Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3)

by Oliver Tidy

  The regional pathologist and long-time forensic foil for Romney, Maurice Wendell, duly arrived and confirmed what DuPont had asserted, namely that death had been as a result of a stab wound to the heart that entered through the chest. When pushed, Wendell also suggested that the bayonet theory would certainly fit with the nature of the entrance wound.

  The removal of the body led to strange scenes of dozens of the deceased’s comrades and friends, all still in uniform, joining in silent reverence to honour a fallen comrade.

  As Grimes happened to be in the vicinity, Romney said, ‘How often do people get killed in these re-enactments then?’

  ‘It’s the first I’ve ever heard of, gov,’ said the unusually subdued man.

  The request was passed around that all combatants remain in their battledress until they had been interviewed. Given the nature of the fatal wound it was suggested by the pathologist that an arterial spurt would have been likely and difficult to evade given the close proximity that a bayonet thrust would necessitate.

  No one, other than those involved with the investigation, was permitted to enter or leave the field. The natural and man-made boundaries of the wide open space provided the physical limits for the quarantine of all those involved. It was pointed out to the police that whoever was responsible for the death – no one had used the word murder yet – was likely to have high-tailed it at the earliest opportunity and almost certainly that would have been before the perimeter was secured. This prompted a memory in Romney of the small cluster of British uniform wearing men who had blundered across his and Marsh’s path in the car park in a collective state of excitement. There had been something familiar about someone in the group: a voice, a face. Romney dug around but couldn’t find the detail that was probably long-buried in his subconscious. He switched his focus of thought knowing that, like most things that couldn’t be readily teased from long suppressed memory at will, it would re-surface when he was least expecting it.

  In the meantime there was a mountain of police procedure to be followed. Despite the daunting numbers of suspects involved, the police took encouragement from the fact that both sides of the fracas maintained excellent records – a roll call as they liked to call it – of attendees that would be uploaded on to their respective websites along with photographs for posterity. And so the idea that if perhaps whoever was responsible for the death – recovery and subsequent cursory examination of the man’s own rifle with fixed bayonet showed that he had not simply stumbled unwittingly onto it – had absconded after the event and before the perimeter was sealed then their absence would be apparent.

  Competent bi-lingual speakers of both French and English were pressed to help speed the initial interview process where the wheat available to the investigation would be sorted from the chaff. The ratio amongst the translators for whom French was a first language compared to English gave a potted example of the age old story of the arrogance of the native English speaking world.

  Fortunately for the authorities, the huge majority of both the French and the English forces were camping for the week. To Romney’s perplexity it turned out that most were making a break of it. Soaking up the atmosphere. Fraternising with the ‘enemy’ and generally having a good time of living in the past.

  There had also been much preparation to do for the battle itself, which involved time consuming planning and activities. Convincing battles, Romney was informed by an old hand, were not simply staged by turning up, getting changed and charging at the enemy willy-nilly. To be authentic and mirror any historical engagement of regular armies such a display involved organisation, preparation, practise, drilling and commitment. And with the added scrutiny of the film cameras, getting it right would take a monumental effort and sacrifice of time. Romney also came to understand that these re-enactment groups took unswerving pride in providing a bona-fide depiction of whatever they were called on to represent.

  The few that had only been able to come for the day and the engagement to bolster numbers at the rear were refused permission to leave until procedure had been followed. Such was the camaraderie of the ‘soldiers’ that billets were readily found for those who would have to stay overnight.

  To a man, all appeared to bear the imposition of police procedure with a common goodwill. After all, one of their own had met his end. It was a rare, if paradoxical, example of entente-cordiale in the modern world that whichever the side, the uniform, or the regiment, without apparent exception they considered themselves all one: part of one likeminded enthusiasm. Allegiance, rank or outside commitments mattered not until the perpetrator of the heinous act had been rooted out. One thing Romney came to believe the more people that he spoke to: there would be no hiding place for whoever was responsible for this if, indeed, he was still there.

  And the longer the statement taking, the interviewing, the inspecting went on the idea that the perpetrator was still among them seemed less and less likely. Which brought Romney back again to the group from the car park. He mentioned it to Marsh when he caught up with her in the interview tent where she had enlisted, unsurprisingly, the assistance of Doctor DuPont for some translation. Not relishing another encounter with the Frenchman, Romney indicated she should join him with an inclination of his head from the entrance.

  Working with the French, Marsh was able to describe a clear picture that was emerging from her interviews with individuals. It appeared that in one particular part of the field there had been a small number of British ‘soldiers’ seemingly intent on engaging in substantially more than mock battle. The numbers of injured French soldiers in the first aid tent compared with British lent support to this notion as did the nature of their injuries, the location of the men on the battlefield when they sustained them, and the testimonies of the injured as to how they came by them. Several spoke of the unreasonable force with which they had been engaged by the ‘enemy’ who, they asserted, had come at them clearly determined to hurt them.

  While the rifles the men carried were not equipped to fire live ammunition they were still able to inflict damage if wielded with intent and there was no shortage of evidence, apart from the dead man, for that.

