Particular Stupidities (The Romney And Marsh Files Book 5) Read online

  As they got to where their cars were parked, he said, ‘You got a torch in your car?’

  Marsh said it was in her flat. He made a noise of disappointment and told her to wait while he grabbed his from his boot. Romney checked it was working and then gave it to her. Then he got in the front passenger side of his car and turned the radio on. As Radio Five’s live football commentary came through the speakers, Romney noticed that Marsh was still standing there. He tried to let the window down but without the key in the ignition it wouldn’t work. He frowned and opened the door.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I thought you were coming.’

  Romney snorted. ‘Why would you think that?’

  Knowing him, Marsh suddenly couldn’t articulate why she had thought it. Feeling a little foolish, she just shrugged and moved her mouth a couple of times without being able to make a noise.

  ‘Hurry up then,’ said Romney. ‘I don’t want to be out here all night.’

  As she started walking away she heard the car door shut and then a muffled cheer from the radio. She smiled, knowing that Romney would probably be swearing because she’d made him miss the build-up to a goal.

  Marsh picked her way across the irregular ground to the field’s open gate. A liveried police car was parked there. The uniformed officers were out of the vehicle and smoking – a sure sign that Superintendent Vine had left. The football was on in their car, too. They had the windows down to listen to it.

  They saw her coming from her torch beam playing around at her feet.

  ‘Who goes there?’ called one of them, a voice Marsh recognised. She wandered over. ‘Oh, it’s you Sarge,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry not to have been more exciting.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he said, as she walked past them.

  ‘I need to get the emergency contact number off the school board next door.’

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’

  ‘Apparently, they lease the unit the body was found in.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Awkward.’

  ‘Could be. Could be worse.’

  ‘Want a lift?’

  ‘Why? How far is it?’

  ‘Couple of minutes on foot.’

  ‘No thanks then. I’ll hoof it. It’s a nice night for a stroll under the stars.’

  Marsh was pleased to be walking on even tarmac even if it was pitch black away from the light pollution of the town and firmly in the sticks. It wasn’t raining and the evening air was quite pleasant. Pleasantly pungent, actually.

  She took out her mobile and thought about the call she wanted to make. Romney hadn’t said that they’d be working tomorrow but they might be now. She felt it likely after the pathologist’s comment. Likely enough to call Justin and cancel before it got too late. And if it did turn out that she wasn’t needed the following day then Justin wouldn’t have to know that.

  Joy’s feelings for Justin were deep and strong and genuine. He was the most interesting man she had ever met. He was educated, charming, funny, attentive, sensitive and loving. But Joy didn’t want to be part of someone else’s broken home and broken family, with all the crap that went with it. Joy wanted to be a part of Justin’s life outside of all that. She didn’t want anything to do with his baggage: his spiteful, bitter nutcase of a wife, his damaged manipulative children, his problems and his responsibilities. She just wanted Justin to herself and for herself. Not for the first time, Joy caught herself wishing she’d met Justin before he’d embarked on a family life with someone else. She felt that they could have been approaching perfect for each other. Justin would have been marriage material. But, given the age difference between them, the chances of that ever having been a remote let alone a real possibility made the idea ridiculous. A fantasy.

  She rang him as she walked.

  ‘Joy. How lovely to hear from you.’ Joy could hear the children in the background. They were shrieking at each other. She heard Justin’s muffled voice calling them to order and then he was back to her. ‘All set for tomorrow?’ he said. Joy felt the heaviness in her chest.

  ‘I’m sorry, Justin. I’m not going to be able to make tomorrow. A body had been found and Sunday has been officially cancelled.’

  ‘Oh dear. What a shame. Does God know?’

  ‘If you mean my DI, it was his decree.’ Joy felt terrible lying when Justin was being so reasonable. ‘I am sorry. I was looking forward to it.’ That just made her feel worse.

  ‘Can’t be helped. Work’s work. We’ll miss you.’

  ‘Say hi to the kids for me. Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I will. Take care.’

  ‘You too. Goodnight.’

  Joy ended the call and swore out loud. And then she yelped as something flew within inches of her face.

  *

  Romney wasn’t in his car when she got back. And the radio was off. She found him hanging around outside the container talking with a uniformed sergeant. The remains had been removed, although the putrid stench hadn’t dispersed completely.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d cleared off home.’

  ‘It was a bit further than we thought, sir,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t drive. Some of us have got better things to do than hang around here all night while you go rambling around the countryside. Did you get it?’

  ‘Yes. ‘

  ‘Have you rung him?’

  ‘No. I thought you’d want to. And it’s a her. The caretaker, sorry, site manager, is a woman.’

  ‘Really? Whatever next? Do you know,’ he said, talking to the uniformed sergeant, ‘that there is a woman linesman in the Premier League. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against women officiating in women’s sport, but the day that the “man” in the middle of the Champions League final is a woman I might just take up bowls.’ Turning his thoughts and the conversation back to their here and now, he said, ‘Still, this is a Kentish mining community. We must not forget that. She’s probably more of a man than any of us.’

