A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (21 page)

With a deep breath he managed another hole in his belt, which helped with appearances but hurt his stomach. He consoled himself with the hope that she wouldn’t want to see him for long.

Grimes struggled to remember the last time he had set foot in what had been Superintendent Falkner’s rather dreary and functional office space and what was now Superintendent Vine’s tastefully decorated, understated but sophisticated home from home. The battered metal filing cabinet had been replaced by a new one that subtly blended with the new colour scheme. Falkner’s big old desk had been swapped for something better proportioned to the room and brand new. Gone were the hard orange plastic seats from the canteen. In their place were matching chairs and they were of the upholstered variety with armrests. There were pot plants, prints on the walls and a very nice Venetian blind. The whiff of fresh paint still hung pleasantly in the air alongside the unmistakeable and pungent fragrance of freshly-laid carpet. The whole aromatic effect was something to inhale and savour.

One day soon his own home would be mended and infused by such rich scents. And he wouldn’t have had to pay for, or lift a finger for, any of it. Thank God the neighbour had thought to take out comprehensive household insurance.

He looked forward to the day they could move back home with a sudden and powerful longing. He already sorely missed his family space and comfort. After only two nights in his sister-in-law’s garage the tang of spilt engine oil, musty-dampness and long-unswept recesses were combining to make him wonder about his hasty decision of abandoning his comfortable lodgings at Romney’s. Still, at least he, Maureen and the kids were back together.

He hoped the builders would pull their fingers out and be done before the autumnal evenings closed in. He’d checked the walls of his new temporary accommodation on Sunday – maybe something he should have done before moving in – single skin blockwork with a rendered finish. That wouldn’t be much of a barrier against the cold. He had to hope that the corrugated asbestos roof didn’t leak. On top of that, he’d woken up to find the biggest spider he’d ever seen on top of the duvet not two feet from his nose and glaring at him from big black eyes on stalks. If Maureen had seen it she’d have screamed the place down. He should have caught it and put it out instead of punching the covers to watch it fly off into the shelves of paint tins. He’d better try to find it when he got back.

‘Come in,’ said Superintendent Vine. ‘Sit down.’

Grimes sat and suffered as his compressed stomach pushed painfully against his belt. It felt like a barbed wire gastric band. That had been a mistake. But not one he could conceivably do anything about now. He could hardly start fiddling with his trousers in the new super’s office while she sat staring at him across the divide of her desk.

Superintendent Vine looked at him over the top of her glasses and then removed them completely, laid them on top of her paperwork and linked her fingers together. ‘This is a private chat between us. And need go no further than this office. Clear?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ And contrary to the intended effect of her offer, Grimes was instantly put on his guard.

‘Bernie Stark. Tell me why you sought him out on Friday. Whose idea was it?’

‘It was DI Romney’s idea, ma’am. He told me to have a mooch about town, see if I could find Bernie and ask him why he had changed his mind about Jimmy Savage. Just a friendly chat.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And what happened when you found him?’

‘We had a friendly chat. I’ve known Bernie for years. He’s helped us with a bit of information from time to time.’

‘He was an informant?’

‘Not regular. Let’s say he was a public-spirited member of the community. If he got wind of something he thought might be of interest to us he’d get in touch.’

‘Was he paid for information?’ She scribbled a note on the pad in front of her. So much for a private chat.

‘Not to my knowledge, ma’am. I never paid him and I never heard the DI say he gave him money.’

For reasons she chose not to share, that clearly disappointed her. ‘But you bought him a drink on Friday?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I liked the man. It was just a drink. And like I said, he was public-spirited. Pity there weren’t more like him in the town.’ Grimes wondered if, wherever he was now, Bernie could hear him and if he could whether he would think that Grimes had lost his mind.

Vine looked pleased with Grimes’ willing cooperation. She let him see this and then said, casually, ‘Where was DI Romney for the afternoon?’

‘I believe he was seeing an informant, ma’am – a proper informant. But you’d have to ask him.’ Grimes wondered if she saw through him.

‘I understand you have problems at home.’

That was an unexpected change of direction. ‘Yes, ma’am. But it’s not something I bring to work with me.’

‘I hope not, Detective. But a broken home has its effect on everyone.’

Grimes thought that a strange expression to use. ‘We’re dealing with it, ma’am.’

‘Good. Glad to hear it. Do you have children?’

‘Yes, ma’am, two. One of each.’

‘How are they dealing with things?’

‘We’re all coping, ma’am.’

‘Whatever has happened between you both to bring you to this point, never stop talking to your wife, Detective Grimes, and remember: children always come first. It’s not their fault. They shouldn’t be used as weapons.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. I quite agree. They shouldn’t. I’ll be mindful.’ Grimes had no idea what she was talking about.

‘That’ll be all.’

Grimes thanked her once more and hurried out. The first thing he did when he was in the deserted stairwell was to unbuckle his belt. The relief was something quite special, like emptying a particularly full bladder after being stuck in traffic. And she hadn’t mentioned his weight.

Grimes headed straight back to CID and Romney’s office to let him know she seemed to have accepted all they had agreed on.

***

14

‘That’s good then,’ said Romney, pleased with the distraction from the worries generated by his brush with new medical knowledge. ‘Let me know if she tries again. I’ve changed my mind about something. I want you to have a discreet word in The Eight Bells. See if you can find anyone who saw Bernie leaving on Friday and if they did whether he was with anyone. If it was Billy Savage’s motor parked up outside Bernie’s bedsit because he drove him home from the pub then maybe he can fill in some of the blanks for us.’ Romney smiled unpleasantly. ‘I’d like an excuse for a chat with Billy Savage.’

