Read Online Rope Enough (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 1) by Oliver Tidy - Free Book Online
Authors: Oliver Tidy
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taking the place apart and whoever they could get their hands on.’
‘The Castle?’ said Romney. ‘Is that still run by Kosovans?’ His good mood was evaporating like a shallow puddle on a summer’s day.
‘Yes, gov. It would appear to be a racially motivated attack. But no one seems to know what sparked it.’
I do, thought Romney, guiltily.
He dumped his pastry, coat and bag in his office before going down to the holding cells to investigate. The duty sergeant looked tired and harassed.
Romney said, ‘Busy night I hear.’
‘Like the good old days, gov, when the squaddies came in to paint the town red before their postings.’
‘Mind if I have a look at the visitors’ book.’
The register was turned through one-hundred and eighty degrees without further comment and the man went back to the pile of paperwork beside him.
Romney ran his finger down the list of names, his lips working silently. Simon Avery’s leapt off the page at him, as he feared it would. He counted six names of British origin and ten of an eastern European flavour.
‘I see what you mean,’ he said.
‘That’s not counting those in the hospital,’ said the sergeant.
‘Who came off worse?’
‘Score draw if you ask me, gov,’ said the seasoned officer. He had an air of a man who’d seen it all before and refused to be moved by any of it.
‘Any serious injuries?’
‘One of the local lads sustained a nasty knife wound. Nothing life threatening. Apart from that a few broken bones and a concussion or two.’
The DI nodded. ‘Mind if I take a peek?’
‘Most of them are sleeping it off, gov, but feel free.’
There were six holding cells: three on either side of the corridor. Once upon a time there had been more, but the need was no longer regularly there and storage space for reports in triplicate was always in demand.
Romney flipped the peep hole on each taking in the forms of men in various reposes. Some slept, others were mumbling, some paced and in the last but one he saw Avery. He was sitting on the hard plastic moulded surface intended for sleeping – although ironically the discomfort afforded by the unforgiving hardness rarely encouraged that – his back to the wall, staring straight at the little aperture as though he had been waiting patiently for someone to come and spy on him. Romney saw that his jacket was torn and bloodied. He felt slightly better, but not as cheerful as if Avery had lost his front teeth. He was also happy that none of the associated paperwork was going to be his problem.
As soon as he was told of the incident, Romney had suspected that this was some sort of idiotic reprisal for what had been done to Avery’s girlfriend, Claire Stamp. Or, more accurately, if he were quite honest with himself – although the thought made him suddenly hot – what he had suggested to Avery to rile him. If he’d stopped to think about it, he might have expected it. Romney chided himself for his lack of foresight, for not considering the consequences of his foolery; for not having predicted the possibility of such an outcome and forewarning his uniformed colleagues of the chances of a lively night.
At the best of times the tension between the few but significant competing factions of local criminal fraternities in the town was like a tinder-box. Almost a year before there had been a similar incident provoked by the vicious assault on a Kosovan by some of the locals. On that occasion the Kosovans had gathered a sizeable force intent on vengeance and had – with a fervour that brought to mind news-film of the ethnic cleansing of their homelands that had served as an excuse for most of them to seek asylum in the UK – gone about destroying a snooker hall and hospitalising several of those unfortunate enough to have been looking for a quiet night on the baize. As it turned out, the Kosovans hit the wrong venue. They should have been at the pool hall around the corner.
Romney guessed that Stamp would
‘The Castle?’ said Romney. ‘Is that still run by Kosovans?’ His good mood was evaporating like a shallow puddle on a summer’s day.
‘Yes, gov. It would appear to be a racially motivated attack. But no one seems to know what sparked it.’
I do, thought Romney, guiltily.
He dumped his pastry, coat and bag in his office before going down to the holding cells to investigate. The duty sergeant looked tired and harassed.
Romney said, ‘Busy night I hear.’
‘Like the good old days, gov, when the squaddies came in to paint the town red before their postings.’
‘Mind if I have a look at the visitors’ book.’
The register was turned through one-hundred and eighty degrees without further comment and the man went back to the pile of paperwork beside him.
Romney ran his finger down the list of names, his lips working silently. Simon Avery’s leapt off the page at him, as he feared it would. He counted six names of British origin and ten of an eastern European flavour.
‘I see what you mean,’ he said.
‘That’s not counting those in the hospital,’ said the sergeant.
‘Who came off worse?’
‘Score draw if you ask me, gov,’ said the seasoned officer. He had an air of a man who’d seen it all before and refused to be moved by any of it.
‘Any serious injuries?’
‘One of the local lads sustained a nasty knife wound. Nothing life threatening. Apart from that a few broken bones and a concussion or two.’
The DI nodded. ‘Mind if I take a peek?’
‘Most of them are sleeping it off, gov, but feel free.’
There were six holding cells: three on either side of the corridor. Once upon a time there had been more, but the need was no longer regularly there and storage space for reports in triplicate was always in demand.
Romney flipped the peep hole on each taking in the forms of men in various reposes. Some slept, others were mumbling, some paced and in the last but one he saw Avery. He was sitting on the hard plastic moulded surface intended for sleeping – although ironically the discomfort afforded by the unforgiving hardness rarely encouraged that – his back to the wall, staring straight at the little aperture as though he had been waiting patiently for someone to come and spy on him. Romney saw that his jacket was torn and bloodied. He felt slightly better, but not as cheerful as if Avery had lost his front teeth. He was also happy that none of the associated paperwork was going to be his problem.
As soon as he was told of the incident, Romney had suspected that this was some sort of idiotic reprisal for what had been done to Avery’s girlfriend, Claire Stamp. Or, more accurately, if he were quite honest with himself – although the thought made him suddenly hot – what he had suggested to Avery to rile him. If he’d stopped to think about it, he might have expected it. Romney chided himself for his lack of foresight, for not considering the consequences of his foolery; for not having predicted the possibility of such an outcome and forewarning his uniformed colleagues of the chances of a lively night.
At the best of times the tension between the few but significant competing factions of local criminal fraternities in the town was like a tinder-box. Almost a year before there had been a similar incident provoked by the vicious assault on a Kosovan by some of the locals. On that occasion the Kosovans had gathered a sizeable force intent on vengeance and had – with a fervour that brought to mind news-film of the ethnic cleansing of their homelands that had served as an excuse for most of them to seek asylum in the UK – gone about destroying a snooker hall and hospitalising several of those unfortunate enough to have been looking for a quiet night on the baize. As it turned out, the Kosovans hit the wrong venue. They should have been at the pool hall around the corner.
Romney guessed that Stamp would
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