by Oliver Tidy
‘Hit and run. No witnesses. Found lying in a country lane yesterday afternoon out by the Faversham road.’
Romney was stunned. ‘That’s...’
‘Tragic? Awful? I know,’ said Crow.
‘I think I was going to say too much of a coincidence. I doubt it was an accident.’
‘Go on.’
‘I went to see her about the death of her daughter in Dover last week. Young woman went off the fourth floor.’
‘Heard about it. Suspicious?’
‘To me, yes. She was raped the day before.’
‘Bloody hell. That family’s not having much luck is it? I see your point about a coincidence. So why was Dover CID over talking to the mother?’
‘Girl’s boyfriend is a local villain.’
‘Is he implicated in the girl’s death?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘But you can’t prove it?’
‘Right. Soon after she died, her place was ransacked. We think that whoever it was was looking for something. I think it was him.’
‘And?’
‘I think he didn’t find it because she’d given whatever it was to her mother.’
‘That’s what you were doing over here?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did the mother say?’
‘That there was nothing.’
‘You didn’t believe her?’
‘I’m sure she was lying.’
‘Why? Why would she lie if she had something that might have been a factor in her daughter’s death? She knew that you were regarding her death as suspicious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she know about your suspicions of the boyfriend’s involvement?’
‘I don’t believe that I mentioned him by name. She might easily have made that leap. As to why she’d keep the item, it’s probably valuable. She’s out of work and not well off. She possibly reasoned that with her daughter dead it was better that someone profited from what she had gone to the trouble of concealing and died for.’
‘Pragmatic, but not very nice.’
‘Would you let me have a copy of the incident report for the mother’s death?’
‘Sure. No problem. I’ll have it faxed over. In light of what you’ve suggested, I’d like to speak to the boyfriend. What does he do for a crust?’
‘He runs the Dover Pool Hall. Simon Avery. You can reach him there. Got an office upstairs. Spends most of his time in there. Mind if I tag along when you see him?’
‘Not at all. You would be most welcome. Our masters would like that: a bit of inter-station cooperation.’ He chuckled at his little joke.
Romney sat back with his mind chasing something. He reached for the phone to call DI Crow back, let his hand rest on it for a moment and then withdrew it. He’d take a look at the incident report of Helen Stamp’s death first.
*
An hour later, Romney was making notes of the names and addresses of the two men who he had matched from Sammy’s video to file photographs of those arrested at the invasion of The Castle. Spying Marsh in CID, he called her in and told her about Claire Stamp’s mother. She was as shocked by the news as he had been.
Romney gave Marsh the task of bringing in the two men from the café tape for questioning.
Romney then had to contact one of the officers who had been called to the incident at The Castle from Folkestone police station. Documentation of the incident showed that a PC Harker had been responsible for the arrest of Simon Avery and Romney wanted first hand details of that. Harker was not due in until the evening, however. Romney said it would keep. He left a message asking that he call back when he came on duty. Having been a shift working uniform for some years, Romney understood and appreciated that off-duty, unless exceptional circumstances dictated otherwise, should mean exactly that.
A member of the civilian staff brought in the incident report faxed over from Ashford. He settled himself at his desk and went through it.
Helen Stamp had been struck by an unknown vehicle travelling at an undefined speed between the hours of three o’clock and four o’clock on Sunday afternoon. She died at the scene from severe head trauma. It was likely that death was instantaneous. There were no witnesses.
Her own vehicle was parked in a lay-by some four hundred metres from her body. Initial theories that her own car had broken down and that she was walking for assistance proved unfounded when the car she had presumably arrived in was found to be in working order. To further scotch this idea she had a working mobile phone with her and evidence was found in the vehicle that she had breakdown cover. Subsequent checks revealed that she had not made any calls on the mobile for assistance.
The thought that had nagged Romney earlier resurfaced. He reached for the phone and dialled Crow. He thanked him for sending over the report and said, ’Any idea what she was doing out there?’
‘None, up until you called. Now I’m wondering whether she was meeting somebody.’
‘Me too. I suppose you’ve traced any numbers she had contact with leading up to her death?’
‘Done it this morning. Guess what?’
‘The phone she called is registered to Simon Avery.’
‘Dover Pool Hall, actually. They exchanged a total of four calls over Saturday and Sunday morning. I’m calling on him there this afternoon. I got the distinct impression that he was expecting a call from the police about it.’
‘He’s not a complete idiot.’
‘I can pick you up. Say threeish.’
‘Thanks. Look forward to it.’
Romney checked his watch and then told someone to find Marsh for him.
Five minutes later she was at his door. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘When will those two be downstairs?’
‘Within the hour.’
‘Good. Let me know as soon as they’re in.’
Romney called for Grimes. Grimes had been given the task of identifying the male contacts in Claire Stamp’s phone memory and collecting saliva samples from them. The idea that she had known her attacker well enough for him to have her phone number had been nibbling away at his thoughts all weekend.
While he was waiting for Grimes, he called in Spicer and set him the task of coming up with a definitive list of ways that someone could get hold of another person’s mobile phone number.
