Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) (12 page)

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 slightly 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 with a defiance that dared 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 and it’s possible your daughter had it and had hidden it away somewhere. If we are right, we don’t think it was found. It is possible, and I stress that it’s only a theory, that if she was murdered then such an artefact, if it exists, has something to do with it.’

Romney had decided to share this information with the woman in the hope that, if she had it, she might either be tempted to 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 – it couldn’t be anyone else – or see that in holding on to it would endanger herself. But the seeds of doubt that he aimed to plant fell on stony ground. She once again grew tight-lipped and seemed to be recovering herself.

‘She gave me nothing,’ she repeated.

‘Well, all the same, 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, Sergeant. 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 fundamental to 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, Sergeant?’

Marsh could see that the DI 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 whomever it belongs to. That woman is going to try to profit from her own daughter’s death. Take the A20 back. There’s a cafe serves a decent mug of tea and I require one. I need to wash the taste of that creature out of my mouth.’

*

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 provided a rapist. But then, as they agreed, no rapist who’d gone to all the trouble of concealing himself 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. More than one witness had testified to timings and sightings of Simon Avery that would have made it impossible for him to have been at Priory Towers when Stamp had pitched off the balcony of her apartment within the window of the time of death the pathologist had finally settled on.

On top of these, Julie Carpenter had not replied to his message, and he was gradually, if a little despairingly, resigning himself to the idea that that relationship was over before it had barely begun. Well, so be it, he thought, trying to remain philosophical about things. If it was doomed, better now with only his toe in the water rather than later when he may have been caught splashing about in some emotional rip tide and been pulled out of his depth.

*

The rest of the day was uneventful. A round of 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 at the forthcoming coroner’s enquiry as 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 – contributed to the notion of suicide.

When it came time to knock off that evening for the weekend Detective Inspector Romney was a professionally and personally frustrated man. He wandered over to the newsagents opposite the police station for a copy of the local paper that would have been out since 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 went home.

*

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 dry one.

Romney had not slept well. He’d drunk more beer than he should have, grazed unhealthily on snacks as he’d watched an awful film that he felt obliged to finish in the hope that it 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. Half-way through his third can, he’d picked up his mobile 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 and, starting his stopwatch function, began 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 felt sometimes 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.

He had planned, on this weekend off, to press on with tiling a shower enclosure that he had installed recently. He had everything that he needed: tiles, spacers, adhesive, cutting tools, except one thing: the motivation to do the job. It needed doing, but he just didn’t feel like it.

As he ran, he reflected that had he had even some small success with either of the cases cluttering 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 at 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 consideration. He needed to be busy, with people, distracted, and doing something that 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 and the few second hand bookshops 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 until tomorrow. It had waited three weeks already.

*

Breakfast at Tiffany’s was never a disappointment. The little café at the back of the high street 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 more than the odd gobbet of useful information to the DI 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 that 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. Besides, since the DI had been frequenting the place several other officers of the local constabulary had also become regular customers and money was money and times perpetually hard.

An agreement existed between the DI and Sammy that if Romney was clearly not on duty, as could be determined by his clothing, then Sammy would drop the Inspector for plain Mr Romney. Romney enjoyed being one of the crowd at times as much as anyone else.

‘Morning, Mr Romney,’ said Sammy, turning to find Romney at the counter.

‘Morning, Sammy. How’re things?’

‘Can’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 up into Sammy’s blank features before depositing his money on the counter. Sammy offering to bring over anything usually meant he had something that he wanted to impart to the DI.

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, and 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.’

‘Indeed 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 and dropping his voice 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 at Her Majesty’s pleasure 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 coursed 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 the case. 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.

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. And again, Romney found himself wondering why Avery would have pushed Stamp off the balcony. His policeman’s logic 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.