by Oliver Tidy
‘Stephanie’s post-mortem showed that she’d died from drowning in the bath after taking a cocktail of alcohol and sleeping pills.’ Mrs Allen nodded her following. ‘But there were no sleeping tablets or tablet containers in the house and Stephanie’s doctor says that she hadn’t seen her in ages for anything, let alone prescribed any for her.’ Mrs Allen was still nodding. And now she was frowning. What she wasn’t doing was playing the part of someone with horrible secrets in front of whose eyes the fabric of her plotting was unravelling like a poorly-knitted home-made Christmas pullover.
‘I think I can help you there, Inspector. Stephanie was aware that I take prescription drugs for insomnia. She told me she hadn’t been sleeping well and she asked if I could let her have just a few until she could make an appointment to see her doctor and get some of her own.’
‘And you obliged?’ Romney sounded only appreciative of the act of kindness from one fellow sufferer to another. ‘Well, that clears that up. Good. Can I ask you to let me have a couple, please, so that our forensic boys and girls can match up what were in Stephanie’s system and tick a box on the form? We just want to tie things up and get on with our other cases. We’re very busy with other things.’
‘Of course.’
She stood and left the room. They heard her going up the stairs, no doubt feeling quite satisfied with the way things were going. Romney and Marsh exchanged a look and such was their experience and understanding of each other after almost a year of working together that words were unnecessary.
Mrs Allen returned to the room and placed the glass bottle with childproof cap on the table in front of them. ‘There you are, Inspector. Please help yourself.’
Romney felt like letting out a contented sigh. He also felt that the fingers of accusation were all starting to point at someone he could touch with a short stick. When he had accepted that ripple of professional satisfaction, he turned his mind to keeping the woman who he now felt could be a double murderess at her ease. No point in scaring her off the path of cooperation.
Romney picked up the bottle, made a meal of trying to get into it, and tipped a couple into his hand. No need to look too serious about it with rubber gloves and evidence bags. That kind of evidence would leave a long and indelible trail.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And you didn’t leave your room again until we turned up on your threshold, I suppose?’
‘Correct.’
‘Sergeant Marsh will write that up quickly.’ Romney stretched, indicating that the important stuff was out of the way and that they could all relax. ‘How did you spend your evening?’
‘I stayed in my room. The hotel was good enough to serve me food and I had plenty to occupy myself, even though I found it extremely and understandably difficult to concentrate. I would have left immediately if you hadn’t insisted I stay on.’
‘But you did leave, Mrs Allen, didn’t you?’ said Romney and his tone was suddenly stern, his gaze sharp and probing.
Perhaps, thought Marsh, who had cottoned on quickly to where Romney’s questions were leading, he was testing or teasing the woman – poking at snakes. For her part, Mrs Allen, almost faltered, almost, it appeared, shut down. But it was fleeting and she recovered quickly to fix a hard-to-define look to her face and said, ‘You’re referring to me leaving without telling you or providing my statement on Sunday morning. I’ve explained, Inspector, I was horribly upset by the death of my beloved Chloe, not to mention the horrors of the previous day. Obviously, I had no intention of shirking my responsibilities. I simply had to get out of there. Under similar circumstances, I’d do the same again.’ It didn’t sound like any sort of apology that either of the police officers had ever heard.
‘Well, we’re here now,’ said Romney. ‘That’s what matters. When Sergeant Marsh has finished writing up your statement you can read through it and sign it and we’ll be on our way. Out of your hair.’
Mrs Allen seemed relieved. She glanced at her watch and said, ‘Now, what about my dog, Inspector? Perhaps you would be good enough to explain her part in all this to me?’
With the way things had gone Romney found he had little choice, if he wished his prime suspect to continue to feel she was getting away with murder, other than to tell the truth about the shih-tzu and to hell with the consequences. He could always back-track later. He assumed an air of sheepishness before saying, ‘You’ll remember that Chloe bit me. You may also remember that when I encountered Chloe she was frothing at the mouth. You said it was soap she’d been chewing on. I didn’t know you well enough to know whether I could believe that. I had a nasty reaction to the bite. Then I spoke to you and learned that Chloe had passed away. I did what I felt to be the right thing for me, Mrs Allen. I arranged for the dog to be exhumed and examined.’
