The Edge

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Fine. You want a drink?’

  ‘Water’s OK.’

  He filled two glasses and took them out onto the patio, putting them on the white plastic table. He sat down in one of the chairs there, and Romilly sat too.

  ‘It’s starting to look a picture,’ she said, gazing around the garden in admiration.

  ‘All this dry weather’s made it difficult. Now I’m having to get the hose out all the time. Heard you made big strides with that warehouse robbery. Got the man responsible. And the triple killer too. They ought to give you a commendation for that, girl.’

  Romilly didn’t think she deserved a commendation. But she said nothing. She thought that she’d been a fool. She’d let her feelings get in the way of logic, started to fall for Kit Miller in a big way – and that annoyed the fuck out of her.

  ‘Dad? I think I’ve met someone,’ she said.

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘Well, that was quick. After Hugh, I mean.’

  ‘It was unexpected. It’s knocked me sideways, really.’

  ‘Is he a copper?’

  ‘Nope.’ Romilly screwed her face up. ‘He’s . . . pretty amazing. But not entirely kosher.’

  Her dad gazed at her. Then he looked off down the garden. ‘You’ll do whatever’s right, lovey. I’ve always known that.’

  But what was right, now? She felt bewildered by all the possibilities opening up before her. And bloody scared, too.

  ‘So what’s the problem, with the dry weather?’ she asked, to get her mind off Kit.

  ‘I put in drainage channels, I told you last time you were here, remember? Cleared out the clay, put in gravel. I said at the time, if we get too dry a spell that herringbone pattern is going to show right through. Look, the grass I seeded on there has taken OK, but you can see the depression in the lawn, see the pattern where I dug it out.’

  Romilly looked. She could see it. ‘So what do you have to do about that?’

  ‘I’ll have to fill it in with some more soil. Raise the level. Which isn’t too bad, but I could have done without it. I’ve got the tomatoes to pot on, and the sweetcorn’s got to go in, and the sticks for the beans got to go up . . .’

  Romilly tuned out. A thrill of intuition was making the hairs on her arms stand up.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘What, lovey?’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  135

  First she had to get the nod from DCI Barrow to go ahead.

  ‘Romilly. You’re a fucking good detective, but you know what? There’s a thin line between genius and utter bloody madness, and I’ve yet to decide which one applies to you.’

  ‘Yes, but I think—’

  ‘I know what you think. We’ve done all that.’ DCI Barrow slapped his hand down on the desk, making his framed family photos jump. ‘Yes! All right! Go ahead. Now get out!’

  Then there was the old lady to appease, which proved easier, although she wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of it, and who could blame her.

  Both those hurdles cleared, it was a matter of getting a small earth mover into the back garden of John Dowling’s grandmother’s property, getting the forensics people in with the tent, then having Derek Potts ready on site to do the necessary.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,’ said Mrs Dowling to Romilly when the whole damned circus showed up at her door.

  ‘The last time you saw your daughter-in-law Abigail, Mrs Dowling. What happened that day?’

  ‘What? Well . . . she came to see me. She had the little dog with her, Kiki.’

  ‘What was Abigail wearing, can you remember?’

  ‘A lilac dress. She wore a lot of lilac. She had red hair and it suited her colouring.’

  ‘What happened next? After she showed up here?’

  ‘She said she was leaving him. Then Bill showed up, and there was an argument. I left them to it, went off down the shops. When I came back, she was gone but Bill was still here. He said she’d gone home.’

  ‘Didn’t you say he used to look after the garden for you?’

  ‘He did. That’s right. He couldn’t do it now, of course. The drink’s on him too much for that and I won’t put up with him coming here.’

  ‘Round about that time, did he dig over that patch of lawn beside the far rose border? The part that looks sunken?’

  ‘I can’t recall. It’s possible, I suppose. He used to be quite keen on gardening. But after Abi left, he seemed to lose interest.’

  ‘Can I go upstairs?’ asked Romilly.

  The light was starting to fade, and as she looked out of the back bedroom window the slanting angle of the sun made one of the depressions in the lawn out there even more apparent. It was roughly six feet by three. She watched as the tiny digger started up, started in, working carefully to scoop off the top layer of soil. It began to go deeper, moving slowly, slowly. Then it pulled back and men started in with spades.

