Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Romney. ‘But in the petrol station he would have been aware that anyone could turn up and spoil his fun. It was his first one, as well. Maybe he’s refining his methods, giving himself more of an opportunity to live out his fantasies to the fullest. He’s taken a hell of a risk this time.’

  ‘Perhaps his confidence is growing,’ said Marsh.

  ‘I’m sure it will be.’

  ‘He’ll strike again, won’t he?’

  ‘You can bet your pension on it. Get a list together of all the contacts in Claire Stamp’s phone book. Every man whose name had cropped up in the investigation. Give Jane Goddard the rest of today, then go and see her with the list. See if she recognises any of them. I’m not sure he’ll be that stupid, but after the risk he took with his fun and games, he might.’

  *

  Last thing that evening, Romney received a visitor from forensics. Marsh found the woman wandering around the CID squad room. She tapped on Romney’s door and entered. ‘Diane Hodge from forensics would like to see you, sir, if you’ve got a minute. She seems rather perturbed about something, not her usual bubbly self.’

  Romney held his sergeant’s gaze for a few moments trying to work out what she was getting at. ‘All right, show her in. You can come in, too.’

  Miss Hodge’s face fairly lit up, noticed Marsh, as she set eyes on Romney, quashing any doubts regarding her woman’s intuition where Hodge’s feelings for her boss were concerned. She briefly wondered whether she should mention the woman’s obvious crush to the DI, as he was apparently oblivious to her adoring looks, but scotched the idea just as quickly. It was none of her business.

  ‘Miss Hodge, Diane,’ said Romney. ‘What can I do for you?’

  She smiled at Romney’s welcome and then her features adopted a troubled look. ‘I’ve brought up the results of the samples you asked me to take from Mr Logi. I did it myself this afternoon. I know that it’s an urgent matter.’

  ‘Well, thanks very much,’ said Romney. He extended his hand to take the file, but she kept it clutched to her chest.

  She said, ‘It’s not as straightforward as I thought it was going to be after our phone conversation about Mr Logi.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Romney. ‘We interviewed the second victim a little while ago. She thinks that the attacker might have left traces of himself on her after all. I should have phoned you. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said. ‘I would have done a thorough check anyway on anything that was recovered. No, it’s not that exactly. I’ve brought the file up myself, actually, because I thought it might need a little explaining.’

  ‘I see. Take a seat.’ She perched on the vacant seat opposite him. Romney exchanged a quick look with Marsh but got nothing out of it. ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Bear with me would you?’ Romney nodded. ‘We collected one sample from the petrol station: the saliva sample you suggested we look for on the top of the condom packet. Let’s call that Sample A. From the second victim we actually collected two samples. Let’s call those B and C. Sample B matched the sample that Mr Logi provided for us. If the second victim has not had sexual relations with anyone else then Sample C must be that of the rapist. And therefore must match Sample A.’ Romney saw it coming, but it didn’t make any difference. ‘Samples A and C do not match.’

  A quiet hung in the air while this information was digested by the officers.

  ‘What possible reasons could there be for that?’ said Romney.

  ‘There is no mistake in the lab work,’ said Hodge. ‘I took the samples myself and did every test personally. When I saw this,’ she waved the file that she still held on to, ‘I double-checked everything.’

  ‘Jane Goddard could have had sex with her husband recently or someone else,’ said Marsh.

  Hodge said, ‘That’s one of the possibilities. Another one is that the top of the condom packet we recovered from the garage was nothing to do with the rape there. And there is, of course, one more possibility.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Romney.

  ‘That the man who raped Jane Goddard is not the same man who raped Claire Stamp.’

  ***

  10

  ‘It has to be the same man,’ said Romney. ‘It’s bordering on impossible for there to be two rapists operating with the same extraordinary MO, the same props and within a few days and a few miles of each other.

  ‘I agree,’ said Superintendent Falkner. ‘So that must mean that, if there is no doubt about the reliability of the samples taken, either this Goddard woman was shagging someone else or that the sample from the garage isn’t from the rapist.’

  ‘DS Marsh is going to see her this morning. That’s one of the things on her list to find out.’

  ‘Keep me informed. How’s everything else?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You look tired, Tom. Burning the candle at both ends?’ Romney fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘Little bird told me you’ve got yourself a pretty young filly. None of my business of course, but I wouldn’t want your private life getting in the way of business. Not when business is how it is. Make myself clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir.’ Romney knew his super well enough to know that he was a straight talking man – that the comment was not intended to be taken as anything other than the good advice of a senior officer protective of his staff and his station’s reputation. He was doing his job. Romney didn’t resent him for it.

  ‘Good,’ said Falkner. ‘How do you find old Crow?’

  ‘I like him. I respect his methods and his thinking.’

