A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (10 page)

‘Hello, mum. How are you feeling?’

‘Tired. Come in. Sit down.’ She patted the bed with a frail gesture. Joy could see that the exposed arm was thin and weak. ‘Why didn’t you say you were coming up? I could have made us something proper to eat instead of lying here like some useless lump.’

Joy took her mum’s hand and held it tightly, temporarily unable to speak.

‘I suppose Tracy’s told you, has she?’

‘Yes, mum. Of course she has. I’m your daughter too. I have a right to know.’

‘I don’t want to be a bother, Joy. You have a proper life now. You have to be allowed to live it.’

‘You’re my mum. Don’t ever forget that. I don’t. I’m sorry I haven’t been up to see you for a while. Things have been really busy at work.’

‘I know, love. It’s all right. Tracy’s here and the girls keep me busy.’

The thought crossed Joy’s mind that perhaps the extra work and burden of having her sister and her granddaughters to live with her had somehow contributed to her mother’s heart attack.

‘Will you be coming down, mum?’

‘Do you mind if I don’t, love. I’m so tired. I’m so sleepy. I’ll not be much company.’

‘Of course not. Can I get you anything? Do anything for you?’

Joy’s mum had altered the grip so that now her little claw of a hand held Joy’s in a tight grasp. As Joy’s eyes became more accustomed to the gloom she caught something of the old fire of the woman’s stare as she moved her head on the pillow. ‘Don’t end up like us, Joy. That’s all. Make something of yourself. You’re on your way. I’m so proud of you. I always have been.’ Sensing that her daughter was tearful, the old woman said, ‘Go downstairs and spend some time with those girls, will you? God knows they need a positive influence and your sister needs a break.’

‘I’ve come to see you, mum.’

‘I know, darling. I know.’ She closed her eyes and Joy felt her relaxing into something beyond wakefulness.

She sat for a moment longer and then retraced her steps back downstairs.

‘That was quick?’

‘She’s tired. Why isn’t she in the hospital getting proper care?’

‘She is getting proper care. I’m looking after her. Besides they won’t keep them in if they’re not actually dying and if there’s someone at home to look after them. Don’t you watch the news? All the hospitals are full up with bloody immigrants sponging off our system. They come over here ‘cos we’re a soft touch.’

‘Bloody immigrants. Bloody everywhere round here,’ said a little voice. Tracy’s youngest had slipped unnoticed into the kitchen and was helping herself to biscuits. Joy stared in astonishment at the remark the five-year-old had obviously overheard somewhere and waited for her mother to call her on it. Tracy seemed not to have even heard her as she scraped at a burnt saucepan.

‘She looks awful,’ said Joy, when the little one had got what she wanted and left.

‘She had a heart attack. How do you expect her to be? Doing cartwheels?’

‘She looks like she’d been ill for a while. She’s lost weight.’

Tracy’s shoulders slumped. Her other daughter came in demanding biscuits. Tracy pointed with the scouring brush at the open pack. When the girl had scuttled out, Tracy said, ‘She has. She’s got cancer.’

‘What? Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Would it have made you come up any quicker? It’s taken a heart attack for you to remember who she is.’

‘That’s not fair, Tracy. I work bloody hard. Most days off I’m sleeping or going into work to catch up on my paperwork because we’re short staffed.’ But even as she spoke, she knew that her sister was right. She’d pushed her family to the back of her mind. She could have visited. But she’d made excuses and something of a life for herself. She had a man in it too and she wanted to enjoy her time off, not spend it in a shitty, stinking little overcrowded terraced home in a crappy street in Enfield watching children’s TV and listening to the girls recycle racist comments without reproach. That was a life she’d left behind and she didn’t care to be reminded of it.

‘There’s always the phone. She loves it when you call.’ Tracy was crying now. ‘I have to sit and listen to her tell me every bloody word you’ve said.’ And they were both crying.

‘She made me promise not to tell you.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s proud of you, Joy. Despite what happened to dad, despite how we all feel about what you did, she’s always been so proud of you. She doesn’t want to be a burden or a bother to you. You can’t tell her I’ve told you. She doesn’t need that bothering her on top of everything else.’

‘Cancer of the what?’

