Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (11 page)

‘Actually, yes. The police need you to assist us with our enquiries.’ Romney, gave no hint of the bomb-shell he was about to drop in the lap of the big inoffensive man.

Marsh wished that her boss would just get on with. She never liked to watch the family cat toying with the things it caught when she was a child and she hadn’t gotten a taste for it as an adult.

‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Masters, a little warily. ‘Of course, I’ll help in any way I can.’ He adopted an air of respectful solemnity and lowered his voice. ‘I take it this about poor old Phillip Emerson’s murder is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Romney. ‘By the way, what are people saying at the club about his death, specifically about how and with what he might have been killed?’

Masters seemed at a loss for a moment before saying, ‘Naturally, there’s a lot of gossip and rumour. Most of it is completely groundless, but you know what people are like.’

‘Go on,’ said Romney.

For a moment Masters looked like he regretted his disclosure. ‘Well there’s talk that he might have been struck down by some jealous husband.’

‘Are there any jealous husbands in the club that might have had cause to go after Phillip Emerson with murderous intent?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Masters. ‘Like I said, it’s probably just idle gossip. I didn’t know him that well.’

It seemed that Romney had found the opening he had been seeking. Marsh braced herself for the unveiling of the reason that they were there. ‘Really?’ Romney turned to her to make her part of it. ‘That’s not the idea we’ve formed, is it? We thought that maybe you two knew each other rather well.’ Masters’ gaze flitted between them. For the first time, he seemed to notice the large brown envelope Romney was holding. ‘Do you have somewhere private where we might speak to you?’ Tapping the envelope that had taken Master’s attention, Romney said ‘It’s of a rather delicate nature.’

After a brief pause
, during which Masters looked distinctly uncomfortable, he led them into the pro-shop.

‘Simon, go and see if you can do anything with Mrs Bates. She’s in the net
. And shut the door on your way out, please.’

The tall youth, coordinated perfectly in lilac, looked at the visitors and at Masters and, without a word, left. Masters led them into his small office behind the counter where he slumped down into his seat.

‘Sorry,’ he said pointing at the single chair the other side. ‘Shall I get you another one?’

Romney shook his head and sat down. ‘We’re fine.’

The big man was suffering in the heat. Beads of perspiration had formed on his fore-head and top lip. He switched on a fan behind him and dabbed at his face with his handkerchief. His eyes returned to the envelope and Marsh found herself wondering if he suspected what they were going to pull out of it.

Romney slid out the big glossy images and began arranging them on the desk before Masters. Marsh focussed solely on the effect on the man.

Masters actually groaned an involuntary vocal reaction to the uncovering of a horrible, sordid secret. It welled up from deep within him to betray his horror at the reality of his exposure and his situation. He closed his eyes and resting his elbows on the wooden surface covered his face with his big paws.

Romney let him stay like that for some moments before speaking. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’ he said unnecessarily.

Slowly Masters came out from behind his hands. ‘Yes, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that it is. What a fool I’ve been.’

Romney ignored his self-pitying remorse. ‘Seen them before?’

Masters shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Are you married, Mr Masters?’

Masters met Romney’s stare. ‘Yes, I am.’ He looked dejectedly down and sighed heavily, presumably at his gross stupidity.

‘Tell me about them.’

Masters inhaled deeply. ‘A month ago Phillip organised a party of members for a week’s golfing holiday in Andalucía. There were eight of us. It was a good price. Phillip said he knew some people down there. Hard to say no if you were invited. Some wonderful golf courses in that part of Spain and he promised us a good social week too.’

‘You knew it was going to be like this?’ said Romney, indicating the pictures.

‘Good heavens, no,’ said Masters, adopting a horrified expression. ‘Good golf, good food, good night life, yes, but nothing like this.’

‘You seem to be enjoying yourself.’

‘It was a horrible mistake,’ said Masters quietly. ‘I’m sure I’m not the only one to think so with hindsight. Surely you can imagine how it was? All boys together, a bit the worse the wear for drink and somehow we ended up at this club-come-brothel. Oh god. This could ruin me. Ruin my marriage. And others if it gets out.’

For an uncomfortable moment, Romney thought that the man was going to cry. He pressed on hoping to avoid it. ‘Whose idea was it to go there?’

‘Phillip’s.’

‘Who took these?’

‘I don’t know. I told you, I’ve never seen them before. None of us would have wanted a record of it.’ He seemed appalled with the idea. ‘I remember when we were on our way back it was agreed – what went on on tour stayed on tour. There were others apart from me who regretted that things had got out of hand in such a way.’

‘We found these in Phillip Emerson’s flat. Why would he want to set up something like this? Blackmail? Was he blackmailing you, Mr Masters?’

Masters let out a sound of forced amusement. ‘No, Inspector, he wasn’t. I don’t have anything he would’ve wanted.’ After a quiet moment, he said, ‘Can I ask what you intend to do with them?’

‘Naturally, I’ll be confronting the men who you are going to identify for me with them and then I’ll be considering whether they are relevant to our enquiries into the murder of Phillip Emerson. Anything that you want to say on that score?’

Masters, numbed by it all, just shook his head.

*

They left Masters – a broken man behind his desk – with only his misery and conscience for company. He had given them a concise account of the few days in Spain. He’d also provided them with the names of the other six unknown men. Romney had leant hard on the man to impress upon him the need to keep to himself what they had discussed. That included not speaking to any of the other men from the holiday that the police would now be visiting.

As they made their way back to the station Marsh,
emboldened by her sense of fair-play said, ‘Don’t you think that you were a bit tough on him, sir?’

