Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) (18 page)

‘Oh shit,’ he said.

Romney was about to call out a warning to the uniform on the door of the pro-shop when Marsh said, ‘I’ll go.’

She cut the distraught woman off before she could get anywhere near being able to make her last memory of the man she had been married to something she would come to wish she hadn’t.

Romney turned away from the depressing sight and sounds the woman made and towards the voyeuristic group of men who still hung around the little building. A couple of them disengaged themselves under his challenging glare and moved away. Bill Thatcher returned Romney’s contemptuous look with a lopsided sneer before heading off towards the maintenance sheds.

Romney’s disgust at Mankind was countered somewhat when a small group of elderly women golfers who, knowing the woman or not, scurried out of the clubhouse to surround and rescue her. They led her away back to the sanctuary of the imposing building for what Romney hoped sincerely was comfort and
care.

‘Organise her a
PC, will you?’ he said to Marsh. ‘It’s the least we can do.’

For the second time since their learning of Master’s suicide, Marsh sensed something resembling regret in Romney’s voice, possibly at the hard time he had given the club professional during his meetings with him. Although Marsh knew he had just being doing his job
, she found herself wondering if what she’d witnessed and heard could have been handled differently – better.

*

Only one of the golfers Romney was expecting had been and gone by the time he and Marsh got back to the station. Wilkie reported he was a single man who showed no embarrassment at the images. In fact he had asked if he could have one as a memento. He claimed not to have heard from Emerson about the trip. As Wilkie was briefing Romney the other man arrived and the pair disappeared to interview him.

Marsh took the opportunity to contact the men that had already been seen to ask if they or their wives knew Lillian West
, and, if they did, whether they considered her a close friend. The answer in each case was an emphatic no. The suggestion from more than one of the men was that quite the opposite would be more accurate, although none of them cared to explain why.

Marsh’s next call was t
o the mobile of Dorothy Smart – the name and number that had been displayed on the phone clutched in the dead man’s grasp. A computerised voice told her the number was unobtainable.

According to the divorce paperwork retrieved from Duncan Smart’s home, Dorothy Smart had moved back in with her mother
– a Mrs Mann. With a call to directory enquiries, Marsh got a landline telephone number and rang it. The call was answered by the mother who was most helpful. She provided her daughter’s new mobile phone number and confirmed her daughter was at work. Marsh dialled her. Dorothy Smart answered cheerfully enough, but her mood changed quickly when Marsh identified herself.

‘Where did you get my number from?’

‘Your mother. I need to come and speak with you about something.’

‘What?’

‘Your ex-husband.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

‘Mrs Smart, are you still Mrs Smart?’

‘No.’

‘What name are you using now?’

‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’

Marsh struggled to conceal her irritation. ‘Fair question. What you can do is phone Dover Police Station and ask to speak to me. In case you’ve forgotten what I just told you, I am Detective Sergeant Marsh. I have your address here on paperwork removed from Mr Smart’s home. I also have your work address. If I don’t hear back from you within five minutes, I will have no alternative but to have you collected by uniformed police officers. They will bring you here and I will ask you my questions. I suppose you could call that the hard way. Is that clear, Mrs whatever-your-name-is-these-days?’

‘Wait,’ said the woman. ‘M
y maiden name is Mann. I’m Dorothy Mann now.’

‘You know what happened to your ex-husband?’

‘Yes. I heard.’ There was no indication she was taking it badly.

‘Then you’ll understand wh
y I need to speak to you.’

‘When do you want to see me?’

‘This afternoon. Where will you be?’

‘At work.’

‘The shoe shop in the high street?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will it be a problem for you if I come there?’

‘No.’

‘Good. See you then.’ Marsh rang off, a little more of her faith in human nature eroded by the conversation.

Forensics called up to tell Marsh they were able to lift some good prints from the drinks can she had brought in. That was the good news. The bad news was they didn’t match anything on record.

She followed up this call with one of her own to pathology to discover that Duncan Smart had a substantial amount of alcohol in his system when he died. The contents of his stomach comprised largely a hearty meal and fermenting beer leaving little to be imagined regarding the way he spent the hours before his death.

Marsh jotted a note to herself to find out where his local was. On an impulse she then dialled Lillian West’s mobile number. When she answered, her tone was guarded.

