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

by Oliver Tidy

  *

  Julie dropped him at the station with an arrangement that they would meet again that evening. As he wandered inside, he decided that he would get her a key cut. See how she took the gesture.

  Marsh was already at her desk. Romney could see that she was still openly shouldering the burden of losing Emerson’s phone. His good mood prompted him to show her some charity.

  ‘Fancy coming to look around Emerson’s flat before we go and see the girlfriend?’

  Her relief that she was still in favour was evident in her reply. ‘Yes, sir.’

  *

  Their arrival at Phillip Emerson’s love nest yielded one part of the puzzle surrounding the man’s death. Tucked away in a side street, fifty yards from the front door, sat a black Range Rover HSE Sport. Marsh noticed it as they passed. They parked up and went for a closer look. The number plate confirmed it was Emerson’s.

  ‘Spotless,’ said Romney, cupping his hands to the tinted window. He tried the handle in vain. ‘The keys could be in the flat, I suppose,’ he said. ‘If not we’ll ask William Emerson to look out the spares for us. Arrange to have it collected and looked over.’

  The top floor flat was situated in Waterloo Crescent, an attractive curve of well maintained black and white buildings dating from the 1830s, which lined the seafront. Originally constructed as a development of fashionable town houses catering to the fancies of the wealthier members of Dover society, most had long since been converted into hotels and business accommodation with just a couple, like the one in which Emerson’s flat was situated, remaining residential, even if they were now partitioned off into flats.

  A uniformed constable stood at the entrance, preventing anyone from entering until the police had got what they wanted from it. He informed the officers that a woman, tall, short blonde hair and upset had been turned away without giving her name late the previous night.

  Romney said, ‘What do you mean, wouldn’t give her name? Did you ask for it?’

  The young constable looked awkward. ‘I don’t think that I did, sir. It was very late.’

  ‘Woke you up did she? Next time you’re put on watch Constable...?’

  ‘Palmer, sir.’

  ‘Next time you’re put on watch, Constable Palmer, you record the name of everyone who visits, whether they get in or not. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You might have let a murderer get away.’ Romney pushed in through the heavily black-glossed door trailing his annoyance behind him.

  An ornately carved oak banister led visitors up a neutrally coloured, but expensive looking, carpeted staircase. Prints of old Dover in matching frames added to the impression that was trying to be created for the novice caller.

  A solid, old six-panel door – ruined by the addition of a modern Yale lock – opened onto a spacious and tastefully furnished period apartment that was neat and well kept. Large sash windows flanked by heavy velvet drapes were designed to make the most of the aspect.

  The flat was filled with light. A pleasant underlying smell reminded Romney of a house he used to visit as a child – old furniture and polish. French windows opened on to a small balcony that afforded splendid uninterrupted views across the narrow band of shingle beach and the English Channel beyond.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Romney. ‘Business must have been good. Find out whether it’s rented or mortgaged.’

  ‘What are we looking for, sir?’ said Marsh.

  Romney smiled benevolently at her. ‘I have no idea, but I hope that when I see I’ll know it. Quite possibly they’ll be nothing here that’ll help us determine who killed him, but you never know. Keep an eye out for paperwork especially, oh, and a set of golf clubs covered in blood.’

  Separately, they made a perfunctory sweep of the lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. On the kitchen worktop a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat next to a chunky glass tumbler. The packaging from a microwaveable meal and the remains of it melded to a plate had been thrown into the sink.

  Romney began rummaging through the drawers of a Victorian roll-top desk, while Marsh began searching in earnest in the bedrooms.

  It was soon clear that, unless there was anything that was very well hidden, then there was nothing in the flat particularly interesting, or sensitive. Nothing for a man to have his head smashed in for. Emerson hadn’t appeared to view the place as somewhere to burden with the paperwork and detritus of his life. In fact there was very little of a personal nature at all, lending substance to the idea that this was simply a romantic hideaway – a love nest for someone who could afford it.

  It was in the spare bedroom beneath a pile of mothballed blankets at the bottom of a worm-riddled antique wardrobe that Marsh found something interesting. It was only because of its incongruity with the otherwise entirely period surroundings that it caught her attention. If her eye had drifted across it in a more modern environment, even if it had been stuffed at the bottom of a wardrobe as this was, she may well not have paid it much more than cursory attention. As it was, she called for Romney before touching it.

  He put his head around the door. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Probably nothing, sir, but it’s out of place here.’

  Marsh lifted up the pile of blankets so that Romney could see the compact disc in its clear plastic case. He joined her and, using one of the ubiquitous evidence bags that were never out of his pockets as a barrier between his prints and any on it, removed it from where it had been secreted. He held it up for them both to read what had been written in marker pen across it – Spain, 2011.

  ‘What do you reckon? Holiday snaps?’ said Romney.

  Marsh was disappointed not to have stirred something more in the DI. She had amends to make.