  What if there’s fuck-all in there?

  Christ! She couldn’t even think about that. James Barrow was pissed enough with her as it was. This would tip him right over the edge. Romilly went downstairs and out into the garden to watch more closely. Derek was standing at the edge of the lawn, overalled, bag in hand, ready to work.

  What if there’s nothing for him to work on? What if I’ve wasted everyone’s time and all these resources? Barrow’s going to go apeshit.

  Suddenly a cry went up from one of the men and they stopped digging. Lights were switched on and the tent was pulled into position. Romilly and Derek moved inside. One of the workers was scraping away at something yellow-white in the lamplight.

  Romilly felt her heart spasm in shock.

  It was a rib, and it looked human. A scrap of tattered lilac fabric was clinging to it.

  136

  They stood watching in silence as the work went on. Darkness fell. Finally, the whole skeleton was revealed.

  ‘Female,’ said Derek, moving in for a closer look. ‘The skull’s crushed on the right side. A fatal blow, I would think. And – this is odd, given what we discovered at Crystal Rose’s burial site. All the teeth have been pulled.’ Derek looked at her. ‘You said two sites back here, I believe.’

  Romilly nodded. Poor bloody Abigail. She stepped outside the tent with Derek, and indicated the other dip in the lawn. It was a lot smaller. The arc lamps flicked on, flooding the garden with cold blue light. The men started digging again, while Romilly and Derek sat on the back step, out of the way of the workers.

  It didn’t take long, this one. Soon they’d unearthed another skeleton, a fraction of the size of the first one. The photographer moved in, the flash lighting up a mouldering leather collar around its neck, with a brass nametag attached. Romilly and Derek went over. When it was cleaned, they could see the name Kiki engraved upon it.

  Romilly stared down at the tiny, pitiful grave. She hadn’t wanted to be right. But here was proof; she was.

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Derek. ‘And her little dog, too. Tragic.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Romilly, and called DC Phillips over. ‘Bill Dowling,’ she said. ‘Let’s bring him in, shall we?’

  Bill Dowling was sitting in front of the TV scratching his balls and emptying a can of Special Brew down his neck when the doorbell rang. Patrick Dowling’s brother looked a lot like Patrick – big and fleshy – but Bill also had the mottled corned-beef colouring and unfocused eyes of the devoted alcoholic.

  ‘What the fucking hell . . .?’

  If it was some daft sod selling something he was going to give them a mouthful. He lurched out of the chair and went through to the hall and from there to the front door. He flung it open, ready to give whatever moron was standing there a piece of his mind. He stopped short when he saw two uniformed coppers standing on the step.

  ‘Mr William Dowling?’ asked one.

  ‘Yeah. Who wants him?’

  ‘Mr Dowling, I am arresting you on suspicion . . .’ started the other one.

  ‘What the fu
ck?’

  The officer went on reading Dowling his rights.

  ‘New evidence has recently come to light,’ he concluded.

  ‘What? What the fuck you talkin’ about?’

  ‘We have unearthed remains at your mother’s property that appear to belong to your wife, sir,’ said the copper.

  Bill sagged against the wall. ‘I’ll get my coat,’ he said.

  137

  The day after the excavation, Romilly was writing out the report on Abigail Dowling’s murder. Odd that, about the teeth. The father using the same MO as the son. Bill had somehow taught young John that little trick. It made her feel nauseous to think of it.

  Having done her paperwork, she went along the corridor to where Phillips, Paddick and Barry and the others worked. Through the open door she could see that Harman’s desk was cleared; he was gone, and good riddance.

  As she stepped through into the big office, a ragged cheer went up and everyone clapped. Barry was grinning, opening a box on his desk. DC Phillips was smiling at her.

  Paddick too. And the others. Bev Appleton came in and stood there, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Romilly.

  ‘It’s a bloody hat-trick, Romilly,’ said Bev. ‘Patrick Dowling for the warehouse job, the shooter dead, and now that poor woman’s killer brought to book after all these years.’

