by Oliver Tidy
‘Yes, sir. I’d really like to hear Wilkie’s side of things before we go lynching him. I think we owe him that at least.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Falkner, although he seemed a little disappointed. ‘I’m not sure when that might be possible given the way things are.’ Romney had no response to that. ‘How are the other murder enquiries going?’
Romney noted his use of the word other. With more conviction than he felt, he said, ‘We’re working hard on them. We have a lead at a storage centre to investigate that I’m hoping will prove useful.’
‘Well, don’t go leaving the office until you’ve spoken with our guests. And do me a favour, Tom. Just while all this is going on keep me very well informed of your whereabouts and progress with things. It won’t just be this awful business from last night that they’ll be looking at. And get that bloody car fixed.’ The phone rang on Falkner’s desk. He snatched it up, spoke briefly, listened and hung up. ‘They are here. I’m going to hold a meeting in the conference room shortly. Please ensure that you and all CID staff on duty attend. There will be a lot of rumours and gossip flying around. I think everyone who works here should be aware of the facts about last night.’
Romney asked if there had been any word on Wilkie’s condition. Falkner merely shook his head.
*
The conference room was as packed as Romney could ever remember seeing it. He thought that now would be a great time to rob a bank in the high street. Uniforms and plain clothes stood, sat, leaned, perched and listened. The two guests stood off to one side. Despite the cramped conditions, they had been given a wide buffer zone of space, like a couple of plague carriers.
Falkner gave a good performance. Polished. He was in turn grave, serious, informative, deeply concerned, supportive of his officers and brief. One wouldn’t have known, considered Romney, that less than twelve hours previously he’d been plaiting the rope for Wilkie’s neck. He finished by introducing the guests and informing the station that he was fully confident he could count on each and every one of them to afford the visitors every consideration, courtesy and cooperation as they carried out their necessary investigation. Dismiss.
Romney weaved his way through the departing ranks to Falkner, pointedly ignoring the visitors. ‘That search warrant, any problem if I get it out of the way now?’
‘I suppose not. Don’t be all morning though. They want to speak to the men arrested for assaulting Wilkie, first. That’ll take a while. I know that you have two murders on your plate. I’ll make sure that they know it too.’
*
Romney found Marsh, commandeered the pool car and they left for the storage depot. When they were on their way he said, ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’
‘DS Wilkie.’
‘Oh. Good or bad.’
‘Bad. Bad for him. I hope it’s not going to be bad for me.’
‘Remember I’m driving,’ said Romney, in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. ‘I don’t want to hear something that’s going to distract me and risk a collision.’
‘Then I suggest you either pull over or we wait until we get to our destination, sir.’
Romney pulled into the curb near a convenient cafe. Patience was not one of his virtues.
*
Styrofoam cups steamed on the dashboard. Both front windows were lowered to their full extent for the warming up of the day. After checking with Marsh, Romney ignored the No-Smoking sticker and sparked up. He inhaled deeply and invited her to share what was on her mind.
She removed her little digital recorder from her bag and placed it on the dashboard between them. For a perplexing moment Romney thought she was going to record them. Instead, she pushed play and for two minutes he listened to Marsh confronting Wilkie over the theft of evidence from her desk and Wilkie pleading with her not to turn him in. When it had finished, Marsh stopped the tape and put the machine back in her bag.
The DI flicked a long stem of ash out of the window. ‘Why didn’t you come to me? You know that the loss of Emerson’s phone put you in a very bad light.’
‘I’m not Wilkie. I don’t think like him. I didn’t want that on my conscience. I just wanted him to back off and leave me alone. Did I make the right decision now? Did you want to hear it?’
It occurred to Romney that he hadn’t often heard Marsh sounding uncertain. ‘Did I want to hear that one of my officers – a man I’ve worked with and trusted – was capable of such an unprofessional, malicious act towards a fellow officer? No, not particularly. But I needed to.’ Romney smiled without great humour. ‘Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you. That was nicely done. Clever. I can’t say I approve of you keeping it to yourself. I know Wilkie. He has a mean streak. This wouldn’t have been the end of it. And that could have been bad for the department. But, for what it’s worth, I understand why you did and I respect your motives. Why are you sharing this now?’
‘Things have changed. Add last night to this, I’m seeing a picture of a man I don’t want to call a brother officer. I’m not sure he should be allowed to be. You told me last night: honesty and openness. No secrets. There’s something else, if I had reported this to you, last night might never have happened. That confused old woman might still be alive.’
*
Before they arrived at the storage depot, Marsh had managed to speak with Dorothy Mann on the landline of the shoe shop and confirmed what she suspected regarding the furniture removal. Marsh informed the woman that they had a warrant to search the lock-up and was treated to a disgusted torrent regarding the abuse of her human rights. Marsh, unable to make the connection between human rights and some old furniture and unwilling to engage in the necessary dialogue to explore it, terminated the call. Despite the confirmation, both officers knew they couldn’t simply take her word for it. They had to execute the warrant and see for themselves.
