by Oliver Tidy
‘I’ve worked with some of the greatest novelists of modern times and now what am I doing for a living? Pandering to talentless prima donnas who believe they’re God’s gift to literature. And why? Because they sell ebooks.’
While Romney didn’t necessarily disagree with much of what she was saying, he quickly tired of her self-pitying whining. He said, ‘Well, you were until you killed one of them. Look on the bright side: at least where you’re going you won’t have to polish any more turds. You might have to take turns cleaning them off the sanitary ware, though. Who knows, maybe you’ll find time to write your own turd of a book on your experiences inside. Chance to get your own back on society. Lots of people do. I believe there’s a whole genre devoted to it: pris-lit.’
Mrs Allen was staring at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed. When she found her voice, she said, ‘What did you say? Did you just accuse me of killing someone?’ She burst out in hysterical laughter. There seemed little forced about it. Romney was minded of a neighing horse. It was not the reaction he had anticipated.
Mrs Allen brought herself quickly under control and said, ‘Oh my God. You’re serious aren’t you? You actually think I killed Stephanie? How absolutely priceless.’ And she was off again, playing to her gallery.
Romney and Marsh exchanged a look, indicating to each other with their confused expressions that this was not at all expected. A trickle of doubt entered Romney’s thinking, to be quickly mopped up by the sponge of experience. He reminded himself that people react in all manner of ways when they are exposed as murderers. There was nothing new in total and convincing hysteria. Dr Puchta probably had an ‘-ism’ for it and he made a mental note to ask her next time he saw her.
Romney informed the literary agent that she was under arrest and for what. He recited her rights. She quickly lost her sense of humour and began protesting loudly. Romney’s sense of smug satisfaction was short-lived. Mrs Allen was a particularly noisy and irate prisoner. And then she became a fearsome variety of hostile.
In the time it took them to convince her that they were not playing ‘some ridiculous prank’, and that they were not ‘stark raving mad’, she had demonstrated a singular capacity for expressing her incredulity and fury, making admirable use of innovative and erudite phrases that left the ears of the officers ringing long after she had been subdued and stuffed in the back of the squad car waiting downstairs.
‘She didn’t take that quite how I expected her to,’ said Romney, with a puzzled frown as they watched the patrol car disappear around the bend in the road with a wild-eyed Mrs Allen continuing to shriek her protestations of innocence through the back window. ‘What do you reckon?’
Evidently experiencing similar thoughts and doubts, Marsh looked decidedly uncertain what to make of it. She said, ‘I don’t know, sir. It wasn’t what I was expecting either.’
‘In fact, if I didn’t know better, I might be tempted to wonder whether we had the wrong man, so to speak. Still, it takes all sorts.’
Marsh looked at him but he’d already dismissed the thought and was occupied with trying to light his cigarette in the chilly breeze that was being channelled down the narrow street.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I’d have thought you might have shown her a little more compassion, what with the views you’ve expressed recently on the subject of ebooks.’
‘Stuck up cow. I’m not saying I disagree with her, Sergeant, but she did murder two people and leave four children to grow up motherless. And then she led us a right old song and dance over it. If she were a serial killer with literary principles who targeted self-publishers and got caught and put her hands up, showed the courage of her convictions, I’d have more sympathy with her. I don’t like liars and I don’t like cowards. And anyway, if these books are something that people enjoy reading shouldn’t they be allowed to? Isn’t it better that people are reading something rather than reading nothing? Not everyone wants to read Kafka. All that gatekeeper bollocks – it’s just a form of censorship – one set of people full of their own importance dictating to everyone else what we can all read. It’s like the rancid soaps on the haunted fish tank and the tabloid newspapers written in the vocabulary of the average nine–year-old: if there wasn’t a demand there would be no need for the supply.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying something else, sir, you’ve changed your tune.’
‘Maybe. Here, I’ve got one for you: if readers of choc-lit eat chocolate what food do readers of pris-lit eat?’
‘Prisolate?’
‘Eh? That’s not even a word. Porridge, of course.’
