A Dog's Life (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 4) (18 page)

He had a text message, eight missed calls and two answerphone messages. He diverted his attention to savouring the first sip of his first filter coffee of the day and his craving for nicotine was awakened. He fought it down and his self-control pleased him. He was down to between five and ten a day and wanted to reduce his intake further. The longer he put off the first of the day the fewer he ended up smoking; a simple approach that was working for him.

He opened the text message:
Staying over at Maureen’s sister’s. See you some time tomorrow
. The message from Grimes discomfited Romney as much as it cheered him. While it meant that he wouldn’t have to share Sunday breakfast with a man whose appetite and eating habits were only excelled in the revulsion stakes by his penchant for parading around the house in his enormous boxer shorts – garments which had a tendency to gape open widely at the flap – and threadbare misshapen T-shirts, Grimes’ absence also meant that Romney would not be able to have the quiet and confidential word regarding the events that he barely remembered of Friday night. This was something he keenly wanted to do before work on Monday.

Strangely and annoyingly, the message also made Romney feel responsible for the big man in some way – or at least that some sort of unspoken accountability existed between them. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like it at all. Still, at least he had his own home to himself for the Sunday morning. He should look on the bright side and thank his lucky stars for that. His little chat could wait till the evening. At least the bathroom wouldn’t smell like a cow shed.

Grimes’ imposition had done one thing for Romney; it had reminded him how much he valued his own space and privacy – how much better off he felt living on his own. He fleetingly wondered how things might have turned out with Julie Carpenter if she hadn’t proved to be such a crushing and bitter disappointment and they had taken their relationship to the next level, something that Romney had been keen enough to do to get her a key cut. Now it was Grimes who was using that left over reminder of a very near miss. And then Romney found himself wondering whom Julie was waking up with on Sunday mornings and the thought threatened to overshadow his satisfactory start to the day. With some effort he pushed the depressing reflection aside and went to his answerphone messages.

The first was from Superintendent Vine. She did not sound happy at having to leave a message. Romney checked the time of it. Gone midnight. What did she bloody well expect on a Saturday night? Still, Romney managed a half smile at the idea that Boudicca had been bothered with police business in the middle of the night on a weekend. His police business, probably. It explained something of the rebuke in her tone that she was unable to reach him. The message instructed Romney to get in touch with her as soon as he could. She could wait. He had breakfast and coffee to enjoy.

The second missed call was from DS Marsh. Romney checked the time of that. That was bloody late too. What was wrong with everyone? Didn’t they have beds to go to? He retrieved the answerphone message and learned that she had been assaulted and robbed on the sea front on her walk home from the Premier Inn. Her injuries weren’t serious but her handbag with everything in it had gone. She was calling to let him know a temporary phone number that she could be reached at should she be needed.

Romney’s spirits sank just as a cloud moved to obscure the sun’s warming rays. He’d warned her. He’d told her. What the hell had she been thinking walking alone there at night? He’d have to ring her. See if she was all right. Then he thought he’d phone Boudicca first. It was still early and he’d enjoy rattling her cage, hopefully wake her up, get her out of bed. She might have something to say about Joy and she might have something to say that he needed to discuss with Joy. He absently slurped his coffee, scalded his tongue and swore. Then he noticed black smoke billowing out of the toaster. He hurried over to it. Grimes had turned the dial up to maximum. The acrid smell of burnt bread assailed his nostrils and he leaned over to open the kitchen window before the smoke alarm went off. In his haste, his pyjama sleeve caught on the mug tree that Grimes must have moved there. It should’ve been over by the bread bin. It clattered to the worktop. Romney swore but this was drowned out by the shrilling of the smoke alarm.  He fanned it quiet with a tea towel and picked up the mug tree. One of the set of Marks and Sparks’ finest had lost its handle. He threw the bits in the bin and swore some more.

His toast ruined, he dialled Boudicca’s number and mentally braced himself.

‘Inspector Romney.’ She sounded perky, awake and a bit annoyed.

