by Oliver Tidy
***
16
Romney was asked, given the location of the victim and the impending darkness, whether he felt the air ambulance was necessary. He said he did not. He said that as far as he could tell the injury was non-life-threatening and did not warrant the trouble and expense of such a valuable resource. For all he cared they could have bumped and jolted Park the kilometre across the cliff tops on a sheep hurdle with no anaesthetic. His only concern for the prisoner was that he didn’t conveniently contract some virile form of pneumonia and die, thus depriving Romney of his day in court and the satisfaction of knowing that Carl Park was tucked away in miserable confinement for a lengthy stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
He left the officer at the coastguard station to oversee and direct the paramedics when they arrived and drove back to the station. Alone in the vehicle he felt the euphoria of his success radiate throughout his body to cancel out the cold and wet. He might have a few awkward questions to field from Superintendent Falkner, depending on how he viewed Romney’s methods, but overall he felt confident that even Falkner, who could be a stickler for the rule book when it suited him, would see that the ends justified the means. In any case, he felt no inclination to be completely truthful with his senior officer. There were things that one needed to inform one’s senior officer about and details that he would neither need, nor want, to know.
*
In the technological age, news travels with winged feet, reflected Romney. By the time that he – the hero of the hour – returned to the station the alert that the surveillance officer in the coast guard tower had made across the airwaves detailing the escape of a prisoner fleeing across the cliffs tops and his subsequent recapture had brought the unfolding events to the notice of most of those on duty. As Romney squelched his way to his office and the clean change of clothes he kept there, he fielded congratulations and demonstrations of respect. He knew from experience that Falkner would not be returning to the station late on a Friday after an afternoon’s jolly with colleagues thirty miles away. But protocol dictated that he would need to call him and update him with his own carefully potted version of the afternoon’s events.
Judging by Falkner’s reaction to the news Romney gathered that he had had a good afternoon himself. He offered his congratulations and asked no particularly awkward questions. But they would undoubtedly come and Romney would need to be ready for them and ensure that the other officers involved not only had copies of the same hymn sheet, but were well rehearsed.
*
It was after five o’clock by the time Marsh trudged into the squad room. Romney had long since dried off and warmed up, but the sight of Marsh brought the memory of the cold and wet exposed cliff top back to him. Her clothes were soaking, her hair was plastered to and hung limply from her scalp. Her eye make-up had run and smudged and she was shivering with the cold. In her hand she carried a dripping plastic bag with something heavy in it.
Romney gave her a bemused smile, which was not returned. He didn’t mind. Two hours out on the cliffs in winter ruining a perfectly good Marks and Sparks trouser suit wouldn’t have been his idea of fun either. ‘Everything all right?’ he said.
‘Eventually. They’ve taken him to the Harvey. I’ve organised an escort for him.’
‘Good. You got dry clothes here?’ She shook her head. ‘Borrow what you can. Get dried off and warmed up. I want the reports written up before anyone goes home. Where’s Grimes?’
‘Downstairs.’
‘Right, I’ll speak with him. Is that the gun?’ She nodded. ‘Check that in first.’
‘I couldn’t help noticing, when you took off after Park, that your leg wasn’t troubling you, sir.’
‘Yeah,’ said Romney, with a straight face. ‘Funny that. It’s always been like it. Just pops back in to place and it’s right as rain. Feels fine now.’
‘Do you think that it might have had an influence on Park’s decision to do a runner, you hobbling about on a stick?’
Romney appeared to give the question a moment’s serious consideration and made a face. ‘It never occurred to me. Possibly.’
‘What did you say to him, in the car? What made him run?’
Romney smiled at her. ‘I can’t honestly remember, Sergeant. We were just chatting and then he was gone. I’d hurry up and get out of those wet things if I were you. You’ll catch cold if you’re not careful. There’s bound to be something downstairs that’ll fit you.’
Romney had written his report before the others had arrived back at the station. He organised sandwiches and hot drinks for the pair who sat at their workstations under the squad room lights tapping away at their keyboards. From time to time he would look over their shoulders checking that details concurred, offering suggestions where they didn’t. Only he and Marsh were aware of the impetus he had given the unfolding of the afternoon’s events. Naturally, he wanted to keep it that way. Sometimes the ends justified the means, even if the means were questionable.
Romney invited them to join him for a meal and a pint at the Duke of York by way of celebration and his personal thanks for the afternoon’s efforts. Marsh’s protestations that she couldn’t possibly go looking like she did in borrowed male clothing at least three sizes too big for her were overruled by Romney.
They left the squad room in good spirits and descended the stairs together to be confronted with a scene of unusual and general agitation and activity. It appeared that a mobilisation of all those available was under way. A flushed duty sergeant looked up to see the three CID officers descending.
‘What’s up?’ said Romney.
‘Trouble at mill, gov, literally. It’s all a bit sketchy at the moment. Reports of an incident involving several members of the public behind the old mill at Crabble.’
‘What’s there?’
‘It’s mostly derelict as far as I know. Some warehouse space and lock-ups at the back.
‘Need reinforcements?’
‘Thought you’d never ask, gov. We’re stretched. We could do with help if you’re offering.’
