Dead Unlucky (28 page)

Hiba Massaoud had decided to go to bed early. She wasn’t one for pubs and clubs anyway, but she would have usually seen in the New Year with her family and, maybe, guests of her father. Tonight she just wanted to be alone so she could have a good cry.

Paul Outbridge had gone back to Bath for a day or two to see his mum and dad. He wouldn’t tell them anything about how silly he had been, anything about how he had spent three hours at the police station. Perhaps his parents would never find out, perhaps they wouldn’t follow the story too closely. Wouldn’t follow the story! Their son worked at the school where there had been two murders! This was the worst thing about the whole sorry business – his mum and dad finding out he had bought those handcuffs.

Annalee Hargreaves would continue with this evening’s soiree, there was no point in being so weak as to cancel such a long-standing social engagement. Tomorrow she would tell her husband of her difficulty, and the day after that she would go into school and collect her belongings without embarrassment, before her misfortune became gossip. Then she would never have to set foot inside the place again.

Simon Chandler would just go to the pub with a few friends. He had set his heart on taking Sophie out, but she had a “prior engagement” she refused to tell him about. He knew by now that he was wasting his time, but he would still keep trying to win her over. He had no choice. He was besotted with her, and there was no defence against that.

Danny Moses would have loved to have spent New Year at The Temple earning some cash, but to turn up there when Marco had told him to keep away would not be a clever move. Bad for business, could even end up being detrimental to his health. Perhaps he could sniff out a new territory, find a fresh outlet to flog his wares. On the other hand, it might be a good idea to keep a low profile until he had shifted his gear from that warehouse tomorrow morning. After all, he had already paid for it. He wasn’t going to let that old duffer flush it down the bog.

Hart managed to reach his car while the rain was still just spitting, but the moment he slammed the door shut it seemed like the Victoria Falls had shifted themselves over the streets of Lockingham. He gently laid the bouquet of pink carnations and box of Belgian chocolates on the passenger seat and rubbed his hands together.
That was a bit of luck
, he thought.
Just made it. Looks like this evening’s got my name on it.

He pulled up right outside Patricia Luft’s home and waited for the rain to die down. The house was huge, far bigger than the Emmers’ place; it must have contained half a dozen bedrooms and sported a garden the size of Hyde Park. Only the downstairs lights were on, which meant that she had already got herself sorted, unless her bedroom was situated at the back. It was bang on six o’clock, a bit early for a New Year’s Eve do thought Hart, but he was just grateful to be invited, he wasn’t going to negotiate with Patricia about the time.

As the rain drummed against the metal roof, Hart reflected that he had only ever felt these soppy feelings once in his life before, and that was the best part of thirty years ago, when he first courted Maggie. Not that she needed much courting – everybody said how keen she was on him. But, of course, she still wanted to feel she had been wooed and won and Hart was an eager player of the game, not taking anything for granted. He had first brought her flowers and chocolate, much the same as tonight. Except that the flowers were from his parents’ garden. His mum had said that, if she’s a nice girl, she’ll appreciate the thought that he had got them together for her, she wouldn’t worry that he couldn’t afford a fancy bunch. And the chocolate had been a bar of Toblerone. Maggie loved it. And she loved him.

It looked like the rain was going to pound away for ever and so Hart switched off the ignition, opened the door, eased his legs into the wet air and braced himself for the rest of his body to follow them. Just as he locked the doors with the remote and shoved the garden gate aside, he realised he had forgotten his gifts. By the time he had retrieved them and stood outside the locked porch with his finger on the bell push, his clothes were saturated with enough water to hide a nuclear submarine. One minute may not be long in geological time, but standing in the freezing rain with the wrapping on your chocolate box turning to mush and a bunch of flowers getting pulped is an age in human terms.
Come on, Patricia. Get a shift on.

Finally the front door opened and a goddess appeared. Patricia Luft stood in the doorway wearing a black dress that had been ironed on to the curves of her lovely body, the occasional sequin glinting by the light of the hall that framed her figure. The ebony satin contrasted exquisitely with the sun of her blonde-grey hair. Two circles of pearls bordered the tops of her breasts and the sapphires falling from her ears had captured the waters and skies of the Caribbean. The dream unlocked the porch door and pulled it open a few inches as a dripping Harry Hart stood before her, his lips sporting a sheepish grin and his eyes a fascinated awe.