  ‘Might not even be Emerson’s. Could be his sons. If he ever stayed over here, this probably would have been the room he slept in. Better check it out, anyway.’ He wrapped it in the little plastic sack, handed it to Marsh and checked his watch. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here. Come on. They do a very nice bacon sandwich and proper coffee at the De Bradelei centre in the next street. We’ve just got time before we meet the girlfriend if we get a move on.’

  To Romney’s chagrin, the De Bradelei shopping centre and its cafeteria did not open until ten o’clock. Hungry and complaining, he drove them the short distance along the coast road to the marina entrance. Showing his warrant card got him a parking space inside. From there it was a short walk to the cafeteria along the harbour wall where they had agreed to meet Lillian West.

  As Marsh sipped her black instant coffee, Romney occupied himself with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich that was never going to match up to the one he had prepared his insides for. Still, it was better than nothing.

  ‘How do you get along with Wilkie?’ said Romney.

  The suddenness of the question took Marsh by surprise. Wilkie was a thorn in her side. He might have jeopardised her position and her career by taking important evidence from her desk, but she didn’t want to come across as bitching about colleagues. If she had proof, things might be different, but even then she wouldn’t do it like this.

  ‘I haven’t had much to do with him.’

  ‘You know that he was my first choice sergeant before you turned up and he went on paternity leave? Hobson’s choice, actually, seeing as he was the only sergeant.’ Romney took a large bite of his bacon sandwich. Through the mouthful, he said, ‘He asked me to give you The Parking Medal Man and put him on this case.’

  Marsh was aware that Romney was studying her as he said this, but she was still unable to keep the angry flush from her face. ‘I understand that he’s an ambitious officer,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he sees my presence as a threat to his aspirations.’

  ‘And his ego. Very restrained political answer by the way. You’ll go far.’ He signalled to the woman on the counter for a refill of his tea.

  ‘Are you going to replace me with him?’ she said. Marsh understood that the question was border
ing on impertinence, but he’d lifted the lid. He shouldn’t complain if something he didn’t like crawled out.

  Romney smiled not without humour. ‘No. Not yet. But if you go on losing vital evidence, I might be forced to reconsider.’

  Marsh bit her tongue, choking off the response that sprang to mind. She struggled to suppress her indignation – her natural reaction to defend herself – and was certain she hadn’t made a great job of it. And then the thought occurred to her that perhaps Romney suspected Wilkie of taking the phone. She met his eye and held it for a long moment. Just as she opened her mouth to say something Romney stood up, his full interest transferred to movement behind her. Marsh turned in her seat to see a tall woman with short blonde hair standing at the counter.

  ‘Looks like Mrs West has arrived,’ said Romney.

  At the sound of his voice the woman turned around and gave him a brief nod before returning to the counter to collect a cup and saucer.

  In the short time it took her to cover the distance between the counter and their table a myopic unschooled observer would have had to conclude that she had the poise and confidence that money brings. Despite the trouble she had clearly gone to to dress down for the meeting, she couldn’t hide her breeding, or the self-assurance, that came as a result of her privileged existence. She threaded her way effortlessly between the closely packed tables and chairs towards them. Reaching them and ignoring Marsh, she said, ‘Mr Romney?’

  ‘Mrs West? said Romney, noting the lack of his police status in her greeting. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘Not to my recollection. Why do you ask?’

  ‘We’re not exactly advertising the fact that we are police officers.’

  She laughed softly. ‘You don’t have to. Shall I sit?’ She did without further discussion.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Marsh,’ said Romney.

  The woman bestowed a haughty suggestion of condescension on Marsh before turning her attention back to Romney. ‘And how did you know who I am?’

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ said Romney.

  She forced herself to smile ever so slightly. ‘Very good, Inspector.’ Her voice emphasised her class, and she couldn’t have had that register, thought Romney, without at least one pack a day over many years. ‘Firstly, I’d like to say that I appreciate your discretion in this matter,’ she said.

  Striving to make up some of the ground he felt he had lost to the woman simply in their greeting, Romney said, ‘I’m not sure how long that will be possible for.’

  Marsh, who had taken an instant dislike to Mrs West and what she represented, took some satisfaction in her obvious discomfort at this news.

  ‘Oh. I had hoped that I could, what do you call it, assist you with your enquiries and then be left alone to grieve.’

  The two officers would later concur that there was not much evidence of the grieving about her that particular morning.

  ‘That might be possible from our point of view,’ said Romney. ‘It really depends on whether your relationship with the deceased was anything to do with his death. Was it?’

  Lillian West answered without a hint of discomfort at the directness of the question. ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘I would imagine that as the late Mr Emerson’s affairs are settled – an expression he instantly regretted – something of your relationship might come out into the open. What people choose to do with that information will be out of our control.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. She turned her attention to the untouched tea in front of her.

  Romney said, ‘What exactly was your relationship with Mr Emerson?’

  ‘Do you mind telling me where you got my number from?’

  Romney said, ‘Mr Emerson’s son gave it to us.’

  ‘William. Of course. Oh well, I suppose it would come out eventually. If you got my number from William you must know what my relationship was with Phillip.’

