Marsh said, ‘Perhaps it was Avery looking for something he had entrusted to Claire Stamp for safe-keeping or just kept here. If it was it must be pretty important and my guess is he didn’t find it.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Romney, sounding more interested. ‘Perhaps it was important enough to kill her over.’
The caretaker couldn’t say whether Avery had been there that day. He said, ‘I don’t spend all my time spying on the comings and goings of the residents. I’ve got better things to do.’
She thanked him as cordially as she could manage and went home.
*
The ransacking of Claire Stamp’s flat continued to nag at Marsh’s thoughts. It was as she was staring at her ready-meal doing laps of the microwave that she thought of Claire Stamp’s mother. Although, according to Claire, Avery didn’t tell her they were through and that she was to vacate the flat until after her mother had left, it was, thought Marsh, entirely possible that the young woman had feared something of the sort. Maybe there were other considerations too: things that she knew nothing about. But if Claire had feared for her security and her position and Avery had left something with her for safe-keeping – something important and valuable enough for him to ransack the flat so completely searching for it – it would be possible that she had given it to her mother for her own safe-keeping, security and protection: some insurance. Her mother hadn’t waited around long after Avery had arrived back at the flat. Marsh looked at her watch and wondered whether to give Romney a call. She decided it would keep ‘til the morning. And in any case, she reflected, perhaps it would be as well if she slept on the idea.
*
Romney worked late. He had a backlog of paperwork to catch up on. Most of it was pointless bureaucratic nonsense, but unfortunately that was no excuse not to do it.
Julie Carpenter had a parents’ evening. Afterwards, she was going out with colleagues for a drink. Romney felt a pang of jealousy at this, which disturbed him. He wouldn’t see her, but he would have. If she’d asked him to meet her afterwards or to go around to her house later, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
They had seen each other on six occasions and made love on five of them. He felt like the proverbial new man for it. It wasn’t just the sex, which was the most engaging, adventurous and satisfying of any he had ever experienced. He realised, with something bordering on embarrassment, that she was becoming an infatuation for him.
In the last few years he’d dated on and off – dipped his toe in the water now and again. Mostly it was for the promise of sex. He wasn’t looking for anything more permanent. Been there, done that, had the scars, learned his lessons.
There had been a couple of women who had interested him further than the bedroom, but with both the mutual attraction had fizzled out by mutual agreement.
Romney had kept his thick dark curls, although they were now smattered with grey. He kept himself reasonably fit and his body reasonably trim. The ageing process had weathered his features into something bordering on rugged. With his height, his natural build and his clear blue eyes many women, young and old, were encouraged to give him a second look.
At nearly forty-three he had a double bed to himself, spent his days off and his money improving his collection of first editions and the condition of his property, started his summer Sundays with early morning rides on his motorbike, ate when, where and what he liked and never missed a Champions League match, if he wasn’t working.
The life-style he had chosen for himself was never going to be one he would give up easily, but that’s not to say he wouldn’t consider it if the right person came along. With the surprise of Julie Carpenter he was able to rekindle something of his youthful inner-self.
Romney understood himself. He understood that this relationship with an attractive, vivacious young professional woman was a boost to his ego. But he was under no illusions. At the moment it was lust.
***
13
At seven o’clock Romney turned off the office lights and headed down to the car park. The night was colder by a couple of degrees than any so far that week. A keen, thin wind sliced through his clothing and stirred up debris in the car park.
He sat in the freezing car still undecided about how to spend his evening. He could go to his gym – his bag was in the boot. He could grab a take-away, head home and watch some telly with a beer. He could visit a pub he knew where the food was home-made and filling, and the real ale advertisement outside was not a trading standards concern. He checked his mobile just in case, and smiling to himself at his foolishness started the car.
His mind drifted back to Claire Stamp and what she could have had of Avery’s that would make him attack her. It would have to be something incriminating and important. And what would she have done with it? Where could she have hidden it, if, as Marsh had suggested, Avery hadn’t recovered it from his ransacking of the flat?
He was about to leave the car park when he remembered Claire Stamp’s mother. She could have accepted something from her daughter to hold for her. She hadn’t hung around at the flat once Avery had returned. He stopped the car, took out his phone and dialled Marsh. She answered on the third ring.
‘Hello, sir.’
‘Sorry to bother you this late. I wanted to ask you something about Claire Stamp’s mother.’
‘No problem. I was just on my way out.’
‘Anywhere special?’
‘Only the take-away. Nuked my dinner to oblivion.’
Silence filled the line.
‘I ruined my dinner in the microwave.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Romney. ‘Look, I’m just going to get something to eat. Decent pub not far from you, actually. The White Horse in St James’ Street. Care to join me?’ Marsh’s prolonged silence as she thought about it encouraged Romney to believe she was not keen on the idea. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘Just thought I’d ask.’
‘No, I mean, yeah, sure. Sounds great. Thanks.’
‘Good. I’m heading there now. See you in, what, ten minutes?’
