by Oliver Tidy
Romney concentrated hard on trying not to sound too rehearsed. He briefly toyed with the idea of starting to speak and then terminating the call and later blaming a poor signal but he thought it would probably be better for him to explain himself now like this than face to face with all the discomforts that lying and truth-stretching would bring. ‘It was to do with the murder at the Dover Marina Hotel, ma’am.’
‘Go on.’
There had always been the slight chance that she would have accepted only that reference – about the same chance a cream cake had of seeing lunchtime if it found itself on Grimes’ desk at breakfast. Refusing to be intimidated by her, he started with some truth: ‘As you know, I was bitten by a dog at the hotel during the course of our investigations. The dog died the next day.’ Then he told a half-truth: ‘It transpired there was a strong possibility the dog had died of rabies.’ And then the outright lie. ‘I understood that the dog’s owner had recently been out of the country with the dog and had smuggled it back in in order to avoid the time and expense of quarantine procedures. As soon as I learned all this I considered it my duty to act and act quickly. There was no telling how many others it had bitten. Maybe some children. I retrieved the animal and had it examined. Thankfully, my greatest fears were unfounded. The dog was not, in fact, infected with the disease.’
There was a long and stony silence before Boudicca spoke again. Her tone was icy. ‘I will expect a full report on my desk by lunchtime tomorrow, Inspector Romney. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Romney, without much choice and as much confidence as he could muster.
Boudicca broke the connection without wishing him a good night or a speedy recovery, leaving Romney thinking that it could have gone worse. Then again, it could have gone better.
Romney had spent much of his evening of enforced sobriety at his computer, wording and rewording the report that could see him deeply in the shit or stepping over it. As he had worked, he never for a moment doubted his actions. He had believed his life to be in peril in the most horrible of ways and given the situation again he wouldn’t think twice about behaving in the same way. A good night’s sleep and the cold light of day brought a different perspective.
*
The forensic report concerning Rachael Sparrow’s death was waiting for Romney when he arrived at work the following day. He flicked through it as he sipped his first coffee, believing that it would tell him little he did not already know. One thing caught his eye among the chaff: Rachael Sparrow’s clothes had a high number of dog hairs attached to them. Ordinarily this wouldn’t have encouraged a second glance but anything dog was currently catching his attention and he didn’t remember seeing or hearing a dog at the Sparrows’ home when he had visited.
Romney looked up to see Grimes messing around with DC Harmer. He called out to him and Grimes wandered over smiling and hitching up his trousers.
‘Gov?’
‘Shut the door. Did you get into The Eight Bells yesterday?’
‘Yeah. With all the excitement, I forgot to tell you.’
‘So tell me now.’
‘Bloke I spoke to works there during the day. He remembered Bernie because he knocked a pint of lager over himself just as I was leaving. Bernie asked him if he could have another on the house for it. Cheeky bugger.’ Romney made a face of impatience and a little noise of encouragement. ‘The fella knows Billy Savage too. He said he came in with a few friends shortly after Bernie’s accident. They didn’t stay long and when they left Bernie left with them.’
Romney leaned back in his chair and let his fingers find each other across his stomach. ‘Did he really? Good.’
‘What you going to do, gov?’
‘I might have to have a word with Billy Savage.’
‘How? I mean on what grounds.’
‘I’ll think of something. Well done. How’re things at your sister-in-law’s?’
‘All good. It’s a bit cramped but it’s for the best.’
Grimes left, having been reminded of another miserable night in the freezing garage that stank of paint and damp – and his wife’s scream in the night when she had insisted something had run over them.
Romney spied Marsh through the window and beckoned her in. ‘What’s up with you?’ he said. ‘You look like you lost a pound and found twenty pence.’
‘My car was stolen. It was found crashed and torched at St Margaret’s-at-Cliffe last night. Probably the bastards who assaulted me and stole my handbag.’
