Particular Stupidities (The Romney And Marsh Files Book 5)

by Oliver Tidy

  Romney heard himself make an unfamiliar noise. On the ground was an old rusting bicycle frame minus the wheels, saddle and handlebars. He snatched it up and turned to face the pursuing monster. Romney’s legs did not stop trying to put distance between him and the threat. Running backwards, holding the child’s bike frame in front of him, he stumbled and fell just as the dog launched itself at the intruder to its domain.

  Romney closed his eyes, tensed his arms for the impact and screamed.

  If he had kept his eyes open he would have seen the dog yanked backwards by the chain at its throat as it reached the full extent of its inflexible length. The dog tumbled into the grass and then reared up again in a frenzy of snarling, barking and salivating, only inches from Romney’s shoes.

  Romney opened one eye to find the beast towering over him with the sun directly behind it. There was something biblical in it. He then saw the thick links of the chain that had saved his life, and that the dog could not now reach him. The relief bordered on electric. He threw the child’s bike frame to one side and a smile of relief began to form. Until he smelt it.

  For one system-stopping moment he was forced to consider the worst. It might have been understandable but he would never, ever live such a thing down. He sniffed harder and the smell, while certainly shitty, was not familiar to him. He got to his feet, careful to keep moving backwards, and saw that he’d landed in animal faeces. Something not fresh, as his fall had obviously shattered the crust. It had probably been left by another of God’s innocent beasts when it had found itself similarly surprised by the creature that made the Hound of the Baskervilles seem like some variety of toy dog.

  ‘Who’s that?’ came a voice from behind the dog.

  The dog had not stopped its barking or its efforts to acquaint itself with Romney’s throat.

  Romney said, ‘Where are your notices to let people know you have dangerous dogs free to roam in here? I could’ve been killed.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you, mate? And what the fuck are you doing in here, anyway? This is private property and you’re trespassing.’

  Romney brandished his warrant card. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘Detective Inspector Romney of Dover CID.’

  The young man looked a little less angry. ‘How did you get in? I didn’t see no car.’

  ‘I walked. From the school.’

  ‘Well that’s your own bloody fault then. You shouldn’t be in here without letting someone know. They all know that down at the school.’

  Romney immediately thought of the secretary, Betty, and how she had given him instructions for how to find his way. She had not thought to forewarn him regarding the field’s resident evil. Or maybe she had and decided against it. He made a mental note not to trust her. And then he remembered her distinctive local accent and grimly made some sense of his current situation.

  ‘I need some water and a cloth,’ said Romney.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I tripped and fell in some shit. I need to clean myself up.’

  The young man couldn’t keep the grin off his face. ‘Tiddles will do that to you.’

  ‘Tiddles?’

  ‘This old boy.’ The young man entered the radius of the dog’s reach and Romney was reminded of Daniel’s bravery. Using soothing words, he calmed the beast down as he rubbed its neck roughly.

  Not for the first time in his life, Romney was forced to wonder at some people’s courage, or stupidity. Not for a pristine set of signed first editions of Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey and Maturin novels would he risk such close proximity to an unpredictable killing machine like that.

  ‘You’d better come with me,’ said the young man. Romney began skirting the circumference of the dog’s circle. ‘He won’t hurt you, now,’ he said. And the dog did look to have lost interest in him. But Romney would not take that chance. He knew from bitter professional experience that dog owners were renowned for claiming that their dog wouldn’t hurt a fly as it was being driven away by the Dog Squad towards extermination having just run amok causing serious injury to some poor sod, usually a child.

  ‘Blimey,’ said the man, with a trace of obvious amusement, ‘it’s all up your back.’

  Romney took off the jacket of his favourite and most expensive suit. He changed his mind about trying to clean it up. He’d probably have to throw it away. At least there didn’t seem to be anything on his trousers.

  ‘Is Buddy or Elvis here?’ said Romney, as they passed the container that was still sealed with police tape.

  ‘Nah. Might be across the way.’

  ‘The scrap metal place?’

  ‘Yeah. I can ring and ask from the office.’

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’ said Romney.

  The young man gave Romney a sidelong look before saying, ‘Johnny.’

  ‘You’re a Holloway?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So who’s your namesake?’

  ‘Johnny Cash.’

  ‘The old man must’ve really loved his music,’ said Romney.

  ‘Like we always say, it could’ve been worse,’ said Johnny. ‘He could have had a thing for flowers.’

  Despite Romney being the police, Johnny was quite friendly towards him. He provided a carrier bag for his jacket and offered him some wet-wipes to clean himself up with while he phoned across to the scrapyard. Romney gathered that both Elvis and Buddy were there. Elvis said he’d come across to see Romney rather than have him go to them. It made Romney wonder why they were being so courteous.

  When Elvis came through the gates of the scrapyard on foot, Romney was sitting and smoking on one of the plastic chairs that had been put outside the office for a sitter to take advantage of the sun. The distance between them was far enough for Romney to have another couple of long draws on his cigarette before they were close enough to talk.