Marsh didn’t laugh. Disappointed with her reaction, Romney just tutted and sighed.
*
When they arrived back at the station it was already afternoon. Romney was informed that Mrs Allen had given both officers who drove her back to Dover police station splitting headaches with persistent and loud protestations of her innocence. She had been processed and stuck into a cell awaiting the arrival of her legal representation – some posh name from an even posher outfit in the capital.
Romney was glad of the delay in those proceedings. He had other fish to fry.
On the back of his revelations regarding the business surrounding Jimmy Savage’s conviction and Bernie Stark’s part in it, Romney had approached Superintendent Vine about having Jimmy Savage’s boy, Billy, in for an informal chat about things. Her initial reluctance was countered by Romney’s argument that speaking to Billy was nothing to do with any open enquiry and what with Bernie now dead the likelihood of any appeal involving Jimmy Savage now actually going ahead was non-existent. Vine was persuaded by Romney’s confidence in his belief that Billy was some way involved in Bernie’s death and as such it was a matter for legitimate police investigation. Her one condition for approval was that she would sit in on any interview.
As per Romney’s instructions, Billy Savage was at the station waiting for him. Romney had left Grimes to locate the youth and ask him whether, as the family’s chosen representative, he would like to attend the station voluntarily to discuss developments regarding his father’s state of incarceration. Romney had told Grimes to encourage Billy to believe they had good news for him.
‘What exactly did you tell him?’ said Romney.
‘That we had uncovered new evidence to suggest his old man might be innocent – it’s not a lie is it? – and if this could be substantiated – which of course it can’t but Billy’s not to know that – then Jimmy could be pardoned and out by Christmas.’
‘And he said yes? Just like that?’
Grimes nodded. ‘Pretty much. Seemed very keen to hear what we have to say. He must be; he’s been waiting nearly half-an-hour.’
‘How did he arrive?’
Grimes smiled. ‘How do you think, gov? In his nice black Range Rover, of course.’
Romney smiled back. ‘Well done.’
There was more good news. Sitting on Romney’s desk was the report he’d been waiting for concerning the comparison of the Temazepam samples – the Temazepam that had been found in the dead dog’s system, the Temazepam that had been found in Stephanie Lather’s system and the Temazepam provided by Mrs Allen. Romney smiled as he scanned it to discover what he already knew.
*
Romney’s first impression of Billy Savage was that he looked the sort of person who ate his own bogeys. Despite this, the DI tried some friendliness. ‘Hello, Billy. Thanks for coming in. Much appreciated. This is DS Marsh and Superintendent Vine.’
‘What’s with the brass?’ said a cocky Billy, tracking Superintendent Vine to her seat against the wall.
‘Everyone is taking the matter of your father’s position very seriously, Billy, as I’m sure you’d want us to. Superintendent Vine is here to make sure everything is done properly.’
Billy said nothing. But his beady eyes, black as a snake’s, were fixed on Romney as he took the seat opposite him. Billy’s single eyebrow, like some big, hairy caterpillar, was pinche
d in the middle with his questions. ‘So, what’s this good news you’ve got for me?’ he said.
‘All in good time, Billy. All in good time,’ said Romney sounding affable. ‘Is that a bicycle chain round your neck?’
‘A twenty-two carat gold bike chain, yeah.’
‘Nice.’ Romney settled himself and said, ‘Nice car, too. I’d like one of those one day. Not on my pay though. I hear you won money on a lottery.’
‘That’s right. Fair and square. This’d better not be about that. I thought this was about my old man.’
‘It is, Billy. Patience.’
‘I’ve been patient. I’ve been waiting for you nearly an hour.’
‘How much did you win?’
Billy rolled his eyes and said, ‘A lot.’
‘And you bought a Range Rover and some, what do you call it? Bicycle-parts jewellery?’
Marsh idly wondered if she should pass him a tissue for that sarcasm.
‘That’s right,’ said Billy.
‘And you still live in Tower Hamlets?’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘You literally had a ticket out of there and you spent the money on a car and a necklace. Why, Billy?’
