Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

The constable hurried over to the urinals. Romney thought he caught a stifled laugh.

  ‘Sorry about that, gov,’ said Grimes.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Romney, getting dressed.

  *

  The clock on the tower of the clubhouse entrance showed the time as just after seven when Grimes pulled into the members’ only car park at the White Cliffs Golf Club. He brought his aging family saloon to rest in the only vacant space at the front.

  ‘Bloody busy for this time in the morning and a weekday,’ he said. ‘Why aren’t this lot at work? No wonder the country’s going down the pan.’

  ‘Thanks for the social commentary,’ said Romney, rattling the door behind him. ‘Can you let me out now? I seem to remember we have a murder to deal with.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was murder, gov.’

  ‘You said someone was up here with his head smashed in. What is it then? Suicide? I know this lot take their game pretty seriously, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually killing themselves because they were having a bad round.’

  Grimes levered his bulk out as an adult version of Rupert the bear arrived to confront him.

  ‘You’ll have to move that,’ said Rupert, indicating Grimes’ vehicle.

  ‘Why’s that then?’ said Grimes. He hitched up his trousers, bristling at the man’s arrogant manner.

  ‘Because that’s a reserved space, that’s why. Club captain’s.’

  ‘Well he’ll have to find somewhere else to park his Bentley this morning. This is Detective Inspector Romney.’ Grimes opened the child-locked rear door and stood aside for his boss to clamber out. ‘We’re here on official police business and we haven’t got time to waste driving around looking for somewhere to park.’

  The man seemed hardly impressed by this news. He affected a look of disdain as he took in the dirty, dated and dented vehicle. ‘I’d have thought that if you were going to have a chauffeur you’d get driven around in something a little more fitting,’ he said. And then recoiling slightly, ‘Bloody hell! What’s that smell?’

  Romney tried asserting some authority. ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘What body?’

  Romney enunciated his words through gritted teeth and with barely concealed testiness. ‘The dead body that we are here to investigate.’

  A look of surprise illuminated Rupert’s features. ‘How should I know? I’ve only just got here.’

  A uniformed police constable came trotting over. ‘Morning, sir. If you’d like to follow me.’

  Grateful, Romney turned to leave. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Do something about those bloody locks will you. It’s embarrassing.’

  Wedged into the opposite corner of the rear seat and carefully avoiding the damp patch, Marsh said, ‘And can you let me out while you’re at?’

  Romney and Marsh followed the young PC through an opening in a high, closely trimmed yew hedge that separated the outside world from the private and privileged enclave of the White Cliffs Golf Club. Another large sign informed the casual caller that this was a members’ only club. It was the forth such notice Romney had seen.

  ‘I do not care much for golf or golfers,’ said Romney. Marsh sensed a rant coming on. ‘Especially in these private clubs. It’s a form of elitism. They come in here to get away from the riff raff – that’s you and me by the way Sergeant – and do their networking and knock their silly little balls around the countryside with equipment that would cost me at least a month’s salary and they do all this wearing the most absurd outfits. They’re worse than the Masons in my book. At least they pretend to do some good deeds.’

  Marsh, who had only been with the Dover police for a few months, had soon learnt to shut up when her immediate boss was clearly rankled.

  The constable said, ‘There’s an event on today, sir. Some local tournament.’

  ‘That would explain why the car park’s full of shiny new German motors, I suppose,’ said Romney. ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘On the thirteenth green, sir.’

  ‘Unlucky for some. I wonder if it’s symbolic.’

  ‘Actually, sir, it’s where the course comes closest to a public highway.’

  Romney grunted. ‘How far is it then?’

  ‘It’s a good walk, sir, but the club professional has put a couple of golf buggies at our disposal.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘An early morning golfer, sir. Out on his own, apparently. Gets here before anyone else does. A regular.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Still out there, sir.’

  ‘Surely not playing?’

  ‘No, sir. Drunk.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Naturally, it was a bit of a shock for him. Works nights on the boats. Drops in for a round on his way home. Seems he came across the body when he was playing.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘I understand he just had alcohol with him, sir.’

  The constable guided the officers in the direction of what was clearly the professional’s shop – a modern squat building, cowering in the shadow of the imposing and opulent structure that had to be the club house. Logos and posters adorned the windows. It reminded Romney of a campsite office in the grounds of a stately home. Several golf buggies were lined up in formation as though awaiting the signal that would begin a race. All they were missing were their drivers. They were standing around in small clusters, garishly clad men talking in low voices, little puffs of smoke intermittently rising above their heads.

  Spying their approach a big man in more sombre but obviously coordinated attire broke away to intercept them. He smiled broadly. Romney noticed that his eyes lingered on Marsh.

  ‘Good morning. Sorry,’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘Obviously it’s not, not for that poor sod out there. I’m Elliot Masters, the club professional. Are you who I think you are?’

  ‘Who do you think we are?’ said Romney.

  The question clearly surprised Masters. ‘I hope you’re the man who’s going to tell me when I can have my golf course back. I’ve got a few dozen chaps champing at the bit to get on with their competition. We’re already half an hour behind on tee-off times. Sorry, that’s very insensitive, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Romney. This is Detective Sergeant Marsh. I understand you have put a couple of golf carts at our disposal?’

