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

by Oliver Tidy

  Returning his attention to the reports something struck him. The locations of both stirred the memory of a fact deep within his policeman’s brain. He pulled out the boxes and rifled through them. Finding what he was looking for he arranged them on his desk. With a quickening pulse, he compared them to the map of Dover he had fixed to the wall by his desk. With the excitement of a code-breaker facing a breakthrough, he took out all of the reports, put them in chronological order and traced the history of them across the town. When he had finished he checked it again. He then sat back in his chair and allowed a germ of hope to take root and flourish. Had the pattern he had so desperately sought finally revealed itself?

  *

  With lunch time approaching Marsh locked her desk, collected her bag, spoke briefly to Romney and left for the pub.

  Thirty minutes later she was knocking on Duncan Smart’s aunt’s door. This time there was no chain and no suspicion to bar her entry. She was invited in warmly and, despite her pressing time-table, accepted the invitation and the glass of lemonade that was offered against the heat.

  Another thirty minutes later she was on her way on foot to a small pub only two streets distant. According to the old woman, The Crown had been Duncan Smart’s local for a good many years being, as it was, within staggering distance.

  The Crown occupied a corner plot where quiet roads intersected. It was in good decorative order. There were hanging baskets, tubs of flowers and a small beer garden that looked like it was cared for by a loving hand. A sign over the front door provided the name of the licensee and also the information that it was a free house, independent of the big local brewery, and proud of it. A chalkboard detailing guest ales and ‘home-cooked’ food stood on the pavement.

  For such a quiet location, Marsh was surprised to see a decent lunchtime presence. A quick scan of the faces that turned to observe her entry put the average age at over fifty and mostly male. Being a lone youngish female, and not unattractive, a number of beer fuelled patrons took an extended interest in her arrival. Conscious of this unwanted but unavoidable attention Marsh made for a space at the end of the bar. A heavily set man with a thick moustache and friendly manner came to serve her. Marsh could read the questions in his face. She ordered a soft-drink and a sandwich and when he returned with her change she asked if he was the licensee. He nodded, understanding he was about to discover what had brought an unaccompanied good-looking woman to his out-of-the-way hostelry.

  ‘Let me guess.’ He held up his open palm to stall her. ‘You’re either another rep from the brewery or selling advertising space somewhere.’ He didn’t seem perturbed by either prospect. ‘If I’m right,’ he said, ‘I can save you some trouble. I’m not selling out and look around – I don’t need to advertise.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Marsh, with a smile. ‘Not enough free houses as it is and it’s nice to see a local pub doing well in such difficult economic times.’

  He gave her a puzzled look then. ‘Go on then, put me out of my misery.’ She discreetly showed him her warrant card and then returned it to her handbag while he got over the surprise. His friendly expression remained, however. ‘Business or pleasure?’ he said.

  ‘The former, I’m afraid, although the company is all right and I’m looking forward to my sandwich.’

  He laughed a little at that and asked how he could help her. Clearly, he had no guilty secrets regarding his business, or if he did he was doing a good job of hiding them.

  ‘Did you know a Duncan Smart?’

  Like a light going on in a darkened room, in an instant, he saw clearly what had brought her to his door. He assumed an air of genuine regret at the connection. ‘Shocking business. Duncan had a number of friends in here, me included.’

  ‘A regular then?’

  ‘Very, when he wasn’t working.’

  ‘Was he in here the day he was killed?’

  ‘Yes. I wondered when the police would come to ask. They say he was stabbed in the guts, is that right? Left to bleed to death on his kitchen floor.’ Marsh saw no harm in confirming this with a nod. The man shook his head, sadly. ‘Poor Duncan. He didn’t have a bad bone in him. Have you got someone for it? Sorry, you probably can’t answer that can you?’

  Marsh had to wait while he served a customer. Her sandwich arrived and she took it at the bar. When he returned, she confided that they didn’t, yet, have a suspect. ‘One of the reasons I’m here is to piece together his final hours.’

  ‘Right,’ said the man. ‘Well you’ll only find people willing to help you with that in here. Duncan was popular.’ He looked over to a far corner where a group of men were sat around a table playing cribbage. ‘There’s a bloke over there was very close with Duncan. You want me to get him over to talk to you?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He indicated an empty table behind her. ‘Take a seat. I’ll speak to him.’

  Marsh took her drink and her sandwich and organised herself at the table. Within a couple of minutes she was looking up at man she’d put in his sixties, tall and lean. He stood waiting for an invitation to sit. He had manners. When it came he perched on a stool opposite her, carefully placed his pint on the bar mat in front of him and shook the hand she offered.

  ‘Clive Dempsey,’ he said. Marsh introduced herself and showed her warrant card. He scanned it carefully. ‘Duncan was a good friend,’ he said, in educated tones. ‘How can I help you?’