  Elvis was all smiles. ‘Morning, Mr Romney. You should have called ahead to let us know you were coming.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’ said Romney. ‘Something to hide?’

  Elvis laughed. ‘From the police? You’ll hurt my feelings, Mr Romney. We could have got some cakes in, that’s all.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the arrangement that existed between you and the PTA over that unit?’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ said Elvis frowning.

  ‘They don’t pay for it, do they?’

  ‘I never said they did.’

  ‘You never said they didn’t? In fact you said that it was the school that leased it off you.’

  ‘Same thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Are they the only ones to keep stuff in there?’

  ‘No. We’ve got some of our own things in there.’

  ‘So you didn’t have to break into the unit? You had a key?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Romney exaggerated his exasperation. ‘Can’t you see that that would have been vital information for us? For our investigation?’

  ‘I suppose. But we’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘You suppose? Let me make it a bit clearer then. Everyone with access to a key for that lock-up is under suspicion for involvement in what we found inside.’

  ‘What we found, you mean?’ said Elvis a little defensively. ‘If we were anything to do with that do you think we would have called the police?’

  Romney laughed harshly. ‘Plenty of cleverer murderers have had just that sort of defence.’

  Elvis lost a little of his shine.

  ‘So let’s start from the beginning, shall we?’ said Romney. ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth regarding who had access to that container?’

  Elvis said, ‘Let me get a chair.’ Before he went inside he sniffed the air loudly. ‘You trod in something on your way here, Mr Romney?’

  *

  Elvis provided a fuller account of who could have access to the unit and then claimed that because he wasn’t a public servant but self-employed he didn’t have the time to sit around in th
e sun all day at the taxpayers’ expense. He went back to the scrapyard, leaving Romney alone.

  When Marsh arrived Romney was still sitting alone and smoking. As soon as he saw the car coming up the track he got to his feet. Marsh left the engine running, got out and went around to the front passenger side.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Romney.

  ‘I came straight here after maintenance was finished.’

  ‘What kept them, then?’

  ‘They didn’t say. He didn’t seem too pleased at having to come out as it was.’

  ‘Bloody tough shit. It’s their job. Who was it?’

  ‘I didn’t catch his name,’ lied Marsh. She didn’t want to drop anyone in it with her boss just because he was in a bad mood. ‘He said it served us right for leaving a police vehicle unguarded in Aylesham. Weren’t you wearing a jacket?’

  Romney held up the carrier bag. ‘It’s in here.’

  ‘That’ll just crease it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. It’s ruined. I got some grease on it. Probably won’t come out.’

  Marsh tried to offer some sympathy but Romney wasn’t interested. He threw the bag in the back.

  Marsh got in while he was fiddling with the seat’s settings and tutting loudly. She said, ‘Find out anything important?’

  ‘He confirmed what Julie told us. Space in the container is provided to the PTA to store some of its stuff in free of charge because two of Elvis’ kids go to the school. The Holloways also keep stuff in there. A key for the container hangs on the wall in the site office for any Tom, Dick or Harry to walk in and help themselves to.’

  ‘Did they say why they didn’t volunteer that information on Saturday night?’

  ‘Elvis said that it’s only them and the PTA that uses it and that the freezer was nothing to do with them, that’s why he didn’t think to mention the arrangement. He didn’t think it was important. I rang the head of the PTA while I was waiting for you. He works in Aylesham. Said to call round anytime. We’ll go there now.’

  *

  It was only a quick jaunt back on the same road Joy had driven out on but even in that short time and with both of the front windows down the unpleasant smell in the car became strong. Marsh was forced to consider that one of them had trodden in something in the yard.

  She was checking her shoes, wondering why Romney wasn’t complaining about it, when he turned into the little complex of buildings and businesses that Joy had just spent a pleasant thirty minutes in having her home-made shepherd’s pie lunch and a wander around. The thought that they were back there made her want to smile. She was in no doubt that to share the news with Romney would only be to prompt some sarcastic remark about productivity or malingering, so she kept it to herself.

  Romney pulled up directly outside the community café and Marsh wasn’t thinking about smiling any more. She was thinking about being recognised, about having to own up to having feasted while she waited for maintenance, and then having Romney question her about why she didn’t volunteer that and make her look bad and feel guilty in the process. She knew that she hadn’t done anything wrong but it didn’t stop her believing that he would make her try to feel like she had. She wondered whereabouts the PTA guy worked.

  Romney said, ‘The PTA guy runs the café. We can get some lunch while we’re here. I’m starving. You?’

  They went in through double doors that put them into a long corridor. The corridor was wide and high. It was painted neutrally and the walls were covered with black and white and colour photographs recording Aylesham’s mining past. There were boards, too, with names carved into them and mining artefacts displayed in glass-fronted cases. There were several doors off the corridor. Most gave no indication of what was the other side – brooms or rooms. The entrance to the café was signposted. There was also a sign for the toilets Marsh had used earlier.

  ‘I need the loo,’ said Romney. ‘I’ll see you in there.’

  As Romney headed for the end of the corridor Marsh hurried into the café.