  ‘That’s right. Please, help yourself to any of those,’ he said, pointing towards the starting grid.

  Romney looked at the carts and back at Masters. ‘Mr Masters, I’ve never been in a golf cart and I’ve never been here. Do you have anyone who could drive us out to wherever it is we need to be? I’m sure that you can understand, the quicker we get there the quicker we can get on with our job and the sooner you can have your golf course back.’

  ‘Right, right,’ said Masters. ‘Of course, sorry. Stupid of me. Look, why don’t I drive you out there myself? To be honest, I’d like to get away from this lot for a while.’ He smiled conspiratorially at Marsh and Romney noticed, with barely concealed exasperation, that his sergeant coloured slightly. Grimes appeared.

  ‘There’re three of us.’

  ‘No problem. They’re built for foursomes.’

  Romney had to check that there was no innuendo attached to that remark. He’d come across men like matey-Masters before. Big, good-looking, brash arseholes, buckets of charisma, volumes of amusing golfing anecdotes, who saw themselves as God’s gift to women and always needing to be the centre of attention.

  ‘Can I make any sort of announcement to the chaps now that you’re here?’ said Masters.

  ‘Yes,’ said Romney. ‘Tell them that when we’ve finished they can carry on.’ He walked off towards the row of buggies. Grimes trailed after him leaving Marsh and Masters alone.

  ‘Is he always like that?’ said Masters.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘sometimes he’s a right grouch.’ And then for some bewildering reason that she couldn’t possibly explain, she winked at him before w
andering after the others, blushing deeply at her brazenness.

  *

  Masters guided them expertly around obstacles and through short cuts.

  ‘Have you seen the body?’ asked Romney, over the gentle whine of the electric motor.

  ‘No,’ said Masters. ‘I’ve had enough on my plate this morning with that lot back there. Besides, we weren’t allowed out there once the police arrived.’

  ‘What time did you arrive here today?’

  ‘Early. About six-thirty. We always get here early when we have a function.’

  ‘And what is today’s function?’

  ‘A little invitation tournament. Nothing too illustrious. Just local course players.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘About the body?’ Romney nodded. ‘Apparently chap called Duncan Smart – one of our artisan membership – was found this morning by a green-keeper who’d gone out to give the greens a final shave before the tournament got under way...’

  ‘That’s normal is it?’ interrupted Romney.

  ‘Very. Anyway, this Smart chap is sitting at the side of the green, bottle of vodka in one hand, putter in the other making no sense at all and in the middle of the green is a dead man with his head bashed in. Green-keeper – just one of our boys – jumps back on the lawnmower and high-tails it back to the shed where the head green-keeper is and that, I believe, is when you were called.’

  After a minute, Romney said, ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘This is my fifth year.’

  Romney might have been about to say something else, but the golf cart crested a rise and a group of people, androgynous at the distance, could be seen gathered on and around the green of the thirteenth hole. The day-glow colours of the emergency services stood out against the surrounding greenery. An ambulance and a police patrol car were a little further off, presumably, Romney thought, where the public highway that the young PC had mentioned came closest to the course. They approached up the middle of the brown, sun-baked fairway, nobody talking. The figures slowly came into focus: police, ambulance, civilians; males and females.

  Like an under-clubbed approach shot the golf cart came to a stop just short of the green. Most of those present were standing off the putting surface. A male and a female represented the ambulance service; three male and one female the police; three scene of crime officers, still genderless in their coveralls, even up close; two men who gave the impression of being employees of the golf course; the pathologist; a man sitting with his head in his hands and the deceased, indicated by a mound of plastic sheeting. It made an interesting composition.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Masters.

  When no one else took up the thread, Marsh said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Chap off to the right there, the short stout one.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s the head green-keeper, Bill Thatcher.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he doesn’t look very happy. Not a man to get on the wrong side of.’

  With a tone more of instruction than request, Romney said, ‘You’ll wait here for us, Mr Masters.’ The officers dismounted and walked towards the centre of attention.

  The once perfectly manicured green was scored, stained, bruised, scuffed and dented. The deceased had lost much of his blood supply where he lay. It radiated out from one end of the covered form to discolour the turf around him – the aura of a violent death. A short distance from this was a patch of vomit.

  As the trio came closer they could see further evidence of what must have been a particularly frenzied and vicious attack. Teeth, bone-fragments, more blood, body tissue and the grim expressions of the professionals involved in the clear up. Irregular white spray-paint-shapes enclosed pieces of evidence that had so far been identified, but not collected – fragments and evidence of an event so at odds with the otherwise serene and immaculate spot. Romney thought of the dreadful noises that must have disturbed the peace and stillness to create the macabre tableau.

  As others stood around, or bent to their tasks, the man Masters had identified as the head green-keeper strode to intercept them. ‘Are you in charge then?’

  Romney turned to face him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Can you do something about this lot ruining my green with their big boots? Look at the mess they’re making of it.’

