Dead Unlucky (3 page)

Hart drove at thirty under the yellow sodium lights which were illuminating a drizzle that was fusing to rain. He kept to the speed limit, because if police officers didn’t stick to the law then why should anyone else bother? Anyway, it was only cabinet ministers or chief constables in their posh chauffeured limos who were immune to getting nicked for speeding, and even then only on their own patch. If a top copper was nabbed in the county next door the officers on duty would be delighted to slap a ticket in his hand.

The streetlights received some help in lighting the way from the snowmen and Christmas trees which seemed to be beaming out from every garden the car passed. The people living in one of the terraces had teamed up so that a giant sled blazed along the walls of half a dozen houses. There was plenty of room not only for a splendid Santa but also a full complement of happy helpers and boxes and boxes of lovely presents. A veritable herd of reindeer led the way, Rudolph flying at the very front, of course, his red nose pulsing through the night. Harry liked Christmas. Sure, it was crass and commercial, but it warmed folks’ hearts and brought out the best in them for a while.

But only for a while. The copper’s cynical heart knew that, come Boxing Day, the police and hospitals would be hoovering up the pieces like the fallen needles from the Christmas tree as the pressure built up by people actually being civil to one another for a few days exploded in a blast of domestic violence and pub punch-ups.

‘So what have we got then, Darren? Eighteen-year-old schoolboy bludgeoned to death in an alley. What’s the motive? Theft?’ Hart turned left onto the dual carriageway leading to the centre of town and switched on his wipers.

‘I don’t think so.’ Redpath hailed from Newport and he had carried his lovely twang with him over the border to England so that the ends of his sentences tended to glide upwards, as though he were perpetually surprised.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, there was a fair bit of money in the lad’s pocket, Sir; a thief would have taken that for sure. And a top of the range mobile.’

‘You’re spot on. Unless he had been interrupted, of course.’

They stopped at a traffic light and Hart turned his head to his left and looked at the man fifteen years his junior. He gave a little smile, a gesture which would have appeared condescending in the daylight; this was all easy stuff but it still had to be got right and, to his credit, Redpath was doing just that.

‘He could have been disturbed, Sir. Leaving that arm sticking out was probably more than just being careless.’

‘Perhaps he was simply in a hurry. Perhaps he just wanted to get the heck out of there. Perhaps he had never stood in an alley before and whacked somebody to death.’ Hart moved up through the gears as he accelerated the car away from the green light. ‘We all learn with practice, and I’m sure he’ll make a better job of it if he ever bashes someone’s skull in again.’

‘Could the attacker have been after anything else apart from cash?’

‘Maybe. But unlikely. What else do eighteen-year-old kids wearing their school uniforms carry around with them that someone wants enough to kill them for? Not much, I shouldn’t think. And even then the killer would nick the money as well, to make it look like a simple robbery. That’ll fool those stupid cops, for sure.’

‘So there’s no motive, then? A random killing, just for the fun of it? Or some other kids out for kicks that went too far? Is that how it’s shaping up?’

‘Not a chance. They would have scarpered as soon as they realised what they’d done, they wouldn’t have fiddled around dragging him behind some bushes. No, somebody didn’t like Sebastian Emmer. In fact, I reckon they loathed him, detested him so much it went beyond mere hatred. Or perhaps they might have even been scared of him. Or scared of something he knew. Frightened enough to risk spending the rest of their life in the slammer.’

Hart pulled into the police station car park and turned off the engine. ‘Let me have the lad’s things then get yourself home. And have yourself a good kip, tomorrow’s a big day. You need to be here at six-thirty. We’re going back to school.’

*****

Sitting in their living room watching a soap on TV, the woman and her daughter could hear the car drive up. Then its door opening, followed by the groans of the overhead garage door creaking into life, the car door slamming shut, the throaty revs growling from the engine of the rhodium-silver Jaguar XJ Portfolio as it inched into the garage, garage door squeaking down, a man’s voice cussing about dropped keys or something or other. Finally, the front-door key turning in the lock. The customary sounds heralding the master’s return.

‘You’re back late, Dear,’ greeted his wife as she stood in the living room to welcome him home.

‘I am not back late. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but these are the hours I work. All the hours God sends. Do you think we could afford to live in a place like this if I just sat around on my arse all day?’ He looked at the woman for the first time. ‘Like other people.’

