by Jessie Keane
‘Maybe some uncomplicated action would do you good.’
‘I don’t think so. Once bitten and all that.’
‘I’ve been reading this great book . . .’ said Bev.
‘Oh shit. Not another one.’ Bev was well known for her passion for self-help books. Your Life, Your Rules! How to Mend Your Life! There was literally no end to them.
‘No wait. This is just a line from a Taoist teacher. That’s all. A single line, but it resonates, I tell you. It goes right to the nub of everyone’s problems.’
Romilly sipped the wine again. ‘Go on then. Shock me.’
‘Well, if you’re going to mock . . .’ Bev huffed.
‘No, no. Go on. I can’t wait.’
Bev put her glass down and laid her hands flat on the worktop. ‘Well, what this man says is: What would you do if you had no fear at all? If you weren’t frightened?’
‘Right . . .’ Romilly gazed thoughtfully at her friend, remembering sitting across the table from Kit Miller in that Italian restaurant. Hadn’t he said it was pointless, living in fear? ‘But Bev, that surmises we are all shit-scared.’
‘Well, don’t you think we are? We fear losing loved ones, not being able to pay the bills, we fear shocking other people if we break the mould and go for what we truly want in life.’
Romilly grabbed some crisps and chomped them down. ‘So go on. What’s your fear, Bev? And what would you do if you didn’t have it?’
‘I’d love to learn to ride,’ said Bev. ‘But if I told Brian that, he’d bust a gut laughing. I mean, look at me.’
Romilly looked. Bev tipped the scales at around fourteen stone, but she was lovely. Very attractive. Buxom and motherly.
‘You’re fine,’ said Romilly.
‘I’d need a bloody big horse. And what if I failed? What if I couldn’t do it? Brian would laugh his balls off.’
‘Fuck Brian! Just do it.’
‘Hm.’ Bev drained her glass and refilled it. She topped up Romilly’s, too. ‘And what about you, lady? If you had no fear, what would you do?’
Romilly considered. She ate some crisps, and considered some more.
‘I think what I would do,’ she said finally, ‘is cuff Kit Miller to my bed. And then I would rip all his clothes off and shag him senseless.’
Bev choked on her wine. ‘You what?’ she spluttered. ‘Kit Miller? You mean that Kit Miller? The hot dodgy one?’
‘Yeah, that one.’ Romilly paused. ‘The cheeky bastard kissed me, you know.’
‘Fuck me!’
‘On the day of his mate’s funeral, outside the church.’
Bev’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Nope. And we had dinner the other night. Not prearranged, I must point out. We just happened to meet up.’
‘But . . .?’
‘Yeah. About a million of those, aren’t there? The job. It comes first, last and always. He’s dodgy as fuck. Can you imagine me sitting down with the DCI and telling him I’m getting into something with Kit Miller? I’d be back on the beat – or more likely off the force entirely – before my feet even touched the ground.’
‘So it’s a no-go?’
‘Of course it’s a no-go.’ Romilly let out a sigh. ‘You know what? My dad said that Hugh wasn’t a real man. I don’t think he ever really rated him, if I’m honest. Well, Kit Miller bloody is. He’s tough. Strong. Handsome. Sexy. If he wasn’t such a rogue, I’d probably – no, definitely – be thinking what a great guy.’
‘Yeah, but isn’t the fact he’s a bad ’un the attraction? That he’s off-limits? Forbidden fruit?’
‘Maybe,’ Romilly admitted.
‘Shame, though,’ said Bev.
‘Yeah,’ said Romilly with a thin smile. ‘Ain’t it just.’
93
Romilly was having another shitty day. She’d interviewed Sarah Pascoe, Rob Hinton’s other sister, and her husband, then the Lewis woman. She’d listened and watched and realized that she was hitting yet another dead end. So she’d gone back to her office, where PC Paddick told her that there was no sign of their man in any of the six months’ worth of CCTV from the burlesque club. She sat there staring at thin air after that, running it all through her mind. Rob Hinton. Crystal Rose. Clive Lewis. All dead. All connected. A single gunman, on the run. A ghost, unfindable.