  Once they had discussed the general lack of progress, Romney said, ‘You remember that group from the car park?’

  She nodded, ‘I’ve been thinking about them too.’

  ‘We were stuck up on the battlements for what fifteen, twenty minutes after the battle scene? They would have had to leave pretty quickly after the fighting was finished to have got round there so soon and yet why would they? Why rush away from the occasion? The big occasion that everyone was here for? It doesn’t make sense. That behaviour isn’t in keeping with what I’m hearing and seeing from everyone else.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Marsh. ‘They don’t seem typical of the community spirit. So what are you suggesting, sir? That they might not have been part of the organisation? That they were just here for some violence? What would be the motive? Why dress up in costume? Where would they have got them from anyway? How would they have known about this or got in? The organisations seem pretty strict about membership and conduct.’

  ‘My, what a lot of questions,’ said Romney, but he was a least smiling. Something unusual.

  As they stood in silent contemplation a uniformed constable approached. Romney signalled that he should speak up.

  ‘According to the registers of both the French and the English, sir, there is no one unaccounted for. Everyone who is on their lists is still here. No one’s missing.’

  ‘I got it the first time, thank you,’ said Romney.

  The constable reddened and moved away.

  ‘I suppose it had to be someone on the battlefield didn’t it?’ said Romney, with hint of self-doubt. ‘It couldn’t have been after the action, a member of the public for want of a better expression?’

  ‘Had to be, sir. And no one I’ve spoken to has mentioned anything about people being out there not in uniform.’

  ‘Right. How long is you
r mate Crayfish going to be getting that footage together?’

  ‘I’ll find out, sir.’

  ‘Do that, would you? I’m beginning to hang my hopes on it.’

  It was a natural thing for anyone involved in the investigation to realise, sooner or later, that perhaps the incident which had ended a man’s life might have been captured by one of the several cameras dotted around the arena. Given Romney’s earlier interaction with the director, the request for a viewing of the scenes shot that afternoon was not something he chose to be part of. He had instructed Marsh, seeing as she had apparently, ‘hit it off with Hugo,’ to seek him out and officially request that he organise all footage taken of the action to be collated for police viewing at his earliest convenience.

  Marsh found Romney in the refreshments tent several minutes later. Having worked together for a few months, Romney reckoned he could read the limited range of expressions his sergeant used for her work. The one she was wearing as she threaded her way through the tables and chairs gave him cause to prepare himself for trouble.

  He didn’t wait for her to sit down. ‘What is it?’

  She took a deep breath, obviously not relishing the job of bearing bad news. Everyone knew Romney had a reputation for occasionally shooting messengers.

  ‘There’s been a robbery, sir. All the reels of film showing the battle have been stolen.’

  ***

  3

  As at the throwing of a switch, silence fell abruptly when Detective Inspector Romney, trailed by Marsh, pushed his way through the hanging flaps of the marquee to join the little gathering. During the last dozen or so metres of their approach, Romney and Marsh had heard raised voices filtering through the thin canvas material. A few people had been eavesdropping outside and with the purposeful approach of a stern looking man in a suit they had mostly shuffled off, probably to re-emerge from the shadows as soon as the police had disappeared inside. This was likely to prove a good story for the pub.

  Without warmth, humour or introduction to those who he hadn’t already met, Romney said, ‘Evening all. I did knock, but you obviously didn’t hear me. Don’t stop talking on my account.’

  Hugo Crawford, Wilkie, a man, and a woman who was administering to another, seated man who had apparently injured the back of his head continued with their Trappist monk impressions. Romney sighed theatrically, ‘I’m sure we all know why I’m here, so can we just get on with it? I’ve got a dead body to investigate.’ Still silence prevailed. ‘Why don’t I make it simple? Where is the film you shot of the battle?’

  Romney was looking at Hugo Crawford. Hugo Crawford, in turn, was scowling at Wilkie. Wilkie was staring at something on the far canvas wall. The other three in the room flicked their gazes between Romney, Crawford and Wilkie. Romney raised his voice as though admonishing miscreant teenagers, ‘Well?’

  ‘As the man responsible for on-site security are you going to tell him, or shall I?’ said Crawford, still staring at Wilkie.

  ‘They’ve been stolen.’ Wilkie’s answer was one of abject professional embarrassment tinged with sullen humiliation.

  Romney heaved out a dramatic, ‘What?’ He was still playing the disappointed grown-up and incredibly they were letting him get away with it. ‘Will someone please explain to me what has happened here?’

  The seated man who was having his head seen to spoke up. ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘Of course we’re the police. Who do you think we are, the RSPCA? I’m Detective Inspector Romney. Who are you?’

  The man ignored the sarcasm. ‘David Ramsden. I look after all the on-site film storage. The reels of film were sent up to me here. When your request came through I was going to put it all together for you to take away.’

  ‘Why couldn’t we have seen it here?’