‘Your dinner’s in the oven. It’s a nice casserole, something that wouldn’t spoil if it was left a while. Becky and I have had ours.’

‘I’ll eat it in here on my knee while I’m reading the paper.’ He glanced at the television. ‘And turn that bloody thing down, I won’t be able to concentrate. You need your ears seeing to.’

‘Is Sebastian coming home this evening?’

‘How the hell should I know? He’s eighteen, he can do what he damn well likes.’

‘Perhaps we should keep a closer eye on him. That’s an age when people can get themselves into all sorts of mischief,’ suggested the woman. ‘Maybe we ought to know a bit more about what he gets up to.’

‘What I hope he gets up to,’ answered the man as he sank into his armchair and opened his
Daily Telegraph
, ‘is drinking and screwing. He’ll have plenty of time to be miserable if he ever makes the mistake of getting married, so he might as well wring a bit of pleasure out of life while he’s got the chance.’

‘I worry about him. He’s not doing very well at school, and he’s not always as polite as I’d like.’ Mrs Emmer took a deep breath as she stood in front of her husband’s chair. ‘I don’t want him growing up bad-mannered.’

‘Then do something about it, you’re his bloody mother for God’s sake. The hours I work, you can’t expect me to do everything.’

‘I’ll get you his school report.’

‘I’d rather you got me my dinner.’ The newspaper rustled as Mr Emmer slapped it down onto his lap. ‘And the money I pay that bloody school, he should be top of the class with Einstein.’

‘I’ll go and get your dinner,’ replied Mrs Emmer as she walked out to the kitchen.

Her husband looked up from his newspaper to the girl sitting across the room. ‘And you get to bed, Rebecca. You’ve got school in the morning.’ And then, shouting out to his wife, ‘I don’t know why you let her stay up so bloody late.’

A slight girl padded out into the hall. ‘Night, Mum,’ she called softly as she climbed up the stairs.

Hart didn’t make straight for his office after he had jogged up the steps into Lockingham Central Police Station, he first strode along the corridor to pay a call on Inspector Lynn McCarthy. He had always enjoyed a chat with Lynn, seemed to acquire a mental boost from her cackly laugh and her bright smile. If he wanted cheering up, needed a lift to go with his mid-morning cuppa, Lynn was the tonic he imbibed. But tonight he had come on business and he didn’t much feel like a chuckle, and there wasn’t even time to spend on the usual pleasantries.

‘Lynn, who’ve we got on tonight? I need a female PC, someone who won’t make me even more irritable than I am already,’ he announced, hurrying in through her open office door.

‘Then you’re out of luck, Harry. No one who doesn’t get on your nerves works at this nick, you should know that by now,’ she replied, looking up from her desk.

‘Okay, I’ll have to make do with any old female PC then, even if she’s as crabby as I am.’

‘We’ve got two monumentally uncrabby women just started the late shift. Your best bet is Dorothy Watkins, bags of experience and you know her already.’

‘Indeed I do. Indeed I do.’ And Hart looked at his colleague darkly as he shook his head, like she had just suggested he marry the woman in question, not merely take her out on a job. ‘I heard about last week’s escapade in Smith’s, her exploits have already become enshrined in the force’s folklore. Dear old Dotty Watkins on the trail of a shoplifter, spent more time sifting through the CDs than hunting her prey. The manager wondered if she was stashing some of them away herself and it looked for a minute like we’d have to nick our own officer.’

‘Oh come on Harry, it wasn’t quite that bad.’ Lynn smiled. ‘Okay, perhaps it was.’

‘So, who’s the other paragon of charisma on your long list of two?’ Hart’s eyebrows crinkled as he pondered the question he had posed. ‘No, don’t tell me. Naomi Campbell has joined the force tonight, her charming and compassionate persona arriving just in time to transport an already wonderful evening to a state of supreme perfection.’

‘Well, there’s a new girl who’s only been here a couple of weeks, this is her first job. But if you’re thinking of taking her to break the news to that lad’s parents, it might be a bit soon for something like that.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Keen, bright, eager to impress.’

‘What else? There’s always a paragraph of small print. Read it out loud for me so I don’t have to put my specs on.’

‘Nothing else, although it’s a bit too early to be sure about her yet, she’s hardly got her feet under the table. She’s already attracting the attention of some of the more predatory lads here at the factory, but I’m not suggesting that’s a recommendation for her police work.’

