by Oliver Tidy
The Internet search he had made had only served to distress him further. There was, he was now forced to consider, a very real possibility that he had cancer of the anus, or cancer of the colon or bowel cancer or cancer of something to do with his backside.
Romney made the appointment for the following morning, returned the phone to its cradle and felt a little better, although he couldn’t explain why.
The next phone call he made was to the offices of Dr Puchta. Naturally, there was no one there. The money she earned she probably didn’t work afternoons at all. Wouldn’t need to. He left a message on the answer-phone that he would call again the following day to speak with the doctor about the possibility of her making a house call at Canterbury prison on his behalf. And then he stood, shook off the worry that would do him no good and that he was loathe to fall prey to and prepared to go and enjoy the rest of whatever sort of a life he had left.
***
19
‘I’ve had an idea,’ said Romney. He and Marsh were sitting at a small circular table in the bar. Grimes and Spicer were playing darts, badly. ‘I want you to speak with your new best friend and find out about Crawford’s arrangement to get his film back. If he’s going to pay for it, there might have to be an exchange. I can’t imagine Crawford paying up front and trusting he’ll then get his film returned. If there is to be a rendezvous, I want to know the details.’
‘Why?’ said Marsh. A guarded tone was evident in her speech.
‘Why do you think? I want to be there, of course.’
‘Why? You said before that you didn’t care to be involved in it. He could just get on with it.’
‘Blimey, you sound like my daughter when she was at primary school – why? why? why? I’ve changed my mind, all right? Whoever has the film has committed criminal acts. As the upholders of law and order we are duty bound to investigate and where appropriate apprehend and prosecute. Quite frankly, Sergeant, I’m a little disappointed I should have to remind you of that.’
Marsh was not to be fazed by Romney’s assumed bullishness or his U-turn. ‘It wouldn’t have anything to do with you wanting to get your hands on the film to inconvenience Hugo Crawford, or just get his back up, would it, sir?’
As they were socialising, Romney allowed this, but ignored it because she was right. ‘Naturally, as part of our investigation into the death of Paul Henry we should like to see the film in case there is anything regarding our murder enquiry that we can learn from it.’
‘And that’s the only reason?’ she persisted.
‘It’s a good one and the only one you’re getting.’ He sipped his pint.
‘What makes you think that Ramsden can and will help?’
‘Firstly, he’s there and he can just ask Crayfish. Crayfish would appear to have taken him into his confidence about it already anyway. Secondly, as an animal rights enthusiast who has already conspired to interfere with the making of the film I would imagine that he’d be willing to tell us whatever he could in the hope that the production can be further delayed. Thirdly, tell him if he doesn’t help us, we’ll tell Crayfish all about him.’
‘Will we?’
‘I’ll think about it. But don’t tell him that bit. Besides, his sister was knocked about, so he’ll want to help us get our hands on who did that, won’t he? Try and be a bit more positive, will you?’
They sipped their drinks in silence for a minute before Romney said, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
‘You want me to call him now?’
‘Why not? The payoff could be imminent.’
‘I don’t think I’ve got his number.’
‘Yes, you have. He called you on your mobile when we were driving up to the prison this morning.’
Marsh huffed and got out her phone. She scrolled down her calls received. Then she stood and moved away from the table to find some quiet. She returned in two minutes wearing a troubled expression.
‘Well?’ said Romney.
‘It’s tonight. He’s going to try and find out the details and call me back.’
Grimes and Spicer returned to the table. Grimes was carrying a tray of drinks. It was an unusual sight.
‘Forget those,’ said Romney, standing. ‘We’ve got a job on tonight.’
‘What?’ moaned Grimes. ‘This round just cost me thirteen quid, gov.’
‘Did you get a receipt?’
‘Yes.’
‘They might take them back,’ said Romney, keeping a straight face.
*
The four of them sat around CID offices drinking strong coffee that Romney had ordered in. They’d only had one drink each at the pub, but if they got to see some action that night, he didn’t want the accusation being levelled at them that they’d all turned up to the party stinking of alcohol and under the influence. Superintendent Falkner would not like that at all.
Ramsden still hadn’t called. It had now been over half-an-hour.
Grimes was still complaining that he’d wasted good money on drinks the barman refused to refund him for. They’d reached a compromise: the tray of drinks had gone in one of the industrial fridges in the kitchens in case they were able to get back for them before closing time.
Romney was busying himself with paperwork.
Marsh caught up with some emails.
Spicer sat quietly chatting on the phone.
When Marsh’s phone rang all three looked in her direction with silent expectation. She listened, grunted, asked a couple of questions no one could hear, scribbled something down and hung up. She made eye contact with Romney through his glass partition and let him know that had been Ramsden. He came out to join them.
Marsh was wearing a serious expression. ‘Crawford has enlisted the help of Samson Security to deal with the exchange. They are meeting with the, what do we call them?’
‘Thieves.’
‘Extortionists.’
‘Hijackers.’
‘In an hour from now. One representative of Samson Security is going to make the exchange – cash for film.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Romney. ‘It’s Wilkie, right?’
