by Oliver Tidy
‘But if it was more than one weapon, then it would suggest more than one assailant.’
The pathologist inclined his head. ‘Possibly.’
Romney took a deep breath. ‘I’d better have a look at him.’
Marsh and Grimes were standing with the uniforms. As Romney approached the body they broke away to join him. Clearly they had also been warned of the horror they were obliged to have to witness. All three wore sombre expressions as they individually prepared their insides for the grotesque display awaiting them. Others who had already seen what lay under the sheeting watched on with voyeuristic anticipation for the reactions in others to something they had already had to observe themselves and wished they hadn’t.
The pathologist pulled back the shroud and waited. Romney felt something of his last meal stir deep within him. Marsh exhaled audibly the deep breath she had been holding. Grimes said, ‘You’re right, gov, I think we can definitely rule out suicide.’ Everyone had their own way of dealing with the horrors of the job. Romney thanked the pathologist with a nod and the sheeting was returned.
‘Move him whenever you’re ready, Maurice. And thanks.’
Romney gave himself a long moment to take in the contrasting beauty of the surrounding area and a few deep breaths. He shook another cigarette free and lit it.
‘So,’ he said, sending out a stream of smoke, ‘why here? It’s the middle of nowhere. How did he get here? Who did this to him and why? For a start we need to verify that this really is the closest part of the course to a public highway. If it is that might explain why this particular area of it, but why specifically the green? And, of course, why the golf course at all?’
‘If he is the club captain that’s a connection we can’t ignore,’ said Marsh.
‘Maybe that’s just an association the killer wants us to make,’ said Grimes. ‘A red herring.’
‘How did he get here?’ said Romney.
‘Carried, dragged, lured, threatened, enticed,’ said Marsh.
‘That narrows it down,’ said Grimes.
‘He was alive when he arrived. The pathologist has a notion that there may have been more than one person involved in the execution of, well, let’s call it the execution, shall we? It certainly has that sort of feel about it, despite the mess.’
‘Premeditated?’ said Grimes.
‘Possibly,’ said Romney, ‘but it’s equally possible that he was here voluntarily and things took a turn for the worse for him.’
‘Maybe he was meeting someone,’ said Marsh.
‘In the middle of the night in the middle of a golf course?’ said Grimes. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Romney. ‘And we’re not ruling anything out yet. I want us to consider every conceivable explanation for him being here and discounting suggestions only when to keep them alive defies all rational thinking. Is that clear?’
Grimes and Marsh exchanged the briefest of glances, their eyes drawn to each other instinctively, as are those who share a secret that is suddenly discovered. Both were thinking of the last time Dover police had had to deal with a serious crime and how it had unfolded and ended. DI Romney had blamed himself for not preventing further serious crimes associated with the first because he had failed, in his own words, to keep an open mind.
Romney looked over towards the low wire fencing that formed the boundary between the golf course and the highway. ‘Grimes, take a look along the road and in the long grass. See if there is anything to suggest it’s been disturbed recently, if, that is, the world and his wife who’ve been trampling about over there haven’t destroyed any evidence. If there was more than one killer that’s at least three people who had to be present. If he was brought here against his will, carried, dragged, bundled, whatever, it’s likely there would be some trace of it.’ Grimes slouched off. ‘And get one of the uniforms to check that this really is the closest part of the course to a public highway and have someone check out the road if they haven’t already for anything that might suggest that this is where he got onto the course.’ Grimes raised his hand without looking back. To Marsh, Romney said, ‘So, he could have been carried, or dragged against his will. That would have taken at least a couple of men.’
‘Not necessarily, sir. If he’d had his hands tied, for example, one person could have led him out here at knife or gun point.’
‘He wasn’t killed with a knife or a gun, but I know what you mean. What if he had come out here voluntarily? To meet someone.’
‘Or collect something.’
‘Or trade something.’
The DI smiled at Marsh then, an acknowledgement and sharing of the realisation that they had to consider more possibilities than he would have liked. The paradox was lost on neither officer that the location, being isolated and remote, instead of suggesting something quite specific had instead thrown up as large a number of variables as it would have done if the man had been murdered in the middle of a city. Perhaps it did suggest something unambiguous, but until they discovered what it was the possibilities would remain as great as they would for anywhere.
‘Let’s get the victim formally identified.’ Romney turned back to the pathologist. ‘Any sign that his hands were tied?’
The pathologist threw back the sheeting once more catching the police officers off their guard. Marsh tensed noticeably. He lifted up each wrist turning it carefully, inspecting the flesh. He shook his head. ‘No bruising. Nothing to suggest he was restrained and there would be.’
‘Identification? Wallet?’
‘Already checked. Nothing.’
As the covering was replaced, Romney said, ‘Do we know whose vomit that is?’
‘The golfer’s, I believe.’
‘Is that right? I’d better have a word with him, I suppose.’
‘Good luck. I understand he’s suffering not only from the shock, but also from his self-administered medication to deal with it.’
Romney was frowning. ‘So I heard.’
