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

by Oliver Tidy

‘So, what was she doing there?’

  ‘No idea and she certainly isn’t going to tell us. Let’s get it searched properly before we give up on it. Anymore questions?’

  ‘Just one, what does cuckolded mean?’

  *

  From her desk, as her computer was booting up, Marsh contacted William Emerson and discovered that the flat was rented and not mortgaged. She told him that the police would be finished with it by the evening and that he could do what he wanted about it.

  Romney disappeared into his office and telephoned his insurance company to discover that he had not opted to take out breakdown cover when he had taken out his policy with them, but that he could do so now for a mere one hundred and forty pounds. He said he’d think about it. He immediately called police vehicle maintenance and was told that they were doing their best to get to him, but they still had sickness absences, a heavy workload and now someone on summer leave. Balking at the thought of paying out nearly a hundred fifty pounds for what was probably just a flat battery, he decided to continue to make do with the pool car and wait until maintenance could get around to him. Scowling, he looked up to see Marsh signalling him to her.

  As he approached her desk his attention was drawn to her computer screen where an image of a semi-naked woman filled it. Before he could speak another took its place. In this one a different and completely naked woman could be seen hanging on to the arm of a man with all his clothes on. He was laughing and carried a large glass full of fruit, straws and umbrellas. Two further images of naked women with men in various states of undress passed across the screen before Romney spoke. ‘Did you get me out here to look at mucky pictures, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She clicked back several and said, ‘Recognise anyone?’

  He leaned down to stare at the screen. Perhaps half-a-dozen men were standing together holding either bottles of beer or cocktails in an artificially lit room. The decor looked foreign. The men were dressed as though out on the town on a package holiday. The camera had caught many of them laughing and pointing. All of them were focussed on another man, whose face was not clear because he was upending a bottle to empty it. In front of him on their knees were two women in underwear clearly chosen for the occasion. What they were doing to him was not explicit, but left little to the imagination. Romney looked again at the men lined up and jeering drunkenly. He could almost hear them, could almost smell the cigarette and cigar smoke, could almost taste the fruity alcoholic drinks, could almost feel the balmy evening warmth of the Spanish evening on his skin.

  ‘Is that Masters?’

  ‘Yes. What about him?’ She pointed to a man whose face was partly obscured.

  Romney peered closely at it. ‘It can’t be. Can it?’ Marsh clicked forward a couple of images to a picture that left the DI in no doubt that he was looking at an old adversary. ‘Maybe there is a God after all,’ he said. He was almost laughing. ‘I take it that this is the disc recovered from Emerson’s flat?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How many images are there on it?’

  ‘Dozens.’

  Romney pulled up a chair. ‘From the beginning then.’

  They determined that there were eight men in total. It appeared that these eight men – all of whom were clearly identifiable from the selection of images – were on holiday together, probably without their spouses. They were all heterosexual, at least. This was proven by the number of images that had captured them engaged in sexual encounters with a variety of young women. Some of the images were explicit. Almost all had a professional clarity, even though Romney and Marsh came to the agreement that they must have been taken covertly. There were no poses for the camera.

  When they had finished, Romney stood and opened a window. The room had grown hot and stuffy and he needed a lungful of clean fresh air. What he got was traffic fumes and noise.

  ‘Looks to me like a boys’ get-away,’ said Marsh. ‘Could be they’re all golfers. I’ve heard its one of those interests that can get men away together without their wives for a long-weekend. It’s certainly not around here. And boys will be boys, especially when they’re let off the leash in a pack for a couple of days.’ Romney gave her a questioning look. ‘I have a brother that goes in for that sort of thing. Breaks away with the lads, that is. I gather that sometimes some of them can act like they’ve escaped from prison and are expecting to be rounded up any day.’

  ‘What was written on the CD?’

  ‘Spain, 2011.’