Romney turned his head to look at her
, the better to gauge her implication. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He explained it was just
something that got out of hand – something that just happened. It wasn’t a criminal offence.’

‘You approve of that kind of thing then? Married men cavorting around the whore
-houses of Europe while their wives stay home shuttling the kids to school and keeping the house running?’

‘Of course not,’ said Marsh, unsure of how serious Romney’s puritanical viewpoint was meant to be, ‘but is it our place to be judgemental about it? He obviously regretted it.’

‘The only thing he obviously regrets is getting found out.’

Neither spoke as Romney negotiated, what Marsh considered, an ill-advised overtaking manoeuvre.

Once they were safely past the lorry and back on their own side of the road Marsh said, ‘But they weren’t breaking any laws were they? I mean...’

‘Listen,’ Romney interrupted her, ‘when we’re dealing with people, people who will be naturally reluctant to be open and honest, helpful even
, with our enquiries, we have to capitalise on any bone we can dig up, any bit of good fortune that providence sends our way. Sometimes a bit of intimidation, a suggestion of a threat, or a little piety even, can be what’s needed to tip a balance, open a door or whatever other metaphor you can think of. I know that he didn’t do anything illegal, he knows it too, but if I went in there any other way than how I did, do you think he would have been so ashamed, so vulnerable and so helpful? Besides, don’t forget we are investigating a murder for which we have no murder weapon, no suspect and no obvious motive. Could be this is something to do with it.’

‘So it wasn’t personal then?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Marsh turned to see Romney suppressing his smirk. ‘Why don’t you like him, sir?’

‘I don’t like his type. Never have, never will.’

Marsh wound down her window in attempt to get some air circulating. The heat of the day was drawing out a heady cocktail of unpleasant smells from the upholstery of the pool car. ‘What now?’ she said.

‘Make an appointment to visit our friend first thing in the morning. Don’t make it as a copper though. No need to prep him.’

‘And the others?’

‘We’ll get around to them. Of course, this might all turn out to have nothing to do with Phillip Emerson’s murder, in which case we’re just wasting our time. What do you think?’

‘Me, sir? I’m keeping an open mind.’

Romney smiled broadly. ‘Good answer.’

***

7

Marsh left Romney to his smoke under the walnut tree and, despite the stifling heat, fairly bounded up the station staircase steps two at a time towards CID. She loved real detective work, that seemingly small element of her job fitted in between the endless, largely pointless, paperwork and meetings. Nothing compared to the thrill, the excitement, of pitting her wits against others. Nothing came close.

She scanned t
he open-plan office. The desks were occupied by officers in various reposes and states of undress for the heat: talking on phones, tapping on keyboards, writing up reports. Bottles of water and slowly rotating fans were dotted about as further testimony to the summer’s authority. She spied Wilkie at his desk, speaking animatedly on the landline. As though sensing the presence of an adversary, he looked up and their eyes locked briefly. Marsh wondered if his empty smile was for her.

S
he made her way to her desk aware of the thumping in her chest, a mixture of reaction to her recent exertions and anticipation of the game to come. She looked down to see that all was as she had left it, except that the
Spain, 2011
, CD was missing. Instinctively, she looked towards Wilkie’s desk, but he now had his back to her. She could imagine him hiding his self-satisfied grin.

She sat down, tapped the mouse and the monitor came to life. She double clicked a recently installed programme – something that she had had one of the geeks from technical download and set up for her during lunch along with the tiny surveillance webcam that sat unobtrusively on top of the monitor. And there she was. So far so good. She rewound the digital recording. For a long time there was nothing other than the odd individual pass by her desk. And then Wilkie appeared. She pressed play. He was standing at the water cooler behind her desk, sipping from a plastic disposable cup and having a good look around. He downed the water, dumped the beaker in
to the bin and approached her desk. Marsh watched him pick up the CD marked
Spain, 2011
, and slip it into his inside pocket. Oh, she did so love being a detective.

She had deliberated over how to play it from here
in the eventuality that Wilkie lived down to her expectations. If she were to go and confront him with only this, he could easily pass it off as a joke, a bit of office horseplay. It wouldn’t be the damning evidence she needed it to be that he had likely taken Emerson’s phone. She still needed more of a contribution from him. He had a greater part to play.

She began the charade of searching for something on her desk, maintaining appearances, playing her game. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Wilkie approaching, unable to resist his
gloat. It might be a detective-novel cliché, but they always returned to the scene of the crime.

‘Lost something?’ he said.

She didn’t look up at him, or stop her rummaging. ‘The CD we got from Emerson’s flat.’

‘Careless. Didn’t you lose his phone
, too? The DI isn’t going to be very pleased with you when he hears about this, is he?’ He exposed his crooked yellow teeth in a grin.

She stood and faced him and asked him straight. ‘Have you taken it?’

Wilkie fixed his intense unsettling stare on her. ‘Careful. Are you accusing me of tampering with police evidence? That would be a very serious matter. A disciplinary matter.’

She said nothing and
went back to searching through the paperwork.

‘Look out,’ said Wilkie. ‘Here he comes.’

Romney had entered the office and was making his way towards them. Clearly surprised, if not a little suspicious, at finding the two officers together, he said, ‘Everything all right?’

‘Sergeant Marsh seems to have mislaid the CD that was recovered from the Emerson flat, sir,’ said Wilkie. ‘I was just helping her look for it.’

‘What?’ Romney turned his full attention on Marsh. ‘Tell me that’s not the case.’