Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3)

by Oliver Tidy

  The last time Romney had spoken to Wilkie the DI had offered his hand in farewell. Wilkie had pointedly ignored it. Now, before a word was uttered his hand was out. There was a moment’s agonising hesitation as Romney thought about it and then took it.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ said Wilkie, ignoring Marsh completely. His face betrayed no sign of recognition of either of them at all. Both officers found it unnerving and a little bizarre. Wilkie was acting like they’d never met, let alone worked together, fallen out and parted under the darkest of clouds. Perhaps, he just wasn’t interested in small talk. Perhaps, he didn’t trust himself to be anything but strictly businesslike. Perhaps, he didn’t want to rake over old regrets. Perhaps, he didn’t want to alert the man next to him that there was any bad history here. Or perhaps, he just wanted to get on with his job and hand over responsibility for a suspicious death as quickly as he could. Undoubtedly, he would have enough on his plate as it was.

  ‘Glad you could get here so quickly. All I can tell you at the moment is that there has been a death on site. I’ve not been out there to view the body, but, as soon as it was reported, I instructed the immediate area to be secured and no one will have been allowed access. Two of my men are there now. They know their responsibilities. Gerry here will show you the way if you’d like to follow him. If Samson Security can help the police in any way at all, please just ask. Gerry is at your disposal.’ Gerry looked faintly pleased by the obvious trust being put in him.

  Romney played him at his own game. ‘Our report was of a suspicious death. What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘I’d rather leave that for the police to ascertain.’ And there it was, thought Marsh, that little tight-jawed utterance. Wilkie was not over it. He still hadn’t acknowledged her presence. He turned to Gerry. ‘Show these officers through then, Gerry. You heard what I said: you’re at their disposal as long as they require you.’ And with that Wilkie turned and disappeared back into his cabin. Romney raised his eyebrows at Marsh and she protruded and bent her lower lip in reply. Enough said, for now.

  Gerry was probably in his early sixties, short and stringy. He wore glasses with tinting lenses and his thick silver hair was cropped short. He looked like he kept himself fit. He led the way across the Outer Bailey. They followed his quick pace dodging in and out of people’s way. He was clearly familiar with the layout of the place.

  ‘Where are we going, Gerry?’ said Marsh.

  ‘The fields.’

  ‘Where they just staged the Napoleonic battle?’ said Romney.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Couldn’t we have driven?’ said Romney, realising how far he was going to have to walk.

  ‘Mr Wilkie said walking would be best. It won’t take but a few minutes.’ Romney and Marsh exchanged a knowing look.

  They rounded a massive stone wall to be faced with one of the castle’s huge and imposing stone gateways. A pair of enormous towers dwarfed the opening that gave on to a long and impressive flight of ancient stone steps, which descended away from the castle walls. Gerry led them through it.

  ‘How long have you been with Samson Security?’ asked Romney.

  ‘I’m just with them for this project. Mr Wilkie said they might have something more for me when this is over. I hope so. My pension isn’t going as far as I hoped it would. I could do with some extra work.’

  Romney could imagine that carrot being dangled before all the employees who were looking for work after the project. Perhaps there was some truth in it, but he couldn’t see Gerry enjoying the staple of local and little security firms: standing outside the seedy and violent Dover nightclubs bouncing on a Saturday night.

  ‘What do you know of the death?’

  ‘One of the soldiers – not sure which side. Apparently, he’s been bayoneted, but I’m not positive about that.’

  ‘Bayoneted?’ said Romney.

  ‘That’s what Peter said. He’s one of our blokes down there. He used to be in. So when he says it looks like the poor man’s been bayoneted I, for one, believe him.’

  They walked in single file on a narrow, well worn path that discouraged conversation, and through a small band of trees which separated the field from the immediate surrounds of the castle.

