A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (14 page)

‘Do we know who
they
are?’

‘They identified themselves. I didn’t write their names down but they shouldn’t be hard to find. They weren’t trying to be anonymous; quite the opposite. Mrs Allen seemed to know them. And they claimed to have provided details on a website where they said evidence of their claims could be found. I doubt that anyone who was going to murder her would have been so open about their presence, their identities or their issues with her.’

‘Don’t count on it. Tell me about sock-puppetry. It just means old socks with buttons for eyes and needlework features to me.’

‘That’s where the term and the allusion originate from. Some high-profile authors have been accused of creating fake online identities and using them to generate interest about their own books on websites and forums. Like puppets. Hence sock-puppets.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a reason to kill someone. Mind you, you see that pensioner who died in a punch-up over a supermarket parking space? Nothing should surprise me any more but things still do.’

‘Online sock-puppet accounts have also been employed by some unscrupulous writers to post negative feedback and critical reviews of books that can damage an author’s reputation and standing. One or two authors have recently been exposed as having taken it further and carried out sustained and targeted campaigns against competition in their genre. They can be quite spiteful and malicious. It’s basically cyber-bullying. It’s a very contentious issue among the writing community.

‘If you’re good at it, you can effectively create a massive buzz, a lot of hype, about a book that could convert into sales and then best-seller status. It can also be used as a weapon to ruin online ratings, reputations and sales figures of an author.’

Romney looked unimpressed and said, ‘So?’

‘So, things have changed a lot in the last few years, sir. Ebooks are big business.

‘Ebooks?’

‘E for electronic. Books that can be electronically downloaded via the Internet to be read on an ereader.’

‘Ereader? Don’t tell me – you have an ereader, right?’

‘Of course. I’m surprised you don’t know about it being a book lover.’

‘That’s why – I’m a
book
lover. If I want a book I go into a shop and buy one. This technology leaves me cold. How can an ereader stimulate your senses in the way a book can? You can’t smell an ereader. You can’t admire the artwork of the dust-jacket on a shelf. You can’t hold the book and feel the pages. Books should be a multi-sensory pleasure not a narrow, soulless technological experience.’

‘It’s progress, sir. You can’t stop it. And it’s brought a lot of self-publishers, like Stephanie Lather, a lot of fame and fortune.’

‘Self-publisher?’ Romney was unable to hide his disappointment. ‘You mean vanity publishing? Is that what this Lather was into? Oh, blimey, I thought you meant she was a
real
author. With
real
books.’

‘She did have books, sir – ebooks. And because of her ebook success she landed a traditional publishing deal. Real books, as you call them. It’s the way books are going. Four years ago ebook sales accounted for just two percent of the British book market. Last year that figure was up to thirteen percent. There’s no putting the tide back in the bottle.’

‘You’re mixing your metaphors, Sergeant. Probably the influence of all that unregulated guff you’ve been reading. How come you know so much about it?’

‘I’ve read a couple of online articles. I participate in online book forums and discussion groups.’

Romney looked at her with something Marsh recognised as akin to pity. ‘Chat rooms? What time did the talk end?’

‘It never really began. They shouted her down before she got going. It must have been about eleven.’

‘And the body wasn’t discovered till after three. Over four hours.’

Romney sighed deeply and turned to walk to the open door of Stephanie Lather’s room. Maurice Wendell was fiddling with the bag he’d been attending sudden death scenes with for over twenty years. Romney idly considered the stories that could tell. SOCO were in their element – collecting, photographing, dusting. He wondered what the insides of their houses looked like.

The room was hot and stuffy where the firmly-closed windows had been fully exposed to the sun as it had traversed its arc for the day. A faint whiff of perfume mixed with the smell of the hotel and something unpleasant.

The pathologist looked up to see the police hovering in the doorway. ‘There you are, Tom. Hello, DS Marsh. How are you both this fine Saturday? Shoe covers are by the door.’

He pointed to a small open box of the, crinkly, blue disposable shoe coverings. The police struggled into them wondering as they always did why someone hadn’t come up with something easier to put on.

‘What’ve you done to your hand?’

‘Made the mistake of trusting a dog owner’s word that her animal was friendly.’

‘Oh dear. Big, was it?’

‘Size doesn’t always matter, Maurice. Even a little one can give a nasty nip.’

Maurice caught Marsh’s barely-suppressed enjoyment of her senior’s brush with the dark side of the animal kingdom and left it.

Romney and Marsh positioned themselves for a closer look at the deceased. It was not a pretty sight. The woman was still wearing the smart business suit she’d been wearing when she’d taken centre stage only a few hours before. She was lying on her front on the floor with the back of her head smashed in. The back of her jacket was horribly stained with blood. Her long dark hair, matted with blood and gore, had fallen to cover her face. The closer they got to the body the stronger the smell of alcohol. There was a bottle of gin lying on its side next to her. What was left of its contents had spilled out to soak and darken the neutral-coloured carpet.

‘She’s been beaten about the head with something heavy, solid and with at least one sharp corner,’ said Wendell. ‘Beaten repeatedly. A crime of some passion, perhaps. Of course, I can’t be sure that the blows weren’t received after she was dead. We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem for that. But I can see no other obvious cause of death.’

Romney nodded and averted his eyes. He felt freshly queasy. He walked over to the French windows and satisfied himself that no one had let themselves out that way when the dirty deed had been done. He checked that no one in the room had shut them.

‘Any sign of the room key?’ he asked loudly. There was some head shaking and negative grunts from the paper suits. ‘The only way in and out was through the door and with a key. If it’s here I want to know about it.’