‘She’s still having tests. It’s in her breast. She’ll probably lose it.’

A fresh wave of remorse and sadness broke over Joy as she imagined her mother’s feelings of embarrassment and fretfulness at the confirmation of any woman’s worst fears. Their tears flowed and because of who they were and what they shared they hugged each other under the weak light of the room’s single, bare, energy-saving light bulb and wept for their mother.

‘What can I do?’

‘Just visit more often. Call her regularly. That’s all. I can look after her.’

Joy stayed and helped put the girls to bed. She read them a story, kissed them and told them to go to sleep or she might have to arrest them.

She had a final cuppa in the lounge with her sister. Joy was tired. Her sister looked exhausted. Old. With their issues off their chests and the children out from under their feet they relaxed into something bordering on friendly conversation. Something like the sisters they had once been with each other. Close. It wasn’t something they would ever be again and probably both of them knew it. They had changed too much as individuals. But there would always be the bond.

With the time approaching midnight, Joy stifled another yawn and said she should be going.

‘Don’t suppose you can lend us a few quid, can you? Girls need stuff for their packed lunches for next week and mum’s pension day isn’t ‘til Thursday.’

‘Isn’t he giving you anything for the girls?’

‘
He’s
out of work. Again.’

Her sister might have been about to tell Joy that if it was too much to ask forget it, she wasn’t going to beg. But Joy dug in her handbag for her purse as the words were ordering themselves. As she handed over all the cash she had, forty pounds, she caught sight of an open packet of cigarettes on the worktop and hoped that she managed to suppress any outward signs of her displeasure.

After a final look in on her sleeping mum, she left.

*

When Grimes returned home that night Romney was still up. While Grimes had been bowling, eating, having fun and his eyes and ears tested at the cinema, Romney had spent a quiet evening on his own reflecting and drinking.

Romney had intended to spend his Friday night with a good take-away, a good film on his new television and a couple of cans. The evening had got off to a bad start when he had been unable to banish from the corner of the screen the digital clock that Grimes had activated. That was the period costume drama ruined. Compounding his irritation and underlying everything were the personal and professional revelations of his day, which he’d been unable to drive far from his thinking. Both issues quite separate. Both issues created by women.

As he drank he reflected on Doctor Puchta’s accusation that he displayed misogynistic tendencies. And he reflected that it was hardly fucking surprising, seeing as all the problems he’d ever had in his life were caused by women. He’d distractedly picked at the pizza, given up on Hollywood and, when he ran out of lager, sought out the bottle of Scotch he kept at the back of the cupboard for emergencies.

Grimes could see immediately that Romney was intoxicated. The telly was off and only a dim table lamp provided any light. The shadows that it cast from Romney’s side gave the DI a morose and deathly countenance. Grimes didn’t know what to think, say or do. He knew what must be bothering his DI though. The business with Jimmy Savage must be playing on his mind. That was going to attract some very unwelcome attention for Romney personally.

‘Hello, Peter. Good night?’ Romney managed a tired lift of one corner of his mouth.

‘Not bad, gov. Bloody expensive. You?’

Romney pointed at a vacant chair. ‘Get a glass. Take a seat.’

Grimes helped himself to a small Scotch because to not have done so would have been rude. He eased himself down into the furniture. He’d rather have gone straight to bed. He was tired and sober and his boss was drunk and disorderly. He’d promised Maureen he’d be over early in the morning and they’d make a start on sorting what they could salvage from the storm-damaged wreckage of their life together that was currently cluttering up her sister’s garage. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds. Grimes didn’t often hear a clock ticking. He sipped his drink.

‘This is good stuff, gov.’

‘Duty free. Still bloody expensive, mind. Do you get on all right with your mum?’

That was unexpected. ‘Yeah. Great.’

‘My mum’s dead.’

That might explain things. ‘Sorry to hear that, gov. Recent?’

‘No. Fifteen years ago.’

Or maybe not. ‘Oh. Why do you ask?’

‘I didn’t like my mum. She was a negative, nagging, irritating woman. Always complaining. Always finding fault. All I remember of my mum is she made my life a fucking misery.’

‘Yeah, well, mine can be a bit annoying too, now you mention it.’