‘We’ll take my car,’ said Romney.
*
An incident was a euphemism that certainly didn’t do justice to what confronted them on their arrival. Pitched battle would have been more accurate. The flood lights which illuminated the expanse of concrete apron behind the mill which served as a communal space shared between the several old warehouse structures was animated with shadowy figures running, swinging, dodging, striking, wrestling and struggling with each other in a mass brawl. The flashing lights from the two police vehicles that had already arrived on the scene added a surreal stroboscopic dimension to the sight. The air was filled with shouted languages – English and foreign – and the wailing sirens of approaching reinforcements. Romney had never seen anything like it other than on training videos, Hollywood blockbusters and once when The Whites got through a couple of rounds of a cup competition and played host to a London club with a significant fan base bent on violence.
The uniformed police presence was small and apparently largely ineffectual being well outnumbered by the combined forces of what looked like two opposing groups. Romney shared a look with Marsh, in which she saw clearly the glint of excitement in his eye, before he entered the fray.
Romney understood what was happening. The Kosovans had come to seek their revenge and they had mustered a considerable force. He recognised a face from Avery’s pool hall, a big shaven headed man, fending off two attackers. Another man jumped on to his back and he was down under a flurry of blows. A bloodied face ran across his field of vision pursued by someone wielding an improvised club. A man lay immobile on the rain soaked floor; a narrow trickle of blood encouraged by the rain followed the camber of the surface towards a nearby drain.
Romney tripped over a shoe and almost fell. When he came upright, he caught sight of a figure that he would recognise anywhere from his slight build and peculiar way of standing: Avery himself. He was swinging a yard broom in an
ungainly fashion trying to keep a bigger unarmed man at bay. The man feinted and ducked and Avery caught him with a fortunate roundhouse on the side of his head. He went down hard. Avery looked up and Romney saw the fear in his briefly illuminated features. Avery saw Romney, hesitated for a moment, dropped the broom and scuttled across ten metres of concrete to disappear through an opening in the structure behind him. Romney pursued him, buoyed with adrenalin, suddenly longing for an excuse to get his hands on him.
A wicket gate was cut into the industrial dock-door. Avery had slammed it shut after him, but it was not locked. Romney kicked it open and was confronted by forbidding and total blackness. He stood on the threshold and waited for his vision to become accustomed to it. He stepped inside and felt along the wall for a light switch. There was none. He shouted into the cavernous space. ‘Avery?’ The muffled sounds of the fighting behind him made it difficult to hear any movement inside.
Romney started as something metallic and solid thudded into the brickwork beside him and rebounded off skidding and fizzing across the concrete floor. He realised that he must be making a good target standing in the aperture of the doorway, lit from behind. He dodged in and slammed the door shut. He crouched down listening. Gradually, he was able to make out the outlines of shapes and structures as his eyes became used to the dark. Something else came out of the shadows and smashed into the wall to his left.
‘This is Detective Inspector Romney, so you can stop that,’ he called.
‘I know that you arsehole.’
Romney judged his quarry to be about ten metres to his right. ‘If that’s the way you want it, Avery.’ He stood. The missile caught him above his ear, felling him. A lucky shot. Despite the enveloping darkness, the air exploded with bright flashes of light. He felt the warm trickle of his own blood run down face. He lay on his back for some seconds recovering before he heard the rapid slapping of soles on the hard ground as Avery beat a retreat.
Forcing himself back up on to his feet, Romney stumbled blindly after him and barked his shins on something unmoving and solid. He cried out in agony. What sounded like the slamming of a car door broke the ensuing quiet. Behind him electronic machinery started up in a whine. He turned to see a narrow band of light slowly expanding upwards. His dulled senses realised that this was the sectioned dock-door rising. Somewhere in the darkness, an engine burst into life.
With the rising of the door the artificial light flooded in. Romney peered into the depths of the building making out more of his surroundings. Car headlights abruptly burst through the blackness on full beam, dazzling him, accompanied by the roaring of an engine and Romney realised he was standing directly between the vehicle and its escape route. As the door continued its sluggish mechanical ascent, the squeal of tyres filled the air and the headlights leapt forwards towards him.
He had only seconds to react. Beside him stood a pallet stacked with cases of tinned beer. In one fluid movement and driven by the anger that welled up within him at Avery besting him and escaping, he grabbed up a case of lager and heaved it at the windscreen of the car as it shot past him narrowly missing his legs as he dived to the side. He was aware of a flash of silver before he hit the ground. As he rolled with his fall a deafening crash filled the inside of the building. He scrambled to his feet to see a cloud of dust obscuring the exit. As it cleared in the breeze that blew in the winter night, he saw the silver convertible that Avery had been driving crumpled against the left hand iron pillar of the industrial sized opening.
The door machinery ground to a halt. Romney approached the wreck wiping away the blood from his head wound. As he came closer, he understood the crash better. The roof of the convertible was down. With no roof to deflect it, the case of beer that Romney had slung in desperation must have struck Avery in the head with enough force to divert him from his exit path. The man lay unconscious against the steering wheel. Blood oozed out of his horribly broken nose. The engine continued to scream with the throttle stuck open. Romney reached in and killed it just as Marsh trotted up, two uniformed officers behind her.
