Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (25 page)

‘And in return?’

Marsh dared to hope it was going to be that easy. ‘My DI won’t bring charges against you for assault and we won’t contest a plea of manslaughter. It’s the best offer you’re going to get.’ It was also probably the best conviction the police could hope for. ‘If you make our life difficult, if you don’t fully cooperate, we still have enough evidence and witnesses to bring you to court. Who knows, when we’ve searched your home and workplace we might even find the murder weapon. We’ll push for the maximum sentence time for you. Remember you’ll also be looking at a charge of Actual Bodily Harm against a high ranking police officer on top of that. As soon as they enter the room it’s game on. It’s make your mind up time, Arda.’

The machinery of the door handle being depressed signalled the entrance of the bit part players. Romney followed the duty solicitor to the table fixing Arda with an unfriendly glare. Marsh waited until they were all settled and depressed the record button of the station’s audio equipment.

The interview was terminated precisely seventeen minutes later. The duty solicitor sat idly by as the prisoner, his client, confessed to the manslaughter of Duncan Smart. The Turk’s story was that he had gone to Smart’s to remonstrate with him over his divorce settlement with Dorothy Mann. He claimed that Smart was drunk and acted violently towards him. There was a scuffle during which Smart was fatally stabbed. Realising what he’d done and being naturally afraid as a foreigner, he ran. The officers accepted all this patiently if not fully believing him. This was not the time to interrupt his flow with judgemental remarks. Arda told them they would find the weapon that killed Duncan Smart behind a freezer in the store room at the kebab shop. Again both officers managed to display professional restraint. They listened and questioned neutrally until it was done.

With the prisoner back in his cell and the solicitor on his way to the front door. Romney managed his first smile in nearly twenty-four hours. ‘I doubt the CPS would have been keen to pursue anything other than manslaughter anyway, not without witnesses. Even if we could prove it was him hanging around outside Smart’s home and
that he made threatening phone-calls, it wouldn’t prove he had his heart set on murder. For what we had, it was a good result. Well done. One down, one to go. I think you should do a regional workshop on the place of mini-digital recorders in the modern police force. Perhaps, it should be standard kit for all CID. For now though, you’d better get off and collect the murder weapon. Take any number of officers you need and don’t take any crap from them.’

Romney wasted no time in informing Falkner of the good news. A murder solved was always something to celebrate, especially when it was managed quickly. Falkner confided that
Professional Standards were at the hospital visiting Wilkie. Romney guessed the superintendent would remain on tenterhooks until they had spoken to him again.

*

The DI looked up to a tapping at his door. He nodded Grimes to enter, although, even with his improved mood, he couldn’t bring himself to offer any friendliness towards him.

‘How’s the nose, gov
?’

‘How does it look?’ It was meant to be rhetorical.

‘Bloody awful if you want the truth.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m sorting out Detective Sergeant Wilkie’s paperwork.’

‘I know. I assigned you to it.’

‘I know you did.’

Romney breathed out heavily. ‘And?’

‘I found this in there.’ Grimes held up a familiar yellow form. ‘It’s a crime incident report.’

‘I can see that.’

‘It’s about the theft of some golf clubs from the White Cliffs Golf Club.’

Romney held out his hand. The report was dated two days before Phillip Emerson was clubbed to death. The contact was given as Elliot Masters. Romney didn’t want to believe that Wilkie had buried the report deliberately. His immediate thought was that the golf club had reported the theft, as so many people sadly did these days, not with any hope of having the property recovered and someone brought
to justice, but simply for the crime report number that could then be used to make an insurance claim. It wasn’t Wilkie’s handwriting. Probably it had been put on his desk to be followed up and he had shoved it out of sight. The police had better things to be doing than searching for a few stolen golf clubs. That was a sad fact of modern policing.

Romney
drummed his fingers on the desktop, perturbed. He thumbed through the yellow pages for the golf club’s number. He let it ring into double figures before hanging up. He wondered why Masters hadn’t mentioned it on any of his visits. With a sigh, he realised it was not something he was likely to discover now.

*

A man in grubby overalls was in with the DI when Marsh returned clutching a plastic evidence bag and looking pleased with herself. Romney signalled her in. The maintenance man opened the door for her and left. Marsh looked down at a small dirty cardboard box on the floor.

‘Battery charger,’ said Romney. ‘I’m fed up
with waiting for them.’

‘Haven’t you got breakdown, sir?’

‘Don’t you start. Did you get it?’ She held up her trophy. ‘Good. Get it down to forensics and locked away. Then get yourself back up here smartish. I’m not taking no for an answer, Sergeant. We’ve got something to celebrate and I’m buying.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Romney stared out through his glass office wall that overlooked CID and frowned. ‘I suppose we should ask Grimes.’

Marsh followed his gaze to see the big man, his back to them, pulling at the seat of his trousers. ‘I suppose we should, sir.’

***

14

Looking in the mirror after emptying his full bladder, Romney was confronted with a comic version of himself that he did not find funny. The bridge of his nose had swollen upwards and outwards between a pair of black eyes. He thought of racoons. Getting black eyes as a PC in the line of duty twenty years ago was to be expected, especially after Friday night b
rawls in the town centre. As a detective inspector in his forties, it was unbecoming and embarrassing.

A small grubby box sitting on the kitchen table brought an extra wave of annoyance crashing over him, as he remembered that in his beer soaked state of the night before he’d forgotten to hook his car up to the battery charger. He scrabbled around for his mobile phone hoping desperately that Grimes hadn’t already passed his road on his way to work.

