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

‘Genius,’ agreed Grimes.

‘Is that who it was? Why are they always foreigners?’

Grimes stole a suspicious glance at his passenger.

‘Bloody good anyway,’ continued Romney. ‘Emotive. Bloody emotive if you ask me.’

‘Agreed,’ said Grimes.

‘Flat battery,’ said Romney.

‘Leave something on?’

‘No,’ said Romney, a little too quickly. ‘At least I don’t think so. By the time I’d finished fiddling around with all the switches and buttons I couldn’t remember what was where when I got in. I’ll get someone from maintenance to have a look.’

‘Not got breakdown?’ said Grimes, as though that were as natural as wearing socks.

‘Probably,’ said Romney, stifling a yawn. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘What smell, gov?’

Romney sniffed loudly and looked around the foot-well and then the back seat. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t smell fish. I hope that’s not the effect of all that Puccini.’

‘Oh that. No gov. I was out beach fishing last night. Caught a few nice dabs, actually. They’re in the bag on the back seat. I’m bringing in a couple for Joyce in the canteen. Her cat likes them.’

Romney turned to look at the bag that Grimes had taken from the seat that he was now sitting on and saw that a damp patch had formed on the upholstery around it. He felt under his backside. ‘Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you say something before I got in?’

‘What’s up, gov?’

‘It’s leaked all over the bloody seat. Stop the car.’

*

Detective Sergeant Joy Marsh was walking into Dover police station car park as Grimes pulled in and straddled two parking spaces. DI Romney was sitting in the back seat looking severe and struggling with the door. Grimes heaved himself out as quickly as his big frame allowed and opened it for his senior officer.

‘Child locks,’ said Grimes, by way of apology and explanation.

Romney stepped out without thanking him.

‘Lovely day, sir,’ said Marsh.

‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed.’

Romney strode off towards the station doors leaving Grimes and Marsh standing awkwardly.

‘What’s up with him?’ said Marsh. She squinted at his retreating form. ‘Has he sat in something? And why are you two coming in together? Something I should know? By the way, nice touch letting him ride in the back like that. He’ll have you wearing a cap next.’

‘Everyone’s a comedian today,’ said Grimes.

*

Grimes was sent to look for the DI and found him standing in the men’s room in his boxers holding the seat of his trousers under the hot air blower.

‘Gov?’

‘What is it?’

‘A body up at White Cliffs Golf Club.’

‘Suspicious?’

‘Definitely. Man’s been found on the course with his head smashed in.’

The machine’s timer cut out. Romney held the trousers up to his nose. A uniformed
officer walked in.

‘Still fishy?’ asked Grimes.

The constable hurried over to the urinals. Romney thought he caught a stifled laugh.

‘Sorry about that, gov,’ said Grimes.

‘Forget it,’ said Romney, getting dressed.

*

The clock on the tower of the clubhouse entrance showed the time as just after seven when Grimes pulled into the members’ only car park at the White Cliffs Golf Club. He brought his aging family saloon to rest in the only vacant space at the front.

‘Bloody busy for this time in the morning and a weekday,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t this lot at work? No wonder the country’s going down the pan.’

‘Thanks for the social commentary,’ said Romney, rattling the door behind him. ‘Can you let me out now? I seem to remember we have a murder to deal with.’

‘I didn’t say it was murder, gov.’

‘You said someone was up here with his head smashed in. What is it then? Suicide? I know this lot take their game pretty seriously, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually killing themselves because they were having a bad round.’

Grimes levered his bulk out as an adult version of Rupert the bear arrived to confront him.

‘You’ll have to move that,’ said Rupert, indicating Grimes’ vehicle.

‘Why’s that then?’ said Grimes. He hitched up his trousers, bristling at the man’s arrogant manner.

‘Because that’s a reserved space, that’s why. Club captain’s.’

‘Well he’ll have to find somewhere else to park his Bentley this morning. This is Detective Inspector Romney.’
Grimes opened the child-locked rear door and stood aside for his boss to clamber out. ‘We’re here on official police business and we haven’t got time to waste driving around looking for somewhere to park.’

The man seemed hardly impressed by this
news. He affected a look of disdain as he took in the dirty, dated and dented vehicle. ‘I’d have thought that if you were going to have a chauffeur you’d get driven around in something a little more fitting,’ he said. And then recoiling slightly, ‘Bloody hell! What’s that smell?’

Romney tried asserting some authority. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘What body?’

Romney enunciated his words through gritted teeth and with barely concealed testiness. ‘The dead body that we are here to investigate.’

A look of surprise illuminated Rupert’s features. ‘How should I know? I’ve only just got here.’

A uniformed police c
onstable came trotting over. ‘Morning, sir. If you’d like to follow me.’

Grateful, Romney turned to leave. Over his shoulder
, he said, ‘Do something about those bloody locks will you. It’s embarrassing.’

Wedged into the opposite corner of the rear seat and carefully avoiding the damp patch
, Marsh said, ‘And can you let me out while you’re at?’

Romney and Marsh followed the young PC through an opening in a high, closely trimmed yew hedge that separated the outside world from the private and privileged enclave of the White Cliffs Golf Club. A
nother large sign informed the casual caller that this was a members’ only club. It was the forth such notice Romney had seen.

‘I do not care much for golf or golfers,’ said Romney. Marsh sensed a rant coming on. ‘Especially in these private clubs. It’s a form of elitism. They come in here
to get away from the riff raff – that’s you and me by the way Sergeant – and do their networking and knock their silly little balls around the countryside with equipment that would cost me at least a month’s salary and they do all this wearing the most absurd outfits. They’re worse than the Masons in my book. At least they pretend to do some good deeds.’

