Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3)

by Oliver Tidy

  Romney shook his head. ‘Well this is a rarity in my experience. We now have two independent murders to investigate with potentially huge numbers of suspects. It could have been anyone of a couple of hundred men playing soldiers who did for the Frenchman and this Edy Vitriol could have been killed by any woman with any dignity for her sex in the Dover area.’

  ‘Actually, that might not be such a big number after all,’ said Grimes.

  ‘The joys of live radio,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Apparently, it’s what gives the show its appeal and its high ratings,’ said Grimes. ‘The wife never misses it. Did you hear about the day they had that neo-Nazi, the Holocaust survivor and the transvestite on together?’

  ‘I think that must have been before my time,’ said Marsh. ‘Was it good?’

  ‘We were called.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘I shit you not, Sarge.’

  ‘What does that actually mean?’

  ‘Never mind that, now,’ said Romney. ‘You heard what he said. He was threatening to expose six unwitting local women who he’d bought sex from. If you ask me, that could be a strong motive for murder. And the first attempt on his life was the day after he was on the radio.’

  ‘Not to mention the fact that most women don’t like being duped into having sex under false pretences and then being publicly unveiled as a prostitute in some twisted man’s thinking,’ said Marsh.

  ‘He’s got a point though, Sarge,’ said Grimes. ‘I mean, he seems to understand women pretty well, if you ask me.’

  Marsh directed a cold stare at the man. ‘Knowing you, I can understand that might be your experience of obtaining sex, Detective Constable Grimes. Please, take it from me that it is not the norm.’

  ‘All right, you two. That’ll do. It’s not our job to make moral judgements. We need to be strictly objective and professional.’ Romney caught Marsh staring at him with what he interpreted as utter astonishment. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he said. She just shook her head. ‘The only things that should concern us are that he’s been murdered and we need suspects. This tape might provide a good few leads. Hell hath no fury and all that. First job is to find out their identities and then we can start talking to them. Sergeant Marsh, start on his laptop. Devote your time to getting me names and contact details. Any questions?’ They shook their heads. ‘Good. I’m off to forensics. Apparently, Diane Hodge has got something for me.’

  When the DI had left the squad room, Grimes felt it was all right to call across to Spicer at the water cooler. ‘Has the governor only just realised, do you think?’ And they laughed.

  To Grimes, Marsh said, ‘Is it true that since it was discovered you were the last person to talk to Edy Vitriol, they’re reconsidering the possibility it was suicide? And what’s all this about the DI feeding you chocolate in the morning?’

  ‘Before I tell you about that, has anyone else noticed that little cushion on the governor’s chair?’

  ***

  9

  ‘There you are, Inspector. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me.’ “Me”, Romney noted, not the pursuit of forensic evidence in a murder investigation.

  Diane Hodge got better looking every time Romney saw her. She seemed to have lost some weight and she’d definitely done something different with her hair. Romney wondered whether he should comment on her improved appearance. Instead, smiling, he said, ‘I do hope that once again forensics is going to prove to be my favourite department in the fight against crime.’

  ‘If you’re asking did we find any forensic link between the dead man and the uniforms that we were given then, yes, we did. You might even have to buy me dinner one of these days.’ She accompanied this brazen ratcheting up of their banter with a raised eyebrow.

  Unable and unwilling to help himself, he said, ‘When work slows down a bit, I just might. What have you got?’ He had become aware of a slight change in his chemistry since walking into the room and finding her alone. A releasing of some substance into his system to fuddle his judgement. He recognised it immediately as potent, intoxicating, sexually motivated and therefore something to guard against. No good could possibly come of it.

  Maybe she saw something of this awareness in his eyes. Flirting over, she said, ‘There is a definite blood match between the dead man and a sample of blood we removed from one of the uniforms. And it is only one of the uniforms that has his blood on it. There was other blood, incidentally, on other uniforms, but it didn’t come from the dead man. In fact there is a surprising array of residues present. Would you like me to find the list?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m only interested in blood today, not what they had for dinner.’ Romney breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that is good news. It just about eliminates several hundred suspects from that particular enquiry.’

  ‘And narrows it down to?’

  ‘Five. Is there much blood?’

  She led him over to where the uniform in question was hanging in its plastic covering and pointed at several places in the chest area. Romney stared hard but because of the colour of the fabric and the wrapping found it difficult to see anything.

  ‘Spattered, Inspector. A bit like a tomato bursting in front of you. I’ve removed some good hair samples too, so if you want to get me some from your five suspects I’ll be able to tell you who was wearing it.’

  ‘Will you though? I mean, if the uniforms have all come in lumped together – did they by the way?’

  ‘Couple of bin liners.’

  ‘Then I can see a lawyer claiming that any fibres on that uniform that might happen to match our suspects could easily have rubbed off from one of the others in transit.’

  ‘Yes. Of course, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking straight. Still, matches would be a start, would they not?’

  ‘Yes. Matches would be a start,’ he said, wondering why she wasn’t thinking straight.

  *

  Marsh was at her desk hunched over a laptop that Romney recognised.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m just going through his files now.’

