Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (10 page)

The two officers would later concur that there was not much evidence of the grieving about her that particular morning.

‘That might be possible from our point of view,’ said Romney. ‘It really depends on whether your relationship with the deceased was anything to do with his death. Was it?’

Lillian West answered without a hint of discomfort at the directness of the question. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘I would imagine that as the late Mr Emerson’s affairs are settled – an expression he instantly regretted – something of your relationship might come out into the open. What people choose to do with that information will be out of our control.’

‘I see,’ she said. She turned her attention to the untouched tea in front of her.

Romney said, ‘What exactly was your relationship with Mr Emerson?’

‘Do you mind telling me where you got my number from?’

Romney said, ‘Mr Emerson’s son gave it to us.’

‘William. Of course. Oh well, I suppose it would come out eventually. If you got my number from William you must know what my relationship was with Phillip.’

‘We do need to hear it from you. William Emerson was sparing with details.’

‘He’s a sweet boy. We actually got on pretty well, considering.’

‘Considering what?’

‘Considering I’d been having a long-term affair with his father behind his mother’s back. But then I suppose that his connivance made him just as guilty. That’s the wrong word. I never felt guilty about it from his side of things.’

‘What did you feel guilty about?’

‘My husband is not like
Phillip’s wife. My husband loves me, Inspector. My husband will be devastated if this becomes public knowledge. It will be very harmful.’

Perhaps you should have thought about that before you started playing around behind his back then, thought Romney.

As though reading his mind, she said, ‘Don’t seek to judge me, Inspector. You don’t know anything about us.’

‘Let’s talk about Phillip Emerson, Mrs West. Do you know how he was killed?’

‘Yes. My husband is a member at the White Cliffs Golf Club. As you can probably imagine, it’s quite a topic of discussion there at the moment.’

‘Do you know why anyone would want to do that to him? Why they would want to kill him? Being his lover I would imagine that you were privy to his secrets.’

She mulled the questions and the comment for a long moment. ‘No. I have no idea why anyone would want to kill him. If he had secrets, he didn’t share them with me. I think that possibly you have misinterpreted the nature of our association. Ours was really just a physical relationship.’ She looked him in the eye and said, ‘I believe that the common terminology is fuck-buddies. We were friends, of course, but really it was all about sex. The whys and wherefores are none of your business. We met a couple of times a week at his flat in Waterloo Crescent. That was it.’

‘What were you doing at the flat last night?’

‘Who said I was there?’

‘I told you, Mrs West. I’m a policeman.’

Her forced good humour was evaporating. ‘I thought I’d left something of mine there. Something personal and private. I wanted to retrieve it, naturally, before the police started poking around.’

‘What was it?’

‘Some underwear.’

‘We didn’t find any?’

‘I had it after all. Found it at home.’ Neither Marsh nor Romney believed her. ‘Look, I’m sorry that Phillip is dead. I’m sorry for him and for William. But I don’t know anything about it. If I did, I would tell you. If anything occurs to me, I will get in touch with you. Now, unless there is something else, I would like to get on with my day.’ She rose to emphasise her determination that the meeting was at an end.

Get on with her day. Not
get on with trying to rebuild her life. Not get on with trying to come to terms with her loss. Romney took a spiteful swipe at her. ‘From what you’ve told us, I’m afraid that we will almost certainly need to speak with your husband, Mrs West.’

She sat down again. Her features had hardened and there were spots of colour in her cheeks. ‘Why?’

‘You say that your husband loves you and that knowledge of your relationship with Phillip Emerson will devastate him. Jealous husbands have been known to resort to violence when they discover that they have been cuckolded. Perhaps your husband already knows about your affair?’

‘And what? Beat Phillip’s brains in with a golf club? Inspector, my husband is eighty-four years old. He can barely get his arms up to put a jumper on in the morning. The only reason he goes to the golf club is to socialise. I’m telling you that he did not know about Phillip Emerson and me and even if he had he wouldn’t have had the strength, the stupidity
, or the opportunity to have killed him. He was with me all evening at home the night that Phillip was killed.’

‘What makes you think that Phillip Emerson was beaten to death with a golf club?’ said Marsh.

With a slow deliberate indignation, as though she had relegated Marsh’s presence at the table to that of non-speaking observer and was quietly outraged at her impertinence, Lillian West turned her whole head to focus her cold, blue eyes on the officer. ‘Pardon?’

