A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (31 page)

‘That won’t be necessary. Do you have anything more to add? Like, why was Bernie Stark only now preparing to admit that he may have been mistaken in his evidence and identification.’

‘I do, ma’am. In climbing down, Stark was going to assert that Dover police had pressured him into making his statement about seeing Savage land the fatal blow. Why? Because he learned that Jimmy Savage’s boy, Billy, had come into money. Bernie was never exactly well off and he saw a way to make some easy money for his old age. He got in touch with Billy Savage and offered to retract his statement for a fee.’

‘Did they suspect that it was Bernie Stark who killed Stafford?’ said Grimes.

‘No. This was something that Bernie found rather amusing according to my source. So they agreed. Bernie had already received half of his fee. He’d get the other half when Jimmy was out. When word got back to us, I sent Peter to have a word with Bernie, see what the hell was going on. Word got back to Billy. Billy then tears round to the pub, hauls Bernie out and takes him home for a little chat. But Bernie ends up dying on them. The irony of the story is that Billy Savage is probably responsible for the death of the only person who could have cleared his old man and got him out on appeal.’

It was agreed that because of the lateness of the hour and a pressing engagement Superintendent Vine had they would reconvene the following day after each of them had been given the opportunity to mull over the new information in the context of the current investigation. Mrs Allen was going nowhere and Romney was pleased with the delay in taking things forward so that he and the others could be sure. He felt he was in Boudicca’s bad books enough without being a fool who rushed in, especially after his rather regrettable offer to the station chief that afternoon that if he mucked up she could have his warrant card. That had been hasty.

***

23

The following morning Romney called his team together for their thoughts over coffee and pastries – his treat – in the CID meeting room. To general relief, forensics had confirmed that the blood in room eleven, Sandra Allen’s room, was the blood of Rachael Sparrow. The previous day’s arguments were recapped and when no one had anything new to add Romney felt emboldened to say to Marsh, ‘Call the woman. Find out where she is and we can go and arrest her.’

*

Romney and Marsh turned up at Anderson and Anderson Literary Agents a little after eleven. The company occupied office space on the third floor of a nicely-renovated building in Southwark, which got Romney sniffing derisively.

Romney introduced them to the receptionist as police seeking Mrs Allen. This got them ahead of the queue.  Romney barely had to time pour himself a beaker of complimentary coffee from the machine before Mrs Allen’s harsh vowels were drifting down the corridor in their direction.

Sandra Allen entered the reception area with the confidence and expression of someone important on their own territory. It gave Romney a wrinkle of satisfaction that he was there and about to wipe the condescending haughtiness off her chiselled chops.

‘If you have brought my Chloe back to me at work, Inspector, I have to tell you that I am not in the least bit impressed.’

There were two other young women within hearing distance and Mrs Allen seemed to be playing to her audience as much as showing her displeasure at the interruption of her day. What her confidence did make a good job of was smothering any guilt she might be feeling for her crimes. There was not a trace of apprehension about her.

‘No, Mrs Allen we haven’t. We’d like another chat. Somewhere more private if you like.’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, Inspector, I am a very busy woman. I don’t really have the time to sit around discussing your cases or your rabies paranoia. I can’t think what else I can possibly assist you with.’

‘I’d have thought that with Stephanie Lather dead your workload might have decreased somewhat,’ said Romney, and Marsh sensed a spat in the offing.

Mrs Allen forced out another of her mocking barks of laughter. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity, don’t you know? Stephanie might have done something that appals society but it’s done her book sales the world of good. She’s topping the best-sellers list for ebooks and paperbacks. As soon as news of Stephanie’s crimes hit the airwaves sales of her books entered a whole new stratosphere. As the agents of her estate, we – or rather I – have to deal with not only the business implications of the fallout of her actions but the clamouring of publishers from around the world for the rights to her back catalogue. As I said, I’m very busy.’

‘And there’s me thinking the life of a literary agent was all long civilised lunches and sitting around in trendy offices reading books.’

Incredibly, to Marsh, Romney’s sarcasm appeared to fly high over the head of Mrs Allen. Or maybe it was just that her relish for any opportunity to lament with obvious bitterness and regret the sea change in her profession to anyone who appeared to take an interest in listening affected her filter for it. ‘Being a literary agent today isn’t what it used to be, Inspector. Once upon a time
we
got to choose what got published.
We
were the gatekeepers of literary standards and
we
got to uphold them. Someone had to.
We
were in control. Things have changed. Now the Internet is awash with
writers
who are canny and wily enough to convince the great unwashed and largely illiterate that their books are worth reading, worth buying even.  They stir up a social networking storm, make an online name for themselves and now the market dictates to
us
who should be courted, pursued, fawned over, sucked up to and published.
We
have to chase
them
and battle and deal for the rights to their work. It’s degrading. It’s demeaning. And don’t imagine for a minute that half of them can write. You wouldn’t believe the standard of English: the spelling, the grammar, the punctuation, the puerile baseness of their plotting, their
thinking
and their fantasies. You should see the turds I have to polish for a living. Being a literary agent used to mean something. It was a respectable occupation. Now, in tabloid fantasy Britain, when everyone seems to think they have a book in them, it’s just humiliating. I’m with Hitch on that score – most of those books should stay there.

‘I’ve worked with some of the greatest novelists of modern times and now what am I doing for a living? Pandering to talentless prima donnas who believe they’re God’s gift to literature. And why? Because they sell ebooks.’

