Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3)

by Oliver Tidy

  He hadn’t seen her again. Trade had slowed and the young man was doing all the waiting. Romney could see it didn’t need two. He wondered if he’d frightened her off. Not everyone saw the police in the same way. Some respected them, some were in awe of them, others were simply afraid. And some were downright unpleasant. He tipped the ten percent, thanked the young man for an excellent meal and left.

  The recent change in the weather had brought a more seasonally appropriate drop in night temperatures. He fastened his coat against the chill and made his way across the small square. He looked in an estate agent’s window for something to do and then continued along the pedestrianised and largely deserted central street of the main shopping thoroughfare in search of a night-cap. At the sound of a woman’s heels click-clacking quickly over the brick-pavers behind him he turned to see who was in such a hurry and was surprised for the third time that evening by the waitress from the Greek restaurant. She came straight for him and stopped, breathing quickly.

  ‘Could I speak with you about something?’ she said.

  ‘Of course. What is it?’ Romney remained guarded and professional. It was one thing to flirt a little on a common safe ground, but being accosted in the dark on an empty street was something different.

  ‘It’s complicated. It might take a few minutes. I need some advice.’

  ‘Why don’t we go in here for a minute?’ said Romney, indicating the pub that they were standing outside.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as though this had been her intention, and they went in.

  ***

  15

  Despite her offer, the gentleman in Romney couldn’t allow her to buy him the first drink. In any case, he realised he shouldn’t risk another alcoholic beverage. He ordered a coffee. She wanted a sparkling mineral water. The barman looked at Romney with disappointment written all over his face. It was a pub after all. Romney was equally dismayed to see him turn on a kettle and reach for the jar of instant coffee on the shelf behind him. He’d be able to buy a whole pot of that crap – not that he ever would – for what they were about to charge him for a spoonful and some hot water. Still, waiting for the kettle to boil gave him time to consider the change in his fortunes and wonder what she could possibly want with him.

  He was able to steal glances at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Fiddling with a beer mat, she looked nervous and her eyes constantly flitted towards the entrance. It wasn’t quite how he had imagined things.

  She thanked him for the drink. He settled himself on the chair opposite her.

  ‘My name’s Tom, by the way,’ he said.

  ‘Alexis,’ she offered, with a small uncomfortable smile. ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I realise that my behaviour must seem strange, but I’m desperate.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ said Romney, selfishly hoping that a beautiful, desperate woman could lead to something. ‘It happens all the time,’ he added stupidly. Thankfully, she seemed not to have heard the remark.

  ‘It is because you are a policeman that I wish to talk to you,’ she said. He tried to look as though this was what he had expected. ‘My husband does not know that I am here.’ Oh, a husband. ‘He thinks that I have gone to the market for something. When I learned that you are a policeman I made the decision on my own to speak with you about our problem.’ Our problem. ‘You seem a nice person. You have a kind face. I hope that you can help us.’ Help us. Romney was aware that his hearing had become selective and determined to do better.

  Despite the fact that she was married and her reason for being there, he felt himself being further attracted to her with every sound that she uttered. Her voice with its rich continental intonation resonated perfectly with her other physical attributes: the shape and depth of her eyes, the thick black wavy hair that framed her perfectly sculpted face; the fullness of her exquisite mouth. Even her nose, which was perhaps just a little too big, could not detract from her overall loveliness. Her neck had a quality that made Romney notice a neck like he’d never noticed a neck before. Too many necks just supported heads and channelled essential plumbing and fluids. This woman’s neck took necks to a new plane of difference. And yet, perhaps her most appealing quality was that she appeared unaware of all of it. Or perhaps she was just pre-occupied with her problem.

  She was talking again and Romney forced himself to focus on her words. ‘Our restaurant is new. We have invested everything we have into it. If it fails, we will be ruined. We will probably have to return to Greece and live with our families. A week after we opened some men came. They told us that if we wanted to keep our business in Dover then we would need protection. They did not say who from. They said that we could pay them money every month and they would protect us. They said that if we did not pay them then they could not protect us and that others would ruin our business. They did not say how.’ She stopped.

  ‘How much are they asking?’ said Romney.

  ‘One thousand pounds.’

  ‘Have you paid them anything yet?’

  ‘No, they have not returned. It has not yet been a month. My husband says that he won’t pay them. I support him, but I am afraid of the men. They seemed sincere and experienced.’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to the police?’

  ‘My husband will not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The men said that if we involve the police they will not be able to protect us. My husband says that he will deal with it.’

  ‘What does he mean by that?’

  She avoided his eyes and said, ‘I don’t know.’

  Romney inhaled and exhaled loudly. It was the sound of depressed thought. Was she more afraid of the threat of the men or what she believed her husband might be moved to do to protect his livelihood? ‘If your husband won’t make a complaint to the police, why are you talking to me now?’

  ‘Because I am scared. They must come soon and it cannot go well for us. My husband is the only man there. There were three men who came to the restaurant before.’

  ‘You need to talk some sense into your husband. You must get him to make an official complaint immediately. If you can convince him to do this, I can help you.’

  ‘Can you protect us and our business?’

