Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (26 page)

‘Sure. No problem. I’d have to see the paperwork though. That’s in the shop.’

Romney had meant for the youth to forward him these details when he had news of who had been the recipient of the clubs. But Grimes yawned loudly when he had been about to speak and before Romney could stop him the lad had hurried off telling them that he’d see them over there.

*

Romney and Grimes were sitting waiting on white plastic patio chairs outside the pro-shop when Simon Draper returned. He was trailing in the wake of someone whose haughty features rang a bell. He didn’t look particularly pleased to see the visitors.

‘You’re the chaps who were here the morning that Phillip Emerson was found aren’t you?’ He eyed Grimes unpleasantly.

Romney remembered where he’d seen him. He was the pompous arse in the Rupert-the-bear trousers from the car park. Romney stood up to tower over him. ‘I am Detective Inspector Romney, in case you can’t remember. Who are you?’

‘Club secretary.’ Either the man had the good manners not to mention Romney’s altered appearance, or he simply wasn’t interested.

‘I meant your name.’

‘Douglas Price. Simon says you want to see something in here.’

In the face of such arrogant hostility, Romney realised that now he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d got the information from the shop, no matter how unimportant it was. ‘That’s correct.’

‘What exactly?’

‘An invoice for the sale of some golf clubs.’

The man considered this for a moment. ‘Have you got a search warrant?’

‘Pardon?’ Something in the way Romney stressed his syllables clearly disturbed the man. His tone became more civil.

‘A search warrant, Inspector? Don’t you need one?’

‘Not if I have permission to look, I don’t. I would imagine you would want to be assisting the police in a murder enquiry, not delaying us. Unless you have something to hide
, that is?’

The man bridled in his exaggerated indignation. ‘I can assure you that neither the club nor I have anything to hide, Inspector’.

‘Then open the door and invite us in.’

Price looked from one to the other and folded like a poorly erected
deck-chair. He unlocked the door and stood aside. He seemed reluctant to enter the space where only a couple of days before a man had been found horribly hanging by the neck, dead.

‘Thank you,’ said Romney, as he passed him. ‘Right then, Simon. Where’s this invoice?’

Simon Draper, too, seemed temporarily disturbed at revisiting the scene. Romney wondered fleetingly if he might suddenly refuse, but he cast his eyes down, found some courage and went through into Masters’ office.  He slid open the draw of a filing cabinet, thumbed some files and extracted an A4 computer printout. He handed the piece of paper to Romney. Attached to it with a staple was a scribbled handwritten note that turned Romney’s day around.

There’s no one here and I can’t wait. I’ve taken four golf clubs. Please book to Phillip Emerson’s account. He’ll tell you what they are. LW.

Romney had the youth identify the exact same clubs as detailed on the printed invoice. Three were metal-bladed, one a huge-headed wooden driver. The driver was painted a glossy black with a fine red stripe across it.

‘Mr Price,’ said Romney, stepping outside. ‘I’ll need to take the paperwork with me and this, if you’ve no objection.’ He indicated the driver.

‘What on earth do you want that for? Do you know how much something like that costs?’

‘Don’t worry. You’ll get it back. I’ll sign for it of course.’

‘But you haven’t got an account.’

Romney could feel his headache returning. ‘So open me one.’

*

After dropping the driver of
f at forensics Romney went in search of Marsh. She was at her desk engrossed in report writing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes tired.

‘Give you a hard time, did they?’ said Romney.

‘You were right, sir. They took some convincing that my presence in the next street was purely coincidental. I’m still not sure that they believe me.’

‘They will,’ said Romney.

‘You look pleased about something.’

‘I might have a right to. We’ll have to wait and see what forensics says.’ He gave her the potted version of his trip to the golf club and then placed the handwritten note in front of her.

‘LW? Lillian West?’ she said.

‘That’s what I’m thinking. How long are you going to be?’

‘I’ve just started.’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘Maybe you could call upstairs and get me an extension.’

‘I think I might have to. I need you to come out to Lillian West’s with me.’

‘She’s going to love that.’

‘I’m counting on it.’

*

Tall, ornate iron gates hung from imposing stone pillars barring the entrance to the West’s very private residence and leaving only the stupidest of casual callers ignorant to the idea that uninvited visitors should not expect a warm welcome. A woman who wasn’t Lillian West answered the intercom. The police were forced to wait several minutes while Lillian West was located and brought to the device. Romney doubted she
’d hurried herself.

Sounding distinctly unhappy
, she said, ‘What do you want, Inspector?’

‘To speak with you, Mrs West.’

‘Couldn’t you have phoned me? Must you come to my home?’

‘Open the gate, please.’ Romney released the button terminating the connection. An electronic buzz, a click and the gates began to slowly open inwards with a purr of electrics and well-oiled engineering.

As they crawled up the curving block-paved driveway, Romney said, ‘I’ll be happy to make some trouble for that woman.’

The grand mansion revealed itself as they rounded a mature and expertly maintained yew hedge.

‘Very nice,’ said Romney. ‘Welcome to how the other half live.’

‘This isn’t the other half, sir. This is the one percent.’

A brace of matching Audis with private number plates completed the scene which could have been a contender for a Homes and Gardens front cover. Lillian West stood in the open doorway, arms folded, looking unwelcoming. Despite the impression she gave of having been dragged from her bed, she still managed to look composed and striking. Her unbrushed blonde bed-hair contrasted sharply with her decoratively embroidered, crimson Kimono that shimmered in the glare of the glorious sunshine as only truly expensive natural fibres can. Her feet were bare. She didn’t move or alter her expression as Romney and Marsh narrowed the distance between them.