  Stepping out of the cover and onto the field was like stepping back in time. Dotted around everywhere were men in uniforms of the period sitting and chatting. Little pyramids of rifles were propped up outside pitched tents. Some smoked replicas of the old clay pipes characteristic of the time. Horses grazed, their coats gleaming. People were eating and drinking and looked to be having a good time. One wouldn’t have thought they’d been in battle and that a man lay dead somewhere amongst them. Perhaps, they just didn’t know.

  They threaded their way through the groups and canvas and were soon afforded an uninterrupted view of the battlefield where, apart from one who had possibly taken the field feeling murderous, hundreds of men had converged in mock battle.

  Aspects of the logistical reality of the situation crowded in on Romney and what he realised depressed him. As they walked across the trampled and gouged turf towards where a small group of men stood looking down on a fallen comrade, he understood that if there was foul-play involved in this passing of life then he would have more suspects to interview than he had ever remotely come close to: literally hundreds. He also realised with a further sinking of his spirit that, this being Friday afternoon, his plans for the weekend would be ruined.

  ***

  2

  Gerry led the police the hundred metres or so across the open farmland-cum-battlefield towards the corpse. As they approached, Romney counted four people standing near a covered hump on the turf – presumably the body. Someone had considerately, if not particularly helpfully from a forensic point of view, thrown a military greatcoat over whoever lay expired. As the four faces turned towards them came into focus Romney saw that two wore downcast, uncomfortable expressions, one a haughty condescension tempered with what looked like a grim superiority, and one looked over expectantly to greet them like a faithful old dog: Detective Constable Grimes. An immaculately turned out horse which probably cost more than Romney’s car stood idly by nibbling at the turf. Its reins were held loosely by the haughty one. The matching pair wore the day-glow vests of Samson Security. The other stranger was kitted out in a uniform that was not the same as Grimes’, but, one could be forgiven for thinking, was of the period. As Marsh continued on, trailing Gerry to the group, Romney hung back and signalled Grimes over with a twitch of his head.

  As Romney predicted, Grimes was indeed sweating like the proverbial sow in his costume. His puce features and voluminous neck spilt out over the collar of his military jacket. Beads of sweat ran from his temples and on down his chubby, ruddy cheeks. Romney felt uncomfortable just looking at what he perceived to be a faintly ridiculous figure. The uniform was clearly too small for the man. No doubt it was bought some time before Grimes lost total control of his appetite and then, in turn, his waistline. Costumes like that probably didn’t come cheap and therefore weren’t to be replaced often on a DC’s wage.

  Romney was not surprised to see that Grimes had imposed himself on proceedings. Despite it being his warrant-card-carrying-duty as a serving police officer – on duty or not – to respond to incidents that required police involvement, Grimes enjoyed being in the thick of it, at the centre of the attention, especially if there was a dead body involved. He never seemed to do much, but he was always there, in the way. Still, Romney realised that he should be grateful that there was a serving police officer on the scene quickly, someone who knew what was what; someone who had experience of what needed to be done. At least procedure would have been observed and any forensic evidence preserved.

  Without preamble and trying not to stare at the traces of food stuck to the corners of the detective constable’s mouth, Romney said, with businesslike expectation, ‘What have we got?’

  ‘I only arrived a minute before you, gov. I was in the
food tent when I heard about it.’

  Typical, thought Romney, although he resisted the urge on this occasion to voice his disappointment. Perhaps, he should have expected as much. Grimes reputation went before him. A reputation for disappointing.

  ‘I had a quick look. He’s definitely dead. He’s wearing a French uniform.’ Grimes said this as though that was all right then.

  Romney made a face and continued on past him for someone hopefully more helpful.

  Marsh was talking to the other gentleman dressed in period costume, or rather, she was mooning up in some nauseating pose of spell-bound enchantment by the time Romney reached them.