‘Ten minutes,’ repeated Marsh.
She ended the call, checked herself in the hall mirror and didn’t like what stared back. Coming home she’d changed into sweats and taken off her make-up. Looking like that was all right nipping to the chippy but no good if you wanted to make a good impression on your new and immediate boss. She checked her watch. She’d got ready quickly before.
*
Romney was standing at the bar with a pint of ale when Marsh arrived. The wind had whipped the shoulder length hair she normally wore up for work but down tonight into a dishevelled mess.
He took one look at her and smiling said, ‘I didn’t realise there were so many hedges between The Gateway and here.’
She scraped her hair back into some sort of order with her fingers. ‘Thanks for noticing, sir.’
‘What’ll you have?’
She had a white wine spritzer, and they took a table near the open fire.
Marsh sipped her drink. ‘It’s cosy in here,’ she said.
‘Haven’t you been in before? Geographically it must be your local.’
‘I’m not much one for going into pubs on my own.’
‘Of course. I didn’t think of that. How long have you been with us?’
‘About a month, including courses.’
‘And before that?’
‘I was a DC at Gravesend. They had all the DSs they needed, so when I gained promotion they offered me a posting down here. I say offered but you know how it is.’
Romney did. ‘How do you like it?’ He realised that he didn’t know anything about DS Marsh.
‘It’s a lot less intense than north Kent.’
‘Politely put. So, a month, what do you do with yourself when you’re not working?’
‘Gym, shop, read, sleep. My family is in London. I usually go up there when I have a few days off.’
‘What do you like to read?’ said Romney, interested as h
e always was in other people’s reading material.
‘Don’t laugh, but detective novels mostly. I know,’ she said, misinterpreting his wide smile, ‘it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. You know what they say about coppers who read detective novels?’ Marsh didn’t but didn’t like to say so, so she sipped her drink. ‘Don’t tell anyone down the nick, but I’m a big fan of the genre myself.’
‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. I prefer the older ones, Golden Age stuff and British, what I’d call classic mysteries, but there are some fine American practitioners of the craft. Some of the continental crime writers are worth getting to know, too, although I’m not so keen on the rash of Scandinavian stuff that seems so popular at the moment. But that might be as much to do with the translations as the original writing.’
They ordered food from the specials board and got around to talking shop.
‘I was thinking about the ransacking of Claire Stamp’s flat,’ said Romney, ‘and what whoever did it – and my money’s on Avery – was looking for. Whatever it is, it must be extremely important and probably portable.’
‘My thoughts exactly. And I think that I have a pretty good idea of where it is, whatever it is.’
‘The mother?’
Marsh nodded. ‘That would be my guess,’ she said. ‘She left soon after Avery turned up, and she had a bag.’
‘She lives where?’
‘Ashford. Willesborough, I think.’
‘Did she identify the body?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘You know how she took it?’
Marsh shook her head. ‘Uniform dealt with it. I can ask in the morning.’
‘If Avery is looking for something – something he may have killed Claire Stamp for – and he works out that she might have given it to her mother to look after, she is in danger. I think that tomorrow morning you and I should pay her a visit and, if we’re right, hope that Avery hasn’t beaten us to it.’
Romney was chewing a large mouthful of the gravy-soaked suet crust of his steak and kidney pudding when he turned to see what the night had blown in with the banging of the door. Three nicely dressed young women stood on the edge of the carpet. In the centre of them and staring directly at him and Marsh enjoying their cosy meal beside the fire was Julie Carpenter. Her companions, who had been chatting away, stopped to see what had grabbed her attention. She said something to them that Romney didn’t catch but understood perfectly from the looks that they turned on him. She strode over to his table. He began to stand. The pudding crust had turned to an expanding gooey mass in his mouth that he was unable to swallow.
‘Don’t bother,’ she said, waving him to sit. ‘I just wanted to say that I hope that you choke on it.’ She turned to Marsh whose mouth was hanging open. ‘Watch him; he’s obviously a player. The bastard was in my bed last night.’
Marsh’s eyes widened. The pretty young woman sent one more withering look at Romney. Her eyes were beginning to swim. She turned, walked back to her friends and they all left.
Romney managed a sheepish grin, but with the suet still stuck in his cheeks it came off more as a poor Godfather impression than the expression of an unspoken apology. There was an awkward minute’s silence while they both chewed and swallowed and composed themselves.
‘I’m really sorry and embarrassed for that,’ said Romney, looking it.
He was, thought Marsh reflecting on his reaction, a gentleman at least. The fact that he was seeing someone young enough to be his niece just made him a lucky gentleman.
‘Please, no need. I can see her logic. If you want me to have a word with her, put her straight... ’
‘That’s good of you to offer,’ said Romney, strangling the suggestion before it drew its second breath, ‘but I’m sure it’ll be fine. I hope that you can forget all about it.’
In other words, thought Marsh, you’d better not say a word to anyone at work.