It was unusual for Marsh to swear when referring to the criminal element of the town. In fact Romney could not remember ever having heard her do so before. He didn’t want to encourage her further so he said, ‘What time are we visiting Mr Sparrow?’
‘I said we’d be there around about ten.’
‘If Boudicca asks about the dog at the hotel, there was a strong possibility that it had recently been out of the country and then brought back in without going through quarantine, OK? And don’t forget it was acting strangely and frothing at the mouth. No need to mention the soap.’ Marsh nodded, although Romney could see that her heart wasn’t in it. ‘I’m not asking you to lie, Joy,’ he said. ‘Just back me up a bit. There was a possibility. That’s all. Nothing definite. That’s all you’d have to say.’ Marsh nodded again. ‘Did you hear or notice a dog at the Sparrows’ address?’
‘No. Why?’
The phone rang on Romney’s desk. He answered and it was clear it was Superintendent Vine. ‘Yes, ma’am. Of course. I’m working on it now. The home computer’s on the blink. Yes, ma’am. Will do. I’ve got to go and see the husband of the deceased soon but I should be able to get it done by then.’ Romney replaced the receiver. Marsh caught a glimpse of him looking unsettled and wondered if some of his chickens were on the way home.
*
Mr Sparrow looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well. He had dark rings under his bloodshot eyes and his skin had a sickly pallor. A shave would have helped counter the image of a man distraught, grieving and on the edge of some sort of breakdown.
He showed them through to the little kitchen in which only three days previously they had informed him of his new marital status. It had been a neat and tidy little space then. Now there was washing up in the sink, crumbs littered the work surface, there were dirty plates and cutlery, and something sticky had been spilt on the floor and not wiped up. Romney trod in it.
Mr Sparrow gestured towards the table, which was clean and bare, and sat with them. He didn’t offer hot drinks and both officers were glad of it.
‘Sorry to have to put you through this so soon after your terrible news,’ said Romney. ‘But we do need to try and find out what we can about why your wife died. You might be able to help us with that.’
‘Have you arrested anyone? Have you found her sister?’
‘Your wife’s sister was found dead at her home late on Saturday night. There is no suggestion that anyone else was involved.’
Mr Sparrow looked freshly horrified. ‘She killed herself?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Did she kill Rachael? Is that why she committed suicide?’
‘Our enquiries are ongoing but I can tell you that we are not actively searching for anyone else at this time in connection with your wife’s death.’
‘Oh shit. But why?’
‘I was hoping you might be able to help us there.’
‘But I told you on Saturday. They hadn’t seen each other in years.’
‘But they had communicated?’
‘Rachael got in touch a few months ago by email. Stephanie took her time replying but when she did they started exchanging emails quite regularly. Rachael was really proud of what her sister had achieved.’
‘Do you know why they’d lost touch?’
A shadow passed over the man’s miserable features. ‘Yes. Do you?’
‘No,’ lied Romney.
‘Stephanie’s husband seduced Rachael while he was still married to and
living with Stephanie.’
‘Were you around then?’
He shook his head. ‘Rachael and I have only known each other a few years. We got married when she fell pregnant with Karen.’ Mr Sparrow’s eyes began to swim and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple working up and down.
‘Would you mind if we had a look at the last few emails that were sent? It might help us to make some sense of things.’
‘I don’t mind. I’d like to know myself why a successful woman with everything to live for would kill her sister and then herself. It doesn’t make any sense. Can I forward them to you? I need to get into Rachael’s email account and that’ll take time to boot up the computer. The children are just next door for an hour.’
‘Of course. DS Marsh’s email address is on her card. Thank you.’ They pushed back their chairs, a signal that they were finished. Joy left her card on the kitchen table.
As Mr Sparrow was seeing them out, he said, ‘Stephanie sent money to Rachael. She said she wanted her looking her best when they met. She even asked her to buy certain clothes for the day.’
Romney stopped on the front step and frowned. ‘Why did she do that?’