  ‘My wife’s from around here,’ said the sergeant. In the dimness it was hard to see his expression but his tone of voice did not indicate he was smiling.

  ‘So shall I call her?’ said Joy.

  Romney sounded a little irritable when he said, ‘I’ll do it. Where’s the number?’

  ‘On my phone.’

  ‘Give me your phone then.’

  After several long seconds of keeping them all waiting, Romney said, ‘How do you make a call on this bloody thing?’

  Joy took it from him, pressed the right buttons and handed it back. He put it to his ear and waited.

  Romney said, ‘What’s her name?’

  Joy told him.

  After a couple of rings Romney said, ‘Hello, is that Mrs Chislett?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s that?’

  ‘Are you the caretaker of St Bartholomew’s Primary School?’

  ‘Site manager, you mean. Yes. Who’s that?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Romney of Dover police.’

  Romney was a little startled when the woman said, ‘Pull the other one. It’s got bells on.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘What do you mean, prove it? How can I, over the phone?’

  ‘If you really are the police then you’ll have the password.’

  ‘What password?’

  ‘The password that has been arranged so that I don’t keep getting called out at night on fools’ errands by idiots with nothing better to do than play silly buggers with me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t have the password.’

  ‘Then maybe you ain’t the Old Bill. And if you are, I suggest you get in touch with your station and ask them for the magic word and call me back. Until I hear it I’m not interested.’

  Not having heard both sides of the conversation, Marsh was surprised to hear Romney say, ‘Abracadabra?’

  Just before the woman terminated the call
Romney thought he heard the word dickhead.

  He gave the phone back to Marsh. ‘Call the station and ask them what the magic word is for talking to that woman.’

  ‘The magic word?’

  ‘That’s what she said. She won’t speak to us without it. Just talk to the station and ask them for it. Then ring her back and get the name and number for someone we can talk to about this bloody container. Let’s ruin someone else’s night. Then come and find me. I’ll be in the car listening to the second half of the game.’

  Marsh tapped on his window five minutes later feeling as discouraged as she could remember feeling for a long, long time. If there was a God and He could give her the choice she’d rather spend the next day with Justin and his children at Justin’s mother’s for Sunday lunch, as they’d planned, than give Romney the news she had. Romney tried to lower the window again and when he realised his repeated error the frustration showed on his face. He turned the radio off and got out.

  Marsh tried to sound cheerful. ‘Good game?’

  ‘Don’t say that. You sound like Bruce Forsyth. Yes, it is a good game and I’d rather be watching it on my widescreen plasma television with my feet up, drinking beer, than listening to it in the back of beyond with a crappy reception. Did you talk to her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said she thinks the key is kept at school.’

  ‘Great. Well, that’s that then. No quick culprit to be unmasked.’

  ‘She said we should call at the school on Monday if we want to talk to people.’

  ‘Oh, she did, did she? Two phone calls, a magic word and she’s running the investigation now?’

  ‘She said that the women staff are all on a hen weekend at Butlins in Bognor Regis.’

  ‘Classy. What about the men?’

  ‘There’s only one – the head teacher. He’s off work with something stress-related.’

  Romney made a noise of derision. ‘Well, until we know something more about the victim, I suppose we don’t have much to confront anyone with. And there’s no telling how many keys there might be lying around. Best to have something concrete to go on. Confirmation of gender and an approximate age would be nice.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The magic word.’

  ‘Oh. Chocolate.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound very magical to me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Probably some kind of Black Magic,’ he said, laughing at his pun. ‘Get it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Romney sensed something in his subordinate’s tone. They’d been working together long enough for that understanding. ‘Something else bothering you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Romney waited. ‘Come on then, spit it out.’

  ‘The site manager told me we should ask to speak to the deputy head teacher when we contact the school. She’s in charge, what with the head being on extended sick leave.’

  ‘Makes sense. So what?’

  Joy felt her heart working and the sweat prickle her skin. She was glad it was darkish where they were talking. ‘The deputy is a Miss Carpenter. I asked and she confirmed that the woman’s full name is Julie Carpenter.’

  ‘Oh, fucking hell.’

  Marsh felt for him. She felt for herself, too, because being his sergeant she was going to be exposed to things she would have no desire to be part of. She said, ‘There could be two, I suppose.’

  Romney sighed heavily. ‘Not likely, is it? She must have changed schools. If she’s a deputy now she probably moved for the promotion. Bollocks.’

  Marsh waited for him and when he said nothing more, she said, ‘Sir?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have to say it.’

  ‘I know. Should I pass this on because not so long ago I was in a relationship with someone potentially involved? Well for starters I don’t know enough to have to make that decision. We don’t even know who the victim is let alone who we should be looking for in connection with how he or she ended up in a broken chest freezer in a storage container in a field in Aylesham. Until we do we carry on. Clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Joy.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.’

  ‘Peter will know.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him.’ After a few seconds’ uncomfortable quiet, he said, ‘There’s nothing more for us to do here. Go home.’