  ‘We do need to hear it from you. William Emerson was sparing with details.’

  ‘He’s a sweet boy. We actually got on pretty well, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘Considering I’d been having a long-term affair with his father behind his mother’s back. But then I suppose that his connivance made him just as guilty. That’s the wrong word. I never felt guilty about it from his side of things.’

  ‘What did you feel guilty about?’

  ‘My husband is not like Phillip’s wife. My husband loves me, Inspector. My husband will be devastated if this becomes public knowledge. It will be very harmful.’

  Perhaps you should have thought about that before you started playing around behind his back then, thought Romney.

  As though reading his mind, she said, ‘Don’t seek to judge me, Inspector. You don’t know anything about us.’

  ‘Let’s talk about Phillip Emerson, Mrs West. Do you know how he was killed?’

  ‘Yes. My husband is a member at the White Cliffs Golf Club. As you can probably imagine, it’s quite a topic of discussion there at the moment.’

  ‘Do you know why anyone would want to do that to him? Why they would want to kill him? Being his lover I would imagine that you were privy to his secrets.’

  She mulled the questions and the comment for a long moment. ‘No. I have no idea why anyone would want to kill him. If he had secrets, he didn’t share them with me. I think that possibly you have misinterpreted the nature of our association. Ours was really just a physical relationship.’ She looked him in the eye and said, ‘I believe that the common terminology is fuck-buddies. We were friends, of course, but really it was all about sex. The whys and wherefores are none of your business. We met a couple of times a week at his flat in Waterloo Crescent. That was it.’

  ‘What were you doing at the flat last night?’

  ‘Who said I was there?’

  ‘I told you, Mrs West. I’m a policeman.’

  Her forced good humour was evaporating. ‘I thought I’d left something of mine there. Something personal and private. I wanted to retrieve it, naturally, before the police started poking around.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Some underwear.’

  ‘We didn’t find any?’

  ‘I had it after all. Found it at home.’ Neither Marsh nor Romney believed her. ‘Look, I’m sorry that Phillip is dead. I’m sorry for him and for William. But I don’t know anything about it. If I did, I would tell you. If anything occurs to me, I will get in touch with you. Now, unless there is something else, I would like to get on with my day.’ She rose to emphasise her determination that the meeting was at an end.

  Get on with her day. Not get on with trying to rebuild her life. Not get on with trying to come to terms with her loss. Romney took a spiteful swipe at her. ‘From what you’ve told us, I’m afraid that we will almost certainly need to speak with your husband, Mrs West.’

  She sat down again. Her features had hardened and there were spots of colour in her cheeks. ‘Why?’

  ‘You say that your husband loves you and that knowledge of your relationship with Phillip Emerson will devastate him. Jealous husbands have been known to resort to violence when they discover that they have been cuckolded. Perhaps your husband already knows about your affair?’

  ‘And what? Beat Phillip’s brains in with a golf club? Inspector, my husband is eighty-four years old. He can barely get his arms up to put a jumper on in the morning. The only reason he goes to the golf club is to socialise. I’m telling you that he did not know about Phillip Emerson and me and even if he had he wouldn’t have had the strength, the stupidity, or the opportunity to have killed him. He was with me all evening at home the night that Phillip was killed.’

  ‘What makes you think that Phillip Emerson was beaten to death with a golf club?’ said Marsh.

  With a slow deliberate indignation, as though she had relegated Marsh’s presence at the table to that of non-speaking observer and was quietly outraged at her impertinence, Lillian West turned her whole
head to focus her cold, blue eyes on the officer. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You just said that Phillip Emerson’s brains had been beaten in with a golf club,’ said Marsh, refusing to be intimidated. ‘I asked you, and I’ll ask you again, what makes you say that?’

  Lillian West drew out the moment letting her gaze roam over Marsh’s clothing. Clearly, she was unimpressed with what met her eye. ‘I believe my husband may have mentioned it at the club, or it might have been one of the other members. I don’t recall. Everyone was guessing about it last night. The place was very busy.’

  *

  ‘That one would give Margaret Thatcher a run for her money in the ‘iron lady’ class,’ said Romney as they watched Lillian West stride purposefully away from them to exit the cafe. She didn’t look back. Her tea sat untouched.

  ‘Bit before my time, sir,’ said Marsh, ‘but I’m guessing she must have been a tough cold bitch.’

  ‘I believe that some of the mining communities and union members of the day may have shared that opinion.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘About what specifically?’

  ‘Any of it. All of it.’

  ‘I believe that Phillip Emerson didn’t mean much to her. If her old man’s eighty-four, and as infirm as she’d have us believe, that might explain her relationship with Emerson. Emerson’s wife told us that their marriage was in name only. Perhaps it was just a bit of mutual itch scratching. Remind me to ask William Emerson how he thought his father regarded Lillian West.’

  ‘What about the golf club thing?’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe I should have another word with matey Masters and see what the consensus of golf-club opinion and gossip is on the murder weapon.’

  ‘And why she was at the flat?’

  Romney smiled. ‘That, I didn’t believe.’