Mrs Allen was staring at Romney with barely disguised disbelief. ‘What on earth did you imagine was wrong with her? Rabies?’ She barked out a harsh mocking laugh and stopped just as abruptly when she saw on Romney’s face that she was right. ‘Oh, my God. That’s just priceless. Rabies. What were you thinking, man? This is modern Britain not some nineteenth century continental backwater. Surely you know we don’t have rabies here any more?’
Romney had to suffer it. ‘One day there’ll be a case of it in the news, you can be as sure of that as anything – and it’s not going to be me. It wasn’t something I was prepared to take a risk with, Mrs Allen. Chloe can be returned to you any time you wish. Incidentally, do you know how Chloe died?’
This was a question that both Romney and Marsh were particularly interested in Mrs Allen’s response to. They knew the dog had died from an overdose of Temazepam. If Mrs Allen had an idea then she might give something of that away. It would all depend on her guilt and how she felt it best to deal with it.
‘Of course I don’t know, Inspector. Not for sure. It’s possible she had a reaction to the soap and it’s just as possible that her time was up. She was not a young dog. I certainly wasn’t interested in commissioning a post-mortem. Dead is dead. Chloe was gone and that was it. Nothing would bring her back.’ And then Mrs Allen almost jumped in her seat before saying, ‘But if you had a post-mortem performed you must know what she died of?’
‘The vet understood it was a failing of her respiratory system. If it’s any consolation, it was also suggested that she’d have died peacefully in her sleep.’
Mrs Allen’s eyes began to swim at the memory and a little colour entered her pale cheeks.
She signed the statement and saw them off the premises without much warmth or ceremony. She had said she would like Chloe returned at the earliest opportunity and that quite probably Inspector Romney could expect to hear more on the matter. She didn’t specify from whom. As they stepped outside, Mrs Allen said, ‘And you can take your disgusting dog-end with you,’ before shutting the door on them. Romney kicked it under the bush at the side of the path.
Romney’s sympathy for Marsh’s loss was short-lived. For the return journey he insisted on driving. Marsh buckled up and had to hope that today was not the day he was going to have a rude awakening over his cavalier attitude behind the wheel.
When they had negotiated the busy residential roads without incident and were bowling down the main highway, Marsh broke the quiet and said, ‘What now, sir?’
Romney reacted as though he had forgotten he had company. ‘It is quite possible that we have just been in the company of one of the nastiest women it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. I would say we’ve been supping with the devil except she didn’t offer us anything to drink. And I’m glad of it. I’d be worried that she’d have poisoned me. Do you think she suspects we’re on to her?’
‘She didn’t give me that impression, sir.’
Romney grinned. ‘Me neither. I think she was a bit preoccupied with taking me for a prat. Least I hope so. Fancy a coffee?’
They came quickly to Bromley and found a coffee house that promised an acceptable standard of beverage, a clean toilet and some outsi
de seating.
When they were settled and Romney was smoking, Marsh said, ‘If she killed one of them she killed both, right?’ Her face betrayed her feelings of doubt for her senior’s direction of thought.
Romney nodded and let a stream of smoke escape his nostrils. ‘I think so. Why? Why did she kill Rachael Sparrow? She had to silence Stephanie Lather and make it look like suicide so that the finger would point there for Rachael Sparrow’s death – we were too quick to accept that version of events. And she had to shut Stephanie up regarding anything to do with the fate that befell her sister, including her innocence of involvement. Let’s get hold of Stephanie’s phone records for the day – her phone would be better. See what text messages she sent and received, who she called. And while you’re about it get Rachael Sparrow’s too. We might get lucky with something damaging.
