Rope Enough - The Romney and Marsh Files #1

  As the lad came within earshot Romney said hello. Park nodded and mumbled something incoherent.

  Romney said, ‘Didn’t expect to see you here, Carl.’

  ‘She was all right,’ said Park. ‘I feel bad about what happened to her.’

  Romney had some sympathy for the youth. ‘Need a lift back into town?’

  Park shook his head. Raindrops flew in all directions. ‘No, thanks,’ he said and walked away.

  Romney turned back to find the woman – the sole mourner left – almost in front of him. She wore an aggressive expression.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  For a moment Romney wondered if perhaps she was talking to someone who had crept up behind him.

  ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ she said, as he glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘If you’re talking to me, I’m Detective Inspector Romney of Dover CID. Do you mind telling me who you are?’

  The woman’s shoulders dropped two inches. ‘Elaine Davies: Claire’s sister. Sorry. I thought you were that creep my sister was knocking about with.’

  ‘Simon Avery, do you mean? Thanks very much. You missed him. He was the short one.’

  ‘What? He just told me he was a friend of Claire’s.’ She looked like she was thinking of pursuing him.

  Romney put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘He’s not worth it, especially today of all days.’

  He took his hand away, and she looked up at him. Her eyes were swimming with tears. Whether they were tears of frustration, anger or sorrow Romney didn’t know her well enough to recognise. He guessed they were probably a mixture of all three. The rain ran steadily off their umbrellas. Standing there alone in the chilly, wet, winter gloom in a cemetery in a strange town with only her grief for company, Romney took pity on her.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink? There’s a quiet pub down the road. They serve coffee.’

  She gave him a look then. ‘I’ve just buried my sister. Tomorrow I’m burying our mother. I’m not looking for coffee, Inspector.’

  *

  She followed Romney the short distance to The Connaught. It was clearly a public house that derived much of its business from the mourning trade, if the decor was anything to go by. Some might say that such a business plan – profiting from the bereft and distraught – was a touch morbid, but the landlord would reply, as he often had, what about undertakers? He was simply aiming to cater, literally, to a niche market, which was fortuitously virtually on his doorstep. Business couldn’t be too bad either, Romney thought, from the state of the place. Death clearly got people putting their hands in their pockets either drowning their sorrows or grateful it wasn’t them just interred in six feet of earth and chalk. He reflected that this particular wake wouldn’t be contributing too much to the pub’s coffers.

  He ordered a large vodka and tonic for Elaine Davies, and so as not to appear stuffy, a pint of ale for himself. She’d taken a table near the open fire and was staring morosely into the flames. They took their first sips in silence.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of you. What were you doing there? At the funeral? Is that part of the new policing policy these days, or did you know her?’

  ‘We met as part of the investigation. I interviewed her.’

  The woman’s brow furrowed and she lowered her drink. ‘What investigation? Her suicide? How could you have met her as part of that? I don’t understand.’

  With a sick feeling in his stomach, Romney realised that Elaine Davies had no idea her sister had been raped.

  In spite of his concerns, after her initial shock, she seemed to take the news stoically. The more he talked to her – explained things to her – the stronger he realised she was. She was clearly a few years older than her sister, and perhaps life had prepared her better for such awful news. But one thing was inevitably going to lead to another.

  ‘Is that why she killed herself? Because she was raped?’

  Romney’s insides squirmed, like a worm on a hook. ‘Our investigations into your sister’s death are not yet complete.’

  ‘What does that mean? Are you saying she didn’t jump? Was she pushed? Is that why you were there today?’ Her voice had risen in pitch and volume, attracting the interest of the barman in the otherwise empty bar.

  Romney did his best to placate her. ‘All I can honestly tell you is that a conclusive verdict on your sister’s death has not yet been reached. It’s likely that it will be declared suicide, or death by misadventure. When was the last time you spoke with her?’

  She swallowed the last of her drink. ‘About two weeks ago.’

  ‘What made you react like you did when I pointed out Avery?’

  ‘Claire told me he’d been violent towards her. Nothing serious so far, but it was getting worse. She sounded me out about coming to stay for a while.’ A tear ran down Elaine Davies’ cheek to land on the polished surface of the table. ‘Why didn’t she leave him?’ When Romney had no answer for her, she said, ‘Are you anything to do with the investigation into my mother’s death?’

  ‘No, but I know something of it. I know the officer who is dealing with it.’

  ‘Are my sister’s and my mother’s deaths related?’ She was now staring at him wide-eyed with where her thinking had taken her.

  ‘There is no evidence to suggest that your mother’s death was anything other than a tragic accident, but I have to tell you, if you don’t know, that her home was ransacked soon after she was killed. If I’m being totally honest with you – and I have to be – I see your sister’s and your mother’s deaths, simply by dint of their relation in time, as suspicious. I have no evidence to back that up. It’s just my instinct. It’s an instinct that is shared, and we are all doing everything we can to sort the mess out. Believe that.’

  ‘But why? Who? Has that Avery got something to do with it?’

  ‘I really don’t know, and even if I did that is not something I could discuss with you.’

