Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3)

by Oliver Tidy

  The door was opened by a harassed looking woman looking no older than thirty. A young child’s screaming carried down the stairs to raise the hair at the nape of Romney’s neck. He and Marsh held up their warrant cards but with two uniformed officers behind them it was an unnecessary gesture.

  ‘Is this the home of James Andrews?’ said Romney.

  ‘Yeah, he’s my husband.’ She looked suddenly frightened. The screaming continued. ‘He’s all right isn’t he?’

  ‘We have no reason to think otherwise, Mrs Andrews. He’s not here then?’

  ‘No. He’s at work.’

  ‘And where is that?’

  ‘Fit-Fast. The tyre place up at Pike Road Industrial Estate.’ And then her eyes widened and she said, ‘Has he done something?’

  ‘We just need to speak to him.’

  She turned and shouted up the stairs. The noise stopped. It was a general relief. ‘About what?’

  ‘Do you know where your husband was yesterday, Mrs Andrews?’ said Romney.

  She let her face assume something like disappointment. ‘Playing silly buggers up at the castle. I told him he’d get in trouble for it. That stupid pratt. I told him.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘It was bloody obvious. If he was going up there to make trouble, gatecrash it, then he was going to get found out. Idiot.’

  ‘Why do you say, ‘make trouble’? What did your husband tell you he was planning?’

  The screaming started up again.

  ‘I’ll have to go to her,’ she said.

  ‘He hired some period uniforms,’ said Romney. ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘No idea,’ she said and began to close the door on them.

  Romney put his foot in it. ‘Mrs Andrews, we have a warrant to search the house. We need those uniforms and we need them now.’

  ‘I told you. I don’t know where they are.’ She seemed a little scared now.

  ‘Then we’re coming in to look for them.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Wipe your feet won’t you?’ She let go of the door and started up the stairs to her child.

  Romney turned to Marsh. ‘You’re the only female here. You’ll have to stay and execute the warrant. Keep these two.’ He jerked a thumb at the uniforms waiting patiently behind them. ‘I’ll take the others and go get him. See you back at the station. And don’t let her call her husband. In fact, you’d better get up there now in case she’s doing just that. And let me know the moment you find anything interesting.’

  *

  The arrival of the police cars on the industrial estate generated some interest from those either working or smoking outside. Several pairs of eyes followed them as they crawled down the concrete apron backed on either side by an eclectic mix of businesses housed in the similar industrial units to where Fit-Fast had their operation.

  A man in an oily boiler suit that bore the company logo was tinkering under the bonnet of a van out front. He stood up and watched the police get out of their cars and approach. Romney noticed the poppers straining to contain his stomach, and the big spanner in his grip.

  ‘Afternoon gents. Tyres or exhaust?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Neither, today, but if you’re interested in offering the police a good discount, I can let people know at the station,’ said Romney. ‘I’m looking for James Andrews. He works here I think.’

  The man’s friendly features collapsed into concerned. ‘He’s inside. I’ll get him. Nothing serious, I hope? I’m the manager and owner, by the way. Bill Gaunt.’

  Romney nodded at the man. Shaking hands was out of the question. ‘Remains to be seen, Mr Gaunt. Appreciate it if you give him a shout for me.’

  He did. James Andrews slouched out in similar soiled attire. He was tall and thin. He looked from the police to his boss and then back to the police.

  ‘James Andrews?’ said Romney.

  He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We need to have a chat about yesterday.’

  The mechanic scrunched up his face and said with an air of resignation, ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘What’s he been up to?’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Can’t discuss it with you, Mr Gaunt, but James here is going to have to come with us.’

  Andrews looked immediately reconciled to it. There was no argument from him. ‘Can I clean up first?’ He held his oily hands up for inspection.

  ‘All right. A constable will come with you. Where are the uniforms from yesterday, James?’

  ‘Micky’s got them.’

  ‘Who’s Mickey?’

