Rope Enough - The Romney and Marsh Files #1, Page 4

  ‘That’ll do, Avery,’ said Romney, standing up. ‘We’re here to interview Miss Stamp regarding her particularly nasty ordeal of last night. I would expect her boyfriend to be sensitive to that.’

  Avery scowled at Romney. ‘Well, you can piss off now. This is my flat. My name’s on the lease, and I pay the rent. You’re trespassing.’

  ‘We were invited in,’ said Romney.

  ‘And now you’re being invited out.’

  ‘Simon,’ said the girl.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘Shut the fuck up. When I want your opinion I’ll give it to you. Now, you two get out.’

  Marsh stood, looking as though she was going to argue with him. Romney laid a restraining hand on her arm. He said, ‘Fair enough. If that’s what you want, we’ll leave.’ He turned to the young woman whose features were distorted with hurt and unhappiness at the way Avery had spoken to her. ‘Thank you, Miss Stamp. I realise that this hasn’t been easy for you. Remember what DS Marsh told you: if you need anything, anything at all, or if you remember anything, no matter how small or insignificant you might think it is, please get in touch with us.’

  He laid his business card down on the coffee table between them. Marsh did the same. Marsh picked up her recording equipment. She made sure Avery got a clear view of the device with its red recording light still glowing.

  ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ said Romney.

  Avery leaned back on the door frame leaving only a narrow gap through which he clearly expected Marsh to try and squeeze through. He lost his balance, and then stumbled to regain his footing, grabbing at the door frame in an undignified display of drunkenness.

  Romney followed Marsh down the corridor and they let themselves out. Raised voices filled the void they had left behind.

  As they made their way down the stairs, Romney said, ‘Not what you’d call the sensitive type, is he?’

  ‘What’s she doing with him?’

  Romney stopped, turned and raised his eyebrows. He looked at Marsh and said, ‘Look at the flat she’s living in. Look at the job she has. Look at him. I’ve noticed that some women will put up with a lot from their men as long as their men have money and are prepared to spend it on them.’

  ‘That’s just a form of prostitution.’

  Romney smiled wryly. ‘The great Dutch Schulz once said that the world’s a whore-house. All we have to do is work out our place in it.’

  ‘So what does that make the police, sir?’

  Romney considered this for a moment. ‘Security, I suppose. It’s our job to make sure that all the business gets conducted smoothly. Everyone’s screwing each other. We have to ensure that people obey the rules.’

  On the street the biting wind had intensified – a clear sign that the tide was in. It was a raw one from the east and cut through whatever clothing was worn to deflect it.

  Romney said, ‘Shit. I meant to ask her about the empty rack of cigarettes.’

  ‘I can find out from Carl Park,’ said Marsh.

  Romney nodded and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. ‘You did well in there.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the nick for something, but I spy a mobile phone shop up the road. Why don’t you find out what you can about the sounds thing? To be honest I don’t think I’d have the patience to be lectured by some spotty youth about megabytes and pixels and the like. It’s all a bit beyond me.’

  Marsh nodded, pulled her coat around her and strode off in the direction of the garish neon sign.

  Romney turned to make his way back to his car. Claire Stamp’s mother came tottering along the pavement in her heels, holding down the hem of her too-short skirt with one hand and her mop of peroxide curls with the other.

  ‘Left her in peace, have you?’

  Romney forced a smile. ‘Yes, Mrs Stamp. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Who are you trying to kid?’ she said. She brushed past him and let herself in through the security door.

  ***

  5

  Forensics had only disappointing news and further complications for Romney on his return to the station. Fingerprints lifted from the rear room of the petrol station produced none that matched any in central records. All samples found were so widespread as to suggest that they would probably turn out to be those of the employees.

  In the back room and around the counter there was plenty of residue from the latex gloves that Park had mentioned, which indicated the attacker had kept his gloves on throughout.

  There were, however, on the front counter two sets of prints that did match prints in criminal records. Both were men. One was for a Martin Hunter who’d served a short time in jail for handling stolen goods. The other was for a Brian Small who had been convicted on an assault charge. Profiles and past histories of both looked unpromising.

  Romney set officers to following up both, although the consensus of opinion was that these were just customers of the garage from the day before who would regret having leant on the counter.

  Further disappointment came with the news that no trace of body-fluids had been found on or immediately around the table. The attacker had taken the condom and its packet with him.

  A search of the area and bins surrounding the garage was organised in the slim hope that once clear of the scene the rapist might have been tempted to throw the condom into a waste receptacle or the overgrown wasteland adjoining the garage. He had not.

  Swabs taken from the body of Claire Stamp also provided nothing – not even one foreign pubic hair. The attacker had clearly gone to great lengths not to have left anything of himself behind, even down to the possibility of shaving himself.

  Enquiries had been made with neighbouring police forces in case they had any open cases of rape crimes with similar MOs, but nothing flagged.

  *

  Romney was reclining in his chair, chewing on his pen, when Marsh returned. He waved her in. She had a list of six different models of the same make of phone as Claire Stamp’s that made exactly the same sound when capturing still or moving images. It was something, but at the same time it was not particularly encouraging. The mobile phone salesman had estimated that there were probably hundreds of those models being used in the town. It was a popular brand. Romney invited her to sit. He brought her up to date with the lack of developments, lack of evidence and lack of leads.

