A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (34 page)

Romney said, ‘Anyone fancy a drink?’ To his surprise they both said yes.

*

A few weeks before, roadworks on the A258 – the short cut to CID’s usual watering hole, The Duke of York at the top of Jubilee Way – had begun. With the three sets of lights the evening traffic put at least another twenty minutes on the journey. So CID had gone back to drinking across the road from the station at the Park Inn. On more than one occasion the question had been raised, why had they been driving miles out of town when there was a perfectly decent pint, good food and a friendly welcome in a pub almost directly opposite them? The added bonus, they had realised, was that anyone with a vehicle could leave it at the station and if they decided to make a night of it get a lift home from a patrol car that could be arranged to head in the direction of their homes. But like so many other things that had made the job more bearable they would not be able to continue
the practice under the gaze of the new incumbent upstairs. Bob Falkner had turned a blind eye to it.

‘Won’t Maureen wonder where you are?’ said Romney, when they had settled themselves around a quiet table away from the irritating and distracting influence of the ubiquitous television. ‘Or is sharing a house with the extended family not all it’s cracked up to be?’

‘To be honest, gov, I miss the peace, the room and the comfort of your place. And they haven’t got satellite. But what can I do? She was desperate to have me back.’ Marsh caught Grimes’ eye over the top of her glass while Romney was temporarily lost trying to imagine how any woman could possibly be desperate to have Grimes back.

‘Do you miss the company, sir?’ said Marsh. ‘It must get lonely rattling around in that big place of yours on your own.’ She flicked her gaze at Grimes again and he narrowed his eyes at her.

‘It was all right to have a bit of company, but I’m a solitary person. Unlike a lot of people I know, I quite like being on my own. I never get bored. There’s always something to do about the place, something on the radio, a good book to read or a film to watch. That reminds me, I still haven’t been able to get rid of that digital clock from the corner of the screen. It’s really annoying me. What did you do to it?’

Grimes looked like he had no recollection. He changed the subject. ‘Good result this afternoon with Billy Savage, gov.’

Romney allowed himself a smug grin of satisfaction. ‘Wasn’t it just? You should have seen his face when he realised he’d just provided us with the names of his mates. Priceless. It’s too easy sometimes. There should be a law against it. If there’s any justice in this world we’ll shake something incriminating out of one of those three and Billy might end up sharing ten square feet of prison cell with his old dad. Just in time for Christmas.’

‘What’ll
happen about Jimmy’s appeal?’ said Grimes.

‘It’ll collapse. There’s nothing in it for them now. Wonderful bit of irony for you. Bernie delivers the fatal steel toecap to John Stafford’s skull to settle some old score. Bernie helps to put Jimmy away
for it thereby leaving himself in the clear and then he finds himself preparing to make a good few quid out of getting Jimmy off the hook at no risk to himself. To top it all, the son kills the father’s only hope of freedom. It’s the sort of thing Shakespeare would have been proud of – A Comedy of Terrors, perhaps.’

‘Or how about the Merry Dives of Dover?’

‘All’s Hell in a Prison Cell?’

‘Her Majesty’s Pleasure for Leisure?’

‘Taming of the Screw?’

‘A Room Without a View.’

‘That wasn’t Shakespeare. That’s cheating.’

‘Cheating? Never heard of him; it was EM Forster.’

Marsh was reminded of the first time she’d heard them do this and the second and the third. And she had yet to find it as funny or as clever as they obviously still did – a bit like Monty Python.

Grimes and Romney enjoyed the reverberations of their wit and cleverness a little longer.

‘I heard Sandra Allen’s brief was a bit stylish,’ said Grimes.

‘He had about as much style as Steptoe’s horse and the teeth to go with it. Useless. A tailor’s dummy with the intellect to match. Probably on a good three figures an hour. It should be an arrestable offence, what they charge. I’m nipping out for a smoke.’ Romney pushed back his chair and left Grimes and Marsh to it.