Grimes reported that there were only two contacts from Stamp’s phone memory whose samples remained unaccounted for. One was on holiday in the Canary Islands and had been since before she was attacked. The other was based in Manchester. He had been contacted and had given assurances that he’d attend his local police station to provide a sample that Grimes had arranged would be forwarded down to Dover. It was highly unlikely that the Manchester contact was their man, but as Grimes said, people had travelled further than that to rape. The Vikings for examples.
*
Forty-five minutes later Marsh reported that both Nigel Holmes and Gary Moor were waiting downstairs. As expected, neither was happy about their situation. Both had been pulled out of work. Both had demanded duty solicitors. Marsh said that she was organising them.
‘Excellent,’ said Romney. ‘Let’s let them sweat down there for a while. I’m going to lunch.’
*
Romney and Marsh sat across from Gary Moor and his appointed solicitor. Moor was a stocky, shaven headed man. He wore a shirt and tie that was at odds with the mental image Romney had formed of him. He appeared anything but happy about being there. Nigel Holmes and his solicitor were in an adjacent interview room. Neither was aware of the presence of the other.
The formalities over, Romney began. ‘Well, Gary. You must be wondering what you’re doing here.’
‘Of course I am. That’s a stupid question.’
‘It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. I need to talk to you about the other night at The Castle.’
‘I’ve already made a statement about that.’
‘I know, but I’d like to hear abo
ut your involvement again.’
‘Why?’
Romney remained patient. ‘It seems that one of the ethnic minority gentlemen injured in the incident has taken a turn for the worse. He might die. If he does, as I’m sure you can appreciate, charges against whoever was identified as striking that gentleman would need to be altered to, well, we’d probably be looking at downgrading it to manslaughter, given the circumstances.’
Some colour drained from Moor’s already pasty face. He recovered quickly, as though something had clunked into place in his Neanderthal brain. He remembered his original statement – the statement they’d all made. ‘Whatever happened in there was self-defence. Me and the lads were just enjoying a quiet pint and then they started on us.’
‘Yes, I read that in your statement,’ said Romney, looking over some typewritten documents. ‘Tell me, what do you remember of being attacked by a five foot three, nine stone, seventy-three year old man? What are you, Gary? Six foot something, sixteen stone plus, mid-thirties?’ The man looked very unsure of himself – anxious, Romney thought, with some satisfaction.
‘You don’t need to answer that,’ said his solicitor.
‘Of course you don’t, Gary,’ said Romney, smiling. ‘Save it for the jury if you like?’
Moor said, ‘I never hit no old bloke.’
Romney turned to Marsh. ‘Who is that in number five we just spoke to?’
‘Simon Avery, sir,’ lied Marsh.
‘Right,’ said Romney, turning back to Moor. ‘Someone is claiming that you did.’
On cue a uniformed constable knocked and put his head around the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the officer in four says that you should come and listen to something, urgently.’ He said the last word of his sentence looking towards Gary Moor, who projected an aura, as Marsh and Romney excused themselves, of someone who was being left alone in the small room with a lion.
Romney performed exactly the same routine with Nigel Holmes in interview room four. The effect was less remarkable, but Romney sensed the same underlying anxiety when he left the room. He and Marsh went for a cup of tea. Fifteen minutes later they returned to Gary Moor.
When the recording regulations had been observed, Romney crossed his arms and leant his elbows on the table. He rocked forwards staring into Moor’s eyes. The man didn’t like it.
‘You’ve been in trouble with the police before, haven’t you, Gary? What was it, aggravated assault? Got a temper have you? What I really want to know is what an old man with advanced arthritis and virtually no English could possibly have said or done to make you so defensive?’
‘I told you,’ said Moor, calmer and more collected, ‘I never hit no old bloke.’
Romney stared at the man for a while and then with a sad resignation stood and said, ‘As you wish, Gary. You’ll have your day in court. For your sake I hope the old boy pulls through. Between you and me though, if he doesn’t, I’m not sure that self-defence will be your best defence.’
As they approached the door, Romney said to Marsh, ‘Take Mr Avery’s statement, thank him for his cooperation and arrange a lift home for him.’
‘Wait,’ said Moor. His solicitor put his hand on his arm, but he shook it off. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he snarled.
Romney made a show of looking at his watch. ‘What is it, Gary?’
‘Avery couldn’t say I done it?’
‘Why?’ said Romney, affecting bored.
‘Cos he wasn’t even bleeding well there. That’s why.’
The gods were smiling on Romney that afternoon. Soon after Moor capitulated, providing a sworn statement detailing his assertion that Avery was nowhere near The Castle until after the police had arrived and broken up the brawl and so couldn’t possibly testify to him assaulting anyone, Holmes followed suit.
When questioned by Romney regarding previous statements that the pair had made, both – with helpful guidance from Romney who seemed only too happy to help them avoid the accusation of perjuring themselves – stood by their original statements that Avery was there but both chose to qualify and clarify those earlier statements with the additional details that Avery had not shown up at the incident until the police had already broken up the fighting and were making arrests.
