by Oliver Tidy
When Falkner departed, she approached Romney who was busying himself with paperwork. ‘Still nothing on Park,’ she said.
‘You saw Superintendent Falkner?’ She nodded. ‘Just came to remind me that we’ve got till dark tomorrow. That’ll be about four o’clock.’
‘You didn’t tell him about the development, I suppose?’
‘That’ll keep for twenty-four hours. Any ideas?’ She shook her head. ‘Want to hear mine?’
Marsh closed the door, slid onto the available chair opposite him and listened to him outline his idea. She kept a respectful silence throughout, even though her conscience was voicing ever louder concerns.
He had been finished several long moments before she realised he was waiting for a response. She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t like it. I don’t like what we’re talking about doing.’
Romney remained patiently persuasive. ‘What we’re talking about doing is giving the little scrote – someone who we both know is as guilty as hell – enough rope to hang himself. That’s all.’
‘I’m concerned about the legality of it, sir, if you don’t mind me being honest.’
Romney smiled at her. ‘That is exactly why I’m talking to you and not Peter or Derek. I need someone with an objective, critical eye. Someone who still has the rule book – the updated, revised edition – fresh up here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I don’t want to find our case in a position where some smart-arsed lawyer can cry foul and have it thrown out. And between ourselves there are occasions when I can’t see the wood for the trees. This is too important to jeopardise on a technicality.
‘Look, I trust your judgement. I want your professional, objective opinion. Let me go through it again in detail. Tell me where it’s crossing the line and we’ll do something about it. We can thrash out the details and, if your reservations are insurmountable, we’ll go with what we’ve got. I want you on board for this. We might have to gently bend a guideline or two, but I’m not going to ask anyone to break any laws.’
*
Later that night, lying in the bath with the candles lit and a glass of chilled Bulgarian three-for-the-price-of-two in her hand, Marsh reflected that flattery will get you everywhere. Once again, she mused, she had received an insight in to the wily old fox that her new governor was.
***
43
Romney came into work the following day leaning heavily on a stick. By the time he’d explained it to a few enquirers he had his story off pat. A carelessly discarded shoe had tripped him and his knee – a long standing sufferance for him – had been wrenched. He’d be all right in a day or two, possibly sooner. His outward mood reflected both the depressing continuing winter weather and the fact that the last day of the surveillance had arrived with no result. Few but the most optimistic of gamblers in the station would have put money on Park coming through for a satisfying late finish.
Marsh and Romney said their good mornings and went about their routines and tasks as usual. Romney understood that Falkner would be absent from lunch time, attending a meeting in Maidstone.
*
At one o’clock with the station chief well on his motorway, Romney summoned Marsh to his office. According to the time-table Romney had devised for his charade, he said, ‘I’ve uncovered some new evidence in the Crabble Hill petrol station investigation. Would you like to see it?’ Romney held up the familiar buff file of photographs.
‘No, thanks,’ said Marsh, not relishing either a repeat viewing of the images of Claire Stamp or her connivance in the rule bending they were about to embark upon.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Romney, smiling. ‘Grab your coat. We’re off . You’ll have to drive, though, on account of my leg.’
Marsh gave him a deadpan expression to which he just smiled. Romney shrugged on his own coat, tucked the file under his arm and using his stick hobbled out to arrest Carl Park.
*
They pulled up behind the surveillance vehicle across the street from Park’s building. Romney got out and tapped on the window. The side door of the panel van slid open. The two officers cramped inside gave their best impressions of surprise.
‘Afternoon,’ said Romney.
‘Guv?’ said one. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine. No sign of matey?’
‘Not a peep, guv. Sorry.’
‘No matter,’ said Romney. ‘Some new evidence has come to light. We’re going up to arrest him. Why don’t you tag along in case he turns nasty?’
Neither officer needed asking twice. The crushing boredom and confinement of the van, and the promise of being in at the arrest of Park was all the incentive they needed.
