Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (15 page)

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’

With a confidence bordering on arrogance, Romney said, ‘I’ll tell you what, you look at it like they’re unrelated, and I’ll be logical.’

On the outskirts of the town Romney slowed his speed
, resigned to the reality that without sirens and flashing lights, or a front-mounted rocket launcher, he wasn’t going to progress any faster than the current flow of traffic.

As usual they were among the last to arrive at the party. Uniformed police and ambulance staff were in evi
dence along with their brightly-striped transport. A few of the locals, jobless, or with nothing better to do, stood around in small clusters enjoying the distraction from their own boring lives that the brutal slaying of another human being often brings.

Romney and Marsh were ushered through the front door to find
that Grimes had made himself comfortable in the living room. He was sitting in a wing-backed armchair reading an old newspaper, looking like he owned the place. He got to his feet as quickly as he could when Romney entered, roughly shoving the paper down behind him and removing his reading glasses.

‘Making yourself at home?’ said Romney.

The sarcasm bounced off Grimes’ thick skin. He was used to it. ‘He’s in the kitchen, gov. I thought it best not to go disturbing anything until the doctor and SOCO have given it all a good going over.’

‘Very professional,’ said Romney. ‘Weren’t tempted to make a bit of toast or something while you waited?’

Many years before, Grimes had attended a suicide at which a middle-aged, recently divorced and recently unemployed man had positioned himself in his front room and in front of a bare Christmas tree with a home-made ‘Happy Fucking Xmas’ sign draped around his neck on string, stuck his toe in the trigger guard of his shotgun and the barrel in his mouth and decorated the tree behind him with the fabric of his head. It had been a messy and distressing episode for most, but it hadn’t stopped the then PC Grimes from helping himself to a couple of mince pies from a plate not six feet from the headless body. When colleagues had challenged him about his insensitive and unprofessional behaviour, he had simply replied that he was hungry and that the pies would probably only get thrown in the bin, so why waste them? His reputation in the face of such carnage now went before him.

Grimes led them
through to the little kitchen and pushed open the door. He stepped back to allow the senior officers their first view of Duncan Smart dead. He was sitting on the lino floor, his back against the kitchen sink unit. Against his stomach he held, even in death, a souvenir tea-towel from some sea-side resort. It had originally been white, but was now, like his trousers and the floor around him, crimson with congealed blood. In his spare hand he held a mobile phone. His eyes were shut. With the pathologist still to arrive they could only guess at how long he had waited to be discovered.

A cheap battery operated wall clock ticked away the seconds loudly, the fridge gently hummed and from behind the net curtain a fly droned heavily. Somewhere, not too distant, a neighbour was mowing a lawn.

Grimes said, ‘I got no answer on the phone number he gave us so I thought I’d take a drive out here. No one answered my banging on the front door so I came round back for a look. I could see his feet through the glass panel of the back door. It wasn’t locked. Nothing to be done for the poor sod.’

‘No murder weapon?’ said Romney. ‘I’m assuming this isn’t a
suicide. No one stabs them self in the belly and waits to bleed to death.’

‘Samurai do,’ said Grimes.

‘In case you hadn’t noticed this is twenty-first century Dover, not twelfth century Shanghai and he isn’t Japanese. And they leave their swords in, as I remember.’

‘I couldn’t see anything that looked responsible for it lying around,’ said Grimes. ‘But it could be under him
, I suppose.’

Romney took a last look around the dated room before turning to leave. ‘Wait here, Grimes. Sergeant Marsh come with me.’ Romney led them through the back door into the little back garden. ‘Another murder.’

‘Looks like it, sir.’

‘Unofficially, I’m going to leave you in charge of it, but you’ll be reporting directly to me and often. Got that?’ Marsh was rendered speechless by the faith that was being shown in her by her DI. She nodded
, struggling to contain her gratitude and surprise for the responsibility. ‘I will, of course, take overall responsibility for it and if any big calls need to be made, I’ll be making them. Is that clear? You know my thoughts: the two deaths are probably related and therefore all part of the same investigation. But I know you won’t let what I feel prejudice that open mind of yours. Before you get too carried away with it all allow me to explain something. Strictly speaking, as this is a murder investigation, it should have an officer more senior than a lowly detective sergeant in charge. You know that. But there is only one detective inspector at our station and that’s me. I can’t be in two places at once, so I either put someone I trust on it, or I call in outside assistance. I do not want anyone else working my cases. So, officially, I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Understood?’

‘Understood, sir,’ said Marsh.

‘Good. Don’t forget it and don’t let me down. I’ve seen enough. I’ll take the car back to the nick. What appointments did you make?’

‘I left the details on your desk, sir.’

‘Right. We’ll catch up later and if you need me in the mean time call. Oh, and I’ll leave Grimes with you. He has his uses and he’s been around a bit.’

Marsh watched Romney disappear
around the side of the property with a mixture of euphoria and trepidation at the responsibility and confidence bestowed upon her, even if Romney had made it clear that she was still working under and directly answerable to him. She was also pleased not to have to share a car that he was driving back to Dover.

Grimes
appeared at her shoulder. ‘Where’s he off to?’

‘Back to the nick.’

‘Really? What about this then? Who’s in charge of this lot?’

‘You’re a detective, take a wild guess.’ She watched as the penny dropped.

Grimes actually chuckled. ‘Oh, DS Wilkie’s gonna love this,’ he said, but there was a mischievous look about his eyes. ‘What’s the plan then, Sarge?’

‘Exactly what you were doing: we wait for the pathologist and SOCO to arrive and do their thing. When they’re here you and I can do a bit of house to house. Any sign of anything being taken?’