  *

  When Marsh left The Crown half-an-hour later she was disappointed. Despite the openness and willingness to help of those she had spoken to, she had little extra information to contribute to the murder enquiry. Dempsey had confirmed that Smart had been receiving anonymous phone-calls threatening extreme violence. He said he thought it had worried Smart more than he had let on. He also confirmed they had started soon after his divorce was finalised. The articulate man had provided some insight into the messy and acrimonious divorce, details of which Smart had confided in him. He told her that Smart believed his ex-wife had another man, although he had no details of a description. Regarding the day of the murder, he told her that Smart had been at the pub for most of the lunch time. They’d drunk together. Smart was certainly a little unsteady on his feet when he had left, but he had left alone. No one claimed to have seen anyone suspicious hanging around.

  Marsh reported her lack of progress back to Romney on her return and was treated to an ‘I-told-you-so’ look. Romney was sticking firmly to his ‘logical’ belief that the two murders were related and that they should be concentrating their efforts on looking for evidence linking them. In light of his less than supportive position, Marsh was not transparent regarding her trip to the high street some minutes later to speak to Dorothy Mann.

  *

  The shoe shop was having a quiet afternoon. Two female staff stood at the counter. From their reaction to her entrance it was clear one of them was Dorothy Mann and she had confided in her colleague that the police would be calling. For a potential customer, Marsh’s welcome was cool. Marsh imagined that any woman who had walked into the shop so far that afternoon had been treated as a suspected police officer first and customer second. On a mischievous impulse, she decided to browse. After a minute one of the staff approached her having obviously judged her to be a genuine customer.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ she asked, with her saleswoman’s smile.

  Marsh recognised the woman’s voice before she noticed her name tag confirming her as Dot. Marsh, held up a slipper. ‘Hello, Mrs Mann, got these in a seven?’

  The woman’s smile disappeared to be replaced with an annoyed frown that transformed her not unattractive, if a little fat, face into something altogether more spiteful.

  ‘Are you that copper?’

  ‘I am Detective Sergeant Marsh if that’s who you mean,’ said Marsh, now holding the woman’s stare.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so when you came in?’

  ‘I’m saying so now. Where would you like to have our little chat, here in
the shop, or somewhere more private?’ Marsh put the slipper back.

  Another customer had walked in swelling the number of those who didn’t work there to two. Dorothy Mann told Marsh to follow her. She made a sign to her colleague and led Marsh through the back of the shop, into a store room, and then out through a fire door into a small shared parking area. As soon as they were outside the woman took out a cigarette, lit up and inhaled deeply. She folded her bare arms defensively and waited.

  Marsh had run across her type several times. The bleached blonde hair, a small nose piercing she was just too old for, too much gold jewellery and – Marsh looked for it, it had to be there somewhere – sure enough, the obligatory tattoo: some pointless decoration on her exposed ankle. As if her appearance didn’t pigeon-hole her enough her attitude and harsh vowels completed the picture of contemporary British working-class woman.

  Marsh decided to get straight to the purpose of her visit. ‘When did you learn that your ex-husband had been murdered?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘A friend called and told me.’

  ‘When was the last time that you saw him?’

  ‘Months ago. After he stitched me up over the divorce. I never wanted to set eyes on him again.’

  ‘So would it be fair to say that his death isn’t difficult for you?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit.’

  Marsh believed her. ‘If you haven’t seen him, have you spoken to him since the divorce?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  Marsh looked for a trace that the woman was lying. Her number had been the last one that had shown on the mobile phone Duncan Smart had been clutching in his dead hand. A thought occurred to Marsh, which made her pulse race. ‘You’re sure that he didn’t call you in the last couple of days?’

  ‘Positive. Anyway, he didn’t have my new number. I changed it after the divorce. Why would you think he did? And why are you asking me all these questions? I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to him.’

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend, now?’

  The woman shifted, turned some attention to her cigarette and lied, Marsh was sure of it. ‘No, I haven’t. Not that it’s any business of yours.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Marsh motioned towards the driveway behind her. ‘This leads on to Pencester Road, doesn’t it?’

  Dorothy Mann indicated it did and then watched the policewoman walk away. She took a last pull on her cigarette and trod it out wondering if she’d see DS Marsh again.

  *

  The pool car had been taken when she arrived back at the station. Marsh cursed her luck and looked around the office for inspiration. Grimes was sitting looking hot and bored. She perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Fancy a drive?’

  ‘I’m a happily married man, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not my type.’

  ‘What is your type then, Sarge?’ he said, leaning back and looking up at her.

  ‘Mind your own business. I’ll buy you an ice-cream.’

  ‘Now you’re talking. Where to?’

  ‘Duncan Smart’s. I’ve got some paperwork to find.’

  ***

  11

  Given the DI’s lack of enthusiasm for her theory that the murders were unrelated, Marsh decided that, unless pressed, she would keep the latest information development to herself, until she had something noteworthy to make of it.

  She had offered up silent thanks to the memory of Duncan Smart that he was a tidy organised fellow who kept his bills.

  At his home she had located a small collection of box files each dated on the spines with recent years. Inside them was the chronological filing of all the household bills, utility bills and large purchase receipts. She removed the relevant monthly invoices for his mobile-phone and after double-checking the information told Grimes he could have any ice-cream he liked.

