‘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.
5
Sebastian Emmer’s parents lived on an estate lying at the edge of town, where Lockingham meets the fields. Alanbrooke Close was tucked away with all the other field marshals: Auchinleck, Wavell, Slim and, of course, good old Monty. It was the most exclusive area of the town, what the other locals would call posh, and there were some nice cars on display in the drives, cars pretty much like Hart’s. The Mercedes and the Jaguars, of course, were tucked up out of sight for the night, sleeping inside their double garages.
The house itself wore a pretence of Regency about it, a pair of white columns embedded into the brickwork either side of a thick front door. The front garden was neatly tended and no fence stood to separate it from the close. Hart and Kanjaria walked along the short path, stood at the door, and Hart pressed his right index finger against the bell push. The constable looked him in the eye for a bit of encouragement and he smiled reassuringly.
The chime of the bell was answered by a woman a couple of years younger than Hart and she opened the door as far as the security chain would allow, with her head tilted so that she could see through the gap better. Hart had already produced his identity wallet and held it in front of what he could see of the woman’s face.
‘Mrs Emmer? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hart and this is Constable Kanjaria. May we speak to you for a moment?’
‘Clive, it’s the police,’ called the woman into the void behind her, ignoring the subjects of her message as they waited outside her front door.
‘What the hell do they want at this time of night?’ returned a man’s voice from nowhere.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t asked them,’ she replied, still half turned around, with her right hand grasping the door catch.
Hart thought he had better play a more major role in this little tragicomedy. ‘Mrs Emmer, may we step inside please?’ he said, trying to sound firm yet gentle.
She turned back towards him, looking a little stunned as though she had forgotten he was there, and pushed the door to so she could unfasten the chain, and then opened it wide. As they stepped over the threshold, Clive Emmer appeared in the hall, a newspaper dangling from his hand. He was a tall, thin, straggly man wearing a beige cardigan on his body and a horseshoe of greying black hair on his head.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I think we had better go into the living room if that’s all right with you, Mr Emmer.’
Clive Emmer turned away abruptly and led them into a room best described as sparkly. Everything seemed to be coloured a shade of either white or gold. The walls were papered in cream with floral patterns of faint magnolia and lime green, and two countryside scenes hung in gold frames. There was a mirror, gold-bordered, and a gold-pendulum clock sat on the sideboard before a backdrop of gold-rimmed plates. The myriad of bulbs on the walls and ceiling, held in their golden fittings of course, gave the place the feel of a glitzy entertainment complex, where the lights had been turned up to maximum brightness at the end of the evening to tell the customers it was time for them to shove off. A little plastic tree stood on a small table in one corner, a grudging concession to the impending season of joy and goodwill.
Hart lowered himself into a cream leather armchair while Kanjaria and Mrs Emmer sat together on the sofa. She was short and chubby, although not overtly fat, and wore pink slippers on her feet with the fluffy wool insides poking over the tops. Her husband insisted on standing, but guarded his own armchair just in case anybody else entertained any ideas about using it.
‘I am sorry Mr and Mrs Emmer
, but I have some very bad news to tell you.’ Hart’s eyes flicked between husband and wife as he gave it to them straight; there is no better way, no good way at all. ‘Your son, Sebastian, has been found dead.’
Clive Emmer decided he needed to sit down after all. His wife sat with her eyes wide open and her mouth forming a perfect letter O as she stared into the policeman’s face. Nothing was said and Hart knew that there was no need for any words for a while; let the putrid main course be digested in its own time. When the moment was right, he served them up the foul dessert.
‘I’m afraid there is more bad news. It appears very much as though Sebastian was murdered.’
The denial came immediately. ‘But he can’t have been,’ said the boy’s mother. ‘Are you sure it was Sebastian? It could have been somebody else. It probably was.’
‘We are as certain as we can be, although I would appreciate it if you would be kind enough to make a formal identification either tonight, or in the morning may be better. You see, we found Sebastian’s driving licence in his blazer pocket, a blazer of Highdean School.’
‘Well that doesn’t mean much, does it Clive?’ asked Mrs Emmer as she frantically canvassed from face to face, her gaze finally settling on her only possible ally, desperately trying to induce her husband to help shore up the bricks of her crumbling world. ‘It could have been one of his friends. Sebastian just lent him his licence, that’s all.’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t the case.’ It was always kindest to crush any false hopes as quickly and as permanently as possible. ‘You see, his mobile phone had your number stored in it under the heading of home. And the photograph on the licence matched the victim.’
Dead Unlucky Page 3