‘Hello, Mrs West. It’s DS Marsh. Is this a bad time?’

‘It’s never a good time to have the police calling you up.’

‘I have a couple of questions for you.’

‘Go on,’ said West, already sounding bored.

‘When did you last see Phillip Emerson?’

‘Oh God, I’ll have to think. Two nights before he died.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Positive. We were at his flat.’

‘And was that the last time you spoke to him?’ If Marsh was hoping to catch West in another lie, this time she had underestimated her. Of course, West would know that tracing Emerson’s last phone-calls would have been a natural path of investigation and one that would lead them to her door. Her answer, when it came, had a well-rehearsed ring to it.

‘No. I remember he phoned me the night he was killed. It was very late and very inconvenient. We didn’t speak for long.’

‘What did he call you for?’

‘He wanted to meet. I think he may have been drinking. It was out of the question and I told him so.’

‘What did he want to meet for?’

‘Sex, of course. Phillip was insatiable.’

‘But you didn’t meet him.’

‘No. I told you, it was inconvenient.’

‘Did he give you any indication of where he might be, who he was with, or what his plans for the night might have been?’ Marsh knew the answer before it came.

‘Sorry, no. The phone call was short. We didn’t get into that. I
s there anything else, only I’m driving?’

Marsh ignored this. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about this when we spoke to you the other day? It could have helped.’

‘Sorry. Didn’t occur to me. I suppose I was still in a state of shock.’

‘Of course,’ said Marsh, trying to keep
the sarcasm out of her tone. ‘Thank you, Mrs West. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again. Goodbye.’ Marsh terminated the call with a small sense of a point scored.

Romney returned wearing a serious expression. As he passed her desk
, Marsh asked if he had learned anything. He shook his head. ‘Just along to make up the numbers. Had the time of his life, apparently.’

Marsh told him of her phone calls and got little response in return. She told him about her appointment with Smart’s ex-wife for the afternoon and he simply nodded and muttered something about letting him know how it went.

*

DS Wilkie had two police reports waiting for him on his desk. Both were for car vandalism
from the previous night and consistent with the crazy’s MO. He sighed deeply and sagged down into his chair cursing his bad luck at not being in the right place at the right time. Under his desk were two boxes of written reports of similar incidents that spanned the entire campaign of his nemesis. He had had them sent up from archives so that he might be able to re-enter the information on to his computer when it came back from the dead. At the prospect of repeating such a time consuming, thankless and monotonous task he shot Marsh a look of unrestrained hatred.

Returning his attention to the reports something struck him. The locations of both stirred the memory of a fact deep within his policeman’s brain. He pulled out the boxes and rifled through them. Finding what he was looking for he arranged them on his desk. With a quickening pulse
, he compared them to the map of Dover he had fixed to the wall by his desk. With the excitement of a code-breaker facing a breakthrough, he took out all of the reports, put them in chronological order and traced the history of them across the town. When he had finished he checked it again. He then sat back in his chair and allowed a germ of hope to take root and flourish. Had the pattern he had so desperately sought finally revealed itself?

*

With lunch time approaching Marsh locked her desk, collected her bag, spoke briefly to Romney and left for the pub.

Thirty minutes later she was knocking on Duncan Smart’s aunt’s door. This time there was no chain and no suspicion to bar her entry. She was invited in warmly and, despite her pressing time-table, accepted the invitation and the glass of lemonade that was offered against the heat.

Another thirty minutes later she was on her way on foot to a small pub only two streets distant. According to the old woman, The Crown had been Duncan Smart’s local for a good many years being, as it was, within staggering distance.

The Crown occupied a corner plot where quiet roads intersected. It was in good decorative order. There were hanging baskets, tubs of flowers and a small beer garden that looked like it was cared for by a loving hand. A sign over the front door provided the name of the licensee and also the information that it was a free house, independent of the big local brewery, and proud of it. A chalkboard detailing guest ales and ‘home-cooked’ food stood on the pavement.

For such a quiet location, Marsh was surprised to see a decent lunchtime presence. A quick scan of the faces that turned to observe her entry put the average age at over fifty and mostly male. Being a lone youngish female, and not unattractive, a number of beer fuelled patrons took an extended interest in her arrival. Conscious of this unwanted but unavoidable attention Marsh made for a space at the end of the bar. A heavily set man with a thick moustache and friendly manner came to serve her. Marsh could read the questions in his face. She ordered a soft-drink and a sandwich and when he returned with her change she asked if he was the licensee. He nodded, understanding he was about to discover what had brought an unaccompanied good-looking woman to his out-of-the-way hostelry.