  ‘There’s missing money still. And people,’ Romilly reminded her.

  ‘And fucking Harman’s out on his ear,’ said Barry Jones, thrusting the open box under Romilly’s nose. Chocolate éclairs, apple turnovers, vanilla slices. ‘That’s something to be thankful for, losing that cocky git at last. Have a cake, and don’t be such a tight-arse. It’s time to celebrate.’

  Romilly took an éclair. Bev winked at her and selected an apple turnover.

  ‘Any calories in these, Barry?’ Bev asked.

  ‘Guaranteed calorie-free,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a very poor liar,’ said Bev. She sighed. ‘I’m going to flatten that poor bloody horse when I start my lessons next week.’

  ‘You’re going to do it then?’ asked Romilly, delighted for her old mate.

  ‘Yep. And what about your little ambition, hm? The one we discussed.’

  ‘What ambition’s that?’ asked DC Phillips, her brunette plaits bobbing as she dived at a vanilla slice.

  ‘Never you mind,’ said Romilly.

  138

  Romilly phoned Kit at Sheila’s restaurant.

  ‘Detective,’ he said in greeting.

  ‘Mr Miller.’

  ‘Something I can do for you?’

  ‘Possibly. Can you call round to mine? Say . . . nine o’clock tonight?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Can you just come? I don’t want to discuss this on the phone.’

  ‘All right. I will.’

  Kit was there on the dot. As he walked down her pathway, he noticed that there was a For Sale sign up in the front garden. He rang the bell. Romilly opened the door, ushered him inside.

  ‘Moving on, detective?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. Can’t wait.’

  ‘I heard there was all sorts of fallout from the Dowling case. A buried body? Some woman who went missing years ago?’

  ‘You heard right.’ Romilly stared at his face. ‘Tell me, did you also hear that our three-times-killer got shot? Fatally? Through the head? As he was on his way to see his grandmother?’

  ‘I did. Shocking,’ said Kit.

  ‘Ain’t it just. Oh – and Harman’s gone. I’m sure you’ll miss him.’

  ‘I won’t miss him. Man’s an arsehole.’

  They walked through to the kitchen. Romilly opened a bottle of red, held it up. ‘Want some?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, having taken a gulp from her glass. ‘Just a minute, there’s something I’ve got to do.’

  She left him there and went upstairs. Kit took a sip of the red. It was cheap and raw, but passable.

  Then he heard her call out.

  ‘Hey, Kit! Can you give me a hand with something up here?’

  He put his wine glass down on the worktop, went through to the hall and up the stairs. At the top of the landing he looked into the first bedroom. Romilly was there, fiddling with something on the brass headboard of a double bed.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked, coming into the room.

  She turned toward him. ‘I am absolutely fine,’ she said, and to his surprise she came up to him, placed her hands on either side of his head and kissed him, long and slow.

  His arms snaked around her, pulling her in closer. Then Romilly eased back, turning, taking Kit with her, pushing him down onto the bed.

  ‘This is nice,’ he said, and then Romilly closed the cuff in her hand around his wrist, and snapped the other one shut on the brass headboard.

  Kit looked at her. Then at the cuffs, chaining him to the bed.

  ‘You know, I don’t have to be tied down to cooperate, detective. You don’t have to just help yourself to the goods. I’ll behave, I promise.’

  ‘Oh, you certainly will,’ said Romilly, unbuttoning his shirt.

  She slid her hands inside, feeling his heat, his muscularity.

  ‘I would return the favour and undo your shirt,’ said Kit, giving the cuffs a tug. ‘But you got me at a slight disadvantage here.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ said Romilly, and unlocked them.

  Kit pulled her between his legs and started stripping off her clothes.

  ‘I’m still hopping mad about that whole thing,’ she said, feeling breathless, feeling her blood literally fizzing with desire. This was what she’d wanted, almost from the first minute they’d met, whether he was a bad ’un or not.

  ‘Yeah? But you’re like me, aren’t you,’ said Kit, pushing her bra aside so he could touch her naked breasts. ‘You like living on the edge, pushing the boundaries. It excites you. This excites you, being with me. Admit it.’