  ‘He’s a good copper. Old school. I used to work with him, you know? Long time ago.’ Falkner’s memories scudded across his features. ‘I trust you on this, Tom, but if you need a second opinion, don’t be proud. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Walking back to his office, Romney reflected that that was the second time in forty-eight hours Falkner had expressed his support for him. He found it disconcerting.

  The superintendent was right about one thing: he was tired. The previous evening – wining, dining and making love to Julie Carpenter – had seen him fall into his own bed after two in the morning. The late nights and early mornings were bound to take its toll on him. He didn’t realise that it was showing. But even so, even with the high profile aspect of the case that he was leading, it was worth every minute for him in her company. She had rekindled some long dormant emotion within him that was now consuming him with the intensity of his feelings. His ego was in something of its zenith.

  Romney kept these feelings from the new woman in his life. He didn’t want to go frightening her off. Despite the time and intimate nature of much of it they were spending together, he was unsure of exactly how she viewed their relationship. He didn’t even know if she would consider it a relationship or simply a casual dalliance. Until the day that things became clearer he would enjoy it for whatever it was and, if the opportunity should present itself for some sort of permanency to be announced, he would certainly consider it.

  Partly because he didn’t want to – couldn’t – believe that the shred of evidence taken from the garage back room floor wasn’t pertinent to the rape case, Romney had held off from exploring other possibilities for how it came to be there on that night. It was, at the moment, the only evidence the police had that would convict a suspect. If it weren’t evidence at all, they would have nothing. With all the demoralisation that went with it, they would have less than nothing. He hoped that Marsh would discover that Goddard would have another explanation for the second sample of body fluid lifted from her.

  *

  Marsh returned from her meeting with Jane Goddard late morning. Romney could read from her face that he shouldn’t expect good news.

  ‘There was no one on the list of contacts for Claire Stamp that meant anything to her,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not such a surprise. And the other matter?’

  �
�She was adamant that there was no one else who it could have been – not even her husband.’

  ‘You made her understand the importance and confidence of her honesty?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She understood. I’m sure that she was telling me the truth.’

  Romney scowled. ‘Shit. Well that screws up what we already had or thought we had.’

  ‘It does and it doesn’t, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, all we had before was a sample of the rapist’s body fluid. We’ve still got that. It’s just a different sample.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. But then I want to know how the top of that condom packet came to be lying around on the floor near a rape scene. It’s too much of a coincidence. I don’t like coincidences, Sergeant. Start by organising the taking of samples from everyone who works there. Claire Stamp’s DNA will need eliminating too.’

  *

  That afternoon was the scheduled funeral of Claire Stamp. Superintendent Falkner had suggested to Romney that it would be good public relations for the force to be represented. With Marsh involved in rounding up the petrol station employees for the taking of samples, he decided that he would take the responsibility alone.

  Claire Stamp was to be buried at the town’s overflow cemetery behind Connaught Park. As Romney made his way there, he wondered what sort of a turnout there would be. With her mother dead and a sister that lived counties away, he could cut a lonely figure. One person he didn’t expect to see there was Avery.

  A cold winter’s drizzle was falling as he pulled into the car park of the municipal burial ground. Apart from the hearse there were two other vehicles. He spied a small group of mourners huddled around an excavation across the field of the dead. From his distance and in their black regalia they put him in mind of a cluster of crows gathered around carrion. With a heavy sigh, he stepped out of the warmth of his vehicle into the chilly dismal afternoon. Thankfully, he’d remembered an umbrella and, protected from the wet at least, he picked his way across the soggy paths of turf that separated the varied and various memorials to the dead.

  Unsurprisingly, Romney found funerals the most depressing of society’s rituals, even those that he had attended on glorious summer days when the deceased had enjoyed a good innings or where death had been a blessing that had ended great suffering in life.

  Trudging across the sodden earth he tried to make out the identities of the mourners. Avery was the first to come into focus. Paradoxically, his diminutive figure made him stand out. Believing as he did that this man had probably had two hands in the death of Claire Stamp, Romney found his attendance repugnant. Was his presence an attack of remorse, or guilt, or was he simply there to see her off?

  There were only two other people, apart from the vicar, at the graveside who were clearly not part of the undertaker’s staff. One was a woman who, when Romney came close enough to make out her facial features, bore a resemblance to the deceased and Romney found himself believing he must be looking at Claire Stamp’s sister. She took Romney in with a long cold look before returning her attention to the casket and the words of the man of the cloth who stood ministering over the proceedings and getting a good soaking into the bargain.

  The third figure who stood, head bowed, had his back to Romney. He too had no umbrella. As he stood taking his drenching, Romney found himself realising that there was something familiar in the way he held himself, or rather, slouched.

  When the minister had finished and the coffin had been lowered down into the hole in the ground those who were there in a professional capacity went about their business, while the three that represented the life that the corpse had left behind paid their independent last respects and without speaking to one another began to make their lonely ways back towards the exit.

