Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) (10 page)

‘Any regrets?’

‘It can be hard work, and a bit uncertain at times, but I’m my own boss and I manage to pay the bills.’

‘So you also hire to individuals as well as film companies?’ said Marsh.

‘Have to, Sergeant. If you want the business you have to do all the business
, as my father used to say. Anyway, ordinary people are our bread and butter. Fancy dress hire, stag weekends...’

‘Military themed stag weekends?’ said Romney.

‘Oh yes, Inspector. Putting on a uniform and playing soldiers brings out something different, something base and primitive, in even the most civilised of people, and of course you know what they say about the effect of a good uniform on women? No offence, Sergeant, but the evidence would seem to bear that out. You should see the state some of the outfits get returned in. It’s a good job army clothing is designed and made to withstand abuse. Mind you the mind boggles at some of the stains they get sent back with. Blood, food, sick, mud, vegetation and others that I don’t care to investigate too closely. Still, it adds to the fee and generally people don’t mind the extra dry-cleaning charge if they’ve enjoyed themselves, touched on a fantasy perhaps.’

‘Incredible,’ said Romney, thinking not for the first time in his life that the more he knew about people, the less he understood. But he was also thinking back to his observation of those who had don
e pretend battle the day before. That poncy Dupont and the effect that his outfit had clearly had on Marsh, and how the donning of uniforms might have contributed to the fervour that had left a man dead.

They were in the office now. A woman was talking animatedly into the phone. Romney overheard her name dropping as she boasted of the company’s reputation and recent hire record.

‘The wife,’ said Glazier, noting Romney’s interest. ‘It’s a family business. One of the reasons we’ve made it. If you have to employ people then you’re paying out for them, even if you’re not doing much business yourself.’ He settled himself at his desk and invited the police to sit also. ‘Get you a coffee or something?’

‘Thanks, but we’re on a tight schedule,’ said Romney.

‘Of course. Mind me asking what this is all about?’ asked Glazier and Romney realised he would naturally be curious about police interest in his business and possibly he had a right to something.

‘All I can tell you at the moment, Mr Glazier, is that we want to speak to the men who you hired five Napoleonic uniforms to. Either they’ll be able to help us with our enquiries or they won’t. At the present time we don’t know one way or the other if they are who we might be looking for
, so it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to speculate here and now. I’m sure you understand.’

Glazier indicated that he did, but he looked a little disappointed. Perhaps he’d seen something of the death of the Frenchman on the news and managed to put two and two together. He handed over the rental hire agreement docket.

Romney inspected it. Five Napoleonic uniforms of the British army complete with hats, webbing, boots and wooden dummy rifles. The final price seemed reasonable and he said so.

‘Like most businesses, Inspector,’ said Glazier, ‘there’s a fine line between profit and loss, loss of a customer that is. Nothing to be gained from being greedy. We get a lot of word of mouth referrals because we are reasonably priced.’

Stapled to the docket was a till receipt indicating that the hirer had paid by credit card. Written on the top of the invoice was also the hirer’s name and Dover address. How sloppy of him, thought Romney, and how lucky for the police. And then he experienced a pang of doubt as he wondered why anyone who had taken so much trouble in order to commit murder would leave such a simple paper-trail for the police to follow to their door. He exchanged a look with Marsh and saw what he took to be similar thoughts troubling her.

‘I’m going to need to take the original away with us, Mr Glazier,’ said Romney.

‘Mind if I take a copy first? It’s for my own records.’

‘No. Not at all. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t act on it in any way for a few days. I’m guessing the gear hasn’t been returned to you yet?’

‘No it hasn’t. It was a three day hire agreement. They’ve got today and tomorrow left.’

‘We’ll know by then, I’m sure,’ said Romney, although he didn’t say what.

After providing the police with a good description of the two men who had hired and collected the uniforms, Glazier escorted them back to their vehicle where they all shook hands once more. Glazier even waved them off.

‘Are you think
ing what I’m thinking, Sergeant?’ said Romney, as she navigated their way back towards the M20.

‘Why leave your name, address and card details behind if you’re going to murder someone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps, they’re fake,’ said Marsh.

‘Only one way to find out.’

‘You want to go there now, sir?’

‘Better not. Go by the station and let’s get a search warrant first and organise some beefy uniformed presence?’ Thorough, effective, fair, cooperative and above all everything by the book, Falkner had said. ‘You know we have to do everything by the book these days, Sergeant,’ said Romney, with what Marsh understood to be a hint of melancholy.

*

Romney left Marsh to organise uniform back-up for their visit while he arranged a search warrant. In the offices of CID, he caught Grimes loitering at his desk. His paperwork was untidy and there were crumbs of something recently consumed dotted about. ‘What are you up to, now?’ he asked him. Grimes might be four kinds of useless but his physical presence was not to be underestimated when an intimidating show of force was needed, even if occasionally his enthusiasm could get the better of him, as Romney’s recently broken nose bore testimony to.

‘Off to the hospital, gov.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing.’

Romney waited and when no explanation was forthcoming, he said, ‘So why are you going to the hospital?’

‘Oh, right. Sorry, gov. Report of a man stabbed on his doorstep.’

‘Serious?’

‘Honest.’

‘No. Is it serious, the wound?’

‘Oh. Not life-threatening, they said. Uniform asked if CID would go and talk to him.’

*

In preparation for their low key visit, the non-descript police car of CID and the colourful patrol cars of uniform assembled at the end of the road in which James Andrews
– the apparent hirer of the uniforms – had given as his home address. It was a narrow and depressing road in a poor part of the town. They rolled to a halt outside number seven and Romney and Marsh along with two uniformed constables moved to the front door while two more uniformed officers picked their way around to any rear exit.