‘Let me guess.’ He held up his open palm to stall her. ‘You’re eith
er another rep from the brewery or selling advertising space somewhere.’ He didn’t seem perturbed by either prospect. ‘If I’m right,’ he said, ‘I can save you some trouble. I’m not selling out and look around – I don’t need to advertise.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Marsh, with a smile. ‘Not enough free houses as it is and it’s nice to see a local pub doing well in such difficult economic times.’

He gave her a puzzled look then. ‘Go on then, put me out of my misery.’ She discreetly showed him her warrant card and then returned it to her handbag while he got over the surprise. His friendly expression remained, however. ‘Business or pleasure?’ he said.

‘The former, I’m afraid, although the company is all right and I’m looking forward to my sandwich.’

He laughed a little at that and asked how he could help her. Clearly, he had no guilty secrets regarding his business, or if he did he was doing a good job of hiding them.

‘Did you know a Duncan Smart?’

Like a light going on in a darkened room, in an instant, he saw clearly what had brought her to his door. He assumed an air of genuine regret at the connection. ‘Shocking business. Duncan had a number of friends in here, me included.’

‘A regular then?’

‘Very, when he wasn’t working.’

‘Was he in here the day he was killed?’

‘Yes. I wondered when the police would come to ask. They say he was stabbed in the guts, is that right? Left to bleed to death on his kitchen floor.’ Marsh saw no harm in confirming this with a nod. The man shook his head, sadly. ‘Poor Duncan. He didn’t have a bad bone in him. Have you got someone for it? Sorry, you probably can’t answer that can you?’

Marsh had to wait while he served a customer. Her sandwich arrived and she took it at the bar. When he returned
, she confided that they didn’t, yet, have a suspect. ‘One of the reasons I’m here is to piece together his final hours.’

‘Right,’ said the man. ‘Well you’ll only find people willing to help you with that in here. Duncan was popular.’ He looked over to a far corner where a group of men were sat around a table playing cribbage. ‘There’s a bloke over there was very close with Duncan
. You want me to get him over to talk to you?’

‘Thanks.’

He indicated an empty table behind her. ‘Take a seat. I’ll speak to him.’

Marsh took her drink and her sandwich and organised herself at the table. Within a couple of minutes she was looking up at man she’d put in his sixties, tall and lean. He stood waiting for an invitation to sit. He had manners. When it came he perched on a stool opposite her, carefully placed his pint on the bar mat in front of him and shook the hand she offered.

‘Clive Dempsey,’ he said. Marsh introduced herself and showed her warrant card. He scanned it carefully. ‘Duncan was a good friend,’ he said, in educated tones. ‘How can I help you?’

*

When Marsh left The Crown half-an-hour later she was disappointed. Despite the openness and willingness to help of those she had spoken to, she had little extra information to contribute to the murder enquiry. Dempsey had confirmed that Smart had been receiving anonymous phone-calls threatening extreme violence. He said he thought it had worried Smart more than he had let on. He also confirmed they had started soon after his divorce was finalised. The articulate man had provided some insight into the messy and acrimonious divorce, details of which Smart had confided in him. He told her that Smart believed his ex-wife had another man, although he had no details of a description. Regarding the day of the murder, he told her that Smart had been at the pub for most of the lunch time. They’d drunk together. Smart was certainly a little unsteady on his feet when he had left, but he had left alone. No one claimed to have seen anyone suspicious hanging around.

Marsh reported her lack of progress back to Romney on her return and was treated to an ‘I-told-you-so’ look. Romney was sticking firmly to his ‘logical’ belief that the two murders were related and that they should be concentrating their efforts on looking for evidence linking them. In light of his less than supportive position, Marsh was not transparent regarding her trip to the high street some minutes later to
speak to Dorothy Mann.

*

The shoe shop was having a quiet afternoon. Two female staff stood at the counter. From their reaction to her entrance it was clear one of them was Dorothy Mann and she had confided in her colleague that the police would be calling. For a potential customer, Marsh’s welcome was cool. Marsh imagined that any woman who had walked into the shop so far that afternoon had been treated as a suspected police officer first and customer second. On a mischievous impulse, she decided to browse. After a minute one of the staff approached her having obviously judged her to be a genuine customer.

