Particular Stupidities (The Romney And Marsh Files Book 5)

by Oliver Tidy

  After Marsh had identified herself and confirmed she was speaking to the right girl, she said, ‘I gather my DI has already spoken to you regarding Lance’s disappearance.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  In those two words and the way she delivered them, Marsh felt she had her suspicions confirmed. She took a deep breath and said, ‘We need to speak to you again, Sally. Another line of enquiry has cropped up. Something you might be able to help us with. I can either come to your work this afternoon or to your home later. Whatever suits you.’

  ‘I’ve said all I have to say to the police.’

  Marsh let her deep exhalation reach Sally. ‘Listen to me, Sally. I am not like my DI. I know how he can be. Not always very nice.’ Sally made a noise that Marsh took to indicate sarcastic agreement. ‘But I do need to speak to you, and it can either be a time and place of your choosing or it will be a police station. Don’t make me do it the hard way.’

  After a short pause, Sally said, ‘Come to work then. At least it’ll get me out this crappy job for ten minutes.’

  *

  Marsh and Sally sat at the table that Romney and Sally had made use of. Marsh chose to sit on the end of the table with Sally next to her – no physical barriers between them. Marsh had taken in Sally’s pregnancy immediately and when the girl was sitting stiffly and not looking at her she said, ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not particularly, Sally. Just asking.’

  ‘Are you going to threaten to take all my unborn child’s things away, too, if I don’t tell you what you want to know?’

  Marsh rubbed at her face to try to hide her disappointment with Romney and the depths to which he had sunk. A little sadly, she said, ‘I told you: I’m not like my DI. I’d rather you talk to me because you want to.’

  Sally sensed some genuineness and met Marsh’s stare for the first time. ‘He was horrible.’

  Marsh tried some empathy. ‘You should try working with him.’ Sally snorted. ‘We’re still working hard to try to find out what happened to Lance, Sally. I’m sorry for you and your baby. It’s going to be tough for you. Bringing a child into the world alone and seeing it through.’

  ‘I’ll cope. My child won’t want for anything.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you sounding strong and positive.’

  ‘What do you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Let me tell you what we know about Lance. We know he was involved with a gang who were stripping church roofs of lead work and selling it to a scrap metal dealer. They were all arrested last night. None of it’s a secret any more. The place they delivered the stolen metal to is the same place that Lance was found – Aylesham, near Dover. It’s a connection that is certainly going to lead to us finding out why Lance was killed and by who.’

  ‘So why are you here? Why involve me?’

  ‘Because we think something happened the night Lance went to Aylesham and we don’t know what it was. We’ve spoken to the members of his little gang of thieves and none of them seem to know why he’s dead or how he came to be where he was found. I was in on the interviews and I don’t think anyone was lying. But one of them mentioned that Lance might have received or made a video while he was there. They said that on the night Lance was changed by it, preoccupied. We think that if he would have talked to anyone about it, it would have been you.’

  Sally looked at Marsh for a long moment before shaking her head and saying, ‘He never mentioned nothing about no video to me.’

  *

  Marsh was back at the station in time for the end of day briefing. The four CID members took the seats that they had become accustomed to occupying. They all looked tired after their late nights and full days.

  Marsh relayed the details of her fruitless afternoon and received an I-told-you-so look from Romney. ‘Or at least I think that’s what she meant,’ said Marsh.

  Romney had his confused face on when he said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her exact words were, He never mentioned nothing about no video to me. I’m still trying to work out if that’s just a double negative or something cleverer.’

  Romney said, ‘I don’t think we need to worry about Sally’s capacity for manipulating the English language to her advantage. I’ve met her. I’m surprised she was able to string such a long sentence together, even one with such grating grammar.’

  Marsh said, ‘I got Lance’s phone number from her. I’ll move on to his phone records. Just because Sally claims not to have known anything, or isn’t saying, doesn’t mean that the line of enquiry isn’t still valid.’