‘What’s wrong with your leg, guv?’ asked one of them, as they crossed the road.
‘Old war wound,’ said Romney.
Romney rang the bell. It was answered by Park’s mother.
‘Police, Mrs Park. Open up, please.’
Without another word she buzzed them in. They made their way slowly up the staircase, Romney holding up their progress at the front.
Mrs Park stood in the open doorway of her flat, her arms folded in front of her. She wore a grim expression and seemed to have aged significantly since the first time they had met. ‘What is it now?’ she said. ‘This is harassment. That’s what it is.’
Romney said, ‘Is your son at home?’
‘What do you want him for? Why can’t you leave him alone?’ A desperate pitch infected her voice.
‘I have a warrant for his arrest. Stand aside, or you will be physically removed and arrested for obstructing the police.’
Mrs Park’s face crumpled as she burst into tears. Carl Park appeared behind his mother. His face was set in an angry glare.
‘Hello, Carl,’ said Romney, ignoring the distraught woman between them. ‘Sorry to wake you. Carl Park, I am arresting you for the armed robbery of Crabble Hill petrol station. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’ Park stared angrily back. ‘And that’s just for starters, Carl. Get your coat. It’s cold out. We don’t want you catching a chill.’
They descended the stairs in virtual silence. Romney, once again, held up proceedings as he limped down the miserable concrete stairwell one slow tread at a time. Before leaving the building, Romney stopped the party. ‘Do we have to handcuff you, Carl, or are you going to be a good boy and come along quietly?’
‘Why wouldn’t I come quietly?’ he said, finding something of his cocky self. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Romney.
One of the surveillance officers led Park across the street by the arm.
‘Stick him in the back of my car,’ said Romney. ‘I’m sure he’s going to behave himself.’ With Park installed in the seat behind the driver, Romney said, ’Right, you two get yourselves back to the station. Have a cup of tea. We’ll be right behind you.’
Marsh took the driver’s seat and Romney eased himself awkwardly, with a groan of discomfort, into the front passenger seat. He turned to Park. ‘Put your seat belt on. We want you to arrive in one piece.’
Park scowled. ‘What’s this new evidence you think you’ve got?’
‘All in good time, Carl. All in good time,’ said Romney.
Before they pulled away from the kerb, Romney took out his mobile and called Grimes at the coastguard station. He had been expecting the call.
‘DI Romney here. Just giving you a heads up. We’re bringing in Carl Park. Get a room ready for him. Yes, that’s right. Oh, really? That’s interesting. Well, I’m sure he won’t mind sharing. He’ll have to get used to it after all where he’s going.’ Romney ended the one-sided call and began a tuneless whistling. He didn’t turn around. Marsh used the rear-view mirror to observe the anxiety settling on Park’s face.
Within a hundred metres Romney’s phone rang. It was Grimes. Romney had another one sided conversation. ‘Yes. Yes I am. It’s your lucky day. I’m in a car now. We can pick you up if you like. Ten minutes suit you? No, no problem. What’s that? Yes, that can go in the boot, but I’ll have to send my sergeant up to help you down with it. Twisted my knee, can barely walk. OK, see you soon.’
Romney turned to address Park. ‘Fancy a trip up to cliffs, Carl? Should bring a few memories back for you. Take one last look at the great outdoors.’ Park said nothing. To Marsh, Romney said, ‘Drive up to the coast guard station, will you? We’re going to give a chum of mine a ride to the station. I’m afraid you’ll have to help him down with something rather heavy.’
‘No problem, sir,’ said Marsh, playing her supporting role with little apparent enthusiasm.
They weaved their way through the Dover traffic and on to Jubilee Way: Dover’s little bypass. The castle loomed out of the low cloud, impressive as ever. Romney’s continuing tuneless whistling and the noises of the car were the only sounds.
