Read Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) Online
Authors: Oliver Tidy
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 young were these days. 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. Ahead of them Park was scrabbling about throwing rocks to either side of him. Romney, Marsh and Grimes stopped, forming a well-spaced semi-circle ten metres from where Park was now standing brandishing the revolver 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 and 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 ten 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 and with an extended arm aimed at Romney’s chest. He pulled the trigger. The redundant metallic snap was lost in the wind. He pulled again and again, his face reflecting his increasing fury.
‘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 and in seconds he was past her and running towards the cliff edge. For several dreadful strides Romney watched on paralysed and helpless, mesmerised as Park and the cliff edge, with a drop of several hundred rocky feet, 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.
Park’s fall snapped Romney out of his temporary paralysis. He hurried towards the prostrate screaming youth to pin him to the ground if necessary. It was not. The bone that had broken had rent a nasty gash in the flesh of his ankle and suggested strongly that the youth would not be getting up and running any further. His shrieking, a mixture of frustration and agony, bordered on animal. He clawed at the ground dragging up clods of turf and earth.
Romney exchanged a look with Marsh and Grimes who had arrived to stand with him over the body. ‘That was a close one,’ he said, to no one in particular. Then to Park, ‘You’ve got to watch where you’re putting your feet up here, Carl. If it’s not dog shit, it’s rabbit holes. I trust you two saw him try to shoot me? We can add attempted murder of a police officer to his charge sheet. With any luck they’ll throw away the key. You two wait here. I’ll organise an ambulance.’ He looked down at the pathetic squirming body, filthy and broken. ‘Best not move him. Don’t want him suing us for aggravating his injuries, do we? I’ll get someone to bring you two out some waterproofs.’ Romney took a last disgusted look at the figure writhing on the ground, shook his head and began his gentle triumphant stroll back to the coastguard station. ‘Oh, and someone retrieve that gun,’ he called, over his shoulder.
When Romney was out of earshot, Grimes said, ‘Governor seems very pleased with himself.’
‘Well he might,’ said Marsh. ‘In fifteen minutes he’ll be in the warm drinking something hot while you and I are going to be stuck out here for God knows how long.’ She looked again at the miserable example of humanity writhing and sobbing on the turf at her feet. She felt nothing but disgust for him – no pity, no compassion. He had shown himself guilty of unforgivable crimes and she was not inclined to offer him any comfort. She turned away from him and walked the short distance to seek what shelter she could find in the lee of the concrete war structure.
***
Romney was asked, given the location of the victim and the impending darkness, whether he felt the air ambulance was necessary. He said he did not. He said that as far as he could tell the injury was non-life-threatening and did not warrant the trouble and expense of such a valuable resource. For all he cared they could have bumped and jolted Park the kilometre across the cliff tops on a sheep hurdle with no anaesthetic. His only concern for the prisoner was that he didn’t conveniently contract some virile form of pneumonia and die, thus depriving Romney of his day in court and the satisfaction of knowing that Carl Park was tucked away in miserable confinement for a lengthy stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
He left the officer at the coastguard station to oversee and direct the paramedics when they arrived and drove back to the station. Alone in the vehicle he felt the euphoria of his success radiate throughout his body to cancel out the cold and wet. He might have a few awkward questions to field from Superintendent Falkner, depending on how he viewed Romney’s methods, but overall he felt confident that even Falkner, who could be a stickler for the rule book when it suited him, would see that the ends justified the means. In any case, he felt no inclination to be completely truthful with his senior officer. There were things that one needed to inform one’s senior officer about and details that he would neither need, nor want, to know.
*
In the technological age, news travels with winged feet, reflected Romney. By the time that he – the hero of the hour – returned to the station the alert that the surveillance officer in the coast guard tower had made across the airwaves detailing the escape of a prisoner fleeing across the cliffs tops and his subsequent recapture had brought the unfolding events to the notice of most of those on duty. As Romney squelched his way to his office and the clean change of clothes he kept there, he fielded congratulations and demonstrations of respect. He knew from experience that Falkner would not be returning to the station late on a Friday after an afternoon’s jolly with colleagues thirty miles away. But protocol dictated that he would need to call him and update him with his own carefully potted version of the afternoon’s events.
