Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) (2 page)

The noise of hundreds of men and their equipment on the move filled the air and increased heart-beats. Cavalry from either side charged ahead of the foot soldiers to engage each other in a melee of confusion, horse flesh and uniforms. The crackle of small arms and tinkle of metal on metal was eventually drowned out by the deep hair-raising bellowing of the opposing ar
mies. Men fell. Horses collapsed and shed their riders. The gap between the two liquid masses narrowed and then mingled in close combat, pressing into each other like tides of opposing oceans. Flashes of steel caught in the bright sun indicated the use of bayonets, swords and other metalwork. It really was something to behold – a privilege to witness.

It went on for some minutes, gradually turning from orderly into a disorganised chaotic mess and therefore probably authentic. And then the flare went up
signalling the end of the filming if not immediately the ‘hostilities’. But slowly the combatants realised that their little bit of repeated history was finished and they drifted apart from each other. Bodies lay around the battlefield playing dead or plain exhausted after the fray and enjoying some horizontal recovery.

‘Fantastic everyone. Absolutely marvellous. Thank you. Bloody brilliant. That is a wrap
.’

‘Someone sounds pleased with himself,’ said Romney. Turning towards Marsh
, he was a little disappointed to see the barely suppressed excitement in the flush of his junior’s cheeks.

‘Come on, sir. You’ve got to admit
it was pretty impressive. He’s got a right to sound pleased with them.’

‘I suppose it was. Right let’s go. I’ve got a mountain of pointless paperwork to
do battle with.’

Marsh smiled back at him pleased he had refrained from pouring
further scorn on it.

M
ost of the rest of the party they’d been with seemed in no hurry to do anything other than enjoy the socialising, the seeing and being seen, and the balmy afternoon outdoors. Romney and Marsh made their way towards the top of the external stone stairway that butted up against the wall of the Outer Bailey.

To Romney’s barely concealed irritation their progress
towards the exit was interrupted by the collapse of a dignitary on the stairs. An old woman – what the hell was she doing up there on the castle walls in that heat? commented Romney under his breath – had apparently suffered dizziness as a result of heat exhaustion and lost her footing to fall several stone treads nose over tail before coming to rest on a narrow plinth.

The resulting melee caused by the throng of well-intentioned
, if bloody useless, onlookers who surged forward to help her saw two more shoved down the ancient steps. If it hadn’t been the only available way off the battlements, it might have been funny. The inevitable delay as they waited for medical assistance, then the removals of the injured and shaken, wasted a good twenty minutes or more of police time. The following laboured, over-cautious – we don’t want a repeat performance do we? called the Mayor trying to lift everyone’s spirits with his idiotic remark – descent of everyone else who’d finally had enough of the occasion only added to Romney’s sense of frustration.

By the time they finally got clear Marsh could hear
him grinding his teeth. She trailed him in silence as he hurried away, his foul mood dragging in his wake like a leaden shadow of negativity.

He steered a path through the logistical hardware of the film-making business that seemed to take up every square inch of ground. Lighting trucks, sound trucks, camera equipment trucks, scaffolding trucks, toilet trucks, food trucks, costume trucks, accommodation trucks for important members of the cast and the film-makers. Every available space was taken up with trucks and equipment, cable and
awnings.

In all the unfamiliarity
and confusion they seemed to have lost their way. Romney chose a narrow opening between two mobile homes, treading carefully over the arm-thick coils of cable that snaked everywhere threatening to have him over. Perhaps to cover feelings of embarrassment and distract Marsh from the failure of his sense of direction to get them back to their transport, he chose to once again target the British film industry with his opinions.

‘Must cost an absolute fortune to do something like this,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘What a waste of money just to make a film about perverts shafting animals. The concept of the film is as
disgusting as they are if you ask me when people are starving and living in cardboard boxes.’

As Marsh was registering her disappointment
at her senior officer’s relapse, a figure stepped out in front of them.

‘And who is asking you?’ said the man who Romney suddenly found blocking his path. He was youngish, tallish and looked undernourished. His clothes hinted that he was no stranger to jumble sales. He sported a wispy little goatee beard and a mass of curly hair that appeared to
be enjoying a temporary state of excitement.

Romney was brought to a halt that didn’t please him. ‘What was that?’

‘I said, who is asking for your opinion on this project?’

‘Who are you?’ said Romney, side-stepping the question.

‘Hugo Crawford. I’m the fucking director. That makes me a big fucking man around here.’
Fifteen love.

‘And I’m Detective Inspector Romney, and round here, old son, that makes me a bigger man than you, so watch your language when you speak to me
, unless you want to find yourself on a charge.’
Fifteen all.

If Crawford was put out by this information
, he hid it well. Although outwardly maintaining his composure, he rallied with a poorly chosen riposte. ‘This is a private site. How did you gain entry?’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m police. I don’t need anyone’s permission to be here. Now, you’re obstructing my way. I suggest you move aside and get back to your ‘art’.’
Thirty-fifteen Romney.

A few members of the film crew had gathered at the director’s back and at the commotion. In an act of foolish
boldness the man stood his ground seemingly a slave to his ego and eager to demonstrate his lack of intimidation at the hands of the local constabulary. In Marsh’s experience, such displays of bravado rarely went well for ordinary people.

‘I expect ignorance, arrogance and prejudice against my work from many strands of society
, Detective Inspector,’ he sneered, ‘however, I’m always bitterly disappointed, if not particularly surprised, when I encounter it in members of the police force, a public service I will remind you which is supposed to be impartial and objective. It’s usually an indication of a deeper, much more destructive and narrow-minded outlook.’
Thirty all.