  In contrast to Grimes, even a spoiler like Romney would have to concede that the man looked faintly splendid. He showed no sign of the heat of the day affecting him. The uniform fit his tall lithe frame as though it had been tailored for him. Perhaps it had. It looked expensive and so did he, from his neat, well-groomed thick curls, past his authentically Napoleonic and neatly trimmed moustache down to the highly polished spurs on his knee-high shiny boots. A dashing Darcy of a character. Romney’s eye was irresistibly drawn to the considerable bulge in the front of the man’s jodhpurs and was embarrassed when looking up to find the man staring, smirking knowingly back at him. The man dipped his head and in an archaic and surreal display of chivalry, leather and metal brought his heels together with a harsh click and a tinkle.

  While Romney was trying to make sense of the effect that a fancy dress costume could have on a grown man, Marsh said, ‘This is Doctor Gerard DuPont, sir. He’s with the French contingent.’ She looked up at the man as though seeking approval for her pronunciation of his name. He, in turn, nodded and bestowed a tight little smile on her for her childish efforts.

  Romney felt a little queasy. ‘You don’t say,’ he said, trying to convey with a withering look what he thought of Marsh’s apparent fascinated attraction for the uniformed man. He made a mental note to take his subordinate to task at the earliest opportunity regarding the appropriateness of overtly fawning over men in uniform when there were dead bodies lying around to be investigated, especially when the uniform was meant to be two hundred years old. He wanted to tell her to get a grip.

  ‘You’re a medical doctor?’ said Romney.

  The man’s English was, of course, excellent. ‘Yes. As you can see, I’m part of the French force here. I am a medical doctor, Mr ...?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Romney.’

  ‘Of course, Detective Inspector.’ The Frenchman smiled stiffly at the correction and with the tolerance one would normally reserve when suffering the errant behaviour of other people’s children. ‘This man is dead. I can certify that. And it would appear on first inspection that death is as a result of a deep stab wound to the heart made through the front of the body. Naturally, you will have this verified by your own medical examiner.’

  ‘Did you find the body?’ asked Romney, ignoring the man’s medical opinion.

  ‘No. But as soon as I heard there was a serious injury, I naturally made myself available to assist in any way that I could.’

  Still discounting the good doctor’s efforts, Romney asked to no one in particular, ‘Who did find the body?’

  One of the orange vests said, ‘Some of the French soldiers over there.’ He indicated a small group of men leaning on their rifles looking a mixture of sorrowful and angry a short distance away. ‘I’ve asked them to wait for the police.’

  At least someone was doing something right, thought Romney. ‘Where is the on-site medical team? Shouldn’t there be one?’

  The orange vest said, ‘There is. They were here, but because there’s nothing to be done for him, they’ve gone to attend to the other wounded.’

  ‘Other wounded? What other wounded? I thought that this was supposed to be a mock battle.’

  ‘If I may, Inspector,’ said DuPont. Romney treated him to a look that said, are you still here? but the man seemed impervious to it. ‘I am well experienced in these events, a veteran one might say. You will permit me to share something of my experience and opinion with you?’ Clearly, it was a rhetorical question as the man continued without waiting for permission. ‘Of course this is a mock battle, but when one has several hundred combatants involved in a dynamic and physically interactive display; when one factors in the inevitable adrenalin and excitement, not to mention the patriotic fervour involved, there will inevitably be injuries suffered. Everyone who takes part accepts that. It is understood. Sometimes people simply get swept away with the history of the occasion and temporarily blinded to reality. Despite everyone’s best intentions, there are, regrettably and occasionally accidents. To be frank, to obtain that elusive quality of authenticity, especially for something as critical as the camera’s unforgiving lens – for the filming – it is necessary for both sides to show, shall we say, a certain amount of zeal? It is not uncommon for minor wounds, broken bones even, to be sustained in the heat of mock battle.’

  ‘What about dead people?’ said Romney, without feeling.

  DuPont clearly didn’t like that. ‘That is as unusual as it is lamentable, Detective Inspector, especially when it is one of our own troops.’