  Romney checked his watch and drummed his fingers on the window-cill. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Ordinarily, this wouldn’t signify anything other than memories of a lads’ dirty weekend. However, given the murder and the fact that this was apparently hidden and so out of place with its surroundings makes me interested in following it up.’

  ‘With Masters or our friend?’

  Romney smiled wickedly. ‘Let’s do Masters first, shall we? I always like to save the best till last.’ Marsh could see that the DI was going to enjoy confronting the men with the sordid pictures. ‘Get a few printed off. I want crystal clear images of all those present. We’ll go and see Masters after lunch. Now, any idea where I can get a key cut?’

  *

  When he returned from his trip into town, Romney found Marsh eating something out of a paper bag at her desk. She looked pleased with herself. ‘Got those pictures?’ She tapped an A4 buff envelope, as she tried to swallow to speak. It only gave her a coughing fit. Romney gave an impression of a disapproving father as she choked. He picked up the package, took a quick look inside and put them under his arm. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

  Marsh recovered enough to get some water down her throat and clear the obstruction. She threw the bag with the remainder of a sandwich into her wire-basket bin, brushed the crumbs off her work surface, checked her computer, ejected the compact disc and put it into its clear plastic case. She set this on top of the paperwork, snatched up her bag and hurried out.

  *

  As the two police officers strode across the manicured lawn towards the pro-shop, Romney spied Elliot Masters grappling with an old woman in front of a net screen. A smirk warped the policeman’s features. Masters, towering over the frail, but smiling, old woman, appeared to have her in a bear hug from behind. She was bent over swinging a golf club half-heartedly and giggling. Locked in their awkward embrace they found a moment of harmony, swung and connected with the small white sphere before them. It shot along the ground and under the netting to bobble into the long grass beyond. The woman let out a shriek of delight. Masters looked up to see the police watching this display and caught their shared amusement. He smiled sheepishly, but broadly, and for a moment Marsh was saddened by what they were about to do to him. And then she remembered his part in more than one of the photographs and her sympathy for him was replaced by something hard and judgemental. Masters spoke something to his mature student and left her to practise whatever it was she was clearly far from mastering.

  ‘Should she be left alone in there?’ said Romney.

  ‘She needs the practice – practice makes perfect you know.’

  ‘I thought that it was perfect practice makes perfect,’ said Romney. ‘Won’t do her much good to be practising bad habits will it?’

  ‘To be honest, Inspector,’ said Masters, bristling slightly at Romney’s thinly veiled criticism of his tutoring, ‘nothing is going to do poor old Mrs Bates’ game much good. She can barely heft the club let alone swing it. Any contact with the ball is to be applauded.’

  ‘But you don’t mind taking her money for lessons, even though she can’t be helped?’

  ‘It’s not a lesson. It’s part of the goodwill that goes with being the golf-professional. I get to waste my time and energy giving golfing tips and tidbits of instruction to the aged and infirm, the incompetent and hopeless, who remain blind to the fact that they just aren’t ever going to be cut out for the beautiful game of golf, but who, none-the-less, continue to renew the
ir rather expensive annual membership fees.’

  ‘At least she seems to be enjoying herself.’

  ‘She’s bored, that’s all. Is it me you have come to speak to?’

  ‘Actually, yes. The police need you to assist us with our enquiries.’ Romney, gave no hint of the bomb-shell he was about to drop in the lap of the big inoffensive man.

  Marsh wished that her boss would just get on with. She never liked to watch the family cat toying with the things it caught when she was a child and she hadn’t gotten a taste for it as an adult.

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Masters, a little warily. ‘Of course, I’ll help in any way I can.’ He adopted an air of respectful solemnity and lowered his voice. ‘I take it this about poor old Phillip Emerson’s murder is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Romney. ‘By the way, what are people saying at the club about his death, specifically about how and with what he might have been killed?’

  Masters seemed at a loss for a moment before saying, ‘Naturally, there’s a lot of gossip and rumour. Most of it is completely groundless, but you know what people are like.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Romney.

