Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1)

by Oliver Tidy

  *

  When they were back in the car, Marsh said, ‘So 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 vehicle, Marsh took a chance and 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 then.’

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

  Romney exhaled heavily. ‘It’s all guesswork and 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.’

  Romney delivered his last line almost to himself, thought Marsh. As much as she wanted him to be right, she would take a lot more convincing than the musings of his instinct.

  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. Yes, he thought, now he would tile.

  *

  At ten 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 but contented, having just watched the highlights of United’s second consecutive league defeat, and knowing that he’d had a productive afternoon in the shower. Grout it and it would finally be usable.

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

  Somewhere his mobile started trilling. He hauled himself up and went in search of it. Julie Carpenter’s number showed. He stared at it, inexplicably caught in two minds. It was something that he’d wanted desperately, 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, 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 insightfully observed, just need to feel wanted in order that his ego could be inflated, and so that he might be able to go on living his selfish self-centred existence believing that he was desired and in control? 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 would be more than both of our careers are worth. I know it must have looked pretty bad. Really, I 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.’

  ***

  7

  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, eventually.

  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’s surveillance tape.

  However, like many best laid plans, Romney soon found himself having to make adjustments. On his desk was a scribbled note – a telephone message – from the inspector at Ashford whom he had courtesy-called regarding his visit to Claire Stamp’s mother. It asked him to return a call to DI Crow at his earliest convenience. 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?’

  ‘Hit and run. No witnesses. Found lying in a country lane yesterday afternoon out by the Faversham road.’

  Despite extensive experience of shocking news gained through a long career in the force, Romney was stunned. ‘That’s...,’ he didn’t know how to continue.

  ‘Tragic? Awful? I know,’ said Crow.

  ‘I think that I was going to say, too much of a coincidence. I doubt that it was an accident.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went to see her about the death of her daughter in Dover last week. Young woman went off the fourth floor of an apartment building.’

  ‘Heard about it. Suspicious?’

  ‘To me, yes. She was raped the day before.’

  ‘Bloody hell. That family’s not having much luck is it? I see your point about a coincidence. So why was Dover CID over talking to the mother?’

  ‘Girl’s boyfriend is a local villain.’

  ‘Is he implicated in the girl’s death?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But you can’t prove it?’

  ‘Right. Soon after she died, her place was ransacked. We think that whoever it was was looking for something. I think that it was him.’

  ‘And?
’

  ‘I think that he didn’t find it because she’d given whatever it was to her mother.’

  ‘That’s what you were doing over here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did the mother say?’

  ‘That there was nothing.’

  ‘You didn’t believe her?’

  ‘I’m sure she was lying.’

  ‘Why? Why would she lie if she had something that might have been a factor in her daughter’s death? She knew that you were regarding her death as suspicious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she know about your suspicions of the boyfriend’s involvement?’

  ‘I don’t believe that I mentioned him by name. She might easily have made that leap. As to why she’d keep the item, it’s probably valuable. She’s out of work and not well off. She possibly reasoned that with her daughter dead, it was better that someone profited from what she had gone to the trouble of concealing and died for.’

  ‘Pragmatic, but not very nice.’

  ‘Would you let me have a copy of the incident report for the mother’s death?’

  ‘Sure. No problem. I’ll have it faxed over. In light of what you’ve suggested, I’ll have to speak to the boyfriend. What does he do for a crust?’

  ‘He runs the Dover Pool Hall. Simon Avery. You can reach him there. Got an office upstairs. Spends most of his time in there. Mind if I tag along when you see him?’

  ‘Not at all. You would be most welcome. Our masters would like that, bit of inter-station cooperation.’ He chuckled at his little joke.

  Romney sat back with his mind chasing something. He reached for the phone to call DI Crow back, let his hand rest on it for a moment and then withdrew it. He’d take a look at the incident report of Helen Stamp’s death first.

  *

  An hour later, Romney was making notes of the names and addresses of the two men who he had matched from Sammy’s video to file photographs of those arrested at the invasion of The Castle. Spying Marsh in the squad room, he called her in and told her about Stamp’s mother. She was as shocked by the news as he had been.

  Romney gave Marsh the task of rounding up of the two men from the cafe tape for questioning.

  With that in motion, Romney then had to contact one of the officers who had been called to the incident at The Castle from Deal police station. Documentation of the fracas showed that a PC Harker had been responsible for the arrest of Simon Avery and Romney wanted first hand details of that. Harker was not due in until the evening, however. Romney said it would keep and left a message asking that he call when he came on duty. Having been a shift working uniform for some years, Romney understood and appreciated that off-duty, unless exceptional circumstances warranted the intrusion, should mean exactly that.

  A member of the civilian staff brought in the incident report faxed over from Ashford. Settling himself at his desk he went through it. The essential facts were that Helen Stamp had been struck by an unknown vehicle travelling at an undefined speed between the hours of three o’clock and four o’clock on Sunday afternoon. She died from severe head trauma and it was likely that death was instantaneous. There were no witnesses. Her own vehicle was parked in a lay-by some four hundred metres from her body. Initial theories that her own car had broken down and that she was walking for assistance proved unfounded when the car that she had presumably arrived in was found to be in working order. To further scotch this idea, she was found to have a mobile phone with her that was working, and evidence was found in the vehicle that she enjoyed membership of a breakdown organisation. Subsequent checks revealed that she had not made any calls on the mobile for assistance.

