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

by Oliver Tidy

  Romney gave his best impression of being at a dead end and got to his feet, a signal that the formalities were finished with. ‘Eighteenth was it, William?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A big one. What did your father get you?’

  William Emerson smiled at the memory. ‘You could always count on my father to buy the most inappropriate gifts. I’m off to university in a couple of months. He bought me golf clubs. I haven’t played in years. I lost interest in golf a long time ago.’

  ‘Have you got them?’

  ‘No, I told him to return them and give me the money instead. I’d buy something useful.’

  ‘So you don’t have them now. Do you know where they are?’

  ‘Why do you want to know, Inspector?’ said Mrs Emerson. ‘Why are they important?’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’ persisted Romney.

  ‘No,’ said William. ‘He put them back in his car. He wasn’t cross about it. I wasn’t cross about it. We laughed about it. He said he’d send them back.’

  ‘Inspector?’ said Mrs Emerson.

  ‘It’s possible your husband was killed with them, Mrs Emerson. We need to find them. They aren’t in his vehicle now. They have disappeared.’

  *

  Romney added the finishing touches to the incident board, bringing the information, as they understood it, up to date while Marsh and Grimes looked on offering suggestions. Where the image of one dead man had stood alone there were now three: Emerson, Smart – by flimsy association – and Masters. Marsh had argued that Smart’s image should be removed being as his death was proven to be nothing to do with the enquiry. Romney said it should stay, simply by dint of the fact that he was the man who’d found Emerson. There was nothing either to tie Masters’ apparent suicide with Emerson’s murder, but again a tenuous link – Romney was no great believer in coincidence – kept his face and details on the board. Other names were scrawled, circled and joined with coloured arrows to jottings: Lillian West, William Emerson, Emerson’s wife, the men from the golfing break in Spain. New information went in a different colour: the likelihood that the golf clubs taken from the pro-shop were the ones that killed Emerson; the trail, as far as it went, of how the clubs came to be present at the scene; information of the Spain, 2011, CD and other smaller, but possibly no less important or irrelevant, gobbets of information. By the time he had finished, the board was a lot busier than it had been five days before and they had no idea whether they were any closer to catching the killer or killers.

  Superintendent Falkner entered and took his usual seat at the back. He had lost some of his shine as the Wilkie incident had cast a shameful shadow over his station bringing with it the unwanted spotlight of public and media attention. He bid the gathering a good afternoon and sat.

  ‘Where are we then, Tom? I don’t suppose you’re going to give me some more good news and promise me an imminent arrest are you?’

  Romney looked sorry that he couldn’t. ‘Not yet, sir, but I’m confident that the net is closing.’

  ‘Really? Who’s in it?’

  ‘I hope that we’ll know that soon.’

  ‘Bit murky, eh?’

  For the next few minutes Romney indicated the updates, additions, and associations, getting it clear in the heads of those directly involved, as well as providing his senior officer with a comprehensive picture of where they were. Despite all this extra intelligence, he was mindful that Falkner would have preferred a simple, short list of suspects; preferably one holding, if not a smoking gun, then a bloody driver.

  ‘Emerson was killed with the clubs from the pro-shop?’ said Falkner.

  ‘It looks like it, although, until we find them we can’t be certain, of course.’

  ‘And the last time the clubs were seen was the day before he was killed? They were in his car?’

  ‘According to the family, yes.’

  ‘But Emerson’s vehicle was not found at the scene.’

  ‘Correct.

  ‘So how did Emerson and the clubs get to the golf course in the middle of the night?’

  Seeing where Falkner was taking the suggestions, Romney said, ‘It looks as though he drove himself there. It’s difficult to imagine another scenario that would see the clubs and the victim being in the same place.’

  ‘Then it follows that his vehicle was removed from the scene after he was killed and driven back to where it was found: Waterloo Crescent. And whoever that was must have known about the significance of the address. Who does that give us?’

  ‘As far as we know, the son and the lover, but, of course, there could be others.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t arrive at the golf course alone.’

  ‘It’s possible. It’s hard to imagine he was there by accident. Either he was meeting someone or he had someone with him and that’s where they went.’

  ‘An odd choice for either option, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes. Whichever it is, in that case, it seems safe to say that Emerson provided the murderer or murderers with the means with which to kill him.’

  ‘It also suggests that the killing was not premeditated.’

  ‘Yes, but not necessarily. It’s a good time and place for a murder. Maybe whoever he was there with did intend to kill him, but Emerson just provided them with a different means to the one they already had.’

  That hung in the air for a long moment before Falkner spoke again. ‘He was pretty drunk, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘People do stupid things when they’re drunk.’

  Romney tapped the board-marker against his teeth and said, ‘What are we missing?’

  ‘Three things: the murder weapons, a motive and a suspect,’ said Grimes unnecessarily.

  Romney didn’t thank him for his input. Instead he said, ‘Going back to his car turning up at Waterloo Crescent; if the murderer returned it there then how would they have gone on to wherever they needed to be?’

  ‘Taxi,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Or their own vehicle was already there,’ said Falkner.