While Romney didn’t necessarily disagree with much of what she was saying, he quickly tired of her self-pitying whining. He said, ‘Well, you were until you killed one of them. Look on the bright side: at least where you’re going you won’t have to polish any more turds. You might have to take turns cleaning them off the sanitary ware, though. Who knows, maybe you’ll find time to write your own turd of a book on your experiences inside. Chance to get your own back on society. Lots of people do. I believe there’s a whole genre devoted to it: pris-lit.’

Mrs Allen was staring at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When she found her voice, she said, ‘What did you say? Did you just accuse me of killing someone?’ She burst out in hysterical laughter. There seemed little forced about it. Romney was minded of a neighing horse. It was not the reaction he had anticipated.

Mrs Allen brought herself quickly under control and said, ‘Oh my God. You’re serious aren’t you? You actually think I killed Stephanie? How absolutely priceless.’ And she was off again, playing to her gallery.

Romney and Marsh exchanged a look, indicating to each other with their confused expressions that this was not at all expected. A trickle of doubt entered Romney’s thinking, to be quickly mopped up by the sponge of experience. He reminded himself that people react in all manner of ways when they are exposed as murderers. There was nothing new in total and convincing hysteria. Dr Puchta probably had an ‘
-ism
’ for it and he made a mental note to ask her next time he saw her.

Romney informed the literary agent that she was under arrest and for what. He recited her rights. She quickly lost her sense of humour and began protesting loudly. Romney’s sense of smug satisfaction was short-lived. Mrs Allen was a particularly noisy and irate prisoner. And then she became a fearsome variety of hostile.

In the time it took them to convince her that they were not playing ‘
some ridiculous prank’
, and that they were not ‘
stark raving mad’
, she had demonstrated a singular capacity for expressing her incredulity and fury, making admirable use of innovative and erudite phrases that left the ears of the officers ringing long after she had been subdued and stuffed in the back of the squad car waiting downstairs.

‘She didn’t take that quite how I expected her to,’ said Romney, with a puzzled frown as they watched the patrol car disappear around the bend in the road with a wild-eyed Mrs Allen continuing to shriek her protestations of innocence through the back window. ‘What do you reckon?’

Evidently experiencing similar thoughts and doubts, Marsh looked decidedly uncertain what to make of it. She said, ‘I don’t know, sir. It wasn’t what I was expecting either.’

‘In fact, if I didn’t know better, I might be tempted to wonder whether we had the wrong man, so to speak. Still, it takes all sorts.’

Marsh looked at him but he’d already dismissed the thought and was occupied with trying to light his cigarette in the chilly breeze that was being channelled down the narrow street.

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I’d have thought you might have shown her a little more compassion, what with the views you’ve expressed recently on the subject of ebooks.’

‘Stuck up cow. I’m not saying I disagree with her, Sergeant, but she did murder two people and leave four children to grow up motherless. And then she led us a right old song and dance over it. If she were a serial killer with literary principles who targeted self-publishers and got caught and put her hands up, showed the courage of her convictions, I’d have more sympathy with her. I don’t like liars and I don’t like cowards. And anyway, if these books are something that people enjoy reading shouldn’t they be allowed to? Isn’t it better that people are reading something rather than reading nothing? Not everyone wants to read Kafka. All that gatekeeper bollocks – it’s just a form of censorship – one set of people full of their own importance dictating to everyone else what we can all read. It’s like the rancid soaps on the haunted fish tank and the tabloid newspapers written in the vocabulary of the average nine–year-old: if there wasn’t a demand there would be no need for the supply.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying something else, sir, you’ve changed your tune.’

‘Maybe. Here, I’ve got one for you: if readers of choc-lit eat chocolate what food do readers of pris-lit eat?’

‘Pris
olate?’

‘Eh? That’s not even a word. Porridge, of course.’

Marsh didn’t laugh. Disappointed with her reaction, Romney just tutted and sighed.

*

When they arrived back at the station it was already afternoon. Romney was informed that Mrs Allen had given both officers who drove her back to Dover police station splitting headaches with persistent and loud protestations of her innocence. She had been processed and stuck into a cell awaiting the arrival of her legal representation – some posh name from an even posher outfit in the capital.

Romney was glad of the delay in those proceedings. He had other fish to fry.

On the back of his revelations regarding the business surrounding Jimmy Savage’s conviction and Bernie Stark’s part in it, Romney had approached Superintendent Vine about having Jimmy Savage’s boy, Billy, in for an informal chat about things. Her initial reluctance was countered by Romney’s argument that speaking to Billy was nothing to do with any open enquiry and what with Bernie now dead the likelihood of any appeal involving Jimmy Savage now actually going ahead was non-existent. Vine was persuaded by Romney’s confidence in his belief that Billy was some way involved in Bernie’s death and as such it was a matter for legitimate police investigation. Her one condition for approval was that she would sit in on any interview.

As per Romney’s instructions, Billy Savage was at the station waiting for him. Romney had left Grimes to locate the youth and ask him whether, as the family’s chosen representative, he would like to attend the station voluntarily to discuss developments regarding his father’s state of incarceration. Romney had told Grimes to encourage Billy to believe they had good news for him.

‘What exactly did you tell him?’ said Romney.

‘That we had uncovered new evidence to suggest his old man might be innocent – it’s not a lie is it? – and if this could be substantiated – which of course it can’t but Billy’s not to know that – then Jimmy could be pardoned and out by Christmas.’

‘And he said yes? Just like that?’

Grimes nodded. ‘Pretty much. Seemed very keen to hear what we have to say. He must be; he’s been waiting nearly half-an-hour.’