Romney asked the man who opened the storage unit for them how much it cost a week to rent the space no bigger than a small garden shed. A quick calculation left both officers, and the supervisor, sharing the same view: in this case it was money down the drain. Cheap, scuffed melamine furniture – a bookshelf and a wardrobe; a standard lamp with a frayed shade; a single pine bed frame and a couple of boxes of bric-a-brac that wouldn’t have generated much interest at a boot fair.
The supervisor, encouraged to confide in them given the nature of their visit, said, ‘You’d be surprised what rubbish people will pay good money to store here for years. Sentimental value they mostly call it. If you ask me, too many people got more money than sense. I ask you, who’d miss this crap if it went in the crusher? A few monthly payments saved for space here and you could replace all this with new.’
*
Romney was dismayed to see that a television crew had positioned itself outside the station by the time they returned. As they swept into the station car park they caught a glimpse of a smartly dressed woman holding a large microphone to her face in front of the camera. He wondered what Falkner would be making of it.
Romney called up to let Falkner know he was back in the building and was told it would be convenient if he could make himself available in the superintendent’s room as soon as possible. He said he’d be right up. He stopped at Marsh’s desk. ‘The recording that you played me in the car, don’t lose it and don’t share it with anyone else. OK?’
Normally, Marsh would have made her next house call on her own, but given the attention that procedure would inevitably be receiving, she asked Grimes to accompany her. With the visitors likely to start touring the premises and asking awkward questions, Grimes, like any other officer in CID, was only too happy for an excuse to get out of the way. Grimes’ luck was compounded because, as well as escaping the inquisition, he would also get to quiz Marsh about exactly what had happened the previous night. It was no secret that she had been on the scene almost immediately.
‘I’m not allowed to discuss it with anyone,’ said Marsh, as they drove.
‘I’m not just anyone t
hough am I, Sarge?’
‘My lips are sealed. Sorry.’ Grimes would be the last person that Marsh would confide in. His reputation as station gossip went well before him.
‘OK, OK. I understand. I respect that, Sarge,’ he said. ‘I really do. But there’s just one thing, one little thing.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Is it true that when he jumped her, he had his old chap out?’
‘Wherever did you hear that?’
‘Not only are some of the uniforms who attended saying it, but the blokes they arrested for assault have all put it in their statements. They thought he was trying to rape her. That’s why they gave him a kicking, apparently.’
‘No comment. Just drive, will you? I need to think.’
It was a particularly bizarre aspect of the surrealistic nature of the previous evening’s excitement that Marsh had wondered about without satisfaction. When she had broken up the fracas it had been enough of a shock to realise that one of the bodies lying bleeding and unconscious on its back on the wet tarmac in the middle of the road was Detective Sergeant Wilkie. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of his large flaccid member lying exposed across his thigh.
*
As most of the cars which had lined the street the previous evening were absent, Grimes was able to pull up directly outside number twenty-four. The door was answered quickly by a more refined, older, yet unmistakeable version of Dorothy Mann. It was clear she had better manners than her daughter. Marsh identified herself and Grimes.
‘We’re investigating the death of Duncan Smart. Your ex-son-in-law, I believe?’
‘Yes. Terrible for him. Poor man.’
‘And we would like a word with your daughter. She might be able to help us with a few details about his life. Is she home?’
‘No. She works in the shoe shop in the precinct. She’s not in trouble is she?’ The woman was a worrier. That was good.
Marsh made the most sincere face she knew how to. It was guaranteed to unsettle a worrier. ‘Not at all. You don’t happen to know where your daughter’s boyfriend works do you?’
‘Arda? In the kebab take-away in the precinct. It’s opposite the shoe shop. Why do you want to talk to him?’
Marsh gave the woman a look of mild concern and said, ‘Maybe we had better come in for a minute, if that’s all right with you?’
Mrs Mann senior was of a time, a class and a generation that unconditionally respected and revered the police. Intimidated by the two officers occupying her furniture, she was meekly cooperative. Marsh had no difficulty extracting information that confirmed part of what she suspected. In fact, the woman was so forthcoming that Marsh began to feel she might leave with substantially more than she could have hoped for.
When Mrs Mann senior had finished, Marsh asked her if she would accompany her to the station to speak with her senior officer with her very important information. What she didn’t tell her was that she simply wanted her where she knew she could be prevented from calling and alarming her daughter, who in turn might be tempted do the same with the boyfriend. Arda, a Turkish national, could probably disappear back to London and lose himself in the large ex-pat Turkish community there quicker than Marsh could eat a small doner and chips.
While Grimes assisted Mrs Mann into the back of his vehicle, Marsh rang Romney. He answered but said he was very busy. She could imagine that as code for being grilled by the visitors.
‘Understood, sir. I wouldn’t ask for an interruption if it wasn’t important.’ She appraised him of her situation and suspicions as succinctly as she could, knowing that with the poor light the department was currently bathing in, a good result could go some way to restoring their reputation. Romney knew it too.
Despite having all the windows down, Mrs Mann complained about the smell of fish – something that apparently she couldn’t abide – all the way back to the station. Romney met the party at the station’s rear entrance. With him he had the friendliest looking woman PC he could lay his hands on. He impressed Mrs Mann with his credentials and asked her to wait for him with the uniformed officer, who had been instructed to take the old woman to the canteen and keep her busy with tea, cakes and pleasant conversation but away from any form of telecommunications device. Four much larger and less friendly looking uniformed officers were waiting in a police van for them when they emerged from the same doors five minutes later. Romney, Marsh and Grimes all piled in.
