A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4)

by Oliver Tidy

  ***

  22

  Marsh, Grimes and Harmer were the first to dribble into CID’s meeting room. The space had an atmosphere of gloomy melancholy when Romney pushed his way in only five minutes late. ‘Blimey, who died?’ he said, removing his coat and making himself comfortable and then he looked up at Joy and said, ‘Shit. Sorry.’ Marsh smiled wearily back. ‘Superintendent Vine will be joining us,’ said Romney. And as if she had been waiting for her introduction she appeared in the outer office, strode across the flooring and let herself in to the small room.

  Romney had positioned himself at one end of the rectangular table. Not to be outdone, Superintendent Vine took the vacant chair at the other.

  ‘Right,’ said Romney. ‘Let’s talk about our most recent murder first, shall we? Rachael Sparrow. Contrary to how things initially seemed it looks very much like Stephanie Lather did not kill her sister and then go home and do away with herself in a fit of remorse. It’s my opinion that the literary agent, Sandra Allen, is responsible for both deaths.’

  ‘What grounds to you have to suspect her, Tom?’ said Superintendent Vine.

  The use of DI Romney’s first name jerked Marsh’s head up, encouraged Grimes to snap the pencil he’d been bending and made Romney stare at her dumbly for a long, uncomfortable moment before saying quite respectfully, ‘I’m coming to that, ma’am, if you’ll bear with me. For one thing the brutal slaying of one sister by the other made no sense – and then for Stephanie to return home and commit suicide just made things more unbelievable. So we started doing what we’re paid for. Sandra Allen claims she had no idea Stephanie had left the hotel. Indeed, when the body of Rachael Sparrow was first discovered in Stephanie’s rooms, Allen encouraged us all to believe that the dead woman was Stephanie. But we now know that Allen had been made aware of Stephanie’s earlier departure by an employee of the hotel so Allen had to have known that the body was not Stephanie. Why lie?

  ‘Rachael Sparrow’s clothing was covered in dog hairs that perfectly match the hair of Sandra Allen’s shih-tzu. According to Sandra Allen’s statement, which DS Marsh and I took this morning, Mrs Allen didn’t even know Stephanie Lather had a sister. She claims the dog never entered Stephanie Lather’s rooms and that she’d never set eyes on Rachael Sparrow before seeing her lying dead on the floor in the hotel.

  ‘There’s something else: Stephanie Lather died from drowning after ingesting a cocktail of booze and Temazepam. We know she drank, but there is no medical record of her ever having been prescribed drugs to help her sleep. Sandra Allen claims she gave Stephanie the drugs because Stephanie had been complaining of insomnia. Sandra Allen showed us her own supply of the drug. The dog also died from an overdose of Temazepam. I have someone checking to see what I know will be true – namely that the Temazepam that killed the dog is part of the same batch that helped kill Stephanie Lather. We’re also checking to see what quantity the dog was given. It couldn’t have helped itself to the drugs because Mrs Allen was good enough to show DS Marsh and me that her sleeping pills come in a bottle with a childproof lock on the cap. So it must have been given them. Why? Because Sandra Allen had to leave the dog in the hotel for several hours while she drove up to where Stephanie lived, get herself invited in as a concerned friend and then drug her up to the eyeballs so she could drown her, very conveniently leaving behind the hotel room key and the statue she’d used to smash Rachael Sparrow’s brains in –after pressing Stephanie Lather’s fingerprints neatly all over them, naturally.

  ‘She told us on Saturday that the dog couldn’t be left for more than a short time without making a fuss and she couldn’t afford to have the hotel investigate a curious incident of a howling dog in the night-time only to find its owner absent. Bang would have gone her alibi, such as it was. She then phoned me, probably while she was admiring her handiwork in Stephanie’s bathroom, acting all concerned, drove back to the Dover Marina Hotel, snuck in while the wedding disco was in full swing and discovered that the dose of Temazepam she’d given the dog to shut it up had been too much for it and she’d killed it. Any questions so far?’

  ‘Can you prove any of this?’ said Vine.

