Rope Enough - The Romney and Marsh Files #1 Read online

  Backing up all this expertise and application was that sixth-sense, that gut feeling he would get when confronted with a room full of books or a crime scene, the belief that there was something there to be found, something waiting to be discovered, uncovered, understood and celebrated.

  He drifted in and out of Scope, The British Heart Foundation, Cancer Research UK and Relate. The unmistakeable smells of musty fabric, old women’s perfume and nursing home odours filled his nostrils. Far from being repulsed by such scents, as many who he knew would happily admit to, Romney savoured them for what they represented to him: little commercial enclaves of goodness, good intentions and goodwill – islands of affordable opportunity dotting cut-throat seas of commerce.

  He picked up a couple of hardbacks that were too well preserved to ignore for the pound each that was being asked for them. In Help the Aged he smiled with pleasure to find a first edition of an early Reginald Hill in very good condition, complete with unclipped dust-jacket and reasonably priced. The British Red Cross had his heart thumping for a copy of A Severed Head, but closer inspection revealed that the jacket, like so many leads in criminal cases, was a red herring. The edition was a later Book Club reprint. By the time he had been through the Pilgrims Hospice, the Cats Protection League and Shelter he had a carrier bag of books that contributed to a vast improvement in his mood from the early morning.

  Finding himself not far from where he’d parked at the station, he decided to deposit the books in his car and use the station’s television and video equipment to look at the video Sammy Coker had given him. He was surprised to see Marsh’s car in the station car park. He felt the bonnet. It was warm.

  *

  Marsh was sitting at her desk. She looked as surprised to see Romney as he was to see her.

  ‘What are you doing here on your day off?’ said Romney, heading towards where they kept the television equipment.

  ‘Just popped in to collect something, sir.’

  ‘Couldn’t it wait?’

  ‘It could. I couldn’t. I didn’t expect to see you here either.’

  ‘Me neither up until breakfast.’

  He told her about the tape and what it might mean for the Claire Stamp investigation. He wheeled out the television and video stand, plugged them in and turned them on. He inserted the tape that Sammy had given him. Marsh came around to watch it with him. Sammy had considerately stopped the tape to show the two men. The angle gave a good view of their faces as they stood at the counter ordering.

  ‘Know either of them, sir?’ asked Marsh.

  ‘No. I’ll get whoever was on duty that night to have a look.’ He ejected the tape and locked it in his desk drawer. ‘What are you doing with yourself this afternoon?’

  ‘Nothing much. Might mooch about the shops for a bit.’

  ‘Pah, that’s overrated. Fancy a quick drink round at The Castle?’

  ‘The Castle? Isn’t that the place that Avery and his Neanderthals took a dislike to the other night?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sir, why do you want to go there?’

  ‘I’m thirsty and I fancy a change, that’s all. You coming or not?’

  ***

  17

  The Castle was a grand name for a dingy sprawling public house with a personality disorder. Most of the time it knew what it was and behaved accordingly. However, on certain nights of the week its alter-ego took over, and it believed itself to be a trendy club. The metamorphosis under cover of darkness and with carefully calculated lighting and its backdrop of the real spot-lit castle perched high on the hill above it was effective enough to lure in the uninitiated and the less discerning. In the unsympathetic light of day its pretensions seemed an almost comical leap of the imagination. The Cinderella may have been more apt.

  The pub nestled in an oxbow of land at the foot of the steep meandering ribbon of tarmac that led to the real castle, which dominated views, minds and guide books of the area. It had originally been constructed as a defence installation to complement the other fortifications of the town. Early in the twentieth century it had been sold off to an entrepreneur. In his hands it had undergone the change from mini-fortress to public house.

  Made from local ragstone under a Kent-peg tiled roof with gothic arched stone windows, it had sat slowly deteriorating for decades up until a couple of years before when the tide of asylum seekers from the Balkans had washed up a Kosovan businessman. He fell in love with the potential, the history and the idea of the place. He had the vision, the money and a mysterious influence that enabled him to purchase and alter the building. When it was finished and opened it quickly became a popular hotspot of Dover nightlife.

  Then the businessman mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by a cartel of his countrymen. Since then The Castle had begun its moralistic and aesthetic decline to what it essentially was today: a shabby drinking hole for the ethnic minorities and a widely recognised den of iniquity.

  It had been raided by the police many times over the last few years with mixed results. And yet it still proved – bewilderingly to Romney – an entertainment magnet for certain elements of the indigenous youth population on ‘club’ nights. To Romney’s mind this was as much a sad reflection of what else was available for the thrill seeking Dover adolescents as anything to do with the place’s charm.

  In the time it took Romney to drive the short distance from the station to the pub’s car park, the skies, which had remained bright for the morning, succumbed to the creeping blanket of grey cloud cover that was becoming a permanent feature of the weather. Looking up, Romney thought that the rain wouldn’t be far behind.

  This was most definitely not somewhere that Romney would normally take a woman for a drink but, as a Detective Sergeant, Marsh hardly qualified as a woman.