Thinking out loud, Romney said, ‘A crime of passion would suggest her assailant knew her. If she invited the killer into her room that suggests she knew her assailant, or at least didn’t feel threatened by whoever it was.’ To Marsh, he said, ‘Find out where she got the booze from. Did she order it in? Did she bring it with her? Maybe the killer brought it. Ask Mrs Allen if Stephanie drank gin as a rule. Any sign of her handbag?’

An androgynous form held up a plastic evidence bag into which the handbag had been sealed.

‘Purse?’

‘In there. There’s money in it and credit cards.’

‘Not robbery then,’ said Romney. 

To Maurice, he said in a quieter voice, ‘Any sign of sexual assault?’

‘Nothing to suggest it, yet.’

Then to Marsh, ‘You go and ask the agent about her drinking habits. I’m going to speak to the manager.’

As they were about to leave, Marsh said, ‘Hang on a minute. She’s wearing shoes.’ The tone of Marsh’s voice encouraged everyone to stop what they were doing and look in her direction.

‘So?’ said Romney.

‘The shoes she was wearing this morning are under that chair. I recognise them.’ She was frowning quizzically at the body now.

‘So she changed her shoes,’ said Romney. ‘What’s so unusual about that? Isn’t that what women do when they get home?’

‘Women swap their heels for something more comfortable or they go barefoot. They don’t swap their new heels for more heels. Look, they’ve still got part of the price sticker on the sole.’

Marsh took a step towards the body. ‘Can we move her hair to one side?’ she said.

Maurice used a gloved hand to gently push the dead woman’s hair off her face.

‘Happy now?’ said Romney.

‘No,’ said Marsh. ‘That’s not Stephanie Lather.’

***

9

‘They’re very alike,’ said Marsh, ‘but that isn’t the woman who was on the stage this morning.’

The room was made quiet and still by this statement.

‘Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent certain that is not Stephanie Lather?’

‘I am certain that is not the woman from the stage this morning and if she was Stephanie Lather then this one isn’t.’

‘Then who the hell is it? And where the fuck is Stephanie Lather?’ shouted Romney. And he felt his headache returning with a vengeance.

In the absence of a next of kin and with only one other person in the hotel with a close connection to Stephanie Lather, Romney sent Marsh along to ask Mrs Allen if she would assist the police with their enquiries. Marsh didn’t thank him for the errand. She could imagine the frightened woman’s response to being asked to take a second look at the body of a dead woman that had already both terrified and repulsed her once. Romney could hear Mrs Allen’s raised protesting voice echoing down the hallway. Sighing heavily and with a face that did little to disguise his growing frustration, he went out into the corridor and walked the few paces to Mrs Allen’s room.

Marsh had not been invited in. She stood on the threshold of the room being berated. Mrs Allen’s noise ceased abruptly when she saw Romney’s stern and determined face loom round the door jamb like something out of
The Shining
.

‘Problem, Sergeant?’

‘Mrs Allen...’

‘You have no right to ask me to do such a thing,’ interrupted Mrs Allen.

Romney glowered. ‘Mrs Allen. My sergeant believes that the dead woman is not the woman she saw on the stage this morning. Not the woman who you have led us to believe is Stephanie Lather. Doesn’t that interest you? As her agent? As her friend?’

‘Of course it does, but...’

‘If the deceased is not Stephanie Lather then Stephanie could be in trouble and need help.’

‘She might also be guilty of something unspeakable,’ said Mrs Allen.

Romney huffed. ‘All I’m asking you to do is take a quick look at the dead woman’s face. That’s all. Will you do it or not?’

Mrs Allen looked hard from one to the other of them. She inhaled deeply, let it go and said, ‘I don’t want to. But I suppose I must, mustn’t I?’

‘Thank you,’ said Romney and turned and made his way back to room ten. He clearly expected Mrs Allen to follow him.

After sharing a final disagreeable look with Marsh, the woman locked up and went after him.

The atmosphere seemed to have changed when Marsh went back into the room. The air of detached and solemn industry had been replaced by something charged with expectation and intrigue. The SOCO officers had stopped what they were doing and gathered by the window. The body had been turned and Maurice had draped plastic over the bloody stains in an effort to make the spectacle less ghoulish and disturbing.

Mrs Allen stood in the doorway to the room with her hands covering the lower part of her face. She braced herself and after sharing a cold look with Romney looked down at the dead woman. Her eyes widened. ‘That’s not Stephanie,’ she said. She swallowed hard. ‘She looks very like her. She’s dressed very like she was.’ Mrs Allen seemed as shocked and surprised by the revelation as she was confused and relieved to realise her mistake.

Something occurred to Romney. ‘Where’s that handbag?’ he said.

One of the SOCOs moved to where it was and held up the plastic evidence sack.

‘Is that Stephanie’s handbag?’ said Romney.

Mrs Allen seemed glad to have something else to stare at. ‘No. Stephanie has a Louis Vuitton handbag.’

Romney stepped between Mrs Allen and the corpse. ‘Thank you, Mrs Allen. DS Marsh will see you back to your room.’

‘But who is it?’ she said. ‘And where is Stephanie?’

‘Those are two questions that I’m naturally interested in finding out the answers to.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Allen. ‘I’m sorry for her. I’m sorry for telling you it was Stephanie. You believe that I thought she was Stephanie, don’t you? I just saw her and assumed... because of everything... that...’

‘I understand, Mrs Allen,’ said Romney. ‘We made the same mistake. Have you ever seen this woman before?’

Mrs Allen shook her head: ‘Never.’

‘Go back to your room please and wait for us there.’ Mrs Allen turned to leave. ‘Mrs Allen?’ She turned back. ‘Did Stephanie drink?’

Mrs Allen sighed heavily. ‘Stephanie was under a lot of pressure. Most of it she created for herself. She was something of a workaholic. She found that the drink helped to... relax her. Sometimes she could be very relaxed.’