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

by Oliver Tidy

  The front door too was thrown back in a welcoming gesture. Romney and Marsh showed themselves in. Romney was particularly pleased to see an expanse of cream coloured deep pile carpet stretching out ahead of them. He hurried towards it.

  The noise of voices encouraged them deeper into the mansion. They found the pathologist talking with a distinguished looking gentleman of senior years inside a room that suggested formal entertainment was its purpose.

  Maurice Wendell greeted them. ‘Good of you to arrive so quickly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Maurice.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce Doctor Evans. He is, was, the personal physician of Alex West.’

  The men shook hands as professionals.

  ‘I say, Inspector,’ said Evans, sniffing the air distastefully. ‘You seem to have brought something in on your shoe.’

  Romney looked down to see faint traces of excrement spoiling the carpet around his brogues.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Wendell. ‘That’s not going to make you very popular with the lady of the house.’ He was looking behind Romney at the dark stains in the carpet. They all turned to look.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Romney. ‘But I’m sure she has other far more distressing things on her mind right now.’

  ‘Her dead husband, of course,’ said Evans.

  ‘I was thinking more of her anxiety regarding whether we’d work out how she did it,’ said Romney.

  The comment stunned the little gathering into momentary hush. It was broken by Doctor Evans, unable to keep the amusement of Romney’s directness to himself, making a noise of strangled laughter. ‘You’ve met the widow then,’ he said.

  ‘We’re her alibi,’ said Romney. ‘She’s been down at the station most of the morning confessing to indulging in moonlit sex games on the golf course with a man who was later found with his head bashed in.’

  They were interrupted by the shouts of an angry female coming from the entrance hall. This was quickly followed by the source of them, Lillian West. As she burst into the room her features were twisted into what the company would later think back on as an expression of murderous intent. She looked down at their feet. ‘Inspector Romney, you have just trodden dog shit all the way across a very expensive carpet. Can’t you smell it?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, Mrs West, there is a bit of a pong in here. I thought it was damp.’

  ‘Kindly retrace your steps and wipe it off in the garden.’

  ‘How are you bearing up, Mrs West?’ said Romney, ignoring her request. ‘Must have been a terrible shock to have come home and found your husband had passed away.’

  She raised her chin at him and something in the look she bestowed on Romney gave him to understand that she knew he had ruined her carpet out of childish spite.

  ‘Were you the one who found your husband?’ he said.

  ‘No, Inspector, I was not. Our housekeeper found him while I was at the police station helping you with your enquiries.’

  ‘All the same an awful business for you. Please accept our condolences for your loss.’

  Marsh used a quiet cough to keep her hand pressed to her face. The stench in the heat of the airless room was making her feel physically sick.

  ‘You’re right, Mrs West, it is beginning to chuck up a bit isn’t it?’ said Romney, wrinkling his nose. ‘Gentlemen, shall we continue our conversation in the garden?’

  They dutifully trooped outside, carefully avoiding the shoe-prints that showed Romney’s progress through the building. Lillian West watched them go, but said nothing else, even when Romney made no attempt to detract from further spoiling the furnishings by walking a different line to the front door.

  Standing on the lawn well away from the house, Romney said, ‘So, Doctor Evans, any ideas?’

  ‘Inspector, while I understand your scepticism here, I must confine myself to the facts.’

  ‘That’s all I want,’ said Romney, smiling. ‘I’ll join up the dots.’

  ‘I’ve been Alex West’s doctor for a good many years. He was a very sick man. He spent time every day on both oxygen and dialysis machines. He was paying the price for the excessive life-style of his youth. He appears to have passed away quietly.’

  ‘How was he found?’

  ‘In bed hooked up to his oxygen machine. My guess would be, and I must stress that it’s only a guess, that the supply ran out and he suffocated.’

  ‘That shouldn’t happen, should it?’ said Romney, stating the obvious.

  ‘Certainly not. There are safety measures in place to prevent such awful possibilities. Inspector, if you’re thinking that Lillian West had something to do with her husband’s death, I should caution you that it will be very difficult to prove in this case.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If, and I must say again, if I am right about the cause of death then it could be attributed to a number of explanations. It could be that the oxygen bottle wasn’t changed and simply ran out – a simple mistake that could, and I stress could, have been made by any one of a number of people. It could be that the supply was not enough for the man – perhaps it had been interrupted or turned down. It could be argued that he did it himself either interfering with the dials deliberately or ignorantly.’

  ‘Did he ever talk about ending his own life?’

  ‘Never, to me.’

  ‘When can you do the autopsy, Maurice? We’d better find out the cause of death before we go looking for her hand in it.’ Romney treated them to a glimpse of his serious side. ‘Make no mistake, gentlemen, Lillian West is as innocent of her husband’s death as I am of spoiling her rug.’

  *

  As they drove back to the station, Romney said, ‘Still wondering about whether she was telling the truth this morning, Sergeant?’

  ‘I don’t think we should rule it out, sir.’