  ‘We can prove she received a note that Stephanie had left the hotel and that she then knew her room was empty. I’m counting on forensics doing the rest.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s my belief that Rachael Sparrow and Sandra Allen bumped into each other, probably in the corridor outside Sandra Allen’s and Stephanie Lather’s rooms. I think they had words. Somehow Rachael Sparrow ended up inside Sandra Allen’s room and that is where she was killed.’

  ‘But why? What would be Sandra Allen’s motive? She said she didn’t even know Stephanie had a sister.’

  ‘That might be true or it might not. I’m not even sure that it matters. If she wasn’t aware of it before, I’d bet she found out then. As to why she died, maybe we should find out how she died first.’

  ‘I don’t understand. And I think you’re missing something.’

  Romney smiled nicely. ‘What would that be, ma’am?’

  ‘Wasn’t Rachael Sparrow bludgeoned to death with an ornament from Stephanie Lather’s room? How did Sandra Allen manage to kill her with that in her own room?’

  ‘I think what a fresh look at the forensic evidence is going to tell us is that Rachael Sparrow was not killed with that artefact. I think that when Allen had killed her, deliberately or not, she panicked, dragged her body along to Stephanie’s room and covered up the fatal blow by administering a few more with the ornament, which she removed along with the key and left for us to find at Stephanie Lather’s home.’

  ‘She took a hell of a risk then. What if Stephanie had come back? What if Stephanie had not gone home to an empty house?’

  ‘Agreed. She took a big risk. But she’d murdered someone. After that everything’s a risk. You can’t take a bigger risk than that. I don’t think it was premeditated. But she would have known that Stephanie’s home would have been empty of others for the night – she was supposed to be staying at the hotel with Allen for Saturday night. And she knew all about Stephanie’s fondness for the mother’s ruin. She told us that herself. It wouldn’t have taken much working out that if Stephanie was slinking off home distraught after the mauling she’d got in the morning from a heckling element of the crowd and the massive disappointment of her ruined book launch that she’d turn to the sauce for comfort. Drunks always do.’ Grimes snapped another pencil, which made everyone look in his direction. ‘Are you going to keep doing that?’ said Romney.

  ‘Sorry, gov.’

  ‘Mrs Allen must have driven up to Stephanie’s and back again. Peter, I want you to get in touch with every authority in between and including here and there. See if she broke any driving laws on her trip. There’s a slim chance of that. I want all the available CCTV footage from the Dover Marina Hotel looked at again.’

  ‘Right, gov.’

  ‘And there are still people from the hotel who need speaking to. Find them and get it done.

  ‘Right. That’s part one. Here’s part two. Jimmy Savage did not kill John Stafford.’

  More than one of those listening to him thought he looked a little too pleased about that statement for a policeman who had provided evidence and witnesses that contributed to Jimmy Savage’s current state of incarceration.

  Vine piped up. ‘Leaving aside the fact that you should not be involved in any way with any investigation into that business, what makes you so sure now that the man you helped to convict is innocent?’

  ‘Because I know who did kill him.’

  The small room was suddenly far too quiet to contain five adults, all awake.

  ‘Do you think you could you stop being quite so mysterious and start sharing what you so obviously want to?’ said Vine, putting into words so precisely what everyone else was thinking.

  Romney smiled down the table. ‘Last night I was having a quiet drink in The Flotilla when I was approached by a l
ocal booze-hound who was a good friend of Bernie Stark. He has asked me to keep his name out of it but it wouldn’t matter anyway because, as you’ll soon understand, his information and assertions are all based on hearsay and quite inadmissible.’

  ‘If that’s the case, why share them with us?’

  ‘Because I believe what he told me and it will explain a few things. There’s no possible benefit for this man to lie to me.

  ‘Jimmy Savage was convicted of the murder of John Stafford not only by the testimony of an eye witness, Bernie Stark, but also because of forensic evidence that was recovered. John Stafford’s blood was on Jimmy Savage’s trousers. When we went to arrest Jimmy Savage after Bernie’s declaration that he actually saw Jimmy assault Stafford and leave him for dead, Jimmy was still wearing the clothes he’d been out in. He was quite pissed too. We had a job to subdue him as I remember.’