‘You’ll have to let me have a few spins in the tumble drier, Patricia. And the flowers won’t need watering.’

‘The gifts are very quaint and I hope you enjoy them. I’ve been feeling a little off-colour today and I won’t be able to keep our appointment. Perhaps I should have rung, but I had forgotten about it.’

The porch door closed, the key turned in the lock, and the light from the hall was eclipsed as the heavy front door was slowly pushed to.

Hart rang the bell a couple more times, but there was no reply. He stumbled back to the car, flung the sodden chocolates and battered flowers on to the front seat and sat and forced himself to think, while a sympathetic fog formed on the windows to hide his shame from the world.

He knew why Patricia Luft had done this to him, that was obvious. Why she had conspired to leave him bereft of both company and dignity on New Year’s Eve, with the worst part of the ordeal still to come – his embarrassed replies tomorrow to the legion of concerned enquiries about how his big evening had gone. The factory would know in an instant. She’d kippered him good and proper, and at that moment must have been rolling around on her Persian carpet, bellowing with laughter that the heavens had connived with her to unleash a torrent to add to his misery.

After Hart had got her husband sent away last year, he should have known that all her conciliatory gestures weren’t really overtures of affection. But he wasn’t going to blame himself for being stitched up like this, no matter how much it hurt. He had been taken for a sucker because he was vulnerable, and in his job he had seen too many victims reproach themselves for sins that were actually perpetrated against them by their tormentors to travel down that same desolate road himself.

And then the realisation hit him. How could he have been so dim? Love blinds they say, and it had certainly stripped away Hart’s ability to see further than his nose. But now that his sight had been restored, he drove home with Patricia Luft’s wheelie bin sticking out the boot of his car.

Hart poured himself a Scotch before he set about his work, shoving the kitchen table to one side and spreading the detritus of the now former object of his desire over his chessboard-tiled kitchen floor. The dustman hadn’t been round since before Christmas and so he treated his nostrils to a purifying whiff of his Auchentoshan Three Wood before taking a sip. He knelt down and sifted through some balls of rolled up paper. There was no time to unfurl them now, they could wait until later if necessary. He hastily rummaged through a motley collection of old tin cans, torn up letters, little cut-offs of jolly Christmas wrapping paper, nut shells and orange peels, but not the items he was looking for. Perhaps the hunch was wrong, or perhaps she had just been too careful. The only remaining hope was the white supermarket plastic bag, the lining of choice for the pedal bins of millions of households throughout the land. Hart unravelled the granny knot which held the two bag handles together and was delighted to detect the aroma of his favourite condiment struggling to announce itself through the general stink. Gobs of horseradish sauce and a soggy supermarket receipt consummated his joy.
However lucky you think you’ve been this evening, Patricia, the gods have saved their broadest smile to beam down on me.

After Hart had given the supermarket a ring to see if it was still open, the manager at Sainsbury’s wasn’t overly pleased when he arrived at his store half an hour before closing time on New Year’s Eve. However, because the dates and times of purchase were printed on both the soggy receipt and Hart’s tab for his own sauce, their conversation didn’t need to last too long. Although he couldn’t prove the precise moment when the switch was made between his own relish and the toxic cocktail concocted by his prospective killer, the appearances on the supermarket security cameras of both the stars of the show at just the right times meant that he didn’t need to. He didn’t blame himself for falling for her new-shoes scam. But he was well miffed that he had paid for her milk.

After arriving back home from the supermarket, Hart poured himself another small one and debated with himself how he was going to spend the final two hours of the year. He treasured his delectable collection of fine Scotch and he could even enjoy a plate of haggis, tatties and bashed neeps, but the annual Hogmanay ritual on TV had never been his favourite manifestation of Scottish culture. He hadn’t thought it possible, but for the past few years the fare beamed out had become even less appealing. Now every channel saw fit to let loose on an undeserving nation a veritable host of grinning twerps whose propensity to irritate appeared to be the single characteristic which had propelled them to stardom.

Perhaps he could go to an anonymous pub, but the crowd would make him lonely. Of course, there was always the option of turning in to bed before midnight and reading a book. But that action so blatantly admits to oneself that not only have you condemned yourself to solitude, but also amplifies the misery with the confession that you have nothing to do on New Year’s Eve, while the happy and popular people of the world are out at play. Watching the twerps having fun was preferable to surrendering to that sorrowful destiny.

