Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘How cosy. Is this why you kept me locked up all fucking morning? So you could get round here and get all the juicy details. I heard coppers get off on that sort of thing.’

  ‘That’ll do, Avery,’ said Romney, standing. ‘We’re here to interview Miss Stamp regarding her particularly nasty experience of last night. I would expect her boyfriend to be sensitive to that.’

  Avery scowled at the DI. ‘Well you can piss off now. This is my flat. My name’s on the lease and I pay the rent and if you don’t have a warrant you’re trespassing.’

  ‘We were invited in,’ said Romney.

  ‘And now you’re being invited out.’

  ‘Simon,’ said the girl.

  ‘Shut-up,’ he said. ‘Shut the fuck up. When I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you. Now, you two, out.’

  Marsh stood and looked as though she was going to argue with him. Romney laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Fair enough. If that’s what you want, we’ll leave.’ He turned to the young woman whose features were distorted with hurt and sadness at the way Avery had just spoken to her. ‘Thank you, Miss Stamp. I realise that this hasn’t been easy for you. Remember what DS Marsh told you: if you need anything, anything at all, or if you remember anything, no matter how small or insignificant you might think it is, please get in touch with us.’

  He laid his business card down on the coffee table between them and Marsh did the same. Marsh picked up her recording equipment. She made sure Avery got a clear view of the device with its red recording light still glowing.

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ said Romney, towering over Avery.

  Avery leant back opening up only a narrow gap through which he clearly intended Marsh to have to squeeze. He lost his balance and stumbled to regain his footing, grabbing at the door frame in a most undignified display.

  Romney followed Marsh down the corridor and they let themselves out. Raised voices filled the void they had left behind.

  As they made their way down the stairs, Romney said, ‘Not what you’d call the sensitive type, is he?’

  ‘What’s she doing with him?’

  Romney stopped, turned and raised his eyebrows to look at his sergeant as though he was about to explain something glaring obvious to an obtuse child. ‘Look at the flat she’s living in. Look at the job she has. Look at him. I’ve noticed that some women will put up with a lot from their men so long as their men have money and are prepared to spend it on them.’

  ‘That’s just a form of prostitution.’

  Romney smiled wryly. ‘The great Dutch Schulz once said that the world’s a whore-house, Sergeant. All we have to do is work out our place in it.’

  ‘So what does that make the police, sir?’

  Romney considered this for a moment. ‘Security, I suppose. It’s our job to make sure that all the business gets conducted smoothly. Everyone’s screwing each other. We have to ensure that people obey the rules.’

  On the street the biting wind had intensified – a clear sign that the tide was in. It was a raw one from the east and cut through whatever clothing was worn to deflect it.

  ‘Shit. I meant to ask her about the empty rack of cigarettes.’

  ‘I can find out from Carl Park,’ said Marsh.

  Romney nodded and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. ‘You did well in there.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the nick for something, but I see a mobile phone shop up the road. Why don’t you find out what you can about the sounds thing? To be honest, I don’t think I’d have the patience to be lectured by some spotty youth about megabytes and pixels and the like. It’s all a bit beyond me.’

  Marsh nodded, pulled her coat around her and strode off in the direction of the garish neon sign.

  As Romney turned to make his way back to his vehicle, Claire Stamp’s mother came tottering along the pavement in her heels, holding down the hem of her too-short skirt with one hand and her mop of peroxide curls with the other.

  ‘Left her in peace, have you?’

  Romney forced a smile. ‘Yes, Mrs Stamp. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Who are you trying to kid?’ she muttered, brushing past him and letting herself in through the security door.

  ***

  3

  Forensics had only disappointing news and further complications for Romney on his return to the station. Finger prints lifted from the scene in the rear room produced none that matched anything in central records and all samples of those taken were so widespread as to suggest that they would probably turn out to be those of the employees. In the back room and around the counter there was plenty of residue from the latex gloves that Park had mentioned, which indicated that the attacker had kept his gloves on throughout. There were, however, on the front counter two sets of prints that did match criminal records. Both were men. One was for a Martin Hunter who’d served a short sentence for handling stolen goods seven years previously and the other was for a Brian Small who had been cautioned for possession of a controlled substance the year before. Profiles and past histories of both looked extremely unpromising.

  Romney set officers to following up both, although the consensus of opinion was that these were just customers of the garage from the day before who would regret having leant on the counter.

  Further disappointment came when no trace of body fluids showed up in swabs taken from on and around the table area. The attacker had taken the condom and its packet with him. A search of the area and refuse bins immediately surrounding the garage was organised in the slim hope that once clear of the scene the rapist might have been tempted to sling the condom into a waste receptacle or the overgrown wasteland adjoining the plot of the garage. He had not.

  Swabs that had been taken from the body of Claire Stamp also provided nothing – not even the ubiquitous foreign pubic hair. The attacker had clearly gone to great lengths not to have left anything of himself behind even down to the possibility of shaving his privates.

  Enquiries had been made with neighbouring police forces in case they had any open cases of rape crimes with similar MOs, but nothing flagged.