  ‘So,’ said Marsh, ‘apart from the victims’ testimonies and the physical evidence that two serious crimes were committed we have nothing to go on and nothing to follow up except for the cable ties, which I have a feeling are going to prove all too common. Even if we had a suspect, we have no evidence to convict him with. Nothing that will hold up in court anyway. We need an attack of conscience or for him to do something stupid. But given the way he went about it last night, I don’t think we should hold our breath. So what do we do, sir?’

  ‘Why?’ said Romney.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s what we have to ask ourselves when all else fails. Normally, I couldn’t care less about the whys and wherefores behind every criminal act. Let the evidence lead you to your suspects, make your case against them the best you can and move on. Ordinarily, I find that it doesn’t do to dwell too long on why people do the horrible things that they do to each other. But when you don’t have your evidence or your suspects, you have to find another way in. You have to ask why. Why did whoever raped Claire Stamp do it? I’m convinced that what happened last night was rape first and robbery second. It just seems too well-planned and well-executed for a random attack.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Marsh.

  ‘So why? You’re the rape expert.’

  ‘Why do men rape?’ Marsh ordered her thoughts. ‘Men rape to get what they can’t by other means. They rape as a means of subjugation. They rape as punishment. They rape because they are immoral. They rape to satisfy a perverted sexual need that can only be fulfilled by the physical abuse and dominati
on of another human being. They rape because it gives them a sense of power and control. And they rape because they can.’

  Marsh’s outpouring, tinged as it seemed with a barely concealed disgust for the male of the species, left Romney at a temporary loss for words and wondering if, perhaps, there wasn’t something that went deeper with his subordinate.

  He said, ‘Well that all covers a wide spectrum of human behaviour. But it’s not very helpful.’ He drew a deep breath and blew out his cheeks. ‘And which of those reasons would be behind the rape of Claire Stamp?’

  ‘Could be any of them, sir. And the sad reality is that a surprisingly high number of men carry around the capability and barely suppressed animal urge to rape.’

  ‘Really? And where did you get that nugget of information from?’

  ‘A rape-counselling course, sir. A couple of other facts that might interest you that I checked up on: statistically it’s not so unusual for a rapist to wear a condom – it really depends on the relationship that existed between the rapist and the victim before the attack took place. You see, again statistically, most people are raped by someone they know and trust: relative, friend, boyfriend, acquaintance. It is unusual, though, for an attacker unknown to the victim to wear a condom.’

  Romney looked unimpressed. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Update the board.’

  ‘That’ll keep. Let’s pay a visit to young Park. There are a couple of questions I want to ask him. Find out where he lives. We’ll pay him a house call.’

  Marsh was back in five minutes. She tapped on the glass and putting her head round the door said, ‘He’s at work, sir.’

  Romney looked astonished. ‘The garage?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Romney thought for a moment and said, ‘Even better. Ready?’

  ***

  6

  Carl Park was on the garage forecourt when the police arrived. He was wearing an oversized fluorescent jacket and sweeping up leaves and rubbish that was playing tag around the pumps in the gusting breeze. He had a large bandage strapped around his head. Seeing Romney and Marsh he stopped what he was doing and looked over his shoulder towards the shop. A worried expression clouded his features. He turned back to his task with renewed effort.

  Romney and Marsh got out of the car and approached him.

  ‘Hello, Carl,’ said Romney.

  ‘He won’t like you coming here,’ Park said, looking towards the shop.

  ‘Who? The manager? Don’t worry about him. I’m surprised to see you back here so soon.’

  ‘My head’s OK. Just a bump and a few stitches.’

  ‘I was thinking of what you went through last night – the psychological trauma.’

  The youth shrugged. ‘I get paid by the hour. No work, no money. Besides, he phoned me and said he needed me. I’d only be sitting around at home thinking about it. At least here I can take my mind off it with things. I need this job.’

  The officers shared some sympathy for the pathetic, spindly youth in his extra-large garage jacket. Clearly, he was of below average intelligence. He provided a miserable example of what much of his age group had to look forward to in Dover after completing their compulsory education, if they could find work at all. Perhaps, Marsh thought with a depressing realisation, she was looking at one of the lucky ones.

  ‘We need to ask you a few more things about last night, Carl,’ said Romney. His voice had grown friendlier. ‘I was hoping we could talk inside. Find somewhere quiet out of this wind.’

  ‘Let me get this pile into the sack. If I don’t do it now, they’ll be all over the place by the time I come back out.’

  ‘Sure, Carl,’ said Romney. ‘We’ll just clear things with the boss. See you inside.’

  The manager was standing behind the counter. He watched with an impassive expression as the police headed across the forecourt and entered the shop.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Patel,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant Marsh.’