  Romney tutted. ‘And what about her husband’s death, should we give her the benefit of the doubt there too?’

  ‘No. I have no doubt she’s involved in that. At least you have confirmation of your suspicions regarding why she chose to come forward now. She’s used us. It suggests that she did know about the caveat in her husband’s will and that she was afraid that revelations of her infidelities would get out and he would act upon them. It’s a powerful motive. She is a good looking, relatively young woman still. I imagine she feels she’s put her time in with him and she’s earned her inheritance. She was just making sure of it before it slipped away from her.’

  ‘Well it’s good that we agree on something at last.’

  ‘Of course, it all has to be proven beyond reasonable doubt.’

  Romney smiled. ‘That’s what we’re paid for, isn’t it? We’re the detectives.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I hadn’t forgotten.’

  *

  Romney and Marsh bumped into Superintendent Falkner and the guests from area looking serious in the lobby of the station.

  Falkner said, ‘Another suspicious death, Tom?’

  ‘I think so, sir, but we’ll have to wait for the autopsy, of course.’

  ‘If it carries on like this there won’t be anyone left in Dover to police,’ said Falkner.

  ‘Must be the heat, sir. Still, I understand that it might rain soon.’

  ‘Jolly good. That ought to cure it. Well, don’t let me keep you.’

  Inspector and sergeant hurried away glad to create some distance between themselves and the inquisitors.

  The stale atmosphere in CID was not helped by the presence of DS Wilkie. While Marsh was able to ignore him Romney was not. A couple of officers were talking with him in a tight group. At Romney’s approach they drifted away.

  Despite still suffering from his injuries, Wilkie retained something of the arrogance he had exuded as a serving officer. He had also not forgotten the way Romney had washed his hands of him at the hospital. While it gave him an added coldness, he understood that with Romney still holding evidence of a grave unprofessional nature relating to his
actions – something that he could always reveal should he feel so moved – he would need to retain some sense of civility.

  ‘What are you doing here, Brian?’

  ‘Clearing my desk; I have some personal things to collect.’

  ‘Plans for the future?’

  ‘They’ve promised me a decent disability pension and I’ve got a brother-in-law in security who’s offered me a position. Good money too.’

  ‘Really, whereabouts?’

  ‘In the town – Samson Security. I’m sure we’ll be seeing something of each other from time to time.’

  ‘Well, good luck.’ Romney offered his hand. Wilkie met Romney’s eyes with that legendary piercing stare, held them and ignored the offer. Romney shrugged. ‘As you like, Brian.’

  Romney walked in to his office and shut the door. He called down to the desk sergeant. ‘DS Wilkie is about to leave the building. This will be his last visit. He is removing some personal items from his desk. He is not to leave the station with anything that belongs to the force is that clear? Not even a pencil. If he refuses to show you the contents of his box arrest him.’

  *

  ‘First things first, forensics have confirmed that the clubs found in Elliot Masters’ golf bag in the pro-shop are the ones involved in the beating of Phillip Emerson. It appears that a crude attempt had been made to clean them, probably in a water hazard. Pond water residue along with blood and other body matter that matched the victim was found. At least that is one thing that is clear in this mess.

  ‘DS Marsh wants us to bear in mind that Lillian West could be telling the truth about the night on the golf course and, of course, she could be. I might win the lottery this week. West Ham might surge up the divisions to win the Premier league. An Englishman might win Wimbledon. My personal opinion, which has only been reinforced by the death of her husband this morning, is that she battered Phillip Emerson to death in cold blood in a calculated display of malice-afore-thought and has come to us with her poor-me story as she realises we are closing in on her guilt.’

  Marsh shrugged the DI’s comments off. She was by now well used to her senior officer’s idea of humour, even when it wasn’t often something she shared.

  ‘What about Masters’ position?’ said Falkner.

  Romney gave Marsh the floor.

  ‘His widow is baffled by his apparent suicide. She is also adamant that he was with her the whole night Emerson was killed. She did tell me Emerson and her husband were planning a business venture together.’

  ‘Assuming it wasn’t Lillian West who killed Emerson and put the clubs in Masters’ office and it wasn’t Masters, who could it have possibly been?’ Falkner’s voicing of the question ensured it got treated respectfully.

  Romney blew out his cheeks. ‘There is only one other name that has been connected to this enquiry since the beginning, although not, I hasten to add, as a suspect: William Emerson, the son.’

  ‘Motive?’

  Romney scratched his head. ‘Nothing obvious. It’s more circumstantial. He doesn’t seem to have been particularly close to his father. He was here the day his body was discovered. I wouldn’t have described him as distraught. He knew of his father’s affair with Lillian West. He didn’t appear to disapprove. He knew about the golf clubs.’

  Falkner said, ‘You’re right: not much is it? If being distant from a parent and knowledge of their infidelities were motives for murder half the people in the country would be in prison and the other half dead. What about opportunity?’

