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

by Oliver Tidy

  To inject further life into the story, which had slowly edged its way towards the front pages of the paper threatening to one day spill onto the front page itself, the public of Dover had been invited to use the weekly as a medium through which to debate the issue. Opinion, again no doubt editorially manipulated, appeared to be divided over the topic. In one camp were those who said that if someone parked their vehicle obstructing a pedestrian right of way then they got what they deserved if The Parking Medal Man found them. Others saw that condoning such self-appointed police, judge and jury types set dangerous precedents for society. Then there were those, usually from within the growing number of victims, who believed that if the police ever managed to catch him, he should suffer some of his own hammer justice.

  Column inches had even been provided for the opinions of lecturers from the local Kent University. Professional educators and experts in the fields of criminal psychology, sociology and psychiatry discussed and offered insights into the likely motivation, state-of-mind and broad social group identity of The Parking Medal Man, as well as the broader issues of the day relating to the acts that could have helped provoke and foster such behaviour. The newspaper space was greedily gobbled up by the pompous, narcissistic personalities in their ivory towers to provide blocks of text largely incomprehensible to the ordinary citizen of the town.

  Behind all the bluff and bluster, the press, despite the criminal aspect of the acts, had firmly stuck their collective tongue in their proverbial cheek. It had become a circus, a joke, a professional nightmare for Wilkie. Inevitably, it had not been long before the police were singled out as not doing enough to make an arrest and to protect the ‘hard-earned property of the people of Dover’. Comparisons were made with other aspects of local crime and the expectations that the people of the area could reasonably hold given that the police seemed unable to apprehend this person and curtail his ‘reign of terror’. Through constant manipulation by the press, public pressure appeared to be mounting as the number of attacks grew. Naturally, as the police came in for criticism and unwelcome attention the top brass began to take an interest and bring their own pressures to bear internally for a swift and satisfactory resolution to the problem.

  One reader of the local rag with delusions of being some sort of wag had even composed a poem to celebrate the actions of what she saw as a long overdue blow for pedestrians in the fight for their rights over motor vehicles. The newspaper had published it, naturally, and even suggested that a local similar ‘talent’ might care to put the words to music.

  Anonymous parties within the station had photocopied the poem and put it up around the building imagining this to be funny. As fast as Wilkie managed to tear them down they re-appeared. It added to his anger, embarrassment and frustration.

  The Parking Medal Man

  He’s the parking medal man

  Self-appointed guardian

  Of the places and the spaces

  Meant for pedestrians.

  He’s the parking medal man

  And it’s time someone took a stand

  Against the selfish folk

  Who make us so incensed.

  He’s the parking medal man

  He’ll decorate your car or your van

  If you leave it parked somewhere

  That you know you really shouldn’t.

  He’s the parking medal man

  If you mispark your car or van

  He’ll do his worst you’re not the first

  Don’t think he wouldn’t.

  We’re sick and tired of you blocking the way

  Behaving with impunity

  Like it’s your right to park wherever you like

  Without a thought for who might need

  To pass in relative safety

  On a path designed for people not cars and vans.

  If and when Wilkie ever got his hands on the individual who was making his life a misery, he hoped to God that he could catch him red-handed and alone. He vowed that he’d redefine the boundaries of self-defence while making an arrest in justifying the kicking that he’d mete out. He’d show that bastard some street justice.

  ‘To be honest, sir, we’re little further forward with it. We’ve had another two cases reported this week and again no one saw, or heard, a thing. All we know is that he’s obviously mobile enough to get around the town – he’s struck all over the place but there’s no pattern to it – and he’s able to strike at any time of day or night, which suggests he doesn’t work, or works shifts, or works but is mobile with it. It’s my view that we’re only going to catch him in the act. We need some luck.’

  Romney leant his elbows on the chair’s armrests and the steepled his fingers. His expression was serious. ‘I can’t take you off it. It’s become important because of all the publicity surrounding it and the pressure from above. It needs sorting and quickly. You’ve been on it from the start and I want you to see it through.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I’m senior to Marsh. I should be on the murder enquiry not chasing a car vandal around town. She could take over The Parking Medal Man.’ The words threatened to stick in his throat. ‘I could bring her up to speed on it in a few minutes.’

  ‘That, Brian, is as far as I want you to go. You’ve made your point, and it’s been noted. But my decision is final. Is that clear?’

  Wilkie made little effort to conceal his disappointment. ‘Yes, sir. Perfectly.’

  ‘Look,’ said Romney, relaxing, ‘I can understand how you must feel. If you can tie it up before we get too far with Emerson’s murder, I’ll be glad to have you on board. Is there anything you need, extra people, anything like that? Have you thought about a honey trap?’

  ‘Isn’t that entrapment, sir?’

  Romney smiled in what he hoped was a conspiratorial way. ‘You should know by now, Brian, that in my book, if the ends justify the means, I’ll worry about the legal side of things if and when I have to. If we have to check the flexibility of a rule or two now and again in order to get the job done, then so be it. Make myself clear?’