They were both nearly finished eating. They might have had another drink if things hadn’t turned out the way that they had. Romney settled the bill and, with Marsh expressing a wish to have another go at the hedges over the offer of a lift home, they parted company in the windswept street outside.
Romney sat in his car feeling wretched. He knew that his meal was nothing more than work colleagues innocently sharing food and discussing a case. He’d also reached a time in his life when he felt the need to account for his movements to no man or woman. However, he could see how it must have looked, and he could imagine how it felt for her, if she felt something for him. Her behaviour would indicate that she did. The decent thing to do, regardless of how she would take it, would be to try to explain to her her erroneous reading of the situation.
Not relishing the rebuff of an ignored phone call, he composed a text message explaining things, hoping that she would understand and apologising for something that he felt in his heart he didn’t need to do. It was a measure of his feelings for her. He pressed send and drove home.
***
14
Romney was at his desk early the following morning and struggling with a profound sadness. He was angry with himself for it. He hardly knew the woman and here he was acting on the inside like some pathetic teenager.
Julie Carpenter had not replied to his text of the previous evening, and there was nothing on his phone or in his email inbox that morning. No news might be considered good news by some, but today it didn’t feel like it. He was on his second mug of coffee when the rest of his team started dribbling in. Spying Marsh he beckoned her over.
Marsh believed it would be professional, appreciated and prudent if she simply said nothing about the previous evening, even though her inclination was to thank him again for the meal and the company. Sitting at home with a glass of wine and her book later that night she had reflected on an evening that had been worth braving the scrappy winter’s night. It had been nice to get out for once, and she’d enjoyed herself. But the embarrassing way things had ended made her believe that least said would be soonest mended.
After they’d said their good mornings, Romney said, ‘I thought we’d take a trip out to see Mrs Stamp senior this morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Call her in an hour, would you? Give her a chance to wake up. Find out where we can get hold of her. Don’t let her fob you off either. And speak to whoever accompanied her to the identification of her daughter. Find out how she took it.’
*
They were on their way by mid-morning – twenty-five minutes up the M20. Romney had made the courtesy call to his opposite number in the Ashford station, Detective Inspector Crow – a man who Romney had a good working relationship with – to let him know that he would be interviewing on his patch. Marsh had discovered that Mrs Stamp would be at home, same as most mornings since she lost her job in the town.
After negotiating the busy early morning traffic of the town centre and gaining the ring road that would lead them on to the motorway, Romney said, ‘How did she take her daughter’s death?’
‘She didn’t cry. Didn’t become an hysterical grieving wreck. Apparently, she seemed very angry. She didn’t talk much. Just identified the body and left.’
‘Was there a Mr Stamp with her?’
‘No. She saw the body alone.’
‘How about our call this morning?’
‘She wasn’t happy about it, but she seemed resigned to the idea that someone would be calling on her.’
It seemed to Marsh that the elephant in the car that was their shared meal the evening before had grown to take up most of the back seat by the time they had travelled the twenty miles or so from the station to Mrs Stamp’s front door. Despite the continuing seasonal grey drizzle and cold, she was glad when she could step out of the car’s oppressive atmosphere.
Mrs Stamp lived in a small terrace of mock Tudor houses with mainline railway tracks running behind them. The front garden was well tended and tidy, ev
en though the weather must have kept all but the most dedicated of gardeners on the warm side of the windows.
The curtains twitched as they got out of the vehicle. Before they had had a chance to ring the bell the door was opened to admit them.
They stood in the small entrance hall. The strange smells of someone else’s home crowded in on them.
‘Wipe your feet, will you?’ said Helen Stamp. ‘Go through into the lounge.’
She pointed to the first doorway that led off the narrow passageway. She hadn’t offered to take their coats, and she didn’t offer them refreshment. It was not the most hospitable welcome that either visitor had received, but then, as police officers on duty entering someone’s home against their will, it wasn’t the worst.
‘Sit down,’ said the woman. They sat. ‘Before we start you can save your sympathy. I don’t want to hear a load of insincerities that mean nothing to any of us.’
‘Never-the-less, Mrs Stamp,’ said Romney, feeling the need to assert the police presence, ‘we both met your daughter and I’m sure that I can speak for both of us when I say that her tragic death is truly regretted.’
The woman’s jaw showed defiance and her eyes glittered. What was it, thought Romney, that made her feel such animosity towards the law.
‘Why are you here?’ she said.
‘We are investigating your daughter’s death, Mrs Stamp,’ said Romney.
This seemed to confuse the woman. Her brow knitted. ‘Her suicide, you mean.’
Romney was unsure whether this was meant to be a statement or a question. ‘Our enquiries are ongoing, Mrs Stamp. We are exploring various avenues of investigation.’
‘Can’t you just talk straight?’ she said.
‘Your daughter may well have committed suicide,’ said Romney. ‘She may also have fallen accidentally, or she may have been pushed to her death.’ His own tone had hardened in response to the woman’s belligerence. He instantly regretted it.
‘What? Murdered? Is that what you’re suggesting?’ Her voice had risen in pitch and volume.