*
Despite Marsh’s involvement and initiative, Romney, as senior officer, naturally, took charge. A call had ascertained that the kebab house was open for business. Clearly, the gastronomic tastes of the Dover population didn’t just view kebabs as an ethnic delicacy only to be enjoyed after a skin-full at kicking out time.
The uniforms were briefed and warned of the possibility that the man they sought to assist them with their enquiries could be armed and dangerous. No one was to take any chances. And reasonable force, this time, meant exactly that. What Romney didn’t need was to drag an unwilling prisoner bruised and bleeding back to the station under the glare of television cameras and high-ranking officers of the Kent police equivalent of the Spanish inquisition.
Two uniforms were dropped at the rear of the property. Romney, Marsh, Grimes and the other two went in the front door making an intimidating raiding party. Four dark skinned members of staff turned at the opening of the door and were rooted to the spot sensing trouble.
Romney held up his warrant card. ‘Morning. We’re looking for a Turkish national named Arda.’
The rotisserie chicken cabinet hummed and sizzled and an unfortunate fly flew into the insect killer with a pop. Slowly, like waking from a cancelled spell, the men regained their senses. Looks were exchanged. There was a rapid exchange in a language none of the visitors understood. It quickly reached loud levels.
‘Stop that,’ barked Romney.
‘I’m Arda,’ said a man, with a fistful of chopped lettuce.
‘I’m Arda,’ said another, stocking shelves with cans of soft drinks.
‘I’m Arda, said the third, wiping his hands on his apron.
‘I’m Arda,’ said the last, putting down a bag of frozen chips.
‘Very funny,’ growled Romney, looking as serious as Marsh could ever remember seeing him. ‘I’ve seen that film. He was Greek. Now, there’s a nation that I admire.’ The remark, whether knowingly or not taking into account Greece’s long history of animosity with their Turkish neighbours, went home. ‘Makes no difference to me. I’ll take you all in. We’ll find out which one is Arda and the rest of you will face charges of obstructing the police in their enquiries. Then, I’ve got very good friends in the Environmental Health Department and Immigration. We’ll see how funny they find you.’
‘Fascist,’ said the man with the lettuce.
Romney ignored the remark, but noted its source. ‘Are you lot coming quietly, or are we going to make a very expensive mess in here?’ A long drawn out moment followed during which nine pairs of eyes flitted nervously across the formica worktop and the tension of indecision approached suffocating levels.
‘We no speak good English, please,’ said the one with the frozen chips.
‘That’s him!’ shouted Grimes, from a foot behind his DI.
While Romney was recovering his wits, Grimes, pointing at the man with the canned drinks in his hands, began advancing towards the gap in the counter. The Turk’s eyes widened at the sight of the formidably proportioned Grimes bearing down on him. Panicked, he threw a can at Grimes – who dodged it neatly for a big man – and bolted for the back exit. Unfortunately for him, his lunge for freedom was brief coinciding as it did with the entrance of the uniformed officers who had become concerned at the lack of communication and had taken it upon themselves to enter the premises through the back door. The Turk’s second stroke of bad luck was that the door opened inwards. The fire-door caught him on his impressively proportioned nose and sent him to the floor quicker than he could have g
ot there had he been trying to. Grimes struck with the funny side of what he’d just witnessed turned back towards his group on the verge of laughing. His grin and good humour were quickly extinguished to be replaced by a frown and feelings of confusion as he wondered what on earth his DI was doing lying on the floor.
The sudden change in numbers and the very serious development that a senior police officer was lying stunned and bleeding on their lino took the resistance and solidarity out of the remaining three Turks. They became changed men. Romney was found a chair, a clean tea-towel full of ice was produced and applied to the bridge of his nose. Sheets of kitchen towel were rolled for him to stuff up his nostrils in an attempt to stem the bleeding. All the time they were apologising and ignoring their fallen comrade. Their English improved remarkably and it was confirmed with shows of identities that the unconscious man was indeed Arda.
Marsh asked for a carrier bag and carefully retrieved the now dented can of coke from where it had settled under a table. The man on the floor might not be able to be finger-printed as he was, but he had kindly provided them with a good sample.
An ambulance was called for the still unconscious Arda. Statements were taken. Further apologies were offered and accepted – Romney could do without an international incident on top of what he already had on his plate. After a brief inspection the paramedics advised Romney to go with them and have his nose reset or risk future long-term breathing complications. At first he was reluctant and then changed his mind as he realised where he was headed. He instructed Marsh to take over and found time to scowl at Grimes before taking his place in the back of the ambulance. A single uniformed constable rode with him to guard the man who was strongly suspected of the murder of Duncan Smart.
With the DI out of the way, the atmosphere relaxed and the comical side of what had happened occurred to several of those remaining. Complimentary kebabs and drinks were offered as gestures of good will and accepted in good faith. It turned out that most of the uniforms were regular customers of the shop.
