Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (19 page)

Marsh took the news like a physical blow. She hadn’t believed for a minute that the two deaths were connected, despite the statistical probability of such and the not irrelevant fact that one had found the other. With something approaching rising panic, she wondered if she hadn’t
just been stubbornly unprofessional and stupid in closing her mind to the possibility.

‘What connection?’ The way she said it caused Romney to give her a look.

‘A few months back they had a business dealing.’

‘What business dealing?’

‘I don’t know. Wilkie has the details. He called me with it. He’s been out to Emerson’s office this afternoon. He’ll be back soon. We’ll find out then.’

Marsh busied herself with paperwork
, one eye on the department door waiting for Wilkie’s return. When he eventually arrived, he wore a smarmy expression. Marsh could see on his face he believed he’d made a breakthrough – scored a goal. He breezed past her desk without acknowledging her and tapped on Romney’s office door. He was holding a plastic sleeve containing documentation.

As Wilkie entered Romney called out, ‘Sergeant Marsh, you’d better come and see this.’

Wilkie handed the document across to the DI. He still hadn’t acknowledged Marsh’s presence. While Romney studied it Wilkie provided commentary. ‘In March of this year one of Emerson’s vans was booked to call at Smart’s address.’

‘Is that it?’ said Marsh.

‘It’s a connection,’ said Romney.

‘Does it detail what the job was?’

‘Furniture removal,’ said Romney.

Wilkie said, ‘He was still living there when he died, wasn’t he? So what would he want furniture removals for?’

‘Lots of reasons,’ said Marsh. ‘How was it paid for?’

Romney looked at the till receipt stapled to it. ‘Cash.’

‘Has it got an address to where it was taken?’

‘Says here, for storage at the depot.’ Romney looked up at Wilkie. ‘Is it still there?’

‘Yes, sir. The storage facility is on the Buckland Industrial Estate. I thought I should report to you before making a call on them.’

‘Good work,’ said Romney.

Wilkie’s obsequious manner threatened to make the bile rise in Marsh’s throat. This didn’t seem anything significant to her. Something occurred to her. She opened her mouth to voice it and changed her mind. She knew she should speak up. It would be the professional team thing to do. But this was Wilkie’s goose chase and she wanted him to run it to its pointless end. She doubted whether either of them would listen to her anyway. They were as sure the connection existed as she was it didn’t and the only way to dispel the idea was to let them find out for themselves.

Romney looked at his watch. ‘What time do they shut?’

‘I’d have to find that out, sir. We’ll need a search warrant.’

‘Organise it.’

Wilkie hurried out. Marsh could smell the satisfaction on him as he passed her.

‘You don’t seem too excited,’ said Romney.

Now she should tell him. ‘With respect, I didn’t hear anything to feel excited about, sir. It just sounds like what it says on the invoice. I still don’t believe the deaths are related. But a connection is a connection. It’s got to be followed up. Talking of which, I need to look over what I brought back from Duncan Smart’s.’

Excusing herself
, she went back to her desk and dialled Dorothy Mann’s mobile number. It went through to answer-phone. The woman was probably no longer answering numbers she didn’t recognise or others that she did. Still, she left her name and asked the woman to ring her back.

She found a number for the shoe shop and tried it, but it went unanswered too. She looked at her watch. It would probably be shut by the time she walked there. It eased her conscience slightly that she had tried to verify what she suspected about the idea of a connection between Emerson and Smart.

The storage centre was shut for the day. A visit was time-tabled for the morning. Marsh said she’d be there. What she didn’t say was that she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Wilkie was quietly relieved that they wouldn’t be able to investigate the lead that evening. If it proved to be as successful as he hoped then there would be paperwork and overtime. Normally, the tho
ught of overtime would stir him but on this night he had overtime of his own planned.

Since discovering a pattern in the car vandal’s modus operandi that morning
, his stomach had become knotted each time he’d thought of it. He was pinning his hopes on his belief that he knew which streets the crazy would be prowling that night. And there would be one vehicle so awkwardly parked that the nutcase wouldn’t be able to ignore it: his. And then there would be a reckoning.