‘It’ll be in an email. I’ll send it on today. I remember Rachael being so excited. She said Stephanie had told her what she’d be wearing and that it would be great if Rachael could buy the same outfit. Something from Marks and Spencer, I think. ’
Romney thanked him and was turning away when he remembered something. ‘Have you got a dog?’
Mr Sparrow was rendered temporarily speechless by Romney’s change of direction. When he found his voice again, he said, ‘No. Rachael couldn’t stand dogs. She was terrified of them. Unreasonably so.’
‘Interesting,’ said Romney as he and Marsh walked back to the car.
‘Odd more like,’ said Marsh.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That Stephanie should ask her sister to buy the same outfit. Women don’t do that. If a woman sees another woman at a function wearing the same thing as her... well, it’s just too... embarrassing.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard of that sort of reaction before. That’s what’s odd, if you ask me.’ Marsh couldn’t be sure what he meant by that but knowing him she could guess. ‘So why would Stephanie actively encourage her sister to dress the same as her, and let’s not forget that they were of similar appearance, height and build? Even her agent thought it was the author lying on the floor. Talking of which, get in touch with her, would you, and tell her she can have her dog back. Ask if she wants it delivered.’
Marsh would have liked to tell her senior officer to do his own dirty work on that one, especially as it was personal and Mrs Allen was likely to be less than happy with having her beloved dog exhumed and then turned into a jigsaw. She hoped Maurice Wendell had at least stitched the animal back together.
‘Something else that’s bothering me with this,’ said Romney. ‘And he just hit the nail on the head.’ He indicated the direction they’d just come from with a jerk of his thumb. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
It made more sense to Marsh with the relationship she had with her own sister. ‘Perhaps they just had a blazing row. If they hadn’t seen each other in years, and given the reason for their rift, maybe one of them said something and everything that had been bottled up, suppressed, just exploded. It seems that Stephanie Lather had been drinking. That and the lashing she’d got from the tongues of her fellow authors wouldn’t have put her in a great mood. And her sister was late. It could all have built up.’
‘Mmm, I suppose.’
‘Why did you ask him about a dog?’
Joy’s phone interrupted them. Her sister’s number showed in the display. She rejected the call. She didn’t want to involve Romney in her personal problems.
*
Another report was sitting on Romney’s desk waiting for his attention. It was of the post-mortem of Stephanie Lather. Romney was puzzled. He hadn’t asked for it and he didn’t particularly want it – he had quite enough paperwork currently cluttering his desktop clamouring for attention. She hadn’t died on his patch and so, beyond learning what she had died of, it was none of his business.
Out of habit, he flicked through it anyway and quickly realised why it had been forwarded on to him. Details of the forensic analysis of the key and the bloodied statue were enclosed. The onyx statue found at Stephanie Lather’s had been confirmed by the manager of the Dover Marina Hotel as being identical to the ornaments that furnished every one of the more expensive rooms at the hotel. It was also noted that the statue that should have been in Stephanie Lather’s room was missing. The blood and hair samples found on the marble base of the statue matched the blood and hair of Rachael Sparrow. The key was the key for Stephanie’s room and both the statue and the key had clear prints that matched perfectly Stephanie Lather’s. It seemed something of a cast iron certainty that Stephanie Lather had bludgeoned her sister to death, taken the murder weapon with her, locked her dead sister in her room and high-tailed it back home, got drunk and done away with herself in a fit of remorse.
Stephanie Lather’s system was infused with enough gin to intoxicate a serious rugby team. And then Romney’s eye came to rest on another detail of the toxicology report that roused his policeman’s interest, like a fresh juicy bone might attract the curiosity of a dozing dog.
*
Joy found a bit of privacy and called her sister back. She was expecting something caustic and so when her sister answered she forced some no nonsense positivity into her voice: ‘What’s up, Tracy?’