‘I don’t mean a bit annoying. I’m talking fucking horrible.’ Romney paused and took a slurp of his drink. ‘Remember Julie Carpenter?’

‘Course, gov. You heard from her?’ Maybe that’s what this was all about.

‘Bitch she turned out to be, didn’t she? Do you know she dumped me to go on holiday with her ex-fucking-boyfriend while I was lying in a hospital bed?’

Grimes hadn’t and he wished he still didn’t. He hoped Romney wasn’t going to cry.

‘That Edy Vitriol.’ Romney wagged an unsteady finger in Grimes’ general direction. ‘He was on to something with his theory about women. Do you know what a misogynist is?’

‘Sorry, a what?’

‘Misogynist.’ Romney was slurring so badly that Grimes was having trouble understanding him. It was like talking to Bernie Stark without the hair.

‘No, gov. Something to do with bells?’

‘It’s someone who hates women. A woman-hater. How long have we known each other, Peter?’

Relieved that Romney had changed the subject, Grimes thought for a moment and said, ‘Over ten years.’

‘Do I strike you as a hater of women?’

‘No, gov.’ What could he say? ‘Why would you say that?’

Romney waived it away. ‘Forget it. Sorry about this morning.’

One thing Grimes was fairly sure of, in ten years he’d never heard Romney apologise. It was a moment to treasure, even if he didn’t have the first idea of what he was apologising for and the DI was quite drunk.

‘Why don’t I put the kettle on, gov? Nice cup of coffee, eh?’

Romney didn’t answer. Grimes stood and left the room without another word. When he returned a couple of minutes later, Romney had slumped asleep where he sat. He was snoring loudly.

Grimes sighed heavily, removed the empty tumbler from Romney’s grip, took the throw from the back of the sofa and arranged it over the sleeping policeman’s knees. He wondered about taking a photo with his camera phone to show Maureen and quickly dismissed the idea. He turned off the lamp at Romney’s side and crossed towards the hallway doorway.
He turned on the hallway light and cast one final look around the room in the dimness it provided. He noticed the half-consumed pizza sitting in its box on the coffee table. He trod quietly over, removed a couple of cold slices and went to bed.

***

7

When Grimes stepped warily into the lounge the following morning Romney’s chair was empty. The blanket was on the floor. Grimes picked it up and arranged it on the sofa. He noticed there was still pizza left, finished it then disposed of the box. He put away the bottle of Scotch, took the glasses from the previous night into the kitchen and washed them up. Then he went to find his wife and children, whom he suddenly realised he missed with an ache that startled him. Bachelor pads, he thought as he let himself out into the bright autumnal morning, you could keep them. Give him mess and noise and family life any day of the week.

*

Justin had the children for the weekend, which was fine with Joy. He’d made a tentative suggestion that perhaps she would like to meet them. They could have lunch somewhere. She said she’d think about it. That was a very big step and despite her feelings towards Justin she wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

Besides, Joy had firm plans for the Saturday that nothing short of a crazed gunman running amok in the High Street was going to interrupt. And after the previous evening that had left her miserable enough to cry most of the way home she needed some time to and for herself.

There was an event at the Dover Marina Hotel on the seafront just along from her home in The Gateway that she had been excited about attending ever since she’d seen it advertised.

The Dover Marina Hotel was about the poshest hotel in town. And that was one good reason why it had been chosen. Someone was trying to make a statement. Someone was showing off. Someone was letting the world know that she’d made it on her own. That someone was Stephanie Lather, self-published author of the tremendously successful and popular JR Lleroy novels.

Stephanie Lather had been born and bred in Dover. The daughter of Dover shopkeepers, she’d gone to the local comprehensive, left school at sixteen to pursue a career in hairdressing, got married, had kids, been divorced and taken up writing.

Writing had been the teenage passion Stephanie had been forced to abandon when real life reared its ugly head. When her girls had started sleeping at regular and manageable hours of the evening, Stephanie had gone back to her greatest childhood love: making up stories and writing them down. At twenty-five, she sold a short story to a women’s magazine. Encouraged, she’d worked harder at her gift for story-telling. She had more short stories published, but, despite repeated and tireless efforts, never impressed a literary agent enough to be made an offer of representation for any of her full-length novels.