  ‘Mickey Price. One of the others.’

  ‘And where is Mickey?

  ‘Work, I suppose. He’s a courier driver for DHM. He said he’d drop them back off for us.’

  Romney sighed heavily. ‘Hurry up then.’

  While they were waiting for the mechanic to return, Gaunt said, ‘He’s a good lad. I hope he hasn’t gone and done something stupid.’

  ‘Like I said, Mr Gaunt. That remains to be seen. He wasn’t at work yesterday?’

  ‘No. Day off.’

  ‘Say where he was?’

  Gaunt shook his head. ‘Not to me. Look, Sergeant...’

  ‘Inspector. Detective Inspector Romney.’

  ‘Christ, if they’re sending out an Inspector to feel his collar it must be serious. Look, Inspector, I’ve got a business to run here. I don’t want to be employing people whose outside activities could affect my livelihood. You see what I’m saying?’

  ‘I do, Mr Gaunt. But, like I said, I can’t discuss it here and now.’

  A pensive looking Andrews and the constable returned.

  Gaunt said, ‘If you’ve done something bad son, you know what it’ll mean for you here, don’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t boss. Honest.’ The impact of what was happening and the possible ramifications were clearly dawning on the young man.

  When they were in the car Romney turned to face Andrews with a grimace at the discomfort the sudden movement brought him and said, ‘We’ve been to your home this morning. You’ve got a kid and a mortgage, right?’ Andrews nodded. ‘So you need this job?’ More nodding and a lightening of colour. ‘Then the best thing you can do now is to co-operate. Understand me? You’re not under arrest. Yet. You are helping the police with their enquiries. Do I make myself clear? It looks better for you that way. You’d do well to remind yourself of it regularly, especially when I start asking you questions about yesterday. Got it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. That way, if you really have done nothing wrong, I can have a word with your boss that it was all a big mistake. You keep your job. Sound fair?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Romney liked the way things were going. If only everyone who had to help the police with their enquiries had such leverage to scare them into cooperation. ‘There were five of you, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  A thought occurred to Romney. ‘Any of them work up here?’

  Andrews drew a deep breath. ‘Yes. Colin. Colin Mattock. He works at the double-glazing place over there.’ Andrews pointed across the way.

  ‘Any of the others?’

  ‘No. Just him.’

  ‘Right then. Let’s go and get him too, shall we?’ said a satisfied sounding Romney to his uniformed driver.

  *

  Having been advised of developments, Marsh was already back at the station by the time Romney returned with his pair of young suspects. He left them to be signed in, locked up and to stew while he organised the rounding up of the other three. James Andrews had proved most co-operative so far. He had given up the names of his confederates without further coercion and even added where they could all be found. Romney was thinking of going in search of lunch when he was called to a phone.

  ‘Inspector, it’s Gordon Glazier from Everything Army.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Glazier?’

  ‘It’s more what I can do for the police, Inspector,’ said Glazier. ‘Those uniforms we
were discussing this morning. They’ve just been dropped off.’

  *

  Grimes was back at his desk.

  ‘How did it go at the hospital?’ said Romney.

  ‘Routine, gov.’

  ‘Only they said downstairs you had insisted on being the one to go and interview the victim. Not like you – insisting you be allowed to do some work. Something I should know?’

  Grimes looked a little affronted, which Romney took to be an indication of his guilt. ‘I offered, gov, that’s all.’ Romney raised his eyebrows and waited for the rest. ‘The victim was someone on the radio the other day. A local celebrity.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Edy Vitriol. He’s just written a book that’s proving a bit controversial. He was on the radio.’

  ‘So you said. Written a book about what?’ As a book lover, Romney was suddenly more than half-interested.

  ‘Women as prostitutes.’

  ‘Is there any other kind?’ said Romney, a little too quickly and a little too loudly.

  ‘Sorry, gov?’

  ‘Never mind. What happened to him, then?’

