Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) (34 page)

In the distance and over the increasingly heavy and laboured rasping of Grimes’ breathing the unmistakeable wail of the sirens of the emergency services drifted across the ether and the town to them. It was music to Marsh’s ears.

***

20

The last time they had been in hospital together it had been Romney who had been lying prostrate and sedated in a hospital bed. This time it was he who sat at Marsh’s bedside eating his way through her grapes.

‘How did you know, sir?’

‘It was something Grimes said about the Taggart programme. I can’t say why exactly, but it occurred to me then that perhaps all was not as it seemed. Wilkie had been hurt by the theft of the film personally and professionally. I can imagine he would have set the wheels of his own enquiry into motion to find out who was behind it. With his contacts and experience it’s quite possible he could have found out about the Animal Rights Enforcers and where they were holed up. He wasn’t a bad detective
, despite his failings as a person and as a police officer. And then it wasn’t a huge leap of the imagination to think that just maybe he decided to profit financially from his re-acquisition of the films. He must have understood because of his close proximity to the film set how valuable they were to Crayfish. And you saw the way Crayfish belittled him in front of us. Maybe there was something personal in it too. In any case, it was just a private theory. And when he didn’t even bother driving around from place to place to give the impression of receiving instructions it smelt even worse. His supreme confidence and arrogance in his own ability was his undoing as usual.’

‘Well, sir, with respect you can think what you like. As far as I’m concerned his undoing was my hero.’ She smiled across at DC Grimes who had surprised everyone by remaining unusually reticent over his dash to the rescue and saving of a fellow officer’s life. Even now, with just the three of them present
, he seemed strangely reluctant to milk his position.

Perhaps the fact that
Grimes would have to suffer an IPCC investigation into the death of former police Sergeant Brian Wilkie was playing on his mind. Wilkie had been found later the next day down river, drowned with head injuries believed to have been sustained in his fall from the Abbey’s ruined brickwork.

Grimes had been assured by Superintendent Falkner himself that despite the unusual statistic that Dover police had been responsible for a second death of a member of the public – as Wilkie had been
– in a year he would have nothing to worry about given the circumstances and his colleagues’ witness evidence. Perhaps, it was this assurance from the station commander that paradoxically gave rise to any feelings of anxiety Grimes might be experiencing over the enquiry to come.

‘What I didn’t expect from him, if I’m honest,’ went on Romney, ignoring Marsh’s comment, ‘was armed resistance.’ Romney’s own role in the night’s events – and head injury – had been not so much overshadowed as totally eclipsed by both Marsh’s injuries and Grimes’ heroics
. The DI had an air about him that he was feeling a little miffed, if not resentful, at the lack of attention he had received and, conversely, the amount that his colleagues had. Even Superintendent Falkner had visited Marsh. He hadn’t visited Romney when he had been hospitalised by the young woman suffering with Down’s syndrome who had caused the injuries he still suffered with.

‘So
who else was involved?’ said Marsh.

‘On the night, no one it seems. The second car was nothing to do with it. It had been left there overnight by someone who had too much to drink on a picnic. Both the film and the money were in Wilkie’s car. He must have had both in his possession when he left the castle. It would fit with his supremely self-confident personality. He takes the money from Crayfish for the exchange, drives around to
wn for a bit to waste some time, finds a quiet spot where he won’t be disturbed to transfer the film out of the boot of his car into the front and hide the cash in the boot. We think he probably just chose Russell Gardens car park to pull into because it was dark, quiet and isolated. As for the raid on the farmhouse, unless someone comes forward with an attack of conscience and owns up to being in on it with him, I doubt we’ll ever know who else was involved.’

‘And we arrived and spoilt it.’

Romney fixed her with a serious look. ‘Do you really think he would have killed you?’

Marsh took a deep breath. ‘Absolutely. No doubt in my mind
, whatsoever. The last words he said to me before he was about to push me off were, “
Bye-bye, bitch”.
I thought that was it.’ Her eyes filled with tears at the memory and an awkward silence followed before Marsh diffused it saying to Grimes, ‘As soon as they let me out of here we’re going back to the Duke of York and I’m buying you all the beer you can drink and then I’ll pay for your taxi home.’

‘What about me?’ said Romney.

‘OK, sir, you can buy him a few too,’ said Marsh.

‘That’s not what I meant, but I suppose that I ought to.’ He looked at DC Grimes, for the first time in a long time, with something approaching grudging admiration and maybe a hint of affection and then almost spoilt it by saying, ‘But only because he saved me the time a
nd bother of breaking in a new sergeant. When are they discharging you?’

‘They haven’t said and I haven’t asked. I quite like being looked after.’

‘Well don’t overstay your welcome. Remember that the NHS has plenty of genuinely sick people in need of beds. They don’t want malingers filling up the private rooms.’

‘I seem to remember you enjoyed your last stay for a good few days, sir,’ said Marsh.

‘That was different. My injuries were far more serious than yours.’

Marsh didn’t have the energy or the inclination to bother with his pettiness. Instead she said, ‘And did Hugo Crawford finally get his film back?’

Romney scowled. ‘I was all for impounding it as evidence, make him sweat a bit longer for it, but his uncle – Crayfish major – had other ideas. Just goes to show, it’s not what you know, but who you know that makes the difference in this life. Crayfish minor wasn’t even particularly grateful when we returned his film and his money to him. About the only crumb of comfort I can take from the whole business is that Wilkie made him look an idiot. Right,’ said Romney to Grimes, ‘come on. I seem to remember Superintendent Falkner passing on something from Professional Standards about you not conferring with the prime witness in your investigation. If they catch us in here, there’ll be trouble. You got everything you need?’ he said to Marsh.