Marsh, who had only been with the Dover police for a few months, had soon learnt to shut up when her immediate boss was clearly rankled.

The constable said, ‘There’s an event on today, sir. Some local tournament.’

‘That would explain why the car park’s full of shiny new German motors
, I suppose,’ said Romney. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘On the thirteenth green, sir.’

‘Unlucky for some. I wonder if it’s symbolic.’

‘Actually, sir, it’s where the course comes closest to a public highway.’

Romney grunted. ‘How far is it then?’

‘It’s a good walk, sir, but the club professional has put a couple of golf buggies at our disposal.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘An early morning golfer, sir. Out on his own
, apparently. Gets here before anyone else does. A regular.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Still out there, sir.’

‘Surel
y not playing?’

‘No, sir. Drunk.’

‘What?’

‘Naturally, it
was a bit of a shock for him. Works nights on the boats. Drops in for a round on his way home. Seems he came across the body when he was playing.’

‘Drunk?’

‘I understand he just had alcohol with him, sir.’

The c
onstable guided the officers in the direction of what was clearly the professional’s shop – a modern squat building, cowering in the shadow of the imposing and opulent structure that had to be the club house. Logos and posters adorned the windows. It reminded Romney of a campsite office in the grounds of a stately home. Several golf buggies were lined up in formation as though awaiting the signal that would begin a race. All they were missing were their drivers. They were standing around in small clusters, garishly clad men talking in low voices, little puffs of smoke intermittently rising above their heads.

Spying their ap
proach a big man in more sombre but obviously coordinated attire broke away to intercept them. He smiled broadly. Romney noticed that his eyes lingered on Marsh.

‘Good morning. Sorry,’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘Obviously it’s not, not for that poor sod out there. I’m Elliot Masters, the club professional. Are you who I think you are?’

‘Who do you think we are?’ said Romney.

The question clearly surprised Masters. ‘I hope you’re the man who’s going to tell me when I can have my golf course back
. I’ve got a few dozen chaps champing at the bit to get on with their competition. We’re already half an hour behind on tee-off times. Sorry, that’s very insensitive, isn’t it?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Romney. This is
Detective Sergeant Marsh. I understand you have put a couple of golf carts at our disposal?’

‘That’s right. Please, help yourself to any of those,’ he said, pointing towards the starting grid.

Romney looked at the carts and back at Masters. ‘Mr Masters, I’ve never been in a golf cart and I’ve never been here. Do you have anyone who could drive us out to wherever it is we need to be? I’m sure that you can understand, the quicker we get there the quicker we can get on with our job and the sooner you can have your golf course back.’

‘Right, right,’ said Masters. ‘Of course, sorry. Stupid of me. Look, why don’t I drive you out there myself? To be honest
, I’d like to get away from this lot for a while.’ He smiled conspiratorially at Marsh and Romney noticed, with barely concealed exasperation, that his sergeant coloured slightly. Grimes appeared.

‘There’re three of us.’

‘No problem. They’re built for foursomes.’

Romney had to check that there was no innuendo attached to that remark. He’d come across men like matey-Masters before. Big, good-looking, brash arseholes, buckets of charisma, volumes of amusing golfing anecdotes, who saw themselves as God’s gift to women and always needing to be the centre of attention.

‘Can I make any sort of announcement to the chaps now that you’re here?’ said Masters.

‘Yes,’ said Romney. ‘Tell them that when we’ve finished they can carry on.’ He walked off towards the row of buggies. Grimes trailed after him leaving Marsh and Masters alone.

‘Is he always like that?’ said Masters.

‘No,’ she said, ‘sometimes he’s a right grouch.’ And t
hen for some bewildering reason that she couldn’t possibly explain, she winked at him before wandering after the others, blushing deeply at her brazenness.

*

Masters guided them expertly around obstacles and through short cuts.

‘Have you seen the body?’ asked Romney
, over the gentle whine of the electric motor.

‘No,’ said Masters. ‘I’ve had enough on my plate this morning with that lot back there. Besides, we weren’t allowed out there once the police arrived.’

‘What time did you arrive here today?’

‘Early.
About six-thirty. We always get here early when we have a function.’

‘And what is today’s function?’

‘A little invitation tournament. Nothing too illustrious. Just local course players.’

‘What do you know?’

‘About the body?’ Romney nodded. ‘Apparently chap called Duncan Smart – one of our artisan membership – was found this morning by a green-keeper who’d gone out to give the greens a final shave before the tournament got under way...’

‘That’s normal is it?’ interrupted Romney.

‘Very. Anyway, this Smart chap is sitting at the side of the green, bottle of vodka in one hand, putter in the other making no sense at all and in the middle of the green is a dead man with his head bashed in. Green-keeper – just one of our boys – jumps back on the lawnmower and high-tails it back to the shed where the head green-keeper is and that, I believe, is when you were called.’

After a minute
, Romney said, ‘How long have you worked here?’

‘This is my fifth year.’

Romney might have been about to say something else, but the golf cart crested a rise and a group of people, androgynous at the distance, could be seen gathered on and around the green of the thirteenth hole. The day-glow colours of the emergency services stood out against the surrounding greenery. An ambulance and a police patrol car were a little further off, presumably, Romney thought, where the public highway that the young PC had mentioned came closest to the course. They approached up the middle of the brown, sun-baked fairway, nobody talking. The figures slowly came into focus: police, ambulance, civilians; males and females.