Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) (21 page)

‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’ For a moment Romney wondered if perhaps she was talking to someone who had crept up behind him. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ she said, in response to his glance over his shoulder.

‘If you’re talking to me, I’m Detective Inspector Romney of Dover CID. Do you mind telling me who you are?’

The woman’s shoulders dropped two inches. ‘Sorry. I thought you were that creep my sister was knocking about with.’

‘Simon Avery, do you mean? Thanks very much. You missed him. He was the short one.’

‘What? He just told me he was a friend of Claire’s.’ She looked like she was thinking of pursuing him.

Romney put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘He’s not worth it, especially today of all days.’

He took his hand away and she looked up at him. Her eyes were swimming with tears. Whether they were tears of frustration, anger or sorrow, Romney didn’t know her well enough to recognise. He guessed they were probably a mixture of all three. The rain drummed on and ran steadily off their umbrellas. Standing there alone in the chilly, wet, winter gloom in a cemetery in a strange town with only her grief for company, he took pity on her.

‘Look, do you fancy a drink? There’s a quiet pub down the road. They serve coffee, I believe.’

She gave him a look then. ‘I’ve just buried my sister. Tomorrow I’m burying our mother. I’m not looking for coffee, Inspector.’

*

Elaine Davies followed Romney the five hundred metres to The Connaught. It was clearly a public house that derived much of its business from the mourning trade if the decor was anything to go by. Some might say that such a business plan – profiting from the bereft and distraught – was a touch morbid, but the landlord would reply, as he often had, what about undertakers? He was simply aiming to cater, literally, to a niche market, which was fortuitously virtually on his doorstep. Business couldn’t be too bad either, Romney judged from the state of the place. Death clearly got people putting their hands in their pockets either drowning their sorrows or grateful it wasn’t them just interned in six feet of earth and chalk. He reflected, with some wryness, that this particular post-burial refreshment wouldn’t be contributing too much to the coffers.

He ordered a large vodka and tonic for Claire Stamp’s sister and, so as not to appear stuffy, a pint of ale for himself. Elaine Davies had taken a table near the open fire and was staring morosely into the flames. They took their first sips in silence.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of you. What were you doing there, at the funeral I mean? Is that part of the new policing policy these days?’

‘My super thinks it makes good publicity. I’d have come anyway.’

‘Why? Did you know her?’

‘We met as part of the investigation. I interviewed her.’

The woman’s brow furrowed and she lowered her drink. ‘What investigation? Her suicide? How could you have met her as part of that? I don’t understand.’

Romney realised then with a sick feeling in his stomach that Elaine Davies had no idea her sister had been raped.

In spite of his fears, after her initial shock, she took the news steadily. The more he talked to her – explained things to her – the stronger he realised she was. She was clearly a few years older than her sister and perhaps life had prepared her better for such awful events. But one thing was inevitably going to lead to another.

‘Is that why she killed herself, because she was raped?’

Romney’s insides squirmed like a worm on a hook. ‘Our investigations into your sister’s death are not yet complete.’

‘What does that mean? Are you saying that she didn’t jump? Was she pushed? Is that why you were there today?’ Her voice had risen several tones and had attracted the interest of the barman in the otherwise empty bar.

Romney did his best to placate her. ‘All I can honestly tell you is that a conclusive verdict on your sister’s death has not yet been reached. It’s likely that it will be declared a suicide or death by misadventure. When was the last time you spoke with her?’

She swallowed the last of her drink. ‘About two weeks ago.’

‘Tell me, what made you react like you did when I pointed out Avery to you?’

‘Claire told me he’d been violent towards her, nothing serious so far, but it was getting worse. She sounded me out about coming to stay for a while.’ A tear ran down her cheek to splash on the polished surface of the table. ‘Why didn’t she leave him?’ When Romney had no answer for her, she said, ‘Are you anything to do with the investigation into my mother’s death?’

‘No, but I know something of it. I know the officer who is dealing with it.’

‘Are my sister’s and my mother’s deaths related?’ She was now staring at him wide-eyed in astonishment with where her logic had taken her.

‘There is no evidence to suggest that your mother’s death was anything other than a tragic accident, but I have to tell you, if you don’t know, that her home was ransacked soon after she was killed. If I’m being totally honest with you – and I have to be – I see your sister’s and your mother’s death’s, simply by dint of their relation in time, as suspicious. I have no evidence to back that up. It’s just my instinct. It’s an instinct that is shared and we are all doing everything that we can to sort the mess out. Believe that.’

‘But why? Who? Has that Avery got something to do with it?’

‘I really don’t know and even if I did, that is not something I could discuss with you.’

‘I need another drink.’

‘Where are you staying tonight?’ Romney asked. ‘I hate to come over all official at a time like this, but you know you can’t drive if you’re going to start drowning sorrows.’

She let out a long breath that hinted at her tiredness. ‘I only got here an hour before the funeral. There was an accident on the motorway. I haven’t had a chance to book anywhere, yet.’

‘They do rooms here. Why don’t you take one? Save yourself the bother of searching about.’

‘And your conscience, I suppose. You don’t want me driving around town when you’ve been buying me drinks, do you?’ She didn’t mean it maliciously and he smiled at her. ‘I’ll book a room here on one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Keep me company for an hour. Please.’

He checked his watch instinctively. It was almost five. He had hardly touched his drink. He had promised to take Julie Carpenter to the cinema later that evening. ‘All right, but I’ll have to make a couple of calls.’

She thanked him for his gesture. The sincerity of her gratitude warmed him and reminded him of the way policing used to make him feel and how in an ideal world it should still.

