Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘There is no evidence to suggest that your mother’s death was anything other than a tragic accident, but I have to tell you, if you don’t know, that her home was ransacked soon after she was killed. If I’m being totally honest with you – and I have to be – I see your sister’s and your mother’s death’s, simply by dint of their relation in time, as suspicious. I have no evidence to back that up. It’s just my instinct. It’s an instinct that is shared and we are all doing everything that we can to sort the mess out. Believe that.’

  ‘But why? Who? Has that Avery got something to do with it?’

  ‘I really don’t know and even if I did, that is not something I could discuss with you.’

  ‘I need another drink.’

  ‘Where are you staying tonight?’ Romney asked. ‘I hate to come over all official at a time like this, but you know you can’t drive if you’re going to start drowning sorrows.’

  She let out a long breath that hinted at her tiredness. ‘I only got here an hour before the funeral. There was an accident on the motorway. I haven’t had a chance to book anywhere, yet.’

  ‘They do rooms here. Why don’t you take one? Save yourself the bother of searching about.’

  ‘And your conscience, I suppose. You don’t want me driving around town when you’ve been buying me drinks, do you?’ She didn’t mean it maliciously and he smiled at her. ‘I’ll book a room here on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Keep me company for an hour. Please.’

  He checked his watch instinctively. It was almost five. He had hardly touched his drink. He had promised to take Julie Carpenter to the cinema later that evening. ‘All right, but I’ll have to make a couple of calls.’

  She thanked him for his gesture. The sincerity of her gratitude warmed him and reminded him of the way policing used to make him feel and how in an ideal world it should still.

  He got hold of Marsh first and explained his situation. He found himself prepared to plead with her, if she had no other arrangements for the evening, to join him and Elaine Davies as soon as she possibly could. She said she’d be happy to call in for a drink. Then he phoned Julie Carpenter and for several reasons – not least of which was the trouble that his previous evening in a pub with a woman had got him into – found himself explaining in some detail his predicament and, craving her understanding, he wondered if she would join them too? To his pleasant surprise, and relief, she agreed, saying that she would come straight from work and be there within the half-hour.

  With the weight off his mind, he came back to the table and took two large gulps of the warm ale. Davies had another half-finished drink in front of her and she was back to staring glumly into the fire.

  ‘What are the arrangements for your mother? You said she’s being buried tomorrow?’

  ‘Cremated, actually, at a place called Charing. It’s a rush job. Not very respectful, I know, but if she’s dead she’s dead. I run a business in Blackpool. It’s struggling. I can’t afford to lose trade and time by being down here burying people.’ She met Romney’s eye. ‘We were not a close family. Claire and I got on well enough, but to be honest our mother was not my favourite person. We’d hardly spoken in the last year. She arranged today. It’s not what Claire would have wanted. She’d have preferred cremation.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She wanted to be buried. Adamant about it, actually.’ The woman permitted herself a shameless wry smile. ‘You might not think me a very nice person for it, but I plan to enjoy tomorrow, at least the irony of it. Sick, eh?’

  Romney shrugged. ‘I don’t believe there’s anything after death so it doesn’t matter. There’s no other family then?’

  ‘Our father died ten years ago. My brother’s not in the country. I don’t even know which continent he’s on. There might be a few distant relatives but no one who ever kept in touch.’

  ‘Did your mother own her home?’

  She snorted. ‘No such luck. They rented all their lives. Dad never wanted the financial burden of a mortgage or the responsibility of the upkeep on places. He liked to keep his cash flow for the bookies. It was his money, I suppose.’ After a brief silence, she said, ‘I’d rather she was murdered.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Claire. I’d rather someone killed her than she had jumped to her death. It’s tormented me that she might have been so desperate, so lonely, so miserable and depressed that the only way out she could see was to take her own life. I was her sister – her closest relative. If she was that low, she should have come to me.’

  ‘She was coming to you.’ She looked up at him, tearful again. ‘My sergeant is joining us in a little while. She came across Claire on the seafront on the night she died. They had a cuppa and a chat. Claire told her that she was coming to stay with you.’

  ‘Is that true?’ There was such hope in her eyes.

  ‘Perfectly, you can ask her yourself, but it’s not common knowledge and I’d prefer it not to be. Under the circumstances I think you have a right to know that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. She removed a piece of crushed fabric from her bag and blew her nose.

  Romney could see that his confidence had gone some small way to easing her torment.

  She laughed suddenly then and with only good humour said, ‘You lot really are a great advertisement for modern policing aren’t you? Drinks and sympathy in your own time. A shining light of victim support.’ She raised her glass in acknowledgement and thanks.

  As if she had been waiting for her cue, DS Joy Marsh entered. From the look of her she had no umbrella and it was tipping it down. Romney made the introductions and went to the bar to get a round in. He hoped that in the short time it would take him to buy the drinks, Marsh would have the opportunity to confirm what he had told the woman regarding Claire Stamp’s intentions. It was suddenly important to him that she know it for the truth and not later reflect that he had just told her what he thought she had wanted to hear.

