by Oliver Tidy
‘Been in yet?’
‘No, ma’am. We’ve just arrived.’
‘Really? Come on then. I’ve got better things to do than stand around chatting.’
‘We were discussing whether DS Marsh should be present, ma’am,’ said Romney to score a point.
Vine’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’ She looked hard from one to the other.
‘She was here this morning for the function, ma’am.’
‘What function?’
‘Something about chocolate literature,’ answered Romney before Marsh could open her mouth.
Marsh looked crossly at him. Vine looked disappointedly at Marsh, like a teacher might having caught a star pupil reading Manga when she should have been studying Shakespeare.
‘Where is DC Grimes?’ said Vine.
‘He’s got personal problems at home, ma’am,’ said Romney, not very helpfully but with a strong tone of finality. Romney was not in a hurry to see Grimes again. And when he did next set eyes on him he didn’t want it to be in company. He needed a quiet chat first.
Marsh could see that Vine had misunderstood Romney’s ambiguous remark.
‘Oh. What about the other one? What’s his name?’
‘DC Harmer, ma’am,’ said Romney. ‘Lincoln. Christening. Not his, a godchild.’
Superintendent Vine frowned. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got and then make a decision on that.’
As Vine went ahead of them into the building, Romney looked at Marsh and said, ‘Joy?’
‘It is my name, sir.’
Romney rolled his eyes and tutted.
The artificial cool of the air-conditioned foyer of the Dover Marina Hotel was a welcome relief from the sudden unseasonal warmth outside. In spite of the lighting, no doubt calculated in some interior designer’s mind to create an intimate atmosphere, the space had a gloomy feel. There was lots of dark wood. Swathes of expensive-looking dark-patterned fabric obscured most of the windows and kept out the natural light. Either someone had a thing for heavily-embossed gaudy wallpaper or B&Q had had a special offer on. A big display of flowers in full bloom conspired with several stations of large and rampant greenery to provide the heavy smell and over-arching feeling that one might associate with a posh florist’s. A few uncomfortable chairs were dotted about and a couple were being obstinately occupied. The place seemed to be hinting at boutiquey and Romney really tried not to hold it against it. The staff looked friendly enough and smart. It was his first time there and all in all it wasn’t so unpleasant.
The manager was summoned. He was looking hot and harassed. The bride and groom were standing off to one side with people who looked like close relatives and best friends. No one looked particularly happy. Give them a couple of years, thought Romney; then they’d know disappointment. A photographer’s flash exploded and someone told him to leave it for a few minutes. He moved away and pretended to be studying his camera.
Superintendent Vine was ahead of CID and Romney didn’t like it. This was his patch. His job. His body. His case. But there would be no profit in making a fuss. Bite his tongue and bide his time. Wait until Vine had impressed everyone with her presence, her commitment and her pips and buggered off back to the station to count her paper clips and then write a report about the experience.
The manager led them through the hotel’s corridors and up a flight of stairs to one of the superior rooms that overlooked the sea. He stopped at the closed door outside which stood an erect young policeman.
‘Do you need me here?’ said the manager. He radiated a strong aura that indicated he hoped they wouldn’t.
Romney opened his mouth to speak.
Superintendent Vine cut across him. ‘Who found the body?’
‘The lady’s friend, a Mrs Allen, raised the alarm when she couldn’t get an answer to her knocking. She called down to reception and, given the status of our guest, I myself came and opened the door.’
‘The door was locked?’ said Romney.
‘Yes.’
‘From the inside?’
‘I think so. But I can’t be sure. I didn’t look for the key. When we understood the situation we left the room immediately.’
‘Who went into the room?’
‘Only Mrs Allen and myself.’
‘You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Positive. I re-locked the door, left one of our boys here and called the police.’
‘Can they be locked without a key? Is there a mechanism for locking them from the inside?’
‘No. A key is the only way.’
‘Is there any way in or out of the room other than this door?’
