Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (23 page)

*

Despite Marsh’s involvement and initiative, Romney, as senior officer, naturally, took charge. A call had ascertained that the kebab house was open for business. Clearly, the gastronomic tastes of the Dover population didn’t just view kebabs as an ethnic delicacy only to be enjoyed after a skin-full at kicking out time.

The uniforms were briefed and warned of the possibility that the man they sought to as
sist them with their enquiries could be armed and dangerous. No one was to take any chances. And reasonable force, this time, meant exactly that. What Romney didn’t need was to drag an unwilling prisoner bruised and bleeding back to the station under the glare of television cameras and high-ranking officers of the Kent police equivalent of the Spanish inquisition.

Two uniforms were dropped at the rear of the property. Romney, Marsh, Grimes and the other two went in the front door making an intimidating raiding party. Four dark skinned members of staff turned at the opening of the door and were rooted to the spot sensing trouble.

Romney held up his warrant card. ‘Morning. We’re looking for a Turkish national named Arda.’

The rotisserie chicken cabinet hummed and sizzled and an unfortunate fly flew into the insect killer with a pop. Slowly, like waking from a cancelled spell, the men regained their senses. Looks were exchanged. There was a rapid exchange in a language none of the visitors understood. It quickly reached loud levels.

‘Stop that,’ barked Romney.

‘I’m Arda,’ said a man, with a fistful of chopped lettuce.

‘I’m Arda,’ said another, stocking shelves with cans of soft drinks.

‘I’m Arda, said the third, wiping his hands on his apron.

‘I’m Arda,’ said the last, putting down a bag of frozen chips.

‘Very funny,’ growled Romney, looking as serious as Marsh could ever remember seeing him. ‘I’ve seen that film. He was Greek. Now, there’s a nation that I admire.’ The remark, whether knowingly or not taking into account Greece’s long history of animosity with their Turkish neighbours, went home. ‘Makes no difference to me. I’ll take you all in. We’ll find out which one is Arda and the rest of you will face charges of obstructing the police in their enquiries. Then, I’ve got very good friends in the Environmental Health Department and Immigration. We’ll see how funny they find you.’

‘Fascist,’ said the man with the lettuce.

Romney ignored the remark
, but noted its source. ‘Are you lot coming quietly, or are we going to make a very expensive mess in here?’ A long drawn out moment followed during which nine pairs of eyes flitted nervously across the formica worktop and the tension of indecision approached suffocating levels.

‘We no speak good English, please,’ said the one with the frozen chips.

‘That’s him!’ shouted Grimes, from a foot behind his DI.

While Romney was recovering his wits, Grimes, pointing at the man with the canned drinks in his hands, began advancing towards the gap in the counter. The Turk’s eyes widened at the sight of the formidably proportioned Grimes bearing down on him. Pan
icked, he threw a can at Grimes – who dodged it neatly for a big man – and bolted for the back exit. Unfortunately for him, his lunge for freedom was brief coinciding as it did with the entrance of the uniformed officers who had become concerned at the lack of communication and had taken it upon themselves to enter the premises through the back door. The Turk’s second stroke of bad luck was that the door opened inwards. The fire-door caught him on his impressively proportioned nose and sent him to the floor quicker than he could have got there had he been trying to. Grimes struck with the funny side of what he’d just witnessed turned back towards his group on the verge of laughing. His grin and good humour were quickly extinguished to be replaced by a frown and feelings of confusion as he wondered what on earth his DI was doing lying on the floor.

The sudden change in numbers and the very serious development that a senior police officer was lying stunned and bleeding on their lino took the resistance and solidarity out of the remaining three Turks. They became changed men. Romney was found a chair, a clean tea-towel full of ice was produced and applied to the bridge of his nose. Sheets of kitchen towel were rolled for him to stuff up his nostrils in an attempt to stem the bleeding. All the time they were apologising and ignoring their fallen comrade. Their English improved remarkably and it was confirmed with shows of identities that the unconscious man was indeed Arda.

Marsh asked for a carrier bag and carefully retrieved the now dented can of coke from where it had settled under a table. The man on the floor might not be able to be finger-printed as he was, but he had kindly provided them with a good sample.

An ambulance was called for the still unconscious Arda. Statements were taken. Further apologies were offered and accepted – Romney could do without an international incident on top of what he already had on his plate. After a brief inspection the paramedics advised Romney to go with them and have his nose reset or risk future long-term breathing complications. At first he was reluctant and then changed his mind as he realised where he was headed. He instructed Marsh to take over and found time to scowl at Grimes before taking his place in the back of the ambula
nce. A single uniformed constable rode with him to guard the man who was strongly suspected of the murder of Duncan Smart.

With the DI out of the way, the atmosphere relaxed and the comical side of what had happened occurred to several of those remaining. Complimentary kebabs and drinks were offered as gestures of good will and accepted in good faith. It turned out that most of the uniforms were regular customers of the shop.

As they drove back to the station in buoyant mood, the police van stinking like a take-away delivery vehicle, Marsh tackled Grimes. ‘What made you so certain he was the bloke we were looking for?’ she said, sounding just a little impressed.

‘Actu
ally, I didn’t have a clue, Sarge,’ said Grimes, through a mouthful of pita bread. ‘I’ve never been very good at suspense. It gets to me and I can’t control myself.’

Marsh began laughing. ‘The DI might have been happier
, if you’d focussed your accusations on the bloke holding the lettuce. Maybe best if you didn’t tell him.’

***

13

The young Asian doctor who saw Romney prodded painfully, ummed and ahhed, and then sent him for x-ray. The bleeding had reduced to a trickle and the pain had been replaced with a dull throb. Already the bridge of his nose had swollen. He was warned to expect a pair of impressive black eyes.