‘There, I told you there’d be a catch. So she’s lippy? Vain? Adores herself with a crafty glance every time she walks past a mirror?’

‘No, no, and no.’

‘Good. I’ll take her. Get her to pop along to my office right away will you, Lynn.’ And with that he trotted along the corridor into the little world he had made for himself.

Hart’s office was neat and tidy and lacking in frills, just like the way he dressed, just like his car. There was an in-tray and an out-tray and a small stack of foolscap files lying on the desk, and a computer on the narrow table that ran along its left side. Next to the keyboard stood a sturdy pint mug for Harry’s tea, bearing little portraits of all the English kings and queens regnant since 1066. A wickerwork stand stored his teapot, kettle and assortment of fine leaves.

Other police officers were surprised by his contemporary outlook regarding the art of catching villains. Because of his reserved neatness, they expected him to be one of those archetypal old-time coppers who despised records and paperwork, mobile phones and laptops, and proudly wore their grumpy disdain like a cherished medal. After all, any man who used a tea cosy must have left his footprints in the mud alongside the trails of the dinosaurs. In truth, Hart saw the need to keep the books up to date, although he didn’t exactly relish the task, and he certainly thought the computer his ally, not his foe. The tools of the criminal trade were more sophisticated than ever, and if you didn’t keep up with what was going on then you unwittingly decayed into an outmoded old codger who was of no use to your colleagues or the people who needed your help. Having said that, his in-tray did contain a few documents that could have been inscribed on parchment; his administrative priorities weren’t always in sync with those of his superiors. And the computer, of course, risked being chucked out of the window into the street on the several occasions when it wouldn’t do as it was told, or thought it knew better than its master.

‘Come in, Constable,’ replied Hart to the gentle knock at his open door, ‘and sit yourself down.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Asha, Sir.’

‘Well, Constable Asha, I’ll come straight to it as we’re a bit pushed for time. Did you hear about the young man who was killed earlier this evening?’

‘I did, Sir. It’s been the hot news at the factory since I got in to work.’

Hart leaned back in his swivel chair and looked across his desk into the young woman’s black-coffee eyes. ‘Somebody has to tell his parents. And, I’m afraid, that somebody is us.’

‘Why me?’ And then, fearing that she might be misconstrued, ‘I mean, what I thought was, that you and the DS would do that sort of thing together, or you would delegate the job to him and one of the other officers who are on the case.’

‘You’re coming along because a woman needs to be there, and there aren’t many free on tonight’s shift. And,’ holding up his right hand, ‘I don’t want to hear about how I shouldn’t be thinking like that, how an officer’s gender makes no difference to how they carry out their job, how the police force expects men and women to be able to discharge their duties with equal efficacy, no matter what the circumstances.’ Hart could have been reading from the force manual. ‘I’ve heard that stuff before and usually it’s right. Occasionally it’s wrong.’

‘And this time it’s wrong, Sir?’ enquired the young officer politely, her voice betraying no inkling of her own opinion on the matter.

‘This time it’s wrong,’ replied Hart, as he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his desk. ‘When you visit a woman to break the news that her husband’s been stabbed to death for his mobile phone, or you call on a man to tell him his wife’s just been shattered by a hit-and-run driver, they want a woman there. Quite simple. So if the rulebook says otherwise then the rulebook’s got it wrong, because it has to be the customer who’s right about this sort of thing.’

‘So what’s my job, Sir?’

‘To have a shoulder as wide as the Atlantic in case somebody needs to cry on it, Constable Asha. And to make the tea.’

‘Is that it?’ She felt like throttling him.

‘No. To keep a low profile unless you’re needed, and not make the situation worse.’

Her golden-brown face began painting itself with a tinge of angry pink which contrasted agreeably with the shiny blackness of her hair.

‘So why not send the sergeant and me? Why do you bother with a grotty job like this at all when you could palm it off to somebody else?’ Out of a deference she felt she didn’t really owe him, she did her imperfect best to keep a trace of anger from her voice.

‘Because the senior officer on the case needs to be there to break the news, as well as a woman. And I’m the senior officer.’

‘And I’m the woman?’

‘Right. So we’ll make the perfect team.’

