Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

  As they drove back to the station in buoyant mood, the police van stinking like a take-away delivery vehicle, Marsh tackled Grimes. ‘What made you so certain he was the bloke we were looking for?’ she said, sounding just a little impressed.

  ‘Actually, I didn’t have a clue, Sarge,’ said Grimes, through a mouthful of pita bread. ‘I’ve never been very good at suspense. It gets to me and I can’t control myself.’

  Marsh began laughing. ‘The DI might have been happier, if you’d focussed your accusations on the bloke holding the lettuce. Maybe best if you didn’t tell him.’

  ***

  13

  The young Asian doctor who saw Romney prodded painfully, ummed and ahhed, and then sent him for x-ray. The bleeding had reduced to a trickle and the pain had been replaced with a dull throb. Already the bridge of his nose had swollen. He was warned to expect a pair of impressive black eyes.

  Clutching his x-ray chit in one hand and sodden tea-towel full of melting ice in the other he went in search of DS Wilkie. It was the lure of a chance to speak with Wilkie before the representatives from Kent Police Professional Standards Department got to him that Romney saw as a silver-foil lining to his injury.

  Wilkie was propped up in bed watching a television with a terrible reception. He looked awful. His face was blotchy, cut and bruised. A swathe of white bandaging encircled his head. His natural colour, which could never be described as healthy, was now a pallid yellow. But it was his eyes which truly gave away his state of anxiety. Dark hollows of worry. Romney almost felt sorry for him.

  They appraised each others’ injuries.

  The DI pulled up a chair and gratefully sat. ‘How are you feeling?’

  With his missing teeth and a wired jaw Romney had to listen hard for Wilkie’s distorted and hushed reply. ‘Sore, sir, but what happened to you?’

  ‘One of those doors that opens inwards when you least expect it.’ Romney wanted to get on with it. The man before him had lost all his professional respect and credibility. His company was not something he could tolerate for long anymore. ‘I take it you haven’t had a visit from Professional Standards yet?’

  Beneath his injuries Wilkie appeared surprised by the question. ‘Why would they be coming to see me?’

  Romney just managed to stifle a groan as he realised the position he’d stumbled blindly into. ‘How long have you been awake?’

  ‘About an hour. To be honest I’m still a bit groggy with the painkillers. But I’m bloody glad to see someone. I haven’t been able to get anything out of anyone around here. What happened last night?’

  Romney would reflect that the following thirty minutes were among the most difficult of his career, but absolutely necessary for the good of his department, the station and ultimately the force. He began by informing Wilkie that he was to be investigated for causing the death of a member of the public – something the man had no idea about. Romney barely gave this time to sink in before dropping his second bombshell. Instead of telling Wilkie to expect declarations of support from his senior officers, he told him why – rather than fighting to clear his name – Wilkie was going to fully cooperate with the authorities and plead diminished responsibility as a result of a nervous breakdown owing to pressures of work and his private life. It would mean the end of his career in the police force, but it was over anyway and now all he could do was to try to salvage something from it. Romney wouldn’t begrudge his family that.

  While Wilkie reeled in silence at the news and the disintegration of his world, Romney assured him that, by agreeing to this and playing his part convincingly, he stood a good chance of avoiding prison and receiving a decent disability pension that would start as soon as he was discharged. To persuade Wilkie it was in his best interests to choose this path, Romney then provided him with an alternative view of his future, one which included prosecution, probable gaol time for manslaughter and dismissal from the force with no pension. He laid it on with a trowel.

  When Wilkie asked why Romney was doing this to him the DI told him that even if his actions of the previous night hadn’t been enough to make him an unwanted liability then aspects of his misconduct which had come to light concerning his jealousy of a fellow officer would have seen Romney push to have him thrown out on his ear. If Wilkie played along then those aspects would remain buried. Romney said he would do that for his family. Romney made it clear that, if he refused, some pretty damning evidence would find its way on to Superintendent Falkner’s desk and then Wilkie could kiss any chance of a sympathetic settlement goodbye.

