Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (13 page)

Marsh nodded, very satisfied.

‘Don’t you want it back?’ said West.

‘It’s a blank copy. I only put it in the flat five minutes before I called you. The original is down at the station helping us with our enquiries.’

Lillian West’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I must be slipping. You gave me a glimpse of your hidden depths, didn’t you, when you picked up on my golf club comment this morning? I have seriously underestimated you, Sergeant Marsh. For that I apologise. That’s the only thing I do apologise for though. Just so long as we’re clear.’

‘Fine by me.  All I’m interested in is the truth. You ready for that now?’

‘Yes. But I do better with a drink and a cigarette in my hand.’ She gestured towards one of the Waterloo Crescent hotels and a sign claiming to have a bar open and welcoming non-residents. ‘Let me buy you a drink. Call it a peace offering.’

***

8

‘I bumped into Lillian West coming out of the Waterloo Crescent flat yesterday evening.’

‘Bumped into her? What were you doing there?’

‘Just enjoying a stroll along the seafront.’

Romney looked sceptical. ‘And?’

‘And she was very cooperative. She even bought me a drink in one of the hotels. We had quite a chat.’

‘We are talking about the same Lillian West
who basically told us to mind our own business yesterday morning, are we?’ Marsh indicated that they were. ‘How did you manage to get her to talk to you or don’t I want to know?’

‘I made he
r an offer she could’ve refused but chose not to.’

Romney made a face that Marsh judged as tinged with a hint of amusement. ‘Did she tell you why she was there?’

‘She didn’t have to. She went in to retrieve the
Spain, 2011
, CD.’

Romney was suddenly very interested. ‘How do you know?’

‘She was in and out in four minutes. She had to know exactly where it was to be so quick. She couldn’t have been looking for anything else.’

‘I thought you said you were passing by.’ Marsh made no reply. ‘Well, she must have been disappointed not to have found it. How can you be sure that she was specifically after the CD?’

‘She showed it to me.’

Now, Romney was confused. ‘I thought you said it was safely locked away in your desk.’

‘The original is.’

He laughed. An unusual event it occurred to Marsh. ‘
DS Marsh have you been hiding your light under a bushel? Maybe I’ve been underestimating you.’

‘There’s a lot of it about, sir.’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing.

‘So what did she have to say for herself?’

‘Her story was that Emerson had confided in her that he was using the images to apply some pressure to someone captured on it.’

‘You sound like you don’t believe her.’

‘She lies naturally.’

Romney pushed back in his chair, the better to think. ‘Blackmail is a strong motive for murder. Who was it?’

‘She claims not to know. I pressed her hard.’

‘It would be very convenient for us, serendipitous even, if this CD proved to be the reason Phillip Emerson was murdered.’

‘With respect sir, if the CD is something to do with it, it won’t be the reason he was killed. It was what he was trying to do with it.’

‘Fair point. So, why was she so keen to get her hands on it?’

‘Said she wanted to destroy it,
make sure it didn’t fall into the hands of anyone who might be tempted to do something ‘wrong’ with it. She said some of the people on it were her friends. She also said she and Emerson had disagreed strongly about his intentions for it.’

‘How noble of her. Doesn’t have a very high opinion of her fellow Man does she?’

‘Perhaps she just judges everyone by her own standards.’

‘Meow. Maybe we should have Mrs West in for a more formal chat.’

‘Like I said, I pushed her pretty hard, but she might have just been spinning me a line.’

Romney checked his watch. ‘What time is the meeting with Kenneth Lane?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘And what does he know about our visit?’

‘I made it with his secretary. I said it was a legal issue I needed to discuss with him.’

‘And you didn’t mention you are police?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Better to catch him cold. It’ll be worth it just to see the look on his face. I don’t like solicitors, especially those who seek to profit from defending scumbags.’ Marsh found herself wondering if there was anyone Romney did like. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got time for a smoke.’

Marsh trailed him out of his office and they made their way across the CID floor. A computer technician was leaving carrying a computer tower. Wilkie was staring forlornly after him.

‘Problem?’ said Romney.

Wilkie avoided all eye contact with Marsh. ‘Virus, sir. Corrupted everything. Can’t open any of my files. All the car vandalism data is on the hard drive.’

‘
The Parking Medal Man
?’

Wilkie
tensed, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘But you back everything up, don’t you?’

‘Should all be somewhere and we’ve got it in paper form,’ said Wilkie, with what Marsh interpreted as false optimism.

‘Any developments?’

‘No sir, not yet.’

Romney grunted and continued on out of the squad room. Marsh didn’t even look back.

Wilkie flopped down into his seat and stared at his useless monitor. He was exhausted and the prospect that all his digital documentation regarding the lunatic car vandal had been irretrievably corrupted and wasn’t backed up, despite his repeated best intentions to do so, deepened his depression and darkened his mood. Not only had Marsh fucked him up with his work, but she had hurt his pride and his ego in a way that made him squirm to contemplate. He had actually pleaded with her, virtually begged her, not to grass on him. He despised himself for what she’d reduced him to. She had degraded him. To ice the cake of his misery, she’d deceived him into giving her audio testimony of his guilt. It might be nothing that could ever be admissible in any court, but it wouldn’t need to be. If it ever got out, he’d be a laughing stock. If Romney ever got wind of it, he’d be finished.

On top of this
, he’d spent from eight at night till one in the morning for the two nights since his chat with Romney watching his illegally and obtrusively parked car from bushes waiting for the bane of his life to materialise and thump it with a hammer. It was a desperate tactic of a desperate man and there had been many times in the quiet, uncomfortable, still hours of his self-imposed vigil that he’d wondered what the hell he was doing. As if this wasn’t enough, the baby wasn’t sleeping well and he could find no sanctuary within his modern rabbit hutch, with its plaster-board-thin walls, from its constant crying for the few fruitless hours he was managing to spend in his bed.