‘I also don’t doubt that Stephanie scuttled back home as Mrs Allen said, full of self-pity and started drinking. These creative types are a bit predictable. When Mrs Allen rang me late on the Saturday night to tell me she’d heard from Stephanie and that she was worried about her, I assumed she was calling from her Dover hotel room. She could have been calling from anywhere.’
‘Like Stephanie’s home with her already lying dead in the bath?’ Marsh was still sounding dubious but Romney took her continued engagement as encouragement for his idea.
‘Precisely. By the time I could organise anyone to get around to Stephanie’s, get her picked up and brought in for questioning, Mrs Allen would be on her merry, smug way back to Dover. Which reminds me: let’s find out how she arrived at the Dover Marina Hotel. Whether she drove down or took the train. If she drove she’ll have left less of a trail for us to follow. If she let the train take the strain presumably she’ll have had to use it to get up to Stephanie’s home and back. We’ll find someone who remembers her, maybe even get lucky with some CCTV. And someone from the hotel must have seen her either leave or return.’ He drummed his fingers on the table in thought.
‘She learns from Stephanie that she’s returned home and she’s drinking herself into a stupor. She makes a decision. She arranges to get herself there. Worms her way in as a concerned “friend”. Panders to the writer’s ego and melancholy. Shares the drink with her and somehow gets some of her Temazepam into her. With a cocktail of booze and drugs sloshing around in Stephanie’s system she’s soon out for the count. Mrs Allen drags her to the bathroom gets her in the tub and drowns her. Cleans up after herself. Leaves the incriminating evidence. Lets herself out into the night and makes her way back to Dover. My insistence that she stayed on at the hotel for the night gives her a good alibi for her whereabouts. But why did she murder Rachael Sparrow? What happened between them for her to resort to such extremes?’
‘Rachael arrived late at the hotel,’ said Marsh beginning to warm to the theory and Romney’s enthusiasm for it. ‘Stephanie had already left. Rachael was probably stressed and agitated, possibly angry and frustrated at missing the big event, especially with all its implications for the sisters’ reunion. Maybe Mrs Allen heard or saw her banging on Stephanie’s hotel door. She wouldn’t have been in the best of moods either. In fact, after seeing her on the stage and the way she projected her displeasure at the audience on Saturday morning, I could believe she’s got quite a temper on her.’
Romney interrupted her, ‘But what specifically would have prompted her to smash her brains in?’
‘I haven’t finished,’ said Marsh. ‘You remember the exchange of emails between the sisters where they joke about Mrs Allen’s clumsy attempts to seduce Stephanie? What if Rachael brought that up? What if Mrs Allen took exception to it?’
‘What? I know you tried to get into my sister’s knickers, you scheming old dyke. Leave her alone.’
‘Maybe. Maybe Mrs Allen was aware of the sister’s history. Maybe Mrs Allen was aware of the planned reunion. Maybe Mrs Allen said something about Rachael’s affections for Stephanie’s ex-husband that she took exception to. With the general and probable levels of frustration they were possibly both on the edge of reason.’
‘It’s a lot of maybes, possiblies and what-ifs,’ said Romney, stubbing out his cigarette. And then he smiled, ‘But that’s a detective’s lot most of the time. Trouble with this job is people are generally such lying, dishonest, conniving gits. Probably something to do with wanting to avoid prosecution and jail time. Can’t blame them, I suppose.
‘Still, like I’ve said before, ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to catch the buggers. We just have to prove it. When the game’s up more often than not they’ll move from vehement denial of any wrong-doing to providing chapter and verse of their criminal actions as they throw themselves on the mercy of the plea-bargainers. And I have high hopes that Mrs Allen is not as clever as she thinks she is. It’s not easy to think of everything when you go on a killing spree on impulse. There’s always going to be something that leads back to your door.
‘First thing we’re going to do when we get back is get SOCO into Mrs Allen’s room at the hotel. I believe her that the dog never left it. So Rachael must have been in there to get covered in all that dog hair. Maybe that’s where the dirty deed was done.’
‘And Mrs Allen dragged Rachael’s corpse along to Stephanie’s room to implicate her?’ Marsh sounded freshly doubtful. ‘What if she’d been spotted?’
