A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (15 page)

‘What was her drink?’

‘Gin as a rule.’

‘There was a bottle of it in her room. Do you know how it got there?’

‘She probably brought it with her. She usually does.’

In response to Romney’s look, Mrs Allen said, ‘I was her literary agent, not her keeper, Inspector.’

Romney indicated with an upward jerk of his chin that Marsh should see her back to her room. He turned his attention back to the dead woman and said, ‘Let’s have a look in that handbag. Find out who she is.’

The bag was opened and the purse removed by one of the forensic people wearing his tight plastic gloves. Romney indicated that the man should look for identification. The man held up a driving licence. The image on the plastic was of the dead woman. She was named as Rachael Sparrow. Her address was a Dover one.

Marsh was back at the doorway. ‘Rachael Sparrow,’ said Romney. ‘Make a note of that address and then see me downstairs. I’m going to speak to the manager.’

Romney marched out without another word. SOCO went back to their tasks. Marsh took out her pen and pad and scribbled down the address from the driving licence. She looked up to see Maurice Wendell at her elbow. Privately, he said, ‘Is he all right? He doesn’t look well.’

Marsh smiled lightly. ‘I don’t know. I asked him the same thing. He says he’s fine, but I’m sure you know as well as I do he’s not big on discussing his feelings.’ Maurice smiled knowingly at her. Marsh made an embarrassed face, ‘I want to apologise for my manner yesterday at Bernie Stark’s place. I was out of order. I let something personal get in the way, make me a bit snappy.’

‘DS Marsh...’ began Wendell.

‘Joy, if you like.’ and the seasoned pathologist inclined his old knowledgeable head, thereby accepting with pleasure her invitation.

‘Joy, no apology necessary. The stresses of the job affect us all from time to time and working with a certain DI can’t be easy.’

They shared a small moment of understanding.

Marsh turned to leave. ‘See you around, Doctor.’

‘That’s Maurice to you, Joy,’ he said with a wink.

Marsh smiled and left them to it.

By the time she got downstairs Romney was deep in conversation with the manager at one side of the foyer. The manager was several shades redder than the last time Marsh had seen him. As she approached she saw his expression morph into something quite disturbing and she guessed that Romney had broken the news about the victim lying upstairs.

‘What CCTV do you have here?’ said Romney.

‘There’s only one camera. It’s over there.’ They followed his pointing to where a small camera looked down on the main desk.

‘That’s it?’ said Romney, not making much effort to hide his disappointment.

The manager nodded. Then he asked when the police would be gone. He meant the dead body and when he could have his hotel free of every hotelier’s worst nightmare.

‘When we’ve finished,’ said Romney. ‘We’ll need to see the tape for today.’

The police, CID and uniform, worked together to make lists of all those known to be present at the time of the incident: hotel staff, hotel guests and those attending the wedding function. Statements were taken, others were postponed. But CID felt strongly that the person they really needed to speak to, the person who probably had all the answers, was no longer there. Stephanie Lather’s description was circulated and the law could do little other than wait until she was sighted and picked up for questioning.

Out in the early evening on the pavement Romney stopped and looked about him as he absently fumbled with his cigarettes. The sun had lost its warmth and the air was closer in temperature and weight to the autumn weather one would expect. A light breeze was blowing in off the water.

Marsh wondered if Romney had come out to look for a lone white female who bore a resemblance to the dead woman upstairs.

There was no evidence of any of the wedding guests now – probably all inside stuffing their faces – but the emergency services were still in evidence. That must have played havoc with the wedding photos, she thought, but imagined some wit would get a laugh out of it when they were shown around. They always did.

In answer to her thoughts, Romney blew out a stream of smoke and said, ‘We don’t even know what she’s wearing, do we?’ He breathed the next draw in deeply. ‘Let’s pay the dead woman’s home a visit. Ruin someone else’s day. You walk here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘My car’s up here. Come on. I hope you didn’t have any plans for tonight.’

***

10

Rachael Sparrow’s address was a terraced property half way up Astley Avenue. Romney had phoned the station and asked for a woman police constable to meet them outside just in case they needed to leave someone there to console grieving relatives.

Dusk was well advanced and the lack of streetlights made finding the place awkward until they spotted the liveried police patrol car parked up waiting.

Neighbours’ curtains twitched as Romney and Marsh approached the front door with the woman PC trailing behind. There was life in the house. Lights were on. A television flickered. And then through the half-drawn curtains two small children ran past the window squealing in fun. It stopped Romney in his tracks. Marsh and the PC stopped with him and waited. He wondered whether he should share something of his thoughts about this part of the job that he hated more than any other, especially when there were children involved. Could he tell them what it did to his spirit and his conscience and his nights to have to deliver news that shattered lives? He guessed they didn’t feel much different and were glad that they had him as a buffer between them and the relatives.

Romney reached out and pushed the bell. A gentle male voice could be heard calling the children to order. Then there was a shadow beyond the frosted glass of the door and it was opened. A man’s face peered out. He looked tired and harassed. And then he looked worried.

‘Mr Sparrow?’ said Romney.

‘Yes.’ The man was staring at Romney’s crudely-bandaged hand, which held his warrant card.

‘Dover police. Does Rachael Sparrow live here?’

‘Yes. She’s my wife.’ And with that Romney had his miserable fears confirmed.

*

The woman PC had organised the children – neither of them older than ten and both wide-eyed with curiosity – in the front room and shut the door.