  ‘Answered his front door last night and was stabbed.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the doorstep, gov. I just said.’

  ‘No. Where was he stabbed in his body?’ Grimes was proving particularly hard work.

  ‘Oh. Stomach. He was very lucky, apparently. An inch either way and it could have proved fatal.’

  ‘Did he know his assailant?’

  Grimes shook his head. ‘Nothing at all, gov. Said it was too dark. He couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman.’

  Romney lost interest. He had enough to concern himself with. ‘Got a job for you.’

  With Grimes on his way to collect the uniforms, Romney went in search of a late lunch.

  ***

  6

  ‘All present and correct, sir,’ said Marsh. She stood in Romney’s office doorway clutching a couple of files to her chest. It was early evening and she was glad she had nothing planned for the night because she felt sure she was going to be here a while yet. It had taken a few hours to round them all up. While James Andrews and Colin Mattock had been conveniently located and available, Mickey Price – the courier – had been half-way to Hereford by the time his work had got hold of him and told him to turn round and head back; Gavin Ireland had been on the outward leg of a cross-channel ferry journey in his capacity as bar-steward and Jez Ray – unemployed – had just been out.

  Romney was sitting feeling moderately pleased with himself, despite the delay, and refusing to consider, for the time being at least, that one of the five young men locked up downstairs was not responsible for the death of the Frenchman. The alternative just didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Good. Come in. Sit down.’ Marsh settled herself. ‘Grimes dropped the uniforms off at forensics. With any luck they might provide us with the physical evidence we need that one of this lot has blood on his hands. But which one? If we confront them all and they all deny it things might start getting difficult for us.’

  ‘What are you thinking, sir?’

  ‘Well, there are five of them and five uniforms all the same. If they’ve all been stuffed in a bag together then even if we do get one covered in French claret, how’re we going to categorically tie it to one of our suspects? Any half-decent legal counsel will argue that because they’ve been rubbing up against each other, incriminating hairs and fibres could have contaminated one from another and so they’ll all have a get out of gaol card. Nothing conclusive, or beyond reasonable doubt on an individual level. With the CPS the way it is these days – tighter than a sheep’s arse down at Hugo Crawford’s farm – it would never even get to court. I suppose then we’d have to consider a charge of Joint Enterprise, although, I really don’t want to even think about that bureaucratic headache at the moment.’

  Although the farm analogy didn’t sit well with Marsh, she had to agree. ‘True. So we need to find a motive. Or perhaps one of them will just own up to it.’

  Romney gave her a dubious look. ‘And perhaps Grimes will return to us this evening with an armful of recovered celluloid.’

  ‘You’ve set Grimes on the missing film, sir?’ said Marsh, not making much of a fist of concealing her incredulity.

  ‘Had to. Crayfish minor rattles his uncle’s cage; the CC lights a fire under our dear leader and he, in turn, pesters me to make it a priority. But I can’t personally, of course, because I have to prioritise and last time I looked murder still comes above simple theft.’

  ‘So you set Grimes on it?’

  ‘You’re repeating yourself, Sergeant,’ said Romney, but there was a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. ‘Like I said, I had to.’ He spread his hands in front of him in a Faginesque gesture. ‘I had no choice. I had to assure the super that as you and I were tied up, I was committing my best and most experienced officer to it. I’ve given him Detective Constable Spicer.’

  Laurel and Hardy is how Grimes and Spicer had been tagged by the station wit whenever they worked together. It had caught on. It wasn’t only a reference to their contrasting physical appearances. Mostly it was a reflection of their combined ineffectiveness as investigating police officers.

  Was Romney trying not to laugh at his joke, at his cleverness? thought Marsh. She could understand why he might find it funny – with his grudge against the director – but it would probably end in tears. Unleashing Grimes and Spicer on Hugo Crawford and the case of the missing film promised as much success as asking the Hollywood legends to move a piano.

  ‘I could have done it, sir. I am more senior to Detective Constable Grimes.’