It was now clear that the killer hadn’t been to the club before. On the night he had been there, prior to murdering Crystal Rose, he’d paid cash to Joanie the hostess, left them no paper trail to follow.
Frustrating.
She briefed the team, told them how far they’d got. Which wasn’t very far at all. Then DCI Barrow called her in for an update. Something had to give on this. It was driving her mad. She told him all about Rob Hinton’s secret past, the impounded loot in the lock-up, his immediate family and the line of questioning she’d taken with them, and about the gun clubs she’d visited one by one, finding no leads at all.
‘It’ll come,’ he said. ‘Super wants a result soon though.’
No pressure then.
Her brain seemed to be stalling, stumbling over one thing: the money in the lock-up. She couldn’t think why, but her mind kept going back to that, to Mrs Lewis, to the laundry bag, the impounded loot.
Romilly left the nick with a shrieking tension headache at lunchtime and headed home to take some pills and lie down for an hour. Maybe even eat something. As she parked the car, she saw Sally the barmaid click-clacking past in her ridiculous high heels. Sally upped her pace, her cheeks turning red, her eyes averted. Romilly wondered if Hugh was still fucking her. And then she decided that she didn’t give a stuff, either way. She went indoors and straight upstairs – she felt too screwed up to eat. While she was lying on the bed, the phone rang and she heard the answering machine kick in. It was Mum.
‘Lovey, how are you? You didn’t call at the weekend so I’ve been worried. I thought I might catch you at home as it’s lunchtime.’
Romilly rarely came home for lunch. She worked through, usually, but today she couldn’t. Romilly’s devotion to her job was just another thing beyond her mother’s understanding.
‘But it’s only a job, darling,’ she would say.
Only, to Romilly it wasn’t a job; it was her whole life.
‘And have you spoken to Hugh? Please try to sort things out with him, darling, because . . .’ Should never have told her about the split, thought Romilly.
She tuned out and let her mother witter on.
How to explain the unexplainable? That the thing had run its course, that she felt nothing for Hugh any more, and she was glad that the lazy, feckless bastard had gone and given her some much-needed space, because she had to think.
None of which her mother would want to hear, or even begin to understand. To Mum, a job was nothing; a family was far more important. And no patter of tiny feet? Romilly had heard that too, over and over again. You’re leaving it very late, you know. Her mum was desperate to be a grandparent, but Romilly didn’t feel any driving urge to become a mother. She never had. And that was also something way beyond her mother’s comprehension. Something best not touched upon.
Dad was great. Easy-going, accepting. A delight. But Mum . . .
The answerphone fell silent. Romilly closed her eyes and breathed in, out. Enjoying the peace.
Another half an hour, and she’d go back, start all over. She’d missed something at the lock-up. All that money under the tarp. What had she missed?
The phone started ringing again.
‘Oh, Mum, please fuck off,’ she groaned. This was the way her mother operated. Ring once, twice, three times. Up the stress. Make her daughter respond, make her pick up.
‘Right, I’m doing it OK?’ shouted Romilly at the phone, hurling herself across the bed to snatch the damned thing up. ‘I’m doing it!’
She wrenched the phone off its cradle. ‘Yes?’ she snapped, steeling herself for the questions, the emotional blackmail, the whole nine yards.
&n
bsp; When are you coming to see us? Are you sure it’s over, you and Hugh? You’re not the easiest person to live with, you know, and that’s what marriage is all about, give and take.
Then all at once she had it. The lock-up. Mrs Lewis saying Mr Hinton had a key.
Harman’s voice said: ‘Great telephone manner. You coming back in? We might have something.’
94
What Harman had was a call from a Mr Janssen at the shooting range in Barnes. Romilly and Harman went over there and met up with Janssen in the plush twenty-five-metre, six-lane, air-conditioned range.
It was currently quiet, echoing, and empty of shooters.
‘Thank you for calling in,’ said Romilly. ‘We appreciate it.’
‘No problem,’ said Janssen, looking troubled. ‘I don’t even know if it’s relevant. I certainly don’t want to lay blame on anyone who’s innocent, but . . .’ His voice trailed away.