Duncan Smart was sitting with his back to the green, staring blankly out over the expanse of the Channel stretching away in the distance below them. His golf bag lay carelessly discarded on the turf beside him along with an empty vodka bottle. He still clutched his putter.
Romney’s form cast a shadow over the man. ‘Mr Smart?’ Smart looked up squinting and shielding his eyes from the sun at the policeman’s back. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Romney. Are you drunk?’
‘A bit. Would you mind moving a little, please?’
Romney obliged by stepping to the other side of the man. ‘Do you normally take a bottle with you when you play a round of golf?’
‘There’s no law against it.’
‘True. But you wouldn’t be thinking of driving home would you?’
The man managed a tired smile. ‘Of course not.’
‘You found the body?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you touch anything? Remove anything? Will our forensic team find any trace of you on or around the body?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘With his head like that?’
‘Do you often play golf alone this early in the morning?’
‘Yes. Best time of the day. I drop in on my way home from work. I work nights on the boats.’
‘Were you alone today?’
‘Yes. I’m always alone.’
‘Up to telling me how it was?’
Smart took a moment to find a place to start. ‘Place was shut when I got here. Not a soul about. No sign of anyone. Same as usual.’
‘How do you get in?’
‘It’s only a five-bar-gate. I climb it. You know what? I was having a bloody good round. I was only five over. Well, that’s bloody good for me after twelve. I didn’t have to touch him. I could see that he was dead. I’ve seen dead people before.’
‘Where was that?’
‘I was in the army for twelve years. Three tours of Northern Ireland.’
‘You didn’t ring the emergency services. Why not?’
‘I’d rather leave that to someone else. There wasn’t anything to be done for him. There was no emergency. I know my responsibilities – sit and wait for you lot.’
‘And get drunk?’
‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’
Romney softened slightly. ‘You need a ride home?’
‘Thank you. That would be most welcome, Inspector.’
Romney indicated that Marsh should arrange it.
Slowly and awkwardly Duncan Smart got himself upright. He stood his bag up and gently slid the putter in to join the other clubs. ‘Inspector, I’ve been receiving anonymous threatening phone calls.’
‘Threatening what?’
‘Violence. Lots of it.’
‘Are you suggesting that your phone-calls and this incident are related?’
‘No. I don’t know. I doubt it. It’s probably just coincidental, don’t you think?’ There was a shadow of a desperate hope in the man’s eyes.
Romney’s interest in the man was re-kindled. ‘You’re sure you don’t know him?’
‘I don’t recognise him as he is.’
‘He might be Phillip Emerson, the club captain. Do you know him?’
Smart smiled. ‘Only by reputation. Out of my league professionally, socially and as a golfer. Our paths have never crossed to my knowledge. I’m an artisan. They tend not to let us mix with the elite, those who can afford the full membership.’
Now Romney smiled. ‘How long have you been getting the calls?’
‘Since the day after my most recent divorce. Not long.’
Romney’s interest was extinguished. ‘You’ll have to come into the station and make a formal statement about this,’ he said, indicating the scene behind him. ‘Ask to speak to someone about the phone-calls.’
Marsh returned with a uniformed officer.
‘I’ve just started three days off. I’ll come in tomorrow,’ said Smart.
‘Good. By the way, is that your vomit?’
‘Afraid so. Must have been something I ate.’ Smart dipped his head at the officers and wandered after the constable just a little unsteadily.
‘Anything?’ said Marsh.
‘No. Says he doesn’t know him. I wouldn’t call him quite reliable right now, anyway. But I doubt that there’s any connection between them. Someone had to find the body. It just happened to be him. He says he’s been receiving threatening phone calls. Something to do with an ex-wife.’
Grimes’ shout floated to them across the open ground. He was signalling for them to join him. Within a minute Romney and Marsh were stood in the semi-rough where Grimes had indicated they should wait. Ten metres of waist high weeds and grasses separated them from where Grimes stood on the other side of the four foot fence that penned in the golf course.
‘What is it?’ said Romney.
‘There’s a snag of fabric caught on the barbed wire here, gov,’ called Grimes. ‘And, if you move to your left a few feet. Can you see? Looks like someone has cut through recently.’
There was a clear and recently trodden-down channel leading from the fence to the edge of the course. Romney picked his way into the overgrown area and headed towards Grimes. Half-way in he stopped and disappeared. When he stood up he was holding a suit jacket hooked over a finger. It’s resemblance to the trousers of the dead man was strong. He continued on towards Grimes. At the fence he compared the fabric to the threads dancing in the faint sea-breeze. Another good match. They quickly found the little tear where the material had caught on the barbed wire.
‘Well done,’ said Romney. He felt in the pockets of the jacket withdrawing a wallet and a mobile phone. As well as a couple of hundred in cash there were cards that identified Phillip Emerson as the wallet’s owner. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll send someone over to collect that sample.’
***
3
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Ellen Emerson?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Romney, this is Detective Sergeant Marsh. May we come in, please?’