  ‘Would it have been more acceptable if it had been one from the other side?’ said Romney.

  There was a silence from the group then. Feet shifted. Eyes darted and flitted and then found something interesting either on the ground or in the distance to focus on. Romney half expected to be called out for a duel by the anachronism in front of him. Instead the Frenchman treated him to only a cold stare before saying, ‘I will be available should you need to speak with me further, Inspector, but now I am, perhaps, just in the way. One final thing I should like to be said however: despite my remarks about the inevitable sustaining of minor injuries in events such as this, I, for one, witnessed levels of violence from wearers of British uniforms that I have never seen before. This is essentially a non-violent affair. There were elements of the British forces that appeared determined to inflict injury.’

  ‘Thank you. You can expect to make a statement later. Sergeant Marsh, take Mr DuPont’s details before he pushes off back to his camp.’ Romney turned away from the pair and his attention towards the talkative orange vest. ‘What’s your name?’

  The young man seemed quite intimidated by Romney’s performance so far. ‘Chris Perch.’

  ‘Right, Chris. You strike me as someone who might be able to help. Until you are relieved by a police officer I want you to make sure that no one, and I mean no one, comes within ten feet of the body. Is that clear? Look on it as a deputisation.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Romney turned to Grimes. ‘Get out of that silly uniform and start organising things for the taking of statements. Your holiday is officially cancelled. You can start with that lot who found the body.’ Then to the other orange vest, ‘Where’s the nearest vehicular access point?’

  ‘Eh?’

  Romney rolled his eyes, ‘Entrance for cars?’

  The obviously dim-witted fellow said, ‘Oh, right. Over there,’ he pointed. ‘Off the little road. There’s a farm gate.’

  ‘Right, get over there and direct police and ambulance traffic in until you are relieved by a police officer, is that clear? And nobody but emergency services personnel is to come or go, got it?’ He nodded and trotted off, glad to put some distance between himself and the grouchy cop. Romney turned next to Gerry, ‘How many exits off this field?’

  ‘Two for vehicles that I know of, but anyone can wander off on foot back to the castle. You’ve seen that for yourself.’

  Romney frowned. ‘We’ve got to keep everyone who was involved in the battle here until we’ve carried out our investigation and taken everyone’s details.’

  Gerry shared what he thought of that with a quiet whistle and said, ‘I can radio Mr Wilkie, get him to send over any spare bodies to stop people going back to the castle the way we came?’

  ‘Good man. Do it.’

  Rom
ney turned back to be confronted with the retreating back of the cavalry officer as he strode away back towards his camp leading his mount. His little brass-buttoned jacket hung nonchalantly over his shoulder, while his spurs jangled in rhythm with his step. Romney imagined that the man was in love with the image of a bygone era as much as he was with his own representation of it. It was, he reflected in a moment of understanding of his fellow man, exactly that perception and glamorisation of war that had been getting men, women and children killed for thousands of years. He noticed Marsh was staring at him with a look that he recognised as undisguised disappointment.

  ‘What?’ he said, daring her to speak her mind again.

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Good. Let’s have a look at this body then, shall we?’ Romney knelt down and lifted the edge of the coat.

  The dead man’s expression was fixed in a wide-eyed grimace of agony. There was nothing peaceful about his death mask. On the contrary, his expression was deeply unsettling. There was a great deal of blood. The front of his jacket was soaked with it.

  Romney heaved out a deep sigh, covered him back up and then said to no one in particular, ‘Let’s remember why we’re all here shall we?’

  The following hours saw a great deal of action on the part of the authorities and a great deal of boredom for those who were forced to sit and wait on the side-lines. More police arrived. Every policeman, policewoman and police-dog available from Dover, Deal and Folkestone was summoned in preparation for the taking of the details and statements from the hundreds of participants. A marquee was hastily erected for the police to use as a temporary interviewing headquarters.