  For a moment Masters looked like he regretted his disclosure. ‘Well there’s talk that he might have been struck down by some jealous husband.’

  ‘Are there any jealous husbands in the club that might have had cause to go after Phillip Emerson with murderous intent?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Masters. ‘Like I said, it’s probably just idle gossip. I didn’t know him that well.’

  It seemed that Romney had found the opening he had been seeking. Marsh braced herself for the unveiling of the reason that they were there. ‘Really?’ Romney turned to her to make her part of it. ‘That’s not the idea we’ve formed, is it? We thought that maybe you two knew each other rather well.’ Masters’ gaze flitted between them. For the first time, he seemed to notice the large brown envelope Romney was holding. ‘Do you have somewhere private where we might speak to you?’ Tapping the envelope that had taken Master’s attention, Romney said ‘It’s of a rather delicate nature.’

  After a brief pause, during which Masters looked distinctly uncomfortable, he led them into the pro-shop.

  ‘Simon, go and see if you can do anything with Mrs Bates. She’s in the net. And shut the door on your way out, please.’

  The tall youth, coordinated perfectly in lilac, looked at the visitors and at Masters and, without a word, left. Masters led them into his small office behind the counter where he slumped down into his seat.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said pointing at the single chair the other side. ‘Shall I get you another one?’

  Romney shook his head and sat down. ‘We’re fine.’

  The big man was suffering in the heat. Beads of perspiration had formed on his fore-head and top lip. He switched on a fan behind him and dabbed at his face with his handkerchief. His eyes returned to the envelope and Marsh found herself wondering if he suspected what they were going to pull out of it.

  Romney slid out the big glossy images and began arranging them on the desk before Masters. Marsh focussed solely on the effect on the man.

  Masters actually groaned an involuntary vocal reaction to the uncovering of a horrible, sordid secret. It welled up from deep within him to betray his horror at the reality of his exposure and his situation. He closed his eyes and resting his elbows on the wooden surface covered his face with his big paws.

  Romney let him stay like that for some moments before speaking. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’ he said unnecessarily.

  Slowly Masters came out from behind his hands. ‘Yes, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that it is. What a fool I’ve been.’

  Romney ignored his self-pitying remorse. ‘Seen them before?’

  Masters shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Are you married, Mr Masters?’

  Masters met Romney’s stare. ‘Yes, I am.’ He looked dejectedly down and sighed heavily, presumably at his gross stupidity.

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  Masters inhaled deeply. ‘A month ago Phillip organised a party of members for a week’s golfing holiday in Andalucía. There were eight of us. It was a good price. Phillip said he knew some people down there. Hard to say no if you were invited. Some wonderful golf courses in that part of Spain and he promised us a good social week too.’

  ‘You knew it was going to be like this?’ said Romney, indicating the pictures.

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ said Masters, adopting a horrified expression. ‘Good golf, good food, good night life, yes, but nothing like this.’

  ‘You seem to be enjoying yourself.’

  ‘It was a horrible mistake,’ said Masters quietly. ‘I’m sure I’m not the only one to think so with hindsight. Surely you can imagine how it was? All boys together, a bit the worse the wear for drink and somehow we ended up at this club-come-brothel. Oh god. This could ruin me. Ruin my marriage. And others if it gets out.’

  For an uncomfortable moment, Romney thought that the man was going to cry. He pressed on hoping to avoid it. ‘Whose idea was it to go there?’

  ‘Phillip’s.’

  ‘Who took these?’

  ‘I don’t know. I told you, I’ve never seen them before. None of us would have wanted a record of it.’ He seemed appalled with the idea. ‘I remember when we were on our way back it was agreed – what went on on tour stayed on tour. There were others apart from me who regretted that things had got out of hand in such a way.’

  ‘We found these in Phillip Emerson’s flat. Why would he want to set up something like this? Blackmail? Was he blackmailing you, Mr Masters?’