  ‘Hello again,’ said the man that had served her less than an hour ago. ‘Back so soon?’

  ‘Hello,’ said Marsh, smiling. ‘Last time was pleasure, I’m afraid this one is business.’ The man’s smile slipped a little in his confusion. She held up her warrant card. And the light of understanding shone.

  ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ he said. ‘About the container is it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She looked over her shoulder at the door. ‘Look, when I came in earlier I was only interested in lunch. I had no idea I’d be back with my boss. We only just found out who you are. He’ll be walking through that door any moment. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say I’d already been in here.’

  The man smiled widely. He had a nice smile, good teeth, thought Marsh, and he was quite good looking and tall. ‘Like that, is he?’

  Marsh nodded. ‘Often. I’d rather not give him the excuse for a moan.’

  Romney pushed through the café door and approached the counter. ‘Mr Patton?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Romney, Dover CID.’ Romney showed his warrant card. ‘We spoke on the phone a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Romney studied the specials board. ‘How’s the Shepherd’s pie?’

  ‘Home-made and nearly all gone.’

  ‘We’ll have two of those and two teas, please. You got five minutes for a chat?’

  ‘No problem. That’ll be eight pounds ninety.’

  Romney felt his pockets. ‘My wallet’s in my jacket,’ he said to Marsh. ‘Can you get these?’ He moved away to find a table.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Mr Patton when Romney was out of earshot.

  Marsh sighed, ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘I’ll just take for one, eh? We can say I ran out. Unless you want another helping?’

  Marsh smiled at him, ‘It was very good and very filling so let’s do that.’

  She paid and took the teas over to where Romney was sitting and staring around suspiciously at the clientele – a couple of lonely looking souls in no obvious hurry.

  He said, ‘Half of the businesses round here are probably only open because of European grant money – a slush fund for traditionally-nationalised businesses that were sold off to the private sector only to be run into the ground by the greedy bastards.’ He slurped his tea and said no more as Mr Patton weaved his way through the mostly empty tables and chairs in their direction.

  Patton took a seat at their table and grimaced as he sat down. Noticing their looks, he said, ‘Done something to my back. Trapped nerve, I think.’ He made himself comfortable and said, ‘I imagine this is about the body in the container, is it?’

  ‘You imagine right, Mr Patton,’ said Romney. ‘News travels fast. What can you tell us about it?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, Detective Inspector. And I’m not sorry that I can’t. Sounds truly horrible. Poor sod, whoever it was.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Romney. ‘Just so that I’m clear, can you tell us about the arrangement you have with the Holloways for the unit?’

  ‘Of course. I’m the head of the PTA at St Bartholomew’s...’

  ‘Since when?’ interrupted Romney.

  Mr Patton looked at the ceiling and recollected, ‘Couple of years, give or take a month or so.’

  ‘You got kids at the school?’

  ‘Yeah. Three. One of each.’ Mr Patton laughed lightly at his little joke. They smiled politely.

  A woman almost as wide as she was tall waddled over to them with Romney’s lunch.

  ‘Didn’t we order two?’ he said.

  ‘My fault,’ said Patton. ‘There was only one left.’

  ‘You want this one?’ said Romney.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not that hungry.’

  ‘Suit yourself. You were saying, Mr Patton?’ Romney started eating.

  ‘The PTA have some stuff – mainly stands and things
that are only used at the Christmas fair and the summer fete – that need to be kept under cover. When the building work started at school the existing storage space got swallowed up in the development. They haven’t got around to creating more yet. Budget problems.’ Romney nodded and chewed. ‘So we needed somewhere to store things and I asked over at D&DSS if they could help us out. We’ve been storing stuff in one of the containers ever since.’

  So far this tied in with what they had already learned from the two other involved sources.

  ‘Was the unit solely used by the PTA?’

  ‘No. We just got to keep some stuff in it. It wasn’t ours exclusively.’

  ‘Do you know who else kept stuff in there? Who else would have access to it?’

  ‘The Holloways, I understand, but you’ll have to ask them about that.’

  Romney smiled through a mouthful. ‘I did. They said the same thing. Are you the only key holder for the PTA side of things?’

  ‘I have a key, but I know that there is at least one more kept at school.’

  ‘They couldn’t find it earlier. Any ideas?’

  Patton shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘When was the last time you were in there, Mr Patton?’

  ‘Since I heard about what you found, I thought about that. There was stuff we used for the Christmas fair and decorations for the school, big fake tree, Santa’s grotto. Stuff like that. I’m pretty sure that by the middle of January it was all back in the container.’

  ‘And you’re sure that’s definitely the last time that you were in there?’

  ‘Positive.’ He seemed it.

  ‘Anyone else been in there that you know of? Anyone that you’ve lent your key to?’

  Patton shook his head adamantly again. ‘No one and no one. I can tell you this, Detective Inspector – whatever turned up in there is nothing to do with me or the PTA.’

  ‘Your key for the unit, do you know where it is?’

  Mr Patton took his key ring off his belt loop and showed it to them. ‘It’s this one.’ There seemed little doubt.