  ‘So who did kill John Stafford?’ said Grimes.

  ‘Bernie Stark.’ Romney looked to enjoy the confusion and puzzlement that this disclosure created. ‘Apparently, Bernie had seen Stafford and Savage fighting in the street. Nothing much. A couple of blows exchanged. Savage had walked away and left Stafford alive. Beaten but alive. Stafford was one of the town’s bullies and when he had a drink in him he was quite a handful and nasty with it. Anyone from the time will tell you that. So, Bernie watches them scrap. Sees Savage walk away and Stafford dazed on the ground and Bernie sees an opportunity he’s been waiting for for far too long: a chance to get even with Stafford for something he’d done to Bernie a few months before.’ Romney turned to Grimes. ‘You remember how big John Stafford was?’

  Grimes nodded. ‘Brick outhouse.’

  ‘Exactly. And we’ve all seen the stature of Bernie Stark. Bernie couldn’t have punched his way out of a wet paper bag. He was never going to take his physical revenge on Stafford in a fair fight. But, according to my source, seeing Stafford scrabbling around on his hands and knees pissed and dazed was too much of an opportunity for Bernie to pass up. He came out of the shadows, looked up and down the high street and introduced one of his metal toecaps to Stafford’s head. Apparently, he died instantly. Pathologist’s report showed a weakness of the skull in the area he was kicked. When he realised he’d killed him, Bernie ran into the nearest pub and raised the alarm. When the police turned up he told them about seeing Savage and Stafford scrapping. Savage gets picked up and what with Bernie’s statement, the forensic evidence and Savage’s aggressive intoxicated state he gets nicked and ultimately convicted. All that for two pints of lager and a packet of crisps.’

  ‘You don’t seem particularly remorseful that you were responsible for the incarceration of an innocent man, Inspector,’ said Vine.

  ‘With respect, ma’am, Jimmy Savage was many things, but innocent was not one of them. As I told you, Jimmy Savage was and probably still is a thieving, bullying scrote. When he was a resident of this town he specialised in housebreaking. And he could be violent with it. He targeted the elderly, mainly. Yes, it looks like he was not guilty of the manslaughter charge he’s currently serving time for but the forensic evidence and the eye witness account that convicted him are not anything for CID to reproach ourselves over. We were lied to and Bernie Stark was convincing. To be honest, in the end, even Jimmy Savage wasn’t sure whether he’d killed Stafford, he was so drunk. And while as a serving and concerned police officer miscarriages of justice do generally bother me, I won’t be losing any sleep over a conviction that keeps the likes of Jimmy Savage off our streets. If you like, I could get out the station scrapbook and show you some of the photographs of frightened and frail pensioners he knocked about for their savings – although I should warn you, most of them look like over-ripe fruit.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. Do you have anything more to add? Like, why was Bernie Stark only now preparing to admit that he may have been mistaken in his evidence and identification.’

  ‘I do, ma’am. In climbing down, Stark was going to assert that Dover police had pressured him into making his statement about seeing Savage land the fatal blow. Why? Because he learned that Jimmy Savage’s boy, Billy, had come into money. Bernie was never exactly well off and he saw a way to make some easy money for his old age. He got in touch with Billy Savage and offered to retract his statement for a fee.’

  ‘Did they suspect that it was Bernie Stark who killed Stafford?’ said Grimes.

  ‘No. This was something that Bernie found rather amusing according to my source. So they agreed. Bernie had already received half of his fee. He’d get the other half when Jimmy was out. When word got back to us, I sent Peter to have a word with Bernie, see what the hell was going on. Word got back to Billy. Billy then tears round to the pub, hauls Bernie out and takes him home for a little chat. But Bernie ends up dying on them. The irony of the story is that Billy Savage is probably responsible for the death of the only person who could have cleared his old man and got him out on appeal.’