‘Only the French windows that open out onto the balcony. But the drop is significant and perilous and would be impossible in broad daylight without being seen.’
‘Where is Mrs Allen now?’
‘In her room.’ He gestured down the hall. ‘Number eleven.’
‘Right. Thank you. You’ll be around for a while?’
‘Oh yes. You may have seen we have the wedding function downstairs. They haven’t eaten yet. I hope their appetites have not been affected by... events. It will be a late night.’
‘About what time was the body discovered?’
‘A little after three.’
They thanked him and he hurried away to his responsibilities with an evident relief.
‘Right, Inspector Romney,’ said Vine. ‘I’ll leave CID to do your job.’ That was good news. ‘I am contactable at all hours of the day and night. Don’t hesitate to do so if you need me. Clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Romney barely concealing his relief that she was leaving them. At least she understood she had no place in the middle of an investigation. She’d done her bit, just like old Bob Falkner. Shown her face. Put the wind up the troops. Looked important. Now she could scuttle off back to her weekend. She hadn’t mentioned anything about Marsh’s continued presence so neither did Romney. He needed her there.
They discovered that Maurice Wendell was attending but would be delayed. SOCO had not yet arrived either. It was Saturday, after all. Romney decided to postpone their viewing of the deceased until the pathologist and the paper suits had secured any evidence there was to be found. In the meantime they had a visit to make.
Romney tapped lightly on the door of number eleven and waited.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dover police, Mrs Allen.’
‘Hold your warrant cards up to the spy hole.’
They did and a key was turned in the lock and the door was cracked open.
‘I can’t see through that. Show me again.’
Romney held up his identification for her to study and she opened the door wide to admit them. Romney made the introductions.
Mrs Allen was tall and elegant and well dressed. She was a woman whose face betrayed her fear.
‘I’m very pleased to see the police,’ she said. ‘Have you seen poor Stephanie?’
‘No, Mrs Allen. We’re waiting for the forensic team to secure any evidence. You have, I understand.’
‘Yes. I have. And when you do you might understand why I’m so bloody nervous. Do you know how she died?’
‘No. Like I said...’
‘I heard what you said, Inspector. I can tell you how she died. She’s been bludgeoned to death. The blood. Oh, good Christ, the blood. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she repeated. She sat and put her face in her hands.
Romney looked at Marsh. Several thoughts clamoured for his attention but none was stronger than the anxiety that reared up in his stomach at the prospect of having to stare at a battered corpse. Not with the way his stomach felt.
‘You were with the manager when he went in?’ said Romney.
‘Yes. It was me that called him. Stephanie and I were supposed to be going out for a walk. She didn’t answer my phone calls and I couldn’t get an answer at the door.
‘What’s your relationship with the deceased?’<
br />
‘I’m her agent.’
‘I understand that you’ve had a great shock, but is there anything you can tell us that might help our enquiries?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What were her movements today? My sergeant was at the talk she gave this morning.’
The woman flicked her gaze up at them. Something unpleasant smouldered in her eyes. ‘You were here?’
‘Yes,’ said Marsh.
‘In the audience?’
‘Yes. I’m a big fan of the JR Lleroy novels.’
‘Why didn’t you do something about those horrible women then?’
‘What horrible women?’ said Romney.
‘Those three bitches who ruined Stephanie’s big day.’
Romney looked at Marsh. ‘What happened?’
Marsh held up a finger to him. ‘Mrs Allen, they didn’t do anything illegal. I was as surprised as everyone else by what happened.’
‘Bitches,’ repeated Mrs Allen. ‘Jealous, trouble-making bitches.’
Marsh turned to Romney and said, ‘When Stephanie Lather began her talk this morning, three women in the crowd heckled her. They made some accusations. Stephanie took exception to their remarks and left the stage. She didn’t come back.’
‘What did they accuse her of?’
‘Sock-puppetry.’
Romney stared blankly back at his sergeant. ‘You’ll have to explain that. I know what a sock-puppet is but I don’t understand its place here.’
