A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (7 page)

Today they were all cheap B&Bs – divided up into squalid b
edsits, or budget guest houses – gusset houses, as uniform had christened them.

Bernie Stark called a couple of rooms on the second floor of one of them home. Or he used to. He had no need of a home now. They hadn’t moved him. It was bad. The smell was the worst thing – the overpowering stench of burnt flesh, singed hair and smouldering, old, dirty fabric. Marsh put a handkerchief to her face and thought again of their DI and wondered where the hell he was.

What was left of the corpse was sitting in a wing chair in what must have been his front room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchen. Everything was there that he’d need for daily life – a compact living space for a foldaway existence. A small doorway led off to the bathroom. 

The fire had been quite localised and suggested the involvement of an accelerant that had burned itself out with nowhere to go. A half-empty bottle of good Scotch lay on its side nearby with a dirty glass. The fire crews in attendance said the blaze had gone out on its own, which was both odd and fortunate.

One look at the deceased and Grimes had his worst fears realised. Until that point there was always a chance – about one in a million – that the dead body would not turn out to be a man who witnesses could attest had been enjoying a lunchtime drink with a member of the local CID, a man that Grimes really shouldn’t have been within a mile of.

Bernie Stark was burned almost beyond recognition. He was no longer the greyest man that Grimes had ever seen. What skin there was left on his face was charred a rich black. His hair, his beard, his eyebrows all gone. Frizzled to nothing. If he’d had his teeth in they would have been exposed in death’s grin because Bernie Stark had no lips left. Or nose. Or eyelids or eyes. Or ears. It was only his shoes and trousers – beer-stained – that Grimes really recognised. That and he was about the right size.

‘Jesus, can’t we open a window?’ said Grimes.

‘Not ‘til SOCO have checked them,’ said a voice behind them. Superintendent Vine entered the room. The expression on her face indicated that this was her first look at the dead man. ‘Fire team think that he probably inadvertently set himself alight while drinking and smoking.’

Marsh thought: why would he just sit there and allow himself to burn to death then? Why not jump up and run to the sink or roll around or try to smother the flames with something? But she kept her mouth shut. She nodded and tried to look deep in intelligent thought.

Grimes was thinking of himself. He was thinking that he was going to be in the shit when it came out that he’d been with Bernie very recently. He didn’t think that now was a good time to share that information.

The sounds of Maurice Wendell and the SOCO team arriving and making their noisy way up the stairs spared the officers further awkward exchanges.

Wendell was first into the room. Before he could say or do anything Superintendent Vine was in front of him.

‘You must be Bob Falkner’s replacement,’ said Wendell looking up at her from his less than average height. He offered his hand.

‘Superintendent Vine.’ The handshake was made. ‘You are?’

‘Wendell. Pathologist.’

‘Good. Pleased to meet you.’ She turned and said to Marsh, ‘As soon as you locate DI Romney, please ask him to give me a call.’ With a smart, ‘Mr Wendell’ she left.

‘She seems all right,’ said Maurice, when Vine had retreated. Neither Marsh nor Grimes took up the thread. ‘Oh, dear. Like that is it? Where’s Tom?’ Neither Marsh nor Grimes took up the thread. ‘Oh, dear. Like that is it? I might as well talk to
him
,’ he said, indicating the dead man. ‘Got a name?’

‘Bernie Stark,’ said Grimes. ‘I think.’

Marsh shot him a questioning look.

‘Right, well if you two will excuse us, I need to get better acquainted with the unfortunate gentleman.’

Marsh and Grimes made way and as SOCO and Wendell were talking, Marsh said, ‘You know him then?’

Grimes looked furtively around them before saying, ‘We need to have a quiet word, Sarge. Somewhere private.’

*

‘How did we end up talking about my mother?’

‘Because that’s where we’ve been heading ever since you walked in the door asking me for help and that’s where everything usually starts.’

‘Everything?’ What do you mean everything?’

‘Men’s problems with the opposite sex.’

‘I don’t have a problem with the opposite sex. I hope you’re not going to suggest I could be queer.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying, Tom. I suspect strongly that we’ve been building up to this ever since you started coming to see me.’

‘Why didn’t you say something earlier? Could have saved me some time and money.’

‘I wanted you to get there in your own time. It’s important for you to be ready to discuss something like this. Properly. Very important. It’s hard to admit that you might have feelings of intense dislike towards your own mother, isn’t it?’

‘Hate my own mother. What are you talking about?’

‘I don’t mean what you think I mean.’

‘How do you know what I think you mean?’

‘Stop stalling and listen to me. Carefully. Of course you love her. She’s your mother. But you must recognise your resentment of her regarding aspects of your upbringing. You have to identify and admit to it before you can deal with it. You have to acknowledge your feelings of negativity, otherwise they will, as they have in my opinion, come to define you.’

‘You know my mum’s dead?’

‘No. You didn’t mention it.’

‘You never asked?’

‘How do you feel about her being dead, Tom?’

‘How do I feel about my own mother being dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Of course.’

‘Relieved.’

Doctor Puchta smiled. ‘Good. Well done. Now I can start to help you.’

As Romney sat in the comfortable leather chair he felt a weight lifted from him. A feeling that he might have experienced if someone had removed a rather heavy woollen blanket from his shoulders. And then a troubled frown settled on his features.

‘What is it?’

‘Where does the big dancing ear fit into all of this?’

*

‘What is it?’ said Marsh. The look Grimes had given her in the house had released something unpleasant in her gut. By the time she and Grimes were standing by the car they’d arrived in she was decidedly anxious. Thankfully, there was no sign of Superintendent Vine. Irritatingly, there was still no answer from Romney.