  It was agreed that because of the lateness of the hour and a pressing engagement Superintendent Vine had they would reconvene the following day after each of them had been given the opportunity to mull over the new information in the context of the current investigation. Mrs Allen was going nowhere and Romney was pleased with the delay in taking things forward so that he and the others could be sure. He felt he was in Boudicca’s bad books enough without being a fool who rushed in, especially after his rather regrettable offer to the station chief that afternoon that if he mucked up she could have his warrant card. That had been hasty.

  ***

  23

  The following morning Romney called his team together for their thoughts over coffee and pastries – his treat – in the CID meeting room. To general relief, forensics had confirmed that the blood in room eleven, Sandra Allen’s room, was the blood of Rachael Sparrow. The previous day’s arguments were recapped and when no one had anything new to add Romney felt emboldened to say to Marsh, ‘Call the woman. Find out where she is and we can go and arrest her.’

  *

  Romney and Marsh turned up at Anderson and Anderson Literary Agents a little after eleven. The company occupied office space on the third floor of a nicely-renovated building in Southwark, which got Romney sniffing derisively.

  Romney introduced them to the receptionist as police seeking Mrs Allen. This got them ahead of the queue. Romney barely had to time pour himself a beaker of complimentary coffee from the machine before Mrs Allen’s harsh vowels were drifting down the corridor in their direction.

  Sandra Allen entered the reception area with the confidence and expression of someone important on their own territory. It gave Romney a wrinkle of satisfaction that he was there and about to wipe the condescending haughtiness off her chiselled chops.

  ‘If you have brought my Chloe back to me at work, Inspector, I have to tell you that I am not in the least bit impressed.’

  There were two other young women within hearing distance and Mrs Allen seemed to be playing to her audience as much as showing her displeasure at the interruption of her day. What her confidence did make a good job of was smothering any guilt she might be feeling for her crimes. There was not a trace of apprehension about her.

  ‘No, Mrs Allen we haven’t. We’d like another chat. Somewhere more private if you like.’

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Inspector, I am a very busy woman. I don’t really have the time to sit around discussing your cases or your rabies paranoia. I can’t think what else I can possibly assist you with.’

  ‘I’d have thought that with Stephanie Lather dead your workload might have decreased somewhat,’ said Romney, and Marsh sensed a spat in the offing.

  Mrs Allen forced out another of her mocking barks of laughter. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity, don’t you know? Stephanie might have done something that appals society but it’s done her book sales the world of good. She’s topping the best-sellers list for ebooks and paperbacks. As soon as news of Stephanie’s crimes hit the a
irwaves sales of her books entered a whole new stratosphere. As the agents of her estate, we – or rather I – have to deal with not only the business implications of the fallout of her actions but the clamouring of publishers from around the world for the rights to her back catalogue. As I said, I’m very busy.’

  ‘And there’s me thinking the life of a literary agent was all long civilised lunches and sitting around in trendy offices reading books.’

  Incredibly, to Marsh, Romney’s sarcasm appeared to fly high over the head of Mrs Allen. Or maybe it was just that her relish for any opportunity to lament with obvious bitterness and regret the sea change in her profession to anyone who appeared to take an interest in listening affected her filter for it. ‘Being a literary agent today isn’t what it used to be, Inspector. Once upon a time we got to choose what got published. We were the gatekeepers of literary standards and we got to uphold them. Someone had to. We were in control. Things have changed. Now the Internet is awash with writers who are canny and wily enough to convince the great unwashed and largely illiterate that their books are worth reading, worth buying even. They stir up a social networking storm, make an online name for themselves and now the market dictates to us who should be courted, pursued, fawned over, sucked up to and published. We have to chase them and battle and deal for the rights to their work. It’s degrading. It’s demeaning. And don’t imagine for a minute that half of them can write. You wouldn’t believe the standard of English: the spelling, the grammar, the punctuation, the puerile baseness of their plotting, their thinking and their fantasies. You should see the turds I have to polish for a living. Being a literary agent used to mean something. It was a respectable occupation. Now, in tabloid fantasy Britain, when everyone seems to think they have a book in them, it’s just humiliating. I’m with Hitch on that score – most of those books should stay there.