‘Good morning, ma’am. Sorry to call you so early but you said to get in touch as soon as I could.’

‘I tried three times to call you last night and another three this morning, Inspector.’

‘I’m a heavy sleeper, ma’am,’ he said, rather pathetically while thinking that he should have checked who all those missed calls were from before doing the rounds.

‘Have you heard about DS Marsh?’

‘Yes, ma’am. She left me an answerphone message. I’m about to call her.’

‘Don’t bother. She’s here.’

‘At your home?’ Romney instantly wished he hadn’t said that.

‘What? What are you talking about? We’re at the station, Inspector. Working.’

‘At six o’clock on a Sunday morning?’ Romney was incredulous and then panic-stricken. What could have happened in the town to warrant such an early all-hands-on-deck and why the hell hadn’t he been called? But, of course, he had.

‘Inspector Romney, it is almost ten o’clock.’

Romney stared hard at his battery-operated kitchen clock. The second hand wasn’t moving. He reached for his cigarettes.

*

It was almost eleven by the time Romney reached the station. He had not eaten anything. He had not finished his coffee. He had smoked three cigarettes. Superintendent Vine and DS Marsh were in CID. They had take-away coffees and pastries from the little delicatessen around the corner from the station that Romney favoured. Cosy. He stared at the food and felt his mouth water and his stomach grumble.

‘Nice of you to turn up, Inspector,’ said Boudicca. She stared at his roughly-bandaged hand but said nothing.

‘It is Sunday, ma’am, and I didn’t think that with Stephanie Lather sleeping it off in a cell – if you’ve managed to have her picked up and brought in that is – there would be such a rush to get going on things. If she was as drunk as her agent led me to believe last night she’d need some time.’ Romney had rehearsed this little speech on his way in and was quite pleased with it. He couldn’t be blamed for what had happened to Joy. And he couldn’t be blamed for not knowing about it. So Boudicca could kiss his arse.

‘Stephanie Lather is dead, Inspector.’

As Romney stood replaying what he thought he’d just heard, he suspected the hint of a satisfied smile teasing the corner of Boudicca’s mouth. He could have been mistaken. It could have been a trick of the light. He looked in Joy’s direction but she was pretending to be studying a piece of paper on the table in front of her.

‘How?’

‘It appears she took her own life,’ said Boudicca.

‘Leave a note?’

‘I understand none was recovered.’

‘How did she die?’

‘A cocktail of drink and sleeping pills and then she drowned in the bath. That’s the initial impression subject to a post-mortem.’

Romney was made speechless for a long moment and Boudicca encouraged it, enjoyed it perhaps, before saying, ‘A bloodied weapon was recovered from the scene – an ornament with a marble base. My information is that it is not believed to have been involved in Stephanie Lather’s death. A room key with the logo of the Dover Marina Hotel was also found.’

Romney looked astonished. ‘Rachael Sparrow’s murder weapon and the room key?’

‘Subject to forensic analysis.’

‘That’s good news. That’s better than good news. She might not have left a suicide note but if those two artefacts turn out to be the damning evidence they sound like she won’t need to have done.’ Then he said, ‘So why is everyone in on a Sunday? With Stephanie Lather dead there’s no one to interview and nothing to be done until the results of the post-mortem and forensics are in. She didn’t die on our patch so there’s nothing for any of us to do.’

‘Currently, we still have an open murder investigation from yesterday that won’t do its own paperwork,’ said Boudicca. ‘And you may remember I told you Joy was assaulted last night? There are things to attend to.’

Romney wanted to punch Boudicca for that. Instead he turned to Marsh and said, ‘How are you?’

She looked tired. ‘Fine thanks. A bit sore.’

‘What happened?’

‘At the big shelter near the sculptures of the swimmers I saw a body lying on the ground. I went to offer assistance and they jumped me.’

‘How many?’

‘Three, I think.’

