of agreement around the little CID office. ‘While I’ve got everyone’s attention, there is something else I need to discuss. Superintendent Falkner had me in his office this afternoon regarding an official complaint he’s received from the legal counsel of the old lady cleaner who has recently left us.
‘Apparently, while working here the other evening she was exposed to what her solicitor calls deeply disturbing images of a sexually perverted nature on a computer screen. I’m not aware of any case we’re working on at the moment that involved that kind of thing. I told the super we don’t have anything like that down he
re and that she must be making it up. He accepts this, so nothing to worry about. Besides all Internet traffic is monitored at area. He’s referred her legal team to them. I’m just telling you now because they’ll have to be an investigation by Professional Standards and if you walk in to find them sniffing around, not to worry. We’ve got nothing to hide, have we?’ He looked at all their faces and they all looked back and blank except one, who looked like he’d seen a ghost. ‘Carry on,’ finished Romney, only just managing to stop himself from laughing before turning away for his office to wait.
The tap at the door wasn’t long in coming. Grimes stood there looking anxious.
‘You don’t look so good,’ said Romney. ‘Guts playing you up again?’
‘No, gov. Conscience, actually.’
‘Come in then.’ He didn’t ask him to sit. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s about those images that Mavis would have seen.’
*
Romney had not enjoyed Grimes’ confession as much as he thought he would. He actually came to feel a little sorry for his charade when Grimes’ anxiety over a possibly visit from area investigators reached its zenith and threatened to embarrass them both.
After impressing upon the detective constable the need for professionalism at all times and to resist idle curiosity, especially on work computers, Romney assured Grimes that he would do all in his power to explain away events in some believable way and smooth the waters. If nothing else the exercise would serve to have Grimes’ feeling beholding to his DI for a while, which was never a bad thing.
DI Romney had two final tasks to perform that evening before he left for drinks with his team. He shut his office door, sat down and dialled the number of his GP. It couldn’t go on. The not knowing, the self-generated fears, the dwelling on the stories that everyone knew of men who had ignored their body’s warning signs and had left the seeking out of professional medical advice until it was too late. It would be one of the most embarrassing and unpleasant experiences of his adult life – it wouldn’t be much fun for the GP either – but it had to be faced. He had now found blood when he wiped.
