A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) by Oliver Tidy Page A

member of the opposite sex, but she would never share something like that with Grimes. ‘We can go and deal with it and you can tell him all about it over your cocoa before bedtime. Come on.’
    CID had been notified by uniform of a suspicious death. A neighbour had smelt burning and raised the alarm. The fire crew had smashed the door down and called fo r an ambulance. The ambulance team had taken one look at the deceased and called the police. The young uniformed constable had taken one look at the victim and thrown up on the carpet. Everyone had been moved out of the way and they were all waiting for the detectives, forensics and the pathologist.
    Grimes had taken the call while he was making his way through the apology-muffin that Marsh had left on his desk. Say it with cakes. He was glad he’d been sitting down. He knew one of the occupants of the address given. Not four hours previously he’d tipped a pint of lager into his lap.
     
    *
     
    When they arrived, Marsh and Grimes were concerned to see Superintendent Vine standing on the pavement speaking with two male uniformed officers. She was as tall and imposing as both of them and they were wearing stab vests. As Vine noticed them pull up behind one of the two patrol vehicles in attendance, she checked her watch.
    ‘Bollocks,’ said Grimes.
    ‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Marsh.
    They’d tried Romney four more times on their short drive to the address of the suspicious death on Folkestone Road. No answer.
    A good crowd of Dover’s unfortunates and undesirables had gathered. But only because they hadn’t had far to walk. They were nearly all men – the out of work, the out of luck, the out of ideas. Nothing better to do than hang around their rooms or the street corners all day waiting for something to happen. There was a good number of the town’s increasing variety of ethnic minorities represented, which told another story of Dover’s emerging demographics.
    As the detectives approached, Superintendent Vine turned to face them. She was frowning. It looked like part of an exaggerated act. ‘Where is DI Romney?’
    As the senior detective present, Marsh said, ‘He’s not answering his phone, ma’am. Could just be in a reception black spot.’
    Vine look unconvinced. Grimes thought Romney might prefer black hole when he got wind of this.
    ‘Doesn’t he say where he is going when he leaves the station?’
    ‘Normally, yes, ma’am. We’ll keep trying him.’
    Vine stored that away for later.
    The building at the centre of all the activity and attention formed part of an architecturally-impressive row of Victorian townhouses and was spread over four floors. Once upon a time these properties, this street, had been affluent and convenient. A short walk from the town centre and with close access to Dover train station. Very middle class.
    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