by Oliver Tidy
‘As I said, we are exploring various possibilities. It’s our job to do so when we have reason to.’
‘What reason? What makes you think she was murdered? Murdered.’ She repeated the word almost as though she were talking to herself. ‘My daughter raped and then murdered.’
Helen Stamp seemed to be undergoing a physical transformation. Her gruff exterior was crumbling. Marsh thought that she caught a glimpse of a woman on the edge of imploding with grief.
‘I’m afraid that we can’t discuss details of the case,’ said Romney, ‘but I hope that you can see your way to understanding we are only interested in finding out the truth of what happened to your daughter. We believe that you are one of the last people to have seen her alive. You spent time with her on the day she fell to her death. Your unique relationship to her puts you in a position to help us determine her state of mind. Did she give you any indication that she might be intent on taking her own life?’
The woman sat still, numbed from the shock of what Romney had suggested.
‘Mrs Stamp?’
When next she spoke, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘No, she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. Do you think I would have left her if I’d thought anything like that? My own child? She might not have looked it but she was a strong girl up here.’ She tapped herself on the temple. To the officers’ surprise she began to talk. ‘She was clever, and she was strong. I admired her. We didn’t get on well. Not all mothers and daughters do, you know. But I loved her in my own way, and I respected her. The rape, it’s strange, I mean it’s such a personal and awful ordeal for a woman – she wouldn’t give me the details – but she dealt with it quickly. She wasn’t going to let whoever did that to her have her mind and her fears as well as her body.’
‘That’s the impression she gave me when I talked to her,’ said Marsh. ‘She was very brave about it.’ Sensing that she might have made an opening for herself, Marsh continued, and Romney let her. Perhaps the approach of woman-to-woman would encourage Helen Stamp to be more open with them. ‘I saw her after you’d left,’ said Marsh. ‘We bumped into each other and had a cup of tea together on the seafront. She told me she was going away – that she’d probably go and stay with her sister for a while. She didn’t strike me as someone who was planning on taking her own life. She said you left not long after we’d been to see her in the morning. Is that right?’
Mrs Stamp nodded. Her voice lost its roughness. ‘After I saw you leave I went back up there.’ She shot an accusatory look in Romney’s direction. ‘You could have told me he was back,’ she said. ‘I’d only met him once before, but it took me all of two minutes to work out he was trouble. What she saw in him I don’t know. Horrible little git. When I got up there they were having a row. He’d been drinking. He gave me a mouthful, and that was it. She knew where she could find me, if she needed me. I grabbed my bag and left. Came back here.’
Romney leaned forward to emphasise the importance of what he was about to say. ‘Did your daughter give you anything to look after for her? Anything at all? Just for safe-keeping?’
If Marsh didn’t have the experience to catch it, Romney did. He knew from the way her features tightened and her eyes slipped downwards that she was going to lie to him. She’d probably been practising the lie ever since she knew they were coming, and she still wasn’t nearly good enough.
‘No,’ she said, meeting his stare, daring him to question her honesty. ‘She didn’t give me anything. Like what anyway?’
‘We have no idea. It’s just one of those lines of enquiry we are following up. Not long after your daughter died the flat was completely ransacked. We’re pretty sure that whoever did it was looking for something. It’s possible your daughter had it and had hidden it away somewhere. If we’re right about that, we don’t think it was found. It is possible – and I stress it’s only a theory – that if she was murdered then such an artefact, if it exists, has something to do with her death.’
Romney shared this information with the woman hoping that if she had it she might see that in handing it over – whatever it was that he was now certain she had taken possession of – she might incriminate Avery in her daughter’s death. Romney didn’t think it could be anyone else. She might also be encouraged to see that holding on to it could endanger her. But the seeds of doubt he aimed to plant did not take. She once again grew tight-lipped and seemed to be recovering herself.
‘She gave me nothing,’ she said.
‘All the same,’ said Romney, ‘it’s possible that if our theory is accurate then there is a good chance someone not as friendly as us might follow the same train of thought we have and turn up here looking for it. You need to be mindful of that. I’ll leave my card in case you either remember anything or have any trouble. Don’t hesitate to get in touch, Mrs Stamp.’
Romney was suddenly impatient to be out of the woman’s home and out of her company. She disgusted him. He knew why she was hanging on to whatever it was she’d got her hands on. He found himself half hoping that she was paid a visit by Avery.
*
In the car Marsh said, ‘She was lying wasn’t she?’
‘You noticed? Good. Yes, she was lying. Her daughter gave her something. I’m sure of that, and I’m equally sure she was killed for it. And you know what? That makes me sick. That her own mother won’t hand over something that might prove helpful in finding and convicting her daughter’s killer; she won’t take that chance to see justice done for her own flesh and blood. Do you know why she won’t take that chance?’
Marsh could see that he was quietly seething. ‘No, sir.’