Romney sighed heavily and fought down the urge to blame her for it. He was also trying to keep a lid on his irritation with Boudicca for not telling him over the phone that Stephanie Lather was dead and so there was no reason for him to tear-arse around getting to the station. He could have stayed home and enjoyed his morning, maybe had a second go at breakfast.

To no one in particular, he said, ‘So, Stephanie Lather takes her own life after murdering her sister. What was that all about?’

‘We don’t know, Inspector,’ said Boudicca.  ‘You’re the detective; perhaps you can try to find out.’

‘If she didn’t leave a note, we’re not likely to, are we? And of course, we don’t waste time on suicides – never any one to charge at the end it.’

‘Perhaps the sister’s husband could help you with your enquiries. Maybe there was history there.’

Romney had already decided he’d talk to Mr Sparrow again. ‘Maybe he can, but I’m not about to go bothering him on a Sunday. It’s not even twenty-four hours since I told him he’s a widower and a single parent. Time isn’t exactly of the essence on this one now. I’ll call him tomorrow.’

‘Well, there’s still police work to be done regarding the sister’s death,’ repeated Boudicca, with the sort of finality that implied he did have something to occupy his time.

‘Not until we have the results of her post-mortem and the forensic examination of the scene. So unless they are in yet – and I very much doubt it – and with our prime suspect dead there is nothing to do except sit around twiddling thumbs. That reminds me,’ he said to Marsh. ‘Someone still needs to take her agent’s statement. She said not to call on her before eleven.’ Romney left it at that. His meaning was clear enough.

*

Romney didn’t hang about the station. He took some small satisfaction from Boudicca’s obvious displeasure that he didn’t consider that seeing as he was there with no one to interview he might manage to complete a couple of forms she’d been asking him for.

Unless there was something urgent on, he was not one for working weekends to catch up with paperwork, especially Sundays. It had nothing to do with religious conviction and everything to do with knowing that being a copper was just a job. One he enjoyed – he couldn’t imagine doing anything else – but just a job nonetheless. If he couldn’t manage the bureaucracy and endless forms and reports during a reasonable working week then they didn’t get done. It was something Bob Falkner had understood and tolerated. It was probably something else for him and the new incumbent to rub each other up the wrong way over given time.

As Romney was in town and hungry he decided to treat himself to something to eat and proper coffee. He was returning to his car from the paper shop across the road from the station when Marsh walked out of the gate.

‘You off to see Mrs Allen?’ he said.

She smiled tiredly and tolerantly at him. ‘No, sir. Mrs Allen has left the hotel.’

‘What? He checked his watch. ‘She told me after eleven. It’s not even midday. I told her to stay put until we’d had a chance to get her statement. You’re sure?’

‘Positive. I’ll chase her up tomorrow. I phoned Dover Castle and asked them to look out the CCTV tape for us. I said we’d be up to collect it. Now, I’ve got to see about getting my locks changed.’

‘On a Sunday? You’ll be lucky.’

‘I was hoping the Gateway’s super might have someone to recommend.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Romney. ‘I’m not doing anything much today now Stephanie Lather’s saved me a job. Why don’t I take a look?’

‘You?’ said Marsh surprised on two fronts.

Romney ignored it. He was feeling a little sorry for his DS. ‘Changing locks is a piece of piss. You walking?’ She nodded. ‘Jump in then. Quick brunch and we’ll see what you’ve got; nip up to B&Q, pick up a replacement. Shouldn’t take long.’

Marsh was almost lost for words.

‘How’s your hand?’ she said, as he drove.

‘Sore. Did that dog look all right to you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She said that stuff round its mouth was soap. Did you believe her?’

‘It seemed plausible. We used to have a dog that ate through electric cables.’

‘And survived?’

‘Only twice. It wasn’t third time lucky for old Jimbo.’  Marsh noticed that they’d missed the turn off that would have taken them to Sammy Coker’s greasy spoon. She wasn’t sorry. ‘I thought you mentioned food, sir.’