Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (3 page)

Like an under-clubbed approach shot the golf cart came to a stop just short of the green. Most of those present were standing off the
putting surface. A male and a female represented the ambulance service; three male and one female the police; three scene of crime officers, still genderless in their coveralls, even up close; two men who gave the impression of being employees of the golf course; the pathologist; a man sitting with his head in his hands and the deceased, indicated by a mound of plastic sheeting. It made an interesting composition.

‘Oh dear,’ said Masters.

When no one else took up the thread, Marsh said, ‘What is it?’

‘Chap off to the right there, the short stout one.’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s the head green-keeper, Bill Thatcher.’

‘And?’

‘And he doesn’t look very happy. Not a man to get on the wrong side of.’

With a tone more of instruction than request, Romney said, ‘You’ll wait here for us, Mr Masters.’ The officers dismounted and walked towards the centre of attention.

The once perfectly manicured green was scored, stained, bruised, scuffed and dented. The deceased had lost much of his blood supply where he lay. It radiated out from one end of the covered form t
o discolour the turf around him – the aura of a violent death. A short distance from this was a patch of vomit.

As the trio came closer they could see further evidence of what must have been a particularly frenzied and vicious attack. Teeth, bone-fragments, more blood, body tissue and the grim expressions of the professionals involved in the clear up. Irregular white spray-paint-shapes enclosed pieces of evidence that had so far bee
n identified, but not collected – fragments and evidence of an event so at odds with the otherwise serene and immaculate spot. Romney thought of the dreadful noises that must have disturbed the peace and stillness to create the macabre tableau.

As others stood around,
or bent to their tasks, the man Masters had identified as the head green-keeper strode to intercept them. ‘Are you in charge then?’

Romney turned to face him. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. Can you do something about this lot ruining my green with their big boots? Look at the mess they’re making of it.’

Romney took a step nearer the squat pug-faced man. He stooped slightly so that he could get fully in his face. ‘A man has had his skull smashed in. His life ended. He might be a husband, a father. He’s certainly someone’s son. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Ruining my green ain’t going to bring him back, is it?’

Romney straightened. He was wasting his breath on this odious little man. ‘We might well have to dig some of it up yet
– forensic evidence. Take it away with us.’

‘You can’t do that.’

‘I’ll do what I like, Mr Thatcher. Like you said, I’m in charge. Now, maybe you’d like to stop wasting my time whinging about a bit of turf and let us get on with our job. The sooner we’re done the sooner you can have your grass back.’ Romney tapped a cigarette from his packet and lit up. ‘Have you seen the body?’

‘Yes.’

‘Know him?’

The head green-keeper eyed the policeman sullenly. Romney flicked some ash off his cigarette onto the pristine putting surface. The green-keeper’s eyes flared and his jaw tightened.

With barely concealed pleasure, he said, ‘His own mother wouldn’t know him. Whoever did that to him made a proper job of it. And then, of course, the creatures of the night have had a dinner off him. All that blood and torn flesh, too much of a temptation for a vixen with a couple of hungry cubs, or the magpies. Not much left to recognise by the time we found him.’ Romney, quickly sick and tired of this mean old man, turned to go. ‘But I know him,’ said Thatcher.

Romney turned back. ‘Well?’

‘Reckon it’s Phillip Emerson.’

‘What?’ said Masters, who’d come up behind them.

‘Who’s Phillip Emerson?’ said Romney.

‘A member,’ said Masters.

‘Another artisan?’

‘No, proper. Full member. Actual
ly, he’s the club captain. Christ almighty. Are you sure, Bill?’

The
head green-keeper turned his disparaging gaze on the club professional. No love lost there, thought Romney. ‘Take a look yourself if you don’t believe me.’ He was clearly enjoying being the bearer of bad news.

‘You said he’s unrecognisable,’ said Romney.

‘Aye, his face is, but I’d know that poncy ring of his anywhere.’

The head green-keeper turned and spat loudly into the longer grass at the edge of the green. His eyes had changed when he looked back. They had a satisfied gleam. Romney held the man’s gaze for a long moment, took a last pull on his cigarette and dropped it onto the baize-like surface and, as Thatcher opened his mouth to protest, ground it into the
turf with his heel. Bill Thatcher pursed his lips and turned away.

‘I
told you to stay with the golf cart, Mr Masters,’ said Romney. ‘This is a crime scene.’ The DI bent to retrieve his dog-end.

Masters apologised, but he was no longer interested in being there. The blood had drained from the man’s features.
Gone were the rosy-apple-cheeks, the boyish good looks of the confident big man of minutes ago. In moments he had become a poor imitation of himself. Without another word, Masters turned and began walking slowly back to the golf cart. Romney opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. He’d keep.

‘Hello
, Tom,’ said the pathologist, getting awkwardly to his feet. He flexed his knee several times, making a face.

‘Morning
, Maurice. Bit grim, isn’t it?’

‘You could say that. I wonder if it isn’t time I started thinking about packing this in.’ Whethe
r it was the older man’s joints or what he had been dealing with that inspired this comment, Romney couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard him say something similar. ‘Want to take a look?’

‘In a moment.’

A loud retching sound made them both look around to where one of the constables was doubled over, puking his last meal into the rough.

‘Hope you brought a strong stomach with you. It’s about as messy as it gets. Looks like he was alive when he arrived here, although I couldn’t say what state he would have been in. Possibly, rude good health. But here’s where he lost his blood. If he was brought here dead there wouldn’t be so much of it. His system wouldn’t have been pumping it out of him still. Impossible to say here and now how he died, although my guess would be one of the several blows he sustained to his cranium. It’s very thorough. Whoever did it, and it may well have been more than one person, must have been aiming to kill him at least.’