Unexpectedly, Billy grinned, exposing not bad teeth. ‘Simple. We move, the council stop paying our rent. Now, I ask you: why would we move?’
Marsh considered that something of a goal and from Billy’s smirk so did he.
‘You know a man called Bernie Stark?’ said Romney.
Billy became guarded. ‘Course I do. His lies put my dad away, didn’t they?’
‘But he saw his mistake, I understand,’ said Romney. ‘And wanted to put things straight.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why would he do that, do you think?’ said Romney. ‘I mean, why now? What could he have to gain from raking all that up?’
‘A clear conscience,’ said Billy.
Romney shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced Bernie had one to clear.’
‘Well we’ll never know now, will we?’
‘Probably not,’ said Romney. ‘How do you feel about him being dead? I suppose his death won’t do your father’s appeal any good.’
Billy stared levelly at Romney for a long moment. ‘We’ve got his legal sworn statement for the appeal. We don’t need him no more, so I hope he burns in hell for what he done to my old man.’
‘Interesting choice of phrase. You know how he died then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How? It’s not public knowledge.’
Billy shifted on his chair. ‘I know someone, don’t I?’
‘When was the last time you saw Bernie Stark?’
‘I saw him about from time to time. In pubs and that.’
‘Not seen him recently then?’
Billy Savage shook his head.
‘So you didn’t give him a ride in your fancy new car last Friday?’
Billy hesitated. His thin tongue flicked out and moistened his lips. He said, ‘No. I didn’t and anyone who says I did is a liar.’
Now it was Romney’s turn to smile. ‘We’ll see about that, Billy. Did you bring a coat with you?’
Billy frowned. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It’s a long walk home from here. We need to have a look at your car.’
Billy’s face reddened and his jaw tightened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We have witnesses who’ll testify that Bernie left The Eight Bells in your company the lunchtime of the day he was found dead in his flat.’
Billy said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘Yeah, I remember now. I popped in to see someone and we left at the same time.’
‘So that wasn’t your big black Range Rover outside his flat that afternoon?’
‘No. Like I say, we just left the pub together.’
‘And went your separate ways?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any witnesses for that?’ said Romney.
‘Actually, yes.’ Billy reeled off three names, which Romney found as generous as it was stupid of him.
‘Thank you, Billy. That’s a big help. I’ll talk to them directly. Let’s hope they corroborate your version of events, shall we?’
Billy’s eyes betrayed his feelings of regret for having thoughtlessly handed the police the names of the three young men who were with him that afternoon. As the cogs of his mind ground around to understanding that he’d better get out of the station quickly, call the three and make they sure they all said the same thing, he said, ‘I’ve wasted enough of my time here. You got nothing for me on my old man, have you?’ Romney shook his head. ‘Then I’m leaving.’ Billy stood. The uniformed constable inside the door straightened.
‘Car keys, please Billy,’ said Romney.
‘You can’t make me give you the keys to my fucking car,’ said Billy.
Romney couldn’t have contrived to look more disbelieving if the chair had spoken to him. ‘Are you all there, Billy? I’m the police. If I want your car, I can take it. And I have good reason to believe it’ll tell tales on you.’
‘I’m leaving anyway,’ said Billy suddenly feeling that his greatest priority was to get outside and phone his mates. The car could wait. If they found evidence that Bernie Stark had been in it, he’d think up something to explain it away. He threw the key ring down on the table, a big heavy gaudy decoration, like something off a Christmas tree.
‘Hang on, Billy,’ said Romney. ‘We’re not done, yet.’
‘You can’t keep me here. I’m here voluntary. I can leave whenever I like.’
‘What if I were to arrest you, Billy?’ said Romney.
‘For what?’
‘For my belief that you had a hand in Bernie Stark’s death.’
‘You got no proof of that.’ It seemed to Romney that Billy’s little ears pinned themselves back, like some aggressive fighting dog’s.