  ‘I can arrest people who are threatening violence and extortion.’

  ‘My husband will not ask the police for help.’

  ‘Then, Alexis, your husband is a fool. If he pays them they’ll never stop coming back for more. If he tries to deal with them on his own he will likely get hurt and your business will probably suffer in some way. Is he the chef?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you asked him how he expects to prepare food from a hospital bed? What will happen to your business if he can’t cook? They don’t have to smash up your premises to ruin you. Smashing up the chef will work just as well. So will releasing cockroaches into the kitchen and it’s easy to do. You can’t beat this type on your own. They are usually determined and nasty. The police are there to help you. It’s part of why you pay your taxes.’ He sipped his coffee for something to do and wished he hadn’t. Her water remained untouched.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘You are right. I see that, but it doesn’t alter things. My husband is a proud and stubborn man.’ He’s an idiot, thought Romney. She rose to leave. She hadn’t even taken off her coat. ‘Thank you for speaking to me and speaking plainly. I appreciate that. I hope that you will still visit us.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Romney. ‘I will ask some questions; I’ll try to find out who in Dover might be behind this kind of thing. If I get some names and their pictures are on file I can bring them to show you. If you can identify any of them, I can speak to them without mentioning your involvement.’

  ‘And what would that achieve?’

  ‘It’s the best that I can do if your husband won’t make an official complaint.’

  ‘I will think about it. Thank you.’ And she was gone.

  Romney felt as though someone had snuffed
out something very important. He felt suddenly very tired, unexplainably cold and horribly alone.

  *

  Whatever it was that had torpedoed Romney’s equilibrium the previous evening, the light of a new day and the noise of his alarm clock were enough to break the spell. He woke feeling the need to expend some energy. He pulled out some sweats from the laundry basket and headed off for a rare early morning run.

  He preferred running in the evenings, or at weekends, but occasionally the mood would pounce on him early in the day and experience told him that it was better to succumb than to spend the day wishing he had and regretting that he hadn’t.

  As always the exercise resulted in flooding his system with pent up endorphins that lifted his spirit and made him temporarily happy. He beat Falkner into work, which added to his good feeling. He managed his coffee and a pastry treat and an aggressive sift of his paperwork before the next body turned up. It was DC Spicer. Romney signalled him over.

  ‘Remind me what you’re doing today?’

  ‘I’ve still got a mountain of hard files that need to be computerised, gov,’ said Spicer without enthusiasm.

  ‘Forget that for now. I want you to find out who in Dover could be behind a protection racket. See if there have been any allegations or complaints made. Find out if there have been any incidents like fires or beatings – particularly with new businesses in the town – that smell of punishment. Talk to uniform and see if they’ve heard anything. Ask around wherever you have to. Get in touch with any new businesses in the town that have started up in the last six months. The local council will have information on that.’

  ‘Have we had a complaint then, gov?’

  ‘Nothing official. Don’t spend all day on it. When you’re done I want you to start going through this.’ Romney gave the cardboard box of Edy Vitriol’s ferry-boat-disaster-memories a kick. ‘The man who was murdered in the hospital was involved in a bad way in the capsizing of the Herald of Joint Enterprise if you didn’t know already. He kept everything including hate-mail. I know it was all a long time ago but you never know. There might be something more recent. See if there is anything in there that might point a finger somewhere we can follow.’

  Grimes and Marsh arrived and prepared for their visit to the castle. Romney left his office to talk to Marsh. Grimes took the opportunity to ‘grab a quick coffee’.

  ‘I dropped in on Mrs Vitriol yesterday evening,’ said Romney.

  Marsh, unable to hide her surprise and then her suspicion said, ‘Why?’

  ‘I was passing and I wanted to talk to her about her son’s involvement in the sinking of the ferry boat.’

  Marsh seemed to accept this. ‘Did she have anything interesting to say?’

  ‘As a matter of fact she did. She said that Edy Vitriol had been seeing a trick-cyclist once a month for the last twenty-five years. Ever since the incident.’ Marsh showed her surprise. ‘I’m going to make an appointment to see him myself. If Vitriol was spilling his guts on a regular basis, he might have told his Doctor something that might help us with the investigation into his death.’

  ‘True, but will he talk to you? Confidentiality and all that?’

  ‘I don’t know how that works with the dead. But I suppose I’ll find out, won’t I? Also, she gave me a big box of stuff that Vitriol had hoarded to do with the incident and the subsequent enquiry. I haven’t looked in it yet. She said that he kept hate-mail, too. She said he had aspirations to use it all to write a book one day, although having read some of his debut last night, I don’t think the literary world should feel particularly deprived and bereaved by his early demise.’

  ‘You read his book?’

  ‘Some of it. Not my kind of thing.’

  ‘Did she give you anything else?’ said Marsh.

  ‘She offered tea but I declined,’ said Romney, knowing full well what Marsh was getting at and refusing to play. Grimes returned with a steaming plastic cup of something dirty looking. ‘You two off to the castle, now?’

  ‘If his lordship’s finally ready,’ said Marsh, looking at Grimes.

  ‘Come and see me when you get back.’

