Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) (26 page)

He preferred running in the evenings
, or at weekends, but occasionally the mood would pounce on him early in the day and experience told him that it was better to succumb than to spend the day wishing he had and regretting that he hadn’t.

As always the exercise resulted in flooding his system with pent up endorphins that lifted his spirit and made him temporarily happy. He beat Falkner into work, which added to his good feeling. He managed his coffee and a pastry treat and an aggressive sift of his paperwork before the next body turned up. It was DC Spicer. Romney signalled him over.

‘Remind me what you’re doing today?’

‘I’ve still got a mountain of hard files that need to be computerised, gov,’ said Spicer without enthusiasm.

‘Forget that for now. I want you to find out who in Dover could be behind a protection racket. See if there have been any allegations or complaints made. Find out if there have been any incidents like fires or beatings – particularly with new businesses in the town – that smell of punishment. Talk to uniform and see if they’ve heard anything. Ask around wherever you have to. Get in touch with any new businesses in the town that have started up in the last six months. The local council will have information on that.’

‘Have we had a complaint then, gov?’

‘Nothing official. Don’t spend all day on it. When you’re done I want you to start going through this.’ Romney gave the cardboard box of Edy Vitriol’s ferry-boat-disaster-memories a kick. ‘The man who was murdered in the hospital was involved in a bad way in the capsizing of the Herald of Joint Enterprise if you didn’t know already. He kept everything including hate-mail. I know it was all a long time ago but you never know. There might be something more recent. See if there is anything in there that might point a finger somewhere we can follow.’

Grimes and Marsh arrived and prepared for their visit to the castle. Romney left his office to talk to Marsh. Grimes took the opportunity to
‘grab a quick coffee’
.

‘I dropped in on Mrs Vitriol yesterday evening,’ said Romney.

Marsh, unable to hide her surprise and then her suspicion said, ‘Why?’

‘I was passing and I wanted to talk to her about her son’s involvement in the sinking of the ferry boat.’

Marsh seemed to accept this. ‘Did she have anything interesting to say?’

‘As a matter of fact she did. She said that Edy Vitriol had been seeing a trick-cyclist once a month for the last twenty-five years. Ever since the incident.’ Marsh showed her surprise. ‘I’m going to make an appointment to see him myself. If Vitriol was spilling his guts on a regular basis
, he might have told his Doctor something that might help us with the investigation into his death.’

‘True, but will he talk to you? Confidentiality and all that?’

‘I don’t know how that works with the dead. But I suppose I’ll find out, won’t I? Also, she gave me a big box of stuff that Vitriol had hoarded to do with the incident and the subsequent enquiry. I haven’t looked in it yet. She said that he kept hate-mail, too. She said he had aspirations to use it all to write a book one day, although having read some of his debut last night, I don’t think the literary world should feel particularly deprived and bereaved by his early demise.’

‘You read his book?’

‘Some of it. Not my kind of thing.’

‘Did she give you anything else?’ said Marsh.

‘She offered tea but I declined,’ said Romney, knowing full well what Marsh was getting at and refusing to play. Grimes returned with a steaming plastic cup of something dirty looking. ‘You two off to the castle, now?’

‘If his lordship’s finally
ready,’ said Marsh, looking at Grimes.

‘Come and see me when you get back.’

*

Doctor Puchta’s receptionist
tried to encourage Romney to feel particularly fortunate that one of Doctor Puchta’s clients had cancelled at late notice. He was told that if he were able to present himself at the Doctor’s offices in the town in an hour then the Doctor would be happy to spare him a few minutes. He hung up and said something rude to the telephone.

*

With the time of his appointment approaching Romney made his way down to the car park. He was still enjoying the chemical effects of his morning exercise. As he was reaching behind the driver’s seat to retrieve his little cushion a car swept into the space alongside his. He looked across to check the occupant and was not displeased to see Diane Hodge from forensics. He let go of the cushion and straightened up to speak with her. She opened her door and swung out her legs giving Romney a glimpse of white thigh where her skirt had ridden up.

She stood, adjusted her clothing, smiled broadly and said good morning.

‘Hello, Diane. How are things?’

‘Things are good, thanks.’

‘I’m glad we’ve bumped into each other. I wanted to let you know that we got a quick result on the re-enactment killing thanks in great part to forensic evidence.’

‘Does that mean my invitation to dinner is coming?’

‘Let me know a night that suits you,’ said Romney, meaning for her to get back to him.

‘Friday,’ she said very quickly. ‘Or Saturday. Or Sunday. But I prefer Fridays and Saturdays because I haven’t got work the next day. Late nights and lazy mornings.’ She wiggled her eyebrows but Romney was unable to be sure of the significance of that.

‘I’m not doing anything on Friday,’ he heard himself saying.

‘Great! I’ll email you with my details. Must dash.’ She flashed her teeth at him and strode purposefully towards the building. What happened to a simple exchange of phone numbers
? thought Romney. What details would need an email? Dietary requirements? Food intolerances? A list of restaurants on her wish list? Romney watched her go and wondered if he’d done the right thing. His head said no, but after that flash of inner thigh that wasn’t the part of his anatomy that he’d been thinking with.

*

Doctor Puchta’s highly polished brass name-plate was fixed to the very nice brickwork by a very nice front door of a very nice property in a very nice street. From similar uniformly arranged oblongs of engraved metal Romney saw that the good doctor shared the building with an architect, an accountant and a financial consultant. Good middle-class company. The way things were going in the town Romney wouldn’t have bet on the expensive plaques still being there in six months. Some thieving scrote with an eye for an easy touch would realise that their glinting scrap-metal value would be worth the five minutes it would take to crow-bar them off the wall on a dark night. They were stealing rusty manhole covers for Christ’s sake.