  ‘Fill your boots,’ said Romney, stifling a yawn. He appeared jaded. ‘I hope you do find something because after a day of interviewing we are no closer to catching Lance’s killer.’

  ‘It’s like we said earlier: it has to be the Holloways, guv,’ said Grimes. ‘They are the only solid link between Lance’s gang and the container. None of that Chatham lot had access to where Lance was found and he didn’t go disappearing on the one and only time he’d been there.’

  ‘That’s what they say. But I agree. It’s looking more and more likely circumstantially that the Holloways are our men. But come on, you know them as well as I do. They’re a rough bunch: thieving, brawling scrotes. But murderers? And why just leave the body there to be discovered? In fact, why alert us to it? And, Derek, you sat in with me interviewing them – they aren’t acting guilty for it. None of it makes any sense.’

  Spicer said, ‘With respect, guv, there’s always a first time. They’re also denying any involvement with, or prior knowledge of, the Chatham boys but we know they’re lying through their teeth about that.’

  Romney was looking more disheartened by the minute. He blew out his cheeks. ‘Yeah, we know it. We just have to prove it. Even if phone records do show that they had contact prior to last night, it’ll be easy for them to claim they believed they were dealing with bona fide scrap. There’s no way to prove what would’ve been said. Then we’ll need someone from the Chatham side of things to make liars of them. That’s going to be a court battle I’m not looking forward to.

  ‘And now for the bad news: forensics have submitted their final report regarding Lance Leavey’s crime scene. It’s not much use to us. The only fingerprints they found on that freezer belonged to those who had legitimate business in and access to the container: the Holloways, and a few PTA members. And there’s no telling how long ago they were left. Good news in a way because it means we’re not looking for anyone else; bad news in a way because it probably means that whoever dumped him in there was wearing gloves.’

  ‘Unless it was the Holloways,’ said Grimes.

  ‘Unless it was the Holloways,’ said Romney.

  ‘Or PTA members,’ said Spicer.

  ‘Which people from the PTA?’ said Marsh.

  ‘I forget the names,’ said Romney, yawning again. ‘File’s on my desk. But there is no link between Lance and the school. The link we have is Lance and the Holloways. And that’s where I’m going to be focussing our attention in the morning.’

  The mention of work on Saturday got Spicer and Grimes exchanging anxious glances and fidgeting on their seats. Noticing, Romney said, ‘No one else has to come in. There’s nothing that won’t keep until Monday for the rest of you and I appreciate the time you gave up last night. If no one has anything constructive to say, we’ll call it a day.’

  As they dispersed, Marsh approached Romney. ‘What time will you be in tomorrow?’

  ‘About nine. Why?’

  ‘Thought I’d come in.’

  Romney gave her a pleased look. ‘Good. I’m going to have another word with the Holloways. I’d appreciate a second opinion.’

  ***

  20

  Romney was glad he had nothing planned for the evening. As he got behind the wheel of his car he realised that he was dog-tired. He yawned widely again and slumped in the seat. The thought crossed his mind that he was getting old. He shook off that
self-inflicted stab of fear, rubbed vigorously at his face and headed home. He was going to run. He had something to prove to himself.

  *

  As Joy walked home she remembered that she and Justin were supposed to be going to the cinema that evening and then Justin had plans to stay in Dover for the weekend. The realisation made her falter in her stride. She sat on a bench to call him and let him know about her change of circumstances. It seemed only right. As she dug out her mobile from her handbag a shadow fell across her and didn’t move on. She looked up into the smiling face of James Meakin.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What a wonderfully chance encounter.’

  Before Joy could answer, he’d plonked himself down next to her. And then she remembered the flowers.

  ‘Hello, James. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about a dozen red roses, would you?’

  His smile gave him away before he didn’t deny it. ‘You got them then. Excellent.’

  ‘Meakins do that for all their customers, do they?’

