Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) (3 page)

Romney had driven there and so she had to adjust the seat for length and height. Then the rear-view mirror. Someone had parked a little too closely and it took her several backwards-and-forwards and plenty of feverish hauling on the steering wheel to extricate them from their space without bumping anyone. She negotiated the haphazardly parked cars dropping down into a deep rut in the grass and catching the underside of the car on the ground. Romney tutted and sighed heavily. She went round twice trying to find the exit
, which she hadn’t paid any attention to on the way in. It was not well marked. Romney could have spoken up, but chose to sit and give off vibes of impatience and irritation instead.

On her third circuit her mobile phone began to ring and then so did Romney’s. She stopped, blocking the way, and answered it as Romney fished in his pocket for his. Her conversation was brief. It was with the station. What was her location? She told them. That was handy, they said. Why? she asked. Because they had a report of a suspicious death at the castle and they needed her and DI Romney to attend. Was he with her? He was. That was lucky then, she
was told. Marsh would need convincing of that. She terminated the call after she’d been told to identify herself to a Mr Wilkie who was representing Samson Security, the firm in charge of security on site.

S
he drove around the school of parked cars once more and took the space they had vacated only minutes before.

Romney finished his call. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Weren’t you just talking to the station?’

‘No. Were you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

She told him.

‘Oh, fucking hell. You sure they said Wilkie?’

‘Positive, sir.’

‘Fucking hell. That’s all I need. I suppose it would be too much to hope that the victim is Hugo Crawford, I suppose? Maybe some indignant cow trampled him to death as he was unzipping his trousers for an undress rehearsal.’

‘They didn’t say, sir.’ But she hoped that wasn’t the case. She had quite liked Hugo Crawford.

Mr Wilkie of Samson Security had, only a few shorts months before, been
Detective Sergeant Wilkie of Dover CID. In fact, he had been more than that. Before Marsh had been transferred up – or down depending on how one viewed it – to Dover police station from North Kent, Wilkie had been, as the only DS in the station, Romney’s sergeant. He had come back from paternity leave to find that Marsh had usurped his position and that the appointment did not appear to be temporary. As a man with ambitions of a swift shimmy up the career ladder this situation did not bode well for Wilkie. Sleepless nights with the new baby and work frustrations – primarily the humiliation of hunting for a crazy old woman with a thing for smashing poorly parked vehicles with a ball-pein hammer – had affected his professional judgement and ultimately cost him his job. He had been forced out of his dream occupation under a cloud. Wilkie had made no secret of the fact that he harboured a deep and dangerous personal resentment for Marsh, the interloper, and then for Romney for his dismissal.

Wilkie had walked straight out of employment with Kent
Police into a position with a local security firm run by a brother-in-law. He had assumed a brave face and bragged that the money was good and that he didn’t see it as a backwards step in working life, just a new opportunity. On the odd occasion Romney had seen or heard anything of his ex-number-one, Wilkie’s new opportunity did not appear to warrant his early enthusiasm.

Doubtless, the reality of Wilkie’s new working-life and the not too distant memory of his old one, would not encourage to him extend the olive-branch of goodwill across the divide between the private and the public sectors of security. As the two police officers searched on foot for the temporary site office of Samson Security, Marsh, for one, was expecting and dreading the inevitable hostile welcome. The mood the DI was in these days, such a prospect only served to increase her
anxiety regarding the probable outcome. Then again, she thought, as he seemed to be perpetually looking for someone to target with his current state of angst, offhand she could think of no better recipient than his ex-sergeant.

At a narrow stone gateway their path was blocked by a shaven-headed, sweating fat man wearing a Samson Security day-glow orange vest. His thick, bare arms were covered in tattoos and folded across his barrel chest. He stared at Romney from a similar height and from behind cheap wrap-around sunglasses. A little gold crucifix twinkled, dangling from an earring. Traipsing around aimlessly on foot in the heat had not improved Romney’s mood or his manners.

‘Where’s your site office?’ he said.

‘Round by the toilets. Just follow the signs for production. I’ll need to see some ID though if you want to go through there.’

‘ID? I thought people only said that only the telly. How long have you been working for this lot?’

The man looked surprised by the question and Romney’s abrasiveness. ‘I’m temping. The agency sent me over yesterday.’

‘I’m looking for a man named Wilkie.’

‘Yeah, Mr Wilkie’s in there.’

Romney made to push past him, but the man put a hand on his chest. ‘I said, I need to see some ID if you want to go in there. That’s my job.’

Marsh stepped in and flashed her warrant card at the man. ‘We’re Dover CID, here to see Mr Wilkie. This is Detective Inspector Romney.’

‘Why didn’t you just say so?’ He dropped his hand and Romney went through scowling.

They went ten steps and Marsh, unable to contain herself any longer and possibly agains
t all good judgement said, ‘Sir?’

Something in her tone touched Romney and he stopped and turned to study her. ‘What?’

She took a deep breath. ‘As my senior officer, I need your permission to say something to you.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about me feeling the need as your sergeant to advise you, my senior officer, of my concern that should you continue to treat people the way you have so far this afternoon we might not find ourselves dealing with a cooperative public. In fact we might end up dealing with some stroppy complaints.’

Romney stared hard at her for several awful seconds before nodding once, frowning and continuing on his way. ‘Permission denied,’ he called over his shoulder, but there was, she suspected, a little smirk with it.

They located the make-shift office for Samson Security in a corner of the courtyard along with all the other temporary bases for this and that which cluttered up the place. The assortment and mish-mash of portable structures gave the place an air of a hastily established centre to house displaced refugees after some environmental catastrophe. Or, given the setting, siege victims seeking shelter within the protection of the castle walls.