  Marsh left him to his miserable thoughts, got in her car and went home to bed. She’d only given him half the bad news. But the other half would keep.

  *

  Julie Carpenter. Shit. Shit. Shit. Just the thought of meeting her again flipped his insides like turning an undercooked omelette in a sticky pan, with something approaching the same result.

  Romney didn’t put the radio back on for the drive home. He’d lost all interest in the football. He opened the two front windows and let the fresh air whoosh through the car as he drove the back roads from Aylesham through Shepherdswell, Lydden, Temple Ewell and finally back to his home in a quiet lane off the Alkham Valley Road.

  Julie Carpenter had been rare and special for Romney, special enough for him to have had a key cut for her so that she could come and go from his country pile as she pleased. He’d never actually given it to her but it had been that close.

  Without warning she’d dumped him for an ex. Romney still smarted from that betrayal, that deceit, that loss, that pain, although he would never confide in another living soul any of that. The front he’d tried hard to put up was one that said ‘easy come, easy go’; it was just another of those relationships that had run its course. He believed he’d fooled everyone but there was never any lying to himself.

  The sight of Zara’s car on the gravel, the hour and the absence of lights on encouraged him to be quiet when he went in.

  He took a bottle of beer out of the fridge, prized off the cap and gulped down a frothy mouthful. Without turning on lights he negotiated his way carefully and quietly through the furniture of the downstairs rooms and out through the French windows off the lounge to sit in the back garden under the stars.

  He shook a cigarette free, lit up and inhaled deeply. Julie Carpenter. Shit.

  ***

  2

  The first lucid thought Romney had on waking next morning involved Julie Carpenter. He groaned loudly – a sound that would carry – winced when he remembered he wasn’t alone, and buried his face in the pillows. With nothing to see to distract his thoughts he was left with internal images of their time together.

  He got up, fished his running gear out of the laundry basket, dressed and went quietly down the creaking stairs. After collecting his trainers from the porch, he let himself out of the house in search of distraction – an early morning run, pounding the narrow country lanes and rural footpaths that criss-crossed his part of the garden of England.

  The fresh morning countryside was something to take pleasure in, to distract him from his doldrums and lift his spirits a few notches. A gauzy low warm sun, the scented air cluttered with birdsong and bugs, a rural idyll that made him glad to be alive. He pushed himself hard until the sweat drenched his clothes, stung his eyes, and his lungs felt like someone had stoked a fire in there.

  When he returned home Zara’s car had gone. He was suddenly sorry he’d missed her. He thought about calling her. He checked his watch. Believing she could have started her shift, he sent a text instead.

  Physically fatigued but mentally invigorated, he called Maurice Wendell before heading for the shower. Maurice said he expected to start the post-mortem late morning. Romney said he’d be there. He phoned Marsh and said if she didn’t have plans she should go, too. To Romney’s surprise, she seemed only too willing to attend.

  *

  At ten o’clock Romney drove into town. The muscles in his legs felt used in a good way. His lungs felt cleaned out. The exercise and the shower had
left him feeling happier.

  Being in no hurry, he took the more circuitous, more scenic route into town so that he might cheer himself up further with a look at the English Channel.

  As he came down Jubilee Way on the A2 the vista of the sea glittered invitingly in front of him. The dark outline of France distorted the liquid horizon – Nature’s spirit level. There were several vessels of varying tonnage, flags and purposes heading right and left and across the water, contributing to the Channel’s reputation as one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world.

  As he approached the security gates that ensured Ladywell police station’s little car park remained a safe haven from the rest of the town his mood darkened. The station car park was somewhere he wished he could avoid these days – not that it had ever featured on his ‘places of interest’ list – which was unfortunate because he had to use it at least twice every shift. It was another depressing reminder of another unfortunate decision that was still raw enough to upset his equilibrium when he had to pass through it and be reminded of what could have been.

  For years, coming and going to and from the station had just been part of his daily routine, something necessary and normal. That was before the station’s National Lottery win – a nationwide newsworthy event of which Romney had not been a part.

  The station’s syndicate, which had been running for some years, had grown to include each and every officer and member of civilian staff from Superintendent Vine at the pinnacle down to the Polish cleaners. All except Romney, who had been consistently pouring his own brand of ridicule on the scheme since the idea had first been floated.

  Dover police station had scooped a big win in the Saturday Lotto draw. Every syndicate member pocketed at least a little over forty thousand pounds. Not enough for anyone to think about giving up the day job but enough to make some changes and some difference in some lives.

  Hence the station car park now often resembled an upmarket car dealer’s forecourt. As well as the shiny new cars one of the lucky winners had splashed out on a BMW GS1200 motorcycle with a full set of BMW touring panniers and several other expensive after-market add-ons. As a fair-weather biker who had secret dreams of one day taking a sabbatical and then going off on two wheels to travel Europe, it was a bike that Romney coveted. But he couldn’t afford one, not with his roof the way it was. He’d put that expense off for too long already.