Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) (21 page)

The Frenchman did not begrudge the entrance fee. He even bought a guide book. However, before he would allow himself to relax and enjoy the experience of soaking up centuries of history
, he had an obligation to perform. He used the little fold-out map at the back of his souvenir to navigate his way through the various sections of the fortress and eventually to exit the Fitzwilliam Gateway in the outer wall onto the raised ground that looked out over the trees and across the adjoining field.

It was with a sense of some melancholy that he stood surveying the scene that had only a few days before staged a battle in which a man had been killed.

It was important for him to see where his countryman had fallen. The man’s family might ask him something of it, although he could not think what. But he must be prepared. And to that end he cleared his mind of distractions and alerted his senses to soak up what they might. It was also important for him to fulfil a promise made to the dead man’s distraught wife. She had sought Poisson out, tracked him down through the channels of communication and command on discovering that he was to be the official French police representative to visit the site of her late husband’s death, to beseech him a kindness.

Poisson crossed the open walkway that spanned the big dry ditch and threaded his way along the well worn path through the adjacent copse of mature trees. Magpies protested his intrusion with their machine-gun-chatter, but the Frenchman
inevitably paid little attention to their threats as he reflected on Paul Henry’s wife’s request. It was certainly a curious one, but one that Poisson, who still retained some nostalgic notions of honour and respect had not been able to refuse. It was, after all, not such a great thing to ask of him.

He walked across the field made springy by recent rain and churned up by the stiff leather boots of hundreds of soldiers and the iron shoes of dozens of horses until he felt he was approximately at its centre. This is where the police report on Paul Henry’s death had indicated the man had fallen
– probably dead before he hit the turf with the cold, cruel steel of an English bayonet, wielded by some drunken oaf looking for a thrill and a laugh, stuck in his heart.

In a fleeting moment of self-consciousness that brought him an odd sense of shame, Poisson found himself looking around to see if he
was being observed. Satisfied that he was alone, he removed from his jacket pocket a piece of paper and cleared his throat in preparation to read from it out loud.

It had been a desperate wish of Paul Henry, his wife had told Poisson, that when his last day on earth should arrive someone
– preferably a surviving relative, his wife or one of his children, perhaps – should mark the spot where he expired – where he believed, with the zealous religious fervour that infected his later years, his spirit would be released into the ether – with the recital of a list of names. Paul Henry had convinced himself that only with such a reading would his soul be free of eternal torment. And his wife had promised him. And, in turn, Poisson had promised the wife. It really wasn’t such an indulgence to the man’s superstition.

Steadily Poisson began to read. To reel off in slow deliberate respectful tones the one hundred and ninety-three names of passengers and crew who had died as a result of the capsizing of the Herald of Joint Enterprise twenty-five years before. Lives that had been lost as a result of human error: negligence and carelessness. Men, women and children whose lives had been cut short because seamen hadn’t done their jobs. Men like Seaman Paul Henry who had been working a double-shift for the overtime on the car deck and who had sloped off for sleep when exhausted with his duties and without thought for the appalling event that was waiting to happen.

Paul Henry had lived the last twenty-five years with the cloud of guilt shadowing his daily life. Paradoxically, the further the incident retreated into history, the worse the pain of what had happened and his part in it became. Eventually, Paul Henry had sought refuge in God and over time He had provided some solace for the man.

Before he was a quarter
of the way through the list, Poisson realised he was weeping. The tears of sadness ran down his ugly cheeks and coursed freely onto his jacket. His voice wavered and he was forced to stop, breathe and collect himself. He had never expected himself to be so moved by the occasion he had manufactured and was alone at. He was suddenly so pleased that Dover CID had left him to his own devices. Such sentimental outpourings would have been difficult to witness and explain. He produced a handkerchief and wiped his face.

Deeming it strangely appropriate, even though he was not a particularly religious man himself, when Poisson read out the one-hundred and ninety-third name he could not prevent himself, swept up in the emotion
of the moment as he was, from adding the name of Paul Henry and asking that his sins might be forgiven and that his soul might be freed of the eternity of purgatory that, in life, the man, according to his wife, had been convinced he would be consigned to if the list of names had not been read out.

His obligation fulfilled, Poisson collected himself, folded the paper and tucked it back in his jacket. He blew his nose on his handkerchief once more, dabbed at his tear-stained jacket and
, as he stared out over the heaving grey mass of La Manche, felt a sense of tremendous well-being and goodness wash through his insides. Now, he would enjoy the castle.

*

The vehicles of Dover police – a pool car saloon, a painted patrol car and a liveried mini-bus complete with grills over the windows – bucked and jolted their occupants down the rutted track towards Manor Farm. Romney had to grit his teeth at the pain and discomfort such jarring brought him. Despite doing his utmost to suspend himself using his arms for support just above the seat all he succeeded in doing was providing a gap between his posterior – the source of his trouble – and the upholstery to be slammed shut by the erratic and unpredictable displays of physics like an unfastened shutter in a gale.

‘Do you have to drive so bloody fast?’ he said to Grimes.

‘We’ve got to stay in formation gov. I go any slower and all the fun’ll be over before we get there. We should have gone at the front not the back.’

They plunged down another drop and Romney embarrassed himself with a yelp as he and the car’s mechanics were compressed.

‘You all right, gov?’ said Grimes, suspecting strongly that his DI wasn’t. Grimes was a detective after all and he’d noticed the little things; things like Romney’s cushions, the high frequency of his visits to the toilet, his little facial distortions when he lowered himself onto a hard seat or stood quickly. Grimes had a strong sense that there was something wrong with his governor’s back-side, but he didn’t know how to broach the subject. Perhaps he could help. He wished someone would because Grimes was also sure that Romney’s lowered tolerance threshold for just about everything was in large part due to his problem, whatever it might be.