He would not be able to keep his night time activities up indefinitely. Regardless of the effect they were having on his temperament, his wife was complaining at the ‘overtime’ that he’d been doing. For being stuck in with the infant on her own without help all day and all night, she was at least expecting to see something extra in his bank account because of it. She thought they might be able to afford a new sofa for the lounge. The thought of owning up to her that his extra-curricular activities were unpaid wasn’t something Wilkie wished to dwell on. Wilkie yawned expansively, rested his head on his folded arms and before he appreciated what was happening, fell asleep.

*

The secretary from the front desk led them up the contemporary metal and glass staircase towards the solicitors’ offices on the first floor.

Romney shared his opinion of the building with Marsh during their ascent. ‘More like a poncy architects’ office than a legal practice.’ 

Kenneth Lane’s office was located at the front of the building overlooking the main road. His name was impressed upon a letter-box-sized strip of metal screwed to the door. The secretary knocked lightly and opened it standing aside for them to go in. They were expected. Or rather Kenneth Lane had been expecting a professional appointment, not a couple of police officers, one of whom he’d had several unpleasant encounters with. The smile
, which he’d fixed to his face to welcome his visitor, faded quickly to be replaced by a look of annoyance. His eyes went between the two of them as the door was gently closed.

‘Detective Inspector Romney. I have an appointment scheduled with a client now.’

‘Nice to see you, too,’ said Romney, acting injured and making himself comfortable in one of the two chairs the visitor’s side of Lane’s impressive desk.

‘I made the appointment to see you,’ said Marsh.

Lane looked further annoyed. ‘Why didn’t you say you were the police?’

‘No one asked.’

‘That’s neither a funny nor a clever answer Miss?’

‘Detective Sergeant Marsh. We have met.’

‘Really? I don’t remember. What do you want?’

‘Sit down,’ said Romney. ‘And
you Sergeant.’ They sat. Romney picked up a silver framed photograph from the corner of the desk nearest him. ‘This the wife and kids?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very nice.’ He showed it to Marsh who nodded approvingly.

‘What do you want, Inspector? I don’t believe that we have any outstanding cases between us, do we?’

‘I don’t believe that we do,’ echoed Romney. ‘We’re actually here on a more personal matter. Wonder if you can help us with our enquiries. Phillip Emerson.’

Lane visibly relaxed. ‘Oh, yes. Terrible business. Pretty gruesome
, I heard.’

‘You could say that.’

‘You’re here because we were both members at the golf club, I suppose.’

‘You could say that,’ repeated Romney. ‘How well did you know him?’

‘Not terribly. He was club captain so of course I knew him for that. We played in a couple of foursomes and a couple of club tournaments together. I saw him around the club house and the course.’

‘That it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘So not great friends then?
’

Lane’s manner had softened noticeably. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

A germ of suspicion edged into Lane’s look and reply. ‘If you’ve got something bothering you, Inspector, I’d appreciate it if you just got on with it.’

‘Fair enough.’ Romney removed the buff A4 envelope from his jacket pocket and briefly enjoyed, once again, the effect that such an innocuous thing could have on a man with secrets. Kenneth Lane’s eyes locked on to it and the muscles around his jaw tightened up. Romney put the envelope on the table between them.

‘You want me to look in it?’ said the solicitor.

‘That’s the idea.’

Slowly, Lane withdrew the set of photographs. He went through them carefully, his confidence and colour seeping away with each change of image. He laboured over one in particular. Romney could guess which it was. They waited.

‘Where did you get these, Inspector?’

‘Never mind that just now. What have you got to say about them?’

Lane looked up sharply. He wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Masters. ‘What do you mean? I do hope you haven’t come here to moralise with me, Inspector. There’s nothing illegal here.’

‘No, just immoral.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are talking to me like that?’

‘I’m the man who’s investigating a murder and these sordid little snap shots could have something to do with it.’

‘Would you care to explain that?’

‘All in good time. First of all, you do admit that is you in the photographs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you confirm for us that these were taken in Spain and that you and the other gentlemen featured are engaged in visiting a brothel?’

The use of the term brothel seemed to hit Lane like a slap. He was silent for a long moment.

‘I was hoping you might be able to help us off the record for now,’ said Romney. ‘Perhaps it could stay that way. It really depends
on how relevant these turn out to be in our investigations. Of course, if you’d rather have some legal representation, we don’t mind if you want to call in a colleague. Or we can take a trip down to the station.’

Perhaps, thought Romney, there was something that reminded him of Masters in Lane’s reaction to this. Some shared way of dealing with
their shame deep down in the primitive cores of their brains.

‘Oh dear.’ Lane, let out a long breath and stared disconsolately at the photograph
which had taken his attention. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. There’s no fool like an old fool, is there?’

Kenneth Lane allowed himself a look into the future. He saw
that, even if by some chance the photographs never became public knowledge, Romney, a professional adversary, would always have something over him – some leverage for the time he needed it and the time after that and the time after that. Because Kenneth Lane realised in that instant that he would do anything, forever, to keep them secret. Because if they found their way into the public domain the effects on his private and professional lives would be devastating. And, say Romney, by some further miracle, managed to suppress them entirely, keep them buried – although why would he? – would he expect consideration in future dealings as a mark of his gratitude? Would he, Kenneth Lane, countenance such a thing? Would he be prepared to compromise himself professionally? Of course, he would. He’d do it to protect his family from the fallout and shame of his stupidity. He’d do it to protect himself and his vanity. He’d do it because the disgrace and consequences of the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.