  Romney took a step nearer the squat pug-faced man. He stooped slightly so that he could get fully in his face. ‘A man has had his skull smashed in. His life ended. He might be a husband, a father. He’s certainly someone’s son. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Ruining my green ain’t going to bring him back, is it?’

  Romney straightened. He was wasting his breath on this odious little man. ‘We might well have to dig some of it up yet – forensic evidence. Take it away with us.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I’ll do what I like, Mr Thatcher. Like you said, I’m in charge. Now, maybe you’d like to stop wasting my time whinging about a bit of turf and let us get on with our job. The sooner we’re done the sooner you can have your grass back.’ Romney tapped a cigarette from his packet and lit up. ‘Have you seen the body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Know him?’

  The head green-keeper eyed the policeman sullenly. Romney flicked some ash off his cigarette onto the pristine putting surface. The green-keeper’s eyes flared and his jaw tightened.

  With barely concealed pleasure, he said, ‘His own mother wouldn’t know him. Whoever did that to him made a proper job of it. And then, of course, the creatures of the night have had a dinner off him. All that blood and torn flesh, too much of a temptation for a vixen with a couple of hungry cubs, or the magpies. Not much left to recognise by the time we found him.’ Romney, quickly sick and tired of this mean old man, turned to go. ‘But I know him,’ said Thatcher.

  Romney turned back. ‘Well?’

  ‘Reckon it’s Phillip Emerson.’

  ‘What?’ said Masters, who’d come up behind them.

  ‘Who’s Phillip Emerson?’ said Romney.

  ‘A member,’ said Masters.

  ‘Another artisan?’

  ‘No, proper. Full member. Actually, he’s the club captain. Christ almighty. Are you sure, Bill?’

  The head green-keeper turned his disparaging gaze on the club professional. No love lost there, thought Romney. ‘Take a look yourself if you don’t believe me.’ He was clearly enjoying being the bearer of bad news.

  ‘You said he’s unrecognisable,’ said Romney.

  ‘Aye, his face is, but I’d know that poncy ring of his anywhere.’

  The head green-keeper turned and spat loudly into the longer grass at the edge of the green. His eyes had changed when he looked back. They had a satisfied gleam. Romney held the man’s gaze for a long moment, took a last pull on his cigarette and dropped it onto the baize-like surface and, as Thatcher opened his mouth to protest, ground it into the turf with his heel. Bill Thatcher pursed his lips and turned away.

  ‘I told you to stay with the golf cart, Mr Masters,’ said Romney. ‘This is a crime scene.’ The DI bent to retrieve his dog-end.

  Masters apologised, but he was no longer interested in being there. The blood had drained from the man’s features. Gone were the rosy-apple-cheeks, the boyish good looks of the confident big man of minutes ago. In moments he had become a poor imitation of himself. Without another word, Masters turned and began walking slowly back to the golf cart. Romney opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. He’d keep.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ said the pathologist, getting awkwardly to his feet. He flexed his knee several times, making a face.

  ‘Morning, Maurice. Bit grim, isn’t it?’

  ‘You could say that. I wonder if it isn’t time I started thinking about packing this in.’ Whether it was the older man’s joints or what he had been dealing with that inspired this comment, Romney couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard him say
something similar. ‘Want to take a look?’

  ‘In a moment.’

  A loud retching sound made them both look around to where one of the constables was doubled over, puking his last meal into the rough.

  ‘Hope you brought a strong stomach with you. It’s about as messy as it gets. Looks like he was alive when he arrived here, although I couldn’t say what state he would have been in. Possibly, rude good health. But here’s where he lost his blood. If he was brought here dead there wouldn’t be so much of it. His system wouldn’t have been pumping it out of him still. Impossible to say here and now how he died, although my guess would be one of the several blows he sustained to his cranium. It’s very thorough. Whoever did it, and it may well have been more than one person, must have been aiming to kill him at least.’

  ‘What do you mean, ‘at least’?’

  ‘For some attackers, killing their victim isn’t enough. They want to disfigure and dismantle, completely destroy the physical being. It’s more than just ending a life. There is certainly an indication of sustained and focussed rage. If it was one person they’d have needed a stomach to match their resolve and their fury.’ The pathologist smiled weakly, realising that he was straying beyond his scientific remit. ‘Just an old man’s observations and theories,’ he added. ‘He must have been out here for a good few hours. Rigour is well advanced and some of the woodland creatures had time to build up the confidence to investigate and then use him as a buffet. No doubt you’ve noticed the bits and pieces of his head littering the place. I would say that some of these are as a result of carrion feeders, but others, like the teeth over there,’ he indicated one of the spray-painted outlines, ‘and there, a fragment of skull complete with hair, are probably the shrapnel of some very forceful blows.’

  Romney swallowed and his throat was dry. ‘Murder weapon?’

  ‘No. But you might be looking for murder weapons.’ Romney raised his eyebrows. ‘On the face of it, oh dear, that was an unfortunate expression,’ said the pathologist, without a trace of humour. ‘You know what I mean. The nature of some of the impressions left by whatever he was struck with are inconsistent with each other. That is to say, they are not uniform. I’ll need to examine what’s left of him properly before I can officially commit to that though. But…’