Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) (17 page)

In his sexually agitated frame of mind, Romney began his hurried change of the sweats he’d thrown on after his shower and the collection of what he must take with him. In fifteen minutes he was on the road.

*

The Dour Nursing Home had been named after the river that ran through the middle of Dover. Rising at Temple Ewell, just outside the main settlement, the little watercourse meandered the four miles or so through the town to exit into the English Channel.

Often, during its ten year existence, the ambiguous title of the home for the elderly had been used in an adjectival sense to describe the ambience of the retreat.

The rest home – a converted grand Victorian building – built by a successful local merchant around the turn of the century, sat on several acres of land that fronted the Dour. Situated on the outskirts of the town and surrounded by mature woodland, it was more secluded than remote.

The Dour Nursing Home for the elderly had a maximum capacity of twenty residents. All rooms had their own bathroom and pleasant aspects of the woodland, the fields or the river. Four of the rooms were currently vacant.

Borne of routine, at ten o’clock, residents – who presently ranged in age from a seventy year old woman to a ninety-two year old man – who hadn’t already taken themselves off to their rooms and their beds were gently encouraged to do so. By eleven o’clock whoever was on duty would do the rounds, making sure that everyone was in their right place and that there was no one standing confused in their nightclothes in the middle of some darkened hallway.

The founders and current proprietors of the home – Mr and Mrs Logi – retained a suite of rooms on the ground floor. This was not their main residence but merely a home from home. The Dour was their primary business concern and they were both actively involved on a daily basis in running the place. But as the business had returned decent profits over the years they had bought themselves a home in the town so that they didn’t feel constantly confined at the nursing home. That, they had jointly agreed, had become depressing over time with the smells and sounds a constant reminder of what the future probably held for both of them. At nights, particularly, the Logis were happy to pay the minimum wage to have others watch over the residents.

At a little after eleven o’clock, Jane Goddard – the thirty-six year old in charge of the home for the night – completed the first of her nightly rounds. Mrs Avis had been her usual tiresome, insomniac and surly self, but apart from that all was pretty much as it should be.

Goddard walked into the kitchen to find Peter Roper sat in front of the television, as usual. Peter had been at The Dour for five months. He’d come from an agency in the town and was satisfactory enough to be offered a regular position employed by The Dour. Even though he was young, he didn’t seem to mind the kind of work or the anti-social hours. He was friendly enough and he got on well with most of the old folks. He kept himself to himself largely; he just got on with whatever was asked of him.

Goddard made them both a tea, and while Roper seemed happy enough to sit staring at the little screen, she heaved her text books on to the table and began organising herself for the couple of hours study she hoped to be able to fit in before her mind refused to absorb anymore.

Jane Goddard was enrolled in a local college course that could see her eventually gain a qualification that would get her into Kent University as a mature student. There she intended to complete a nursing degree. She was, if a little late in her life, determined to improve herself and her lot.

At about eleven-thirty Jane Goddard looked up from her books. ‘Did you hear something?’

‘Eh?’ said Roper.

‘I thought I heard a noise downstairs.’

‘Want me to go and have a look?’

‘Yes, please. It might be Mr Clark again. You know what he’s like. You’ll be able to get him back to bed quicker than me. He doesn’t fancy you.’ She smiled at the youth and he got up, stretched and went out of the kitchen.

Three minutes later he walked back into the room. The first thing that struck Goddard when she looked up from her books was the look of sheer terror on his face. The second thing she noticed was the person who came in behind him, a pistol extended in front of him. He was dressed darkly and wearing the kind of latex gloves that they used at the nursing home. He had his hood pulled up and he was wearing a balaclava type mask. She froze to her chair. Jane Goddard would later remark to the police that when the intruder barked out his few instructions, he was affecting an eastern European accent, rather than being a native of that region. She felt strongly that there was something definitely fake about him.