Mr Sparrow had taken the news as badly as he was entitled to. He’d clutched at the door for support, his hand had come up to his face, his eyes had filled with tears. He’d looked like he might keel over. But he didn’t. He marshalled his strength, stopped short of the abyss and firmly prioritised. He insisted the children went with the nice lady and behaved. And they listened to him.

He led CID into the kitchen at the back of the house and sat down heavily. There was something of the strong, decent and sensitive type about Mr Sparrow. It was something likeable and Romney felt freshly wretched for being the bearer of such crippling news.

‘There’s no doubt?’ said Mr Sparrow.

‘We recovered her driving licence and her face matches. We’ll need you to formally identify her, of course, but there is little doubt in our minds. I’m very sorry.’

‘How did she die?’

‘We’re treating the death as suspicious, Mr Sparrow. That’s as much as I can tell you for now.’

‘Suspicious? You mean it wasn’t an accident. I thought. I assumed. Did someone kill her?’

‘Rachael didn’t die a natural death.’

‘Oh my God. I don’t believe it.’

‘Do you know why she was at the hotel?’ Romney suddenly had a horrible feeling that the man might not have known, that it would be a complete surprise to him because his wife had been keeping secrets from him. Maybe that would ultimately make it all easier in the long run.

‘Yes. She was visiting her sister.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Stephanie Lather. She was giving a talk about her books. Rachael had been invited. They were meeting up afterwards.’

‘She was at the talk?’ said Marsh.

‘No. I made her late. I didn’t mean to. It was work. I work on the railways. I got home late. She would have missed the talk but she went to see Stephanie. But didn’t Stephanie tell you all this?’

‘Ms Lather hasn’t been able to help us yet.’

‘I don’t understand. Rachael’s her sister. She must be able to help.’

‘Stephanie has disappeared, Mr Sparrow. You haven’t heard from her, I suppose?’

He was quiet for a long moment as he processed the implications of this news. ‘No, I’ve never met her. Rachael hasn’t seen her for years. The invitation came out of the blue. Rachael was so excited.’

Although he was under control, a tear ran down his stubbly cheek. Any minute the long-term implications of the news were going to hit him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer cracking a walnut – his new life as a single parent to two young girls kicking off with a bereavement that would never be far from their thoughts. Romney wanted to be finished with the man and on his way by then.

‘What time did your wife leave for the function?’

‘Late morning. Midday perhaps. Around there.’ And he remembered something. The recollection crumpled his features to resemble something melted in front of a fire. ‘We argued about me being late. She said I’d ruined her day. It was work. You can’t leave a welding job unfinished on the track. She knew that. She always accepted it. But today she was so cross. We never even said goodbye properly.’

The tears and the grief took him then. Pulled him away from them with all the irresistibility of a black hole. And a black hole was where he was headed. Romney could only hope that the children would prove to be the reason that kept him from perishing in it, his lifebelt. He’d need them as much as they’d need him.

Mr Sparrow didn’t want the PC to stay. Romney left his card and told him that someone would be in touch regarding what needed to be done. But he wasn’t sure that the man was listening any more.

Out on the street darkness had fallen completely and it had started to rain – a light, even drizzle. Romney was suddenly exhausted and starving. ‘You want to get something to eat?’ he said to Marsh.

‘I think I just lost my appetite, sir.’

‘Coffee then? My treat.’

‘If I can choose the place.’

Romney gave her a half smile, which she might have missed in the absence of light. ‘All right. Sammy Coker’s it’s not, I take it?’

‘You take it right, sir.’

They didn’t speak again of Mr Sparrow or the children on the short drive to the Premier Inn on the seafront. Romney expressed his disappointment at her choice of location but Marsh put him straight by telling him that as it was only a stone’s throw from her apartment she sometimes dropped in for a coffee in the bar and it was as good as any other she’d found in the town. And there was always plenty of room and comfort and quiet.

Marsh found a table with two comfortable armchairs away from the main seating area while Romney ordered drinks at the bar. As she waited for him she absently allowed her gaze to swing around the room – a police officer’s habit. Sitting in a secluded alcove were three women that Marsh recognised.

‘What’s up?’ said Romney when he returned.

‘You remember I told you about three women who heckled Stephanie Lather this morning?’ He nodded. ‘They’re sitting over there.’

Romney turned to look. ‘You sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Well that’s a stroke of luck then, isn’t it? Let’s go and make their evening.’ He smiled rather malevolently, certainly without warmth. With a sense of dread, Marsh did hope he would manage to keep a rein on his unpleasant side.

They had appeared positively garrulous in their ignorance of the police approaching. All talk dried up as Romney’s intimidating form loomed over them.

‘We’re not doing autographs,’ said a very thin woman wearing a long vibrantly-green dress and keeping a straight face. She wore a string of fat, green plastic beads, a green beret at a jaunty angle, chunky green earrings, green tights and green shoes. She reminded Romney of someone he’d once seen on the telly dressed as a giant runner bean. Her face was a collection of harsh angular features, like a small bag of door handles, and framed by hair that Romney expected to be green but was in fact rather disappointingly brown. Her friends laughed.

‘That’s good because I’m not asking for any,’ he said. ‘I’m only interested in signed books, not beer mats.’ He brandished his warrant card. ‘Dover police. Detective Inspector Romney and this is Detective Sergeant Marsh.’

‘Romney and Marsh, as in the place?’ said the bean.

‘No. Romney and Marsh as in the
police
,’ growled Romney. ‘We were told we’d find you here,’ he lied and they weren’t laughing any more.

‘And why are Dover police looking for us?’ said an extremely fat woman of less than average height whose voice betrayed an undertone of concern at the news. She looked like she’d eaten all the pies and then the baker.