  With his piece said, Romney rose to leave and get his nose sorted. In case Wilkie remained in any doubt about his senior officer’s feelings, Romney said, ‘The job is hard enough when we’re up against the scum of society and their lawyers. From colleagues, officers should only ever expect support and assistance. If officers have to watch their backs in their own office, what’s going to happen when the moment arrives on the street that they have to rely for their life on an officer who’s got it in for them?’

  *

  To his irritation, Romney attracted plenty of attention back at the station. A strip of tape that held the fracture of broken bone together and wads of cotton wool rammed up each nostril was clearly something that people found interesting – amusing probably when his back was turned. It was inevitable, given his rank, that the details of the kebab shop incident would have spread through the station corridors like the summer stench of a faulty drain with a breeze behind it. He didn’t expect people to be falling over themselves to commiserate with him.

  Ignoring the lingering looks, he focussed on making the sanctuary of his office. His nose had been painfully reset under an anaesthetic that was, in his opinion, barely fit for purpose and it was wearing off fast. The bruising would be extensive and last for days. He’d be fielding questions, accepting varying levels of sympathy and comment and repeating himself as long as it remained obvious. On top of this, he’d finished a man’s career. He was not in the best of moods.

  Marsh stood by her desk, phone to her ear. She followed Romney’s progress towards her. As he neared, her face broke into a wide smile. She thanked the caller and replaced the receiver.

  Sounding like he had a bad cold and might bite, Romney said, ‘Something funny?’

  ‘No, sir. Some good news though.’

  ‘Really? I could do with some. You do mean work don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was still smiling, and she hadn’t passed comment about his nose. It must be good, thought Romney. ‘The can of drink the man Arda threw? I gave it to forensics. The prints match those taken off the can I brought back from Duncan Smart’s neighbour’s.’

  Appreciating her police work, Romney said, ‘Well done. That’ll be enough for a search warrant for his home. Where is he now?’

  ‘Downstairs. Nothing broken, apparently, so the hospital said we could have him.’

  ‘Good. Let him sweat for a bit longer. I need to have a word upstairs.’

  ‘I want to go and see Dorothy Mann. I sent her mother home when we got back. I’m sure she’d have called her daughter by now. And she would have seen us raid the kebab shop and take her boyfriend away. She’ll be simmering nicely, just about done.’

  Romney gave Marsh an openly appraising look. ‘DS Marsh, you have a mean streak. You know that? Take Grimes with you. If I see him, I’m liable to be unprofessional.’

  ‘How is it?’ she said.

  ‘How do you think?’

  In the privacy of his office, Romney risked extracting the cotton wool. He rang up to Falkner’s office asking for an audience and was told to go up.

  Falkner was alone. He stood at the window of his office which overlooked the street looking pensive and under strain. As Romney entered, Falkner pushed aside his own concerns to sympathise with his subordinate. They discussed the events of the kebab shop and Romney’s injury, as they had to, but Falkner clearly had more pressing matters on his mind.

  They sat and Romney go
t to the reason for his visit. ‘While I was at the hospital I took the opportunity of speaking to Wilkie.’

  ‘Was that wise?’ said Falkner. ‘They told us to stay away from him.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be telling them.’

  Romney had toyed with the idea of presenting Falkner with Marsh’s damning audio recording but in the end decided against it. He hoped they could achieve what Falkner had suggested the previous evening without dragging Marsh into it. She had shown herself to be a loyal officer and was shaping up to be a good one. Romney had no desire to rope her into what was going on – to tar her with the brush of failure.

  Romney outlined what he had suggested to Wilkie, omitting the business with Marsh and the threats he had made. He told Falkner that after speaking to Wilkie, he understood the man recognised he had been under enormous pressure in his home and professional life – Romney skated around the term nervous breakdown, but it was strongly implied and inferred – and that if the service could be encouraged to treat him sympathetically, he would cooperate with the internal affairs investigation to the extent that he would do anything that they said.