*

When Romney had arrived at Julie Carpenter’s home he had been surprised to see no lights on anywhere. As he raised his hand to tap on the front door it opened a fraction. From the orange light cast over his shoulder by the street lamp across the road behind him, he caught a glimpse of a vision that set his heart racing. Her eyes glinted in the shadows. Her black hair framed her pale face and was arranged to fall over her shoulders. The shiny fabric of the one-piece lingerie that she wore shimmered as she shivered with the influx of chill night air. The white flesh of her long slim legs was exposed down to her bare feet. Romney feared he might actually moan with anticipation.

She said, ‘Are you just going to stand there and let me freeze to death?’

He slipped inside the narrow opening and pushed the door closed behind him. Further words seemed unnecessary. Gently he pushed her back against the stud walling their open mouths melded in a hot frantic wetness. He inhaled the fragrant cleanliness of her freshly bathed body. Sliding his cold hand upwards over her thinly sheathed naked firmness, he felt her tense against the cold and then the hardness of her nipple pushing against the gossamer fabric. She let out a small moan and began frantically grappling with his trousers.

He had her furiously against the wall that protested and popped in rhythm to his thrusting. A picture dislodged and fell unheeded. He felt her strong fingers beneath the jacket that he still wore dig into his back urging him deeper. Harder, he pounded against her, indifferent to their disturbance of the night’s quiet. She gasped and moaned in harmony with his strokes, until with a desperate release of pent-up energy and a barely suppressed primitive groan, he flooded her with his seed and was repaid with a similar hotness that squirted across his exposed thighs, as she cried out in response. Almost immediately, he felt his legs tremble and threaten to buckle under him. She smothered his face with kisses and for several long moments, he bathed in her adoration and the feeling that, once again, it was good to be alive.

Later, in the heat of her bed, fully naked and again spent, he drifted into the deep untroubled sleep of the exhausted and sated.

*

The insistent trilling of Romney’s phone dragged him slowly up from his state of deep slumber. He fumbled around in the darkness for it, cursing quietly. The station’s number flashed on the panel, and reluctantly he answered it.

‘Sorry to disturb you, gov,’ said the duty sergeant.

Romney knew immediately that for him to be woken at this time it must be important. ‘What is it, Tony?’

‘There’s been another rape, gov.’ When Romney didn’t answer right away the duty sergeant continued, ‘It looks like a carbon copy of the attack at the garage last week.’

Romney’s heart sank. ‘Where? Who’s there?’

The sergeant said that at present only uniform were in attendance. He gave the address.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Get DS Marsh there too.’

‘I know,’ said Julie, from beneath the duvet. ‘You have to go.’

‘I’m sorry. I really am.’

She reached out a slender warm hand and stroked his face. ‘I understand,’ she said, and he felt that she meant it. ‘Call me, soon.’

He leant over her and finding her mouth kissed her tenderly for reply.

*

Despite having thrown water over his face to both wake himself up and rid himself of the residue of his encounter with Carpenter, Romney could detect the faint musky hint of sex in the air around him. He hoped that this was extremely localised and stuffed several pieces of gum into his mouth to compensate for it.

A heady blend of emotions swirled around his head as he drove the few miles to The Dour Nursing Home. He found himself unable to prevent his thrilling recent sexual exertions playing out again in his mind. His union with Julie Carpenter was a fantasy come true and he had played his part in their erotic coupling with a performance that both surprised and delighted him. Overshadowing this wonderful feeling – that he felt with a rising resentment he was being prematurely cheated out of basking in – was the spectre of what he was about to encounter at the old peoples’ home.

A second rape. A carbon copy the sergeant had said. The probability that he had a serial rapist on his patch sank in as he made his way along the hedge-flanked back roads. He found the prospect a miserable one. His only comfort came from the knowledge that empirical evidence regarding the apprehension of those who repeat their crimes suggested that the more often a criminal perpetrated their particular crime, the greater the chances of them being caught. Sooner or later a mistake would be made; something left at a crime scene; a neighbour or family member suspicious. Romney had had to concede to his superintendent that with the Claire Stamp rape investigation they had come to a temporary dead end. If this was a crime committed by the same person then he would have to take whatever perversely positive hope it offered of finding the man responsible.

*

In the time it took to travel from Julie Carpenter’s home to the crime scene his mood underwent the transition from ecstatic to grim. By the time he could see the flashing lights of the emergency services lighting up the sky and surrounding woodland with its pyrotechnic display he was, he felt, somewhere back near to the objective and focussed police officer that he needed to be.