  *

  ‘Where have you two been?’ said Romney, when Marsh and Grimes returned.

  ‘I needed to check something at Duncan Smart’s address,’ said Marsh.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Not sure yet, sir.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I still think that you’re barking up the wrong tree. Wilkie has found a connection between Smart and Emerson.’

  Marsh took the news like a physical blow. She hadn’t believed for a minute that the two deaths were connected, despite the statistical probability of such and the not irrelevant fact that one had found the other. With something approaching rising panic, she wondered if she hadn’t just been stubbornly unprofessional and stupid in closing her mind to the possibility.

  ‘What connection?’ The way she said it caused Romney to give her a look.

  ‘A few months back they had a business dealing.’

  ‘What business dealing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Wilkie has the details. He called me with it. He’s been out to Emerson’s office this afternoon. He’ll be back soon. We’ll find out then.’

  Marsh busied herself with paperwork, one eye on the department door waiting for Wilkie’s return. When he eventually arrived, he wore a smarmy expression. Marsh could see on his face he believed he’d made a breakthrough – scored a goal. He breezed past her desk without acknowledging her and tapped on Romney’s office door. He was holding a plastic sleeve containing documentation.

  As Wilkie entered Romney called out, ‘Sergeant Marsh, you’d better come and see this.’

  Wilkie handed the document across to the DI. He still hadn’t acknowledged Marsh’s presence. While Romney studied it Wilkie provided commentary. ‘In March of this year one of Emerson’s vans was booked to call at Smart’s address.’

  ‘Is that it?’ said Marsh.

  ‘It’s a connection,’ said Romney.

  ‘Does it detail what the job was?’

  ‘Furniture removal,’ said Romney.

  Wilkie said, ‘He was still living there when he died, wasn’t he? So what would he want furniture removals for?’

  ‘Lots of reasons,’ said Marsh. ‘How was it paid for?’

  Romney looked at the till receipt stapled to it. ‘Cash.’

  ‘Has it got an address to where it was taken?’

  ‘Says here, for storage at the depot.’ Romney looked up at Wilkie. ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The storage facility is on the Buckland Industrial Estate. I thought I should report to you before making a call on them.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Romney.

  Wilkie’s obsequious manner threatened to make the bile rise in Marsh’s throat. This didn’t seem anything significant to her. Something occurred to her. She opened her mouth to voice it and changed her mind. She knew she should speak up. It would be the professional team thing to do. But this was Wilkie’s goose chase and she wanted him to run it to its pointless end. She doubted whether either of them would listen to her anyway. They were as sure the connection existed as she was it didn’t and the only way to dispel the idea was to let them find out for themselves.

  Romney looked at his watch. ‘What time do they shut?’

  ‘I’d have to find that out, sir. We’ll need a search warrant.’

  ‘Organise it.’

  Wilkie hurried out. Marsh could smell the satisfaction on him as he passed her.

  ‘You don’t seem too excited,’ said Romney.

  Now she should tell him. ‘With respect, I didn’t hear anything to feel excited about, sir. It just sounds like what it says on the invoice. I still don’t believe the deaths are related. But a connection is a connection. It’s got to be followed up. Talking of which, I need to look over what I brought back from Duncan Smart’s.’

  Excusing herself, she went back to her desk and dialled Dorothy Mann’s mobile number. It went through to answer-phone. The woman was probably no longer answering numbers she didn’t recognise or others that she did. Still, she left her name and asked the woman to ring her back.

  She found a number for the shoe
shop and tried it, but it went unanswered too. She looked at her watch. It would probably be shut by the time she walked there. It eased her conscience slightly that she had tried to verify what she suspected about the idea of a connection between Emerson and Smart.

  The storage centre was shut for the day. A visit was time-tabled for the morning. Marsh said she’d be there. What she didn’t say was that she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  Wilkie was quietly relieved that they wouldn’t be able to investigate the lead that evening. If it proved to be as successful as he hoped then there would be paperwork and overtime. Normally, the thought of overtime would stir him but on this night he had overtime of his own planned.

  Since discovering a pattern in the car vandal’s modus operandi that morning, his stomach had become knotted each time he’d thought of it. He was pinning his hopes on his belief that he knew which streets the crazy would be prowling that night. And there would be one vehicle so awkwardly parked that the nutcase wouldn’t be able to ignore it: his. And then there would be a reckoning.

  Romney was not sorry they would have to wait until morning. He was satisfied that the squad could end the working day on a promising note. Much as he wanted to advance his case, he had tickets for a play at The Marlow Theatre in neighbouring Canterbury. After that, he had a table booked at a nearby expensive restaurant. For two days the newly cut key he’d been carrying around had been burning a hole in his pocket as he stalled for the right moment to offer it, and all that it implied, to Julie Carpenter. As for the dead men, another night of waiting for the machine of justice to grind on wouldn’t matter to them. With any luck, he thought, the morning would bring a development that might open the case up and help to get it solved so he could enjoy his holiday.