A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (26 page)

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Were you with Inspector Romney when he was bitten by that dog?’ said Vine, rather too nonchalantly for Marsh’s liking.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘He says there was a strong possibility that it had recently been out of the country and that it was sick – foaming at the mouth, I believe was the expression he used. Was that your understanding?’

Marsh suddenly hated what Vine was trying to use her for and it took all her self-control to maintain an indifferent expression. ‘The dog was certainly agitated and there may have been something around its mouth, ma’am. But, honestly, I’m not good with animals unless they’re on the menu.’

‘And what about recently being out of the country and avoiding quarantine procedures?’

‘I must have missed that bit, ma’am. I was in and out.’ Marsh wasn’t going to lie for him but she wasn’t prepared to drop him in it either.

Vine breathed deeply and Marsh experienced a feeling of the station commander’s disappointment being projected to settle on her like a fine sprinkling of noxious talc. ‘Are those the details?’ said Vine, indicating a sheet of paper Marsh was clutching. Marsh nodded and smiled. Vine put out her hand for them. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’

Marsh stood. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

‘And tell DI Romney from me that I do have better things to do with my time than continually helping CID out with their difficulties.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Marsh and left.

When she passed the message on to Romney, he just smiled and said, ‘I can imagine. Updating the inventory of her desk, perhaps.’

Superintendent Vine called down to Joy within the quarter hour. According to Stephanie Lather’s GP, Stephanie had not been to see her for over three years and there was no record within the practice of Stephanie having seen another doctor or locum. If Stephanie was taking prescription sleeping pills, the GP had said, she was not getting them through her. Marsh thanked the superintendent and went in search of Romney.

When she told him, he said, ‘Told you she had her uses.’

*

Joy’s mobile rang as she was walking back from the pathology lab where she’d gone to collect a sample of Chloe’s hair. When pressed, forensics had suggested that the hair recovered from Rachael Sparrow’s clothing was from a breed of toy dog. Joy had instantly been put in mind of Chloe and decided she’d go across and get a sample for forensics to make a comparison with on her own initiative rather than wait until she’d mentioned the toy dog angle to Romney and then waited for his light bulb to come on and send her across anyway.

She fished the phone out of her bag. Tracy. Shit. She answered it. ‘I’m just finishing off something important and then I’m hoping to knock off early.’

‘There’s no rush now. Our mum died ten minutes ago.’ Her sister’s voice was hard, accusing. But it was a brittle hardness; something under strain that could snap at any moment.  ‘I was holding her hand when she went. She thought I was you. She called me Joy. I’m the one who’s nursed her, looked after her, been there for her, and she wanted you. So, no need for you to leave your precious job early. No need for you to come up at all now. I’ll let you know when the funeral is, just in case you’re interested in coming.’ Tracy terminated the call.

Joy stood stunned with both the shocking news and her sister’s strikingly callous delivery of it. She stared at the device in her palm and felt the hot tears of sadness, anger and frustration, resentment and unfairness prickle her eyes. She wiped at them with her sleeve, but there was no stemming the flow.  A hollowness opened up inside her and she fell into it. She felt dizzy, lightheaded. She stumbled to sit on a nearby bench, put her head between her knees and breathed. When she felt she’d stabilised herself she sat up again and began to shake with the outpouring of her grief.

*

At the end of the working day Romney shut up his office, deposited his bag in his car, locked it up and set off in the direction of Dover’s cheapest watering hole. As the purveyor of the cheapest pint in town and because of its central location, The Eight Bells was a natural magnet for the local booze-hounds.

Romney ordered himself a pint of Spitfire, thereby completely disregarding doctor’s orders. He didn’t intend to drink enough of it to matter to his course of antibiotics, but appearances must be maintained. He couldn’t have those of the town’s drinking regulars who knew and recognised him thinking he’d gone soft.

He turned his back on the bar while he surveyed the clientele.