Clutching his x-ray chit in one hand and sodden tea-towel full of melting ice in the other he went in search of DS Wilkie. It was the lure of a chance to speak wit
h Wilkie before the representatives from Kent Police Professional Standards Department got to him that Romney saw as a silver-foil lining to his injury.

Wilkie was propped up in bed watching a television with a terrible reception. He looked awful. His face was blotchy, cut and bruised. A swathe of white bandaging encircled his head. His natural colour, which c
ould never be described as healthy, was now a pallid yellow. But it was his eyes which truly gave away his state of anxiety. Dark hollows of worry. Romney almost felt sorry for him.

They appraised each others’ injuries.

The DI pulled up a chair and gratefully sat. ‘How are you feeling?’

With his missing teeth and a wired jaw Romney had to listen hard for Wilkie’s distorted and hushed reply. ‘Sore, sir, but what happened to you?’

‘One of those doors that opens inwards when you least expect it.’ Romney wanted to get on with it. The man before him had lost all his professional respect and credibility. His company was not something he could tolerate for long anymore. ‘I take it you haven’t had a visit from Professional Standards yet?’

Beneath his injuries Wilkie appeared surprised by the question. ‘Why would they be coming to see me?’

Romney just managed to stifle a groan as he realised the position he’d stumbled blindly into. ‘How long have you been awake?’

‘About an hour. To be honest I’m still a bit groggy with the painkillers. But I’m bloody glad to see someone. I haven’t been able to get anything out of anyone around here. What happened last night?’

Romney would reflect that the following thirty minutes were among the most difficult of his career, but absolutely necessary for the good of his department, the station and ultimately the force. He began by informing Wilkie that he was to be investigated for causing the death of a member of the public – something the man had no idea about. Romney barely gave this time to sink in before dropping his second bombshell. Instead of telling Wilkie to expect declarations of support from his senior officers, he told him why – rather than fighting to clear his name – Wilkie was going to fully cooperate with the authorities and plead diminished responsibility as a result of a nervous breakdown owing to pressures of work and his private life. It would mean the end of his career in the police force, but it was over anyway and now all he could do was to try to salvage something from it. Romney wouldn’t begrudge his family that.

While Wilkie reeled in silence at the news and the disintegration of his world, Romney assured him that, by agreeing to this and playing his part convincingly
, he stood a good chance of avoiding prison and receiving a decent disability pension that would start as soon as he was discharged. To persuade Wilkie it was in his best interests to choose this path, Romney then provided him with an alternative view of his future, one which included prosecution, probable gaol time for manslaughter and dismissal from the force with no pension. He laid it on with a trowel.

When Wilkie asked why Romney was doing this to him the DI told him that even if his actions of the previous night hadn’t been enough to make him an unwanted liability then aspects of his misconduct
which had come to light concerning his jealousy of a fellow officer would have seen Romney push to have him thrown out on his ear. If Wilkie played along then those aspects would remain buried. Romney said he would do that for his family.  Romney made it clear that, if he refused, some pretty damning evidence would find its way on to Superintendent Falkner’s desk and then Wilkie could kiss any chance of a sympathetic settlement goodbye.

With his
piece said, Romney rose to leave and get his nose sorted. In case Wilkie remained in any doubt about his senior officer’s feelings, Romney said, ‘The job is hard enough when we’re up against the scum of society and their lawyers. From colleagues, officers should only ever expect support and assistance. If officers have to watch their backs in their own office, what’s going to happen when the moment arrives on the street that they have to rely for their life on an officer who’s got it in for them?’

*

To his irritation, Romney attracted plenty of attention back at the station. A strip of tape that held the fracture of broken bone together and wads of cotton wool rammed up each nostril was clearly something that people found interesting – amusing probably when his back was turned. It was inevitable, given his rank, that the details of the kebab shop incident would have spread through the station corridors like the summer stench of a faulty drain with a breeze behind it. He didn’t expect people to be falling over themselves to commiserate with him.

Ignoring the lingering looks
, he focussed on making the sanctuary of his office. His nose had been painfully reset under an anaesthetic that was, in his opinion, barely fit for purpose and it was wearing off fast. The bruising would be extensive and last for days. He’d be fielding questions, accepting varying levels of sympathy and comment and repeating himself as long as it remained obvious. On top of this, he’d finished a man’s career. He was not in the best of moods.

Marsh stood by her desk, phone to her ear. She followed Romney’s progress towards her. As he neared, her face broke into a wide smile. She thanked the caller and replaced the receiver.

Sounding like he had a bad cold and might bite, Romney said, ‘Something funny?’

‘No, sir. Some good news though.’

‘Really? I could do with some. You do mean work don’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She was still smiling
, and she hadn’t passed comment about his nose. It must be good, thought Romney. ‘The can of drink the man Arda threw? I gave it to forensics. The prints match those taken off the can I brought back from Duncan Smart’s neighbour’s.’

Appreciating her police work
, Romney said, ‘Well done. That’ll be enough for a search warrant for his home. Where is he now?’

‘Downstairs. Nothing broken, apparently, so the hospital said we could have him.’

‘Good. Let him sweat for a bit longer. I need to have a word upstairs.’

‘I want to go and see Dorothy Mann. I sent her mother home when we got back. I’m sure she’d have called her daughter by now. And she would have seen us raid the kebab shop and take her boyfriend away. She’ll be simmering nicely, just about done.’

Romney gave Marsh an openly appraising look. ‘DS Marsh, you have a mean streak. You know that? Take Grimes with you. If I see him, I’m liable to be unprofessional.’