He got hold of Marsh first and explained his situation. He found himself prepared to plead with her, if she had no other arrangements for the evening, to join him and Elaine Davies as soon as she possibly could. She said she’d be happy to call in for a drink. Then he phoned Julie Carpenter and for several reasons – not least of which was the trouble that his previous evening in a pub with a woman had got him into – found himself explaining in some detail his predicament and, craving her understanding, he wondered if she would join them too? To his pleasant surprise, and relief, she agreed, saying that she would come straight from work and be there within the half-hour.

With the weight off his mind, he came back to the table and took two large gulps of the warm ale. Davies had another half-finished drink in front of her and she was back to staring glumly into the fire.

‘What are the arrangements for your mother? You said she’s being buried tomorrow?’

‘Cremated, actually, at a place called Charing. It’s a rush job. Not very respectful, I know, but if she’s dead she’s dead. I run a business in Blackpool. It’s struggling. I can’t afford to lose trade and time by being down here burying people.’ She met Romney’s eye. ‘We were not a close family. Claire and I got on well enough, but to be honest our mother was not my favourite person. We’d hardly spoken in the last year. She arranged today. It’s not what Claire would have wanted. She’d have preferred cremation.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She wanted to be buried. Adamant about it, actually.’ The woman permitted herself a shameless wry smile. ‘You might not think me a very nice person for it, but I plan to enjoy tomorrow, at least the irony of it. Sick, eh?’

Romney shrugged. ‘I don’t believe there’s anything after death so it doesn’t matter. There’s no other family then?’

‘Our father died ten years ago. My brother’s not in the country. I don’t even know which continent he’s on. There might be a few distant relatives but no one who ever kept in touch.’

‘Did your mother own her home?’

She snorted. ‘No such luck. They rented all their lives. Dad never wanted the financial burden of a mortgage or the responsibility of the upkeep on places. He liked to keep his cash flow for the bookies. It was his money, I suppose.’ After a brief silence, she said, ‘I’d rather she was murdered.’

‘Who?’

‘Claire. I’d rather someone killed her than she had jumped to her death. It’s tormented me that she might have been so desperate, so lonely, so miserable and depressed that the only way out she could see was to take her own life. I was her sister – her closest relative. If she was that low, she should have come to me.’

‘She was coming to you.’ She looked up at him, tearful again. ‘My sergeant is joining us in a little while. She came across Claire on the seafront on the night she died. They had a cuppa and a chat. Claire told her that she was coming to stay with you.’

‘Is that true?’ There was such hope in her eyes.

‘Perfectly, you can ask her yourself, but it’s not common knowledge and I’d prefer it not to be. Under the circumstances I think you have a right to know that.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. She removed a piece of crushed fabric from her bag and blew her nose.

Romney could see that his confidence had gone some small way to easing her torment.

She laughed suddenly then and with only good humour said, ‘You lot really are a great advertisement for modern policing aren’t you? Drinks and sympathy in your own time. A shining light of victim support.’ She raised her glass in acknowledgement and thanks.

As if she had been waiting for her cue, DS Joy Marsh entered. From the look of her she had no umbrella and it was tipping it down. Romney made the introductions and went to the bar to get a round in. He hoped that in the short time it would take him to buy the drinks, Marsh would have the opportunity to confirm what he had told the woman regarding Claire Stamp’s intentions. It was suddenly important to him that she know it for the truth and not later reflect that he had just told her what he thought she had wanted to hear.

As he stood waiting for his pint to be pulled the door opened behind him and turning he saw Julie Carpenter framed in the doorway, battling to lower her umbrella. A feeling of pure joy and longing welled up inside him, like a geyser, and flooded him with pleasure. He realised in that moment – watching her sway towards him in her business suit and heels, a smile breaking out on her beautiful face as she fought to clear her hair from her vision – that he was in love with her and there was nothing that he could do about it, even if he’d wanted to.

The next two hours were a surprise to all four of the party sitting around the table. Romney was, for periods of it, a contented observer as the women chattered. He thought that an outsider would have had a hard time recognising the circumstances that had thrown the four comparative strangers together.

Julie had hushed his apologies for the change of plan with a finger to his lips, accepted the offer of a drink and gone to introduce herself to the other two at the table. By the time Romney joined them with a tray of refreshment the three were engaged in amiable conversation that gave no suggestion of their lack of familiarity with each other.

This gave him a chance to study the latest woman in his life in a new and revealing way. Her conversation and tact, diplomacy and engagement only impressed upon him further what a treasure he’d found.

At his suggestion and expense the four of them decided to eat. The good food complemented the evening that turned out to be one of those truly enjoyable impromptu meetings that planned functions can rarely compare to. It was, as Elaine Davies was moved and proud to say at the end of it, a bloody decent wake for her sister all things considered; and probably one of the strangest she had heard of. They all raised their glasses and drank to that.

At a time that seemed right, but not late, they disbanded. The bereaved sister went to find her room with much thanks and not a few alcohol induced tears. Julie Carpenter, who early on had assessed her role for the evening and had largely abstained from the alcohol, offered the police officers rides home, which were both accepted. They dropped Marsh at her building with hardly a word of shop having been spoken.

Following directions, Julie then drove Romney out to his remote home for her first visit there. It was a visit that both of them had considered in their own ways at some point since they had begun their relationship. Romney had imagined giving her the grand tour, explaining his ideas and projections, helping her to envisage the potential of the place at some leisure. He would have tidied up a little, put coffee on. As it turned out they had to bolt for the door in another downpour. Once inside neither had any interest in anything other than undressing the other and falling into bed.