And what of Patricia Luft? How would she be spending her evening? From the way she was all dolled up, it didn’t look like she would be taking an early night herself. Hart had spent a couple of hours getting soaked and humiliated, sifting through fetid rubbish, and then sat twiddling his thumbs alone on New Year’s Eve. Meanwhile, the person who had tried to kill him was sipping at champagne and enjoying a merry chortle with her intimates, shady friends of her ex-husband no doubt, hooting about how she had fooled him and all the other coppers like the Chief into thinking she was a lonely, righteous lady, wronged by an evil spouse, just pining for a solid brick like Hart. That all seemed a tad unfair.

Hart walked up the road to the phone box, inserted his debit card, and dialled a local number. The person who responded wasn’t the bright but mechanical woman from BT who politely informs the caller that the subscriber is unavailable, but a real live human, with her voice framed by a chorus of jolly chatter. Hart didn’t say a word before he replaced the receiver. Patricia Luft was home.

It has been said that revenge is a dish which tastes best cold. But Hart was determined to savour his repast piping hot, straight out of the oven.

Inspector Lynn McCarthy was flabbergasted to see Hart walk through her door with only an hour to go to midnight, clutching a soggy box wrapped in a yellow bow and bearing a posy of pink flowers, now adorned with only a few token petals.

‘What happened, Harry? This was your big night. Get lost or something?’

Hart related his sorry tale and squeezed the pliant box out between strips of pink ribbon. ‘But clouds and silver lining and all that means I get to treat my favourite inspector to a few chocs. The flowers, I’ll put those in my own room as a fitting testament to the weakness and folly of men.’

‘So you’ve just dropped by to brighten my New Year’s Eve? You’ve done a good job so far, you’re not your usual miserable self.’

‘That’s my main reason for popping in, of course, but I do have another less vital task. Another request for a female copper.’

‘The answer’s the same as it was a couple of weeks ago. Asha Kanjaria’s on the New Year’s shift because she had Christmas off. I’ve got a few more-experienced women available this time as well, though.’

‘Asha’s just right. I reckon experience is sometimes just another word for being jaded and blase because you’ve done it all before. They reach middle age and all they do is moan about the job they’ve had for the last twenty-five years, the one that’s kept them fed and watered and pays for their cars, tellies, beer and kids. Give me someone who actually wants to be here, every time.’

Lynn McCarthy licked her chocolatey fingers. ‘Can’t accuse you of ever grumbling like that, Harry.’

‘Don’t mock. You might be the same in another few decades.’

‘I don’t deserve your flattery, not after my totally unwarranted barb,’ said Lynn as she dialled down to reception, where Kanjaria was sorting out some files.

After she had replaced the receiver, she asked Hart, ‘Where are you off to at this hour? Even you wouldn’t be daft enough to pull the stunt I fear is germinating in your fertile brain.’

‘Even I would be.’

‘Be careful, Harry,’ advised Lynn. ‘You know what the book says: calling on a person’s home should be done at a reasonable hour when possible. This could wait until the morning.’

‘Goodness gracious, we’re talking about a poisoner here, after all!’ exclaimed Hart. ‘What if she slipped a slug of strychnine into the midnight punch and a dozen guests turn turtle? Imagine the headlines:
Policeman chooses to party at his station with gorgeous inspector rather than prevent a multiple murder.
Nope, I’m unselfishly passing up the opportunity for unbounded pleasure for myself so I can keep the public safe.’ And then his eyes hardened. ‘The fact that my going round now will spoil the merrymaking is irrelevant. It would be unthinkable of me to deliberately ruin an evening’s fun for somebody just because she tried to take my life away, tried to stop my heart beating. That’s just a most unfortunate consequence of the necessity for an immediate arrest.’

McCarthy didn’t look convinced.

‘I’m not perfect, Lynn; not sure I want to be. And it can’t be just the baddies who have fun, or we’d all want to be depraved.’

She granted him a resigned smile just as Asha Kanjaria knocked on the door. ‘Come in.’

‘You wanted to see me, Ma’am.’

‘Actually, it’s the Chief Inspector who needs you tonight, Asha.’

‘I do indeed,’ agreed Hart. ‘Have a choc,’ he added, offering the box to the Constable.

She stared at Hart like he was a ghost as her fingers lighted on a fudge truffle. ‘I thought you were out with that woman, Sir.’

