Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) (11 page)

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely. Doyle, Christie, Dibdin, Hill, James, Rendell, Wingfield, Harvey. There are some fine American practitioners. Chandler, MacDonald, and Elmore Leonard takes some beating. Some of the continental crime writers are worth getting to know, too, although I’m not so keen on the rash of Scandinavian stuff that seems so popular at the moment. But that might be as much to do with the translations as the original writing. And then you’ve got the older classics on both sides of the pond, of course.’

‘Dibdin’s underrated. Zen is one of my favourite creations.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that, but I’d have to say that I found the first few more engaging than the rest,’ said Romney, pleased to have found some genuine common ground with her. ‘You ever read Patrick O’Brian?’

‘Never heard of him. Does he write crime?’

Romney treated her to a look that she found hard to fathom. ‘Patrick O’Brian is one of the finest and most under-rated novelists to have written in the English language in the last hundred years and more. I suppose you’d have to classify him under historical naval fiction, but he was so much more than that.’

‘Oh,’ said Marsh. ‘Boats.’

They ordered food from the specials board and got around to talking shop.

‘I was thinking about the ransacking of Claire Stamp’s flat,’ said Romney, ‘and what, whoever did it – and my money’s on Avery – was looking for. Whatever it is, it must be extremely important and probably portable.’

‘My thoughts exactly. And I think that I have a pretty good idea of where it is, whatever it is.’

‘The mother?’

Marsh nodded. ‘That’s my guess,’ she said, skewering peas. ‘She left soon after Avery turned up and she had a bag.’

‘She lives where?’

‘Ashford. Willsborough, I think.’

‘Did she identify the body?’

‘This afternoon, apparently.’

‘You know how she took it?’

Marsh shook her head. ‘Uniform dealt with it, but I can ask in the morning.’

‘If Avery is looking for something – something he may have killed Claire Stamp for – and he works out that she might have given it to her mother to look after, she is in danger. I think that tomorrow morning you and I should pay her a visit and, if we’re right, hope that Avery hasn’t beaten us to it.’

Romney was savouring a large mouthful of the gravy soaked suet crust of his steak and kidney pudding when he turned to see what the night had blown in with the banging of the door. Three young, nicely dressed women stood on the edge of the carpet. In the centre of them and staring directly at him and DS Marsh enjoying their cosy meal beside the fire was Julie Carpenter. Her companions, who had been chatting away, stopped to see what had grabbed her attention. She said something to them that Romney didn’t catch but understood perfectly from the looks that they turned on him. She strode over to his table and he began to stand. The pudding crust had turned to an expanding chewy mass in his mouth and he seemed unable to swallow it or chew it down.

‘Don’t bother,’ she said, waving him to sit. ‘I just wanted to say that I hope that you choke on it.’ She turned to Marsh whose own mouth was hanging open a good inch. ‘Watch him; he’s obviously a player. The bastard was in my bed last night.’

Marsh’s eyes widened. The pretty young woman cast one more withering look at Romney, her eyes beginning to swim, turned, walked back to her friends and they all left.

Romney managed a sheepish grin, but with the suet still in his cheeks it came off more as a poor Godfather impression than the expression of an unspoken apology. There was an awkward minute’s silence while they both chewed and swallowed and composed themselves.

‘I’m really sorry and embarrassed for that,’ said Romney, looking it.

He was, thought Marsh reflecting on his reaction, a gentleman at least. The fact that he was seeing someone young enough to be his niece just made him a lucky gentleman.

‘Please, no need. I can see her logic. Look if you want me to have a word with her, put her straight.’

‘That’s good of you to offer,’ said Romney, strangling the suggestion before it drew its first breath, ‘but I’m sure it’ll be fine. I hope that you can forget all about it.’

In other words, thought Marsh, you’d better not say a word to anyone down the nick.

Thankfully, they were both just about finished. They might have had another drink if things hadn’t turned out the way that they did, but in the end Romney settled the bill and with Marsh expressing a wish to have another go at the hedges over the offer of a lift home, they parted in the windswept street outside.

Romney sat in his car feeling that he’d had the rug pulled out from under him. He knew that his meal was nothing more than work colleagues innocently sharing food and discussion of a case, and he’d also reached a time in his life when he felt the need to explain his movements to no man or woman. However, he could see how it must have looked, and he could imagine how it felt for her if she felt something for him. Her behaviour would indicate that she did. The decent thing to do, regardless of how she would take it, would be to try to explain to her her erroneous reading of the situation.

Not relishing the rebuff of an ignored phone call, he instead composed a text message explaining things, hoping that she would understand and apologising for something that he felt in his heart he didn’t need to do. It was a measure of his feelings for her. He pressed send and drove home.