  ‘He could have followed his father on the night he went to the golf club, although I don’t know why he would. If Lillian West had left Phillip Emerson unconscious, as she claims, the son could have stepped in and finished the job, but, again, there’s no obvious reason why he would. I remember he said he was at his girlfriend’s home the night his father was killed. We must follow that up now.’

  As the officers present drifted off at the end of the meeting, Falkner hung about to speak privately to Romney. ‘He’s been dead a week now, Tom.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘And you have nothing substantial to tie anyone to the murder.’

  ‘I have a strong feeling that she’s involved.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s not too strong a feeling?’

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘Could you be missing something because you’re not looking in the right places? I wouldn’t like to think you are allowing something personal to cloud your good judgement.’ Romney pursed his lips. ‘What about this business idea of Emerson and Masters? Might be worth turning that over a bit and see what crawls out.’

  ‘Marsh is going to follow that up tomorrow.’

  ’Good. I had a complaint about you today.’

  ‘Oh really? Who from?’

  ‘Lillian West.’

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘She claims you deliberately trod dog mess all over her house.’

  ‘She shouldn’t let her dog shit all over the driveway.’

  ‘She wants to send us the cleaning bill.’

  ‘Don’t pay it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I wondered if you’d like to.’

  Despite his mood, Romney actually laughed. ‘How about if she’s shown to be innocent of Phillip Emerson’s murder, I’ll go up there and scrub the carpets clean myself.’

  ‘I’ll suggest it to her. I hope she’ll be placated.’

  *

  Romney caught Marsh as she was leaving for the night. ‘When you spoke to Master’s wife was she clear it was only those two who were involved in the property development venture?’

  ‘She didn’t mention anyone else. Would you like me to call her?’

  ‘Yes. Ask her what she knows about it, where it is. Actually, if they had a plan up and running with finance in place then they probably had quite a bit of detail. See if she has it. Presumably she won’t be needing it anymore. Maybe she can let you borrow it.’

  ***

  17

  In response to Marsh’s request, Faye Masters left the folder detailing her late husband’s dreams at the station desk. The widow had been naturally curious to know what the police wanted with the information and Marsh had been forced to improvise a lie. She was not sorry to have missed the woman in person when she dropped it off en route to her solicitor and have to possibly elaborate on it face to face. With Romney out, Marsh got herself a coffee and took the dossier to her desk where she was rewarded with a history lesson, an example of the rewards to be reaped from property development and some information she felt sure her immediate boss would be very interested to hear.

  Emerson and Masters were petitioning the golf course to sell them a terrace of four cottages and accompanying paddock area. The block of property sat along the northern edge of the golf course. The cottages were originally built as accommodation for employees of the golf course. The provision of housing at a peppercorn rent enabled the golf course to pay the men who worked for them a minimal wage while ensuring that the overall package of accommodation and guaranteed labour and income on their doorstep would prove to be an attractive proposition to local unskilled men of the period.

  With the advent and availability of machinery that could do the work of several men in half the time, didn’t need paying and required no more accommodation than a secure shed the cottages came to lose their purpose. The golf course was able to reduce its work force, withdraw its facility of subsidised housing and, with the population growth of the area outstripping property development and availability, use the cottages to generate rental income which would go towards paying for the upkeep of the club.

  In recent years the cottages, exposed as they were to the elements on the high ground, began to succumb to the influence of nature and the absence of investment for maintenance. They were nearing a time when they would either require substantial investment, be abandoned to fall into disrepair and eventually fall down, or the club could benefit from the current upturn in the prop
erty market and apparent lack of available building ground and sell the land off for a decent sum which could be ploughed back into the club. Marsh had a good enough grasp of economics to gather from a study of the enclosed projected figures involved for each option that for the club the decision was a no-brainer. They would sell. They would have to.

  Emerson and Masters were making a significant six figure bid for the title to the land. Both must have been supremely confident in several equally important factors: their figures; the chances of their development proposals being favourably received by the council planning authorities; the property market and the potential of the land. Both men were offering to put their homes up for collateral as bank security. It was evident that Masters had already done so to cover his share of costs thus far incurred for solicitor’s legal fees, elaborate sets of drawings and planning submission fees. Even Marsh could see what a gamble was being taken. As far as she could tell many thousands had been spent so far and the men didn’t even own the land. Marsh wondered with a sinking feeling whether Faye Masters knew the extent of her husband’s current financial commitment; what he had already risked. With an ominous feeling, she doubted it.

  A look at their overall projected development costs and anticipated returns showed that both would have profited handsomely from a satisfactory outcome. But this would be little consolation to anyone now.

  Marsh closed the file believing she now understood why Masters may have taken his own life. With so much already spent and so much more committed to a project that was essentially as dead as his business partner the future would have looked unenviable and bleak for Elliot Masters, especially if his wife didn’t know the half of it. Marsh didn’t know his character well enough to judge whether the position had pushed him into suicide, but she did know that people had killed themselves for less. On closing the file, Marsh also wondered if she may, at last, have a legitimate suspect for the murder of Phillip Emerson.