Romney was not sorry they would have to wait until morning. He was satisfied that the squad could end the working day on a promising note. Much as he wanted to advance his case, he had tickets for a play at The Marlow Theatre in neighbouring Canterbury. After that, he had a table booked at a nearby expensive restaurant. For two days the newly cut key he’d been carrying around had been burning a hole in his pocket as he stalled for the right moment to offer it, and all that it implied, to Julie Carpenter. As for the dead men, another night of waiting for the machine of justice to grind on wouldn’t matter to them. With any luck, he thought, the morning would bring a development that might open the case up and help to get it solved so he could enjoy his holiday.

Marsh was relieved that the working day was over. She was tired. A series of stiflingly hot nights and the responsibility that Romney had foisted upon her had deprived her of sleep. She’d planned an early relaxed evening at home. She felt she’d savour the pointless trip to some grotty storage depot all the more if she were refreshed and rested in the morning.

*

Wilkie sat in his car surveying the dimly lit street. Now he was here, he remembered it from a visit related to a previous attack – a white BMW M series with racing stripe. Very nice. At least it had been before the crazy had put a neat little ‘parking medal’ in the middle of the bonnet. The owner, barely more than a youth, had been incandescent. Wilkie had not been able to muster much sympathy for him. For one thing, he had left half of the sports car’s body sticking out of the driveway over-night to completely block the pavement forcing pedestrians, wheelchair users and pram-pushers into the road to get around it. For another, the car probably cost more than Wilkie earned in a year, possibly two, and spotty ill-mannered boys with those kinds of privileges couldn’t hope to stir feelings of empathy in someone who had worked hard all his life only to aspire to a basic second-hand family saloon.

Det
ached houses of varying designs, but all with a strong early twentieth century influence, lined both sides of the completely residential street. Mature broadleaf trees were spaced evenly up either side in the middle of the pavements providing convenient dark patches for seclusion and just about the only suggestion of vegetation. Most of the small front gardens had been concreted over to provide extra parking for the array of vehicles of the affluent households. At this time of night, there still wasn’t enough room for them all. In both directions the curb sides were nose to tail. Whoever planned this development clearly had no idea of the autogeddon that was to befall Mankind.

The street was quiet. Most residents had probably arrived home from work, had their dinners and were lounging on expensive sofas rotting their brains in front of the television. He didn’t expect much traffic. Being a cul-de-sac
, it wasn’t something people could use as a short-cut to somewhere else. Being a cul-de-sac also probably gave people more confidence to park how they liked.

At the closed end of it a narrow opening between six foot high fence panels led onto a footpath that linked the road with another behind it. Wilkie selected a narrowing of the pavement near this and bumped his car up the curb to block the way. Satisfied, he took his backpack with drink, some quickly packed foods, his handcuffs, pepper spray and an old truncheon he’d unearthed – he intended to enjoy himself – and hid himself away in the darkened shadows of a large beech tree.

*

Marsh had re-heated
the previous day’s leftovers, soaked in the bath for a long time, persevered with a book that hadn’t gripped her – despite the hundred odd pages she’d suffered – turned the television on and, after flicking through the channels, off again. It was only nine o’clock.

Five hours previously she’d promised herself she’d be in bed by now, but her body had found a second wind and sleep was not on her mind. She tried Dorothy Mann’s phone again. No answer, again. Somewhere, in one of the flats around her a couple were arguing. She changed out of her pyjamas into sweats grabbed her bag and her car keys and left.

*

The play, a Noel Coward, was very good. Romney couldn’t remember going to the theatre since his daughter’s pantomime days. In truth he was a film man, but the nature of the live and superb performances was gripping him. The theatre had been Julie Carpenter’s idea and she was as pleased that Romney was enjoying himself as he was surprised.