  *

  Doctor Puchta’s receptionist tried to encourage Romney to feel particularly fortunate that one of Doctor Puchta’s clients had cancelled at late notice. He was told that if he were able to present himself at the Doctor’s offices in the town in an hour then the Doctor would be happy to spare him a few minutes. He hung up and said something rude to the telephone.

  *

  With the time of his appointment approaching Romney made his way down to the car park. He was still enjoying the chemical effects of his morning exercise. As he was reaching behind the driver’s seat to retrieve his little cushion a car swept into the space alongside his. He looked across to check the occupant and was not displeased to see Diane Hodge from forensics. He let go of the cushion and straightened up to speak with her. She opened her door and swung out her legs giving Romney a glimpse of white thigh where her skirt had ridden up.

  She stood, adjusted her clothing, smiled broadly and said good morning.

  ‘Hello, Diane. How are things?’

  ‘Things are good, thanks.’

  ‘I’m glad we’ve bumped into each other. I wanted to let you know that we got a quick result on the re-enactment killing thanks in great part to forensic evidence.’

  ‘Does that mean my invitation to dinner is coming?’

  ‘Let me know a night that suits you,’ said Romney, meaning for her to get back to him.

  ‘Friday,’ she said very quickly. ‘Or Saturday. Or Sunday. But I prefer Fridays and Saturdays because I haven’t got work the next day. Late nights and lazy mornings.’ She wiggled her eyebrows but Romney was unable to be sure of the significance of that.

  ‘I’m not doing anything on Friday,’ he heard himself saying.

  ‘Great! I’ll email you with my details. Must dash.’ She flashed her teeth at him and strode purposefully towards the building. What happened to a simple exchange of phone numbers? thought Romney. What details would need an email? Dietary requirements? Food intolerances? A list of restaurants on her wish list? Romney watched her go and wondered if he’d done the right thing. His head said no, but after that flash of inner thigh that wasn’t the part of his anatomy that he’d been thinking with.

  *

  Doctor Puchta’s highly polished brass name-plate was fixed to the very nice brickwork by a very nice front door of a very nice property in a very nice street. From similar uniformly arranged oblongs of engraved metal Romney saw that the good doctor shared the building with an architect, an accountant and a financial consultant. Good middle-class company. The way things were going in the town Romney wouldn’t have bet on the expensive plaques still being there in six months. Some thieving scrote with an eye for an easy touch would realise that their glinting scrap-metal value would be worth the five minutes it would take to crow-bar them off the wall on a dark night. They were stealing rusty manhole covers for Christ’s sake.

  As he stood on the scrubbed and painted concrete doorstep Romney found himself wondering whether the businesses saw any benefit in their juxtaposition. Perhaps a visit to the accountants could lead to a meeting with a financial consultant to explore the financing of the fee that the architects were demanding for overseeing a big renovation project, which, if his own experiences were anything to go by, should lead the consumer to having his or her head examined at the psychiatrists.

  Doctor Puchta’s receptionist was frosty efficiency. A fixed smile and cold eyes behind her designer spectacles. She buzzed through to the doctor on their internal phone. After a brief exchange – and then an infuriating and unexplained delay of some seconds while the ice-maiden tapped a couple of keys and pointedly ignored him – she escorted Romney across the fifteen feet of industrial carpet – did she think that he couldn’t have found the door in the wall on his own? She tapped on it and opened it for him. Romney did not offer any gratitude.

&nbs
p; The doctor’s consulting room was a sterile mix of neutral colours – whites and beiges. No doubt some Fellow in his ivory tower had once written a paper on the dangers of provoking mentally unstable clients with hues of red and black, or garish washes of purple, into grabbing the nearest pair of scissors and start slashing people’s throats.

  The furnishings were sparse but expensive looking. The couch was there – more of a chaise-longue really. A comfortable-looking matching leather wingback chair placed at an angle next to it afforded the questioner a view over the prostrate form of the patient without being seen themselves. Next to that was a very nice antique occasional table complete with writing pad, pencils and recording device.

  Romney took in the three large works of modernist art – one in the centre of each wall – all Miros. Perhaps, no-one these days saw Miro’s paintings as inflaming passionate reaction.

  A door in the wall behind the big desk opened and a woman stepped into the room. How many assistants did Puchta need, thought Romney? Looking at this one he didn’t think she’d be much use when it came to restraining someone who went berserk at the unlocking of a deeply disturbing, childhood memory.

  ‘Inspector Romney?’ she said.

  Romney realised then that his palms were sweating and his heartbeat had become something to notice. His doctor phobia was back. ‘Yes. I’m here to see Doctor Puchta.’

  ‘I am Doctor Puchta,’ said the woman. Romney actually reddened at his mistake and his stereo-typing. ‘I see that you were expecting Doctor Puchta to be a man. How quaintly old-fashioned of you.’

  With no idea of how his riposte would be received, he said, ‘Actually, I was expecting someone older.’

  ‘Oh, very good. Very quick, Inspector, if a little transparent and unoriginal. I can see I’ll have to watch you.’

  ‘Just don’t go analysing me. I’m not here to learn about my problems. I’m well aware of them and we get on fine.’