  *

  Romney was reclining in his chair, chewing on his biro, when Marsh returned. He waved her in. She had a list of six different models of the same make of phone as Claire Stamp’s that made exactly the same sound when capturing still or moving images. It was something, but at the same time it was not particularly encouraging. The mobile-phone salesman had estimated that there were probably hundreds of those models being used in the town. It was a popular brand. Romney invited her to sit. He brought her up to date with the lack of developments, lack of evidence and lack of leads.

  ‘So,’ said Marsh, summarising, ‘apart from the victims’ testimonies and the physical evidence that two serious crimes were committed we have nothing to go on and nothing to follow up, except for the cable ties, which I have a feeling are going to prove all too common. Even if we had a suspect, we have no evidence to convict him with, nothing that will hold up in court anyway. We need an attack of conscience or for him to do something stupid. But given the way he went about it last night, I don’t think that we should hold our breath. So, what do we do, sir?’

  ‘Why?’ said Romney.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘It’s what we have to ask ourselves when all else fails. Normally, I couldn’t care less about the whys and wherefores behind every criminal act. Let the evidence lead you to your suspects, make your case against them the best you can and move on. Ordinarily, I find that it doesn’t do to dwell too long on why people do the horrible things that they do to each other. But when you don’t have your evidence, or your suspects, you have to find another way in. You have to ask why? Why did whoever rape Claire Stamp do it? I’m convinced that what happened last night was rape first and robbery second. It just seems too well-planned and well-executed for a random attack.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Marsh.

  �
��So, why? You’re the rape expert.’

  ‘Why do men rape?’ She ordered her thoughts. ‘Men rape to get what they can’t by other means; they rape as a means of subjugation; they rape as punishment; they rape because they are immoral; they rape to satisfy a perverted sexual need within them that can only be satisfied by the physical abuse and domination of another human being. They rape because it gives them a sense of power and control. And they rape because they can.’

  Marsh’s outpouring, tinged as it seemed with a barely concealed disgust for the male of the species, left Romney at a temporary loss for words and wondering if, perhaps, there wasn’t something that went deeper with his subordinate.

  ‘Well, that all covers a wide spectrum of human behaviour,’ he said, ‘but it’s not very helpful.’ He drew a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. ‘And which of those reasons would be behind the rape of Claire Stamp, I wonder?’

  ‘Could be all of them, sir. And the sad reality is that a surprisingly high number of men carry around inside them the capability and barely suppressed animal tendencies to rape.’

  ‘Really, Sergeant? And where did you get that nugget of information from?’

  ‘A rape counselling course, sir. A couple of other facts that might interest you that I checked up on: statistically it’s not so unusual for a rapist to wear a condom – it really depends on the relationship that existed between the rapist and the victim before the attack took place. You see, again statistically, most people are raped by someone they know and trust: relative, friend, boyfriend, acquaintance. It is unusual though for an attacker unknown to the victim to wear a condom.’

  Romney looked unimpressed. ’What are you doing now?’

  ‘I was going to type up the statement we took from Claire Stamp.’

  ‘That’ll keep. Let’s pay a visit to young Park. There are a couple of questions I want to ask him. Find out where he lives. We’ll pay him a house call.’

  Marsh was back in five minutes. She tapped on the glass and putting her head round the door said, ‘He’s at work, sir.’

  Romney looked astonished. ‘The garage?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The DI thought for a moment and then said, ‘Even better. Ready?’

  *

  Carl Park was outside wearing an oversized fluorescent jacket, sweeping up leaves and rubbish that was playing tag around the forecourt in the gusting breeze. He had a large bandage strapped around his head. Looking up to see the police arrive, he stopped what he was doing and looked over his shoulder towards the shop. A worried expression clouded his features. The officers were talking in the car and he put his head down and continued his task with renewed effort.

  ‘Afternoon, Carl,’ said Romney, appearing before him.

  ‘He won’t like you coming here,’ Park said, nodding towards the shop.

  ‘Who? The manager? Don’t worry about him. I’m surprised to see you back here so soon, I must say.’

  ‘My head’s OK. Just a bump and a few stitches.’

  ‘I was thinking of what you went through last night – the psychological trauma.’

  The youth shrugged. ‘I get paid by the hour. No work, no money. Besides, he phoned me up said he needed me, and I’d only be sitting around at home thinking about it. At least here I can take my mind off it with things. I need this job.’

  The officers shared some sympathy for the pathetic spindly youth in his extra-large garage jacket. Clearly, he was of below average intelligence. He made a miserable example of what much of his age group had to look forward to in Dover after completing their compulsory education if they could find work at all. Perhaps, Marsh thought with a depressing realisation, she was looking at one of the lucky ones.

  ‘We need to ask you a few more things about last night, Carl,’ said Romney. His voice had grown friendlier. ‘I was hoping we could talk inside, maybe the back room. Bit of privacy and out of this wind.’

  ‘Just let me get this pile into the sack, can I? If I don’t do it now, they’ll be all over the place by the time I come back out.’