‘What do you mean, ‘at least’?’

‘For some attackers, killing their victim isn’t enough. They want to disfigure and dismantle, completely destroy the physical being. It’s more than just ending a life. There is certainly an indication of sustained and focussed rage. If it was one person they’d have needed a stomach to match their resolve and their fury.’ The pathologist smiled weakly
, realising that he was straying beyond his scientific remit. ‘Just an old man’s observations and theories,’ he added. ‘He must have been out here for a good few hours. Rigour is well advanced and some of the woodland creatures had time to build up the confidence to investigate and then use him as a buffet. No doubt you’ve noticed the bits and pieces of his head littering the place. I would say that some of these are as a result of carrion feeders, but others, like the teeth over there,’ he indicated one of the spray-painted outlines, ‘and there, a fragment of skull complete with hair, are probably the shrapnel of some very forceful blows.’

Romney swallowed and his throat was dry. ‘Murder weapon?’

‘No. But you might be looking for murder weapons.’ Romney raised his eyebrows. ‘On the face of it, oh dear, that was an unfortunate expression,’ said the pathologist, without a trace of humour. ‘You know what I mean. The nature of some of the impressions left by whatever he was struck with are inconsistent with each other. That is to say, they are not uniform. I’ll need to examine what’s left of him properly before I can officially commit to that though. But…’

‘But if it was more than one weapon, then it would suggest more than one assailant.’

The pathologist inclined his head. ‘Possibly.’

Romney took a deep breath. ‘I’d better have a look at him.’

Marsh and Grimes were standing with the uniforms. As Romney approached the body they broke away to join him. Clearly they had also been warned of the horror they were obliged to have to witness. All three wore sombre expressions as they individually prepared their insides for the grotesque display awaiting them. Others who had already seen what lay under the sheeting watched on with voyeuristic anticipation for the reactions in others to something they had already had to observe themselves and wished they hadn’t.

The pathologist pulled back the shroud and waited. Romney felt something of his last meal stir deep within him. Marsh exhaled audibly the deep breath she had been holding. Grimes said, ‘You’re right, gov, I think we can definitely rule out suicide.’ Everyone had their own way of dealing with the horrors of the job. Romney thanked the pathologist with a nod and the sheeting was returned.

‘Move him whenever you’re ready, Maurice. And thanks.’

Romney gave himself a long moment to take in the contrasting beauty of the surrounding area and a few deep breaths. He shook another cigarette free and lit it.

‘So,’ he said, sending out a stream of smoke, ‘why here? It’s the middle of nowhere. How did he get here? Who did this to him and why? For a start we need to verify that this really is the closest part of the course to a public highway. If it is that might explain why this particular area of it, but why specifically the green? And, of course, why the golf course at all?’

‘If he is the c
lub captain that’s a connection we can’t ignore,’ said Marsh.

‘Maybe that’s just an association the killer wants us to make,’ said Grimes. ‘A red herring.’

‘How did he get here?’ said Romney.

‘Carried, dragged, lured, threatened, enticed,’ said Marsh.

‘That narrows it down,’ said Grimes.

‘He was alive when he arrived. The pathologist has a notion that there may have been more than one person involved in the execution of, well, let’s call it the execution, shall we? It certainly has that sort of feel about it, despite the mess.’

‘Premeditated?’ said Grimes.

‘Possibly,’ said Romney, ‘but it’s equally possible that he was here voluntarily and things took a turn for the worse for him.’

‘Maybe he was meeting someone,’ said Marsh.

‘In the middle of the night in the middle of a golf course?’ said Grimes. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ said Romney. ‘And we’re not ruling anything out yet. I want us to consider every conceivable explanation for him being here and discounting suggestions only when to keep them alive defies all rational thinking. Is that clear?’

Grimes and Marsh exchanged the briefest of glances, their eyes drawn to each other instinctively
, as are those who share a secret that is suddenly discovered. Both were thinking of the last time Dover police had had to deal with a serious crime and how it had unfolded and ended. DI Romney had blamed himself for not preventing further serious crimes associated with the first because he had failed, in his own words, to keep an open mind.

Romney looked over towards the low wire fencing that formed the boundary between the golf course and the highway. ‘Grimes, take a look along the road and in the long grass. See if there is anything to suggest it’s been disturbed recently, if, that is, the world and his wife who’ve been trampling about over there haven’t destroyed any evidence. If there was more than one killer that’s at least three people who had to be present. If he was brought here against his will, carried, dragged, bundled, whatever, it’s likely there would be some trace of it.’ Grimes slouched off. ‘And get one of the uniforms to check that this really is the closest part of the course to a public highway and have someone check out the road if they haven’t already for anything that might suggest that this is where he got onto the course.’ Grimes raised his hand without looking back. To Marsh, Romney said, ‘So, he could have been carried, or dragged against his will. That would have taken at least a couple of men.’

‘Not necessarily, sir. If he’d had his hands tied, for example, one person could have led him out here at knife or gun point.’

‘He wasn’t killed with a knife or a gun, but I know what you mean. What if he had come out here voluntarily? To meet someone.’

‘Or collect something.’

‘Or trade something.’

The DI smiled at Marsh then, an acknowledgement and sharing of the realisation that they had to consider more possibilities than he would have liked. The paradox was lost on neither officer that the location, being isolated and remote, instead of suggesting something quite specific had instead thrown up as large a number of variables as it would have done if the man had been murdered in the middle of a city. Perhaps it did suggest something unambiguous, but until they discovered what it was the possibilities would remain as great as they would for anywhere.