The door was opened by a harassed looking woman looking no older than thirty. A young child’s screaming carried down the stairs to raise the hair at the nape of Romney’s neck. He and Marsh held up their warrant cards but with two uniformed officers behind them it was an unnecessary gesture.

‘Is this the home of James Andrews?’ said Romney.

‘Yeah, he’s my husband.’ She looked suddenly frightened. The screaming continued. ‘He’s all right isn’t he?’

‘We have no reason to think otherwise, Mrs Andrews. He’s not here then?’

‘No. He’s at work.’

‘And where is that?’

‘
Fit-Fast.
The tyre place up at Pike Road Industrial Estate.’ And then her eyes widened and she said, ‘Has he done something?’

‘We just need to speak to him.’

She turned and shouted up the stairs. The noise stopped. It was a general relief. ‘About what?’

‘Do you know where your husband was yesterday, Mrs Andrews?’ said Romney.

She let her face assume something like disappointment. ‘Playing silly buggers up at the castle. I told him he’d get in trouble for it. That stupid pratt. I told him.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘It was bloody obvious. If he was going up there to make trouble, gatecrash it, then he was going to get found out. Idiot.’

‘Why do you say, ‘make trouble’? What did your husband tell you he was planning?’

The screaming started up again.

‘I’ll have to go to her,’ she said.

‘He hired some period uniforms,’ said Romney. ‘Do you know where they are?’

‘No idea,’ she said and began to close the door on them.

Romney put his foot in it. ‘Mrs Andrews, we have a warrant to search the house. We need those uniforms and we need them now.’

‘I told you. I don’t know where they are.’ She seemed a little scared now.

‘Then we’re coming in to look for them.’

‘Suit yourself. Wipe your feet won’t you?’ She let go of the door and started up the stairs to her child.

Romney turned to Marsh. ‘You’re the only female here. You’ll have to stay and execute the warrant. Keep these two.’ He jerked a thumb at the uniforms waiting patiently behind them. ‘I’ll take the others and go get him. See you back at the station. And don’t let her call her husband. In fact, you’d better get up there now in case she’s doing just that. And let me know the moment you find anything interesting.’

*

The arrival of the police cars on the industrial estate generated some interest from those either working or smoking outside. Several pairs of eyes followed them as they crawled down the concrete apron backed on either side by an eclectic mix of businesses housed in the similar industrial units to where
Fit-Fast
had their operation.

A man in an oily boiler suit that bore the company logo was tinkering under the bonnet of a van out front. He stood up and watched the police get out of their cars and approach. Romney noticed the poppers straining to contain his stomach
, and the big spanner in his grip.

‘Afternoon gents. Tyres or exhaust?’ he said, smiling.

‘Neither, today, but if you’re interested in offering the police a good discount, I can let people know at the station,’ said Romney. ‘I’m looking for James Andrews. He works here I think.’

The man’s friendly features collapsed into concerned. ‘He’s inside. I’ll get him. Nothing serious
, I hope? I’m the manager and owner, by the way. Bill Gaunt.’

Romney nodded at the man. Shaking hands was out of the question. ‘Remains to be seen, Mr Gaunt. Appreciate it if you give him a shout for me.’

He did. James Andrews slouched out in similar soiled attire. He was tall and thin. He looked from the police to his boss and then back to the police.

‘James Andrews?’ said Romney.

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘We need to have a chat about yesterday.’

The mechanic scrunched up his face and said with an air of resignation, ‘Bollocks.’

‘What’s he been up to?’ said Gaunt.

‘Can’t discuss it with you, Mr Gaunt, but James here is going to have to come with us.’

Andrews looked immediately reconciled to it. There was no argument from him. ‘Can I clean up first?’ He held his oily hands up for inspection.

‘All right. A constable will come with you. Where are the uniforms from yesterday, James?’

‘Micky’s got them.’

‘Who’s Mickey?’

‘Mickey Price. One of the others.’

‘And where is Mickey?

‘Work, I suppose. He’s a courier driver for DHM. He said he’d drop them back off for us.’

Romney sighed heavily. ‘Hurry up then.’

While they were waiting for the mechanic to return
, Gaunt said, ‘He’s a good lad. I hope he hasn’t gone and done something stupid.’

‘Like I said, Mr Gaunt. That remains to be seen. He wasn’t at work yesterday?’

‘No. Day off.’

‘Say where he was?’

Gaunt shook his head. ‘Not to me. Look, Sergeant...’

‘Inspector. Detective Inspector Romney.’

‘Christ, if they’re sending out an Inspector to feel his collar it must be serious. Look, Inspector, I’ve got a business to run here. I don’t want to be employing people whose outside activities could affect my livelihood. You see what I’m saying?’

‘I do, Mr Gaunt. But
, like I said, I can’t discuss it here and now.’

A p
ensive looking Andrews and the constable returned.

Gaunt said, ‘If you’ve done something bad son, you know what it’ll mean for you here, don’t you?’

‘I haven’t boss. Honest.’ The impact of what was happening and the possible ramifications were clearly dawning on the young man.

When they were in the car Romney turned to face Andrews with a grimace at the discomfort the sudden movement brought him and said, ‘We’ve been to your home this morning. You’ve got a kid and a mortgage, right?’ Andrews nodded. ‘So you need this job?’ More nodding and a
lightening of colour. ‘Then the best thing you can do now is to co-operate. Understand me? You’re not under arrest. Yet. You are helping the police with their enquiries. Do I make myself clear? It looks better for you that way. You’d do well to remind yourself of it regularly, especially when I start asking you questions about yesterday. Got it?’