They’d stepped outside in the interval so Romney could smoke. Having almost kicked it, he was back on nearly a pack a day and hating himself for it. The evening air was mild. The other theatre-going-outcasts, like himself, were dotted around the steps to the theatre talking in low educated tones, puffing away, while their companions enjoyed the obligatory ice-cream. He could see no one under thirty and no sign of poverty. It was all refreshingly civilised.

*

Wilkie risked compromising his position with a stretch and a shuffle-about to straighten out the ache in his back and the tiredness of his limbs. Three consecutive nights stuck out in the open like some homeless hobo was beginning to tell on his body. But the waiting had given him ample time for some deep reflection on where he was in his life. Home was fine, although it would be better when the baby settled its sleeping patterns and became more interesting. Work had been a cause for concern lately. His plans for a meteoric rise through the ranks had stuttered and looked like grinding to a halt since his paternity leave when Marsh had nipped in to usurp his position as Romney’s number one.

Wilkie hated Marsh. It wasn’t just for what she had reduced him to in the office. It went deeper than that. It was a conceptual thing, a sexist prejudice. The idea that maybe she was a better detective than him only deepened his negative feelings towards her. When he had taken care of the crazy he was going to take care of DS Marsh. He gave himself over to the myriad of scenarios that sprang to his mind and warmed him.

*

Marsh took out the town map from her glove compartment. It was something she had bought when she first
learned of her posting to Dover but had rarely looked at. She searched out the street Dorothy Mann had been listed as living in during her divorce proceedings: her mother’s home. The street name she could remember. What she was uncertain of was whether it was number twenty-four or number forty-two she should be looking for. She began her drive to it not sure what she would do when she got there. Perhaps she’d just look for signs of life in either and make her decision then. Perhaps, if curtains were not drawn, she would spot Dorothy Mann. Some hope. She could ring the bells of both, of course. Maybe she’d get lucky first time. And, if Dorothy was home, she’d apologise for the lateness of the call, explain she’d been ringing and ringing – as if the woman wouldn’t know that – with an urgent enquiry, and ask her what she knew of the furniture at the storage depot. Marsh suspected she’d know a lot.

*

The pace of the farce livened to make the second half of the performance riveting entertainment. It ended to a standing ovation. As they left the theatre arm in arm Romney was brimming over with feelings of culture, goodwill and pleasure. He was also ravenous. They walked the short distance to the restaurant to find it busy with other theatre-goers making the most of the evening by finishing it off with a meal and a few drinks. Romney felt he could get used to it.

They didn’t have to wait long for their table, which was nicely positioned away from the kitchen and the toilets in a secluded alcove. Like a nervous boy he felt in his pocket for the umpteenth time that evening to check he had the key with him. It wasn’t a ring, but aspects of the proposed gesture h
ad implications equal to one. All his piddling little doubts had been dispelled by now. He only had to look at her to realise that for him this was serious. He was as sure as he could be she felt the same way. There would be ample time to consider and discuss the ramifications of the bridge they were about to cross. To his thinking, the iron was scorching and crying out to be struck with.

*

Wilkie yawned widely and pulled his thin jacket tighter around him. He wished he’d gone with the fleece. He was very tired, very bored and getting cold. He checked his watch. He’d give it three hours. If the crazy didn’t show he’d pack it in. This would be his last night. He must be mad himself to be doing this. He became aware of a gentle ticking noise above him in the lush foliage and then the spotting of the pavement around him. His spirits sank a notch. The rain steadily increased in intensity to become a light summer drizzle. His thermos was empty and his bladder was full. He looked around for somewhere to relieve himself. He was loathe to compromise his position by moving away from it. Even though there were no signs of life anywhere. Finally, he decided to simply piss where he was up against the trunk of the tree. He unzipped his trousers, took a last look around and froze. Emerging from between the fence panels that flanked the narrow pathway was a dark, slow-moving figure. Wilkie removed his hand from his flies and, fixing his gaze on the ambling body, gently lowered himself to fumble in his backpack. His hand tightened around the grip of the truncheon, his heart rate accelerated. He moistened his lips, watched and waited.