Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) by Oliver Tidy Page B
Authors: Oliver Tidy
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a plane of thought, but normal men didn’t go around acting on such impulses by taking women against their will. It was called civilisation. Normal civilised men knew that they had to work for it like most things in life. Play the game. Pay your money and take your chance.
*
Detective Inspector Romney next thought of Claire Stamp at about midnight. His evening with Julie had gone as well as he could have hoped. She was beautiful, intelligent, attentive, alluring and he realised that he was feeling fairly smitten with her. The food was excellent, the restaurant service exemplary, the prices outrageous, but the general ambiance of the gastro-pub that he had heard so much about from colleagues lived up to the high recommendations.
When she invited him in for a coffee as he was dropping her off, he felt an anticipation and exhilaration that had been lamentably infrequent sensations of latter years.
She pulled him against her inside the doorway in the darkness and probed his mouth with her hot, wet tongue and then, unashamedly, led him up the stairs to her bedroom.
It was as he was fumbling with the contraceptive wrapping – unable to get a purchase on its oily surface – that he thought of Claire Stamp. Or rather, it was as he put the corner of the square plastic envelope into his mouth and ripped off the top with his teeth that DI Romney thought of her. And then it wasn’t so much Claire Stamp that he thought of as the man who had raped her. Romney wondered if he, too, in his fit of primitive longings to possess the woman spread before him, had found himself unable to gain entry to the little plastic packet and resorted to tearing off the top with his teeth. And whether he, too, would have found the top of the packet stuck inside his mouth, being coated with his saliva and his unique DNA before he carelessly spat it out oblivious of where it might end up and what it might later reveal.
It was a measure of the power of the urges that Romney was experiencing and giving full vent to that he didn’t interrupt himself, make his apologies, enquire after a pen and paper and write down his epiphany so that he might be guaranteed of reminding himself in the morning to ask forensics to run saliva tests on the little strip of plastic recovered from the crime scene. Instead, he trusted the scrap of priceless intelligence to his less than wonderful memory and for a few intense minutes lost himself.
***
4
The new day began well enough for Romney. With brief but sincere endearments exchanged with the barely awake naked warmth of Julie Carpenter, he had retrieved his scattered clothes from her bedroom floor, taking a pleasure in their dispersal as testimony to the climax of the previous night. Dressing quickly, he let himself out to stand a moment on the doorstep and drink in the crisp perfect winter’s morning. As if on cue, the new day’s sun, unfettered by cloud, peeped over the battlements of Dover castle, the monument to times past that dominated the town from its raised position and from every approach. It was, he decided, good to be alive.
*
Despite returning home for a shower and change of clothes, he arrived at the station in good time. He parked his car and, after checking his watch, opted to visit the small patisserie around the corner and treat himself to a good pastry and proper coffee.
He entered the station through the public entrance clutching his purchases some ten minutes later. The uniformed sergeant on the front desk greeted him.
‘Morning, Dennis. Quiet night?’
The sergeant’s smile split his fat face. ‘Haven’t you heard, gov?’
A sense of ominous foreboding hatched inside Romney. ‘Heard what?’
‘Fracas in the town last night. All hands on deck. We had to summon uniform from Folkestone and Deal.’
‘What? Where? Why?’ The mono-syllabic questions chased each other out of his open mouth.
‘Mob of local thuggery turned up at The Castle. Started
*
Detective Inspector Romney next thought of Claire Stamp at about midnight. His evening with Julie had gone as well as he could have hoped. She was beautiful, intelligent, attentive, alluring and he realised that he was feeling fairly smitten with her. The food was excellent, the restaurant service exemplary, the prices outrageous, but the general ambiance of the gastro-pub that he had heard so much about from colleagues lived up to the high recommendations.
When she invited him in for a coffee as he was dropping her off, he felt an anticipation and exhilaration that had been lamentably infrequent sensations of latter years.
She pulled him against her inside the doorway in the darkness and probed his mouth with her hot, wet tongue and then, unashamedly, led him up the stairs to her bedroom.
It was as he was fumbling with the contraceptive wrapping – unable to get a purchase on its oily surface – that he thought of Claire Stamp. Or rather, it was as he put the corner of the square plastic envelope into his mouth and ripped off the top with his teeth that DI Romney thought of her. And then it wasn’t so much Claire Stamp that he thought of as the man who had raped her. Romney wondered if he, too, in his fit of primitive longings to possess the woman spread before him, had found himself unable to gain entry to the little plastic packet and resorted to tearing off the top with his teeth. And whether he, too, would have found the top of the packet stuck inside his mouth, being coated with his saliva and his unique DNA before he carelessly spat it out oblivious of where it might end up and what it might later reveal.
It was a measure of the power of the urges that Romney was experiencing and giving full vent to that he didn’t interrupt himself, make his apologies, enquire after a pen and paper and write down his epiphany so that he might be guaranteed of reminding himself in the morning to ask forensics to run saliva tests on the little strip of plastic recovered from the crime scene. Instead, he trusted the scrap of priceless intelligence to his less than wonderful memory and for a few intense minutes lost himself.
***
4
The new day began well enough for Romney. With brief but sincere endearments exchanged with the barely awake naked warmth of Julie Carpenter, he had retrieved his scattered clothes from her bedroom floor, taking a pleasure in their dispersal as testimony to the climax of the previous night. Dressing quickly, he let himself out to stand a moment on the doorstep and drink in the crisp perfect winter’s morning. As if on cue, the new day’s sun, unfettered by cloud, peeped over the battlements of Dover castle, the monument to times past that dominated the town from its raised position and from every approach. It was, he decided, good to be alive.
*
Despite returning home for a shower and change of clothes, he arrived at the station in good time. He parked his car and, after checking his watch, opted to visit the small patisserie around the corner and treat himself to a good pastry and proper coffee.
He entered the station through the public entrance clutching his purchases some ten minutes later. The uniformed sergeant on the front desk greeted him.
‘Morning, Dennis. Quiet night?’
The sergeant’s smile split his fat face. ‘Haven’t you heard, gov?’
A sense of ominous foreboding hatched inside Romney. ‘Heard what?’
‘Fracas in the town last night. All hands on deck. We had to summon uniform from Folkestone and Deal.’
‘What? Where? Why?’ The mono-syllabic questions chased each other out of his open mouth.
‘Mob of local thuggery turned up at The Castle. Started
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