  Wilkie thought about it for a moment. It just might work. He smiled back at his DI, suddenly able to see himself killing several birds with one stone. He’d bait it and wait himself. Nab the bastard, give him a bloody good hiding, bask in the media spot-light of being the one who captured and exposed the Parking Medal Freak and if the brass were taking an interest now then they’d be sure to take an interest in whoever brought the case to a satisfactory conclusion. And then he’d be back in the fold. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Romney’s phone rang. ‘Yes. Good. Tell him to wait there. I’ll be down in a minute. Right then, Brian,’ he said, replacing the receiver, ‘are we clear?’ Romney was on his feet, pulling on his suit jacket and making for the door.

  ‘Crystal, sir.

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  Outside his office Romney called across for Marsh to make herself available – William Emerson was at the front desk. Marsh looked up to see the DI and Wilkie exchange words. Romney patted him on the shoulder and began walking towards her. For a moment she locked eyes with Wilkie over the DI’s shoulder and saw in the look he gave her that she had made an enemy.

  When Romney and Marsh had left to speak with the dead man’s son, Wilkie visited the water cooler, which just happened to be near Marsh’s desk. He enjoyed a long cool drink affecting an interest in the view across the town centre rooftops in the warm summer’s afternoon. He noticed Marsh had left her mobile phone on her desk. How trusting. How silly. He made a casual sweep of the room with his eyes and slipped it into his pocket. The least he owed her was some inconvenience. Refreshed and pleased with himself he left.

  *

  ‘Thank you for coming in to see us so quickly, William,’ said Romney. ‘It’s much appreciated at what must be a very difficult time for you and your family. My condolences for your loss.’

  The young man nodded without speaking. He looked drained, preoccupied and anxious. He had a right to. Wherever he ha
d been the night before, Romney didn’t believe that he had found time to clean himself up and change. Romney’s immediate impression of the lad was that he was suffering under some huge burden. It could be the loss of his father, but Romney’s intuition suspected the weight had been there for a long time. The gait, the posture and the troubled expression were entrenched.

  ‘We could have come to see you at your home,’ said Romney.

  ‘I’d rather speak to you here. Mum is, well, she’s upset.’ William Emerson was a softly spoken and articulate young man.

  ‘Of course. I understand. I hope you won’t find this offensive, but was Phillip Emerson your biological father?’ William looked as though Romney couldn’t have said what he believed he’d heard. Romney pre-empted the reply before it had fully formed in the young man’s mind. ‘Sorry if that seems an odd question, but it was something your mother said today. She referred to you as her boy.’

  William smiled without warmth. The effect on his countenance was to make him look very young, very vulnerable and even sadder. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘She just calls me that. I think it was something she developed to try to antagonise my father and it became commonplace as an expression. Yes, he was my father, my biological father.’

  ‘What exactly has your mother told you about your father’s death?’

  ‘That he was murdered and found on the golf course. She said he’d died from a blow to the head.’ The boy was alert enough to catch the look exchanged between the two police officers. ‘Is that not true?’

  ‘It is true,’ said Romney, ‘but it wasn’t just one blow. I’m sorry, William, but he was pretty badly beaten.’ The boy’s jaw muscles tensed and worked. ‘I’m sure that your mother was just looking to spare you the details. Would you like a drink of water or something? It’s very hot in here.’ William Emerson shook his head. ‘William, I need to ask you a few questions. I hope you understand that some of them I’m obliged to ask for the benefit of the investigation I’m leading into your father’s death.’

  The lad made a watery eye contact with Romney. ‘Sorry, could I please have that glass of water?’

  Romney nodded to Marsh and she left the room. ‘Just to stress this is not a formal interview of any sort, William. We’re not making any recordings or anything like that. You understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Marsh returned with a plastic cup of water from the cooler outside. William thanked her and took a couple of shallow sips.

  ‘We need to piece together the last movements of your father. Do you know where he was last night?’

  ‘Probably at the golf club. He spent a lot of time there.’

  ‘He was club captain, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, whatever that means.’ There was a touch of bitterness behind his words.

  ‘Not a golfer yourself then?’

  ‘No, not anymore.’

  ‘When did you last see your father, William?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. We ate out together. I didn’t see him yesterday at all. He’d left for work before I got up and he didn’t come home.’

  ‘Your mother told us that it wasn’t unusual for him to stay out all night.’ The lad nodded. A look of disappointment clouded his boyish features. Whether it was at his father’s regular absences, or his mother’s volunteering of them, Romney could only guess. ‘Do you know where he was when he didn’t come home? Where he spent his time when he wasn’t at the golf club?’

  Without much apparent thought for the disclosure, William said, ‘He has a flat on the seafront, near the De Bradelei Wharf shopping complex.’

  ‘Does your mother know about it?’ said Romney.