  Ramsden said, ‘This isn’t digital, Inspector. You can’t just look at film as soon as it’s been shot. It would have to go to London, to a specialist processing laboratory. That’s typically going to take a couple of days. The film would have to be turned into a positive print and then returned to a viewing theatre for you to see it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Romney. ‘You’ve been injured?’

  ‘Yes. Before I had a chance to do as I said, someone came up behind me and whacked me over the head. When Lucy here found me, I was out cold and the film was gone. All of it.’

  Romney remained contemplatively silent for a few moments, as his mind sifted the information and its ramifications. Eventually, he said, ‘You didn’t get a look at them?’

  ‘Sorry, nothing. I couldn’t even tell you if it was just one person. One moment I was going through the reels, the next I was coming round with Lucy ministering to me.’

  Romney treated himself to a chair. ‘Can we all sit down?’

  While people were rustling up seats, the woman attending to the injured man’s head said, ‘Do you need me? I’m only make-up. I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘Why were you in here?’ asked Romney.

  ‘I came to get my handbag. It was in here for safe-keeping.’

  ‘Will he live?’ Romney flashed her a rare smile. She was attractive. Marsh looked at the ceiling of the tent and let out a quiet, disappointed breath.

  ‘I think so. I don’t think it’ll need stitches. Nasty bump though.’

  ‘Then, thank you. You can go.’

  ‘Thanks, Lucy,’ said Ramsden.

  She collected up her bag and slipped out.

  The other male was still standing. He was barely out of his teens; a nervous looking callow young man, probably straight out of university.

  ‘Problem?’ said Romney.

  ‘Do you need me?’

  ‘No, off you go, Craig,’ said Crawford.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Romney. ‘I’ll decide who stays and who goes. This is a police matter now, Mr Crawford.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Mr Crawford now is it? What happened to Crayfish, Inspector?’

  ‘If it makes you happy, I can call you Crayfish, but I think proper names would be more appropriate now that we have a death to investigate. Time to grow up a bit, eh?’

  Crawford snorted, showing who he thought needed to grow up.

  Romney ignored it. ‘Who are you and why are you here?’

  ‘My name is Craig Stoner. I work in here. I’m doing an internship. Learning about the industry.’

  Romney nodded. ‘Slave labour in other words. When did you arrive?’

  ‘I got back after Lucy. I came in to find her seeing to David.’

  ‘Why were you absent if this is your work station?’

  ‘We got a message that there was one more reel to collect. David sent me off for it.’ Romney indicated his understanding. ‘But there wasn’t,’ said the youth. ‘When I got down to the camera crew they said they’d already sent everything up. There was no other reel and they said they hadn’t sent a message saying that there was.’

  Romney looked towards Ramsden and raised his eyebrows.

  Ramsden held his hands up. ‘That was the message I got.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘On the communications handset that we use.’ He picked up a walkie-talkie and waggled it.

  ‘Who was the message from?’ said Romney, voicing the question that just about everyone else was thinking. Whoever got the lad out of the tent and out of the way could reasonably be expected to help the police with their enquiries, especially as there was no film to collect.

  ‘No idea, sorry. It was just a voice. I didn’t recognise it if that’s any help and I know most people on this set by their voice.’

  Romney made a noise of disappointment. ‘How many people would have access to one of those handsets?’

  ‘Dozens and dozens. Anyone could have picked it up. They’re lying around all over the place on a film set and most of us are all wired up for comms anyway.’

  Romney looked hard at the youth once more. ‘You didn’t see anyone carrying anything that could have been the missing film when you came back?’ The young man shook
his head. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary at all?’ Again a negative. ‘OK, Craig. You can go, but if anything occurs to you come and find one of us.’

  The young man walked out. Romney had made his point. Authority had been asserted.

  ‘And then there were three,’ said Romney, making the additional point that he and Marsh were not part of the group under the spotlight. ‘Right, just so that we’re all clear and in agreement on the facts, let’s just recap can we? DS Marsh spoke to you, Mr Crawford, about getting all your footage together for us.’ Crawford nodded. ‘The film was all brought here especially.’ Ramsden raised his index finger to interrupt. Romney let him.

  ‘This is where all the film is kept anyway. It wouldn’t have had to be brought here from another location. It’s brought straight from the cameras to here and labelled, recorded and stored.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Romney. ‘Is that common knowledge?’

  ‘It would be among the crew and anyone who was a regular around film sets.’

  Romney seemed satisfied. ‘Good. So, you, Mr Ramsden, were sorting out the film for us when you received an anonymous message telling you there was another film that needed collecting and bringing up. Correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Did you know there was film unaccounted for?’

  ‘No. What I mean is, I hadn’t checked off what I had against what I was expecting by then.’

  ‘Isn’t it someone’s job to bring film from the camera to here? I mean, I would expect that when scenes are shot, especially big scenes, then that film is potentially worth a lot of money and not worth the risk of being allowed to go astray.’

  ‘Absolutely, every remote camera has an appointed body whose responsibility it is to get that film back to a secure central place. On this shoot, it’s here.’