Romney’s headlights swept across the scene in front of him like some swinging searchlight beam as he rounded the turn of the driveway. He recognised faces highlighted by the shaft of light as his tyres crunched over the gravel driveway: a uniformed constable from Claire Stamp’s death plunge; a paramedic from the petrol station incident.

He felt their eyes on him as he strode across the pea-beach. Were they thinking that maybe this was his fault; that if he were a better copper none of them would be here witnessing such cruelty?

A vehicle came swooshing across the surface behind them like a wave up a shingle beach and Romney caught a flash of a tired looking Marsh at the wheel. He waited for her to join him before going in. They didn’t exchange pleasantries.

‘Is it the same bloke?’ she said.

‘I’ve just arrived myself.’

As they entered the front door they could hear a woman’s raised voice. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she screeched.

She was answered in calm, soothing tones. Rounding the corner of the hallway, Romney and Marsh were confronted by a ghostly apparition of an old, old, woman flailing her feeble arms in her flannelette nightgown at a woman PC who was staunchly blocking her descent from the staircase on which she was teetering. There was something of an animated Miss Haversham about the woman whose sparse grey hair had fallen loose from its confinement and swished about her like a skewed wedding veil.

‘Problem, officer?’ said Romney.

The harassed but patient PC said, ‘The lady refuses to go back to her room for the moment, sir.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ shouted the woman at Romney, emboldened by her elevated position on the staircase.

Mustering as much sternness as he was able to in the face of this pathetically sad spectacle, he said, ‘Detective Inspector Romney, madam. Please go back to your room and remain there until someone comes up to speak with you.’

‘You can’t order me about.’

‘I’m not ordering you. I’m asking you, madam. If you come down here you will be in the way.’

‘That’s right, get me out of your sight. I’m always in the way. You sound just like my son. Did you stick your mother in a home for the walking dead too?’

‘No, madam.’

‘Arrest me will you?’

‘If we have to,’ chided Romney, gently.

The woman noted his serious expression, turned on her slippered heel and began stomping back up the stairs. ‘Fascist pig,’ she muttered.

‘Are there anymore like her loose down here, Constable?’

‘I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Well, see to it that none of them get past you. That’s all I need, a bunch of lunatic geriatrics tearing around.’

The ubiquitous powder-blue disposable jumpsuits of the SOCOs painstakingly going about their business always gave Romney a sense of calm and order. He liked the way they worked: at their various stations, performing their allotted tasks without the need for conversation, engrossed only in their responsibilities.

One of them got up from where they were kneeling and came across to Romney and Marsh. The androgynous form lowered its mask to reveal an attractive young woman. ‘Hello, Detective Inspector.’

Romney thought that her greeting was remarkably friendly given that he had no idea who she was and the circumstances of the occasion. Romney assumed the look of someone who should know the identity of the person who he was being addressed by but was embarrassed by a temporary inability to be able to place them.

Unflustered by the lack of recognition, the woman said, ‘I’m Diane Hodge. It was me you spoke to about the possibility of there being a saliva sample on that contraceptive packet.’

‘Ah, yes, of course. Sorry, I didn’t recognise you.’

‘No reason why you should,’ she said, smiling widely.

Romney indicated the area that the other suits were poring over. ‘What happened here? Is it the same man?’

Diane Hodge looked first surprised and then pleased to be asked her opinion. ‘It certainly bears the hallmarks of the incident at the petrol station.’

‘Go on.’

‘Right. Two victims, again, one woman was raped, the other – her co-worker – knocked unconscious. She was restrained over the table with electric cable ties, which appear to be exactly the same brand as those used at the garage. Same position from what I understand: face down. I believe that he also used a hood. We can’t find any trace of the attacker. I suspect he wore a condom again, but he has been more careful about what he did with the packaging. He doesn’t seem to have ripped the top off with his teeth and spat it out for us to find.’

‘Do we know how he got in?’

‘That’s a strange thing. We’ve checked every possible entry point. No sign of a forced entry anywhere. He might have walked straight in the front door.’