She nodded. ‘He volunteered to put himself in danger, apparently. Said it was ultimately his responsibility to get the film back.’
‘How noble if a little hard to swallow,’ said Romney. ‘What are the arrangements?’
‘Ramsden said no one knows exactly where the drop off is to be yet. The thieves are going to telephone instructions to Wilkie when he is mobile.’
‘That’s not very trusting is it?’ said Romney.
‘They probably want to make sure he’s not being followed,’ said Grimes. ‘I saw something similar in a Taggart. They’ll make him drive around a bit and past people they’ve got watching. If it looks like he’s being followed they’ll pull out.’
‘What happened in Taggart?’ said Spicer.
‘The kidnappers tumbled a set up and killed the businessman, but it wasn’t how it looked. His wife was behind it all just to get him killed so that she could claim on the insurance. Clever really.’
There was a lull in their conversation and they all ended up looking at Romney for his lead. But Romney had switched off. His gaze was distant and his mind was exploring something private.
‘Sir?’ said Marsh.
He returned to them. ‘Get on to Ramsden and find out everything you can about the car Wilkie is driving tonight and where he’s leaving from.’ She turned. ‘Hang on. Did he say how much is involved?’ Marsh shook her head. ‘Find out.’ Marsh moved away to do this. ‘You two both got plenty of petrol in your vehicles?’ said Romney.
‘Half a tank,’ said Grimes.
‘I filled up this morning,’ said Spicer.
Marsh returned quickly. ‘He’s going to call me back. What are we going to do, sir?’
‘Follow him. We’ve got three cars between us. We can interchange and keep in touch on our radios. We all know Dover well enough to find alternative routes if and when we need them.
’
‘And when he makes the exchange?’ said Marsh.
Romney smiled a most enigmatic and knowing smile for reply.
*
As they had begun organising themselves for the pursuit they realised the darkness that had now fully descended would be both to their advantage and their disadvantage. While it would make them less noticeable it would also make it easier for them to lose Wilkie in the evening traffic.
Romney had one final instruction for Marsh to relay to Ramsden when the man called back with the details Marsh had asked for. On hearing it, Ramsden protested that he’d done enough, risked enough, but when Romney took the mobile from Marsh and threatened him with full exposure to Crawford and then investigation by the police, he meekly said he’d do his best. Romney had told him that his best had better be good enough and hung up.
Romney and Marsh concealed their vehicle in a small turning near the castle car park exit. Spicer was parked up further along to the right. If that were the route to be taken, it would lead Wilkie up towards the Duke of York roundabout and options of back down into Dover towards the port, or along the little two lane carriageway towards Whitfield and the A2 beyond, or out towards Deal. Grimes was down the hill to everyone’s left, a route that would take Wilkie back into the town. A couple of vehicles had come and gone during their vigil. None had been the one they were waiting for.
As much as Romney was clearly excitedly anticipating the evening to come, Marsh was feeling the dread that came over her with every mention of Wilkie’s involvement in anything. She had detected a malevolence in the former policeman that seemed to increase in intensity with every encounter. Her guess would be that it was born of his deep resentment for his job loss and his current lot. She would also imagine that Wilkie blamed everyone but himself for the way things had turned out for him. He was that type.
Marsh had been instrumental in Wilkie losing his job. She’d hoped that when he left the force she would never have to see him again. She didn’t fear much, but she’d seen in his evil stare that had pinned her like some laser that he felt he owed her. He would not forget their history and if and when the opportunity ever came for retribution he’d welcome and embrace it.
Romney glanced again at his watch as the headlights of another vehicle crawled along the narrow exit route out of Dover castle. They waited until it had joined the highway and accelerated past their position. Romney noted with satisfaction that Ramsden had not disappointed him. One of the rear lights of Wilkie’s vehicle had been smashed and was not working.
‘That was a good idea,’ said Marsh. ‘It’ll certainly make him easier to follow. Let’s just hope he doesn’t get pulled by an over-zealous patrol car for a traffic violation.’
‘Are you kidding me, Sergeant? Can you see any of our uniforms getting out of their nice warm cars to give him a ticket and lumber themselves with extra paperwork? They’ve turned looking the other way into an art form.’
Marsh used the radio to talk to Grimes and Spicer. She told Spicer that Wilkie was approaching his position and that he should fall in behind them when they’d passed. By previous arrangement Grimes knew to hold on until they saw which way Wilkie was headed once he’d negotiated the roundabout that he was approaching. If he went left or right at the roundabout then Grimes could cut through the town to intercept him. If Wilkie went straight over towards Deal, Grimes would just have to put his foot down and try to catch up.
Wilkie was clearly in no hurry. At the roundabout he took the first exit along the A2, bypassing Dover’s central mass. Romney scowled. It was not the best way for the police. Grimes was told to move along and make the best time he could cutting up through the town, but the traffic and the lights and the one way system would inevitably delay him. The bypass wasn’t the bypass for nothing.