  As he stood waiting for his pint to be pulled the door opened behind him and turning he saw Julie Carpenter framed in the doorway, battling to lower her umbrella. A feeling of pure joy and longing welled up inside him, like a geyser, and flooded him with pleasure. He realised in that moment – watching her sway towards him in her business suit and heels, a smile breaking out on her beautiful face as she fought to clear her hair from her vision – that he was in love with her and there was nothing that he could do about it, even if he’d wanted to.

  The next two hours were a surprise to all four of the party sitting around the table. Romney was, for periods of it, a contented observer as the women chattered. He thought that an outsider would have had a hard time recognising the circumstances that had thrown the four comparative strangers together.

  Julie had hushed his apologies for the change of plan with a finger to his lips, accepted the offer of a drink and gone to introduce herself to the other two at the table. By the time Romney joined them with a tray of refreshment the three were engaged in amiable conversation that gave no suggestion of their lack of familiarity with each other.

  This gave him a chance to study the latest woman in his life in a new and revealing way. Her conversation and tact, diplomacy and engagement only impressed upon him further what a treasure he’d found.

  At his suggestion and expense the four of them decided to eat. The good food complemented the evening that turned out to be one of those truly enjoyable impromptu meetings that planned functions can rarely compare to. It was, as Elaine Davies was moved and proud to say at the end of it, a bloody decent wake for her sister all things considered; and probably one of the strangest she had heard of. They all raised their glasses and drank to that.

  At a time that seemed right, but not late, they disbanded. The bereaved sister went to find her room with much thanks and not a few alcohol induced tears. Julie Carpenter, who early on had assessed her role for the evening and had largely abstained from the alcohol, offered the police of
ficers rides home, which were both accepted. They dropped Marsh at her building with hardly a word of shop having been spoken.

  Following directions, Julie then drove Romney out to his remote home for her first visit there. It was a visit that both of them had considered in their own ways at some point since they had begun their relationship. Romney had imagined giving her the grand tour, explaining his ideas and projections, helping her to envisage the potential of the place at some leisure. He would have tidied up a little, put coffee on. As it turned out they had to bolt for the door in another downpour. Once inside neither had any interest in anything other than undressing the other and falling into bed.

  Before midnight Julie quietly left him sleeping, collected together her things and, with little interest in her surroundings, dressed and let herself out into the winter’s night.

  *

  Romney woke early as was his custom. He lay in his bed pondering the previous evening. He had no regrets, other than the gentle throbbing at his temples, for how things had gone. Elaine Davies had needed the company, Marsh had gone up in his estimation and Julie, in his own mind at least, had become a force in his life. The evening had been a release and would stay with him as something good and unexpected.

  He ordered a taxi, had a long shower, his coffee and toast. He thought about ringing Julie, but settled on a text in which he hoped to strike a balance between suggesting something of his gratitude for the previous evening and something of his growing affection for her.

  *

  Despite having to retrieve his vehicle from the car park of The Connaught, Romney was still first into the squad room. Another pile of largely pointless bureaucracy awaited his attention.

  Marsh arrived soon after. Romney beckoned her in. ‘Thanks for coming to the rescue last night.’

  ‘No problem, sir. I had a good evening. Should have all samples of people who work at the garage taken by lunch time today. Diane Hodge in forensics has assured me of priority.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Carl Park doesn’t work there anymore. I’ll have to find him at his home address.’

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘Mr Patel said he quit. The day after the incident was his last, apparently. Never showed up again and didn’t return any calls.’

  ‘That’s odd. I didn’t tell you, he was at the funeral yesterday.’ Marsh gave him a look. ‘There were just the four of us: Avery, Park, Elaine Davies and me.’

  ‘Why would he go to the funeral?’

  Romney thought. ‘He said something about liking her. Felt bad about what happened to her.’

  ‘He’s a strange one.’

  ‘Well, I doubt very much he’ll give us a match on the saliva sample but you’ll have to eliminate him anyway.’

  *

  A little after nine o’clock Marsh received a phone call from Jane Goddard. In the early hours of the morning, she had received three photographic images sent to her phone by the rapist. She was calm, but naturally they terrorised her. Goddard read out the phone number they had been sent from. It was different to the one that had been used to send images to Claire Stamp. Marsh arranged to visit her within the hour. But she knew that it was largely just a gesture. As with the number that had been used to send images to Stamp, she was as sure as she could be without knowing it that the SIM card used would be of a similar disposable type and its origin virtually untraceable.

  All they got from this was that the rapist must either have a connection to both of the victims, or access to the means by which to get their phone numbers.

  Romney discussed with Marsh the comprehensive list that had been compiled of ways to get mobile phone numbers. Now it was confirmed that the attacker had both victims’ numbers it was an avenue of enquiry – no matter how tedious and unlikely to reveal the identity of the attacker – the police had to be seen to be exploring. Both Romney and Marsh had little hope that the perpetrator of the crimes was going to be unveiled so simply.