‘Is that wise, gov?’ said Grimes a little uneasily.

‘Don’t worry about Boudicca; I’ll deal with her. And anyway, now Maurice has stamped it natural causes I can’t see there being any sort of official fuss.’

Grimes left to discover what he could. It was a measure of his loyalty to his DI that he should risk the wrath of Superintendent Vine if he were caught poking around where he’d been told not to. He consoled himself that it was just a couple of harmless questions. It was unlikely she’d ever find out. And there was a nice little delicatessen up the high street. They did a lovely pork pie.

*

DC Harmer delivered Maurice Wendell’s post-mortem report on Bernie Stark to Romney’s office. Romney spent a few minutes studying the contents and learned nothing new. Bernie Stark died from a heart attack. The physical effects of his burning were described but whether they occurred while the man was still alive or post-mortem was impossible to say with any certainty.

Romney picked up his phone and dialled Maurice’s number. They said hello. Maurice asked what he could do for the police. Romney said, ‘I’ve read your report on Bernie Stark.’

‘And?’

‘And now I have the medical facts of the circumstances surrounding his death I’d like a second opinion to go with them.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s possible that Bernie Stark was in the company of men who might not have been best pleased with him over something.’

‘There’s no physical evidence to suggest foul play, Tom. Sorry. Something brought on his heart attack. It could have been anything from being terrorised to the last cigarette that broke the camel’s back. His ticker wasn’t in the best condition. Sooner or later he was going to suffer one.’

‘And the burning?’

‘Like I said, nothing conclusive. The shock of finding himself alight could have triggered the heart attack or he could have suffered the burns immediately afterwards as part of some unfortunate chain reaction of events – spilling a high proof-level spirit into his beard and hair. The result, physically speaking, would be the same. He had a high level of alcohol in his system.’

‘So I saw.’ Romney sighed heavily. ‘Any news on our body from the hotel?’

‘All done. Just got to write it up. Pretty straightforward. Someone smashed her skull in from behind.’

Romney thanked him and hung up. He rang for news of the forensics report. It was not finished. He looked out the contact number Mrs Allen had provided. He was still cross with her for clearing out of the Dover Marina Hotel without a word to the authorities. No answer. He checked his watch, thought about nipping out for a cigarette and decided instead to use the time to have a good read through the file that he’d had sent up that dealt with the case against Jimmy Savage for the murder of John Stafford. It would be both wise and prudent, he told himself, to be quite familiar with everything to do with that.

Thirty minutes later, Romney closed the file and reclined in his chair. He breathed out some relief. He had seen nothing in the file to set him worrying; there was nothing obvious of a procedural nature for the police to reproach themselves over. In fact everything seemed quite uncomplicated. Everything pertinent to the case was there. Everything was as it should be. The only slightly unusual aspect of the whole business had been the length of sentence handed down to Jimmy. Clearly the judge had been in a bad mood. Still, it was nice to see that just now and again the judiciary viewed the manslaughter of one human being by another as deserving a longer custodial sentence than insurance fraud.

Romney chewed his biro and stared vacantly at the far wall until his thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile. He heaved out a big breath and answered it.

‘Inspector Romney?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Sandra Allen. I have a missed call from you.’

The report he’d just read and his morning so far had put him in no mood for pleasantries. ‘You left Dover without providing us with your formal statement, Mrs Allen. I distinctly remember you said not to call before eleven yesterday morning. When one of my officers did call, soon after eleven, we were informed you’d already left the hotel.’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I was upset about something. I’d suffered a bereavement. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

‘Of course,’ said Romney, softening a little. ‘I understand. The proximity to sudden and violent death of another human being is always going to be a terrible shock.’

‘I’m not talking about her – Chloe passed away on Saturday night.’

Romney was knocked off his mental stride. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. A close relative?’

‘What? Chloe was my dog.’

Romney felt as though every pore in his body had opened simultaneously to release liquid the temperature of thawing ice.  The dampness bonded his clothing to his skin in a chilling fusion and froze his hair to his scalp. He became aware of his heart beating in his chest like the erratic, frantic flapping of a broken-winged bird being stalked. The high tide of his lifeblood roared in the depths of his ear canals. His eyes came to rest on his bandaged, bitten hand and he felt it throb beneath his amateurish, indifferent wrapping. He felt a cocktail of anxiety, confusion, agitation, paranoia and terror drown his thinking. And one sentence blazed in the darkness of his mind with the intensity of a distress flare in an English Channel night:
the animal from which the bite was received should also be examined for rabies.

‘How did it die, Mrs Allen?’ said Romney, barely suppressing his inclination to shout.

‘Chloe was a
she
, not an ‘it’, Inspector. I don’t know. I woke up on Sunday morning and she was lying dead on the bathroom floor. I’m afraid it’s really upset me.’

‘What did you do with her? Where is she now?’ Romney’s tone carried more than a hint of alarm and desperation at the sudden thought that the woman might have seen fit to have the creature incinerated at the vet’s. All thoughts apart from three fled: (1) the dog was dead, (2) the dog had bitten him two days before, (3) his hand ached and now he was thinking about it his whole arm felt stiff and his shoulder. ‘Mrs Allen?’

‘Why do you want to know that? Why is that important?’ There was deep suspicion in the woman’s voice now.

‘Mrs Allen. Will you please just answer the question?’ Romney realised he was now closer to shouting than not.

‘I buried her in my garden.’

His relief was palpable. ‘What is your address?’

‘Are you coming for the statement today?’