‘You all right, sir?’ she said, taking in the wreckage.
Romney dabbed at his head with his tie. ‘I’ll live. Mr Avery might need medical assistance.’
One of the uniforms found a light switch and illuminated the warehouse. Pallet upon pallet of crates of beer, boxes of wine, cases of spirits and cartons of cigarettes were piled up in every direction.
‘And then legal assistance,’ said Romney, brightening. He turned back to share the serendipitous moment with Marsh, but her attention was fixed on the car. She was frowning. ‘What is it?’ said Romney.
She picked at the damaged metal of the vehicle. ‘Look at this, sir. Unless I’m very much mistaken this vehicle has been re-sprayed. And the colour underneath seems very close to what BMW refer to as Mars Red.’
Romney came around and picked at the flaking paint. He smiled broadly. ‘No one said it had to be a BMW that ran Helen Stamp down, did they? Just BMW paint. When I’ve bought you that drink, Sergeant, I can think of another detective inspector who’s going to be right behind me with his wallet out.’
*
With all of them making arrests, the evening at the Duke of York was necessarily postponed for the processing of prisoners and associated report writing. By the time they were free of their obligations there was nowhere open in Dover, not even the take-away kebab shop.
*
With the successes of the last twenty-four hours, Romney looked forward to going in to work the following day with a rare elevated keenness. The solving of the double-rape case; the strong implication of Carl Park in the death of Peter Roper; the finding of the vehicle that was probably responsible for the death of Helen Stamp; the discovery of a warehouse full of contraband duty free goods – there was still much to follow up and organise, but Romney was eager for it. Even the possibility of an awkward session with Superintendent Falkner acting as inquisitor over his methods and procedure involving the arrest of Park held little anxiety for him. Dover CID had covered itself in glory the reflection of which Falkner would bathe in at area level. As the governor immediately in charge of it all, Romney doubted whether Falkner would be out to make difficulties for his golden goose. Romney was going to be untouchable for a while.
He was on his second mug of coffee when a uniformed constable tapped at his door. He beckoned him in.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. Postman brought something addressed to you.’
Romney took the proffered padded envelope. He checked the postmark. It told him the package had been posted from Blackpool. A little bell of recognition rang somewhere deep in his mind. Romney slit the seal and tipped out the contents onto his desk. He was confronted with a medium sized battered ledger and a letter. He sipped his coffee, picked up the letter and read.
Dear Inspector Romney,
Firstly, I would like to thank you for the compassion you showed me when I was in Dover to bury my sister last week. I know that the time and consideration you gave me was nothing to do with your duty, or furthering your investigations. It was simply human kindness and I thank you again for it.
After my mother’s funeral, I stayed on at her home for a couple of days to put what I could of her affairs in order. I then came home to Blackpool.
The postman had left me a slip that I should call at my local post office to sign for a recorded delivery package: the book that you will find enclosed. There was also a letter. It was from Claire. It is best if you read the letter for yourself. I have folded it into the front of the book.
Clearly, I have interpreted her final wishes in my own way. My only hope is that you can use what I send you to exact some kind of justice for her death.
When you have good news for me, I’d like to hear from you.
Kind regards
Elaine Davies
Romney used his pencil to flick randomly through pages of the little black ledger. As far as he could tell, it contained phone numbers, addresses, nam
es and lists of goods along with payments. He picked up and began to read the letter that Elaine Davies had tucked inside.
Dear Big Sis,
You were right about this one. He’s turning into a real bastard. Don’t they all in the end?
I’m thinking of taking you up on your offer of coming to stay for a while. I need a change of scene. Simon has become more violent towards me, especially when he drinks. I can’t stand it.
He thinks he’s a big time criminal. I know he is involved in things illegal. I don’t want to be the girl of someone like that. I don’t respect myself much at the moment.
Simon has threatened that if I try to leave him he’ll kill me. Sometimes I believe him. He frightens me. He can be so possessive and jealous.
You’re probably wondering what this book is I’ve sent you. It’s my insurance. Hold it for me until I get to you. Keep it safe. I think it could be worth a lot to Simon to get it back.
I hope to be with you within the week.
Love your little sister
Claire xxx
***
Hello,
Firstly, I’d like to say thank you for taking a chance on downloading this book whether you’ve paid for it or not. I hope you found something in it to enjoy.
Secondly, I would like to invite you to visit me at http://olivertidy.wordpress.com/ where you can find out more about other titles in this series and other books I’ve written.
Thirdly, I would be genuinely most grateful to receive any comments, corrections and suggestions regarding any aspect of this book and my writing at the web address above where I’ve made a page available for any and all feedback.
Finally, if you have noticed any mistakes of an editorial nature, please accept my apologies. If you let me know what they are, I can rectify them. I am a self-published author and, in this case, except for the cover art, that means I’ve done everything myself towards creating the book. That includes the proof-reading. Not being a professional in any aspect of the book creation business, I’m afraid that, despite my best efforts, there are bound to be mistakes. I can only hope that any that turned up did not spoil your enjoyment of the read.