  He adopted a faux serious expression. ‘Of course. We like to go the extra mile to show how much we value our clients.

  ‘Mmmm...’ said Marsh. ‘Whatever Meakins’ motives, thank you. They were very nice and appreciated.’

  James beamed again. He really was very handsome. And dapper. And he smelled nice too.

  ‘I’ve just knocked off for the day,’ he said. ‘How about that drink to celebrate your purchase?’

  ‘Sorry, James. It’s very sweet of you but I’ve got plans for tonight and I’ve got to get going.’

  James hung head his theatrically and stuck out his bottom lip. And then he inflated himself with a blast of spirited air and said, ‘I must accept finite disappointment, but I will not lose infinite hope.’ Even though it sounded stolen from someone else it sounded good. And these things had to be learned and remembered, so there was some merit in it.

  He stood and inclined his head. She half expected him to click the heels of his very nice handmade shoes together, and was relieved when he didn’t. He joined the evening pack of pedestrians, leaving Joy staring after him with a flush creeping up her neck and an inappropriate thought worming its way into her tired mind.

  *

  On the phone, Justin had been predictably, wonderfully understanding about Joy’s change of plans. He said he’d still like to come over. They could order a take-away and watch a film he’d borrowed from the university library, something he’d been raving about lately. He said it was a classic, which to Joy meant it was probably in black and white, maybe a foreign language with subtitles, lots of gloomy weather, and unhappy, poor, dysfunctional and hopeless people. Joy said that would be great.

  Justin was also fine about postponing the planned Saturday morning stroll along the seafront and a coffee in one of the hotels, then maybe a pub lunch somewhere. He said there was always Sunday. Justin said he would be quite happy to spend Saturday morning on his own with the papers.

  Justin was so understanding it made Joy feel worse for what she had done. She felt racked with guilt and more than a little ashamed of herself. She felt as though she had done something if not dishonest then disloyal in keeping the whole business of finding a flat, viewing it, making an offer and arranging a mortgage from him, her serious significant other. She wondered how she would feel if he had done something similar to her and decided she’d be a bit pissed off with him. True, it had all happened very quickly but that was absolutely no excuse for excluding him from the biggest decision she’d ever made.

  As Justin wasn’t going to be over for a couple of hours, Joy decided to put on her running gear and confirm what she was confident she wouldn’t have a problem with – running five kilometres in a decent time. She needed to take out her frustration on something. The tarmac of the seafront was as good a place as anywhere.

  *

  Joy’s mood was elevated by the exercise. Arriving back home, breathing heavily and sweating like a safebreaker, with the stopwatch function of her wristwatch showing a decent time, she gulped down a bottle of water and showered. While she dressed, she forced some more water down as she watched the clock tick around to the yardarm. Then she started on the wine, hopeful that the water she’d taken on board would be enough to stave off the morning headache that boozing after exercise risked.

  Waiting for Justin to arrive, Joy became increasingly anxious regarding the news she felt she should share with him sooner rather than later. The wine didn’t help. It annoyed her to feel that way. It was her money. It was her life. It was her decision. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was out of alignment.

  *

  Joy gave Justin time to get the cap off one of his bottles of beer and enjoy a mouthful before telling him that she needed to talk to him.

  She ushered him through to the lounge and made him sit. Justin was clearly affected by the seriousness of her tone and body language.

  ‘I want to share something with you,’ she said. Justin nodded. Joy took a big slurp of Chateaux Co-op, a deep breath and told him.

  *

  Romney woke on his sofa. He squinted into the bright light of the television that was still making noises in the corner – canned laughter to compensate for the lack of funny. He checked the time: three o’clock. He groaned. He tasted beer. His teeth felt coated with residue from his dinner. He explored them with his tongue and found a shred of beef stuck fast between a couple of molars. He worked it out with his fingernail, turned off the television, yawned and got to his feet. Two steps and his spirits plummeted as the weight he put on his left leg reminded him of the twisted knee he’d suffered on his run. Picturing a semi-naked Julie Carpenter spread across his duvet, not concentrating on where he was putting his feet, he’d tripped on the edge of a rabbit burrow. He’d fallen over and felt ridiculous for it. Fortunately, there had been no one else around to witness it. He’d had to hobble home.