‘Thank you,’ said the DI.

‘My pleasure,’ said the woman.

If Romney didn’t recognise it, Marsh did. Maybe her woman’s intuition gave her that added edge. The SOCO was burning a candle for her boss.

Romney and Marsh viewed the scene from their temporary exclusion zone, each occupied with their own but similar thoughts. A uniformed officer entered the room behind them. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

Romney recognised the constable beside him as the one who had been at the petrol station. ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘The couple who own the place have just arrived.’

Romney and Marsh exchanged a look. ‘Tell them we’re coming.’

It had begun to rain and so the officer had thought it better to ask them into the building, seeing as they owned it. They stood looking frightened and bewildered. Romney, doing a good job of filling the corridor with his size, approached them, Marsh trailing in his wake.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Romney. This is Detective Sergeant Marsh. You are the owners?’

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Clive and Dorothy Logi.’

‘What’s happened?’ said Mrs Logi.

‘Do you mind telling me who called you?’

‘Peter did. Peter Roper. He works for us on the night shift.’

Romney turned to Marsh. ‘Find out where he is, will you? Hang on.’ Turning back to the couple, he said, ‘How many staff have you got on tonight?’

‘Two. Same as every night,’ said Mr Logi. ‘Peter and Jane Goddard. They do most of our night shifts.’

Romney turned again to Marsh. ‘Both of them.’ When Marsh had left, he pointed in the direction he had come from and said, ‘We can’t go up there for a while. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘Yes, we have rooms here,’ said Logi. He took out a small bunch of keys and went to a door to the left of them. Unlocking it he reached in and flicked on the lights and then stepped back for his wife and Romney to precede him.

It looked a comfortable little bolt hole, thought Romney. Nicely furnished, creature comforts, magnificent original fittings in the fireplace and panelling of one wall. His eye was drawn to a bookcase where interesting spines stood uniformly to attention encouraging further investigation.

‘Very nice,’ said Romney. ‘Shall we sit?’

The couple sat to the front of the settee hands clasped in front of them, anxiety distorting their features. Romney took a wing backed chair and fairly slumped down into it. Something caught his eye on his trousers and he saw to his horror evidence of his recent interaction with Julie Carpenter. Something of this must have communicated itself to Mrs Logi, for when Romney looked quickly up trying to cover the stain with his arm, he glimpsed a knowing disapproval lurking around her eyes.

‘What were you told on the phone by...?’ he’d forgotten the man’s name already.

‘Peter,’ prompted Mr Logi.

Marsh entered. They all looked up at her. Feeling that she should, she said, ‘Both have been taken to the hospital, The William Harvey.’

Renewed concern lined the Logis’ faces.

‘You were saying,’ said Romney.

‘He rang us and said that there’d been an intruder.’

‘What time?’

‘One fifteen. No wait, we set our bedside clock five minutes fast. One ten.’

‘Was that his word,
intruder
?’

Logi thought. ‘Yes, I’m sure it was.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘He said there’d been an intruder and that Jane and he had been attacked. He said that he’d phoned the police and that we should get here as quickly as we could. He sounded very frightened. Very shaken. He’s a good lad. They both are. Good I mean.’

Romney said, ‘I don’t want you talking about what I’m going to tell you outside of this room. Is that clear?’ They both nodded. ‘But you have right to know what went on here, as the owners. It appears, and I only say appears at the moment, that there was an intruder tonight and that he knocked unconscious the man who works here and raped Ms Goddard.’

There was a sharp intake of breath on the sofa and Mrs Logi put her hand up to cover her mouth.

‘Oh, bloody hell. Poor Jane,’ said the man. He reached for his wife’s hand and she grabbed it in both of hers.

‘How many residents do you have?’ said Romney.

‘Sixteen at the moment,’ said Mr Logi.

Mrs Logi had found a handkerchief from somewhere and was holding it tightly to her face.

‘You’ll be wanting to see them, no doubt,’ said Romney. ‘A PC has been keeping them upstairs. Perhaps you should go and reassure them. They’re quite safe, but they must be made to realise that they cannot come down until we say so.’