  This seemed good news indeed to Falkner. If he harboured suspicions regarding how satisfactorily things were shaping up to turn out he didn’t voice them, although he was too long in the tooth to believe it had been that simple and neat. The same experience kept him from pressing Romney for greater detail regarding his coup. Besides, what he didn’t know remained deniable and couldn’t come back to bite him. Now all he had to do was sell it to Professional Standards.

  As Romney was leaving, Falkner said, ‘What made you change your mind about him? You didn’t seem that keen last night.’

  ‘I told you, sir. I just needed to speak with him first.’

  As Romney shut the door after him, Falkner was left wondering what could have passed between the men to have brought about such a change over his DI.

  *

  ‘Hello again, Dorothy,’ said Marsh, as she and Grimes approached the counter of the shoe-shop.

  The woman who had displayed a distinct defensive arrogance, both in person and on the phone, now stared anxiously at them. Trying to inject some confidence into her tone she said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A chat,’ said Marsh.

  ‘You’d better come through to the back then.’

  ‘Not this time, Dorothy. I’m afraid we’ve gone beyond that. No doubt you’ve spoken to your mother and you must have seen us arrest your boyfriend earlier. You could be in a lot of trouble. Being an accomplice to a murder is a very serious business. You’re coming to the station. Collect your things.’ Marsh’s calculated tough approach appeared to have the desired effect on the bottle-blonde. The colour drained from her ruddy cheeks and she brought a hand up to her throat. Marsh turned the screw. ‘Do we need to use these?’ she said, dangling her handcuffs in front of her.

  Dorothy Mann shook her head, unable to speak as tears filled her eyes.

  Marsh had briefed Grimes on the way to the shoe-shop that she had no intention of arresting or charging Dorothy Mann with anything so he was just to play along, preferably dumbly, and not derail or undermine her performance. Grimes seemed a little hurt by the suggestion that he would have.

  Once they were in the car, Grimes drove as instructed, slowly and the long way, back to the station. Marsh attempted to turn the screw tighter still in the few minutes they had and kept her fingers crossed that Grimes would obey her instructions and shut up.

  Marsh swivelled around in the front seat to get in the face of Dorothy Mann. ‘We know that Arda was at your ex-husband’s home around the time he was murdered,’ she said. ‘We have a witness and he very carelessly left his finger prints for us to find. We’ll be throwing the book at him. I have to say Dorothy, he has mentioned your name several times already.’ This was the first outright lie Marsh had told. ‘Personally, I’m very disappointed you weren’t honest with me when you had the chance. That will look bad for you in my report. It’ll look like you’ve got something to hide. My governor thinks it too. Mind you, he’s desperate to top the county rankings for arrests this month, so he was glad to hear that we were bringing in someone who might turn out to be an accomplice to a murder. The more the merrier, he says.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about it,’ blurted Dorothy Mann, wringing her hands.

  Marsh looked out of the window distractedly and pushed her luck ‘You might as well save it for your defence lawyer, Dorothy.’

  ‘I swear on my mum’s life. I had no idea he might hurt Duncan. He was so bloody jealous of him. You have to believe me. He’s a psychopath. I’m terrified of him.’

  Marsh did her best to sound sceptical. ‘Is that why you told him where Duncan lived? Because you were afraid of him?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him, he found it on my divorce correspondence.’

  Bingo. Marsh turned back to the woman and leaning over so that the top pocket of her jacket was as close as she could get it to Dorothy Mann’s mouth said, ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Arda got Duncan’s address from my divorce papers. I thought he was just going to speak to him, frighten him a bit into giving me more money after our divorce. I had no idea he was going to kill him.’

  Marsh could have kissed her. ‘But you knew in the end that he had?’

  The woman was crying now. She wouldn’t be a lot more use, but she did have one thing left to do. ‘No. When I found out Duncan had been killed I asked Arda if it was him. He said it was nothing to do with him. But I didn’t believe him. He was different. He told me to forget it and never to talk about it again.’

