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

cafeteria along the harbour wall where they had agreed to meet Lillian West.
    As Marsh sipped her black instant coffee, Romney occupied himself with a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich that was never going to match up to the one he had prepared his insides for. Still, it was better than nothing.
    ‘How do you get along with Wilkie?’ said Romney.
    The suddenness of the question took Marsh by surprise. Wilkie was a thorn in her side. He might have jeopardised her position and her career by taking important evidence from her desk, but she didn’t want to come across as bitching about colleagues. If she had proof, things might be different, but even then she wouldn’t do it like this.
    ‘I haven’t had much to do with him.’
    ‘You know that he was my first choice sergeant before you turned up and he went on paternity leave? Hobson’s choice, actually, seeing as he was the only sergeant.’ Romney took a large bite of his bacon sandwich. Through the mouthful, he said, ‘He asked me to give you The Parking Medal Man and put him on this case.’
    Marsh was aware that Romney was studying her as he said this, but she was still unable to keep the angry flush from her face. ‘I understand that he’s an ambitious officer,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he sees my presence as a threat to his aspirations.’
    ‘And his ego. Very restrained political answer by the way. You’ll go far.’ He signalled to the woman on the counter for a refill of his tea.
    ‘Are you going to replace me with him?’ she said. Marsh understood that the question was bordering on impertinence, but he’d lifted the lid. He shouldn’t complain if something he didn’t like crawled out.
    Romney smiled not without humour. ‘No. Not yet. But if you go on losing vital evidence, I might be forced to reconsider.’
    Marsh bit her tongue, choking off the response that sprang to mind. She struggled to suppress her indignation – her natural reaction to defend herself – and was certain she hadn’t made a great job of it. And then the thought occurred to her that perhaps Romney suspected Wilkie of taking the phone. She met his eye and held it for a long moment. Just as she opened her mouth to say something Romney stood up, his full interest transferred to movement behind her. Marsh turned in her seat to see a tall woman with short blonde hair standing at the counter.
    ‘Looks like Mrs West has arrived,’ said Romney.
    At the sound of his voice the woman turned around and gave him a brief nod before returning to the counter to collect a cup and saucer.
    In the short time it took her to cover the distance between the counter and their table a myopic unschooled observer would have had to conclude that she had the poise and confidence that money brings. Despite the trouble she had clearly gone to to dress down for the meeting , she couldn’t hide her breeding, or the self-assurance, that came as a result of her privileged existence. She threaded her way effortlessly between the closely packed tables and chairs towards them. Reaching them and ignoring Marsh, she said, ‘Mr Romney?’
    ‘Mrs West? said Romney, noting the lack of his police status in her greeting. ‘Have we met before?’
    ‘Not to my recollection. Why do you ask?’
    ‘We’re not exactly advertising the fact that we are police officers.’
    She laughed softly. ‘You don’t have to. Shall I sit?’ She did without further discussion.
    ‘This is Detective Sergeant Marsh,’ said Romney.
    The woman bestowed a haughty suggestion of condescension on Marsh before turning her attention back to Romney. ‘And how did you know who I am?’
    ‘I’m a policeman,’ said Romney.
    She forced herself to smile ever so slightly. ‘Very good, Inspector.’ Her voice emphasised her class, and she couldn’t have had that register, thought Romney, without at least one pack a day over many years. ‘Firstly, I’d like to say that I appreciate your discretion in this matter,’ she said.
    Striving to make