  ‘I admit nothing,’ gasped Romilly, lust flooding through her.

  ‘Then, Romilly Kane, I’m afraid that I am going to have to force a confession out of you,’ he said, and pulled her down onto the bed and into his waiting arms.

  139

  Six months later . . .

  The day had come when the stonemason was going to erect Rob Hinton’s headstone. He finished work on it in the morning, then all the family gathered in the graveyard late in the afternoon. Eunice was there, with her daughters and their husbands. Daniel was also there, standing near to Daisy, and Kit and Ruby were there too.

  A dear son and a beloved friend

  Much missed, much loved

  It was a beautiful headstone, grey granite with the inscriptions picked out in gold. Eunice and her daughters placed wreaths against it, then Daisy laid a bouquet of red roses.

  ‘I still can’t believe he’s gone,’ said Daisy, giving a crying Eunice a comforting hug. Her eyes met Daniel’s, over his mother’s head.

  Back in February she’d married Rob Hinton. Then had come death and multiple shocks. Secrets unveiled, shaking them all to the core, making them doubt him. But it had all been lies. That rattlesnake Leon had been the deceiver, the schemer, the drug baron – not Rob.

  ‘You OK, Daise?’ asked Kit, putting an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I’m OK.’ Daisy hugged him. ‘Kit? Look . . . I owe you an apology, and I never gave it. I’m so sorry for the way I acted when Rob died. I feel so bad about it. I blamed you. And I shouldn’t have. I see that now.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. It’s all forgotten,’ said Kit.

  Ruby was quiet, staring at the headstone. ‘It’s hard,’ Eunice told her, wiping away a tear. ‘Losing Rob. And Patrick being sent down for so long. And now I don’t even know where my Leon is.’

  Daisy and Daniel exchanged a glance, but neither said a word.

  Kit and Ruby lingered near the grave after the others went back to their cars. They could relax
now. All threats were past. Kit’s gun had gone back into the glove box of the Bentley; Ruby’s was back in her study drawer. They could take a breath, knowing that Peachy had done the business on that sick bastard John Dowling. Ruby was watching Daisy and Daniel, standing a little apart from everyone else, heads together, talking.

  ‘Is there something, d’you think? Those two?’ she asked her son.

  ‘What? No. Anyway, she’s a bit older than him,’ said Kit. ‘And she’s not over Rob. I don’t know if she ever will be.’

  ‘Daniel don’t seem to care very much about the age difference.’ Ruby looked at Kit. ‘And what about you? Anybody in your life these days?’

  ‘Nah, nobody,’ said Kit.

  ‘Then what the hell’s she doing here?’ asked Ruby, looking over toward the cemetery gates.

  Kit followed her gaze. Romilly Kane was standing there, watching them all.

  ‘You’re not getting into anything with her, are you?’

  ‘What, that copper? Don’t be mental. You still seeing Tom Knox?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Ruby, watching her son sceptically. ‘He’s got a young wife and a baby now. And I’m out of there.’

  ‘Those Rosettes worked out? After Crystal Rose?’

  ‘They’re fine.’ Ruby thought of poor Crystal Rose, meeting John Dowling and her fate, all in one night.

  Wrong place, wrong time, she thought.

  She gazed at Rob’s grave. You had to be cautious in this life, never stray too close to the precipice, always take care. But right on the edge was where they always seemed to be, her and her kids and the people who worked for them. She prayed for calmer waters in the future. For peace. But then – peace had never been their business. So she didn’t hold out a lot of hope.

  ‘I’ll just . . .’ said Kit.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ruby, and watched her son as he walked over to where Romilly Kane stood waiting.

  140

  ‘Hi,’ said Romilly when Kit joined her by the gate.

  ‘Hi, yourself. How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Barrow’s signed me off for a couple of weeks. Says I’m shattered after my divorce and everything. And maybe’s he’s right. It’s been a bit of a year, all in all. I’ve sold the house, kicked out my husband, and . . . well, there’s you, isn’t there. And although he didn’t say he knew about us, I think he does.’ She grimaced. ‘I think he’s figuring out what he intends to do about that.’