As he stood on the scrubbed and painted concrete doorstep Romney found himself wondering whether the businesses saw any benefit in their juxtaposition. Perhaps a visit to the accountants could lead to a meeting with a financial consultant to explore the financing of the fee that the architects were demanding for overseeing a big renovation project, which, if his own experiences were anything to go by, should lead the consumer to having his or her head examined at the psychiatrists.

Doctor Puchta’s receptionist was frosty efficiency. A fixed smile and cold eyes behind her designer spectacles. She buzzed through to the doctor on their internal phone. After a brief exchange – and then an infuriating and unexplained delay of some seconds while the ice-maiden tapped a couple of keys and pointedly ignored him – she escorted Romney across the fifteen feet of industrial carpet – did she think that he couldn’t have found the door in the wall on his own? She tapped on it and opened it for him. Romney did not offer any gratitude.

The doctor’s consulting room was a sterile mix of neutral colours
– whites and beiges. No doubt some Fellow in his ivory tower had once written a paper on the dangers of provoking mentally unstable clients with hues of red and black, or garish washes of purple, into grabbing the nearest pair of scissors and start slashing people’s throats.

The furnishings were
sparse but expensive looking. The couch was there – more of a chaise-longue really. A comfortable-looking matching leather wingback chair placed at an angle next to it afforded the questioner a view over the prostrate form of the patient without being seen themselves. Next to that was a very nice antique occasional table complete with writing pad, pencils and recording device.

Romney took in the three large works of m
odernist art – one in the centre of each wall – all Miros. Perhaps, no-one these days saw Miro’s paintings as inflaming passionate reaction.

A door in the wall behind the big desk opened and a woman stepped into the room. How many assistants did Puchta need, thought Romney? Looking at this one he didn’t think she’d be much use when it came to restraining someone who went berserk at the unlocking of a deeply disturbing, childhood memory.

‘Inspector Romney?’ she said.

Romney realised then that his palms were sweating and his heartbeat had become something to notice. His doctor phobia was back. ‘Yes. I’m here to see Doctor Puchta.’

‘I am Doctor Puchta,’ said the woman. Romney actually reddened at his mistake and his stereo-typing. ‘I see that you were expecting Doctor Puchta to be a man. How quaintly old-fashioned of you.’

With no idea of how his riposte would be received
, he said, ‘Actually, I was expecting someone older.’

‘Oh, very good. Very quick, Inspector, if a little transparent and unoriginal. I can see I’ll have to watch you.’

‘Just don’t go analysing me. I’m not here to learn about my problems. I’m well aware of them and we get on fine.’

‘Arrogance too,’ she said, but there was no malice in it. More a professional playfulness. ‘No-one can really come to know themselves, Inspector, without professional assistance.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it. You are the head doctor after all,’ said Romney, regaining something of his usual confidence that had ebbed a little on entering the room. ‘Personally, I’m quite happy with the person I think I am.’

She settled herself into the chair behind her desk and invited him to sit the other side of it. She was petite, well proportioned and not unattractive. Either she looked after herself and wasn’t averse to a bit of cosmetic surgery
, or she was blessed with a rare stubbornly youthful complexion. Even Romney could see it wasn’t make-up. She certainly didn’t look like she could have been practising psychiatry for at least a quarter of a century. He hadn’t been lying entirely; he had expected someone older looking bearing in mind she’d been treating Edy Vitriol for twenty-five years. Or had she? Perhaps Vitriol had only been seeing her professionally for a fraction of his time on the couch.

‘So, Inspector, if you’re not here to see me as someone who can help you in a medical way, why are you here?’

Romney realised and recalled that he hadn’t discussed the purpose of his visit when he had made the appointment and was then mildly alarmed to think people might be thinking that he, a police inspector, was here seeking professional mental help. ‘I want to speak to you about a patient of yours.’

‘I prefer the term client. And surely you must know that I can’t breach confidences. It would be unethical.’

Romney smiled at her in what he hoped was a,
look I know how it is, but...
way. ‘I do understand, of course, but this is about a recently deceased client of yours and I’m investigating his murder. To be honest, I’m not sure how confidentiality works with the dead and whether the circumstances of his death would allow any ethic-bending. If you tell me you can’t possibly discuss any aspect of your time with him, naturally, I will have to accept that.’

‘You’re talking about Edy.’ It was not a question. She looked suddenly gloomy and she sagged a little. Romney sensed a lessening of the professional distance between them.

‘Edy Vitriol, yes.’

‘I was very sad to hear about his death.’

‘Do you mind me asking, how long you had been treating him?’

‘Twenty-five years. That’s no
great ethical secret disclosed. He started seeing me soon after the tragedy.’

‘Are you able to discuss him with me, given the circumstances?’ He tried to make the request sound like a genuine appeal for assistance.

Romney could see she was searching her conscience. ‘I will help you as far as I think that I professionally can. That is to say that I’m willing to assist and not be obstructive.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, meaning it sincerely. ‘If you had been treating him for twenty-five years you must have known him very well. As well as anyone, if not better.’

‘As a psychiatrist I like to think so. I wouldn’t be much good at my job otherwise would I?’

‘I suppose not. Do you know how he died?’

‘Yes. And that he was also attacked on his front step the night before he was killed. Would it be such a leap of the imagination to assume both attacks were carried out by the same person?’

‘It seems very likely. The wounds were similar.’

For a long moment she looked very unhappy. She took a deep breath and said, ‘How do you think I might be able to help you, Inspector?’