‘Because she thinks that if it was important enough for her daughter to entrust it to her then it must be valuable to whoever it belongs to. That woman is going to try to profit from her daughter’s death. Take the A20 back. There’s a café along the way that serves a decent mug of tea. I need to wash the taste of that creature out of my mouth.’
***
15
Romney’s dark mood was not improved by the news that none of the mouth-swab tests performed on the acquaintances of Claire Stamp who had been located thus far had uncovered a rapist. But then, as they agreed, no rapist who’d gone to all the trouble of concealing his identity, as this one had, would turn up voluntarily for a test like that. They would have to wait and see who didn’t accept the invitation extended to them by Dover police.
A report of the statements taken from those involved in the altercation at The Castle was sent up to Romney. The evening’s timings made a difficult case for Romney to show that Simon Avery could have been at Priory Towers when Claire Stamp had pitched off the balcony within the window of the time of death the pathologist had finally settled on.
Adding to Romney’s woes, Julie Carpenter had not replied to his message. He was slowly, if a little despairingly, resigning himself to the idea that that relationship was over before it had barely begun. He forced himself to remain philosophical about things. If it was doomed, it was better now with only his toe in the water rather than later when he may have been caught floundering in some emotional rip-tide, where he would risk being pulled out of his depth.
*
The rest of the day was uneventful: meetings, more paperwork and some report writing. The garage rape and robbery investigation seemed to have ground to a halt with no leads to pursue other than those already in motion. The death of Claire Stamp seemed fated, through lack of evidence of involvement of any other party, to be declared either suicide or misadventure. The images that had been sent to her phone, one of which had been opened before her death – presumably by her – lent weight to the case for suicide.
By the time the clock had ticked around to the end of the day and the end of the working week, Detective Inspector Romney was a professionally and personally frustrated man.
Before getting in his car, he wandered over to the newsagents opposite the police station for a copy of the local paper that would have been out sin
ce the afternoon.
The incident at the garage made page two with a photograph and a couple of inches of vague text. A short paragraph on the opposite page recorded that a young woman had fallen to her death from the fourth floor of a building in the town centre in the early hours of the morning of the day before. There was no link made between the two incidents.
Tucking the paper under his arm, he pulled his collar up against the chill and headed home.
***
16
The following morning started as many lately had for those who had been up early enough to witness them: a bright clear sun, lulling the unfamiliar into thinking that perhaps the day would be a warm and dry one.
Romney had not slept well. He’d drunk more beer than he should have and grazed on unhealthy snacks as he’d watched an awful film that he hoped would miraculously improve and astound him. It hadn’t. He had gone to bed wondering how such rubbish could be made when there must be thousands of brilliant scripts waiting to be discovered.
There had been no word from Julie Carpenter. Halfway through his third can he’d picked up his mobile phone with the intention and booze-fuelled stupidity of calling her to try once more to explain things. In the cold, bright light of this day he was relieved he had got no further than staring at her number before slinging the offending object across the sofa.
He stood on the front step of his country pile and breathed in the cool early morning air. He stuffed the house key under a half brick, started his stopwatch function and then his run.
Running was as good for Romney’s mind as the exercise was for his body. The solitude and exertion of pounding the narrow country lanes around his home had often proved beneficial to his thinking. The combination of aloneness and an activity that came so automatically to him that he didn’t need to think about what he was engaged in allowed his mind to wander and pick over things. He sometimes felt that the activity created a state of mind and equilibrium in which he could think more deeply and more creatively than at any other time.
On this weekend off he planned to press on with tiling a shower enclosure he had recently installed. He had already purchased the things he would need to do the job: tiles, spacers, adhesive, cutting tools. He had everything he needed, except one thing: the motivation to do it.
As he ran he reflected that had he had even some small success with either of the cases occupying his mind then he would probably have felt more inclined to have undertaken the task that he knew from experience was painstaking, repetitive and tedious. But with the frustrations of both niggling him, he didn’t want to confine himself to a task and space that would inevitably only irritate him further. There was also the Julie Carpenter pall of negativity hanging over him. He needed to be busy, with people, distracted, and doing something he enjoyed.
Before he’d managed half of his statutory three miles, he had his day planned out and felt uplifted for it. Run, bath, fix of coffee, dress in his weekend town clothes and head into Dover for a good breakfast before scouring the charity shops for some delight waiting to be discovered. He needed diversion. He needed cheering up. He needed a break. His mood improved with every step. The tiling could wait another day. It had waited three weeks already.
*
Breakfast at Tiffany’s was never a disappointment. The little café, situated where it was on the fringes of the town centre, missed much of the passing trade and was the better for it. The proprietor, Sammy Coker, had been serving up full English breakfasts to the locals of the town since before Romney had joined the local police force – longer ago than he cared to remember.
Over the years Sammy had given up the odd gobbet of useful information to Romney out of his strong sense of community spirit rather than for any personal gain. He had no need or desire to join the ranks of paid informers. Anything he passed on to Romney he would not be ashamed of. In return Romney allowed Sammy to not make a secret of the fact that a Detective Inspector was a regular customer of his establishment. That kind of publicity kept out undesirables that Sammy would seek to discourage.