Hart thought carefully for a moment about what to say next. It was important to him. Important to rectify the crassness which was a far greater sin than the mere absurdity he had managed earlier that evening in the restaurant. There was a dark memory that hung about Harry Hart, trailed him around like a clinging grey cloud. Sometimes something happened to seed that cloud and turn it into rain, like it had done this evening. But the young policewoman couldn’t have known the origin of his oafish comments, and so he knew he couldn’t expect her to pardon them.

‘Constable, while we’re there, take it all in. This is the only time you’ll have the chance to see this boy’s parents as they really are, to catch them off guard. By the time you go round to their home again they’ve tidied up, hidden stuff, chucked it away; used the hours to work on their emotions and their lies. First time, you catch them raw. In a few minutes we’re going to bring two people the worst news that can possibly find its way into a parent’s ears, and it’ll fester in their brains forever. The knock on the door they all dread is hammering down their own hallway tonight and their lives will never be the same again. And he’s not just dead. But murdered. That makes their misery a darn sight worse. But it’s an even harder job for us than telling them that. Although they can’t know it, they are suspects for a killing. Everybody is at this stage.’

‘So I’m not just there to make the tea and keep my trap shut then, Sir?’ she confirmed, feeling a bit better.

Hart beamed a warm smile which deepened crags in a handsomely-weathered face that, unlike the rest of him, was prematurely ageing. ‘I must go to their house because I have to get a grip on the case from the off. And as the leader of the investigation I always break rotten news like this to families to demonstrate that the force is showing the proper respect that’s due to them in their grief. So that’s two essential reasons for me to be there, not just one.’

‘How about me? Is it just because I’m a woman that I’ve been chosen to join this
perfect team
?’

‘Nope. Because I happen to be a bloke it’s true that the other officer must be female, but she must also have some talent. A mediocre plod simply wouldn’t do on a job like this and I wouldn’t take one.’ He looked her hard in the eye. ‘No way would I take one. So that’s two essential characteristics she must have, not just one.’

‘I’ll go and get my hat.’

‘And, Constable Asha,’ said Hart as she reached the door. ‘I don’t palm off my grotty jobs. If I did, my working day would be about half an hour long.’

‘Yes, Sir; I don’t suppose this one’s exactly jolly,’ she conceded. The policewoman waited at the door to say something else, going a little pink again.

‘What is it?’

‘I think I’ve confused you a little about my name, Sir. I’m Asha Kanjaria. Asha’s my first name.’

‘See you in five minutes, Constable Kanjaria,’ said Hart as he picked up the phone to call the headteacher of Highdean School.

*****

At least the stunned woman had the slender comfort of an hour or two to herself to think things over; thank goodness Tuesday was her husband’s chess night. But that really was a pitifully small mercy to be grateful for considering the massive calamity that had just announced itself on the phone, she reflected as she slipped the handset back into its cradle on the sideboard.

The end of term had been going very well indeed, far better than anybody could have predicted a few months ago. Her school was a happy place again, everybody was looking forward to the Christmas break, and Annalee Hargreaves was confident her students were going to perform even better than usual in the end of year exams. And it was
her
qualities of dedication and leadership that had navigated the school through mountainous seas. And her wisdom and discretion, too. Yes, if the parents, governors and students of Highdean School had anybody to thank for its continued success despite the acute adversity it had suffered, then it was her, the headteacher, Annalee Hargreaves. But now another disaster came steaming over the horizon.

She would hold an assembly first thing tomorrow morning, she decided as she walked across the front room and slumped into her armchair. There was no way that even
she
could keep the lid on this one, the unconscionable gossips who thrived on unseemly chitchat would see to that. It was better the announcement should come to the ears of her staff and students from her own lips. At least that way the information they gathered would be correct and she would get the facts out before the rumour-mongers had time to turn them into falsehoods. She would write the memo calling the assembly tonight – one little job out of the way before a hectic morning began.

Before the assembly she would meet the policeman who had just rung to tell her the horrendous news. Let’s hope the murder of Sebastian Emmer was straightforward and the detective wouldn’t be raking up a load of muck from the past, she thought. There was no need for that. No need for it, but sometimes annoying people caused needless trouble.

So the term was ending in pretty much the same way as it had begun – with an almighty catastrophe. But this one was murder. Annalee Hargreaves stretched her legs out from her chair and closed her eyes to see a flock of vultures circling around her school. If she didn’t shoo them away quick, it wouldn’t be long before they were ripping into some very tasty fodder indeed.