‘It’s mum.’ Tracy’s usual blunt and brusque telephone manner was gone. The two simple words conveyed to Joy her sister’s sense of anxiety, worry and fear.
Joy felt something squirm in her stomach. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Joy, she’s really bad.’ Was Tracy crying? ‘They’ve put her on a ventilator. She can’t breathe on her own. She looks so awful.’
Joy looked at her watch. ‘Justin is bringing me up after he finishes work.’
‘Can’t you come now?’
‘I told you – I have no transport and I’m working. We’re stretched.’
‘What about a train?’ Tracy’s voice rose a few tones. ‘She’s your mum.’
‘I know, Trace. I do know. Is she conscious?’
‘Barely. In and out. She was asking for you.’
‘She’s in good hands. Try not to worry. She’s a strong woman. Look, I’ll go and speak to my station chief. See if I can leave early. There’s nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow. I’ll call you back.’
Joy closed the phone then her eyes and breathed out a couple of deep breaths. She made a decision and went back into the station to find Romney.
***
18
‘There you are,’ said Romney. ‘Have you phoned Mrs Allen yet to let her know she can have her mutt back?’
‘Just about to,’ said Marsh.
‘Don’t. Come into my office.’
He was grave and solemn and Joy decided she’d hear him out before asking if she could leave early to visit her sick mother.
‘Do you remember what Maurice said killed the dog?’
Marsh looked strangely at him and sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to start on about rabies again. ‘He said it was an overdose.’
‘Of what? Do you remember exactly?’
‘He mentioned Benzodiazepines, Temazepam, I think. Why are you asking, sir?’
‘Look at this.’ Romney put the pathologist’s report regarding Stephanie Lather before her and pointed at what he wanted her to read. He walked back behind his desk and sat down to give her a minute.’
When she next looked up she was frowning.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Romney.
‘It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ said Marsh.
‘I know. It could be a coincidence. But you should know by now that police detectives don’t like coincidences.’
‘So we need
to check to see if Stephanie Lather was taking sleeping pills. That stuff is only available on prescription. I can find out who her GP was and make some enquiries.’
‘There’s something else that’s been scratching away at the back of my mind – the forensic report on Rachael Sparrow mentions a high number of dog hairs on her clothing. As you heard, the Sparrows don’t have a dog. He said something about her having an unreasonable fear of them.’ Romney put his hands together on the desktop. ‘We have an odd coincidence, a victim with a dog phobia covered in dog hair, and a murder and a suicide that make no sense to anyone. In my book that adds up to reason for further investigation.’
‘Of whom?’
‘I don’t know, yet.’ What Romney wasn’t going to share with his junior officer was that he had suddenly become quite anxious regarding Boudicca’s intentions over his previous day trip. He had started to feel as though it might have been better all round if Chloe had given him rabies. At least it could have given some credibility, some justifiable reason for his actions. The way things had turned out, he could see that perhaps he was not currently being cast in a very good light. His sixth sense for trouble also gave him to understand that maybe he had some brewing with the station commander and that anything he could conjure up to divert it would be worth exploring.
In tune with his thoughts, the phone on his desk rang. He snatched it up and wished he hadn’t.
‘Inspector, I’m still waiting for your report regarding events of yesterday afternoon. When can I expect to see it?’
Romney covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said to Marsh, ‘Top priority: find out if Stephanie Lather was in receipt of prescription sleeping pills and then find someone who can tell us what kind of dog hair it was on Rachael Sparrow’s clothing.’ He waved her away. ‘And shut the door on your way out.’ He waited until the door was firmly closed before saying, ‘Sorry, ma’am, had someone in the office. I’m not sure if I shared this with you last night or not – I was a bit groggy from the antibiotics they put me on in the hospital for that dog bite I got at the Dover Marina Hotel in the line of duty. There was another reason that I needed the corpse of the dog. I have good reason to suspect that there might be more to the deaths of Rachael Sparrow and Stephanie Lather than meets the eye.’