  Romney’s attention was drawn to a magazine rack that had been obscured by something brought in off the forecourt the night before. The top shelf came almost to the middle of the display: row upon row of glossy magazine covers featuring naked women posing provocatively, suggesting all manner of seedy offerings, and leaving so little to the imagination. Old, young, fat, thin, white, black and in between. He said, ‘Sell much of this stuff, do you?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Patel. ‘And you are?’

  Romney picked up a copy of Midlife Wife. The front cover showed a pouting middle-aged and overweight woman, naked apart from a pair of cami-knickers, bending over a chair with two fingers planted deeply in her mouth. There was a ‘free DVD’ taped to the front cover. Romney sighed deeply and thrust it back in its place. He wondered where her kids were when she was being photographed and what she would say to them the day one of them said: ‘Mummy, why are you on the front of that magazine with no clothes on?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Romney.’

  ‘There’s nothing illegal there,’ said the man.

  ‘No,’ said Romney, ‘just immoral.’

  ‘Have you come to discuss my adult reading material, Inspector, or is there something else I can do for you?’

  ‘We need a private word with young Park. It’s rather urgent. All right if we use your back room for a few minutes?’

  Mr Patel looked like it was anything but all right. With an obvious resignation regarding his position and not wishing to aggravate the clearly irritable and pious policeman further, he said, ‘If you must.’

  Romney said, ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for him to be back at work?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Patel. ‘I do. But he was quite insistent. Phoned me this morning saying he was well enough to work, and he couldn’t afford to lose the hours to someone else. He’s not a bad worker. The agency has sent me worse.’

  The automatic door slid open and Carl Park slouched in.

  ‘We know the way,’ said Romney.

  There were only two chairs. Romney indicated that Park should sit, and he took one for himself. Park looked uncomfortable at being in the room that held such keen and unpleasant memories for him. Romney noted that the battered circular table was still there. On its surface was a mug of half-drunk coffee and an empty, cellophane wrapper from something microwavable. Crumbs littered the chipped surface. If he’d been manager, Romney thought, he’d have splashed out ten quid on a new plastic patio table from Argos.

  ‘Just a few questions we need to ask you, Carl,’ said Romney. ‘We found no tape for the security camera last night. What can you tell us about that?’

  ‘He must have taken it. There was always one in the machine. Mr Patel’s very particular about it. We’ve had a few drive-aways lately.’

  Romney said, ‘Mmmm, we thought he probably did. We noticed that all the racks of cigarettes were full up last night, except one.’

  ‘I filled them all up last night. It was a slow night and I filled up mostly everything. I definitely remember filling up all the cigarettes.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to think very carefully before answering, all right?’ The youth nodded. ‘To your knowledge have there ever been any goings-on of a sexual nature in here?’

  Park looked embarrassed by the question. He shook his head sharply.

  ‘You’re sure, Carl? Nothing at all?’

  He shook his head again. His skin altered its pallor, as though something had been drained from him.

  ‘Anything new occurred to you about last night?’ said Romney. ‘Anything that might have struck you as odd or familiar?’

  Again the head shaking. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Do you get many deliveries here?’ said Marsh.

  Park looked up at her, as though he had forgotten she was in the room. ‘A few. You know, petrol and stuff. We have a rep bring oils and things for cars. She’s a woman. Someone Mr Patel knows, mi
ght be a relative of his, brings the magazines and DVDs. Mr Patel gets most of the other stuff from the Cash and Carry.’

  ‘Think about the attacker,’ said Marsh. ‘Nothing familiar about him at all? His size? His walk? His voice?’

  ‘I told you: he was eastern European.’

  Marsh pressed him. ‘You’re absolutely sure about that, Carl?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘All right,’ said Romney. ‘We need you to call in at the station to give a formal witness statement, Carl. Sooner the better.’

  ‘I don’t start here until twelve. I can come in tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’ll be fine. Ask at the desk for DS Marsh. She’ll look after you. We might even be able to stretch to a biscuit and a cup of tea.’

  The youth nodded, but he didn’t seem thrilled at the prospect.

  They all went back into the shop.

  ‘Right, Mr Patel,’ said Romney, ‘we’re done. Thank you for your cooperation.’ Romney waited until Park had left the shop to resume his duties. He said, ‘How much did you lose?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘In the robbery. How much did he get away with?’

  ‘A little over seven hundred pounds,’ said Mr Patel.

  ‘As much as that? That seems very high for a little out-of-the-way place like this.’

  ‘We have our good days, Inspector.’

  ‘Insured?’ said Romney.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to keep a personal look out for when the insurance company get in touch regarding our role in your claim.’

  Mr Patel did not look overly happy at the prospect.

  ‘Anything else missing apart from the takings?’

  ‘Cigarettes. He cleaned out several racks.’

  ‘Really? When I took a look around last night it was only the...’ Romney leaned over the counter to peer at the display behind the man, ‘... the Marlboro Lights that were empty.’

  Patel bristled. ‘What are you suggesting, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m suggesting that you consider the details of your insurance claim very carefully before submitting it, Mr Patel. Insurance fraud is a serious offence. Do you sell condoms?’

  The manager went from rising indignation to bewilderment at the policeman’s change of tack. ‘Yes. Is that a problem or are you asking as a customer?’