  ‘I know you are, Sergeant,’ said Romney, mustering some earnestness, ‘but as I said, we are investigating a murder and that takes precedence. I need you.’

  Marsh sat there unconvinced, once again, of her senior officer’s motives. In fact, she would have bet money that he was blatantly seeking to further upset Hugo Crawford. But there was nothing that she could do about it except disapprove and even that, she knew, she’d better keep to herself.

  ‘Anyway, if our interviews go smoothly we should be able to charge someone with the death of the soldier and then we can get back to the castle and renew old acquaintances. Which brings us back to our suspects. I take it none of them know exactly why we have brought them in?’

  ‘If one of them is responsible for the Frenchman’s death, he probably does, sir.’

  ‘Fair point. Are they all here voluntarily, or did we actually have to arrest any of them?’

  ‘All here in the spirit of community helpfulness, sir.’

  ‘You didn’t have to arrest any of them?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Romney looked disappointed. ‘That’s a shame. Might have been a useful indicator if one of them had been dragged in kicking and screaming. So we’ll have to be at our most cunning and observant, Sergeant, when we start questioning them individually. Unless of course one of them breaks down and confesses.’

  ‘Or they are all innocent and it was someone else.’

  ‘Don’t even go there.’

  ‘Anyway, no suggestion of an admission of guilt so far.’

  ‘No. I’m sure there isn’t.’ Romney was back to his professional self again. His little episode of levity behind him. ‘Any previous for any of them?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marsh opened one of the files on her lap. ‘Jez Ray, TDA as a minor. Nothing since reaching the age of consent. And James Andrews cautioned for possession as an adult.’

  ‘Really? I wonder if his boss knows. Might give us some extra leverage with him. Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Romney leant back in his chair and chewed his pen. The way the cheap biro cracked under his gnashing gave Marsh to believe that one day he was going to ruin a shirt. ‘Neither Andrews nor Mattock gave me the impression their consciences were burdened with murder when we picked them up. Mind you they weren’t
exactly full of beans either. What about the others?’

  ‘Price and Ireland were just unhappy. Jez Ray was drunk.’

  ‘He’s the unemployed one, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure that the tax-payer would be comforted to know that he’s pissing his hard-earned benefit money up the wall. We’d better get down to them. Make a start with Andrews shall we? He hired the uniforms, after all.’

  Romney stood and Marsh said, ‘Any luck with your memory, sir. Any of the names mean anything to you?’

  ‘Bugger all. I’m hoping that a face will ring a bell.’

  *

  James Andrews was led into the interview room looking as much angry as guilty. ‘Five hours I’ve been waiting to “help the police with their enquiries”,’ he said.

  Romney wasn’t in the mood for any nonsense. ‘Would you rather we arrested and formally charged you? Under the terms of your caution for possession that might prove difficult for you.’ It wouldn’t because it couldn’t, but Romney was only interested in confusing and subduing the man quickly. ‘Mr Gaunt know about that, does he? Strikes me as the sort of employer not to have taken anyone on with a criminal record. Did you tell him?’

  Andrews scowled. ‘What do you think? I haven’t got a criminal record anyway. It was a caution.’

  ‘It was a criminal offence and it’s on record,’ said Romney, tapping the file. Andrews blew out his cheeks and said nothing more. ‘Now, just to be clear,’ continued Romney, ‘you’ve not been charged with anything yet.’ The only thing the police would be able to charge any of them with at present would be murder or manslaughter because no complaint for their gate-crashing of the event, or what they got up to when they were on the battlefield, had been officially made. This was probably because those in a position to lodge such complaints were not aware yet that they had been infiltrated by a gang of thugs bent on violence. It would be another card that Romney would keep up his sleeve to bargain with should the opportunity or necessity arise. ‘We’ll be recording throughout, however, in case our questioning needs to be referred to because of charges we might yet bring. Is that clear?’ Andrews nodded. ‘Good.’