At the roundabout at the top of the rise Marsh went left, and soon they came to the private narrow track that led to the coast guard station. They bumped down it before stopping away from the main building, near the low wire fence that served as a boundary marker to divide the cliff tops from the little car park area of the station. As briefed by Romney, Marsh manoeuvred the car around so that Park’s door was less than ten feet from a stile. If one could have seen over the rise of the land one could have observed the point on the cliff where Peter Roper had fallen from. Not far from that was the place where Romney was convinced Park had hidden the gun they’d found.
When Marsh came to a halt, Romney said, ‘Off you go then, Sergeant. We’re a bit early. Take a look around up there. It’s fascinating. Carl and I will be all right in here together, won’t we Carl?’ Marsh turned to look at Romney. She might have been about to say something, but Romney pre-empted her. ‘Go on. We’ll be fine.’
As she opened the driver’s door and stepped out onto the loose gravel surface of the car park, an icy wind gusted into the car, disturbing discarded wrappers. Romney watched her walk away towards the building.
Grimacing with the pain in his knee, he turned in his seat to stare at Park. ‘This is cosy, isn’t it?’ Park didn’t answer. ‘You must be wondering what makes me so confident this time, Carl. To be honest it was a stroke of luck and your stupidity of course. I told you you’d make another mistake, didn’t I? Let me show you.’ Romney removed the file from under his seat and laid it on his lap. ‘This whole business has surpassed anything in calculating depravity that I’ve ever had the misfortune to be involved with, and after as long on the force as I’ve had that’s saying something. It was very cruel of you to send those images to the victims. Very stupid too. But very fortunate for us. You see, Carl, you’ve given yourself to us on a plate, or in a mirror to be more precise. Take a look.’ He tossed the folder into the back. ‘The thing is not to get fixated on the victim. That was my mistake and yours, I suspect. Look at the mirror above the sink.’
Park stared back at the policeman until his curiosity got the better of him. He reached for the file, opened it and took out the photograph. He made no show of pretence but looked for what Romney had suggested. Romney knew he’d seen it, knew it had registered, hoped that his heart was thumping as much as his own. The policeman willed him into flight.
Romney said, ‘How old are you, Carl? Do you know how old you’ll be when they let you out? A serial rapist, an armed robber and a murderer. Think how the world will have changed, and you’ll have missed it all. Have you any idea what it’s like in prison, Carl? You might get lucky, someone influential might take you under his wing, make you his plaything. Either way, though, you’ll be marked from the first day. Cons seem to take a very dim view of rapists for some reason. I hope it was worth it, Carl, because you’ll be lucky to come out intact, if you know what I mean. Your sort rarely do. Give it a couple of years and you’ll be wishing it was Roper sent you off that cliff not the other way round.’ Park still wasn’t biting, and Romney knew that his window of opportunity was slowly closing. ‘How did you do it, Carl, just between ourselves? How did you get Peter Roper to jump off the cliff? Was it the gun? We never found the gun?’
It was done in an instant – a flurry of primitive panic. The door was flung open, his seat belt was off and Carl Park was out. He vaulted the low wire fencing and sprinted down the grassy slope.
Like a proud father, Romney watched the youth go. ‘Good boy. Run rabbit run.’ He took out his phone and called Marsh. She answered immediately. ‘Got him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? I’ve got a bad knee, remember?’
Romney stepped out of the car, glanced up at the sky, took off his coat, slung it on the seat and shut the door. He looked across to see Marsh and Grimes leave the building in pursuit. He took a lungful of clean bracing sea air, stepped carefully over the stile in the fence and began jogging after them, all traces of his earlier limp gone. As he ran, he hoped that Park didn’t spoil it all by twisting his ankle on the uneven surface or by running out of puff.
The ground undulated, altered its texture and its consistency, making progress awkward. Taking his eyes off where his feet were landing, Romney caught sight of Park about two hundred metres ahead. As he looked across at Marsh and Grimes, he saw her trip and fall, scramble to her feet and take off again. Romney realised that he was grinning.