‘What if she just wasn’t? It was only up the hall and there aren’t many rooms that side of the hotel, if I remember rightly. If she had killed her in her room it was probably worth the risk.’
‘If that’s the way it was then Mrs Allen must have known that Stephanie had already left. And Stephanie must have left her room unlocked for Mrs Allen to be able to walk straight in.’ Romney nodded agreement. ‘Do you think she knows how the dog died?’ said Marsh.
‘Maybe, but without a post-mortem she can’t be sure.’
‘It might be worth finding out what quantity of Temazepam the dog ingested. So we would know whether it received a measured dose. What if she gave it just a couple of pills so it would sleep?’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘When we first spoke to her, didn’t she say something about the dog not making a fuss so long as it wasn’t left alone for long? What if she planned to leave it alone for several hours while she went to murder Stephanie Lather because she had already killed her sister and needed someone to be blamed for it. It’s not just dead men who tell no tales or can’t protest their innocence. Dead women find it hard to communicate from beyond the grave too.’
‘We need to find a motive for why she would have killed Rachael Sparrow.’
‘No we don’t, sir. Like you said, we just have to prove that she killed Stephanie Lather and then she’ll tell us.’
‘I like your confidence, Sergeant. So, she gave the dog a hopeful dosage and ended up killing it. It’s possible. It’s also possible we’re letting our imaginations run away with us, you know.’
Marsh smiled. ‘True. But we’ve got to start somewhere and I agree with you that there is something very wrong here.’
‘You could be right about her dosing up the dog for a moonlight flit – and if she hadn’t we’d never have been any the wiser. Yet another curious incident of the dog in the night-time. ’
‘Pardon.’
‘Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Perhaps it could be argued that if you hadn’t been convinced the dog had infected you with rabies we’d never have taken such an interest.’
Romney allowed it because her mum had died. ‘How do you find Boudicca?’
Marsh was caught off guard with that. ‘She strikes me as professional and ambitious.’
‘And ruthless?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. But she seems to be keen to make an impression. Would you mind if I spoke out of turn?’
‘Are you going to offer me some good advice?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I seem to remember you did that once before.’
‘And was I wrong?’ Romney became enigmatic. It didn’t suit him. ‘I don’t think she is very happy with CID.’
‘Understatement of the year.’
‘And I think she’s looking for someone to blame for how CID is perceived.’
Romney smiled. ‘Are you saying you think my neck’s on the block?’
Marsh looked suddenly unhappy and serious. ‘She more or less asked me to be spy for her in CID. To be her eyes and ears. She let me know she could help me on my career path if I played her game. That’s not the way I want to advance.’
Romney’s smile had gone. ‘I appreciate your saying so, Joy. But I’d have to be blind and deaf not to have noticed her sharpening up her knives.’ Romney drained his coffee and said, ‘Ready?’
***
21
Romney brought them down the Jubilee Way bypass into Dover and along the A20. Instead of going as far as the roundabout to get back into town he veered sharply on to Marine Parade and the seafront just before the Premier Inn without indicating or warning to his passenger or other road users. Marsh caught an angry horn blast close behind them.
Pulling up outside the hotel, Romney said, ‘Put that statement somewhere safe, won’t you?’
The manager of the Dover Marina Hotel looked anything but pleased to see the familiar faces of Dover CID back cluttering up his lobby. He invited them through to his office.
‘We have some developments in the murder enquiry, Mr Unwin. I’m afraid we’re going to have to inconvenience you a little further. If you have anyone staying in room eleven, you’ll have to move them.’
‘Room eleven? Ms Lather was staying in room ten.’
‘I know,’ said Romney. ‘It’s possible things might not be as straightforward as they first seemed.’ The manager looked freshly miserable. ‘We’ll need to speak to whoever was working here on Saturday again.’
‘Surely you don’t suspect an employee of the hotel to be involved in what happened?’ said Mr Unwin, looking as though nothing would upset him more.
