Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) Read Online Free

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    The once perfectly manicured green was scored, stained, bruised, scuffed and dented. The deceased had lost much of his blood supply where he lay. It radiated out from one end of the covered form t o discolour the turf around him – the aura of a violent death. A short distance from this was a patch of vomit.
    As the trio came closer they could see further evidence of what must have been a particularly frenzied and vicious attack. Teeth, bone-fragments, more blood, body tissue and the grim expressions of the professionals involved in the clear up. Irregular white spray-paint-shapes enclosed pieces of evidence that had so far bee n identified, but not collected – fragments and evidence of an event so at odds with the otherwise serene and immaculate spot. Romney thought of the dreadful noises that must have disturbed the peace and stillness to create the macabre tableau.
    As others stood around, or bent to their tasks, the man Masters had identified as the head green-keeper strode to intercept them. ‘Are you in charge then?’
    Romney turned to face him. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good. Can you do something about this lot ruining my green with their big boots? Look at the mess they’re making of it.’
    Romney took a step nearer the squat pug-faced man. He stooped slightly so that he could get fully in his face. ‘A man has had his skull smashed in. His life ended. He might be a husband, a father. He’s certainly someone’s son. Does that mean anything to you?’
    ‘Ruining my green ain’t going to bring him back, is it?’
    Romney straightened. He was wasting his breath on this odious little man. ‘We might well have to dig some of it up yet – forensic evidence. Take it away with us.’
    ‘You can’t do that.’
    ‘I’ll do what I like, Mr Thatcher. Like you said, I’m in charge. Now, maybe you’d like to stop wasting my time whinging about a bit of turf and let us get on with our job. The sooner we’re done the sooner you can have your grass back.’ Romney tapped a cigarette from his packet and lit up. ‘Have you seen the body?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Know him?’
    The head green-keeper eyed the policeman sullenly. Romney flicked some ash off his cigarette onto the pristine putting surface. The green-keeper’s eyes flared and his jaw tightened.
    With barely concealed pleasure, he said, ‘His own mother wouldn’t know him. Whoever did that to him made a proper job of it. And then, of course, the creatures of the night have had a dinner off him. All that blood and torn flesh, too much of a temptation for a vixen with a couple of hungry cubs, or the magpies. Not much left to recognise by the time we found him.’ Romney, quickly sick and tired of this mean old man, turned to go. ‘But I know him,’ said Thatcher.
    Romney turned back. ‘Well?’
    ‘Reckon it’s Phillip Emerson.’
    ‘What?’ said Masters, who’d come up behind them.
    ‘Who’s Phillip Emerson?’ said Romney.
    ‘A member,’ said Masters.
    ‘Another artisan?’
    ‘No, proper. Full member. Actual ly, he’s the club captain. Christ almighty. Are you sure, Bill?’
    The head green-keeper turned his disparaging gaze on the club professional. No love lost there, thought Romney. ‘Take a look yourself if you don’t believe me.’ He was clearly enjoying being the bearer of bad news.
    ‘You said he’s unrecognisable,’ said Romney.
    ‘Aye, his face is, but I’d know that poncy ring of his anywhere.’
    The head green-keeper turned and spat loudly into the longer grass at the edge of the green. His eyes had changed when he looked back. They had a satisfied gleam. Romney held the man’s gaze for a long moment, took a last pull on his cigarette and dropped it onto the baize-like surface and, as Thatcher opened his mouth to protest, ground it into the turf with his heel. Bill Thatcher pursed his lips and turned away.
    ‘I told you to stay with the golf cart, Mr Masters,’ said Romney. ‘This is a crime scene.’ The DI bent to