‘You just said that Phillip Emerson’s brains had been beaten in with a golf club,’ said Marsh, refusing to be intimidated. ‘I asked you, and I’ll ask you again, what makes you say that?’

Lillian West drew out the moment letting her gaze roam over Marsh’s clothing. Clearly, she was unimpressed with what met her eye. ‘I believe my husband may have mentioned it at the club, or it might have been one of the other members. I don’t recall. Everyone was guessing about it last night. The place was very busy.’

*

‘That one would give Margaret Thatcher a run for her money in the ‘iron lady’ class,’ said Romney as they watched Lillian West stride purposefully away from them to exit the cafe. She didn’t look back. Her tea sat untouched.

‘Bit before my time, sir,’ said Marsh, ‘but I’m guessing she must have been a tough cold bitch.’

‘I believe that some of the mining communities and union members of the day may have shared that opinion.’

‘Do you believe her?’

‘About what specifically?’

‘Any of it. All of it.’

‘I believe that Phillip Emerson didn’t mean much to her. If her old man’s eighty-four, and as infirm as she’d have us believe, that might explain her relationship with Emerson. Emerson’s wife told us that their marriage was in name only. Perhaps it was just a bit of mutual itch scratching. Remind me to ask William Emerson how he thought his father regarded Lillian West.’

‘What about the golf club thing?’

‘Don’t know. Maybe I should have another word with matey Masters and see what the consensus of golf-club opinion and gossip is on the murder weapon.’

‘And why she was at the flat?’

Romney smiled. ‘That, I didn’t believe.’

‘So, what was she doing there?’

‘No idea and she certainly isn’t going to tell us. Let’s get it searched properly before we give up on it. Anymore questions?’

‘Just one, what does cuckolded mean?’

*

From her desk, as her computer was booting up, Marsh contacted William Emerson and discovered that the flat was rented and not mortgaged. She told him that the police
would be finished with it by the evening and that he could do what he wanted about it.

Romney disappeared into his office and telephoned his insurance company to discover that he had not opted to take out breakdown cover when he had taken out his policy with them, but that he could do so now for a mere one hundred and forty pounds. He said he’d think about it. He immediately called police vehicle maintenance and was told that they were doing their best to get to him, but they still had sickness absences, a heavy workload and now someone on summer leave. Balking at the thought of paying out nearly a hundred fifty pounds for what was probably just a flat battery, he decided to continue to make do with the pool car and wait until maintenance could get around to him. Scowling
, he looked up to see Marsh signalling him to her.

As he approached her desk his attention was drawn to her computer screen where an image of a semi-naked woman f
illed it. Before he could speak another took its place. In this one a different and completely naked woman could be seen hanging on to the arm of a man with all his clothes on. He was laughing and carried a large glass full of fruit, straws and umbrellas. Two further images of naked women with men in various states of undress passed across the screen before Romney spoke. ‘Did you get me out here to look at mucky pictures, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She clicked back several and said, ‘Recognise anyone?’

He leaned down to stare at the screen. Perhaps half-a-dozen men were standing together holding either bottles of beer or cocktails in an artificially lit room. The decor looked foreign. The men were dressed as though out on the town on a package holiday. The camera had caught many of them laughing and pointing. All of them were focussed on another man, whose face was not clear because he was upending a bottle to empty it. In front of him on their knees were two women in underwear clearly chosen for the occasion. What they were doing to him was not explicit, but left little to the imagination. Romney looked again at the men lined up and jeering drunkenly. He could almost hear them, could almost smell the cigarette and cigar smoke, could almost taste the fruity alcoholic drinks, could almost feel the balmy evening warmth of the Spanish evening on his skin.

‘Is that Masters?’

‘Yes. What about him?’ She pointed to a man whose face was partly obscured.

Romney peered closely at it. ‘It can’t be. Can it?’ Marsh clicked forward
a couple of images to a picture that left the DI in no doubt that he was looking at an old adversary. ‘Maybe there is a God after all,’ he said. He was almost laughing. ‘I take it that this is the disc recovered from Emerson’s flat?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How many images are there on it?’

‘Dozens.’

Romney pulled up a chair. ‘From the beginning then.’ 