‘Of course,’ said the man.

‘Sergeant Marsh, go with Mr and Mrs Logi. If anyone saw anything useful I want to speak to them.’

‘Sir.’

‘Oh, one last thing, is the front door locked at night?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Logi. ‘We’re most insistent about that. Residents’ security is of paramount importance.’

They all rose. Romney held his coat across his trousers.

‘Has this got anything to do with that rape at the petrol station?’ said Mrs Logi, finding her voice.

Romney met her frightened stare. ‘I’m not at all sure about that, Mrs Logi, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t share that theory or anything of the details that you will probably find out in due course.’

The Logis and Marsh moved off towards the staircase. Romney revisited the kitchen. He was standing there thinking when a sonorous voice that he recognised began to make itself heard in the hallway. He braced himself.

‘Hello, Tom,’ came the deep bass of Superintendent Falkner. The superintendent, who appeared to suffer from an absolute lack of appreciation of the concept of personal space, sidled up to Romney so that their shoulders were touching.

‘Hello, sir,’ said Romney, attempting to hide his despair at his governor’s arrival while simultaneously striving to create a mixture of professional pleasure at being graced with the presence of the senior officer and personal dismay at their meeting under such awful circumstances. To his own ear he just sounded annoyed.

Falkner spoke quietly in Romney’s ear. ‘I hate the stink of these places. Cabbage and piss; the odour of God’s waiting room.’

‘What brings you out here, sir?’

‘You know how it is, Tom. Anything with a whiff of serial about it and we’ve all got to look particularly concerned. Talking of whiff, can you smell that?’

‘Smell what, sir?’

‘Sex, Tom. Reeks of it in here.’ Romney drew his coat tighter about him and put his hand to his face. ‘Same as the other one?’

‘It looks like it, sir. Similar MO, but until we speak to the victims we won’t know for sure.’

‘You need help?’

It was a question that no officer in charge of an investigation wants to consider. Asking for, or having help thrust upon one, looked bad and, to Romney, would always suggest incompetence on the part of the officer in charge, or just as bad, a lack of confidence on the part of his senior officer. He didn’t want to contemplate it.

‘No, sir. Thank you.’

‘OK. I’ll back you, for now. You’ve got a week, or until he strikes again, then we’ll have to see. We’ve got to play the game, Tom, you know that. We’ve all got to play the bloody game. If you’ll take my advice, stop wasting your time on that suicide. If this does turn serial, we’ll all come under scrutiny and it won’t look good if it seems you’ve been flogging a dead horse, so to speak, while some pervert’s been raping his way around Dover.’ He sniffed the air again and Romney flinched. ‘Right, that’s all. I’m back to bed. See me tomorrow.’

He breezed out as quickly as he’d blown in and after a minute Romney was left wondering whether the visit had been a figment of his imagination.

Marsh entered the room and came to stand by him. ‘I thought that I heard the super down here, sir.’

‘You did. Just putting in his appearance. Showing his support. Playing his part.’

Marsh sniffed. ‘Can you smell that, sir?’

‘Cabbage and piss?’

‘No, sex.’

Romney reddened and felt it. It made him awkward. ‘Don’t you start. Anyone upstairs got anything to say?’

Marsh looked at him strangely. ‘No, sir. Apparently, none of them saw or heard a thing until we arrived.’

‘Well they’ll all need interviewing properly, but that can wait till the morning. Diane?’ he called to the three similar figures. She looked up from under the kitchen table that Jane Goddard had been strapped to and raped. ‘How much longer do you think that you’ll be?’

‘Twenty minutes, thirty at the most.’

He nodded his thanks and smiled. To Marsh, he said, ‘I’m going home. Tell the Logis not to come in here until this lot have finished with it. Then get off. I’ll organise a uniform to stay here tonight. Nothing else is going to happen, but I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.’

Romney sat in his car and reflected on it all. He ran his fingers across his face and the smell of Julie Carpenter’s nether regions filled his nasal passages. A serial rapist. In all his years of policing, he’d never encountered a serial anything. He hoped that the newspapers didn’t get wind of it.