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

by Oliver Tidy

‘I work at a bank in the town. Elliot’s job seemed secure. We were comfortable. We don’t even have a mortgage.’

  ‘Your husband probably told you about the death at the golf course recently.’

  ‘Yes. It upset him. He knew him.’ Faye Masters caught something in Marsh’s look. ‘Wait a minute. You’re not suggesting that Elliot was involved are you?’

  ‘There is nothing to suggest your husband was involved,’ she lied, ‘but the murder remains unsolved and Elliot’s death is a coincidence we don’t like. You said yourself that you can’t think of a single reason why he would take his own life.’ Marsh registered the shock on the woman’s face and ploughed on. ‘Where was Elliot on the night Phillip Emerson was killed?’

  ‘At home with me.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’ The woman’s answer was too quick. Either she was lying, or she was certain because her husband never went out.

  ‘I told you. We were trying for a child. We’d been trying every night for the last ten days. It was my best time. He was here.’ Faye Masters was sadly matter of fact with her disclosure. ‘There is no way he was involved in anything like murder. Elliot was a big, powerful man, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘I met your husband when we first investigated the murder. I liked him. He seemed like a nice man. I’m not trying to do anything other than work everything out. I’m just doing my job,’ Marsh added apologetically. ‘There is no obvious motive that connects your husband with the death of the other man. I hope you understand I’m just following up what I must. This is a terrible time for you and I don’t want to make it any worse.’

  Marsh suddenly felt grubby for what she had got herself into with the woman who should just be left alone to grieve for a man she clearly loved. She had enough problems, now. But the idea that Masters, unable to defend himself, might be tainted in death just for the sake of convenience angered her. She’d been unconvinced of Masters’ guilt when the finger was first pointing at him. She remained even more so now. She said, ‘He was a type one diabetic wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He contracted it as a teenager. He always said it ultimately ruined his chances of ever making something of himself on the professional tour circuit.’

  ‘Did he manage it well?’

  ‘He was very careful about his diet and insulin. His father died early of it after a horrible struggle with complications because he didn’t take care of himself. He didn’t want to go the same way.’

  ‘I’m just learning about it myself,’ said Marsh. ‘Did he suffer from ‘hypos’?’

  ‘Occasionally. Not often. Why are you asking?’

  She would find out at the inquest anyway thought Marsh. ‘Because of the nature of your husband’s death an autopsy had to be carried out. His blood sugar levels were found to be dangerously low. The medical person I spoke to suggested he would almost certainly have been suffering a reaction to that. I was told that his judgement could have been greatly impaired as a result.’

  ‘You mean that’s why he killed himself? Because he had hypoglycaemia? I wouldn’t accept that. Hypo’s made Elliot dizzy, disorientated, hungry. They could swing his mood. But he couldn’t physically do anything that required coordination. He couldn’t have hanged himself if he was suffering a diabetic fit.’

  ‘That’s exactly what the woman in the pathology lab suggested.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Why wasn’t he at home the night he died?’

  ‘He told me there was a function on at the golf club. He liked a drink sometimes with his friends and he wouldn’t drive home if he’d had a few. He’d stay over at the club house. They’ve got rooms. He’d done it before.’

  ‘What did he do for his insulin when he didn’t come home, or when he was at work for that matter?’

  ‘There’s a small fridge in his office. He kept it there. He had to inject himself through the day.’

  Marsh remembered it. ‘Did you speak to him that night?’

  ‘Yes. Briefly at about nine o’clock. When he’s not here I usually get an early night. I was in bed by nine-thirty.’

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘Normal. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  Marsh struggled with her conscience briefly. ‘No. I’m just being thorough. I’m trying to understand everything. I’m trying to make sense of it all.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  *

  On her way home, Marsh called in at the White Cliffs Golf Club. Nobody would be playing golf, but there were a few cars in the car park. She made her way around to the members’ entrance. The lobby area reminded her of some archaic old boys’ club from the city, black and white tiled floors, leather furniture and lots of oak. She followed the gentle hum of conversation until she found the bar and restaurant area. She was aware of her presence generating attention as she made her way to the bar.

  ‘I can’t serve you if you’re not a member. Sorry,’ said a uniformed steward in a not unfriendly tone.

  She showed her warrant card. ‘That’s all right. I can’t drink when I’m on duty.’

  He smiled at her. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Elliot Masters, the golf pro. Know him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Were you working the night before he was found?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was the function?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

  ‘The night before he was found there was a function here. What was it?’

  ‘There wasn’t. Last do we had here was over a month ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Marsh. ‘Well, was he in here that night? Did you see him?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. If he had been, I’d have seen him. It’s quiet here mid-week. I’m the only one on in the evenings. I work till finish.’

  Marsh took his name, thanked him and left to ponder the new set of questions she’d generated for herself.

  ***

  16

  Romney’s car was a strange sight in the car park of Dover police station the following morning. Marsh hoped that the DI getting his transport back might improve his mood and make him more receptive to what she had to tell him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it doesn’t add up and it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Suicide rarely does to normal thinking people.’