*

Marsh was waiting with her anxiety for her appointment to be grilled by
the station’s guests over her part in the incident involving Wilkie and the death of the old woman. A national tabloid was open on her desk. Under the heading
‘The Wrong Arm of the Law’
several column inches were devoted to reporting of the incident. Without a photograph of the victim, or the officer involved, they had been reduced to a shot of the front of the station.

‘I wouldn’t waste my time looking at that rubbish,’ said Romney. ‘What time are you due in?’

‘They’re going to call me, but I’ve been told to keep myself available.’

Romney sat at his desk massaging his temples. The Crime Incident Report for the White Cliffs Golf Club lay confronting him from where he had dropped it the previous evening. The same question drif
ted back to occupy his thoughts: why hadn’t Masters mentioned it? Romney drank his coffee, pulled some paperwork out of his tray, groaned quietly and shoved it back. He found himself staring at the report again and being bothered by it.

The pro-shop phone went unanswered off and on for the next thirty minutes. Romney supposed that the club hadn’t managed to replace Elliot Masters quickly. He found a number for the club house an
d got through to an answering machine. He called down for availability of the station pool car. It was out and would be for most of the day. He looked up to see Grimes eating something big and flaky and sighed heavily.

*

The pro-shop was locked up. Romney and Grimes walked across to the club house. Despite three previous visits, it was Romney’s first time in the heavily gothic-influenced building. It was impressive. He was impressed. As he stood looking up into the vaulted ceiling, admiring the internal woodwork, a clipped, unfriendly voice broke through his thoughts.

‘Can I help you?’ A man stood blocking their further progress into the club. He sounded like he only wanted to help them find the nearest exit.

Romney held up his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for the young lad who works in the pro-shop. Any idea where I might find him?’

The man’s eyes lingered briefly on Romney’s injuries.
‘He’s on the driving range. Just come from there myself.’

‘And where is that?’

The man led the officers back outside and pointed at a newer building that looked like a stable block.

They found the youth smashing the covers off balls with remarkable straightness and distance. He was so engrossed in his repetitive labour that he didn’t notice the two officers until they were standing behind him.

‘Hello again,’ said Romney. ‘I didn’t catch your name last time I was here.’

‘Simon Draper.’ He, too, couldn’t keep his interest
in Romney’s disfigurement off his features.

‘
You should see the other guy,’ said Romney, with a smile. Simon Draper looked embarrassed. ‘The shop not open then, Simon?’

The youth shook his head. ‘They need a professional.’

‘Where does that leave you?’

‘I’m employed by the club on a contract. They’re still paying me. Until they find someone
, I get paid to play golf all day. I don’t mind.’

‘I used to play a bit,’ said Grimes.

‘Would you like a go?’ said the youth, offering his club.

Romney remembered the last time Grimes had held a golf club in his hands. ‘No, he wouldn’t. Thanks anyway.’ Grimes looked disappointed. ‘I need to ask you something, Simon. Do you know anything about a report for stolen golf clubs?’

‘Yes, they turned up though.’

Romney was unable to hide his dismay. ‘Really?’

The boy nodded. ‘At first, Elliot, Mr Masters, didn’t know where they’d gone. He thought they’d been stolen. That’s why he phoned the police. The insurance company needed a police report number, or something like that.’

‘But he found them?’

‘He found out who’d taken them.’

‘OK, thanks. Sorry to have bothered you. Enjoy your game.’ Romney half turned away preparing to leave the lad in peace.

‘It was the club captain, Phillip Emerson. That’s whose account they were charged to. He took them from the shop display without telling anyone. It looked like they’d been stolen. The next day Mr Masters said they’d been accounted for. Apparently, Mr Emerson took them when the shop was empty. He was in a hurry.’

A mild interest returned at the mention of the murdered man’s name. ‘Does that sort of thing normally happen?’

‘He was the club captain,’ said the youth, as if that explained everything.

Romney sensed that this half-chance of a slight possibility of a desperate lead that had dragged him out to one of his least favourite places was guttering noisily.

‘They weren’t for him though,’ added the boy.

Sensing that the boy just wanted to talk
, Romney said, ‘Who were they for then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So, how do you know that they weren’t for him?’

‘Mr Emerson was left handed. The clubs were all right handed.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘Positive. Mr Masters and I discussed it’

‘If he bought the clubs for someone here, would we be able to find out who the lucky man was?’ Romney wasn’t even sure why he was asking.

‘I should t
hink so. Do you want me to help you? I could ask around the members.’

‘Could you?’

‘I’m not doing much else.’

‘Brilliant. Thanks.’

Despite the apparent involvement of Phillip Emerson and a link with Elliot Masters – both men now dead – the trip was looking more and more like a pointless exercise to Romney. Grimes’ body language and general air of boredom didn’t help. An unexplained loose end that had seemed worth following up when he had been sitting at his desk now just seemed like a waste of time. He was happy to leave the detective work to the lad. And then Romney remembered something from the pathologist’s report. ‘Out of interest, how many clubs were taken?’

‘Four. There was a driver, a putter and a couple of irons, I think.’

‘Can you write them down for me? The makes and types of club.’

It was a very long shot, even by the standards of Romney’s hung-over morning thinking. The pathologist’s report had mentioned something about paint flakes found in the remains of Phillip Emerson’s skull and his suggestion that the injuries caused to Emerson’s head could have been made with golf clubs. Given the location of his death and his association with the golf club, it wasn’t an unreasonable theory.