  ‘More good news. Forensics have matched the dead man’s blood to one of the uniforms. Time for phase two, me thinks. Arrest warrants. I’ve been tolerant and patient with those young men. They’ve had their chance to cooperate. Time to make them realise that their fun is over.’ Romney looked up and saw a man sitting in his office. ‘Who the bloody hell’s that?’

  From her desk Marsh picked up and read off a calling card in her best French accent. ‘Capitaine Frederic Poisson of the Police Nationale.’

  ‘Oh, crap.’

  ‘We knew the French police were sending someone, sir.’

  ‘Great. Just sodding great. So whose bright idea was it to dump him in my office?’

  ‘The super brought him down ten minutes ago. I imagine because you’re in charge of the investigation, sir.’

  As Romney was wondering whether he might be able to slip out before he was seen the man in question chose to look up and over. Instinctively, Romney put up his hand and forcing a smile made his way across to greet him.

  ‘Captain Poisson,’ said Romney, offering his hand. ‘Detective Inspector Romney.’

  The Frenchman was polite enough not to correct Romney’s schoolboy attempt to pronounce his name. Poisson was small, compact, middle-aged, almost completely bald, dressed in a suit that fit where it touched and with a large wart just to the side of his big nose. He was, it occurred to Romney, about as far away from the dashing, handsome and perfectly tailored Gerard DuPont as it was possible to get and that probably explained why Marsh had been happy to let him endure his waiting alone.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you don’t mind me being in your office. It was your superintendent’s suggestion.’ His English was excellent with only a faint trace of his nationality, and behind his words Romney detected a simple honest man with none of Dupont’s obvious pretentions.

  ‘No
problem at all. Please, sit back down.’ Romney made himself as comfortable as he could. ‘Well, Captain...’

  ‘Please, Inspector, Frederic is fine. Let us not be so formal, if we are to work together, eh?’

  Romney nodded, although the working together bit bothered him. ‘Tom then. I must admit this is unknown territory for me. I’ve not worked with a member of a foreign police force before.’

  ‘Ah. They always seem to send me to England, Tom. This is my fourth visit to liaise with the British police.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The Met, East Sussex, Kent police, but up in the north – Gravesend. How appropriately named that place is. My god that was a miserable experience. No offence to your beautiful county.’

  ‘None taken. It can be a bit rough up there.’

  ‘Merde, but you can say that again. Do any English people still live there, or have they all been forced out by the hordes of invading races?’

  Romney wasn’t sure how to take that and so shrugged it off with a little laugh. ‘So, what exactly is your role supposed to be in all this?’

  ‘I would like to be involved in the investigation, help if you need it, but my essential obligation is to report back to my senior officer and the family, hopefully, with swift news of charges being brought.’

  ‘Sounds fair enough.’ But Romney’s discomfort with what was being foisted on him must have shown.

  ‘Look, Tom, I have enough experience in these matters, I think, to understand my presence might be viewed as something of a burden for you, but please, let me assure you I have no wish to be a problem. I do not intend to get in your way, interfere with your investigation or create a diplomatic incident. I am not wanting to be the third wheel, as I believe you call it. I just want to lend my assistance, keep a low profile and get back home soon.’ It was just about the best thing the man could have said to ingratiate himself, providing it wasn’t a pack of lies.

  ‘We’ve just had some very good forensic news,’ said Romney, making a decision, ‘and I’m about to go out and make some arrests. Why don’t you come with me and we can discuss everything on the way?’

  This seemed to please the Frenchman. ‘I have the dead man’s file with me, if you haven’t already seen it.’

  ‘He had a police record?’

  ‘No, what I mean is his personal information, something of his history and his life.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s important.’ Romney registered the look of astonishment on the Frenchman’s bland features. ‘Sorry, what I mean to say is, I don’t think his personal information is pertinent to our investigation. Of course, it’s important to him. Was. Is still to his family.’ Romney tried again. ‘We strongly suspect that the poor man was simply a random victim. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. His identity has nothing to do with his death.’

  This seemed to pacify the French policeman. ‘As you wish, Tom. It is here if you think that you might need it.’

  As Romney came abreast of Marsh’s desk, he said, ‘Anything yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think so.’

  ‘Keep at it then. Captain Poisson and I are going to go and round up our suspects and bring them back in. Under arrest. That’ll all take time, especially the organising of their legal help for interview. Your time will be better spent on this for now. Seen Grimes?’

  ‘Toilets, gov,’ said Spicer.’

  ‘Again? Can there be anything of him left? Right, you can come with me.’ And then to Marsh, ‘He’s probably just malingering, but if he ever comes out of there tell him to keep busy looking for the film.’

  *

  Three hours later the detention area of Dover police station had a bank-holiday bus station feel to it. Apart from Jez Ray, who was already in custody because Romney had arrested him, the four other young men involved in the fracas at the castle had also been rounded back up. Their four separate legal representatives had been summoned. Currently, they, along with Jez Ray’s solicitor were dotted about on seats waiting to see their clients, briefcases on their knees, looking for all the world like nervous job applicants awaiting interview.

