Particular Stupidities (The Romney And Marsh Files Book 5)

by Oliver Tidy

  Each time he entered the parking area now the gleaming vehicles mocked him and his churlish decision not to be part of the dream and contribute the meagre one pound each week to the community pot.

  He hadn’t attended the celebratory drink when the station took over one of the town’s pubs for the night. His was the only face missing from the photograph that appeared in national and local newspapers along with the headlines Crime Pays, Coppers to Riches and A Policeman’s Lotto is a Happy One.

  Publicly, he had nailed a smile over his gritted teeth and wished them all the best. Privately, he had kicked things over for not seeing that just such a thing could happen and, regardless of his personal feelings for the government scheme of taxation by illusion, that he should have put in with the rest of them.

  It wasn’t about the money they’d each won – although a windfall of forty thousand pounds would have been nice – or about the one pound each week – that had been a principle. It was about feeling stupid and isolated at the way things had turned out. It was about the ‘tight git’ and the ‘serves him right’ and the ‘who’s laughing now?’ comments that he was sure did the rounds behind his back.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t have felt quite so bad about it if he hadn’t been the only one, or if he hadn’t regularly vented his own brand of superior scathing scorn on them as each week they dug in their desktop change pots, their pockets and purses for their regular contributions. How those comments had boomeranged back to haunt him.

  *

  By the time Romney and Marsh arrived at the forensic pathology building Maurice Wendell was already dressed for the occasion and arranging the tools of his ghoulish trade. The body bag containing the remains of the victim sat on the dull metal surface of one of the fixed examination units. The bag looked more like a holdall of dirty washing than the remains of a dead person.

  ‘Sure you won’t come in?’ said Maurice through the communications system.

  Both officers shook their heads for reply. Neither had any desire to reacquaint themselves with that putrid, stomach-churning odour. Not if they absolutely didn’t have to. From behind the viewing windows that separated them, Romney said, ‘We’re fine here, thanks, Maurice.’

  As the pathologist unzipped the bag he began his commentary into the audio equipment.

  Romney lasted a little under two minutes. Marsh found him outside, leaning up against the building, smoking. His complexion had the same tint as the inside of a ripe avocado.

  ‘How does he do it?’ said Romney. ‘A quarter of an inch of laminated glass between us, two air-tight doors and I could still smell it. Or was that just my mind playing tricks on me?’

  ‘I couldn’t smell anything.’

  ‘Why have you left then?’

  ‘I just thought there were better ways to spend a lovely Sunday morning than stuck inside watching the local pathologist pour the liquefied remains of some unfortunate sod down the drain and then use its skeleton for a jigsaw.’

  Romney actually heaved into his fist. He drew a couple of deep breaths in and out.

  Marsh said, ‘It’s only when you see a human being reduced to a rancid formless mass of mushy pulp like that that you realise how amazing and fragile life is.’

  ‘Are you doing it on purpose?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Trying to make me physically sick in the street?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘How much longer is he going to be?’

  ‘He’d only just started picking the bones out when I left. Then he’ll have to piece them all together again. I imagine it could be a long one.’

  Romney rubbed his face vigorously with both hands. ‘Why aren’t you out with what’s-his-name today?’

  It was Marsh’s turn to blow out air. ‘I cancelled when the body was found. Thought I might be needed today.’

  Romney felt a twinge of guilt for asking her to give up her Sunday morning. ‘You don’t have to stay. I can wait for Maurice. Things are likely to get busier tomorrow when we know more.’

  ‘I don’t mind. We were only going over to visit his mum with his kids. He’s probably already on his way now.’

  ‘Oh. The mother-in-law and the kids. No wonder you found the prospect of hanging out with a rotting corpse more appealing.’

  Marsh turned to face him. She noticed the suggestion of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. ‘You might be getting old, sir, but I’d never describe you like that.’

  Romney allowed it because it was Sunday morning and he wasn’t in a bad mood. He stubbed out his cigarette and said, ‘Fancy a coffee while we wait?’

  Marsh secured a table outside so that Romney could smoke. While she was waiting for him to get the drinks her mobile rang. She took it out and looked at the display. Justin. She put it back in her bag without answering. She felt bad about it, dishonest. She took it out again with the intention of calling him back but Romney emerged from the little café carrying a tray.

  When they were settled and sipping, Romney rummaged in his pockets and brought out a pouch, a box of matches and a pipe. Marsh couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d settled a curly pink wig on top of his head. She hid her face and her amusement behind the mug while he fiddled around filling the bowl.

  When she felt she could deliver the line, she said, ‘That’s new isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always wanted to try one. I like the smell of pipe tobacco. I reckon if I can get into pipe smoking I might be able to cut down on the cigarettes. And I’m finding that a pipe helps me think. Helps me relax.’

  Marsh nodded her understanding. ‘You been smoking it for long then?’

  ‘Not long, no. Couple of weeks. Just trying to get used to it. Buggers to keep alight if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

  She sipped her coffee and he continued to fiddle. ‘Don’t mind me saying so, but aren’t pipes for... old people?’