  Masters let out a sound of forced amusement. ‘No, Inspector, he wasn’t. I don’t have anything he would’ve wanted.’ After a quiet moment, he said, ‘Can I ask what you intend to do with them?’

  ‘Naturally, I’ll be confronting the men who you are going to identify for me with them and then I’ll be considering whether they are relevant to our enquiries into the murder of Phillip Emerson. Anything that you want to say on that score?’

  Masters, numbed by it all, just shook his head.

  *

  They left Masters – a broken man behind his desk – with only his misery and conscience for company. He had given them a concise account of the few days in Spain. He’d also provided them with the names of the other six unknown men. Romney had leant hard on the man to impress upon him the need to keep to himself what they had discussed. That included not speaking to any of the other men from the holiday that the police would now be visiting.

  As they made their way back to the station Marsh, emboldened by her sense of fair-play said, ‘Don’t you think that you were a bit tough on him, sir?’

  Romney turned his head to look at her, the better to gauge her implication. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He explained it was just something that got out of hand – something that just happened. It wasn’t a criminal offence.’

  ‘You approve of that kind of thing then? Married men cavorting around the whore-houses of Europe while their wives stay home shuttling the kids to school and keeping the house running?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Marsh, unsure of how serious Romney’s puritanical viewpoint was meant to be, ‘but is it our place to be judgemental about it? He obviously regretted it.’

  ‘The only thing he obviously regrets is getting found out.’

  Neither spoke as Romney negotiated, what Marsh considered, an ill-advised overtaking manoeuvre.

  Once they were safely past the lorry and back on their own side of the road Marsh said, ‘But they weren’t breaking any laws were they? I mean...’

  ‘Listen,’ Romney interrupted her, ‘when we’re dealing with people, people who will be naturally reluctant to be open and honest, helpful even, with our enquiries, we have to capitalise on any bone we can dig up, any bit of good fortune that providence sends our way. Sometimes a bit of intimidation, a suggestion of a threat, or a little piety eve
n, can be what’s needed to tip a balance, open a door or whatever other metaphor you can think of. I know that he didn’t do anything illegal, he knows it too, but if I went in there any other way than how I did, do you think he would have been so ashamed, so vulnerable and so helpful? Besides, don’t forget we are investigating a murder for which we have no murder weapon, no suspect and no obvious motive. Could be this is something to do with it.’

  ‘So it wasn’t personal then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Marsh turned to see Romney suppressing his smirk. ‘Why don’t you like him, sir?’

  ‘I don’t like his type. Never have, never will.’

  Marsh wound down her window in attempt to get some air circulating. The heat of the day was drawing out a heady cocktail of unpleasant smells from the upholstery of the pool car. ‘What now?’ she said.

  ‘Make an appointment to visit our friend first thing in the morning. Don’t make it as a copper though. No need to prep him.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘We’ll get around to them. Of course, this might all turn out to have nothing to do with Phillip Emerson’s murder, in which case we’re just wasting our time. What do you think?’

  ‘Me, sir? I’m keeping an open mind.’

  Romney smiled broadly. ‘Good answer.’

  ***

  7

  Marsh left Romney to his smoke under the walnut tree and, despite the stifling heat, fairly bounded up the station staircase steps two at a time towards CID. She loved real detective work, that seemingly small element of her job fitted in between the endless, largely pointless, paperwork and meetings. Nothing compared to the thrill, the excitement, of pitting her wits against others. Nothing came close.

  She scanned the open-plan office. The desks were occupied by officers in various reposes and states of undress for the heat: talking on phones, tapping on keyboards, writing up reports. Bottles of water and slowly rotating fans were dotted about as further testimony to the summer’s authority. She spied Wilkie at his desk, speaking animatedly on the landline. As though sensing the presence of an adversary, he looked up and their eyes locked briefly. Marsh wondered if his empty smile was for her.