  Romney surveyed the scene, the fruits of his busy afternoon’s labours, with satisfaction, the French captain at his side. At least, he thought, the Frenchman could see that the British were taking the death of a foreigner seriously.

  A message came to Romney through one of the constables on duty. Jez Ray would like to speak to him. The duty sergeant led Romney and the French captain along to the detention cells and unlocked Ray’s door.

  ‘You want to speak to me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ray looked sober and sobered up if a little pasty. His cockiness of earlier had been replaced by something more appropriate for the position he found himself in.

  ‘Don’t you want your solicitor present?’

  ‘I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Go on then, but hurry up, I’m a busy man.’

  ‘You’ve arrested my mates, yeah?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you must have some evidence, right?’

  ‘Yes. Good evidence. Blood samples found on one of the uniforms match the dead man’s.’

  Ray nodded solemnly taking this on board. ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘If none of you owns up to it and we can find no other evidence to weedle out a single culprit, I will have no alternative but to charge you all with Joint Enterprise.’

  Ray snapped his eyes up at Romney and his mouth fell open. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said: I will have no alternative but to charge you all with Joint Enterprise.’

  Ray’s mouth moved silently for a long moment before he finally found his voice. ‘What does that mean?’ he said and he was staring intently at Romney now as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Romney found the sudden change in the young man and the intensity of his attention unsettling. He said, ‘It means that you will all stand trial for the murder.’

  Jez Ray creased his face up. ‘I don’t believe it. That’s mental. Joint Enterprise. That’s what you said, right?’ Romney indicated it was. ‘What are the chances? Man, that’s fucking freaky.’ He was shaking his head in utter disbelief and staring away, seeing things that no one else could.

  Romney had had enough. ‘Is there anything else, Mr Ray, only, as I said, I’m a bit busy, as you can probably imagine?’

  Slowly, Jez Ray came back to his present. His head fell on to his chest and he breathed out once heavily. ‘Yes, there is, Inspector. I have a confession to make. I killed him.’

  *

  Now they were all sitting down in interview room one: Romney, Poisson, Jez Ray and his solicitor. Introductions had been made. Formalities had been observed. And the necessary technology was whirring away.

  ‘So, Mr Ray, what would you like to share regarding what happened on the thirteenth of this month at Dover castle?’

  Ray had spent a few minutes in private consultation with his legal aid and left him in no doubt about the course of action he wished to take. The solicitor had spoken with Romney regarding the charge that might finally be brought should his client commit his confession to tape and paper and with everyone apparently satisfied, the solicitor’s only task now was to sit and listen to his client spill his guts.

  ‘Like I said before, and I’m sure my mates have told you because it’s the truth, it was all supposed to be a bit of fun. Really, that’s all. It was an idea one of us had and I really don’t know whose it was originally. We were just going to gate-crash the battle scene kick some French arse and slip away.’ He made eye contact with Poisson. ‘None of it was personal. If they’d been Germans or Spanish or whoever we’d have been up for it. Fighting for our country.’ He broke off perhaps realising the stupidity of that remark. ‘We were just going to rough a few up because they wouldn’t be expecting it. It might sound sick to you lot but, really, the looks on their faces when we got among them. Anyway, we all had these dummy rifles and I’d kn
icked a bayonet off someone and shoved it on the end of mine. I was only trying to look more authentic. I’d had a few beers before we turned up. We all had. I wasn’t too steady on my feet and that field was all over the place, especially once the horses had churned it up. What I’m trying to say is: it was an accident. I was a bit drunk. I wasn’t really paying attention. I stumbled and when I looked up this bloke came charging at me from the other side. He just impaled himself on the bayonet. Honestly. It was a just a terrible accident. When I saw what had happened I panicked and just got as far away from it as quickly as I could. I didn’t know he was dead when I left him.’ He took his time before he began again and they waited for him. ‘I never told any of the lads. None of them have a clue about it. I’m sorry for what happened. I’m sorry for my mistake. I’m sorry for everything.’

  When it was clear Ray had finished, Romney said, ‘Why are you confessing to this now?’

  ‘Before, I thought if you didn’t have any evidence you might not be able to prove anything. I was scared. I don’t want to go to prison. But now I know you do have evidence I can’t let you drag my mates into it. I love those boys. They’re like brothers to me. They’re my family. They aren’t responsible in any way for what happened. I am.’

  ‘Where is the bayonet?’

  ‘I chucked it in the English Channel, off the docks.’

  *

  Romney and Poisson were drinking coffee on the pavement outside Romney’s favourite little eatery just around the corner from the station. Both were smoking. Romney had stopped buying cigarettes again, but was happy to accept one of Poisson’s Gauloise. He was celebrating the successful and unexpectedly quick conclusion to what could have been a difficult and time consuming investigation, given the numbers of people involved and lack of evidence and witnesses.

  ‘It was pure chance my sergeant and I were there in the first place and even more fortunate that we virtually ran into those five as they were leaving. If we hadn’t, then I’m sure we’d still be questioning the hundreds of bona-fide combatants looking in vain for our killer.’