by Oliver Tidy
‘She’s been beaten about the head with something heavy, solid and with at least one sharp corner,’ said Wendell. ‘Beaten repeatedly. A crime of some passion, perhaps. Of course, I can’t be sure that the blows weren’t received after she was dead. We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem for that. But I can see no other obvious cause of death.’
Romney nodded and averted his eyes. He felt freshly queasy. He walked over to the French windows and satisfied himself that no one had let themselves out that way when the dirty deed had been done. He checked that no one in the room had shut them.
‘Any sign of the room key?’ he asked loudly. There was some head shaking and negative grunts from the paper suits. ‘The only way in and out was through the door and with a key. If it’s here I want to know about it.’
Thinking out loud, Romney said, ‘A crime of passion would suggest her assailant knew her. If she invited the killer into her room that suggests she knew her assailant, or at least didn’t feel threatened by whoever it was.’ To Marsh, he said, ‘Find out where she got the booze from. Did she order it in? Did she bring it with her? Maybe the killer brought it. Ask Mrs Allen if Stephanie drank gin as a rule. Any sign of her handbag?’
An androgynous form held up a plastic evidence bag into which the handbag had been sealed.
‘Purse?’
‘In there. There’s money in it and credit cards.’
‘Not robbery then,’ said Romney.
To Maurice, he said in a quieter voice, ‘Any sign of sexual assault?’
‘Nothing to suggest it, yet.’
Then to Marsh, ‘You go and ask the agent about her drinking habits. I’m going to speak to the manager.’
As they were about to leave, Marsh said, ‘Hang on a minute. She’s wearing shoes.’ The tone of Marsh’s voice encouraged everyone to stop what they were doing and look in her direction.
‘So?’ said Romney.
‘The shoes she was wearing this morning are under that chair. I recognise them.’ She was frowning quizzically at the body now.
‘So she changed her shoes,’ said Romney. ‘What’s so unusual about that? Isn’t that what women do when they get home?’
‘Women swap their heels for something more comfortable or they go barefoot. They don’t swap their new heels for more heels. Look, they’ve still got part of the price sticker on the sole.’
Marsh took a step towards the body. ‘Can we move her hair to one side?’ she said.
Maurice used a gloved hand to gently push the dead woman’s hair off her face.
‘Happy now?’ said Romney.
‘No,’ said Marsh. ‘That’s not Stephanie Lather.’
***
9
‘They’re very alike,’ said Marsh, ‘but that isn’t the woman who was on the stage this morning.’
The room was made quiet and still by this statement.
‘Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent certain that is not Stephanie Lather?’
‘I am certain that is not the woman from the stage this morning and if she was Stephanie Lather then this one isn’t.’
‘Then who the hell is it? And where the fuck is Stephanie Lather?’ shouted Romney. And he felt his headache returning with a vengeance.
In the absence of a next of kin and with only one other person in the hotel with a close connection to Stephanie Lather, Romney sent Marsh along to ask Mrs Allen if she would assist the police with their enquiries. Marsh didn’t thank him for the errand. She could imagine the frightened woman’s response to being asked to take a second look at the body of a dead woman that had already both terrified and repulsed her once. Romney could hear Mrs Allen’s raised protesting voice echoing down the hallway. Sighing heavily and with a face that did little to disguise his growing frustration, he went out into the corridor and walked the few paces to Mrs Allen’s room.
Marsh had not been invited in. She stood on the threshold of the room being berated. Mrs Allen’s noise ceased abruptly when she saw Romney’s stern and determined face loom round the door jamb like something out of The Shining.
‘Problem, Sergeant?’
‘Mrs Allen...’
‘You have no right to ask me to do such a thing,’ interrupted Mrs Allen.
Romney glowered. ‘Mrs Allen. My sergeant believes that the dead woman is not the woman she saw on the stage this morning. Not the woman who you have led us to believe is Stephanie Lather. Doesn’t that interest you? As her agent? As her friend?’
‘Of course it does, but...’
‘If the deceased is not Stephanie Lather then Stephanie could be in trouble and need help.’
‘She might also be guilty of something unspeakable,’ said Mrs Allen.
Romney huffed. ‘All I’m asking you to do is take a quick look at the dead woman’s face. That’s all. Will you do it or not?’
Mrs Allen looked hard from one to the other of them. She inhaled deeply, let it go and said, ‘I don’t want to. But I suppose I must, mustn’t I?’
‘Thank you,’ said Romney and turned and made his way back to room ten. He clearly expected Mrs Allen to follow him.
After sharing a final disagreeable look with Marsh, the woman locked up and went after him.
The atmosphere seemed to have changed when Marsh went back into the room. The air of detached and solemn industry had been replaced by something charged with expectation and intrigue. The SOCO officers had stopped what they were doing and gathered by the window. The body had been turned and Maurice had draped plastic over the bloody stains in an effort to make the spectacle less ghoulish and disturbing.
Mrs Allen stood in the doorway to the room with her hands covering the lower part of her face. She braced herself and after sharing a cold look with Romney looked down at the dead woman. Her eyes widened. ‘That’s not Stephanie,’ she said. She swallowed hard. ‘She looks very like her. She’s dressed very like she was.’ Mrs Allen seemed as shocked and surprised by the revelation as she was confused and relieved to realise her mistake.