  *

  Marsh checked which holding cell Arda was being kept in. She didn’t want to make a mistake. With a light grip on Dorothy Mann’s elbow they followed the custody officer down the narrow corridor of iron-fronted rooms. Dorothy Mann was trembling and snivelling loudly believing this was her final destination.

  The uniformed sergeant unlocked number six and opened the heavy door wide. Marsh ushered the woman forwards and then noticed the small windowless room was occupied by a dark-skinned man with bandaging across the bridge of his nose. She gave them both long enough to register each others’ presence before pulling Dorothy Mann backwards. The door was shut quickly and locked again.

  ‘Ooops,’ said Marsh. ‘Sorry, Dorothy. Wrong one.’ Now that Mann had served her final purpose, Marsh said, ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t we go straight upstairs to an interview room. I’ll take your statement now and you can get off home.’ Marsh led the disorientated and distressed woman back down the corridor. Thanking the sergeant with a wink, she led Dorothy Mann away to incriminate her boyfriend in print.

  *

  Romney was back in his office when Marsh returned from seeing Dorothy Mann off the premises. She appraised him of her progress. Romney listened as he looked through Dorothy Mann’s statement.

  When she had finished, he said, ‘It seems you were right about Emerson’s and Smart’s deaths being unrelated. I suppose sometimes it doesn’t pay to think logically.’

  ‘Oh, I thought logically, sir. My logic was just different to yours, that’s all. With no clear motive for Smart’s murder, no burglary, nothing missing, I thought I’d explore domestic violence as a possibility. It might not be Christmas, but domestic violence still accounts for the lion’s share of sudden deaths. This just turned out to be domestic violence by proxy. I think she must have stirred him up good and proper and his Mediterranean macho temperament couldn’t cope with it, but we’ll never be able to prove that.’

  ‘What now then, Sergeant?’

  ‘I hoped we could interview Arda together, catch him while he’s still reeling from everything. He knows that Dorothy Mann has been in to help us with our enquiries. He must be shitting himself.’

  ‘How does he know?’

  ‘I accidentally walked her into his cell.’

  Romney snorted out a laugh and was then forced to clutch at his nose with the pain that fo
llowed.

  Like a complicated play script Marsh sketched out her ideas for interviewing Arda. Romney approved, accepted the minor role he’d been cast in and admired her thinking, particularly its devious nature. When the court appointed solicitor arrived the carefully choreographed performance could begin.

  Arda was taken from his cell in handcuffs by the biggest, meanest looking uniform on duty, who was instructed to leave his naturally friendly nature in the locker room. Marsh joined Arda and the constable. Romney was delaying the solicitor with small talk.

  Marsh put Dorothy Mann’s statement on the table between her and the prisoner. Next to it she put her digital recording device. She folded her arms, rested her elbows on the table and began. ‘How’s your English, Arda?’

  ‘I understand what I need to.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Good because you need to understand what I’m going to say to you. You must know you’re in a great deal of trouble. Premeditated murder, assaulting a police officer – by the way, do you know: the higher the rank of the officer the longer the sentence for assault. What is it for a detective inspector?’ she said to the constable.

  He made a face that suggested thought and said, ‘I’d have to look it up. We haven’t had an assault on anyone above sergeant for a long time.’ His delivery was convincing, if a little wooden, but Marsh hadn’t had time for auditions.

  ‘I never killed anyone and I never meant to hit him with the drink. It was accident. You can’t prove anything.’

  A challenge, thought Marsh. She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Have it your way, Arda. They’ll be here any minute. We can discuss it then with the tape on. You know that when the tape starts it’s legally court admissible evidence. Be careful what you say when that’s running.’ She looked at her watch again and waited a full minute before turning to the constable and saying, as rehearsed, ‘Could you find out where they’ve got to, please?’ He nodded and left them alone. ‘Sadly, this isn’t admissible in court,’ Marsh said, as the door closed, ‘but you might as well hear it anyway. It seems a shame to waste it.’ She pushed the play button of her digital recorder.