‘I will be if you just try to avoid the big holes in this fucking track instead of aiming for them. Hang on, you want to go back? I think you missed one.’

They arrived only seconds later than the lead vehicle. The uniformed officers were spilling out of the mini-bus. The element of surprise had been well and truly lost if anyone had happened to be looking out of a front facing window. And even if they hadn’t, the incessant frenzied barking of tethered dogs that filled the air seemed enough to wake the dead.

It had taken the little convoy of law enforcement the best part of five minutes to negotiate their passage from the smooth asphalt
of the public highway to the sweeping weed-infused gravel turning circle in front of the rambling and dilapidated house.

The s
ergeant in charge of the uniforms struggled to make his instructions heard above the dogs. Officers peeled off to disappear around to the rear of the property. Romney and Grimes stood back to let the front-line troops do their stuff. Another officer, clearly chosen for his physique, approached the front door with the station’s battering ram and a manic grin. Colleagues waited behind him ready to stream into the building shouting and lashing out.

The lead officer was on his second practice swing
, building up some momentum, when the front door was opened by a woman made remarkable only by the cuts and bruises to her face. She was built slightly and radiated defeat. The man lowered his weapon with a palpable sense of disappointment. Romney stepped forward.

‘You’re too late,’ said the woman. ‘Someone beat you to it.’

‘Did they beat you to get it?’ said Romney, taking in her injuries.

‘Oh no. I did this to myself. I’m into self-harming in a big way. What do you think?’ Romney frowned at her and waited. She sighed, resigned to her position. ‘Do we have to go to the police station, or can we do it here?’ she said.

‘Are you inviting us in?’ said Romney.

‘Not all of you,’ she said. ‘You’re in charge
, I suppose?’

Romney showed her his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Romney.’

‘Well, Detective Inspector Romney, a thought suddenly occurs to me.’

‘What’s that then, Miss...?’

‘Jane Barnes. My thought is that you are here because you expect to be able to recover something that has been stolen. Right?’

‘And make arrests for a serious assault.’

‘Well, if whatever you think is here, isn’t, then you’ve got nothing to arrest anyone for. Right?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Romney. ‘Now, I’ll ask you to stand aside Ms Barnes and let my officers do their job. I’m exercising a search warrant. I have good reason to believe you are in possession of some stolen films. Is there anyone else in the house?’

‘My girlfriend. She’s in bed.’

‘Hurt?’

‘Drunk. Forgive the mess, but we had visitors last night.’ She stepped aside as the allocated officers moved in to begin what Romney strongly felt with energy-sapping disappointment was going to be a total waste of time.

He followed her through to a big farmhouse kitchen. What he saw of the house on his way through indicated that Ms Barnes’ visitors had been most inconsiderate. Turned over furniture, smashed pictures and broken china littered t
he space. Romney motioned to a female PC to go with him. Ms Barnes pointed Romney towards the table and chairs. He remained standing.

‘What happened?’ he said.

Ms Barnes leaned back against an antique dresser and folded her arms. The muffled sounds of large, heavy boots trampling around the upstairs thudded down to them with the low indeterminate vocals of the searchers.

‘First things first, Inspector Romney,’ said Ms Barnes. She pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her baggy cardigan pocket and stuck one in the corner of her mouth unlit. ‘You haven’t
cautioned me, right?’ He raised his eyebrows at her for her confidence. ‘So anything I say to you now can’t be used against me?’ There was a pause. ‘I need you to confirm that if you want me to talk to you.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Good. Then let’s talk in private.’ She looked across to where the female PC was standing.

‘T
hank you, constable. You can go and help with the search,’ said Romney. She left and shut the door after her.

Ms Barnes had found some matches and had her cigarette going. After his recent smoke with Poisson, Romney wanted one. Ms Barnes must have read the lingering look he gave hers and extended the pack towards him, which
, only on professional grounds, he was obliged to refuse. But the exchange had lightened the tension that arose from the circumstances of their encounter.

‘So, what happened?’ said Romney.

‘This can be off the record, as the Yanks would say? Nothing we discuss here is admissible in any way?’ Romney indicated that was true. ‘The film was here, but it isn’t now. If you can believe the irony of it, we were robbed.’

‘Is that how you sustained your injuries?’

‘Yes. We had visitors last night. Three men wearing balaclavas. They weren’t as polite as you, Inspector, or as patient. Or as restrained. They wanted the film and they were, as you see, quite determined to get it.’

‘So you were assaulted for it? Another irony wouldn’t you agree? Remember that a man at the castle was knocked unconscious in order that you could make your animal rights statement.’ Romney wasn’t being entirely sympathetic.

With a casual dismissive wave of her cigarette hand that made Romney suddenly wonder at the film archivist’s part in events, she said, ‘He won’t press charges.’

‘Have you sought medical assistance?’

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ she said, but Romney could see that this was probably not true. It was more likely to be her disinclination to describe how she came by her cuts and bruises that kept her away from the hospital.

‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

‘It was late and it was dark. They must have parked down the drive because I didn’t hear a car approaching and neither did the dogs. But when the dogs did start making a fuss I came out to see what it was. They jumped me. I was here alone. They made it clear that they wanted the film and weren’t interested in my protestations that I didn’t have it.’ She looked intently at Romney. ‘I genuinely feared for my life. They were violent and most insistent.’