  He checked his phone out of habit. There were three text messages from Julie. All sent between ten and eleven o’clock, which at least let him know roughly what time he’d fallen asleep. The first was a casual enquiry over his evening. The second suggested something of her feelings for him. The third implied that she had been drinking and was feeling a little morose, ignored, perhaps. He frowned, sighed and went to clean his teeth. His head ached, a reminder that rehydrating after exercise with beer instead of water was always a bad idea.

  ***

  21

  As soon as he put his weight on his legs the following morning Romney believed he’d done more damage than a simple twist. He felt the sharp stab of pain deep in his patella and almost yelped. He sat down on the bed and made faces as he did some gentle bending exercises. He dropped his pyjama trousers to compare his kneecaps. His legs were part of his body that he took no pleasure in looking at these days. In fact, they depressed him almost as much as looking at his torso, another part of his anatomy that was losing its definition and shape with the advancing years and lack of serious exercise. He used to have good legs. Muscular and hairy. Youthful and healthy-looking. The legs of a virile man in the prime of life. Something had happened, was happening, to them over the last few months. Despite his regular running, the muscle tissue had wasted away and he had large bald areas on his thighs above the knees and his calves were smooth and milky white. They were no longer the legs of a man the right side of middle age. He swallowed down his distaste and focussed on his injury. There didn’t appear to be any swelling. Perhaps it was just the stiffness after the night before, something that would ease as the day wore on. He really hoped so – he was supposed to be beating everyone in a running race in a week’s time.

  Romney phoned Marsh to tell her that, as it was a Saturday, he planned to treat himself to a fry-up at Sammy Coker’s before going to the station. He said if she had no breakfast plans she could join him. She said that she might as well. She was awake – now – and wasn’t doing anything else. She believed the subtleness of her sarcasm to be lost on him. He said he�
��d pick her up on the way.

  *

  Romney found a parking space closer to Tiffany’s than he could have reasonably hoped for on a Saturday morning. Walking from the car, Marsh noticed he was limping slightly.

  ‘What have you done to your leg, sir?’

  Romney huffed out his irritation. ‘Twisted my knee. Caught my foot in a rabbit hole as I was running last night.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes. Why would I make up a thing like that?’

  ‘No, I mean is the injury serious? Will it stop you running next weekend?’

  ‘Oh. It feels better today than it did last night. I’m confident I’ll be fit for it.’

  ‘Still, at your age, these things take longer to put themselves back together.’

  ‘What do you mean, my age?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that you’re...’

  He stopped and turned to face her. ‘I’m what?’ When she didn’t elaborate with more than a shrug and an open expression, he said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with my body’s recuperating qualities. I’ll be seeing you on the finishing line, don’t worry about that.’ To make his point he lengthened and quickened his stride even though Marsh could see it bothered him to do so.

  Sammy Coker’s café – in Marsh’s opinion ridiculously named Tiffany’s – was the sort of eatery that put the grease on the greasy spoon. If she remembered rightly, the knives and forks weren’t too hygienic either. It was one of Romney’s nostalgic haunts about the town, somewhere he tried to visit now and again to keep alive his memories of policing Dover in his uniform days.

  He ordered his usual breakfast and two mugs of tea. Marsh had noticed before that Romney liked to just order ‘the usual’, like he was someone they’d remember. Once again he was forced, with some obvious irritation, to detail to a bored-looking, overly-made-up girl who paid him only cursory attention, what his usual consisted of. Marsh asked for a couple of slices of dry brown toast and was told that the only choice with the toast was white buttered or white dry. She said if she had to have white she’d have a thin smear of butter, thank you.