‘I know Bernie Stark,’ said Grimes.

Marsh rolled her eyes and let out a breath. ‘I guessed that. I thought it was something important.’

‘It is. Lunchtime today I was having a drink with him in The Eight Bells.’

‘You what?’ And the unpleasantness in her gut resumed and was intensified.

***

5

Romney stepped out of the grand old building in New Bridge where Dr Puchta had her practice and into a fine Dover afternoon. Ignoring his car, he walked the short distance between the equally impressive and well-maintained buildings of this part of town that so put him in mind of the posh residential streets of popular London boroughs to the nearby Waterloo Crescent and the seafront beyond.  He sat on an empty bench, on a largely-deserted promenade and took a couple of deep lungfuls of salty Channel air. He shook free a cigarette, lit it and reflected.

Staring out over the calmed waters of the pond of sea protected by the embracing concrete arms of the port’s breakwater, he considered the essence of Dr Puchta’s theory. Bombshell, more like. And for the first time in his life, because it had been so eloquently, convincingly and forcefully put from a respected and learned source, he had to face up to the possibility that she was on to something. Was he really a closet misogynist? A woman-hater in denial? It would certainly explain a lot. It would explain why he was unable to sustain relationships, for a start. Then he wondered whether it went deeper than that – why stop at misogyny? Perhaps misogyny was simply the tip of the iceberg. He didn’t really have any male friends. Usually, with a barely concealed contempt, he could tolerate people only for short periods of time unless they were job. He didn’t like most of those who strayed into his orbit. He viewed humanity on the whole with a detached disdain. People bored him. He wondered if it should be such a revelation for him. Then he wondered whether it mattered. Then he thought to turn his phone on. It rang almost immediately.

‘Gov?’

‘Yes. What is it?’ Romney stifled a yawn and thought about going for a coffee.

‘Thank God for that. Where are you?’

‘None of your business. What’s up? You sound strange.’

‘Bernie Stark’s dead.’

‘What?’ Romney sat up.

‘We’re just leaving the scene.’

‘Who’s we? How? Where? Suspicious? Come on, spit it out.’

‘At his home. Burned alive, it looks like. Could be an accident. Superintendent Vine was here. Asking after you, gov. Joy said you were probably in a reception black spot.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘That’s what we said.’

‘Is Joy there?’

‘Yeah. You want to speak to her?’

‘Put her on.’

A short delay.

‘Sir?’

‘Is he winding me up?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘You two still there?’

‘Just leaving.’

‘Don’t. I’m on my way. What’s the address?’

*

By the time Romney arrived quite a little crowd had gathered and parking was difficult.

‘Boudicca gone?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Marsh.

‘That’s one good thing. Maurice inside?’ Marsh nodded. ‘Right, I’m going to have a word with him.’

‘Sir.’

‘Yes.

‘Peter told me about his lunchtime appointment.’

Romney stared hard at her. ‘And?’

‘What’s going on?’

Romney made a face and then a decision. ‘Let me talk to Maurice first and then we’ll have a chat.’

Grimes was walking back towards where Romney and Marsh were standing on the pavement. Romney waited for him. ‘What’s that lot?’ he said, indicating what was occupying Grimes’ hands.

‘Feeling weird, gov. Low blood sugar, I think.’

‘A pasty, a bag of crisps, a chocolate bar and a fizzy drink.’ Romney sounded disappointed. ‘Did you hear her this morning? You need to take her seriously. Wait here. We need to talk. Sergeant, come with me.’

Someone had opened a window but it hadn’t really helped.

‘Hello, Tom. Good of you to turn up.’

‘Don’t you start, Maurice. Bloody hell. What happened to him?’ Romney was staring at the blackened features of Bernie Stark or what was left of them.

‘Plastic shoe coverings in the box by the door, although we’re really only paying lip service to forensic science. We must have had half of Dover emergency services traipsing around in here this afternoon. He wouldn’t have felt anything.’

‘Are you sure? How could he not have felt that?’

‘I suspect he was already dead. He’s made no attempt, however feeble, to put out the fire. Look at his hands. Not a mark on them.’

‘I don’t understand then,’ said Marsh. ‘If he was already dead before he caught fire, how did he catch light?’

‘We’ll know more after the post-mortem,’ said Maurice.

Marsh wasn’t to be silenced so easily. ‘Is there any way?’

‘Yes. It’s possible he could have been sitting here smoking away and sipping his favourite tipple, had a fatal heart-attack with the cigarette between his lips, which then fell into his alcohol soaked facial hair, which ignited.’

‘Is that likely? I mean, wouldn’t he have needed quite a bit of whatever the accelerant was to cause this much damage? That looks like more than a dribble in a beard to me. It’s all down his front. In fact, it looks more like a glassful would have been needed – and surely if he’d had a fatal heart attack it’s more likely that anything in a glass he’d been holding would have been spilt on the floor.’

Both Romney and Wendell were staring at Marsh: Romney with a look of perplexity at her outburst and Wendell with barely-concealed admiration for her voicing her thoughts.

‘You asked me any way, DS Marsh. That’s what I gave you. There are several that I can think of offhand. That’s why it will be best if we stop guessing and start examining.’

Marsh turned and left. The two men exchanged a look. Romney’s concerns at discovering the victim’s identity were momentarily gazumped by Marsh’s untypical bad manners.

‘Did she know him personally?’ asked Maurice.

Romney breathed in deeply through his nose and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘Not to my knowledge. Soon as you have something to share, Maurice, I’ll be waiting. You could do me a favour and mark this one urgent if you like.’