Wilkie continued to maintain a steady pace, which was considerate of him. At Whitfield roundabout he turned left down the steep decline of Whitfield Hill. Reaching the roundabout at the bottom he took the exit for the Alkham Valley Road. Marsh called it over to Grimes who said he would detour accordingly but that traffic was heavy in the town centre. So far, so fairly good.
As per the vehicle surveillance training course – and just in case anyone was paying attention to who was behind Wilkie and for how long – Romney told Marsh to radio Spicer that when he cut through the housing estate, as he was about to, Spicer should continue on in his place.
Marsh was awaiting Spicer’s affirmative response when Romney indicated and turned off. Seeing as Spicer hadn’t replied, the manoeuvre seemed a little unwise to Marsh. It was immediately followed by a string of Anglo-Saxon expletives as the DI looked in his rear-view mirror to see that Spicer had followed him off the main road and into the little housing estate.
‘What is that idiot doing?’ he shouted.
Marsh was thinking that perhaps her senior officer’s reaction was a bit severe given that Spicer hadn’t responded to the instruction. Perhaps he hadn’t heard her. She thought Romney should have waited. It was his fault, but she wasn’t about to give voice to that view.
Knowing the area well, Romney put his foot down and continued to swear. He had intended to use the small maze of short, narrow streets to rejoin the main highway without much delay. He would follow that plan. This didn’t have to be catastrophic to the operation. It would only cost them a little time and the pace of Wilkie’s progress, along with his remarkable rear-light, should make him easy to find again.
While Romney was at fault for the cock-up in the tail, he couldn’t be blamed for not knowing that half the roads of the little estate were closed while one of the local utility company’s supply lines for the district was being renewed. He swore some more, got caught up in the one way re-routing system, held up behind a temporary traffic light that stubbornly refused to turn green and then found himself stuck behind a dozen other cars all waiting their turn to filter out onto the main road. All the time Spicer kept a steady distance behind him.
‘Idiot. Now we’ve lost him. He’ll be fucking miles away by the time we get out of here.’
‘Maybe he didn’t hear the instruction, sir.’
‘Did he really have to? Doesn’t he understand: he’s supposed to be following Wilkie not me? Jesus H Christ.’ He banged the horn three times in vain. The traffic didn’t move.
Stuck in the queue behind his governor, Spicer did not get out of his vehicle to come and speak to his senior officer about the situation and he maintained radio silence. If he had being paying attention and seen Romney’s silhouette in the car in front of him pounding the steering wheel he had probably already locked his doors.
‘Get on to Grimes. See where he is?’ said Romney.
Grimes was stuck in the town. It was refuse collection night and the traffic was particularly heavy.
Romney got out of the car, slammed the door and went back to Spicer. Marsh turned to watch and hoped the DI would be reasonable. After a short discussion and some gesticulating Spicer backed up a little and then managed a seven point turn and roared off the way they had come. Romney got back in just as the traffic started to move.
‘His radio isn’t working,’ he said, grudgingly. ‘I’ve told him to get back out on the main road and look for a vehicle with one tail-light.’
‘If he’s got no radio, how will we keep in touch?’ said Marsh.
‘He’s got his mobile hasn’t he?’ said Romney, irritably.
Typically, now that Spicer had disappeared the traffic flowed out of the estate like an unblocked drain. They were still stuck in a train of cars, but at least they were out of first gear. There was no sign of Wilkie, of course.
Marsh hailed Grimes, but his news was no more encouraging. The operation had gone from unified cohesion to shambolic disunity in the space of five minutes. Romney’s frustration and anger crowded the vehicle’s interior. Traffic thinned and all they could do was continue on looking ahead for a vehicle with a damaged tail-light.
As they passed the public car pa
rk of the council owned informal parkland of Russell Gardens, next to the ruins of the local weekend attraction, Kearsney Abbey, Marsh looked across and saw a car with a damaged rear-light. It was on the vehicle’s nearside – the same side that Wilkie’s had been broken.
‘He’s in there,’ said Marsh. ‘Russell Gardens car park.’
Romney braked hard. ‘You sure?’
‘No. Not in the dark. But there’s a car in there with a broken nearside light.’
It was enough for Romney to slew across the road to the obvious annoyance of more than one other road user and somehow, without collision, get them through the necessary one-hundred and eighty degrees, back onto the tarmac and headed towards the car park entrance.
Marsh felt her body’s system ratchet up a gear at the prospect of physical police intervention and then up another at the nearness of further confrontation with Wilkie. She just had time to call their location over to Grimes before Romney cut across the flow of traffic and shot into the parking area.
In the minute it had taken them to gain the entrance to the car park, Wilkie had extinguished his own lights, plunging the virtually empty space into near total darkness.
Romney’s headlights picked out two vehicles parked side-by-side at the far end of the car park. As they approached Marsh experienced mixed feelings that she had been right about who one of them belonged to.
There were no lights in the car park; nothing but the faintest hint of moonlight and a suggestion of light pollution to help the eye see. Romney rolled his car to a stop leaving his lights on to illuminate the vehicles before them. There was no sign of activity or people.
