Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (9 page)

Romney eased himself out from under the sleeping naked form of Julie Carpenter and padded off to the bathroom. The temptation to rejoin her was strong, but it was too close to the time of his alarm. He compensated by making proper coffee, pouring orange juice and putting on some toast. He’d read somewhere that food was a good substitute for sex.

With a few minutes spare
, he threw open the French windows that opened out onto an area of compacted rubble and hardcore. The morning was once again glorious: the air fresh, clean and fragrant with a pungent mix of damp country scents.

This weekend
, he had been expecting to make a start on the brick paving. Several pallets of the rustic blocks along with builders’ bags of blinding sand were stacked up on the front drive. The weeds that were slowly curling up to embrace them were testimony to how long they had sat there. If Romney didn’t get on with it, he’d miss his target of barbecuing at least once on the finished article before the weather turned. But with a murder investigation and impending holiday pushing in on his time, he doubted whether he’d even get around to cutting the straps on the blocks.

The garden was looking good: overgrown. The borders were an unkempt wild affair where, by design, he had allowed nature to run its course. The one mark of his ownership of the land was the occasionally-mowed expanse of lawn that seemed to be shrinking in area with every cut. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to keep an orderly garden and in any case
, being bordered on all sides by fields, he felt the need to fit in.

Julie appeared at his shoulder wearing only the shirt he’d discarded as they had progressed towards bed the previous night. Her hair was a mess, her make-up was smudged, she looked barely awake, but the sight made something swell in Romney’s chest. If he hadn’t known it before, and he had, the vision of
her, her presence, her company, would have made him realise that he wanted permanency for them. Before Julie, coming back to the empty house had been a pleasure – his last bastion of peace and quiet where he could live as he pleased. Now, her absence left the place the poorer for it. Initially, Romney had found this unsettling, but lately, as their association lengthened and deepened, it pleased him more.

*

Julie dropped him at the station with an arrangement that they would meet again that evening. As he wandered inside, he decided that he would get her a key cut. See how she took the gesture.

Marsh was already at her desk
. Romney could see that she was still openly shouldering the burden of losing Emerson’s phone. His good mood prompted him to show her some charity.

‘Fancy coming to look around Emerson’s flat before we go and see the girlfriend?’

Her relief that she was still in favour was evident in her reply. ‘Yes, sir.’

*

Their arrival at Phillip Emerson’s love nest yielded one part of the puzzle surrounding the man’s death. Tucked away in a side street, fifty yards from the front door, sat a black Range Rover HSE Sport. Marsh noticed it as they passed. They parked up and went for a closer look. The number plate confirmed it was Emerson’s.

‘Spotless,’ said Romney, cupping his hands to the tinted window. He tried the handle in vain. ‘The keys could be in the flat
, I suppose,’ he said. ‘If not we’ll ask William Emerson to look out the spares for us. Arrange to have it collected and looked over.’ 

The top floor flat was situated in Waterloo Crescent, an attractive curve of well maintained black and white buildings dating from the 1830s, which lined the seafront. Originally constructed as a development of fashionable town houses catering to the fancies of the wealthier members of Dover society, most had long since been converted into hotels
and business accommodation with just a couple, like the one in which Emerson’s flat was situated, remaining residential, even if they were now partitioned off into flats.

A uniformed c
onstable stood at the entrance, preventing anyone from entering until the police had got what they wanted from it. He informed the officers that a woman, tall, short blonde hair and upset had been turned away without giving her name late the previous night.

Romney said, ‘What do you mean, wouldn’t give her name? Did you ask for it?’

The young constable looked awkward. ‘I don’t think that I did, sir. It was very late.’

‘Woke you up did she? Next time you’re put on watch Constable...?’

‘Palmer, sir.’

‘Next time you’re put on watch, Constable Palmer, you record the name of everyone who visits, whether they get in or not. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You might have let a murderer get away.’ Romney pushed in through the heavily black-glossed door trailing his annoyance behind him.

An ornately carved oak banister led visitors up a neutrally coloured, but expensive looking, carpeted staircase. Prints of old Dover in matching frames added to the impression that was trying to be created for the novice caller.

A solid, old six-panel door –
ruined by the addition of a modern Yale lock – opened onto a spacious and tastefully furnished period apartment that was neat and well kept. Large sash windows flanked by heavy velvet drapes were designed to make the most of the aspect.

The flat was filled with light. A pleasant underlying smell reminded Romney of a house he used to visit as a child – old furniture and polish. French
windows opened on to a small balcony that afforded splendid uninterrupted views across the narrow band of shingle beach and the English Channel beyond.

‘Very nice,’ said Romney. ‘Business must have been good. Find out whether it’s rented or mortgaged.’

‘What are we looking for, sir?’ said Marsh.

Romney smiled benevolently at her. ‘I have no idea, but I hope that when I see I’ll know it. Quite possibly they’ll be nothing here that’ll help us determine who killed him, but you never know. Keep an eye out for paperwork especially, oh, and a set of golf clubs covered in blood.’

Separately, they made a perfunctory sweep of the lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. On the kitchen worktop a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat next to a chunky glass tumbler.  The packaging from a microwaveable meal and the remains of it melded to a plate had been thrown into the sink.

Romney began rummaging through
the drawers of a Victorian roll-top desk, while Marsh began searching in earnest in the bedrooms.