  Marsh got hold of Park’s mother on the third ring. She identified herself and asked to speak to Carl. The surly voice told her that he was in bed. Marsh made it clear that he had better get out of bed and get to the phone. A long couple of minutes later his voice came on the line.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sorry to get you out of bed, Carl,’ said Marsh, trying not to sound it. ‘We need you to come down to the station.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘As part of the investigation into what happened at the garage, of course.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘I know that you have, Carl. It’s something else. Would you like me to send a squad car for you?’

  ‘No. I’ll call in this morning.’

  ‘Good. See that you do.’ Marsh hung up, irritated at his response that typified so many of the people she had to deal with: the general public.

  She left word with a colleague that when Park showed himself he was to be directed to volunteer a mouth-swab sample. She then left for her appointment with Jane Goddard.

  *

  Goddard let Marsh into her neat little terraced home. She was understandably and visibly distraught about receiving the images. She showed Marsh through into the kitchen area and passed over her phone. The photographs were all of a similar nature to the ones they had of Claire Stamp – full images of the woman’s bare backside in a cruel and undignified pose.

  Marsh felt her spirits sink. ‘Does your husband know?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want him knowing either. This would be too much for him.’ Marsh had been invited to sit at the small circular kitchen table and the woman joined her. ‘We don’t have a perfect marriage. Jeff, well, he doesn’t function properly down there if you know what I mean? It’s not his fault. I love him. I’ll never leave him. It’s why I sleep with Clive. Slept, I should say. I’m not sure that that can carry on now. Just knowing that it happened to me has driven a wedge between me and my husband. He’s so frustrated. It’s like an insult to his injury.’ She gave an ironic smile in response to Marsh’s look. ‘Oh, yeah, that’s men all over. I’m the one who was raped, abused, defiled, humiliated, and he’s the one who’s taking it personally. He can’t help himself. But I don’t want him to know about these.’

  ‘They’re evidence,’ said Marsh.

  ‘I know. That’s why I’ve asked you round here. I want this bastard caught. If these can help, well, you know. I can’t keep them on my phone. I can’t risk it and I don’t want to see them. I can send them to your phone. Girls at college swap stuff all the time.’ Marsh nodded. ‘I wouldn’t like to think these would become any sort of police station amusement. My sister’s husband was a copper. I know some of the things that go on.’

  ‘Not in our station, they don’t Mrs Goddard. You have my word these will only be used in conjunction with our attempts to apprehend the perpetrator of the crime. If the day ever comes when they might be needed as some kind of evidence, I will speak to you before we do anything.’

  ‘That’ll have to do then.’

  The woman’s face was grim as she went through the motions of sending the offensive images: the scenes of her rape. When it was done and Marsh confirmed that they had been received, Goddard deleted them from her own phone.

  ‘If I get anymore, I’ll contact you and only you.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you, Mrs Goddard. We are doing everything that we can to find this man.’

  *

  By late morning Marsh was back at the station. After speaking with Romney, it was agreed that the images should be file transferred from her phone to the computer in Romney’s office. From here they would print out images to be kept on file. The images relating to Claire Stamp’s attack were still kept only on her phone, which was in an evidence bag. These too were to be uploaded to Romney’s computer for safe-keeping and hard copies printed off for the record. It was not something that Romney found himself comfortable having to do, so he left Marsh with the task and the privacy of his office and
his printer.

  Marsh went to grab a coffee to sustain her through it. On the way to the machine she met DC Spicer, the officer who had been delegated to supervise the taking of a mouth-swab sample from Park when he showed his pimply face.

  ‘That boy, show up, yet?’ she said.

  ‘Park? Yes, Sarge. What a wet one he is. When I told him we wanted a sample, I thought he was going to faint on me. Moaning he couldn’t stand needles.’ Spicer shook his head in memory of the youth. ‘He did the mouth-swab, though it seemed to make him just as miserable.’

  Marsh was engrossed with leads and technology when the phone rang on Romney’s desk making her jump. ‘DI Romney’s office.’

  ‘Hello, is that Sergeant Marsh?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Diane Hodge, forensics. Is the inspector there, please?’

  ‘Sorry, he’s not,’ Marsh could imagine the pained disappointment on the features of the young SOCO.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ said Marsh.

  ‘We’ve finished all the tests on the petrol station employees. And we have a match with the saliva sample that we lifted from the top of the contraceptive packet.’

  ***

  11

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what she said, sir.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Marsh had a fifteen minute advantage on Romney’s incredulity. She had experienced the same reaction herself, only to be categorically assured by the forensic officer that there was no doubt.

  ‘She said his sample and the sample from the condom packet recovered on the night were a perfect DNA match.’

  ‘How the hell? Where is he?’

  ‘He left the station after giving his sample. As soon as I heard from forensics, I came to find you. DC Spicer said he was reluctant when he found out what we wanted from him.’

  ‘Find him. Get him back here and call me the moment you do.’