Something occurred to Romney. ‘Where’s that handbag?’ he said.
One of the SOCOs moved to where it was and held up the plastic evidence sack.
‘Is that Stephanie’s handbag?’ said Romney.
Mrs Allen seemed glad to have something else to stare at. ‘No. Stephanie has a Louis Vuitton handbag.’
Romney stepped between Mrs Allen and the corpse. ‘Thank you, Mrs Allen. DS Marsh will see you back to your room.’
‘But who is it?’ she said. ‘And where is Stephanie?’
‘Those are two questions that I’m naturally interested in finding out the answers to.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Allen. ‘I’m sorry for her. I’m sorry for telling you it was Stephanie. You believe that I thought she was Stephanie, don’t you? I just saw her and assumed... because of everything... that...’
‘I understand, Mrs Allen,’ said Romney. ‘We made the same mistake. Have you ever seen this woman before?’
Mrs Allen shook her head: ‘Never.’
‘Go back to your room please and wait for us there.’ Mrs Allen turned to leave. ‘Mrs Allen?’ She turned back. ‘Did Stephanie drink?’
Mrs Allen sighed heavily. ‘Stephanie was under a lot of pressure. Most of it she created for herself. She was something of a workaholic. She found that the drink helped to... relax her. Sometimes she could be very relaxed.’
‘What was her drink?’
‘Gin as a rule.’
‘There was a bottle of it in her room. Do you know how it got there?’
‘She probably brought it with her. She usually does.’
In response to Romney’s look, Mrs Allen said, ‘I was her literary agent, not her keeper, Inspector.’
Romney indicated with an upward jerk of his chin that Marsh should see her back to her room. He turned his attention back to the dead woman and said, ‘Let’s have a look in that handbag. Find out who she is.’
The bag was opened and the purse removed b
y one of the forensic people wearing his tight plastic gloves. Romney indicated that the man should look for identification. The man held up a driving licence. The image on the plastic was of the dead woman. She was named as Rachael Sparrow. Her address was a Dover one.
Marsh was back at the doorway. ‘Rachael Sparrow,’ said Romney. ‘Make a note of that address and then see me downstairs. I’m going to speak to the manager.’
Romney marched out without another word. SOCO went back to their tasks. Marsh took out her pen and pad and scribbled down the address from the driving licence. She looked up to see Maurice Wendell at her elbow. Privately, he said, ‘Is he all right? He doesn’t look well.’
Marsh smiled lightly. ‘I don’t know. I asked him the same thing. He says he’s fine, but I’m sure you know as well as I do he’s not big on discussing his feelings.’ Maurice smiled knowingly at her. Marsh made an embarrassed face, ‘I want to apologise for my manner yesterday at Bernie Stark’s place. I was out of order. I let something personal get in the way, make me a bit snappy.’
‘DS Marsh...’ began Wendell.
‘Joy, if you like.’ and the seasoned pathologist inclined his old knowledgeable head, thereby accepting with pleasure her invitation.
‘Joy, no apology necessary. The stresses of the job affect us all from time to time and working with a certain DI can’t be easy.’
They shared a small moment of understanding.
Marsh turned to leave. ‘See you around, Doctor.’
‘That’s Maurice to you, Joy,’ he said with a wink.
Marsh smiled and left them to it.
By the time she got downstairs Romney was deep in conversation with the manager at one side of the foyer. The manager was several shades redder than the last time Marsh had seen him. As she approached she saw his expression morph into something quite disturbing and she guessed that Romney had broken the news about the victim lying upstairs.
‘What CCTV do you have here?’ said Romney.
‘There’s only one camera. It’s over there.’ They followed his pointing to where a small camera looked down on the main desk.
‘That’s it?’ said Romney, not making much effort to hide his disappointment.
The manager nodded. Then he asked when the police would be gone. He meant the dead body and when he could have his hotel free of every hotelier’s worst nightmare.
‘When we’ve finished,’ said Romney. ‘We’ll need to see the tape for today.’
The police, CID and uniform, worked together to make lists of all those known to be present at the time of the incident: hotel staff, hotel guests and those attending the wedding function. Statements were taken, others were postponed. But CID felt strongly that the person they really needed to speak to, the person who probably had all the answers, was no longer there. Stephanie Lather’s description was circulated and the law could do little other than wait until she was sighted and picked up for questioning.
Out in the early evening on the pavement Romney stopped and looked about him as he absently fumbled with his cigarettes. The sun had lost its warmth and the air was closer in temperature and weight to the autumn weather one would expect. A light breeze was blowing in off the water.
Marsh wondered if Romney had come out to look for a lone white female who bore a resemblance to the dead woman upstairs.
There was no evidence of any of the wedding guests now – probably all inside stuffing their faces – but the emergency services were still in evidence. That must have played havoc with the wedding photos, she thought, but imagined some wit would get a laugh out of it when they were shown around. They always did.