Romney got the added bonus from Holmes, seething at his belief that Avery had stabbed him in the back, that the whole thing had been planned by Avery as some sort of reprisal for what had happened to his girlfriend.
‘How do we explain his physical appearance then, sir?’ said Marsh. ‘He looked like he’d been in a fight.’
With a hint of disappointment, Romney said, ‘It doesn’t take much to fake yourself up, to make it look like you’ve been scrapping, does it? Not with the right motivation. If Avery was involved in the death of Claire Stamp, I reckon that would prove quite a motivating force, don’t you?’
‘But he’d been hit. You saw that yourself.’
‘He looked like he’d been hit. If he had been, maybe Claire Stamp did it. Maybe he did it to himself. The main thing is that two key witnesses – witnesses who he was relying on to put him at the brawl from the beginning – have now clearly put him anywhere but. I think that our clever Mr Avery only just managed to arrive at the scene to get himself arrested. He must have been very relieved not to have missed the free shuttle to the station. I can only imagine that if he had we would have found him banging on the station front doors suffering an attack of conscience and remorse, begging to be arrested for a part in things.’
Romney left Marsh to the tidying up with the instruction that neither man was to be released before he phoned the all clear. That would be after he and DI Crow had finished questioning Avery at his pool hall.
***
19
The ‘Pool’ of the Dover Pool Hall sign was missing its ‘L’. It occurred to Romney, as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Crow in the light drizzle, looking across at the building, that this revised version was no less accurate. The exterior was drab and dismal and suggested strongly that the interior was unlikely to contradict it. The long-ago whitewashed walls were somewhere between brown and grey with neglect – streaked with the run-off from defective guttering and the splashing of puddle water from passing vehicles. The window frames were peeling to reveal a rainbow of layers of previous paint jobs. Big chunks of putty in the Georgian-style frames were notable by their absence. From across the street it was depressing enough, Romney reflected, to make one take up snooker.
As his eyes adjusted to the murky gloom inside, it was the cloying smell of the place that overwhelmed his senses. Evidently there was a drains problem. Beneath that, Romney could detect the unpleasant odour of damp plaster, the pungent reek of mildewed carpets, stale smoke and the acrid stench of long spilt beer. The decor appeared to be tipping its hat at neo-Victorian slum dwelling. In the first couple of feet up from the skirting, patches of sandy exposed render were the main feature. Bare low wattage bulbs completed the Fagin’s den ambience.
Only a couple of the tables were occupied. Those involved in the games cast furtive and doleful looks at the police officers as they followed their guide through the establishment to climb the open staircase to the offices that overlooked the ground floor in an open plan arrangement. The man who led them up the stairs tapped at a glazed door and after receiving a nod from Avery – seated behind an expanse of Formica veneer – stood aside to admit the police to Avery’s office.
The office was sparsely furnished. A gas heater gently roared away on three bars. Its fumes conveniently overpowered the stink from downstairs. Avery didn’t get up. His brow crinkled slightly on registering the presence of Romney.
‘Two detective inspectors. What an honour,’ he said. ‘Inspector Crow I was expecting but not you Inspector Romney. Business must be slow, eh?’
‘Not as slow as it would appear to be for you,’ said Crow.
‘I get by.’
Crow said, ‘This your only business interest, is it?’ He had a way of d
elivering his lines with just the right weighting of mockery to leave his audience wondering about his real meaning.
‘Yes. What is it I can do for the law today? As you can see, I’m a busy man.’ Neither would have guessed it.
It was a recognised downside of visiting scumbags on their own territory that one handed them a home advantage in the confidence stakes. Many were apt to become cocky to downright arrogant when entertaining the police at home. But police work was often a necessary mixture of pragmatism, expediency and psychology. While calling villains into the intimidating and formal environment of the station had its place and its value it could see them clam up knowing their rights and prove time consuming, awkward, and, of course, the ubiquitous legal presence could stifle the best of questioners. Comfortable at home without the obligatory interview room recording equipment and legal representatives, people could become less guarded, more talkative, and that could often reveal valuable information and insight to investigating officers. Insight they would not have had a hope of getting under more formal circumstances.
‘I’m sure you are,’ said Crow. ‘You can start by getting us a couple of chairs to sit down on, lad. Surely your mother told you, it’s rude to make guests stand. Of course, if you can’t stretch to seats for us, we can always do this down at the station. No skin off our noses, is it DI Romney?’
‘None at all,’ said Romney, warming to his senior colleague’s technique.
Avery picked up his phone and summoned chairs, which were brought quickly, almost as though they had only just been removed. Crow and Romney took their time making themselves comfortable.
Crow said, ‘You are familiar with a Mrs Helen Stamp, I believe?’
‘Yes. She was my late girlfriend’s mother.’
Crow leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and made a show of looking suspiciously at Avery. ‘Why would you say ‘was’?
Avery reddened slightly and fiddled with his pen. ‘What I mean is, well, my girlfriend’s dead and so she isn’t her mother anymore.’
‘That’s a strange way of looking at it,’ said Crow, maintaining an air of deep suspicion.
‘I can’t help that,’ said Avery.
‘When did you last see Mrs Stamp senior?’