‘Must you talk about it now?’ said Mrs Allen.
There was a knock at the door. Marsh looked out to be told that Maurice Wendell had arrived and was about to view the body.
Before they left, Romney said, ‘I will need to speak with you again, Mrs Allen. You’ll be here?’
‘Don’t worry about that, Inspector. I’m not setting foot outside this room. But please don’t take too long about it. I don’t want to spend a minute longer here than I absolutely have to.’ The police turned to go. ‘Could I be in danger?’
‘Until we know what this is all about, Mrs Allen, I couldn’t say,’ said Romney. ‘There’s a constable in the corridor. I’ll tell him to keep an eye on your door. Try not to worry.’
‘Easy for you to say, Inspector.’
‘By the way, when did you last see, was it Miss or Mrs Lather? Is that her real name?’
‘She preferred Ms. Lather. It’s the maiden name she went back to. Downstairs. She came to her room straight after the debacle in the conference room. I knocked on her door. She told me she just wanted to be left alone for a while. I got her to agree to meet me later for a walk on the seafront and something to eat. I came back to my own room and did some work. When I knocked on her door later there was no answer and that’s when I got the manager to open up.’
Everyone’s attention was suddenly taken by scraping and whining at the bathroom door. Romney looked at Mrs Allen for an explanation.
‘It’s my dog,’ said Mrs Allen, clearly uncomfortable with the admission.
‘I’m surprised they let you have one in your room here.’ said Romney.
‘She’s a shih-tzu. She’s tiny. No trouble,’ said Mrs Allen, and it seemed likely the hotel didn’t know. She strode over to the bathroom door and let the creature out. It ran up to Romney and started sniffing around the cuffs of his trousers. ‘I had nowhere to leave her. She’s not been well and it’s only for one night. She’s no trouble so long I don’t leave her for too long to get bored. She seems to like you, Inspector.’
‘Why is it foaming at the mouth?’ said Romney.
‘She’s fond of chewing bars of soap.’
Romney was reminded of the last time he’d encountered a toy dog. It had been at the West’s just after Mrs had killed Mr, although Romney would never have been able to prove it even if the woman hadn’t met her own sticky end shortly afterwards. He’d been in a foul mood – not a good one for a yapping little rat on a rope with a ribbon in its fur. He’d kicked it into the bushes. The guilty memory surfaced and as a man who generally felt more sympathy for dumb animals than he did for his fellow man he felt the urge to make amends with the universe. He knelt and offered his hand to the dog, which promptly bit him and scurried back to the bathroom. The universe, it seemed, had not forgotten either.
Back in the corridor, still cursing and grimacing with a damp hotel flannel wrapped around his hand, Romney halted their progress back to Stephanie’s room. As they heard the key turn in Mrs Allen’s lock behind them, he said, ‘We’ll give them a minute. What’s all this sock-puppetry stuff? Could it have anything to do with her death?’
Marsh blew out her cheeks. ‘They made some pretty damning accusations. It got a bit heated.’
‘Do we know who they are?’
‘They identified themselves. I didn’t write their names down but they shouldn’t be hard to find. They weren’t trying to be anonymous; quite the opposite. Mrs Allen seemed to know them. And they claimed to have provided details on a website where they said evidence of their claims could be found. I doubt that anyone who was going to murder her would have been so open about their presence, their identities or their issues with her.’
‘Don’t count on it. Tell me about sock-puppetry. It just means old socks with buttons for eyes and needlework features to me.’
‘That’s where the term and the allusion originate from. Some high-profile authors have been accused of creating fake online identities and using them to generate interest about their own books on websites and forums. Like puppets. Hence sock-puppets.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a reason to kill someone. Mind you, you see that pensioner who died in a punch-up over a supermarket parking space? Nothing should surprise me any more but things still do.’