  ‘It’s not just his suicide. His wife is adamant that the night of Phillip Emerson’s death they were at home together all night.’

  ‘Why would she lie?’

  ‘She isn’t. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘So how would you explain his suicide and the fact that the clubs that probably beat Emerson’s head to a pulp have turned up in his golf bag?’

  Despite Romney’s apparent obstinacy, Marsh sensed a softening of his position – that something wasn’t sitting well with him. That he seemed prepared to continue to discuss things gave encouragement to her belief he was a good enough police officer to see that if something appeared too neat and convenient to be true then it probably wasn’t. She hoped he was still a detective who wanted the truth at the end of an investigation and not the swift and opportune tying of loose ends; not simply the closing of cases to satisfy area’s thirst for positive and speedy statistics and definitely not just because he wanted to make his holiday. That wasn’t policing.

  ‘What else did she have to say?’

  Further encouraged, Marsh sat down. ‘You remember, Lane told us Emerson was trying to get hold of some property the golf club owns?’ Romney nodded. ‘Elliot Masters was his business partner. The wife told me the two of them had developed a business plan together. It involved the purchase from the golf club of some cottages and land. They were hoping to get hold of it for a favourable price and develop it. They had finance in place. All they needed was the agreement of the trustees to sell to them.’

  At the mention of golf club property and finance and trustees Romney sat up and started taking
more notice of what Marsh was saying. ‘Why didn’t Masters mention any of this when we spoke to him? He must have known it would be pertinent to our investigation and we’d find it out sooner or later. Did she know Emerson was squeezing people, virtually blackmailing them with his dirty picture album?’

  ‘With respect, sir, we don’t know that. She didn’t say so and I didn’t get that feeling.’

  ‘What feeling?’

  ‘The feeling she was supporting, or was aware of, an unsavoury aspect. There’s something else.’

  ‘I was afraid there would be.’

  ‘Masters’ suicide – perhaps we shouldn’t be so quick to accept that.’

  ‘We do agree that he’s dead, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, but maybe he didn’t kill himself.’

  Romney groaned. ‘Who did kill him then, or was it an accident? Maybe he was putting up some early Christmas decorations, slipped and fell and ended up hanging himself?’

  Marsh ignored the sarcasm. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Well, when you do, come and see me. I’ll be all ears. I’ve asked that the examination of those clubs be given priority. Let’s make sure of something before we do anything else.’

  *

  An hour later, Marsh tapped on the frame of Romney’s office door. He beckoned her in as he finished up his phone call. A smile teased the corners of his mouth and there was something of a gleam in his eye. Marsh could guess who he was speaking to.

  ‘More theories about Masters’ non-suicide, or have you solved it all already?’

  ‘No, sir, Lillian West is downstairs with her solicitor. She wants to speak with us.’

  *

  ‘Mrs West. This is a surprise.’

  ‘Inspector Romney. This is my solicitor, Mr Ashe. On his advice, I’m here to make a statement. Something official.’

  ‘Really? About what?’

  ‘Something I should have volunteered earlier about the night that Phillip Emerson was murdered.’

  The police, the solicitor and the confessor settled themselves.

  ‘All right, Mrs West. Here we all are. You have our full attention. What’s troubling your conscience?’

  She seemed too preoccupied with her confession to register Romney’s sarcasm, never mind challenge it. ‘Phillip had this wild idea that he and I could have a life together. As far as I was concerned, Phillip was just for fun. Just for sex really. When he’d been drinking he could become particularly tiresome. On the night of his death, he called me very late. He was outside my home and he was drunk. He was threatening to make a scene and expose us. That would never have done. I managed to talk him into something else. Phillip liked outside sex. He liked it outside at night on the golf course. It’s quite exciting actually, very natural and erotic.’ Lillian West was proving quite shameless. ‘Phillip said it gave his golf an extra dimension to be putting on greens we had made love on. Whatever turns you on, I suppose. We weren’t hurting anyone. I had to mollify him and get him away, so I agreed to come out and go to the golf course with him. Phillip could never resist that.

  ‘I tried to reason with him about our relationship, but he was adamant that he was going to leave his wife, tell my husband about us, assuming that was what I wanted. He had some business plan with Elliot Masters. He believed he was going to make a pile of money and we could be together. He never once asked me what I thought about it.

  ‘When we got to the course, I’d already decided to teach him a lesson. I hoped it would be something he might reflect on – a wake-up call for him where I was concerned.

  ‘He took the golf clubs and some balls from his car onto the course. He said we might have some fun with them. When we got there he told me he wanted me to strip and he was going to thrash me with the shaft of the club. I told him he wasn’t. He became aggressive and started lashing out at me. I picked up one of the clubs to defend myself. We must have looked a strange sight, the two of us circling each other on the thirteenth green in the moonlight, duelling with golf clubs. Anyway, he struck me, landed a blow on my arm. It was very painful. It seemed to excite him. I became frightened. I thought he might really hurt me. For the first time in all the times I had been with Phillip, I feared for his sanity and my safety. As I mentioned, Phillip was also quite drunk.