  Marsh took a table under the appraising, lecherous stares and accompanying stony silence of the handful of customers – all male – who were patronising the place and had turned as one to identify the visitors. Romney ordered soft drinks at the bar from an apparent mute. The undisguised hostility that infused the air let Romney know he was at best unwelcome at worst remembered.

  Romney had been part of a raid to arrest an individual who had taken refuge in The Castle the year before – an individual whose disordered mind had led him to believe that he might claim some sort of sanctuary in the place. The fore-sight of the officer in charge of the operation to provide a free ride to the station for more than one had been rewarded as things hadn’t gone as smoothly as might have been hoped. The recently settled ethnic minorities tended to adopt a musketeer mentality in the face of authority when one of their own was the focus of detention: all for one and sod the consequences.

  They sat and sipped and chatted for a minute before Romney saw reflected in Marsh’s face the approach of someone to their table. Romney turned to look up into the dark-skinned, unshaven face of a man he recognised. It appeared that recognition was mutual.

  He was a heavyweight with facial scars to suggest that he fancied himself with his fists but wasn’t as good as he thought. Just below his hairline was evidence of recent mending.

  ‘Policeman,’ said the man. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Would you believe a quiet drink?’

  ‘In here? No.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Romney.

  ‘The landlord. What do you want?’

  ‘I can see why you’re nearly empty, if you give all your customers this welcome.’

  ‘Some of our customers are very welcome, Mr Policeman. Others are not.’

  ‘Well, Mr Landlord, I was hoping to find out what the other night was all about.’

  The landlord’s brow knitted. The query seemed to surprise him. ‘The other night?’

  ‘The brawl in here.’

  ‘You have our statements. Why don’t you read them?’

  ‘Because they will only tell me what happened not why it happened.’ The man towering over Romney pondered this. ‘Look,’
said Romney, ‘would you mind sitting down. I’m getting a crick in my neck. Just a couple of quick questions and we’ll drink up and be on our way. Or,’ he said, turning to Marsh, ‘we could spend a couple of hours in here, couldn’t we? Maybe invite some of the lads from the station for a drink when they knock off. That should be good for business.’

  With a deep sigh the man perched on a stool at their table.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Romney. ‘So why don’t you tell me why a bunch of thick-skulled local thugs came calling with violent intent?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ said the man, although his tone was now inquisitive rather than hostile. ‘You lot don’t usually care what happens to us.’

  ‘I’m interested in who was here and why? Not your lot, theirs.’

  The man appraised Romney for a long moment. ‘This isn’t about that night is it?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Romney.

  The man appeared to be giving cooperation some thought. He said, ‘At the time we had no idea what it was about. We’ve had our differences, but we’ve kept out of each other’s way for a while. This town is big enough for both of us. They came in about an hour before closing. I wasn’t expecting trouble, so there was always a chance that they were here for just a drink. Maybe a bit of intimidation. They weren’t noisy or aggressive. It was almost like they were waiting for something.’

  ‘Or someone?’ said Romney.

  ‘Or someone,’ said the man.

  ‘Why didn’t you show them the door if they’re not welcome here?’

  ‘There were too many of them and not enough of us.’

  ‘There were a lot of you arrested.’

  ‘A few phone calls got our numbers up. Closing time came. I told them that they’d have to drink up and leave and that’s when I knew they were going to be trouble.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I know the signs,’ said the man.

  ‘You said you didn’t know at the time what it was about.’

  ‘I heard afterwards. They were blaming us – one of us – for a rape. The rape at the petrol station. When I say us, I’m talking about the immigrant population as a whole. That’s the thinking of these scum. Someone wrongs them and they don’t go looking for the someone, they find an easy target and take it out on whoever they can get their hands on. And they call us animals.’

  ‘Did you know any of them?’

  ‘I recognised a face or two, and I won’t forget them. But your lot arrested them all. You must know who was here.’

  Romney said, ‘Yes, we know who was here, but that’s not enough. I have a conflict over timings that I need to clear up.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the man.

  Romney thought for a moment, experimenting with how he could best put what he had to say. In the end he laid a mug shot of Simon Avery on the table between them. ‘Was he here?’ Romney realised that he was holding his breath as the man studied the picture.

  Eventually, he said, ‘No. He wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, I know him. There were old men in here who got hurt,’ he said. ‘It’s not right.’

  Romney said, ‘Have you heard anything about the rape?’

  The man grinned widely showing two gold incisors. ‘Do you really think that I’d tell you if I had?’

  ‘It would be your public duty.’

  ‘If it was one of our community, he’d be dealt with by our community. Severely.’

  Understanding that he’d get nothing else from the man, Romney said, ‘I’m surprised to find you open. I heard they made quite a mess in here.’

  Raising his chin proudly the man said, ‘It’s in our nature to resist oppression.’

  *

  When they were back in the car, Marsh said, ‘If Avery wasn’t there, how did he end up in the cells for it that night with the others?’

  ‘That is the next part of this puzzle that I’m going to find out,’ said a grim faced Romney.

  As they headed back to the station and Marsh’s car, Marsh said, ‘What you’re suggesting, sir, it’s pre-meditated murder on Avery’s part, isn’t it? I mean, if you’re saying that Avery arranged the raid on The Castle to cover up his killing of Claire Stamp?’

