Making A Killing (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 2) by Oliver Tidy

impression that was trying to be created for the novice caller.
    A solid, old six-panel door – ruined by the addition of a modern Yale lock – opened onto a spacious and tastefully furnished period apartment that was neat and well kept. Large sash windows flanked by heavy velvet drapes were designed to make the most of the aspect.
    The flat was filled with light. A pleasant underlying smell reminded Romney of a house he used to visit as a child – old furniture and polish. French windows opened on to a small balcony that afforded splendid uninterrupted views across the narrow band of shingle beach and the English Channel beyond.
    ‘Very nice,’ said Romney. ‘Business must have been good. Find out whether it’s rented or mortgaged.’
    ‘What are we looking for, sir?’ said Marsh.
    Romney smiled benevolently at her. ‘I have no idea, but I hope that when I see I’ll know it. Quite possibly they’ll be nothing here that’ll help us determine who killed him, but you never know. Keep an eye out for paperwork especially, oh, and a set of golf clubs covered in blood.’
    Separately, they made a perfunctory sweep of the lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. On the kitchen worktop a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat next to a chunky glass tumbler.  The packaging from a microwaveable meal and the remains of it melded to a plate had been thrown into the sink.
    Romney began rummaging through the drawers of a Victorian roll-top desk, while Marsh began searching in earnest in the bedrooms.
    It was soon clear that, unless there was anything that was very well hidden, then there was nothing in the flat particularly interesting , or sensitive. Nothing for a man to have his head smashed in for. Emerson hadn’t appeared to view the place as somewhere to burden with the paperwork and detritus of his life. In fact there was very little of a personal nature at all, lending substance to the idea that this was simply a romantic hideaway – a love nest for someone who could afford it.
    It was in the spare bedroom beneath a pile of mothballed blankets at the bottom of a worm-riddled antique wardrobe that Marsh found something interesting. It was only because of its incongruity with the otherwise entirely period surroundings that it caught her attention. If her eye had drifted across it in a more modern environment, even if it had been stuffed at the bottom of a wardrobe as this was, she may well not have paid it much more than cursory attention. As it was, she called for Romney before touching it.
    He put his head around the door. ‘What have you got?’
    ‘Probably nothing, sir, but it’s out of place here.’
    Marsh lifted up the pile of blankets so that Romney could see the compact disc in its clear plastic case. He joined her and, using one of the ubiquitous evidence bags that were never out of his pockets as a barrier between his prints and any on it, removed it from where it had been secreted. He held it up for them both to read what had been written in marker pen across it – Spain, 2011 .
    ‘What do you reckon? Holiday snaps?’ said Romney.
    Marsh was disappointed not to have stirred something more in the DI. She had amends to make.
    ‘Might not even be Emerson’s. Could be his sons. If he ever stayed over here, this probably would have been the room he slept in. Better check it out, anyway.’ He wrapped it in the little plastic sack, handed it to Marsh and checked his watch. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything here. Come on. They do a very nice bacon sandwich and proper coffee at the De Bradelei centre in the next street. We’ve just got time before we meet the girlfriend if we get a move on.’
    To Romney’s chagrin, the De Bradelei shopping centre and its cafeteria did not open until ten o’clock. Hungry and complaining, he drove them the short distance along the coast road to the marina entrance. Showing his warrant card got him a parking space inside. From there it was a short walk to the