  Romney disengaged his attention from the pipe and met her look. ‘No. Why should they be? Years ago lots of young blokes smoked them. Just because they’re not fashionable these days doesn’t mean they can’t be enjoyed. Trust me, if David Beckham was photographed smoking a pipe the shops would sell out of them before you could say, I’m a washed up celebrity selling my soul for cheap publicity get me out of here.’

  Marsh took another sip of coffee and a long moment to imagine what David Beckham would look like puffing on a pipe. She decided it might become him, depending on what he was wearing, of course – maybe not a football shirt or a shell suit. She said, ‘I’ve only ever seen younger blokes in old black and white films smoking pipes, usually before they took off in Spitfires. Or there’s Sherlock Holmes, of course. He smoked a pipe quite a lot, I seem to remember.’

  The way she said it encouraged Romney to say, ‘You do know he was a fictitious character, don’t you?’

  Marsh ignored it. ‘Aren’t pipes supposed to be more dangerous for health than cigarettes?’

  ‘No.’ He sounded adamant, almost as though she had insulted his intelligence. ‘For one thing, you don’t inhale the smoke. And for another, pipe tobacco isn’t loaded with the chemicals that tailor-made cigarettes are. And because they’re not so convenient to smoke you don’t find yourself smoking so often. And they’re a more pleasurable way to smoke.’

  Marsh said, ‘I’m sure I knew someone who died of mouth cancer because he smoked a pipe.’

  Romney acted like he hadn’t heard her. Maybe he hadn’t. His concentration seemed fixed entirely on trying to get the tobacco to light before the match burned his fingers. He sucked on the mouthpiece furiously, his cheeks working hard in tandem with his breathing. He made lots of strange kissing sounds, like a landed fish. After two matches more and what seemed like a good minute later there were signs that the tobacco had caught. A thin wispy smoke trailed up from the bowl, like the very beginnings of a fire being started with a magnifying glass and dry grass on a sunny day. Marsh watched on, willing the smouldering mass to take properly. Romney sucked in an
d blew out nothing but air through his mouth several times before the smoke ceased to rise. He frowned and grunted. He inspected the bowl and prodded the contents about with the safe end of an unspent match.

  ‘Is it always like that?’ she said. ‘If it is, I can see why you end up smoking less.’

  He seemed a little irritable when he said, ‘No.’ He tapped it out into the ashtray and took out his cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled like he needed it.

  Marsh wanted to share something with Romney. She’d wanted to share it with him for a couple of weeks but the opportunity had not presented itself. She felt that now was as good a time as any.

  ‘Do you remember that old woman, Mrs Daniels from Deal? Her nephew was stabbed to death in his kitchen by that Turkish national from the kebab shop.’

  With a mouthful of coffee Romney could only nod. He swallowed and said, ‘The one with that fantastic collection of crime novels. Actually, it was more of a library, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘What about her? Don’t tell me you still keep in touch with her.’

  ‘I did. Used to go over and see her now and again. She died.’

  Romney didn’t seem too bothered when he said, ‘Oh.’ And then he thought of the books and his interest flared. Romney was a keen collector of first editions of crime and mystery novels. In a locked room at his home he had many boxes full of the fruits of his collecting years awaiting the day he had his own library finished and furnished with shelving and he could unpack them and organise them and enjoy them once again. ‘What happened to her books?’

  ‘I bought them.’

  Romney was made slack-jawed and speechless. During the case that involved the grouchy old bird he hadn’t had anything to do with her. Mrs Daniels’ involvement had been something Marsh had uncovered and cultivated. But after he had been discharged from hospital following a brief stay, having been attacked and injured by an angry young woman who had sent him tumbling down a flight of stairs – a stay during which Julie Carpenter had dumped him – Marsh had collected him from the hospital and driven him to the woman’s house for an arranged private viewing to cheer him up.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I did a deal with the executor of her will. I’ve always wanted to start my own book collection. I thought this was as good an opportunity as any.’

  ‘All of them?’

  Marsh nodded. There had been four rooms lined with shelves. Several thousand books. Romney remembered many choice and collectable titles among them.

  ‘What did you give for them?’

  Marsh made a face. ‘I might have paid over the odds. But I had that lottery money and I thought, why not? Easy come, easy go.’

  ‘So, how much?’

  ‘A thousand pounds.’

  Romney was aware that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it and swallowed. He said, ‘You gave a thousand pounds for all the books in that woman’s home?’

  ‘Yeah. I know. It’s a lot of money.’

  ‘A lot of money? Joy, from what I remember of those books you could probably sell them on to a dealer tomorrow for ten times that amount. Maybe more.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘In boxes in my flat. I can hardly move for them.’

  Romney was actually laughing. Marsh was glad that she’d shared.

  ‘What will you do with them? You haven’t got room for half of them.’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll have to get rid of some of them.’

  ‘Either that or you’ll have to move to a bigger place.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that too.’

  ‘Moving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not away?’ The way he said it gave Marsh a tingle of pleasure because his remark had been spontaneous and unguarded and the way he said it meant more than what he’d said. Marsh understood that Romney valued her as a colleague.