  ‘I need another drink.’

  ‘Where are you staying tonight?’ said Romney. ‘I hate to come over all official at a time like this, but you know you can’t drive if you’re going to start drowning sorrows.’

  She let out a long breath that hinted at her tiredness. ‘I only got here an hour before the funeral. There was an accident on the motorway. I haven’t had a chance to book anywhere, yet.’

  ‘They do rooms here. Why don’t you take one? Save yourself the bother of searching about.’

  ‘And your conscience, I suppose. You don’t want me driving around town when you’ve been buying me drinks, do you?’ She didn’t mean it spitefully and he smiled at her. ‘I’ll book a room here on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Keep me company for an hour. Please.’

  He checked his watch. It was almost five. He had hardly touched his drink. He had arranged to take Julie Carpenter to the cinema later that evening. ‘All right, but I’ll have to make a couple of calls.’

  She thanked him for his kindness. The sincerity of her gratitude cheered him. It reminded him of the way policing used to make him feel.

  He got hold of Marsh first and explained the situation. He was prepared to plead with her, if necessary, to join him and Elaine Davies as soon as she possibly could. She said she’d be happy to call in for a drink.

  Then he phoned Julie Carpenter, and for several reasons – not least of which was the trouble that his previous evening in a pub with a woman had got him into – he explained in some detail his predicament. He wondered if she, too, would join them. To his pleasant surprise and great relief, she agreed. She said she’d come straight from work and be there within half-an-hour.

  With his conscience eased, he returned to the table and took two large gulps of the warm ale. Elaine Davies had another drink in front of her. She was back to staring glumly into the flames.

  Romney said, ‘What are the arrangements for your mother? You said
she’s being buried tomorrow?’

  ‘Cremated, actually, at a place called Charing. It’s a rush job. Not very respectful, I know, but if she’s dead she’s dead. I run a business in Blackpool. It’s struggling. I can’t afford to lose trade and time by being down here burying people.’ She met Romney’s eye. ‘We were not a close family. Claire and I got on well enough, but to be honest, our mother was not my favourite person. We’d hardly spoken in the last year. She arranged today. It’s not what Claire would have wanted. She’d have preferred cremation.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She wanted to be buried. Adamant about it.’ The woman permitted herself a shameless, wry smile. ‘You might not think me a very nice person for it but I plan to enjoy tomorrow, at least the irony of it. Sick, eh?’

  Romney shrugged. ‘I don’t believe there’s anything after death, so it doesn’t matter. There’s no other family then?’

  ‘Our father died ten years ago. My brother’s not in the country. I don’t even know which continent he’s on. There might be a few distant relatives, but no one who ever kept in touch.’

  ‘Did your mother own her home?’

  She snorted. ‘No such luck. They rented all their lives. Dad never wanted the financial burden of a mortgage or the responsibility of the upkeep on places. He liked to keep his cash-flow for the bookies. It was his money, I suppose.’ After a brief silence, she said, ‘I’d rather she was murdered.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Claire. I’d rather someone had killed her than she’d jumped to her death. It’s tormented me that she might have been so desperate, so lonely, so miserable and depressed that the only way out she could see was to take her own life. I was her sister – her closest relative. If she was that low, she should have come to me.’

  ‘She was coming to you.’ She looked up at him, tearful again. ‘My sergeant is joining us in a little while. She came across Claire on the seafront on the night she died. They had a cuppa and a chat. Claire told her that she was coming to stay with you.’

  ‘Is that true?’ There was such hope in her eyes.

  ‘Perfectly. You can ask her yourself, but it’s not common knowledge, and I’d prefer it not to be. Under the circumstances, I think you have a right to know that.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. She took a tissue from her bag and blew her nose into it.

  Romney could see that his confidence had gone some small way to easing her torment.

  She laughed suddenly and with good humour said, ‘You lot really are a great advertisement for modern policing aren’t you? Drinks and sympathy in your own time. A shining light of victim support.’ She raised her glass in acknowledgement and thanks.

  As if she had been waiting for her cue, Marsh entered. From the look of her she had no umbrella, and it was now raining hard. Romney made the introductions and went to the bar to get a round in. He hoped that in the time it would take him to buy the drinks Marsh would have the opportunity to confirm what he had told the woman regarding Claire Stamp’s intentions. It was suddenly important to him that she know it for the truth, and not later reflect that he had just told her what he thought she had needed and wanted to hear.

  As he stood waiting for his pint to be pulled, the door opened behind him. Turning, he saw Julie Carpenter framed in the doorway, battling to lower her umbrella. A feeling of pleasure and longing welled up inside him. He realised in that moment – watching her come towards him in her business suit and heels, a smile breaking out on her beautiful face as she fought to clear her hair from her vision – that he was in love with her, and there was nothing that he could do about it, even if he’d wanted to.

  Julie hushed his apologies for the change of plan with a finger to his lips, accepted the offer of a glass of wine and went to introduce herself to the other two at the table. By the time Romney joined them with a tray of drinks, the three women were engaged in amiable conversation that gave no suggestion of their lack of familiarity with each other.