He’d estimated the gun to be a little over a kilometre from the coastguard station. At least Park was headed in the right direction. After a couple of hundred metres, Romney slowed his speed as he realised that if they kept up their present respective paces he, at least, would catch Park before he was anywhere near the buried weapon. He signalled to Marsh to hold back. There was no need to do the same for the larger figure of Grimes trailing well behind.
They followed the muddy trail cut out by thousands of feet over the years. Down and then up. Romney was willing Park on under his breath. The youth looked like he was flagging.
A hundred metres from the site of the crumbled monument, Park stopped and turned. He was breathing heavily. Romney signalled the others to stop also. He gave his best impression of exhausted, although he could happily have run further with no difficulty.
‘Come on, Carl,’ shouted Romney. ‘This is pointless. You can’t get away.’
Park shouted back at him. ‘Maybe I don’t want to get away.’
He turned then and took off again, although his pace was more ragged. The police lumbered after him. Romney reflected on how unfit the younger generation were. Too much time sat on their arses, poisoning their minds watching Internet porn. Even a big lump like Grimes was gaining on them.
Romney could have cheered when Park left the track in the direction of the weapon. He settled for a triumphant look across at Marsh, who looked back at him, although because of the distance between them her expression was unclear, as his probably was to her.
Romney slowed to a walk, Marsh followed suit and Grimes eventually caught them up, panting heavily. Ahead of them Park was scrabbling about, throwing rocks to either side. Romney, Marsh and Grimes stopped and formed a well-spaced semi-circle ten metres from where Park was now standing brandishing the gun that had been wrapped in two plastic bags.
The exertions of their individual efforts were made visible by their hot breath meeting the cold air. Another light drizzle had begun to fall. Marsh glanced at Romney. She registered his barely concealed satisfaction with the position he had contrived and arrived at.
Playing it to the end and into the wind, Romney said. ‘What have you got there, Carl?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘It looks like a gun, Carl. How did you know there was a gun under there?’
‘Are you stupid?’ shouted Park. ‘How do you think I knew? I put it here, didn’t I? You asked me how I got that twat Roper
off the cliff, you’re looking at it.’
‘Throw it down, Carl. Over here,’ said Romney. ‘You’re only going to get yourself deeper in the shit if you start threatening police officers with firearms.’
Park laughed manically. ‘Deeper in the shit? How deep do you have to be to drown? Will it make any difference what I do now?’
‘Of course it will, Carl. Tell you what I’ll offer you. Confess to your crimes, and I’ll testify that you led us to the weapon out of remorse. It’ll look good for you.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to look good. Maybe I want some glory. Take a couple of pigs with me.’
Romney smiled at him then and above the noise of the gusting wind said, ‘You really do watch too much crap television. You should have tried harder at school. Maybe you wouldn’t be so slow on the uptake.’
Romney began walking towards him. The wind pulled at the tails of his suit jacket, teased his hair and his tie flapped over his shoulder. He locked eyes with Park as he bore down on him. Marsh and Grimes stood their ground.
With just a few feet between them Romney stopped, smiled at Park and said, so that only he would hear him, ‘You haven’t got the balls.’
Park lifted the gun, extended his arm, aimed at Romney’s chest and pulled the trigger. The redundant metallic snap was lost in the wind. He pulled again and again his face reflecting his increasing frustration.
‘I think it’s missing its firing pin,’ said Romney, holding it up. ‘But now we can add the charge of attempted murder of a police officer to your crimes.’
Park put his hands to his head and screamed as the full realisation of the fool he’d been played for dawned on him. Romney took another step forward. Park threw the pistol at him and sprinted down the slope. Marsh couldn’t head him off. In a moment he was past her and running towards the cliff edge. For several dreadful strides Romney looked on paralysed and helpless, mesmerised as Park and the cliff edge converged. Park’s motive: insanity, spite or desperation. Romney could only think that he’d pushed him too far. He’d pushed him over the edge as surely as if he’d had his hand in the small of his back.