  ‘Not necessarily. The way I see it is that after Stamp was raped and the accusation was made that it was a foreigner, Avery would have been looking for a very public form of retribution. I know him. The landlord was right when he said that they didn’t care whether they were hitting the right people or not. It was all about a public message. Avery was embarrassed, and he had to restore some of his credibility with decisive action, regardless of its accuracy. Isn’t that how all wars are fought? Indiscriminate shows of strength? Isn’t it often the way that the innocent are the ones who suffer?’ He laughed at himself then. ‘Careful, Sergeant, you almost got me on my soapbox.’

  ‘So how do you link Stamp’s death with events?’

  Romney exhaled heavily. ‘It’s all guesswork and gut-instinct,’ he said. ‘Stamp is raped. Avery sets the wheels in motion for the attack on The Castle – his message to the world. He intends to be there as part of it. It’s his way. He likes the violence. But on that evening he has a ding-dong with Stamp, delivers her a fatal blow and does the first thing that comes to his mind. He tries to cover it up. It might well have been an accident but that’s the way his mind would work.’

  ‘It’s tenuous, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir?’

  He smiled thinly. ‘I know. That’s why it’s staying a private theory. But it’s a theory that I’m going to pursue, until I either have reason to doubt it or I come to a dead end. I’m at neither point at the moment. I know that he’s involved in that young woman’s death.’

  As much as Marsh would like him to be right, she would take a lot more convincing than the musings of his gut.

  Romney dropped her at her car wishing her a good rest of the weekend and drove home.

  His mood was better than when he’d woken. He’d had his exercise, a good fry-up, found a few decent books and had an avenue of enquiry. Now he would tile.

  *

  At eleven o’clock that night Romney had his feet up on his battered coffee table between empty foil trays of Chinese take-away. The heat from the open fire, which had gone from blazing activity to gently glowing embers, had had its usual soporific effect. He felt bloated with noodles and beer and glad to have just watched the highlights of United’s second consecutive league defeat. He’d also had a productive afternoon in the shower. Grout it and it would be usable.

  It had been a satisfying, fruitful and tiring day, he reflected. He rubbed his eyes and turned off the television.

  His mobile phone started trilling. He hauled himself up and went in search of it. Julie Carpenter’s number showed. He stared at it, caught in two minds. It was something that he’d wanted, but now that it was there in front of him he felt a sea-change in his emotions and his feelings.

  As he was making up his mind whether to answer it or not, it stopped. He took the phone back to the sofa and slumped down. He’d been here before – playing the game and, if he were honest with himself, not very honourably. Was it all about the control of the situation? Did he, as one of his bitter ex’s had observed, just need to feel wanted so that with his inflated ego he might be able to go on living his selfish, self-centred existence? Taking a deep breath he called her back. She answered quickly.

  ‘Hello, Julie. How are you?’

  ‘Miserable.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I want to know something. Will you be honest with me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t say of course, like men don’t lie to women.’

  ‘All right. Yes, I’ll be honest with you.’

  ‘What was going on the other night in the pub?’

  ‘Nothing was going on. I’m a detective inspector and she is my sergeant. We work together. What you’re thinking, well it woul
d be more than both of our jobs are worth. I know it must have looked pretty bad. I really can see it from your point of view. I’d probably have felt the same. But all we were doing was eating because we were hungry and discussing a case as colleagues.’

  ‘It looked more than that.’

  ‘I can only say that it wasn’t. I’m out of practice at relationships. If I’d stopped to think I, well I don’t know that I’d have done anything different, I suppose, because, like I say, it was innocent. Perhaps, I should have let you know where I was going and who I was with. But then, we’re not, I mean, we weren’t in a relationship. We hadn’t come to an understanding, had we?’

  ‘No, we hadn’t.’ After a pause she said, ‘Will you give me a day or two to think about us? I’ve been hurt before – betrayed by someone that I loved. I suppose that’s why I went off the deep end a bit.’

  ‘Of course. I mean, yes. Take as long as you want. For what it’s worth I’d like to see you again.’

  ***

  18

  Romney was not an unhappy man when he arrived at the station Monday morning. He had hope and direction. It was a lot more than he’d felt when he left on Friday. And although Julie Carpenter had not got back in touch he felt more comfortable about that situation. He felt a confidence bordering on arrogance that she would call.

  Top of his to do list was to speak with the officer who had arrested Avery at The Castle. Romney needed accurate details of Avery’s movements, involvement and arrest. He also needed to find out the identities of the two men caught on Sammy Coker’s tape.

  On his desk was a note asking him to return a call to DI Crow in Ashford. Crow was the inspector he had courtesy-called regarding his visit to Claire Stamp’s mother. Romney dialled him immediately.

  With the pleasantries out of the way, Crow came to what he wanted to speak about. ‘That woman, Mrs Stamp, who you came over to visit last week. Mind telling me what it was all about?’

  ‘Not at all. Mind telling me why?’

  Crow chuckled down the line. ‘Spoken like a true copper. She’s dead.’

  Romney thought he’d misheard the man. ‘What?’