‘I was, and I enjoyed myself so much I’m going back in a mo. I just popped into the factory to pick up a date to accompany me to the party. But when we get back here, we’ll have an attempted murderer with us to make up a threesome.’

‘Wicked!’ Asha then narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. ‘A couple of weeks ago I asked
why me?
when you took me out on a job. I just wanted to say, I’ve always felt a bit daft about that.’

‘No need. The answer’s simple tonight anyway. We’ve got a skeleton staff on and I can’t find anyone better. There’s not a half-decent copper in the place over New Year’s so you’ll have to do.’ Hart looked at Lynn McCarthy. ‘Except for your boss, of course; she’s not too bad.’ Asha was enjoying the teasing praise as she went off to collect her hat.

‘She’s a good’un, Lynn. And bright. If ever I need a uniformed constable, reserve her for me, will you? And we don’t want her leaving the force because she’s bored witless after serving a two year probation spent getting intimate with the filing cabinets.’

‘You’re not so bad yourself, Harry,’ said McCarthy, as she pecked him on the cheek. ‘Happy New Year.’

‘And you too, Lynn, bless you. Right, I’d better get these flowers into some water before I head off. Don’t want them dying for nothing.’

*****

Hiba Massaoud lay on her bed, her perfect black hair fanned out on the pillow, her brown eyes staring up at a ceiling made shadowy by the shades of the lights fixed high on the walls. She was still wearing jeans and a black tee shirt, she hadn’t even changed into her night clothes. Lying there like this reminded her of the Sunday morning when she had lain down in her room at Highdean School and enjoyed the last few minutes of happiness she had known. She was just having a think, sorting out in her mind what she was going to do with her day. And then she went to the bathroom.

Somehow, it was Nicola’s tongue she remembered the most vividly. That was the first thing her mind managed to make sense of as she stood face to face with her friend’s dangling corpse. The way it drooped out of her mouth below her half open eyes. And then there was the smell, of course. Hiba shut her own eyes tight, but she could only squeeze out water, not the memory. It was all so cruel, so callous. As though death wasn’t a bad enough torment, Fate had somehow decided it hadn’t finished amusing itself with Nicola yet, it was also necessary to play with her, to humiliate and debase her. It was the same when Hiba had watched the TV and seen that tent in the churchyard. She didn’t want to think of it, hated herself for it, but she couldn’t help picturing what Nicola would look like as she was being dragged around in her coffin.

It had all been so different when they first met. Nicola nervous about starting her new school in amongst all the toffs. Hiba confident, seen it all before, but careful in her choices of the people she mixed with. They became instant friends, and friends who just knew they would be together for life. Nicola hadn’t known it, but Hiba was going to invite her on a trip around Europe in the summer as her family’s guest. Then they would be off to university. Nicola was a cert for Cambridge, of course, and Hiba would be going to a top university as well, although she wasn’t sure where yet. She had usually managed to finish in the first five in the school exams, although the top spot in every subject had been reserved for her friend. Now Hiba could barely concentrate on her work at all, and she felt she’d be lucky to get into a third-rate college.

Because of her father’s employment as a diplomat, Hiba had studied in loads of schools all over the world. Highdean wasn’t her favourite, although it was good at getting kids through exams and into university so it was always up near the top of the league tables. But there was an undercurrent of prejudice she didn’t like. If you weren’t one of the crowd, you got ignored or bullied. Mrs Hargreaves was simply a snob, and other people took the lead from her. It made little difference to Hiba because her wealth and family made her untouchable. But someone like Nicola, she had to struggle for everything. But she never blamed anyone, never got into fights, never badmouthed a single soul. She just carried on working towards her goal, even trying hard at sport, and did her best to make sure she got to Cambridge. All she wanted was to take the chance her mum and dad had worked so hard give her, to make them proud and happy.

Hiba Massaoud turned over and laid her face against the pillow, making it wet. Now it turned out someone had killed Nicola, that she hadn’t lacked strength after all. There was some comfort in knowing that, some consolation for Hiba in realising that her best friend hadn’t been hiding some unbearable hurt from her, concealing some anguish that had driven her to suicide.

But that solace would only really be worth having if the person responsible was caught and paid fully for their crime. And the only person she could think of who would have killed her dear, dear friend was Sebastian Emmer.

And he had already paid as much as he could give.