The small group of his people shifted and muttered uncomfortably. Someone reached out to draw the director to one side. ‘C’mon Hugo, you’ve made your point. Let’s watch the scene. It was bloody marvellous.’

‘I’ll only tell you once more to step aside, Mr Crayfish. Surely you’ve got better things to do with your valuable time than get yourself arrested for obstruction. Films of paedophiles or animal buggering to get excited about? What other arty projects have you got in the pipeline? The history of arse-wiping, perhaps?’
Forty-thirty Romney.

Crawford’s features assumed a look of outright disgust. ‘I can see I’m wasting my time and breath on this philistine,’ he said to his cronies.
Deuce.
It got him a laugh too.
Advantage Crawford.
The further crossing of words, he projected, was beneath him. He turned sideways on to allow Romney and Marsh to pass. As Romney did so without looking in the young man’s direction, the director said, ‘I’ll be sure to mention our encounter to my uncle, Chief Constable Crawford, when I dine with him this evening. Good day, Inspector Romney.’
Game and first set Crawford. New balls, please
.

To his credit, Romney strode on through the gathering without faltering, although Marsh could guess that inside he was kicking his luck and
, although he wouldn’t admit it, his stupidity.

As
Marsh came alongside Crawford, she smiled up at him and said, ‘I thought your last film was a superb insight into the combination of family and sociological issues involved in the issue of paedophilia and society’s responsibilities towards confronting them. I learned a lot from it. It deserved its awards if you ask me.’

He smiled at her, apparently slightly mollified, ‘Thank you. Who are you?’

‘Detective Sergeant Marsh. You can mention my name to your uncle too if you like.’ She continued to smile up at him. ‘That was great by the way. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Thanks. Good luck with the rest of it.’ She left to follow Romney who was negotiating temporary structures and probably swearing under his breath.

When she caught up with him
, he said, ‘What were you talking to him about, Judas?’

‘I said nice things about his last film.’

‘The kiddy-fiddler one? Have you actually seen it?’

‘No, but I thought I might be able to smooth his
ruffled feathers by saying something nice and appealing to his self-image in front of his cronies. He’s a man after all. Maybe that way he might forget to be so angry with you.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Something I remembered off the website. It doesn’t really matter, sir. I gave him some respect and massaged his ego.’ She didn’t expect any thanks for it.

She was spared further complaint by the DI. As the
y slipped through a narrow arch – finally falling into the area within the castle precincts which had been turned into an improvised parking lot – an explosion of noise and uniforms burst across in front of them. A small group of men in period costume cut across their path laughing and joking loudly, obviously in high spirits after the fray. From the colour and energy of their expression and body language they had evidently enjoyed fighting for Britannia. Marsh braced herself for Romney’s observations regarding the absurd childishness of grown men playing soldiers, but he only shook his head as he stared at their retreating backs.

There had been a significant influx of vehicles i
nto the parking area since they’d arrived. Now, their car was hemmed in with all the others under the towering castle walls. There was less activity here. With his arm and his other condition, Romney did not relish the manoeuvring that would be involved in extracting them from their parking spot. He threw the keys to Marsh and stood by the passenger door waiting to be let in. She noted he’d re-assumed his grumpy aura.

Romney had been grumpy ever since returning to work from sick leave. Injuries he’d sustained in the line of duty and at the hands of an enraged
young woman suffering with Down’s syndrome had taken longer to heal than expected. Perhaps it was his age. They’d also left him with a temporary weakness in his right arm, which clearly irritated him on an hourly basis. Compounding this was the obvious emotional damage he’d suffered – although he wouldn’t admit it – when an attractive young trophy girlfriend – who Marsh’s woman’s intuition told her the DI’s vanity had been particularly keen on – had dumped him on the eve of a holiday they’d booked together. At the last minute, she’d changed his ticket to holiday with another man – an ex – while Romney was lying on his back recovering in a hospital bed. While she felt great sympathy with her boss for this remarkable and casual cruelty inflicted by a member of her sex, it wasn’t her fault and her patience for his current world-view was wearing thin.

Romney had resumed his duties permanently tetchy and easily riled. Perhaps it was his defence mechanism for what he had suffered. And perhaps it would pass, although there was
– after two weeks back at work – no indication of such. Marsh worried that sooner rather than later, if he didn’t adjust his outlook, his irritability was going to land him in some trouble, if it hadn’t already just done so. If Hugo Crawford really was the chief constable’s nephew – and there would be no reason to doubt the connection; it wasn’t the sort of thing people made up on the spur of the moment and they did share the same surname – then perhaps an ill wind was about to blow down to the coast from area. On top of everything else, she didn’t need that added complication. Marsh really didn’t want to be tainted with anything she was essentially no part of.

Since her Hobson’s choice of a transfer to what she considered a cult
ural and intellectual backwater – as well as a career threatening dead-end – she had decided she would bide her time, do her best and inflate her reputation at every available opportunity. Then, before her career threatened to stagnate, DS Marsh intended to transfer up to the metropolis where she could specialise in a branch of policing that she hadn’t yet decided upon.

On opening the car doors it was apparent that the turning of the planet had left the car in the full glare of the sun for
a considerable time. It was like an oven inside. They put down all the windows for it. She sensed the DI’s further irritation at the delay and the temperature didn’t help. He didn’t want to be there anymore. He hadn’t been keen to take up Grimes’ invitation in the first place and it had only been because of Marsh’s nagging that he had agreed to take the short drive up from the station. She’d hoped it might put a smile on his face, cheer him up a bit. Now, she realised, he was probably going to hold her responsible in some way for how things had turned out, especially if his handbags with Hugo Crawford didn’t end there.