  William shook his head. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t. She’d have raised hell.’

  ‘Why?’

  The sad half smile was back. ‘Why do you think, Inspector? He couldn’t exactly bring her home could he?’

  Somewhere close outside the barred small window a blackbird was berating an intruder into its territory. For the first time since she’d been in the room Marsh became aware that the clock above the door could be heard ticking off every second.

  Romney said, ‘Do you know the address?’

  ‘You can have my key if you like,’ said William. He took out a small bunch of them and removed one. Marsh noted the address as he dictated it to her. Showing a maturity and compassion beyond his appearance, he said, ‘It would probably be kinder to my mother if she didn’t know that you got the key from me. She’ll find out about his love-nest, of course, but I would hope that she could be spared the extra anguish of knowing I was aware of it.’

  ‘And using it?’ said Romney.

  ‘I went there occasionally.’

  ‘You met his, what shall we call her? Girlfriend?’

  ‘Might as well. Yes. She was all right really. I couldn’t dislike her. It’s not like she came between him and my mother. There wasn’t ever anything to come between that I can remember.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Lillian West. Do you want her phone number?’

  William Emerson took out his mobile phone and dictated the number to Marsh.

  ‘Have you spoken to her since your mother told you about your father?’

  He shook his head. ‘I have her number, but it’s only in case of an emergency.’ He caught his words and again the sad ghost of a smile was hovering at the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, it’s not an emergency really, is it? There’s nothing to be done about it now. Besides, don’t you think that it would be a little surreal, me phoning my father’s girlfriend to tell her he’s been murdered, while my mother sits in the next room sobbing? She’s married too.’

  Romney tried a look of compassionate understanding but couldn’t be sure what he actually managed. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said.

  ‘Where were you last night, William? Your mother said that you weren’t at home either.’

  ‘I was at my girlfriend’s home. Would you like her number too?’ There was no sarcasm in his words just a straightforwardness that Romney found refreshing after years of dealing with the emotionally disturbed. He found himself warming to the young man opposite him.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, William. I just needed to ask. One last question: do you know of any enemies your father may have had? Why someone may have wanted to kill him?’

  ‘I truly have no idea,’ said the young man, and Romney believed him completely.

  ***

  5

  Romney and Marsh stood in the shade of the one tree that sat on the site of Dover police station. The large, leafy walnut of old age provided welcome shelter for smokers in the heat of summer, much to the disapproval of Superintendent Falkner. Seeing them gathered around its trunk puffing away dependently irritated him and spoilt the view from his office window. A tree preservation order was the only thing that prevented him from ordering in the chainsaws. Requests for a bench had been denied. Officers were not to be encouraged to pursue their filthy habit in any sort of comfort. A bucket of sand was a constant wagging-finger to them to dispose of their dog-ends responsibly.

  Romney took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘What do you make of that then?’

  ‘If you mean, am I surprised that the man was cheating on his wife? then the answer is no. I get surprised when men remain faithful. If he can afford somewhere discreet to do it then fair play to him. It’s interesting that he had his son’s connivance. But, if it worked for them all then fair enough, I suppose.’

  ‘We’ve yet to find out whether it was working for them all,’ said Romney. ‘What do you think of the boy?’

  ‘Sad. Looks like he’s got the world on his shoulders. Too young to look like that.’ She looked sideways at Romney. ‘I don’t think that he killed his father if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘Me neither, but I didn’t think that Carl Park was a rapist when I first met him.’

  Romney’s reference was to one of Dover’s most appalling crimes of
recent years. It was the first time he and Marsh had worked together. It was also a tacit reminder that open minds were to be kept and everyone would always be considered a suspect to some degree until the facts made the idea an impossibility.

  ‘Organise a meeting with the girlfriend. She can come here, or we can meet her somewhere. If she’s married, she probably won’t want us spoiling her evening by calling at home. Ten minutes we’re off to the golf club. I want another chat with Masters.’ He stubbed his smoke into the sand, instinctively glancing up to see Superintendent Falkner looking down from his office above. Romney smiled and nodded, amused to be caught doing the right thing by his ever vigilant boss.

  *

  When Romney stepped out of his office he found Marsh taking her desk apart. Drawers were out and documents were piled on the floor and her chair. Even though she didn’t look it, he said, ‘Ready?’

  Marsh came out from looking under her desk for the fourth time. ‘No, sir. I can’t find Phillip Emerson’s mobile phone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sure I left it here. I know I did. I was collecting information from it before we went to interview William Emerson.’ A desperate almost whining tone infected her speech.

  ‘How sure? Could you have taken it with you? Where else have you been?’

  She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have taken it with me. Why would I?’ The question was intended as rhetorical, but to her own ears came off as an irritated reply to a senior officer. ‘Shit.’

  Romney breathed out audibly and deeply. ‘Find it. I’ll take Grimes with me. What were you thinking anyway, leaving that kind of evidence lying around?’