‘No, Sarge. I had a bit of a look round before you arrived. No sign of disturbance. He was quite a tidy bloke actually. By the way, did you know that Shanghai isn’t, and has never been, part of Japan? It’s a city in China.’

‘That’s very interesting. Thank you.’

‘So,’ said Grimes, ‘we’re assuming that the two deaths are related, are we?’

‘Should we? You know what they say about assuming?’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard that one, too. But if you look at this logically. For example, do you know how many people are murdered on average in Dover each year?’

Marsh was spared the repetition of the statistical argument by the sound of voices in the house. The pathologist and the SOCO team had arrived. After a brief word with both she and Grimes set off to speak with the neighbours.

*

The net curtains at an upstairs window twitched at the next door property as Marsh and Grimes made their way up the overgrown narrow path to the front door. The house was neglected, paint was peeling from the wooden window frames and the glass panel in the front door was cracke
d. Clear adhesive tape, yellowed with age, held the fractured glass together. All the downstairs windows had the curtains drawn.

Marsh could hear no sound inside when she pushed the bell and so she rapped firmly with her knuckles. It was almost a minute before there was a shadowy movement behind the glass. The door opened
as far as the chain would allow and an old woman’s face peered through the opening. ‘What do you want?’

Marsh held up her warrant card. ‘Hello. We are police officers. There has been serious crime committed next door. Could we talk to you for a minute, please?’

‘Why? It’s nothing to do with me. Why would I want to talk about something like that?’

‘You might have seen something that could help us.’

‘There’s no need to shout, or talk so slowly. I might be old, but I’m not deaf, or stupid. I didn’t see him and I don’t know anything. Go away.’

‘Who didn’t you see?’ said Marsh.

‘What?’

‘You said you didn’t see ‘him’. Please, Mrs...?’

‘My name is Mrs Michaels.’

‘Mrs Michaels, have you seen anyone acting suspiciously, anyone
hanging around who you didn’t recognise?’

‘Yes,’ she said and she pointed at Grimes. ‘Him.’

‘Detective Constable Grimes is a police officer, Mrs Michaels. He found the body this morning.’

‘What body?’

‘Your neighbours.’

‘Duncan’s?’

‘Yes, did you know Mr Smart?’

‘He’s my nephew.’

‘Oh,’ said Marsh, wondering why the old woman hadn’t said something sooner.

‘Is he dead then?’

‘I’m sorry. Yes he is.’

‘Useless man.’

‘Mrs Michaels, why don’t you open the door and let me come in for a little chat?’ said Marsh, feeling now that she’d delivered shocking news to an elderly relative she had an obligation to offer some comfort, regardless of how the woman appeared to feel about her kin.

‘How do I know that you’re who you say you are? How do I know that you really are the police? How do I know Duncan’s dead?’ Marsh held up her warrant card again. ‘I can’t see that without my glasses. And
anyway, we’re warned about con-artists. You’re a devious lot. Anyone can fake something like that. I’ll have to phone the police to ask if I should let you in. That’s what they tell us to do.’

‘That’s very sensible, Mrs Michaels, but if you look outside you’ll see police cars and an ambulance.’

‘Trust no one they tell us. That could all be for show. For all I know it’s just some elaborate trick to get into my home to rape me and rob me.’

Behind Marsh, Grimes made a strange sound.

Marsh said, ‘How about I give you my warrant card and you phone the police station to see if I am who I say I am? If they vouch for me will you let me in then?’

‘I suppose so. I’d have to
, wouldn’t I? If you are the police and I don’t let you in you’ll kick the door down.’

A withered hand shot out and snatched Marsh’s identification out of her hand. The front door slammed shut.

‘I hope they’re not all like her round here,’ said Grimes.

Marsh blew out her cheeks. ‘Can’t blame her
, I suppose. We always moan about them when they just let anyone walk into their homes, beat them up and take everything they’ve got. Why don’t you continue on across the road? I’ll have to wait here now she’s got my card. Besides, I’d feel bad just leaving her when I’ve told her her nephew’s been killed.’

‘She didn’t
seem too bothered.’

‘Still. Do m
e a favour will you? Arrange a female PC to come and sit with her for a bit.’

Grimes retraced the path
, whistling tunelessly, as Marsh reflected on her stumbling rather than flying start to leading her first murder enquiry.

It seemed an age before Marsh heard the chain being slid back and Mrs Michael’s front door opened to admit her.

‘Where’s the fat one?’ said the old woman.

‘He’s talking to your neighbours.’

‘Good. I didn’t like the look of him. I don’t like fat people. Greedy buggers.’

‘Did you phone the station?’

‘No. I can’t find the phone book. But seeing as you haven’t run off, I suppose you must be who you say you are. Come in if you’re coming.’

Marsh entered the dark and gloomy hallway and Mrs Michaels closed the door behind her, replacing the chain. The all too familiar smells of an old person’s home wafted up to greet her reminding her of her grandmother’s house, a place where the recesses were left to stagnate and windows were never opened. Musty fabrics, old furniture and the odours of an old person’s traditional diet combined to create a sad and slightly nauseating scent.

Mrs Michaels led Marsh through to the sitting room where she surprised the policewoman by offering her tea and biscuits. Marsh realised then why she had been kept waiting so long: the old woman had been preparing to receive her. A small antique gate-leg table stood between two uncomfortable looking armchairs. On top of this sat a tray with a matching tea pot, cups and saucers and a plate of plain biscuits. Marsh was touched by the gesture.

Marsh stared at the wall of bookshelves. ‘My boss would love this room. I don’t think that I’ve ever seen so many books in one place outside of a library, or a bookshop.’

The woman’s tone softened a little. ‘My late husband was a great collector. Always touring the sale rooms and the second-hand shops looking for a bargain.’