‘If you can just tell us what’s bothering you, Mr Janssen,’ prompted Harman. Janssen wouldn’t discuss it over the phone. All he would say was that he had some information, and could they come over. ‘It was the picture you showed me. The man in the nightclub.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and he did look familiar.’ Janssen was shaking his head, looking dubious now. ‘I’d hate to cause trouble for anyone,’ he repeated.
‘Go on,’ said Romilly.
‘About a year ago,’ said Janssen. ‘I think he was a member.’
‘And?’ said Harman.
Janssen still seemed uneasy. ‘He was a great shot. A real cracksman. Quite dedicated. Almost Olympic standard, I would say.’
‘Yes?’ said Romilly when he paused.
Again the head shake. ‘I don’t want to dump anybody in it.’
‘You won’t do that, Mr Janssen. Please, tell us.’
‘Well . . . it wasn’t his shooting that was the issue, it was him. There was something off about him, you know? Something . . . creepy, a couple of the female members told me. In the end, it was unfortunate, but the committee had to ask him to go.’
‘Creepy? In what way?’ asked Romilly.
‘One of the girls said that he’d spoken to her about dead bodies.’
‘You what?’ asked Harman.
‘Seriously.’ Janssen nodded. ‘Apparently, John was chatting to her and he started on about how they can identify corpses from dental records, so it’d be a good idea to yank a victim’s teeth out before you buried them.’
Romilly and Harman stared at him.
‘It really spooked her,’ said Janssen.
It bloody well would, thought Romilly, her spine tingling. She thought of Crystal Rose and her missing teeth. Christ! At last.
‘And that wasn’t the only instance. There were others. Suggestions that he’d rather shoot at a human target than a paper one.’
Jesus, thought Romilly.
‘So in the end, he had to be asked to leave.’ Janssen looked indignant now. ‘What people don’t appreciate is, this isn’t cowboys and Indians. It isn’t James Bond or some such silly thing. This is a respectable skill, a recognized sport.’
‘You’ve got his address?’ asked Harman.
‘Yeah, I dug it out. Good job we keep records up to six years back. For the tax man, you know. Come on into the office.’
Janssen led the way into a tiny office that Romilly remembered had been in darkness when she called before. He flicked on a garish fluorescent light to reveal a half-glassed cubicle containing a battered desk with a telephone, and two plain chairs. There was a cabinet stacked with silver trophies on the right-hand side of the office, and on the left-hand side, on a stark magnolia background, were pictures of groups of men and women holding rifles and smiling proudly at the camera.
Romilly stared at the framed photographs. ‘Mr Janssen – I don’t suppose the man you’re talking about would be in any of these shots, would he?’
‘Well, I . . .’ Janssen looked around. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me, but I suppose . . .’ He went over to the wall behind the desk. ‘These are older ones. That’s December last year, this one’s January . . .’
He was scanning the faces, moving from print to print. ‘Ah look. Yes. Here.’
Romilly joined him and looked at the man he indicated. ‘John’ was standing at the far end of the group, a little apart from the others. A very tall, thin, narrow-jawed, unsmiling, dark-haired man. His expression was closed-off, very intense. He was staring at the camera, holding his rifle cracked like all the other people in the group, but somehow looking . . . apart, she thought. Not one of them.
‘Did he use a club rifle, or did he have his own?’
‘God. I can’t be one hundred per cent sure after all this time. But I think . . . yes, I think he had his own.’
‘You’ve had no instances of club rifles going missing?’
‘No. None.’ He took a sheet of paper off the desk and handed it to Romilly. ‘I wrote the address down for you.’
She felt a surge of hope that almost deadened the pain of her banging headache, and tucked the paper in her pocket.
‘And his phone number?’ she asked.
‘No. Sorry. And the address is his uncle’s, not his own. He works away a lot, apparently.’ Harman was squinting at the print with ‘John’ in it. ‘Um,’ he said.
‘What?’ Romilly’s attention sharpened at his tone.
‘That big bloke at the other end of the group.’
Romilly looked at the man Harman was indicating. She peered closer. Her stomach tightened in shock.