‘You all right, Sarge? You’re a bit quiet tonight.’

Joy smiled tiredly. ‘Just thinking of all the stuff I’ve got to sort out with my sister over my mum.’

Grimes looked sympathetic. ‘When’s the funeral?’

‘My sister and I have got to organise it. We’ve got to start talking to each other again first. Why?’

‘I thought we could organise some flowers.’

‘Please, don’t. Thanks for the thought and all that but mum had strong opinions about flowers at funerals.
If you can’t give me flowers when I’m alive and can enjoy them, don’t bother when I’m dead and can’t
.’

‘She was right.’

‘A donation to charity was what she preferred. Something for animals. She liked animals.’

Grimes tried cheering her up. ‘Talking of which, I heard something funny today. You know the governor’s brush with
rabies
is all round the station?’

‘I did hear something.’

‘Did you hear what they’re calling him?’ Marsh shook her head. ‘Rabid Romney. Collins in uniform reckons the dog had more to fear from biting him than the other way round. He also reckons he’ll be in the shih-tzu with the new super over his antics.’

Marsh laughed. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few seconds before she said, ‘How is it really at your sister-in-law’s?’

Grimes shook his head and stared into his drink soberly. ‘Horrendous, if you want the truth. What was I thinking? They’ve got one bathroom – one toilet. There’re eight of us in that house. On a school day I have to get up at five thirty if I want to shave and have a wash. The garage is bloody freezing and damp. We have to wear hats in bed – and gloves. Romantic it isn’t. If it gets much worse we’ll be wearing more clothes to bed than we do during the day. And Maureen keeps waking me up in the night. She’s got this idea in her head there’s something living in there with us. Reckons she hears scratching at night. Has me up and shining the torch in all the nooks and crannies. She found
droppings
on our duvet. It was obvious to me it was just dirt blown in under the garage door but she won’t listen. It’s all in her mind. And I feel guilty. Maureen’s only in the garage because I’m there. If I’d stayed at the governor’s she’d be sleeping in the warm without rodents scampering about her dreams.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Still, the kids seem happy enough. That’s what’s important, eh?’

‘I suppose so. Not enough people these days seem to put the welfare and happiness of their kids before themselves. But you do have to think about yourselves too. How long before your place is going to be ready?’

‘I’ve no idea. Every time I drive up there there’s no one seems to be doing anything. Nothing changes.’

Romney came back in rubbing his hands. ‘It’s getting cold at nights. I pity those poor buggers living rough. It’s going to be a tough winter on them.’

Marsh studiously avoided looking in Grimes’ direction.

‘I’m going to eat something. How about you two?’

They declined. Marsh claimed to be on a diet and Grimes said he’d have dinner waiting at home for him. However, at the mention of food, Grimes went in search of crisps – something to tide him over.

Romney said, ‘We need to have a good ferret around in Sandra Allen’s dealings with Stephanie Lather. I think that’s where the key to this is going to lie. She must have had something to drive her to do what she did.’

Marsh was still thinking about the unfortunate children of the world. ‘It’s the kids that’ll suffer most, as usual.’

‘Sandra Allen had kids?’ said Romney.

‘No. At least I don’t think so. I mean Stephanie Lather’s and Rachael Sparrow’s. At least Rachael Sparrow’s kids still have a father to bring them up. He seemed a good man. Caring. Adequate, anyway.’

‘Maybe Stephanie’s kids have a good father waiting. There are a lot of good men who are prevented from being great fathers by the courts and selfish, spiteful women who would rather use their children to hurt their ex-husbands than think of the children’s best interests.’

Marsh knew he had a daughter from his first marriage and sensed that his little rant was tainted by an unpleasant element of personal history. She made an effort to steer the conversation in a more positive direction: ‘At least they kept his name. That’s something. Nice one too: D’Angelo. Sounds better than Lather.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, at least Stephanie Lather’s children kept their father’s name. I assume it’s his, anyway.’