  ‘Or they walked home. Lillian West’s home is within walking distance,’ said Grimes.

  ‘So is the Emerson house for that matter,’ said Romney. ‘After what they did to Phillip Emerson whoever it was would have probably been a bit of a mess themselves. You don’t go beating someone’s head to a pulp and not get something on yourself. Maybe leave something of yourself behind.’ Romney indicated the photograph of the thread of red fabric that had been recovered from deep inside Emerson’s head. ‘Whoever it was left something. This doesn’t belong to anything at the scene, but it’s no good to us without something to link it to.’

  Romney and Falkner batted a few thoughts around before Falkner said, ‘Where do you go from here?’

  ‘Grimes, in the morning speak to all the taxi firms in the town. See if anyone has a record of a pick-up for that time of night anywhere near Waterloo Crescent.’

  ‘What about Lillian West?’ said Marsh.

  ‘Her name keeps cropping up but could she do that? And what’s her motive?’

  ‘Her husband then?’ said Falkner.

  Romney shook his head. ‘Too infirm, besides there is no indication he even knew about them.’

  ‘Family, then?’ said Grimes.

  ‘Again, there’s no obvious motive and again, I can’t see either of them doing something like that. The attack suggests a level of passion and hate that neither of them strike me as harbouring for the dead man. If he’d been killed by indifference then they’d be tying for the top spot for prime suspect.’

  ‘What about Elliot Masters? Any idea why he committed suicide?’ said Falkner.

  ‘He didn’t leave a note. I’m waiting on the autopsy report before we speak to the widow. We need to chase that up.’ With a look he gave Marsh the job.

  *

  Marsh spoke to pathology. The report on Elliot Masters’ death had been completed that afternoon and would come across to them in the morning. It w
ould tell them he had died from hanging and that there was no suggestion of the hand of a third party. The report would also show he had very low blood sugar levels.

  ‘So?’ said Marsh.

  ‘For a normal person, it wouldn’t have been much of a problem. The body would have dealt with it. For a diabetic, it would have been disastrous,’ said the voice on the end of the phone.

  ‘Elliot Masters was a diabetic?’

  ‘Type one.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘As bad as it gets.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He’s covered in puncture wounds from where he would inject himself.’

  ‘So he wasn’t taking care of himself?’

  ‘Not then he wasn’t.’

  There was a little delay while Marsh took this in and processed it. ‘So, would such a low level of sugar in his blood have proved fatal?’

  ‘If it wasn’t balanced with a rapid intake of sugar and carbohydrates, he’d have gone into a coma and, if he’d not been found, he’d have died, eventually.’

  ‘He’d have been aware of that outcome?’

  ‘It would be harder to imagine, as a long-time sufferer, that he wouldn’t have been.’

  ‘So why hang himself?’ said Marsh, thinking that Masters had maybe tried to commit suicide by ignoring his medical condition and allowing nature to take its course.

  ‘No idea. Belt and braces, perhaps? Once he’d decided on a course of action, he may have wanted to be sure about how it was going to end. He may have worried that letting his body suffer a hypoglycaemic episode wouldn’t have proved fatal – maybe he was afraid of being found before he expired naturally – and then he may have been saved but left with some rather unpleasant repercussions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Brain damage is not unheard of.’ After another brief pause the voice said, ‘There is something a little odd about this if suicide isn’t extraordinary enough for you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Have you ever seen someone suffering from a screamer?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Sorry. A screamer. It’s how my father used to describe his physical and mental state when his blood sugar levels were low. It’s very similar to being drunk. Coordination, reason, actions, it all becomes skewed. The most rational and respectable person can be reduced to shouting and swearing and reeling all over the place.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, with the low blood sugar of Elliot Masters, it certainly wouldn’t have been easy for him to think himself through, let alone coordinate, his own hanging. Of course, the balance for that argument is that diabetics, when they’re suffering such episodes aren’t able to think logically. Maybe that’s why he hanged himself, because he was not in his right mind.’

  *

  Romney had his hand on the doorknob of his office to leave when his desk phone rang. He hesitated, swore under his breath and returned to pick it up. He identified himself.

  Simon Draper said, ‘I’m calling about the golf clubs you asked me to find out about.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Simon. Don’t worry about that now. We’ve found out who they were for, but thanks for your efforts.’

  ‘Oh, right, sorry. Do you want me to do anything with them?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The clubs. Do you need to see them or anything?’

  ‘Sorry, Simon, I don’t follow you.’

  ‘I’ve found them. There’re here at the golf club.’

  ‘Are you sure? Where exactly?’

  ‘Fairly. They’re in Mr Masters’ golf bag in his office.’

  ‘Are you there now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything. Don’t let anyone else touch anything. Stay there. I’m coming over. Is that clear?’

  *

  Unlike previous low key visits to the White Cliffs Golf Course, Romney and Marsh’s arrival was heralded by the sirens and lights of a fast moving patrol car. It was a sign of Romney’s impatience to acquire what could prove to be crucial evidence in the murder case. Romney and Marsh hurried across the turf towards where Simon Draper was waiting for them outside the pro-shop with a confused looking man Romney hadn’t seen before.