It was soon clear that, unless there was anything that was very well hidden, then there was nothing in the flat particularly interesting
, or sensitive. Nothing for a man to have his head smashed in for. Emerson hadn’t appeared to view the place as somewhere to burden with the paperwork and detritus of his life. In fact there was very little of a personal nature at all, lending substance to the idea that this was simply a romantic hideaway – a love nest for someone who could afford it.

It was in the spare bedroom beneath a pile of mothballed blankets at the bottom of a worm-riddled antique wardrobe that Marsh found something interesting. It was only because of its incongruity with the otherwise entirely period surroundings that it caught her attention. If her eye had drifted across it in a more modern environment, even if it had been stuffed at the bottom of a wardrobe as this was, she may well not have paid it much more than cursory attention. As it was, she called for Romney before touching it.

He put his head around the door. ‘What have you got?’

‘Probably nothing, sir, but it’s out of place here.’

Marsh lifted up the pile of blankets so that Romney could see the compact disc in its clear plastic case. He joined her and, using one of the ubiquitous evidence bags that were never out of his pockets as a barrier between his prints and any on it, removed it from where it had been secreted. He held it up for them both to read what had been written in marker pen across it –
Spain, 2011
.

‘What do you reckon? Holiday snaps?’ said Romney.

Marsh was disappointed not to have stirred something more in the DI. She had amends to make.

‘Might not even be Emerson’s. Could be his sons. If he ever stayed over here, this probably would have been the room he slept in. Better check it out, anyway.’ He wrapped it in the little plastic sack, handed it to Marsh and checked his watch. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here. Come on. They do a very nice bacon sandwich and proper coffee at the De
Bradelei centre in the next street. We’ve just got time before we meet the girlfriend if we get a move on.’

To Romney’s chagrin, the De
Bradelei shopping centre and its cafeteria did not open until ten o’clock. Hungry and complaining, he drove them the short distance along the coast road to the marina entrance. Showing his warrant card got him a parking space inside. From there it was a short walk to the cafeteria along the harbour wall where they had agreed to meet Lillian West.

As Marsh sipped her black instant coffee, Romney occupied himself with
a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich that was never going to match up to the one he had prepared his insides for. Still, it was better than nothing.

‘How do you get along with Wilkie?’ said Romney.

The suddenness of the question took Marsh by surprise. Wilkie was a thorn in her side. He might have jeopardised her position and her career by taking important evidence from her desk, but she didn’t want to come across as bitching about colleagues. If she had proof, things might be different, but even then she wouldn’t do it like this.

‘I haven’t had much to do with him.’

‘You know that he was my first choice sergeant before you turned up and he went on paternity leave? Hobson’s choice, actually, seeing as he was the only sergeant.’ Romney took a large bite of his bacon sandwich. Through the mouthful, he said, ‘He asked me to give you
The
Parking Medal Man
and put him on this case.’

Marsh was aware that Romney was studying her as he said this, but she was still unable to keep the angry flush from her face. ‘I understand that he’s an ambitious officer,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he sees my presence as a threat to his aspirations.’

‘And his ego. Very restrained political answer by the way. You’ll go far.’ He signalled to the woman on the counter for a refill of his tea.

‘Are you going to replace me with him?’ she said. Marsh understood that the question was bordering on impertinence, but he’d lifted the lid. He shouldn’t complain if something he didn’t like crawled out.

Romney smiled not without humour. ‘No. Not yet. But if you go on losing vital evidence, I might be forced to reconsider.’

Marsh bit her tongue, choking off the response that
sprang to mind. She struggled to suppress her indignation – her natural reaction to defend herself – and was certain she hadn’t made a great job of it. And then the thought occurred to her that perhaps Romney suspected Wilkie of taking the phone. She met his eye and held it for a long moment. Just as she opened her mouth to say something Romney stood up, his full interest transferred to movement behind her. Marsh turned in her seat to see a tall woman with short blonde hair standing at the counter.

‘Looks like Mrs West has arrived,’ said Romney.

At the sound of his voice the woman turned around and gave him a brief nod before returning to the counter to collect a cup and saucer.

In the short time it took her to cover the distance between the counter and their table a myopic unschooled observer would have had to conclude that she had the poise and confidence that money brings. Despite the trouble she had clearly gone to to dress down for the meeting
, she couldn’t hide her breeding, or the self-assurance, that came as a result of her privileged existence. She threaded her way effortlessly between the closely packed tables and chairs towards them. Reaching them and ignoring Marsh, she said, ‘Mr Romney?’

‘Mrs West? said Romney, noting the lack of his police status in her greeting. ‘Have we met before?’

‘Not to my recollection. Why do you ask?’

‘We’re not exactly advertising the fact that we are police officers.’

She laughed softly. ‘You don’t have to. Shall I sit?’ She did without further discussion.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Marsh,’ said Romney.

The woman bestowed a haughty suggestion of condescension on Marsh before turning her attention back to Romney. ‘And how did you know who I am?’

‘I’m a policeman,’ said Romney.

She forced herself to smile ever so slightly. ‘Very good, Inspector.’ Her voice emphasised her class, and she couldn’t have had that register, thought Romney, without at least one pack a day over many years. ‘Firstly, I’d like to say that I appreciate your discretion in this matter,’ she said.

Striving to make up some of the ground he felt he had lost to the woman simply in their greeting
, Romney said, ‘I’m not sure how long that will be possible for.’

Marsh, who had taken an instant dislike to Mrs West and what she represented, took some satisfaction in her obvious discomfort at this news.

‘Oh. I had hoped that I could, what do you call it, assist you with your enquiries and then be left alone to grieve.’