‘The name. What was the name?’

‘D’Angelo.’

‘Oh fuck,’ said Romney.

‘What?’

Romney slumped heavily. All colour had drained from his face. He stared at the far wall almost as though he’d seen the Grim Reaper approaching, crooking his finger at him.

‘Sir, are you all right?’ Such was Marsh’s concern at the physical change in her DI that she was moved to actually touch him. A sharp shake of his shoulder.

‘She didn’t do it,’ he said.

‘Who didn’t do what?’ said Grimes through a mouthful of something brittle and noisy.

Marsh felt something hatch in her tummy.

‘Sandra Allen. She’s innocent.’

Marsh exchanged a worried look with Grimes before saying in measured and serious tones, ‘What are you talking about, sir?’

Romney snorted a little laugh out of his nose. ‘I think I’ve made the biggest mistake of my career.’

‘Will you just say what is bothering you? Sir?’

Romney kneaded his face for a long moment before coming back to his situation. He turned his gaze on Grimes. ‘The porter at the Dover Marina Hotel who told us about the note that dropped Sandra Allen in the shit up to her neck. What was his name?’

‘The little Italian? D’Angelo. Why?’

Marsh said, ‘Oh fuck.’

*

Romney and Marsh entered the foyer of the Dover Marina Hotel just as Ric D’Angelo stepped out from behind the long oak reception counter. He looked up to see the police staring meaningfully in his direction and it was clear from his reaction that he understood exactly why they were there. With two officers blocking his exit from the front of the building he turned instinctively and quickly towards the passageway that would provide him an exit from the rear of the establishment. However, filling the doorway and barring his escape was the impressive and intimidating bulk of DC Grimes looking equally disappointed in the little man.

Ric D’Angelo seemed to drop a clothes size as he deflated in front of their eyes. He abandoned his natural reaction to take flight and walked towards Romney. Grimes emerged to shadow his tracks.

‘I suppose you’re here for me?’

‘You suppose right, Ric. Hands out.’

‘Really? Is that necessary?’

‘I think so.’

Ric D’Angelo extended his arms and Romney signalled to Marsh, who slipped handcuffs over his skinny wrists while Romney recited his rights.

When Romney had finished, D’Angelo said, ‘I didn’t mean to kill her.’

‘Which one?’

‘Rachael, of course. She broke my heart when she left me. I never stopped loving her.’

‘And what about Stephanie?’ said Romney.

The small man snorted at the memory, ‘Inspector Romney, you have no idea what kind of a bitch that woman was. She made my life a living hell.’

‘You think so? Wait till you get to prison. They tell me it’s not very nice these days.’

*

Such was her level of personal and professional interest in the case that Superintendent Vine told Romney she’d be sitting in on his interview of Ric D’Angelo. Romney could not be certain of her motives but would bet a decent sum it had something to do with her not trusting him to not fuck it up. And the worst thing about that feeling was that given recent events he couldn’t blame her.

Like a lot of people who’ve done something particularly bad and think they can wriggle out of it by coming over all cooperative, Ric D’Angelo confessed a willingness to help the police with their enquiries. He’d even told his court-appointed solicitor to just sit there and not interrupt him.

When the formalities for the audio record had been observed, Romney began. ‘Well, Ric, I have to admit you almost got away with it. You must have been enjoying quite a laugh at our expense? If my sergeant here hadn’t discovered Stephanie Lather’s married name and mentioned it in passing and if D’Angelo wasn’t so unusual, well, I worry that there might have been one of those terrible miscarriages of justice we’re always reading about in the papers. Anyway, now we have caught up with you, I gather you want to make a clean breast of things. Settle your conscience. Is that right?’

‘Yes. It is. I do.’

‘Excellent. Why don’t you start from the beginning and I’ll jump in if I think a little clarification is needed?’