  ‘No. I’m becoming quite attached to Dover. I never thought I’d say that when I was first posted here. And now I’ve got the windfall to put down as a deposit somewhere.’

  Romney smiled. He might have been about to say something else but his phone started to ring. He looked at the display and said, ‘Maurice.’

  *

  Maurice Wendell had finished his examination and putting together of the body. The steel surface he had been working on had been hosed down.

  The skeleton of the deceased was laid out on an adjacent metal top. There was still hair attached to the scalp in tufts. Remnants of ligaments and tendons and muscle tissue still clung to the bones in places but most of the tissue and fabric of the body had simply turned to an unsupportable watery mush because of the conditions it had been kept in. And that had all gone down the plughole.

  Wendell had persuaded them that they should suit up and join him on the butcher’s side of the glass. He assured them that the smell had thinned and that it would be worth their effort and time.

  ‘It’s definitely a young adult male,’ said Maurice. ‘Somewhere in his late teens to early twenties.’

  ‘Can you say how he died?’ said Romney.

  ‘Thanks to this, probably,’ said Maurice. He lifted and rotated the skull so that they had a good view of where it had been smashed by something solid and with some force. ‘Massive head trauma. Couldn’t say how he came by his injury, of course. He might have fallen. And we should not discount the possibility that he had been killed some other way and then had his head caved in to make it look like this. I’ll have some toxicology tests done to rule out poisoning or an overdose but for now it’s my professional opinion that the head wound is it.’

  ‘People don’t usually try to cover up accidental death by hiding the body in a freezer,’ said Romney. ‘Any other injuries?’

  ‘Nothing that I have found so far, at least no injuries that impacted on the skeletal framework.’

  ‘Anything that will help us to identify him?’

  ‘What’s left of his clothes are over here,’ said Maurice, leading them to another table. He lifted up some rotting, stained, damp fabric. ‘There was no wallet, identification or jewellery.’

  ‘Shoes?’ said Romney looking over the pile of soiled, unwashable laundry.

  ‘No. But this belt is distinctive. At least the buckle is.’ Maurice held up a thick leather belt with a solid metal buckle shaped like a beer barrel.

  ‘How long do you think he was in there for?’ said Marsh.

  ‘A very difficult question to answer with any degree of calculable accuracy. The artificial environment that the body has been kept in has significantly skewed the normal putrefaction process. A lot would depend on how long the body was in the freezer and how soon after death it went in there. Also, what temperatures it has been subjected to before and after being confined. Imagine what would happen to a banana if it were sealed in a plastic bag and left in the sun for a couple of days. Anyone not knowing how it had been kept would see something that’s been rotting for weeks.’

  ‘A rough guess?’ said Romney.

  Maurice made a noise of discouragement in the back of his throat. ‘Not less than six weeks. Possibly as long as two or maybe even three months. With so many unknowns and variables it really is very difficult to say. We’ll do more tests but they will take time and there are no guarantees regarding the results. Sorry. It would certainly help if you could find out who he is and exactly when he went missing. His teeth had obviously been seen to. Dental records will be your best bet unless you can find someone with a DNA link, of course.’

  Romney said, ‘Can you let us have a rough description of him? Height, hair colour, what he was wearing? It’ll help. Give us something to go on.’

  Before he left, Romney got Marsh to take a photograph of the belt buckle using her smartphone. With promises of early reports, they said goodbye to each other and left the pathologist to finish his gruesome work.

  When they were back standing outside in the fresh air, Romney s
aid, ‘You remember Buddy said that the lid on the freezer was open when they went in. Someone must have been in there recently to do that.’

  ‘Or just put the freezer in there recently.’

  ‘Good point. We need to know who has been using that container.’

  They were almost back at the station. Marsh felt that with the way their morning had gone she could risk broaching the subject she wanted to without Romney snapping at her.

  ‘About the school, sir. I can go and see them tomorrow with Peter if you like?’

  Romney smiled knowingly. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn’t be much of a copper if I let a little private awkwardness get in the way of a murder investigation, would I? I’m going home. Nothing more to be done on this one until Maurice gives us a description to work from and the school opens. You want a lift?’

  ‘I think I’ll walk, thank you.’

  They said their goodbyes. Romney headed for his car and Marsh diverted alongside the River Dour that trickled past the station, through the town and out to sea in the general direction of her home at The Gateway.

  Romney spent the rest of the day on his own at home. He received a text late afternoon from Zara letting him know that she would be going out straight from work and had plans to stay over at a girlfriend’s. It didn’t bother him. He was glad for her. She hadn’t been long in the area and with her new job on the boats she was making friends and a life for herself. He sent her a text hoping that she had a good time and left it at that. He was determined not to spoil what they had by repeating the mistakes of his past, questioning, interrogating, controlling.

  ***

  3

  Despite going to bed early, the head of Dover CID had not slept well. He’d watched the end of a film on the TV he’d recently installed on the wall opposite his bed. Then he’d read – something that could usually be guaranteed to help him drift off. But neither tried and tested soporific had managed to dull his senses enough for sleep. And he knew why. The prospect of seeing Julie Carpenter the following day filled him with dread and excitement in equal measure.