‘My copper’s instinct tells me that the names you’ve just provided might give it. That was pretty stupid, wasn’t it? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Billy. You are what’s known as a chip off the old block. I remember your old man was what we called a forty-watter – not too bright. Sit down, Billy.’ Billy glowered at Romney. ‘Sit down, Billy. I’m going to tell you something and let’s see if you change your mind about anything.’ With Billy on his feet, something had occurred to Romney, something he should have thought about before. Romney glanced across and caught the puzzled expression of Superintendent Vine. Billy sat. He was breathing heavily through his flaring snout and his face was puce.
‘We got good lawyers these days’ he said.
‘You might need them, Billy,’ said Romney, unperturbed.
‘My sergeant here is going to go and get something that I think might jog your memory about where you were that afternoon.’ Romney was pleased to see that Marsh hid her bewilderment well.
The room was very quiet as Romney spent the next thirty seconds scribbling a message onto his pad. Then he said, ‘There’s the authorisation. Don’t be all day.’
Marsh had been watching the sentences of his instructions gradually form on the paper. When he had apparently finished, she was clear about what he wanted but would admit to not having the first idea about why?
She stood, took the paper he offered and hurried out.
When she re-entered the room six minutes later glowing and panting slightly with her exertions she smelt Billy Savage’s sweat. The hot little room had heated up a good few degrees with the combined warmth radiating from those present. The air was slightly fetid with their exhalations. She wondered whether they had talked while she was absent, but sensed that they hadn’t.
Marsh set the sealed and labelled evidence bag on the table in front of Romney.
‘Et voila,’ said Romney with an appalling French accent. ‘Behold exhibit A, Billy.’
‘What’s that then?’ said Billy. He was staring at the bag as though he expected Romney to release something slithering and venomous fr
om it.
With the flamboyant practised actions of a top-of-the-bill magician, Romney took his time slipping on the rubber gloves Marsh had produced, like his pretty assistant, and placed before him.
‘This, Billy, is something we recovered from Bernie Stark’s home. Lucky for us, he didn’t hide it very well.’ Romney still hadn’t attempted to open the bag. It sat inert and mysterious between them. Instead, he intertwined his latex-covered fingers and rested them on the table in front of him.
‘There’s a story going around that when you came into your money Bernie had an idea. He lived on the breadline pretty much all his life. Not one to put much of anything he earned away for his old age. Not much what we call disposable income. Bernie saw a way to make a few quid that might see him through a few of his later years. Word is that he came to you with his idea. He could retract his statement that helped to get your old man put away, which in turn would give Jimmy good grounds for appeal. With Bernie’s retraction, dad would probably be back out on the streets before you could say, what-a-corrupt-bunch-of-coppers-that-Dover-CID-are. You with me so far?’ Billy’s silence indicated he was. ‘Bernie insisted on cash. Maybe he didn’t trust you. And you certainly didn’t trust him because it was a half-before-and-half-after sort of deal. No honour among thieves in this town, eh?’ Romney allowed himself a little smile at his wit.
‘We found the upfront money, Billy.’ Now Romney did open the bag. With his gloved hand he lifted out a bundle of used notes bound tightly with a rubber band. ‘My guess is that when you gave Bernie his money you weren’t wearing gloves, were you? My guess is that your prints are going to be all over these.’ And Romney could see clearly from the way the colour drained from Billy’s face that Billy thought the same thing. Romney carefully replaced them and sealed the bag.
‘So you see, Billy. We’ve got money given by you to Bernie and then Bernie suddenly retracting his statement about dad’s involvement in John Stafford’s death. We don’t believe in coincidences. Neither do the courts. It won’t take much to find out when you made the withdrawal from your bank and for how much. Given the relationship between you, it also isn’t a great stretch of the imagination to wonder why you gave money to a man whose testimony helped convict your old dad of manslaughter. That should be enough to have you charged with attempting to pervert the course of justice. The courts take a very dim view of that particular crime, don’t you know? Something personal in it for them – ordinary criminals thinking they can pull the wool over their eyes, make fools of them. Yes, they take it very personally. That’s a custodial sentence in itself. Automatic.