This was his first evening on reconnaissance looking for particular drinking pals of Bernie Stark and it was first time lucky. Romney wryly reflected that, given the price of a decent pint in most of the competing hostelries in the vicinity, it would have been a safe bet that he’d find them there sooner rather than later.

Clearly his entry hadn’t been missed. Before long he caught the eye of a man he knew to be a close associate of Bernie’s. An understanding passed between them in the briefest of glances. Romney turned back to the bar and waited. A couple of sips more and a figure appeared near his elbow.

‘I need to talk to you about Bernie,’ said Romney not turning to the man nor acknowledging him.

‘Aye. Guessed as much.’ The man had a heavy Scottish accent. ‘No here though, eh?’

‘Fair enough,’ said Romney, his glass to his lips. ‘I’m just off to the library. You do know where that is, don’t you?’

The man grunted. ‘Sure I’ll find it, eh? If no, I can always ask a policeman.’

‘Don’t take too long, Sweaty. I’m a busy man.’ Romney put down his unfinished drink and walked out without a backward glance.

*

Romney was flicking through a magazine on sailing that was three months old when Sweaty walked in. Aesthetically, Sweaty put Romney in mind of a poor relation of Rab C. Nesbitt. Sweaty had lived and worked in the town since before Romney had joined the local force. Despite his lengthy immersion in Dover culture, Sweaty’s accent was as strong as the day he left Glasgow. Sweaty, like many of his fellow countrymen, was proud of his race, his history and his homeland and after a few drinks he didn’t generally take too kindly to people suggesting that if Scotland was so bloody great why didn’t he piss off back there. As a police constable in uniform, this is how Romney had come to know him. 

‘Thanks for coming,’ said Romney.

‘Nae bother. What can I do you for, Mr Romney?’

‘You were pretty thick with Bernie, weren’t you?’

The Scotsman smiled knowingly. ‘Aye. I was.’

‘You’ll know then that he’d had a rethink over whether it was in fact Jimmy Savage he saw smashing John Stafford over the head three years ago.’

‘Aye. He did mention it.’

‘Did he mention why?’

Sweaty settled his surprisingly clear blue eyes on Romney’s and there was a trace of an enigmatic smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. As enigmatic as the puffy features of a drink-sodden, battle-scarred sixty-something-year-old Scot could hope to achieve. ‘He did confide in me, as it happens, Mr Romney.’

‘I can’t make you tell me, Sweaty. But it would be nice to know. There’s nothing that you could ever be called on and I’d give you my word that it would stay between us. And it’s not like it could hurt Bernie now, is it?’

Sweaty considered for a long moment. ‘Actually, Mr Romney, I’d like to tell you. I think it’s a story worth telling to someone who’d give a shite. And I honestly don’t think Bernie’d mind. Like you say, it can’t hurt him now, can it? It’ll be thirsty work though, Mr Romney.’

‘I’m quite thirsty myself, Sweaty. How about the Roman Quay?’

‘Quay’s a bit popular at the moment. The Flotilla should be quiet.’

Romney smiled conspiratorially. ‘The Flotilla it is then.’

*

Deep within herself Joy had found some resilience, pulled herself together and made it back to the station. She navigated her way to the ladies without incident and did something about her appearance. She kept repeating to herself that she just had to get through the next half hour, avoid everyone, and then she could leave, go home and deal with it. With an iron will she locked her emotions down, touched up her make-up and took the sample of Chloe’s dog hair to forensics.

***

19

Romney was in early and in obvious good spirits. He came out of his office rubbing his hands and smiling. Marsh managed to smile back and was spared comments about her appearance by the arrival of Grimes and Harmer entering loudly and laughing behind her. She’d done her best with her eyes but they were still puffy and red and her face was blotchy. She hurried over to her desk and tried to look busy. Her story, if anyone asked, was that she had a cold.

Seeing Romney in a good mood, Grimes was encouraged to start the day off with one of his stories.