  ‘I remember swinging the club I was holding and feeling it connect with something solid. Phillip went down. I examined him. He had a nasty gash on his head, but he was alive. He was breathing. He was snoring. And then I left him there. I repeat: it was one blow and he was alive. I took his car, drove it back to Waterloo Crescent and walked home. I wanted it to be a clear message to him about us. I wanted to give him the opportunity of time to think about things.’

  Finished, Lillian West looked about the group expectantly, as though she had just offered to buy a round of drinks and was waiting for their orders.

  Romney used a long, drawn out moment of silence to communicate his feelings what he’d just heard. Eventually, he said, ‘Why didn’t you say something about it earlier?’

  ‘I was afraid and in shock. I was frightened of how it would look. When I heard about what had happened to him, well, I know that I didn’t kill poor Phillip and I foolishly believed I could keep myself out of it.’

  ‘So what has brought on this attack of conscience at this particular time? Would it have anything to do with the fact that our investigations are bringing us ever nearer to your front door?’

  ‘Inspector, my client is here as an act of good faith. She is performing her legal and civic duty. Yes, she is somewhat behind with it, but she is here voluntarily. Surely that’s what matters.’

  ‘What matters, Mr Ashe, is whether I believe her and quite frankly, I’m not inclined to. If it wasn’t so bloody serious and insulting, I’d be laughing my head off,’ said the DI, without a trace of amusement.

  ‘With respect, Inspector, I believe what matters is not whether you believe my client but whether the courts do. If it should ever get to court, of course.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Do I have to spell it out for you? My client acted in self-defence against a man who was attacking her while intoxicated with alcohol. She is of previously impeccable character and she is here voluntarily cooperating with your enquiries. I believe the CPS might take a different view from the one you appear to be adopting.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting one small point? Your client, by her own admission, is the last person to have seen Phillip Emerson alive. This just happened to be at the scene of his death, after she felled him, by her own admission, with a blow to the head with what is probably going to be identified as the murder weapon. We only have her word for it that she struck one non-fatal blow. It’s not a testimony that I’m finding easy to swallow. I don’t imagine for a moment that a jury will.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Inspector, as I understand it, the murder weapons were found somewhere to where my client had no access.’

  ‘Is that what she says?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I’m not as ready to take your client’s word for it as you are, Mr Ashe.’

  ‘Then, Inspector, you will have to prove otherwise.’

  *

  Romney and Marsh stood under the walnut tree in silent contemplation. Romney smoked. ‘I didn’t imagine it, did I?’ he said at last.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Lillian West has just walked out of the station a free woman after confessing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m a simple copper, Sergeant Marsh. Can you explain to me what is going on?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘To keep her secret, self defence, and to teach him a lesson, she said.’

  ‘I mean, why come here now with that load of shit? Were we getting closer to implicating her?’

  ‘Her name was cropping up a lot.’

  ‘What was she afraid we were about to stumble upon? It’s the only thing that I can think of
. She thought we were closing in and she pre-empted us. It’s bloody clever as far as it goes, I’ll give her that. She must have balls of steel. It’s really too bloody clever, apart from one thing.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Remember I told you Maurice Wendell had a chat with her husband’s physician?’ Marsh nodded. ‘Did I mention that there is a clause in her old man’s will that if she’s caught playing away while he’s still alive she gets absolutely nothing?’

  ‘No, you didn’t, sir.’

  ‘Well she’s screwed herself there, assuming she even knows about it that is.’ Romney allowed himself a little triumphant bark of laughter. It sounded forced. ‘You’re not saying much,’ he said. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Just one question at the moment, sir.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘What if she’s telling the truth?’

  *

  Marsh heard it from Romney who heard it from Maurice Wendell who heard it from Lillian West’s husbands’ doctor before the police got wind of it through official channels. Cynic that Romney had become after over twenty years in the job, the first thing he thought when he heard that Lillian West’s husband had been found dead at his home was that at least he now knew why she had been at the station most of the morning regaling them with her tall-tales. She’d been securing an alibi. Even Romney had to grudgingly concede to Marsh that he’d underestimated her. She wasn’t just clever; she was a bloody criminal genius.

  *

  There were no barriers to the police arriving at the West’s residence this time. The front gates stood open. A uniformed officer waved them in. An ambulance, a patrol car and a couple of other vehicles shared the ample parking area with the brace of Audis. A small yapping dog rushed out to greet them. It wore a colourful bow around its neck suggesting a female of the species. Romney gave it a swift stab with the toe of his boot sending it rolling and protesting over into the shrubbery. There was a neat pile of fresh looking dog mess next to an antique stone urn overflowing with greenery. Romney managed to steer his way into it.