  To the youth, Romney said, ‘Did you do as I asked?’

  ‘Yes. As soon as I finished talking to you we came out here to wait.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Romney turned his attention to the new face. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Alan Kent. I’m the new golf professional.’ He looked quite bewildered by the unfolding situation.

  ‘Simon’s told you what’s going on, has he?’ The man nodded. ‘Good. I’d appreciate it if you’d just stay out of the way for a few minutes.’ Alan Kent looked like nothing would please him more. ‘Come on then, Simon. Show us what you’ve found.’

  Marsh half-expected Romney to start rubbing his hands together.

  The youth led them into the shop and through to the little office at the rear. He went to a bag of golf clubs standing in the corner.

  ‘These are Mr Masters’ clubs. Mr Kent opened them up to see what clubs Mr Masters was using. Every golfer’s interested in what equipment everyone else plays with. When he pulled out the big driver I recognised it from the shop. It was the same type Mr Emerson took. Mr Masters doesn’t, didn’t, play with that club. The others are in there too. I’ve checked.’ Romney was pleased with the lad and made no attempt to hide it.

  They wrapped the bag of clubs in some plastic sheeting. Romney had the uniformed constable who’d driven them over carry it to the patrol car. As both Kent and the boy had handled the clubs they were asked to attend the station the following morning in order that their prints could be taken.

  Romney smoked with the air of someone who had just made his first hole in one, as he and Marsh made their way back to the patrol car. Marsh could almost detect a spring in the DI’s step.

  ‘Well, there’s a bit of luck,’ he said. ‘Two mysteries solved in one fell swoop. Superintendent Falkner is going to be a happy man. And I just might make my holiday after all.’

  ‘Masters kills Emerson and then tops himself? It’s very convenient for us, sir.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of pissing on my chips, I hope,’ said Romney.

  Marsh found the imagery distasteful. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a bit of good fortune now and again? If those clubs had gone back to the widow, we’d as likely never have seen them again.’

  ‘What was his motive?’

  ‘Who cares? We’ll never know with him dead. Subject to confirmation by forensics, the murder weapons have turned up, property of a man who committed suicide. It might be a little too neat for you, but unless you can provide reasonable doubt that’s the way it’s going to stay.’

  ‘What about the circumstances surrounding Masters’ suicide. Don’t you find what pathology suggested strange?’

  ‘Not really. Maybe he just read the manual: Suicide – getting it right first time. I wish more people who decided to demonstrate the ultimate act of self-criticism would. It’d save us a lot of bother.’

  Marsh changed tack in the face of Romney’s stubbornness. ‘We will still be seeing Masters’ widow though, won’t we?’

  ‘What for? Why put her, or ourselves, through all that unpleasantness?’

  ‘Do you mind if I do?’

  ‘Be my guest, Sergeant,’ said Romney, ‘if you enjoy that kind of thing. You’ll find me smoking cigars with our dear leader.’

  *

  Despite the hour, Marsh realised that the development was not something she would sleep on if she had a choice. She sought out a phone number for Masters’ wife and, remembering the one and only time she’d met her – wailing and pathetic – braced herself for the difficult but to her mind necessary call.

  Two hours later and on her own time, Marsh arrived at the Masters’ home. The garage-linked property sat in the middle of a development all much of a muchness – a
planner’s idea of contemporary Britain with Tudor trimmings.

  The woman who answered the door was smaller than Marsh remembered. She had been crying recently. Marsh thought she had her brave face on. Marsh was invited in and made comfortable in the lounge.

  The decor reflected a minimalistic influence. The ubiquitous over-sized flat screen television, two large leather sofas – harmonised with the carpet and walls – faced each other across the chrome and glass coffee table. One wall was given over to a display case inside which trophies of varying size, shape and materials bore testament to sporting success. Marsh made for it, grateful for a way into the reason for her visit.

  ‘Your husband’s?’

  ‘Actually, most of them are mine.’

  Marsh was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘Really?’ She made a face to apologise.

  ‘It’s OK. Most people assume they must be Elliot’s.’

  Marsh leant in for a closer look. ‘What are they for?’

  ‘Golf. I was a decent women’s competitor.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Marsh, impressed. ‘But why was?’

  ‘Back injury. I fell off a chair changing a light bulb. Damaged my spine. That was that.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Marsh.

  The woman made a face of philosophical resignation and offered Marsh refreshment.

  ‘I suppose you want to talk to me about Elliot?’ she said, when they were settled. Marsh nodded, caught with a mouthful of lemonade. ‘Are you the one who headed me off when I turned up at the golf course?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. Thank you for that. I don’t know what I was thinking. Someone from the club called me and told me what had happened. I suppose I couldn’t believe it. I’m glad, now, that I never got to see him. It would have been a horrible memory for me to have.’ The woman’s eyes became watery.

  Marsh said, ‘Do you know why he did it?’

  ‘I wish I did. I’ve thought of nothing else. I have no idea. We were happy. That’s not just hoping. We were. We had been trying for a baby.’

  ‘No money troubles?’