‘Morning, Mr Romney,’ said Sammy.
‘Morning, Sammy. How’re things?’
‘Mustn’t grumble. Times are hard everywhere. Another shop boarded up in the precinct this week, I see. Usual?’
‘Please. And a mug of tea.’
‘Take a seat. I’ll bring it over to you.’
Romney looked into Sammy’s blank features before depositing his money on the counter. Sammy offering to bring over anything usually meant he had something he wanted to share privately.
Romney found a table, picked up a newspaper and waited. He overheard the big man arranging for someone to take over his position at the counter. In a minute he was over with two mugs of tea. He squeezed himself into the static furniture opposite the policeman with some effort as Romney folded the paper away.
‘I do believe that I might have to start a diet, Mr Romney.’
This brought a hint of a smile to Romney’s lips. For as long as he could remember Sammy had been talking about dieting.
‘Nasty business that young girl taking a header into the car park the other day.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Romney, wondering what Sammy could have to offer regarding that.
‘She worked up at that garage got done over this week didn’t she?’ Romney nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Girlfriend of that worthless shit, Avery?’
‘That’s right,’ said Romney. ‘What’s on your mind, Sammy?’
Sammy Coker leaned forward on his elbows. He dropped his voice and said, ‘Couple of fellas in here the day before yesterday. From the way they were talking, I got the impression they’d spent the night in the cells over that business at The Castle.’
‘And?’
‘They weren’t as discreet as perhaps they should have been. I overheard them talking about their statements. Seems that they might not have been completely honest about all those present or the times they were there. I couldn’t catch it all.’
‘Any names specifically?’
‘Avery’s cropped up. Seemed pretty pleased with themselves. Sounded like they earned well out of it.’
Romney’s blood flowed more freely through his veins. ‘Would you recognise them again?’
‘Take a look for yourself, if you like. I kept the film from the camera.’ Sammy pointed up to the CCTV camera he had installed on the advice of his local crime prevention officer.
Romney smiled at the café man. ‘Thank you, Sammy. I’d like that very much.’
Romney enjoyed his breakfast all the more knowing that he might have a life-line for one of his cases. If he could identify the men on the tape, find them and bring them in, he might be able to apply pressure that would make one of them own up to providing a false witness statement, if Sammy had heard then correctly.
The information got him wondering again about the why? Why would they have done that? The answer had to be to do with Avery’s movements that night – the night Claire Stamp had fallen to her death. Again, Romney found himself wondering why Avery would have pushed Stamp off the balcony. His policeman’s reasoning reduced the possibilities to two: either he had accidentally killed the girl in a domestic argument and had sought to cover it up by throwing her off the balcony, or he had deliberately killed her to shut her up about something. The result was the same: a dead body.
As arranged with Sammy, after Romney had finished his breakfast he left the café without another word to the big man, wandered around to the back entrance and up the fire escape to the flat above. This is where Sammy lived and where he kept the recording equipment for the CCTV in the café below.
‘I’d appreciate it if you kept my involvement out of this, Mr Romney,’ said Sammy. He met Romney’s look with a sad one of his own. ‘He’s a nasty bastard is Avery. Word is he’s branching out into drugs. We don’t need any more of that kind of thing in Dover. Dover’s got its problems – always has had – part of its charm for me, I suppose,
but drugs needs stamping on. They always target the young, Mr Romney. The young and the vulnerable.’
Something in Romney’s memory was jogged. He had a vague recollection that a young relative of Sammy’s had become mixed up with drugs a few years back. He couldn’t remember how it had ended and didn’t like to ask. It never ended well.
Romney gratefully accepted the video tape. ‘Don’t worry, Sammy. And thanks for this. It’s much appreciated. Pity there aren’t more people in Dover who think like you.’
Sammy inclined his head at the compliment and then saw Romney out.
With the video tape tucked safely in the inside pocket of his coat and his stomach full of the great British fry-up, Romney decided to prolong and further encourage his improving humour by sticking to his original plan for the morning.
Contrary to his predictions the sun had not lost another battle to cloud cover, and, as if sensing a rare opportunity for the season, shone warmly down on the high street to lift the spirits of those scurrying about making the best of it.
*
A high street of charity shops – one or all of which might contain a good book-find – evoked the same feelings of excitement and anticipation in Romney that he got from breakthroughs in his police detective work.
For Romney there were certain similarities between the detecting of books and being a police detective. Each required a working knowledge and thorough understanding of the subject matter. With books it was condition, edition, author and title. With police work it was the law, the evidence and human nature. Each required the application of knowledge and understanding.
Several times in his book collecting forays Romney had been rewarded for trawling conscientiously through boxes in back rooms or the bottom untidy shelf of a rambling second hand book shop, giving his focussed attention to each volume that came into his hands. Likewise, often it was the same dogged style of pursuit to uncover the truth by ferreting out and minutely examining evidence and testimonies that would lead to the job’s rewards.