‘Online sock-puppet accounts have also been employed by some unscrupulous writers to post negative feedback and critical reviews of books that can damage an author’s reputation and standing. One or two authors have recently been exposed as having taken it further and carried out sustained and targeted campaigns against competition in their genre. They can be quite spiteful and malicious. It’s basically cyber-bullying. It’s a very contentious issue among the writing community.
‘If you’re good at it, you can effectively create a massive buzz, a lot of hype, about a book that could convert into sales and then best-seller status. It can also be used as a weapon to ruin online ratings, reputations and sales figures of an author.’
Romney looked unimpressed and said, ‘So?’
‘So, things have changed a lot in the last few years, sir. Ebooks are big business.
‘Ebooks?’
‘E for electronic. Books that can be electronically downloaded via the Internet to be read on an ereader.’
‘Ereader? Don’t tell me – you have an ereader, right?’
‘Of course. I’m surprised you don’t know about it being a book lover.’
‘That’s why – I’m a book lover. If I want a book I go into a shop and buy one. This technology leaves me cold. How can an ereader stimulate your senses in the way a book can? You can’t smell an ereader. You can’t admire the artwork of the dust-jacket on a shelf. You can’t hold the book and feel the pages. Books should be a multi-sensory pleasure not a narrow, soulless technological experience.’
‘It’s progress, sir. You can’t stop it. And it’s brought a lot of self-publishers, like Stephanie Lather, a lot of fame and fortune.’
‘Self-publisher?’ Romney was unable to hide his disappointment. ‘You mean vanity publishing? Is that what this Lather was into? Oh, blimey, I thought you meant she was a real author. With real books.’
‘She did have books, sir – ebooks. And because of her ebook success she landed a traditional publishing deal. Real books, as you call them. It’s the way books are going. Four years ago ebook sales accounted for just two percent of the British book market. Last year that figure was up to thirteen percent. There’s no putting the tide back in the bottle.’
�
�You’re mixing your metaphors, Sergeant. Probably the influence of all that unregulated guff you’ve been reading. How come you know so much about it?’
‘I’ve read a couple of online articles. I participate in online book forums and discussion groups.’
Romney looked at her with something Marsh recognised as akin to pity. ‘Chat rooms? What time did the talk end?’
‘It never really began. They shouted her down before she got going. It must have been about eleven.’
‘And the body wasn’t discovered till after three. Over four hours.’
Romney sighed deeply and turned to walk to the open door of Stephanie Lather’s room. Maurice Wendell was fiddling with the bag he’d been attending sudden death scenes with for over twenty years. Romney idly considered the stories that could tell. SOCO were in their element – collecting, photographing, dusting. He wondered what the insides of their houses looked like.
The room was hot and stuffy where the firmly-closed windows had been fully exposed to the sun as it had traversed its arc for the day. A faint whiff of perfume mixed with the smell of the hotel and something unpleasant.
The pathologist looked up to see the police hovering in the doorway. ‘There you are, Tom. Hello, DS Marsh. How are you both this fine Saturday? Shoe covers are by the door.’
He pointed to a small open box of the, crinkly, blue disposable shoe coverings. The police struggled into them wondering as they always did why someone hadn’t come up with something easier to put on.
‘What’ve you done to your hand?’
‘Made the mistake of trusting a dog owner’s word that her animal was friendly.’
‘Oh dear. Big, was it?’
‘Size doesn’t always matter, Maurice. Even a little one can give a nasty nip.’
Maurice caught Marsh’s barely-suppressed enjoyment of her senior’s brush with the dark side of the animal kingdom and left it.
Romney and Marsh positioned themselves for a closer look at the deceased. It was not a pretty sight. The woman was still wearing the smart business suit she’d been wearing when she’d taken centre stage only a few hours before. She was lying on her front on the floor with the back of her head smashed in. The back of her jacket was horribly stained with blood. Her long dark hair, matted with blood and gore, had fallen to cover her face. The closer they got to the body the stronger the smell of alcohol. There was a bottle of gin lying on its side next to her. What was left of its contents had spilled out to soak and darken the neutral-coloured carpet.