***

6

Romney was at his desk early the following morning struggling with a profound sadness that had settled over his spirits: a pall of negativity. He was angry with himself for it. He hardly knew the woman and here he was acting on the inside like some pathetic teenager.

Julie had not replied to his text the previous evening and there was nothing on his phone, or in his email inbox, that morning. No news might be considered good news by some, but today it didn’t feel like it. He was on his second mug of coffee when the shift started dribbling in. Spying Marsh he beckoned her over.

Marsh had decided that it would be professional, appreciated and prudent if she simply said nothing about the previous evening, even though her inclination was to thank him again for the meal and the company.

Sitting at home with a glass of wine and her book later that night, she had reflected on an evening that had been worth braving the scrappy winter’s night. It had been nice to get out for once and enjoy some good company. But the embarrassing way things had ended made her believe that least said would be soonest mended.

After they’d said their good mornings, Romney said, ‘I thought we’d take a trip out to see Mrs Stamp senior this morning.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Call her in an hour, would you? Give her a chance to wake up. Find out where we can get hold of her. Don’t let her fob you off either. And speak to whoever accompanied her to the identification of her daughter. Find out how she took it.’

*

They were on their way by mid-morning – twenty-five minutes up the M20. Romney had made the courtesy call to his opposite number in the Ashford station, Detective Inspector Crow – a man who Romney had a good working relationship with – to inform him that he would be interviewing on his patch. Marsh had discovered that Mrs Stamp would be at home, same as most mornings since she lost her job in the town.

After negotiating the busy early morning traffic of the town centre and achieving the ring road that would lead them on to the motorway, Romney said, ‘How did she take her daughter’s death?’

‘She didn’t cry. Didn’t become an hysterical grieving wreck. PC who chaperoned her said she seemed very angry. She didn’t talk much, just identified the body and left.’

‘Was there a Mr Stamp with her?’

‘No, she saw the body alone.’

‘How about our call this morning?’

‘She wasn’t happy about it, but she seemed resigned to the idea that someone would be calling on her.’

It seemed to Marsh that the elephant in the car that was their shared meal the evening before had grown to take up most of the back seat by the time they had travelled the twenty miles or so from the station to Mrs Stamp’s front door. Despite the continuing seasonal grey drizzle and cold she was glad when she could step out of the car’s oppressive atmosphere.

Mrs Stamp lived in a small terrace of mock Tudor houses with railway tracks running behind. The front garden was well tended and tidy, even though the weather must have kept all but the most dedicated of gardeners on the warm side of the windows.

The curtains twitched as they got out of the vehicle. Before they had had a chance to ring the bell the door was opened to admit them.

They stood in the small entrance hall, the strange smells of someone else’s home crowding in on them.

‘Wipe your feet, will you?’ said Helen Stamp. ‘These carpets are new. Go through into the lounge.’

She pointed to the first doorway that led off the narrow passageway. She hadn’t offered to take their coats and she didn’t offer them refreshment. It was not the most hospitable welcome that either visitor had received, but then, as police officers on duty entering someone’s home against their will, it wasn’t the worst.

‘Sit down,’ said the woman. They sat. ‘Before we start, you can save your sympathy. I don’t want to hear a load of insincerities that mean nothing to any of us.’

‘Never-the-less, Mrs Stamp,’ said Romney, feeling the need to assert some authority, ‘we both met your daughter and I’m sure that I can speak for both of us when I say that her tragic death is truly regretted.’

The woman’s jaw was set in a show of defiance and her eyes glittered. What was it, thought Romney, that made her feel such animosity towards the law?

‘Why are you here?’ she said.

‘We are investigating your daughter’s death, Mrs Stamp,’ said Romney.

This seemed to confuse the woman. Her brow knitted. ‘Her suicide, you mean.’

Romney was unsure whether this was meant to be a statement or a question. ‘Our enquiries are ongoing, Mrs Stamp. We are exploring various avenues of investigation.’

‘Can’t you just talk straight?’ she said, irritably.

‘Your daughter may well have committed suicide,’ said Romney ‘She may also have fallen accidentally, or she may have been pushed to her death.’ His own tone had hardened slightly in response to the woman’s belligerence and he instantly regretted it.

‘What? Murdered? Is that what you’re suggesting?’ Her voice had risen in pitch and volume.

‘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 in front of their eyes. Her gruff exterior was crumbling and Marsh thought that she caught a glimpse of a woman on the edge of imploding with grief.

‘I’m afraid that we are not at liberty to 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?’ repeated the DI.

‘No,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘No, she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t. Do you think that 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 didn’t give me the details, wouldn’t, 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 psychology of woman to woman would encourage her to be more open with them. ‘I saw her after you’d left,’ continued 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?’

The woman nodded. Her voice was softer. ‘After I saw you leave I went back up there. You could have told me he was back,’ she said, shooting an accusatory look Romney’s way. ‘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.’