  The thought that had nagged Romney earlier resurfaced. He reached for the phone and dialled DI Crow. He thanked him for sending over the report and said, ’Any idea what she was doing out there?’

  ‘None, up until you called. Now I’m wondering if she wasn’t meeting somebody.’

  ‘Me too. I suppose you’ve traced any numbers she had contact with leading up to her death?’

  ‘Done it this morning. Guess what?’

  ‘The phone she called is registered to Simon Avery.’

  ‘Dover Pool Hall, actually. They exchanged a total of four calls over Saturday and Sunday morning. I’m calling on him there this afternoon. I got the distinct impression that he was expecting a call from the police about it.’

  ‘He’s not a complete idiot.’

  ‘I can pick you up, say threeish.’

  ‘Thanks. Look forward to it.’

  Romney checked his watch and then told someone to find DS Marsh for him.

  Five minutes later Marsh was at his door. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘When will those two be downstairs?’

  ‘Within the hour.’

  ‘Good. Let me know as soon as they’re in.’

  Romney called for Grimes, who he had put in charge of overseeing the following up of contacts in Claire Stamp’s phone memory and collecting saliva samples from them. The idea that she had known her attacker well enough for him to have her phone number had been nibbling away intermittently at his thoughts all weekend.

  While he was waiting for Grimes, he called in another DC and set him the task of coming up with a definitive list of ways that someone could get hold of another person’s mobile phone number.

  Grimes reported that there were only two contacts from Stamp’s phone memory whose samples remained unaccounted for. One was on holiday in the Canary Islands and had been since before she was attacked. The other was based in Manchester. He had been contacted and had given assurances that he would attend his local police station to provide a sample that Grimes had arranged would be forwarded down to Dover. It was highly unlikely that the Manchester contact was their man, but as Grimes trotted out, people had travelled further than that to rape. There were always the Danes for examples.

  *

  Forty-five minutes later Marsh reported that both Nigel Holmes and Gary Moor were waiting in the cells below the station. As expected, neither was happy about their situation. Both had been pulled out of work. Both had demanded duty solicitors. Marsh said that she was organising them.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Romney. ‘Let’s let them sweat down there for a while. I’m going to lunch.’

  *

  Romney and Marsh sat across from Gary Moor and his appointed solicitor. Moor was a stocky, shaven headed man. He wore a good quality shirt and tie that was at odds with the mental image Romney had formed of him. He appeared anything but happy about being there. Nigel Holmes and his solicitor were in an adjacent interview room. Neither was aware of the presence of the other.

  The formalities over, Romney began. ‘Well, Gary. You must be wondering what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Of course I am. That’s a stupid question.’

  ‘It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. I need to talk to you about the other night at The Castle.’

  ‘I’ve already made a statement about that.’

  ‘I know, but I’d like to hear about your involvement again.’

  ‘Why?’

  Romney remained patient and affable. ‘It seems that one of the ethnic minority gentlemen injured in the fracas has taken a turn for the worse. He might die, in which case, as I’m sure you can appreciate, charges against whoever was identified as striking that gentleman would need to be altered to, well, we’d probably be looking at downgrading it to manslaughter, given the circumstances.’

  Some colour drained from Moor’s already pasty face reminding Romney, under the glare of the artificial lighting, of a song by Procol Harum. He quickly recovered something of himself, as though something had clunked into place in his Neanderthal brain, and he remembered his original statement – the statement they’d all made. ‘Whatever happened in there was self-defence. Me and the lads were just enjoying a quiet couple of drinks and then they started on us.’

  ‘Yes, I read that in your statement,’ said Romney, looking over some typewritten
documents. ‘Tell me, what can you remember of how a five foot three, nine stone, seventy-three year old man attacked you, a what, six foot something, sixteen stone plus, thirty-four year old?’ The man looked very unsure of himself: anxious, Romney thought, with some satisfaction.

  ‘You don’t need to answer that,’ said his solicitor.

  ‘Of course you don’t Gary,’ said Romney, smiling. ‘Save it for the jury if you like?’

  Moor said, ‘I never hit no old bloke.’

  Romney turned to Marsh. ‘Who is that in number five we just spoke to?’

  ‘Simon Avery, sir,’ lied Marsh.

  ‘Right,’ said Romney, turning back to Moor. ‘Someone is claiming that you did.’

  On cue, a uniformed PC knocked and stuck his head around the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the officer in four says that you should come and listen to something, urgently.’ He said the last word of his sentence looking towards Gary Moor, who projected an aura, as Marsh and Romney excused themselves, of someone who was being left alone in the small room with a lion.

  Romney performed exactly the same routine with Nigel Holmes in interview room four. The effect was less remarkable, but Romney sensed the same underlying anxiety when he left the room. He and Marsh went for a cup of tea and fifteen minutes later returned to Moor.

  When the recording regulations had been observed Romney crossed his arms and leant his elbows on the table. He rocked forwards staring into Moors eyes. The man didn’t like it.

  ‘You’ve been in trouble with the police before, haven’t you, Gary? What was it, aggravated assault? Got a temper have you? What I really want to know is what a seventy-three year old man with advanced arthritis and virtually no English could possibly have said or done to make you so defensive?’

  ‘I told you,’ said Moor, calmer and more collected, ‘I never hit no old bloke.’

  Romney stared at the man for a while and then with a sad resignation stood and said, ‘As you wish, Gary. You’ll have your day in court. For your sake I hope the old boy pulls through. Between you and me though, if he doesn’t, I’m not sure that self-defence will be your best defence.’