They determined that there were eight men in total. It appeared that these eight men – all of whom were clearly identifiable from the selection of images – were on holiday together
, probably without their spouses. They were all heterosexual, at least. This was proven by the number of images that had captured them engaged in sexual encounters with a variety of young women. Some of the images were explicit. Almost all had a professional clarity, even though Romney and Marsh came to the agreement that they must have been taken covertly. There were no poses for the camera.

When they had finished, Romney stood and opened a window. The room had grown hot and stuffy and he needed a lungful of clean fresh air. What he got was traffic fumes and noise.

‘Looks to me like a boys’ get-away,’ said Marsh. ‘Could be they’re all golfers. I’ve heard its one of those interests that can get men away together without their wives for a long-weekend. It’s certainly not around here. And boys will be boys, especially when they’re let off the leash in a pack for a couple of days.’ Romney gave her a questioning look. ‘I have a brother that goes in for that sort of thing. Breaks away with the lads, that is. I gather that sometimes some of them can act like they’ve escaped from prison and are expecting to be rounded up any day.’

‘What was written on the CD?’

‘
Spain, 2011
.’

Romney checked his watch and dru
mmed his fingers on the window-cill. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Ordinarily, this wouldn’t signify anything other than memories of a lads’ dirty weekend. However, given the murder and the fact that this was apparently hidden and so out of place with its surroundings makes me interested in following it up.’

‘With Masters
or our friend?’

Romney smiled wickedly. ‘Let’s do Masters first, shall we? I always like to save the best till last.’ Marsh
could see that the DI was going to enjoy confronting the men with the sordid pictures. ‘Get a few printed off. I want crystal clear images of all those present. We’ll go and see Masters after lunch. Now, any idea where I can get a key cut?’

*

When he returned from his trip into town, Romney found Marsh eating something out of a paper bag at her desk. She looked pleased with herself. ‘Got those pictures?’ She tapped an A4 buff envelope, as she tried to swallow to speak. It only gave her a coughing fit. Romney gave an impression of a disapproving father as she choked. He picked up the package, took a quick look inside and put them under his arm. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

Marsh recovered enough to get some water down her throat and clear the obstruction. She threw the bag with the remainder of a sandwich into her wire-basket bin, brushed the crumbs off her work surface, checked her computer, ejected the compact disc and put it into its clear plastic case. She set this on top of the paperwork, snatched up her bag and hurried out.

*

As the two police officers strode across the manicured
lawn towards the pro-shop, Romney spied Elliot Masters grappling with an old woman in front of a net screen. A smirk warped the policeman’s features. Masters, towering over the frail, but smiling, old woman, appeared to have her in a bear hug from behind. She was bent over swinging a golf club half-heartedly and giggling. Locked in their awkward embrace they found a moment of harmony, swung and connected with the small white sphere before them. It shot along the ground and under the netting to bobble into the long grass beyond. The woman let out a shriek of delight. Masters looked up to see the police watching this display and caught their shared amusement. He smiled sheepishly, but broadly, and for a moment Marsh was saddened by what they were about to do to him. And then she remembered his part in more than one of the photographs and her sympathy for him was replaced by something hard and judgemental. Masters spoke something to his mature student and left her to practise whatever it was she was clearly far from mastering.

‘Should she be left alone in there?’ said Romney.

‘She needs the practice – practice makes perfect you know.’

‘I tho
ught that it was perfect practice makes perfect,’ said Romney. ‘Won’t do her much good to be practising bad habits will it?’

‘To be honest, Inspector,’ said Masters, bristling slightly at Romney’s thinly veiled criticism of his tutoring, ‘nothing is going to do poor old Mrs Bates’ game much good. She can barely heft the club let alone swing it. Any contact with the ball is to be applauded.’

‘But you don’t mind taking her money for lessons, even though she can’t be helped?’

‘It’s not a lesson. It’s part of the goodwill that goes with being the golf-professional. I get to waste my time and en
ergy giving golfing tips and tidbits of instruction to the aged and infirm, the incompetent and hopeless, who remain blind to the fact that they just aren’t ever going to be cut out for the beautiful game of golf, but who, none-the-less, continue to renew their rather expensive annual membership fees.’

‘At least she seems to be enjoying herself.’

‘She’s bored, that’s all. Is it me you have come to speak to?’