  The next two hours were a surprise to each of them. For periods of it Romney was content to be an observer as the women chattered. He thought that an outsider would have had a hard time recognising the circumstances that had thrown the four comparative strangers together.

  At his suggestion they decided to eat. The good food complemented the evening, which turned out to be one of those truly enjoyable impromptu meetings that planned functions can rarely compare to. It was, as Elaine Davies was moved and proud to say at the end of it, a bloody decent wake for her sister all things considered and probably one of the strangest she had heard of. They all raised their glasses and drank to that.

  At a time that seemed right they disbanded. The bereaved sister went to find her room with many thanks and not a few alcohol induced tears. Julie Carpenter, who early on had assessed her role for the evening and had largely abstained from the alcohol, offered the police officers rides home. Both accepted.

  After dropping Marsh outside her building, Julie followed Romney’s directions to his remote country home. It was a visit that both of them had considered at some point since they had begun their relationship. Romney had imagined giving her the grand tour, explaining his ideas and intentions, taking his time to help her envisage the potential of the place. He would have tidied and cleaned up a bit.

  As it turned out they had to bolt for the door in another downpour. Once inside neither had any interest in anything other than undressing and falling into bed.

  Around midnight, Julie quietly left him sleeping, collected together her things and with little interest in her surroundings she dressed and let herself out into the winter’s night.

  ***

  27

  Romney woke early. He lay in his bed remembering the previous evening. He had no regrets for how things had gone, other than the gentle throbbing at his temples. Elaine Davies had needed the company. Marsh had gone up in his estimations. And Julie, in his own mind at least, had become a force in his life. The evening had been a release. It would stay with him as something good and unexpected.

  He ordered a taxi, had a long shower and then made coffee and toast. He thought about ringing Julie. He settled for sending a text in which he hoped to strike a balance between suggesting something of his gratitude for the previous evening and something of his growing affection for her.

  *

  Despite having to retrieve his vehicle from the car park of The Connaught, Romney was still first into CID. He decided to have a run at the paperwork that had built up on his desk.

  Marsh arrived soon after. Romney beckoned her in. ‘Thanks for coming to the rescue last night.’

  ‘No problem, sir. I had a good evening. Should have all samples of people who work at the garage taken by lunch time today. Diane Hodge in forensics has assured me of priority.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Carl Park doesn’t work there anymore. I’ll have to find him at his home address.’

  ‘Oh, why?’

  ‘Mr Patel said he quit. The day after the incident was his last, apparently. Never showed up again, and didn’t return any calls.’

  ‘That’s odd. I didn’t tell you, he was at the funeral yesterday. There were just the four of us: Avery, Park, Elaine Davies and me.’

  ‘Why would he go to the funeral?’

  Romney thought. ‘He said something about liking her. Felt bad about what happened to her.’

  ‘He’s a strange one.’

  ‘I doubt very much he’ll give us a match on the saliva sample, but you’ll have to eliminate him anyway.’

  *

  Marsh received a phone call from Jane Goddard. In the early hours of the morning she had received three photographic images sent to her phone by the rapist. She was calm, but naturally they terrorised her. Goddard read out the phone number they had been sent from. It was different to the one that had been used to send images to Claire Stamp. Marsh arranged to visit her within the hour. She knew that it was largely just a gesture. As with the nu
mber that had been used to send images to Claire Stamp, she was as sure as she could be without knowing it that the SIM card used would be of a similar disposable type and its origin untraceable.

  Marsh had told Romney. He accepted the news as though he had expected it.

  They discussed the comprehensive list Spicer had compiled of ways to get mobile phone numbers. Now it was confirmed that the attacker had both victims’ numbers, cross referencing of the ladies contacts was an avenue of enquiry – no matter how tedious and unlikely to reveal the identity of the attacker – the police had to explore. Both Romney and Marsh had little hope that the perpetrator of the crimes was going to be unveiled so simply.

  Marsh got hold of Park’s mother on the third ring. She identified herself and asked to speak to Carl. The surly woman told her that he was in bed. Marsh made it clear that he had better get out of bed and get to the phone. Marsh had to wait a long couple of minutes for him.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sorry to get you out of bed, Carl,’ said Marsh, trying not to sound it. ‘We need you to come down to the station.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘As part of our ongoing investigation into what happened at the garage, of course.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘I know that you have, Carl. It’s something else. Would you like me to send a police car for you?’

  ‘No. I’ll call in this morning.’

  ‘Good. See that you do.’ Marsh hung up, irritated at his response that typified so many of the people she had to deal with: the general public.

  She left word with a colleague that when Park showed himself he was to be directed to volunteer a mouth-swab sample. She then left for her appointment with Jane Goddard.

  *

  Jane Goddard let Marsh into her neat little terraced home. She led her through into the kitchen area and passed over her phone. She was understandably and visibly distraught about receiving the images. The photographs were all of a similar nature to the ones they had of Claire Stamp – full images of the woman’s bare backside in a cruel and undignified pose.