‘Wouldn’t mind a few decent books to read. You know the sort of thing I like don’t you, sir?’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Speedy recovery we need you back quickly.’

‘Thanks, sir. I’ll do my best.’

Romney walked towards the door and Grimes sidled up to the bed. Under his breath he said, ‘At least you were beaten up by a man, Sarge, not some poor disturbed girl. Get well soon.’

‘I’m not deaf you know,’ said Romney. ‘For your information, she had superhuman strength and the element of surprise. Also she was lucky and I tripped. Most of my injuries were sustained as a result of the fall down the stairs.’ Marsh and Grimes looked at each other and smirked.

‘Thanks, Peter. I owe you and I won’t forget it, but don’t think that when I get back to work I’m going to start bringing you coffee and pastries every morning.’ They shared a little laugh. 

Romney coughed loudly from where he was hol
ding open the door. ‘When you two have quite finished.’

After they had departed and the peace had returned to her room Marsh lay there in the clean and comfortable sterile bed alone with the vivid recollections of her near death experience
. She wondered seriously, not for the first time since her admittance, whether maybe she would now leave the police force.

*

The following day was Friday. Romney was glad that the recent whirlwind of crime had blown itself out and the mopping up operation was all over bar the inevitable paperwork. He had personal business to attend to. First on his list was his doctor’s appointment.

Romney had always tried to look after himself physically and he had been blessed with a decent and reliable constitution. Health problems for him had been few and far between. Apart from a brush with Shingles, they had also tended to be injuries rather than diseases.

Romney’s GP was a man he’d known for many years. He had been the family’s GP when Romney had had a family to speak of. He was near retirement age and this fact comforted Romney. He would undoubtedly have seen everything there was to see in local medical practice. He was old-fashioned and no frills and that’s what Romney needed. With the personal invasion and examination he knew he was going to have to endure, he definitely would not want to be seen by a man younger than himself, or, God forbid, a woman. It was all going to be horribly embarrassing and distressing enough as it was. And that was only the examination.

There would
need to be tests, probably further, more thorough, examinations, samples taken, biopsies performed and then the excruciating waiting and waiting as the overloaded wheels of the National Health Service eventually got around to grinding out his diagnosis. If he hadn’t left it too late and there was still a chance he could be cured there would be the rounds of chemotherapy, hair loss, sickness, absence from work, a miserable quality of life, possibly a period of remission, but he would spend the rest of his days waiting for it to return and finish him off. What kind of a life could he have with that hanging over him?

The waiting room contained half-a-dozen people all sitting as far away from each other as possible. Two of them were old and frail looking and might have been there just for a warm and some company now that the library was permanently closed. There was a middle-aged couple holding hands and staring quietly at the information posters detailing the causes and symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases and trying to forget the reason they were there. Wedged into a corner was a young mother – probably single – talking loudly into her mobile phone. Her toddler was running around and screaming
, unchecked, pulling the magazines onto the floor and trying to take off people’s shoes. It was a boy and he seemed completely mad to Romney. He thought about just leaving and coming back another time, but he caught the receptionist’s eye and she raised her eyebrows at him expectantly from behind her bullet and germ proof glass.

He gave his name and she directed him to take a printout of his vital signs by placing the palm of his hand into some contraption and then waiting for the piece of paper to be spewed out. He looked at the numbers and letters
, but none of it meant anything to him.

He found himself a seat as far away from the kid and his mother as he could and picked up a magazine on pregnancy. He was flicking through this without registering any of what was in front of him when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see a young woman, barely more than a girl, dressed in some sort of medical uniform. He saw that she was looking at the magazine open on his lap with a look of disappointment. He looked down to see a large colour photograph of a new-born baby suckling at the enlarged breast of its attractive and smiling mother. He closed it quickly and put it down on the seat beside him.

‘Can I take your printout?’ said the girl.

He handed it to her and she left him without another word. As she passed by the receptionist’s window she said something to the woman the other side of the glass and they both looked over at him. He turned his attention to a poster about AIDs.

A thin bead of sweat had formed on his brow by the time his name was called. His breathing had become faster and shallower and he felt light headed and weak. He dragged his leaden feet down the corridor towards his doctor’s office door. Before he made it halfway, it opened and Dr Leach stepped through it holding his medical bag and shrugging on his coat. Romney stopped and stared at him dumbly.

‘Hello, Tom,’ said Leach, as he came up to him. ‘Long time no see. Sorry, but I’ve just been paged on a local emergency. You can wait if you like, but to be honest I could be hours.’ He registered the look of disappointment on Romney’s face and said, ‘Dr Lawrence is in. Do you want me arrange a quick appointment?’

Romney thought that that might be good. He was there after all. He could see a male doctor who was a complete stranger and get it over with. He couldn’t face re-scheduling. It was done and within five minutes Romney found himself being called again. His system was still betraying his feelings as he knocked a soft courtesy knock on the office door of Dr Lawrence and walked in.

Doctor Lawrence was, of course, a woman. If he hadn’t been convinced he was dying of cancer Romney might have found something funny in this repeated error of assumption. As he stood there staring at her all his fears and anxieties seemed to crowd in on him at once: his insides liquefied, the colour drained from his face, a chilling layer of perspiration broke out on his forehead and his mouth dried up.

Doctor Lawrence, probably ten years his junior, looked up at him expectantly and said, ‘Are you always this nervous about visiting your doctor, Mr Romney?’