In answer to her thoughts, Romney blew out a stream of smoke and said, ‘We don’t even know what she’s wearing, do we?’ He breathed the next draw in deeply. ‘Let’s pay the dead woman’s home a visit. Ruin someone else’s day. You walk here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘My car’s up here. Come on. I hope you didn’t have any plans for tonight.’
***
10
Rachael Sparrow’s address was a terraced property half way up Astley Avenue. Romney had phoned the station and asked for a woman police constable to meet them outside just in case they needed to leave someone there to console grieving relatives.
Dusk was well advanced and the lack of streetlights made finding the place awkward until they spotted the liveried police patrol car parked up waiting.
Neighbours’ curtains twitched as Romney and Marsh approached the front door with the woman PC trailing behind. There was life in the house. Lights were on. A television flickered. And then through the half-drawn curtains two small children ran past the window squealing in fun. It stopped Romney in his tracks. Marsh and the PC stopped with him and waited. He wondered whether he should share something of his thoughts about this part of the job that he hated more than any other, especially when there were children involved. Could he tell them what it did to his spirit and his conscience and his nights to have to deliver news that shattered lives? He guessed they didn’t feel much different and were glad that they had him as a buffer between them and the relatives.
Romney reached out and pushed the bell. A gentle male voice could be heard calling the children to order. Then there was a shadow beyond the frosted glass of the door and it was opened. A man’s face peered out. He looked tired and harassed. And then he looked worried.
‘Mr Sparrow?’ said Romney.
‘Yes.’ The man was staring at Romney’s crudely-bandaged hand, which held his warrant card.
‘Dover police. Does Rachael Sparrow live here?’
‘Yes. She’s my wife.’ And with that Romney had his miserable fears confirmed.
*
The woman PC had organised the children – neither of them older than ten and both wide-eyed with curiosity – in the front room and shut the door.
Mr Sparrow had taken the news as badly as he was entitled to. He’d clutched at the door for support, his hand had come up to his face, his eyes had filled with tears. He’d looked like he might keel over. But he didn’t. He marshalled his strength, stopped short of the abyss and firmly prioritised. He insisted the children went with the nice lady and behaved. And they listened to him.
He led CID into the kitchen at the back of the house and sat down heavily. There was something of the strong, decent and sensitive type about Mr Sparrow. It was something likeable and Romney felt freshly wretched for being the bearer of such crippling news.
‘There’s no doubt?’ said Mr Sparrow.
‘We recovered her driving licence and her face matches. We’ll need you to formally identify her, of course, but there is little doubt in our minds. I’m very sorry.’
‘How did she die?’
‘We’re treating the death as suspicious, Mr Sparrow. That’s as much as I can tell you for now.’
‘Suspicious? You mean it wasn’t an accident. I thought. I assumed. Did someone kill her?’
‘Rachael didn’t die a natural death.’
‘Oh my God. I don’t believe it.’
‘Do you know why she was at the hotel?’ Romney suddenly had a horrible feeling that the man might not have known, that it would be a complete surprise to him because his wife had been keeping secrets from him. Maybe that would ultimately make it all easier in the long run.
‘Yes. She was visiting her sister.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Stephanie Lather. She was giving a talk about her books. Rachael had been invited. They were meeting up afterwards.’
‘She was at the talk?’ said Marsh.
‘No. I made her late. I didn’t mean to. It was work. I work on the railways. I got home late. She would have missed the talk but she went to see Stephanie. But didn’t Stephanie tell you all this?’
‘Ms Lather hasn’t been able to help us yet.’
‘I don’t understand. Rachael’s her sister. She must be able to help.’
‘Stephanie has disappeared, Mr Sparrow. You have
n’t heard from her, I suppose?’
He was quiet for a long moment as he processed the implications of this news. ‘No, I’ve never met her. Rachael hasn’t seen her for years. The invitation came out of the blue. Rachael was so excited.’
Although he was under control, a tear ran down his stubbly cheek. Any minute the long-term implications of the news were going to hit him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer cracking a walnut – his new life as a single parent to two young girls kicking off with a bereavement that would never be far from their thoughts. Romney wanted to be finished with the man and on his way by then.
‘What time did your wife leave for the function?’
‘Late morning. Midday perhaps. Around there.’ And he remembered something. The recollection crumpled his features to resemble something melted in front of a fire. ‘We argued about me being late. She said I’d ruined her day. It was work. You can’t leave a welding job unfinished on the track. She knew that. She always accepted it. But today she was so cross. We never even said goodbye properly.’
The tears and the grief took him then. Pulled him away from them with all the irresistibility of a black hole. And a black hole was where he was headed. Romney could only hope that the children would prove to be the reason that kept him from perishing in it, his lifebelt. He’d need them as much as they’d need him.
Mr Sparrow didn’t want the PC to stay. Romney left his card and told him that someone would be in touch regarding what needed to be done. But he wasn’t sure that the man was listening any more.
Out on the street darkness had fallen completely and it had started to rain – a light, even drizzle. Romney was suddenly exhausted and starving. ‘You want to get something to eat?’ he said to Marsh.
‘I think I just lost my appetite, sir.’