‘Oh yeah.’ Janssen peered at the man. ‘Everyone felt doubly bad at letting John go, because he recommended him for membership in the first place.’
Romilly and Harman were looking at the man in the picture. He was big, florid-faced, with fierce eagle eyes, thick grey hair and bushy eyebrows.
‘That’s Patrick Dowling,’ said Romilly. She fumbled the piece of paper out of her pocket and stared at it. ‘This is Patrick Dowling’s home address. D’you mean this “John” lives with him?’
‘No. He doesn’t. John moves around in his work a lot, apparently, so it was most convenient to have us contact him if we needed to at Patrick’s address,’ said Janssen. ‘Patrick’s been a member for about three years now.’
‘And he proposed this “John” person?’ asked Harman.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Janssen. ‘John’s his nephew.’
95
Romilly and Harman went back to Patrick Dowling’s car dealership. Trudy was there at her seat, and Patrick was showing a flashy red BMW to a middle-aged couple. When he saw the police arrive, he smilingly told the couple to get in, have a feel of the car, and then he came over to Romilly and Harman with a face like thunder.
‘What the fuck d’you lot want now?’ he demanded.
Romilly said: ‘Mr Patrick Dowling, you are under arrest and may be charged as an accessory to a serious crime. You do not have to say anything, but . . .’ She went on, reading him his rights.
Patrick’s mouth had dropped open. ‘You fucking what?’ he roared, not listening.
‘Please accompany us to the station, Mr Dowling, where you will be questioned,’ she concluded.
Trudy was watching, open-mouthed. So were the couple in the BMW.
‘Or do we have to cuff you?’ asked Harman.
‘Right. All right. I’m coming. This is all a mistake. A big mistake. I warn you, I’m a friend of the chief constable. Trudy!’
Trudy jumped.
‘Look after the dogs, all right?’ She nodded.
‘Soon as you can,’ prompted Romilly. She heard the clicking of canine claws on the lino in the office. Curious, she went to the door and looked in. Three Pekinese dogs were in there, their leads tied to a chair. They yapped and snarled at her as she came into view.
Just as charming as their owner, she thought.
Later that same day, Romilly was updating DCI Barrow in his office.
‘Patrick Dowling is in tight with Eunice, and her boys work for Kit Miller, so this could be a takeover bid aimed at bringing Miller down. Dowling’s a car dealer, he’s in the trade. He could easily have sourced the van used in the supermarket warehouse robbery,’ said Romilly.
This was the bit of the job she loved the most. It was as satisfying as when she’d played pairs as a kid. This card matches that card. Slowly, the whole thing would fall into place. It was the best feeling in the world. The shooter was Patrick Dowling’s nephew, his brother’s kid. Not right in the head. And Patrick had exploited the younger man’s strangeness.
‘Probably the van’s been scrapped by now, but we’ll run through all Dowling’s connections,’ said the DCI, his eyes gleaming. He loved this too.
‘I’ve pulled him in,’ said Romilly. ‘We’re questioning him right now.’
‘Get that showroom of his locked down. And his home address, get a team in there, search it. Careful, though. Our shooter could be hanging around. Let’s make Patrick Dowling really start sweating.’
‘It’s done.’ Romilly nodded. She already had people climbing all over Patrick Dowling’s workplace and his home address. Patrick had huffed and puffed about it – it seemed to be what he was best at, projecting a big, bluff, bullying demeanour to the world in general – but fuck him. It didn’t cut any ice with her.
‘Good work. Still not found the nephew?’
‘Not yet.’
She left his office and went back to her own, thinking of the Kit Miller connection, that the robbed supermarket warehouse was on his ‘manor’. The warehouse job could signal the start of a serious turf war. She’d thought first that it was one of the old established mobs, but here was Patrick Dowling, coming out of left field at her. And for as long as John Dowling was on the loose, Miller was under threat. Throwing out Thomas Knox’s name during the robbery she now believed had been a blind to lead them all in the wrong direction. No, Patrick was in the frame now. Right in it. All they had to do was make him crack.
Meanwhile, the Clive Lewis funeral was tomorrow, at the crem, and she was going to be there.