It was a clear sign of her irritation and anxiety at the police presence that, although she couldn’t have missed Romney’s disfigurement she ignored it. ‘This is not convenient, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I thought we had an arrangement, an understanding.’ She glared at Marsh.

‘Well then, Mrs West, let me take the opportunity to disabuse you of that misconception and remind you that we are investigating a brutal murder. If we want to speak to you, you are expected to make yourself available, wherever and whenever. Is that clear enough for you?’

Romney’s direct abrasiveness visibly subdued the woman. When she replied it was with some composure and a degree of reasonability
. ‘Perfectly. All I’m saying is, I would rather have met you away from my home. At the police station if you prefer.’

‘We don’t have time to play games, Mrs West.’

‘What is so urgent then, Inspector?’

As she didn’t look like extending an invitation for tea and biscuits in the drawing room, Romney continued, glad it was nice weather for standing around on front steps. ‘How well did you know Elliot Masters, the professional at the golf club?’

Although there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, something darkened Lillian West’s features. ‘I knew him a little. Our paths crossed.’

‘That it?’

‘I saw him in the shop, the clubhouse and around the course from time to time. Why do you ask?’

‘So
not a close friend?’

‘No.’

‘What do you know about some golf clubs that were taken from the pro-shop and later charged to Phillip Emerson’s account?’ If Romney was hoping to catch his quarry out with a quick attack, he was to be disappointed.

‘Phillip asked me to pick them up for him. He was in a hurry for them.’

‘Why didn’t he get them himself?’

‘He was busy.’

‘What was the hurry?’

‘It was his son’s birthday the next day.’

‘Why did he ask you to get them?’

She smiled without warmth. ‘Phillip was a last minute person.’

‘What exactly did he ask you to get?’

‘A selection. He left it up to me.’

‘Tell us about the day you picked them up.’

‘What is so important about them?’

‘We’re not sure there is anything important about them, yet.’

‘Then why are you standing on my doorstep at this ungodly hour discussing them, Inspector?’

‘Because you won’t invite us in.’

She took a deep breath and exhaled signalling her
continuing displeasure at the situation. ‘I called into the shop. I was in a bit of a hurry myself. There was no one around so I took them. I left a note. I told Phillip he should get in touch with them and let them know what I’d taken.’

‘What did the note say?’ asked Romney, as though he didn’t have it in his pocket.

‘I can’t remember exactly. Something brief and explanatory. Why is that important?’

Romney ignored the question. ‘Then what happened?’

‘I took the clubs to the flat in Waterloo Crescent and left them there. That’s what he asked me to do with them. He was at a business function, or something. It was William’s birthday the following day. He wouldn’t have made the course shop before they shut that evening. Look, Inspector, I’m really having trouble understanding the point of all this.’

‘Nearly finished. Was that the end of it?’

‘No, actually. They didn’t see my note and Phillip didn’t call them till the day after. By then they thought that they’d been robbed. Phillip sorted it out.’

Romney was disappointed. He’d
hoped that she might have lied as she should have done if she’d had something to hide.

‘I take it you’re no closer to catching Phillip’s murderer then?’ she said.

‘I wouldn’t say that, Mrs West. Bits of the puzzle keep turning up.’

She looked like she
didn’t believe him. ‘Is that all, Inspector, or do you have anything else you’d like to ask me? What I’m having for breakfast, perhaps?’

‘That’s all for now. Thank you. Is your husband at home?’

Her instant alarm chased her confidence away with its tail between its legs. ‘Why do you ask? Surely you don’t need to speak to him? I told you, he’s an old man. He’s also very sick.’

‘Mrs West, I’m sure you can appreciate that with your lover clubbed to death your husband becomes a natural suspect. Suspects are something that we are a little short of.’

She looked over her shoulder into the house and pulled the door almost shut behind her. As she turned back to them, the gossamer fabric of the Kimono – missing its belt – wafted open to reveal an idea of a negligee and a lot of tanned flesh. Seeing Romney’s attention drawn to her exposure, she pulled the garment tightly back around her.

‘My husband is confined to his sickbed. He is semi-permanently attached to a dialysis machine. He did not kill Phillip Emerson, he is physically incapable of causing anyone physical harm, and if you come barging in here with all sorts of wild unsubstantiated accusations it could prove dangerous to his health.’

‘And your position, of course,’ said Romney, refusing to be intimidated by her bluster and reminding her gently of the advantage he had over her.

Her eyes flared briefly at him for that. ‘Yes, as I’ve already told you. Look
, Inspector, would you let me have my husband’s doctor speak with you. Could that satisfy you?’

‘All right, Mrs West. For now it will. Give me his number.’

*

‘What happened to you?’

‘Hello, Maurice.’

‘Looks painful.’

‘I’ll live.’

‘What brings you across to the chamber of horrors?’

‘Wonder if you would do me a favour.’

‘Go on. Anything for the fuzz.’

‘I want you to speak to a doctor for me.’

The pathologist raised an eyebrow. Romney passed across the finely produced business card Lillian West had given him. The pathologist put on his glasses and a smile played around the corners of his mouth.

‘Know him?’ said Romney.

‘Of course. As a professional body doctors are closer than most others. We all need to know who to call to cover up our mistakes and misdiagnoses with sympathetic second opinions. Why is the long arm of the law interested in Felix
Evans?’