  Avery treated Romney to a challenging glare as he departed, daring him to say something. Romney was surprised to see the third figure, who had had his back to him, was Carl Park. The youth seemed equally shocked to turn and find Romney staring at him. He no longer wore the bandaging around his head. He’d made an obvious effort with his clothing not to disgrace the occasion.

  As the lad came within earshot, Romney said hello. Park nodded and mumbled something incoherent.

  Romney tried a smile. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘She was all right,’ said Park. ‘I feel bad about what happened to her.’

  Romney had some sympathy for the youth. ‘Need a lift back into town?’

  Park shook his head briefly and raindrops flew in all directions from his long unkempt hair. ‘No, thanks,’ he said and walked off.

  Romney turned back to find the woman – the sole mourner left – almost in front of him. She wore what Romney would later remember as an aggressive expression.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’ For a moment Romney wondered if perhaps she was talking to someone who had crept up behind him. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ she said, in response to his glance over his shoulder.

  ‘If you’re talking to me, I’m Detective Inspector Romney of Dover CID. Do you mind telling me who you are?’

  The woman’s shoulders dropped two inches. ‘Sorry. I thought you were that creep my sister was knocking about with.’

  ‘Simon Avery, do you mean? Thanks very much. You missed him. He was the short one.’

  ‘What? He just told me he was a friend of Claire’s.’ She looked like she was thinking of pursuing him.

  Romney put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘He’s not worth it, especially today of all days.’

  He took his hand away and she looked up at him. Her eyes were swimming with tears. Whether they were tears of frustration, anger or sorrow, Romney didn’t know her well enough to recognise. He guessed they were probably a mixture of all three. The rain drummed on and ran steadily off their umbrellas. Standing there alone in the chilly, wet, winter gloom in a cemetery in a strange town with only her grief for company, he took pity on her.

  ‘Look, do you fancy a drink? There’s a quiet pub down the road. They serve coffee, I believe.’

  She gave him a look then. ‘I’ve just buried my sister. Tomorrow I’m burying our mother. I’m not looking for coffee, Inspector.’

  *

  Elaine Davies followed Romney the five hundred metres to The Connaught. It was clearly a public house that derived much of its business from the mourning trade if the decor was anything to go by. Some might say that such a business plan – profiting from the bereft and distraught – was a touch morbid, but the landlord would reply, as he often had, what about undertakers? He was simply aiming to cater, literally, to a niche market, which was fortuitously virtually on his doorstep. Business couldn’t be too bad either, Romney judged from the state of the place. Death clearly got people putting their hands in their pockets either drowning their sorrows or grateful it wasn’t them just interned in six feet of earth and chalk. He reflected, with some wryness, that this particular post-burial refreshment wouldn’t be contributing too much to the coffers.

  He ordered a large vodka and tonic for Claire Stamp’s sister and, so as not to appear stuffy, a pint of ale for himself. Elaine Davies had taken a table near the open fire and was staring morosely into the flames. They took their first sips in silence.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of you. What were you doing there, at the funeral I mean? Is that part of the new policing policy these days?’

  ‘My super thinks it makes good publicity. I’d have come anyway.’

  ‘Why? Did you know her?’

  ‘We met as part of the investigation. I interviewed her.’

  The woman’s brow furrowed and she lowered her drink. ‘What investigation? Her suicide? How could you have met her as part of that? I don’t understand.’

  Romney realised then with a sick feeling in his stomach that Elaine Davies had no idea her sister had been raped.

  In spite of his fears, after her initial shock, she took the news steadily.
The more he talked to her – explained things to her – the stronger he realised she was. She was clearly a few years older than her sister and perhaps life had prepared her better for such awful events. But one thing was inevitably going to lead to another.

  ‘Is that why she killed herself, because she was raped?’

  Romney’s insides squirmed like a worm on a hook. ‘Our investigations into your sister’s death are not yet complete.’

  ‘What does that mean? Are you saying that she didn’t jump? Was she pushed? Is that why you were there today?’ Her voice had risen several tones and had attracted the interest of the barman in the otherwise empty bar.

  Romney did his best to placate her. ‘All I can honestly tell you is that a conclusive verdict on your sister’s death has not yet been reached. It’s likely that it will be declared a suicide or death by misadventure. When was the last time you spoke with her?’

  She swallowed the last of her drink. ‘About two weeks ago.’

  ‘Tell me, what made you react like you did when I pointed out Avery to you?’

  ‘Claire told me he’d been violent towards her, nothing serious so far, but it was getting worse. She sounded me out about coming to stay for a while.’ A tear ran down her cheek to splash on the polished surface of the table. ‘Why didn’t she leave him?’ When Romney had no answer for her, she said, ‘Are you anything to do with the investigation into my mother’s death?’

  ‘No, but I know something of it. I know the officer who is dealing with it.’

  ‘Are my sister’s and my mother’s deaths related?’ She was now staring at him wide-eyed in astonishment with where her logic had taken her.