‘Do you need any help?’ she asked, with her saleswoman’s smile.

Marsh recognised the woman’s voice before she noticed her name tag confirming her as Dot. Marsh, held up a slipper. ‘Hello, Mrs Mann, got these in a seven?’

The woman’s smile disappeared to be replaced with an annoyed frown that transformed her not unattractive, if a little fat, face into something altogether more spiteful.

‘Are you that copper?’

‘I am Detective Sergeant Marsh
if that’s who you mean,’ said Marsh, now holding the woman’s stare.

‘Why didn’t you say so when you came in?’

‘I’m saying so now. Where would you like to have our little chat, here in the shop, or somewhere more private?’ Marsh put the slipper back.

Another customer had walked in swelling the number of those who didn’t work there to two. Dorothy Mann told Marsh to follow her. She made a sign to her colleague and led Marsh through the back of the shop, into a store room, and then out through a fire door into a small shared parking area. As soon as they were outside the woman took out a cigarette, lit up and inhaled deeply. She folded her bare arms defensively and waited.

Marsh had run across her type several times. The bleached blonde hair, a small nose piercing she was just too old for, too much gold jewellery and – Marsh looked for it, it had to be there somewhere – sure enough, the obligatory tattoo: some pointless decoration on her exposed ankle. As if her appearance didn’t pigeon-hole her enough her attitude and harsh vowels completed the picture of contemporary British working-class woman.

Marsh decided to get straight to the purpose of her visit. ‘When did you learn that your ex-husband had been murdered?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘A friend called and told me.’

‘When was the last time that you saw him?’

‘Months ago. After he stitched me up over the divorce. I never wanted to set eyes on him again.’

‘So would it be fair to say that his death isn’t difficult for you?’

‘I couldn’t give a shit.’

Marsh believed her. ‘If you haven’t seen him, have you spoken to him since the divorce?’

‘No. Nothing.’

Marsh looked for a trace that the woman was lying. Her number had been the last one that had shown on the mobile phone Duncan Smart had been clutching in his dead hand. A thought occurred to Marsh, which made her pulse race. ‘You’re sure that he didn’t call you in the last couple of days?’

‘Positive. Anyway, he didn’t have my new number. I changed it after the divorce. Why would you think he did? And why are you asking me all these questions? I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to him.’

‘Do you have a boyfriend, now?’

The woman shifted, turned some attention to her cigarette and lied, Marsh was sure of it. ‘No, I haven’t. Not that it’s any business of yours.’

‘Thank you.’ Marsh motioned towards the driveway behind her. ‘This leads on to Pencester Road, doesn’t it?’

Dorothy Mann indicated it did and then watched the policewoman walk away. She took a last pull on her cigarette and trod it out wondering if she’d see DS Marsh again.

*

The pool car had been taken when she arrived back at the station. Marsh cursed her luck and looked around the office for inspiration. Grimes was sitting looking hot and bored. She perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Fancy a drive?’

‘I’m a happily married man, thank you.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re not my type.’

‘What is your type then, Sarge
?’ he said, leaning back and looking up at her.

‘Mind your own business. I’ll buy you an ice-cream.’

‘Now you’re talking. Where to?’

‘Duncan Smart’s. I’ve got some paperwork to find.’

***

11

Given the DI’s lack of enthusiasm for her theory that the murders were unrelated, Marsh decided that, unless pressed, she would keep the latest information development to herself, until she had something noteworthy to make of it.

She had offered up silent thanks to the memory of Duncan Smart that he was a tidy organised fellow who kept his bills.

At his home she had located a small collection of box files each dated on the spines with recent years. Inside them was the chronological filing of all the household bills, utility bills and large purchase receipts. She removed the relevant
monthly invoices for his mobile-phone and after double-checking the information told Grimes he could have any ice-cream he liked.

*

‘Where have you two been?’ said Romney, when Marsh and Grimes returned.

‘I needed to check something at Duncan Smart’s address,’ said Marsh.

‘And?’

‘Not sure yet, sir.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I still think that you’re barking up the wrong tree. Wilkie has found a connection between Smart and Emerson.’