‘Isn’t technology amazing these days? I was at the bar in my local last night and this bloke next to me was talking to his hand. When he’d finished, I asked him why he was doing it. He said he’d had this little communications device embedded in his palm that allowed him to make and receive telephone calls. Blimey, I said, that’s amazing. Ten minutes later I wandered into the Gents’ for a jimmy and there he was assuming the position up against the wall, trousers round his ankles and all this paper hanging out of his arse. “Don’t mind me,” he said, “I’ve got a fax coming through.” ’ 

Even Romney was laughing with them and Marsh wondered what good news he’d had to put him in such a genial frame of mind. She realised Romney was approaching her. She tried to ignore him, but in the end she had to look up to see what he wanted.

‘Blimey, are you all right? You look like crap.’

She was forming her lie when Grimes appeared and said, ‘How’s your mum, Sarge? Any better?’

*

Romney had told her to get herself into his office and help herself to the tissues on his desk. He gave her a couple of minutes under some pretext and then came in to speak with her. ‘Two questions: Why didn’t you say something and what the hell are you doing at work?’

‘It’s my personal life, sir, and I don’t want to sit at home on my own all day staring at the walls crying.’

Romney sighed heavily. This was not something he was used to. ‘Shouldn’t you be with your close family?’

‘She was my close family.’

‘Is this what’s been wrong with you for the last few days?’

Marsh nodded and blew her nose.

‘How did she die?’

‘I don’t honestly know. She’s been unwell for a while. Heart trouble and cancer. She died in hospital yesterday. My sister was there. She... she and I don’t get on so well. I was going to go up and see mum last night after work, but...’

‘You can have some time off, you know?’

‘And do what? Sit at home and mope. Maybe take a train up and stare at my dead mum?’

Romney didn’t know what to say so he said nothing.

‘Look, I do know my options, sir. I want to be at work. I want to be busy. There is nothing I can do for my mum now and there is nothing I can do about any of it. Yes, it’s upsetting but she’s dead. She’s gone and that’s it.’

Romney didn’t think that sounded very healthy. She was her mother, after all. And then he remembered something of his feelings when his own mother died. He didn’t push her because part of him also understood what she was saying. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Have it your way, but if you want some time off just take it. Is there anything you need? Anything we can do to help?’

Marsh smiled at him for that. ‘Just treat me normally,’ she said.

Romney tapped a folder on his desk. ‘In that case, those dog hair samples you sorted out for forensics turned out to be a perfect match for the hairs recovered from Rachael Sparrow’s clothing.’

‘Is that why you’re in such a good mood this morning?’ said Marsh, emboldened by the sight of Romney’s usually well-hidden nice side.

‘That’s half of it. You want the other half?’

‘If it’s good news. I could do with cheering up.’

‘It’s not good news for you, but it’s very good news for me and CID historically.’ Marsh creased her eyebrows. ‘Save me telling it twice, I’d better get Grimes in. Actually, maybe I should get Boudicca down here as well. She’ll probably want to hear it too.

‘Before we go down that road, though, let’s talk about developments around Rachael Sparrow’s death. I’ve been thinking about things and the more I think the less I like the way things have been presented to us.’ Marsh sniffed hard but was otherwise silent.

‘Mrs Allen didn’t mention anything about the sister coming to the party. I know she didn’t have to know about the women’s arranged reunion but I find it hard to believe she wouldn’t have. I can’t imagine Stephanie wouldn’t have mentioned it, can you?’ Marsh made a face indicating non-committal. ‘Even when it transpired it was not Stephanie Lather on the floor, she didn’t say anything about a sister. Also, how would Rachael Sparrow have managed to get that particular dog’s hairs all over her clothes? You heard her husband – she couldn’t stand them for one thing and if she had that dog’s hair on her she must have come into contact with it and therefore she must have come into contact with Mrs Allen.’