  ‘Sure, lad. We’ll just clear things with the boss. See you inside.’

  The manager was standing behind the counter. He watched with an impassive expression as the officers headed across the forecourt and entered the shop.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Patel,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant.’

  Romney’s attention was drawn to a magazine rack that had been obscured by something brought in off the forecourt the night before. The top shelf came almost to the middle of the display: row upon row of naked women posing provocatively, suggesting all manner of seedy offerings and leaving so little to the imagination. Old, young, fat, thin, white, black and in between. He said, ‘Sell much of this stuff, do you?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Patel. ‘And you are?’

  Romney picked up a copy of ‘Midlife Wife’. The front cover showed a pouting middle-aged and overweight woman naked, apart from a pair of cami-knickers, bending over a chair with two fingers planted deeply in her mouth. There was a ‘free DVD’ taped to the front cover. Romney sighed deeply and thrust it back in its place wondering where her kids were when she was being photographed and what she would say to them the day one of them said, ‘Mummy, why are you on the front of that magazine with no clothes on?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Romney.’

  ‘There’s nothing illegal there,’ said the man, defensively.

  ‘No,’ said Romney, ‘just immoral.’

  ‘Have you come to discuss my adult reading material, Inspector, or is there something else I can do for you?’

  ‘We need a word, a private word, with young Park out there. It’s rather urgent. All right if we use your back room for a few minutes?’

  Mr Patel looked as though it was anything but all right, however, with a resignation of his position and not wishing to aggravate the clearly irritable and pious inspector further, he inclined his head. ‘If you must,’ he allowed himself.

  ‘Very kind of you,’ said Romney. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for him to be back at work?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Patel. ‘I do, but he was quite insistent. Phoned me this morning saying he was quite well enough to work and he couldn’t afford to lose the hours to someone else. He’s not a bad worker to be honest with you. The agency that he came from has sent me a lot worse.’

  Marsh and Romney exchanged a look. The automatic door slid open and Carl Park slouched in.

  ‘We know the way,’ said Romney.

  There were only two chairs. Romney indicated that Park should sit and he took one for himself. Park looked uncomfortable at being in the room that held such keen and unpleasant memories for him. Romney noted that the battered circular table was still there. It displayed a mug of half-drunk coffee and an empty cellophane wrapper from something microwavable. Crumbs littered the chipped surface. Unbelievable. If he’d been manager, he’d have splashed out ten quid on a new plastic patio table from Argos. People.

  ‘Just a few questions we need to ask you, Carl,’ said Romney. ‘We found no tape for the security camera last night. What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘He must have taken it. There was always one in the machine. Mr Patel’s very particular about it. We’ve had a few drive-aways lately.’

  ‘Mmmm, thought he probably did. We noticed that all the racks of cigarettes were full up last night, except one.’

  ‘I filled them all up last night. It was a slow night and I filled up mostly everything. I definitely remember filling up all the fags.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to ask you something and I want you to think very carefully before answering, all right?’ The youth nodded. ‘To your knowledge, were there ever any goings on of a sexual nature in here?’ Park assumed a mixture of embarrassment and horror. He shook his head sharply. ‘You’re sure, Carl? Nothing at all?’ He shook his head again, but his skin had altered its pallor. It was as though someone had drained something from him. ‘Anythi
ng new occurred to you about last night?’ continued Romney. ‘Anything that might have struck you as odd or familiar?’

  Again the head shaking. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’.

  ‘You get many deliveries here?’ said Marsh.

  Park looked up at her as though he had forgotten she was in the room. ‘Yeah, a few. You know, petrol. We have a rep bring oils and things for cars. She’s a woman. Someone Mr Patel knows, might be a relative of his, brings the magazines and DVDs. Mr Patel gets most of the other stuff from the Cash and Carry.’

  ‘Think about the attacker,’ said Marsh. ‘Nothing familiar about him at all? His size, his walk, his voice?’

  ‘I told you last night, he was eastern European.’

  Marsh pressed him. ‘You’re absolutely sure about that, Carl?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘All right,’ said Romney. ‘Call in at the station to give a formal witness statement of what you’ve told us. Sooner the better.’

  ‘I don’t start here until twelve. I can come in tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’ll be fine. Ask at the desk for DS Marsh. She’ll look after you. We might even be able to stretch to a biscuit and a cup of tea.’ The youth nodded, but he didn’t seem thrilled at the prospect.

  ‘Right, Mr Patel,’ said the DI, stepping back into the shop. ‘We’re done. Thank you for your cooperation.’ They waited as Park left the shop to resume his duties. ‘How much did you lose?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘In the robbery. How much did he get away with?’

  ‘A little over seven hundred pounds,’ said Mr Patel, looking away.

  ‘As much as that? That seems very high for a little out-of-the-way place like this.’

  ‘We have our good days, Inspector.’

  ‘Insured?’ said Romney.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be sure to keep a personal eye out for when the insurance company get in touch regarding our role in your claim.’ The manager stiffened. ‘Anything else missing apart from the takings?’