Judging by Falkner’s reaction to the news Romney gathered that he had had a good afternoon himself. He offered his congratulations and asked no particularly awkward questions. But they would undoubtedly come and Romney would need to be ready for them and ensure that the other officers involved not only had copies of the same hymn sheet, but were well rehearsed.
*
It was after five o’clock by the time Marsh trudged into the squad room. Romney had long since dried off and warmed up, but the sight of Marsh brought the memory of the cold and wet exposed cliff top back to him. Her clothes were soaking, her hair was plastered to and hung limply from her scalp. Her eye make-up had run and smudged and she was shivering with the cold. In her hand she carried a dripping plastic bag with something heavy in it.
Romney gave her a bemused smile, which was not returned. He didn’t mind. Two hours out on the cliffs in winter ruining a perfectly good Marks and Sparks trouser suit wouldn’t have been his idea of fun either. ‘Everything all right?’ he said.
‘Eventually. They’ve taken him to the Harvey. I’ve organised an escort for him.’
‘Good. You got dry clothes here?’ She shook her head. ‘Borrow what you can. Get dried off and warmed up. I want the reports written up before anyone goes home. Where’s Grimes?’
‘Downstairs.’
‘Right, I’ll speak with him. Is that the gun?’ She nodded. ‘Check that in first.’
‘I couldn’t help noticing, when you took off after Park, that your leg wasn’t troubling you, sir.’
‘Yeah,’ said Romney, with a straight face. ‘Funny that. It’s always been like it. Just pops back in to place and it’s right as rain. Feels fine now.’
‘Do you think that it might have had an influence on Park’s decision to do a runner, you hobbling about on a stick?’
Romney appeared to give the question a moment’s serious consideration and made a face. ‘It never occurred to me. Possibly.’
‘What did you say to him, in the car? What made him run?’
Romney smiled at her. ‘I can’t honestly remember, Sergeant. We were just chatting and then he was gone. I’d hurry up and get out of those wet things if I were you. You’ll catch cold if you’re not careful. There’s bound to be something downstairs that’ll fit you.’
Romney had written his report before the others had arrived back at the station. He organised sandwiches and hot drinks for the pair who sat at their workstations under the squad room lights tapping away at their keyboards. From time to time he would look over their shoulders checking that details concurred, offering suggestions where they didn’t. Only he and Marsh were aware of the impetus he had given the unfolding of the afternoon’s events. Naturally, he wanted to keep it that way. Sometimes the ends justified the means, even if the means were questionable.
Romney invited them to join him for a meal and a pint at the Duke of York by way of celebration and his personal thanks for the afternoon’s efforts. Marsh’s protestations that she couldn’t possibly go looking like she did in borrowed male clothing at least three sizes too big for her were overruled by Romney.
They left the squad room in good spirits and descended the stairs together to be confronted with a scene of unusual and general agitation and activity. It appeared that a mobilisation of all those available was under way. A flushed duty sergeant looked up to see the three CID officers descending.
‘What’s up?’ said Romney.
‘Trouble at mill, gov, literally. It’s all a bit sketchy at the moment. Reports of an incident involving several members of the public behind the old mill at Crabble.’
‘What’s there?’
‘It’s mostly derelict as far as I know. Some warehouse space and lock-ups at the back.
‘Need reinforcements?’
‘Thought you’d never ask, gov. We’re stretched. We could do with help if you’re offering.’
‘We’ll take my car,’ said Romney.
*
An incident was a euphemism that certainly didn’t do justice to what confronted them on their arrival. Pitched battle would have been more accurate. The flood lights which illuminated the expanse of concrete apron behind the mill which served as a communal space shared between the several old warehouse structures was animated with shadowy figures running, swinging, dodging, striking, wrestling and struggling with each other in a mass brawl. The flashing lights from the two police vehicles that had already arrived on the scene added a surreal stroboscopic dimension to the sight. The air was filled with shouted languages – English and foreign – and the wailing sirens of approaching reinforcements. Romney had never seen anything like it other than on training videos, Hollywood blockbusters and once when The Whites got through a couple of rounds of a cup competition and played host to a London club with a significant fan base bent on violence.