One hand came quickly up to her mouth. ‘Oh Christ. Tell me it’s not William.’ The knuckles of her other hand stood out white against the heavy dark wood of the door frame. For a moment it seemed she would collapse.
‘We’re here for your husband, Phillip,’ said Romney.
The hand went to her chest. ‘Oh, thank God.’ She smiled weakly, embarrassed for her outburst. ‘You must know how it is. You see it all the time on the television – the police on your doorstep, only means one thing: bad news. Usually someone’s dead.’
Romney gave a weak idea of a smile. ‘May we come in, Mrs Emerson?’
‘He’s not here,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Phillip. He didn’t come home last night. Don’t look like that. It’s not unusual.’
‘Mrs Emerson, it’s your husband we’ve come to speak to you about. I’m afraid it’s possible we do have bad news for you.’
‘Oh,’ was all she could manage.
She led them into a large open plan kitchen – all polished granite, stainless steel and oak. The space, fixtures and fittings added to Romney’s belief that the Emersons were not short of money. Anyone with a home the size of a small private school in that street had either large amounts of cash, or huge debt facilities, probably both.
‘Who is William, Mrs Emerson?’ said Romney.
‘My boy. He didn’t come home last night either. Again not unusual. Like father like son. I don’t do suspense very well, Inspector. Can you just tell me why you’re here, please?’
‘A body was found this morning on the White Cliffs Golf Course. A man’s body. He was dead when discovered. A wallet was recovered from the scene. Your husband’s wallet.’
Mrs Emerson’s high-pitched squeal of laughter took both officers by surprise. She cut it off as abruptly as it has begun. The hand back over her mouth. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry. It’s too funny.’ She shook her head as she fought to control herself. Romney and Marsh waited. ‘It’s what he wanted, you see. He loved his golf. He’d often joke that he could think of no better way to go than playing a round. That’s ‘a round’ by the way not ‘around’. You must think me a callous old bitch. That doesn’t matter. We were husband and wife in name only. Had been for years. We both lived rather separate lives. Our son kept us under the same roof most of the time. I’m happy for him. Not many of us can choose how we go, can we?’
‘Mrs Emerson,’ said Romney, ‘at this time we are not able to state categorically that the body is that of your husband.’
‘I understand. You need me to come and identify him, don’t you? Next of kin and all that.’ And then she began to cry. ‘Oh dear. Poor old Phillip. He wasn’t really old enough to die, was he? He could be a real bastard, but he kept his word – he never left us.’
‘Mrs Emerson, I think you should sit down. Please.’ She sat and reached for kitchen towel. ‘We are not certain yet that your husband is the man that was found because he did not die a natural death.’
‘A natural death? What does that mean, Inspector? Just spit it out would you.’
‘The body that was found died an extremely violent death. He died sometime last night. Whoever it is was beaten repeatedly around the head. The extent of the injuries will make any form of facial recognition impossible. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.’
There was no trace of either the humour or irritation that the woman had shown so far. Both hands came up to her mouth and her eyes widened. She seemed suddenly emptied, meek and silent before them.
Romney reached into his pocket and retrieved the gaudy ring he had borrowed from the deceased. He set it gently onto the counter in front of her. She reared up as though he had brought down a sledgehammer on the granite surface.
‘Is this your husband’s ring, Mrs Emerson?’ She nodded. ‘Again, I’m sorry, but does your husband have any di
stinguishing features that we might be able to identify him by? Birthmarks, moles, scars anything like that?’ The officers waited a long moment. ‘Mrs Emerson?’
‘Murdered then?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
Two large beads of tears left the tracks of their progress down her powdered cheeks, stripping her foundation and giving her a clown-like appearance. She reached for more kitchen towel and dabbed at her face. She took a deep and stabilising breath. ‘An appendix scar. He also had a scar across the knuckles of his right hand and a group of moles on his back that reminded me of the constellation, The Plough.’
Marsh scribbled.
‘How tall was your husband?’ said Romney.
‘Five feet nine. You must be fairly certain it’s him, or you wouldn’t be here, would you? Have you arrested anybody?’ She seemed suddenly very interested in this, almost as though she feared the answer.
‘No,’ said Romney. ‘Mrs Emerson, do you know of any reason why someone might want to kill your husband?’
*
Romney pulled out into the flow of mid-morning traffic skirting the town centre on the ring-road. He grimaced as he forced the pool car into second gear with a grinding of metal.
‘Something occurred to her,’ said Marsh.
‘Yes, it did. She’s not good at hiding what she’s thinking. So why not share it with us?’
‘She wants to protect someone?’
‘Perhaps. Who?’
‘Mothers only ever really care about their children.’ Romney shot her a questioning look. ‘I read it somewhere. Do you think she knows where her son was last night?’
‘Maybe, but she wasn’t going to share it with us. I’m going to see Maurice. Make sure it is Phillip Emerson. Get hold of his phone. Find out the last people he spoke to and call his son. No doubt, she’ll have contacted him before you do. Tell him to come in and see me at the station today or offer that we can have him picked up and brought in. Note his response.’
‘Did you notice how she referred to him as ‘my boy’?’