Wilkie was standing outside the converted container-office talking to three men in the familiar day-glow vests of the company. He didn’t look happy with any of them. He seemed agitated. He wasn’t wearing a vest himself, but a shirt and tie. His hair was longer and he was now sporting a thick, dark goatee. He carried a walkie-talkie and a clipboard.

Registering the approach of Romney and Marsh, he stood more erect and dismissed two of the men who wandered off looking hot and bothered – probably more temps without a clue, thought Marsh. The third man stood obediently just backward and to one side of Wilkie, like a well-trained terrier.

If the police had been preparing themselves for confrontation and obstruction they were to be disappointed and, if not ashamed of themselves, then perhaps pleasantly surprised. Wilkie was all professionalism. Incredibly
, he gave no indication of a past life together and consequently no sign he was harbouring grudges. He took a step forward to meet them. A sign of submission thought Marsh. And then she saw etched in his features a burden of anxiety and responsibility that was weighing heavily on him. And she realised, why shouldn’t he be? This was probably a potentially huge contract for the company he worked for. And if he were in charge here, the responsibility and blame for anything that went wrong would end up at his door. Naturally, it would be in his company’s, and therefore his personal interest, to do a thoroughly good and efficient job here because it could lead to other things. Wilkie was now in business and he wasn’t so daft as to not know how these things worked. And now there was a suspicious death on his watch.

The last time Romney had spoken to Wilkie the DI had offe
red his hand in farewell. Wilkie had pointedly ignored it. Now, before a word was uttered his hand was out. There was a moment’s agonising hesitation as Romney thought about it and then took it.

‘Good afternoon.
’ said Wilkie, ignoring Marsh completely. His face betrayed no sign of recognition of either of them at all. Both officers found it unnerving and a little bizarre. Wilkie was acting like they’d never met, let alone worked together, fallen out and parted under the darkest of clouds. Perhaps, he just wasn’t interested in small talk. Perhaps, he didn’t trust himself to be anything but strictly businesslike. Perhaps, he didn’t want to rake over old regrets. Perhaps, he didn’t want to alert the man next to him that there was any bad history here. Or perhaps, he just wanted to get on with his job and hand over responsibility for a suspicious death as quickly as he could. Undoubtedly, he would have enough on his plate as it was.

‘Glad you could get here so quickly. All I can tell you at the moment is that there has been a death on site. I’ve not been out there to view the body, but
, as soon as it was reported, I instructed the immediate area to be secured and no one will have been allowed access. Two of my men are there now. They know their responsibilities. Gerry here will show you the way if you’d like to follow him. If Samson Security can help the police in any way at all, please just ask. Gerry is at your disposal.’ Gerry looked faintly pleased by the obvious trust being put in him.

Romney played him at his own game. ‘Our report was of a suspicious death. What can you tell us about that?’

‘I’d rather leave that for the police to ascertain.’ And there it was, thought Marsh, that little tight-jawed utterance. Wilkie was not over it. He still hadn’t acknowledged her presence. He turned to Gerry. ‘Show these officers through then, Gerry. You heard what I said: you’re at their disposal as long as they require you.’ And with that Wilkie turned and disappeared back into his cabin. Romney raised his eyebrows at Marsh and she protruded and bent her lower lip in reply. Enough said, for now.

Gerry was probably in his early sixties, short and stringy. He wore glasses with tinting lenses and his thick silver hair was cropped short. He looked like he kept himself fit. He led the way across the Outer Bailey. They followed his quick pace dodging in and out of people’s way. He was clearly familiar with the layout of the place.

‘Where are we going, Gerry?’ said Marsh.

‘The fields.’

‘Where they just staged the Napoleonic battle?’ said Romney.

‘That’s right.’

‘Couldn’t we have driven?’ said Romney, realising how far he was going to have to walk.

‘Mr Wilkie said walking would be best. It won’t take
but a few minutes.’ Romney and Marsh exchanged a knowing look.

They rounded a
massive stone wall to be faced with one of the castle’s huge and imposing stone gateways. A pair of enormous towers dwarfed the opening that gave on to a long and impressive flight of ancient stone steps, which descended away from the castle walls. Gerry led them through it.

‘How long have you been with Samson Security?’ asked Romney.

‘I’m just with them for this project. Mr Wilkie said they might have something more for me when this is over. I hope so. My pension isn’t going as far as I hoped it would. I could do with some extra work.’

Romney could imagine that carrot being dangled before all the employees who were looking for work after the project. Perhaps there was some truth in it, but he couldn’t see Gerry enjoying the staple of l
ocal and little security firms: standing outside the seedy and violent Dover nightclubs bouncing on a Saturday night.

‘What do you know of the death?’

‘One of the soldiers – not sure which side. Apparently, he’s been bayoneted, but I’m not positive about that.’

‘Bayoneted?’ said Romney.

‘That’s what Peter said. He’s one of our blokes down there. He used to be in. So when he says it looks like the poor man’s been bayoneted I, for one, believe him.’

They walked in single file o
n a narrow, well worn path that discouraged conversation, and through a small band of trees which separated the field from the immediate surrounds of the castle.

Stepping out of the cover and onto the field was like stepping back in time. Dotted around everywhere were men in
uniforms of the period sitting and chatting. Little pyramids of rifles were propped up outside pitched tents. Some smoked replicas of the old clay pipes characteristic of the time. Horses grazed, their coats gleaming. People were eating and drinking and looked to be having a good time. One wouldn’t have thought they’d been in battle and that a man lay dead somewhere amongst them. Perhaps, they just didn’t know.

They threaded their way through the groups and canvas and were soon
afforded an uninterrupted view of the battlefield where, apart from one who had possibly taken the field feeling murderous, hundreds of men had converged in mock battle.