‘Sebastian? Sebastian? Oh, yes, the young man who was killed. Surely I’ve told you that before, when I assisted you the last time you dropped in. But, as it seems you’ve forgotten, I’ll remind you that he spent most of his time with those three teachers, the ones you spoke to when you asked them about Mr Moses.’ He darted Hart a look which asked how he could be do dim. ‘Surely you remember them: the man, the woman and the mole. And he often had a spotty little friend keeping him company.’
‘And I’ll ask you one last time – who supplied Sebastian with his coke if you’re saying it wasn’t Danny?’
‘And I’ll tell you one last time – I don’t allow drugs on these premises. Maybe some people occasionally bring them in despite the best efforts of myself and my staff. After all, this isn’t the 1950s, when knocking back a bottle of brown ale meant you’d treated yourself to an enthralling night out. Kids nowadays expect, shall we say, a little more of a thrill than formerly. Most of them get it through downing an E or two now and again or some of the legal rubbish that’s flooding the market. It’s no secret that Sebastian preferred coke, the choice of pop stars, people who had made it. It’s expensive, he could swank a bit, set himself apart from the poor trash who couldn’t afford it.’
‘And where does Danny fit in to it all?’
‘Danny?’ Bracken forced a laugh. ‘What’s this obsession you’ve got with Danny? Danny’s a loner. Hardly mixes with anybody, especially kids like that. If anything, his best mate’s some old duffer, and I’ve never even laid eyes on him.’ Bracken looked at Hart like he had just swallowed something nasty. ‘Danny says he’s almost as old as you. And, talking of you, this is a young people’s place, so I think it’s about time you went home and tucked yourself in with a mug of cocoa.’ Bracken handed Hart his card. ‘If you want to annoy me again, do it at my house. I’ve got nothing to hide. And if you do give me a knock, I don’t want to hear any more of your funny stories. You should stop being a copper and get yourself a useful job. Like being a clown.’
Hart was sure it was Bracken who was spinning the yarns, not him. And he was reminded that life isn’t like a shoot-em-up movie where the baddies are all mean but all stupid. Hart was pretty sure Bracken was mean all right. But he wasn’t stupid. All Hart had got from their chat was that Danny Moses had an ancient mate, and he was only tossed that morsel because Bracken couldn’t resist a dig at him.
Bracken had won that encounter by a knockout, and it left Hart feeling very bruised. His humour wasn’t improved when he answered a phone call from Darren Redpath as he walked to his car.
*****
As he made his call, Redpath was running up the steps of The Princess Royal Hospital straight into the smell of frying chicken. The entrance introduced him to McDonald’s, a range of fast food cafes which would keep the cardiologists employed, and a kiddies’ play area. He walked quickly along the corridors, past the signs to obstetrics, ENT and the names of departments which advertised ailments from which he had thankfully been spared so far. Then he arrived at the rather more anticipated odour of antiseptic. All hospitals smelt like that to him eventually, and it reminded him of pain, misery and having your tonsils out when you were a kid. And then he had to take a lift to the sixth floor. Hospitals are like cities, boasting vast districts of different characters and functions. He eventually found the neighbourhood he had trekked all this way to visit, the Medawar Ward, Bay A2.
There were half a dozen beds in the bay and the staff nurse on duty pointed out the one he wanted. It wasn’t difficult to find anyway because Simon Chandler was sitting next to the patient, offering his time and his sympathy to Sophie Rand. Redpath wished he had the chance to see her alone, but he could hardly tell the other visitor to clear off. It wouldn’t have made much difference to the privacy of their conversation anyway, as the beds on either side were both occupied.
‘Ms Rand, I’m so sorry this happened,’ he said, offering formal commiserations on behalf of the force. ‘I’d like a few words if you’re up to it so we can find who did this to you as quickly as possible.’
‘I don’t think that should be too difficult, it’s pretty obvious. But I really don’t want to make a fuss over what happened.’
‘Exactly what did happen?’ persevered Redpath.
‘I just walked out of my flat after I got a phone call to say there was someone tampering with my car. I looked out the window and saw a man in a black cap and coat bending down by the wheel.’
‘Anything else that would help you describe him?’
‘Just that he was very big. They both were.’
‘Both?’
‘I went down to speak to him and another guy just came from nowhere. He took my arms and twisted them round my back. I managed to get one free but he grabbed my hand and pulled my finger back. Hurt like hell. I heard it crack.’ Sophie Rand took her bandaged left hand from underneath the bedclothes and produced it as evidence.
‘Then what happened?’ enquired Redpath, his eyes reluctantly taking in the bruised red face and swollen lip, incongruous with that lovely dark hair.
‘One of them slapped me several times, the bloke who had been pretending to mess with the wheel. He didn’t punch, but he was a really big guy so he had no trouble doing this.’ She pointed to her face. ‘Then the man holding my arms kicked me on the back of my knee and I went down. They kicked me all over my legs and in my ribs and stomach.’
‘Did they say anything?’
‘Nothing. And they had baseball caps pulled down low. They were so quick, I didn’t think to try and get a good look at them.’
‘Is anything broken?’
‘Just the finger. The hospital said I can leave tomorrow. I’m bruised and a bit shaken up, that’s all.’
Simon Chandler spoke for the first time, like he was playing the part of the concerned husband.
‘Sergeant, I’ve told Sophie that she needs to make sure these people are caught and locked away, but she just says she doesn’t think it’s worth it. Tell her she’s wrong.’
‘It’s always worth catching people like this, Ms Rand. For one thing, they could do it to somebody else.’
‘They won’t. You know that. This was a one-off, a treat just for me.’
‘They could have seriously hurt you,’ said Chandler.
‘They could have. Could have killed me if they’d wanted to. But they only intended to frighten me. They didn’t want to cause too much damage, so then they guess nobody will get too uptight.’
‘But if we don’t take it seriously, then we don’t catch them. They’ll win.’ Redpath’s reddening face displayed an anger that showed this was personal.
Sophie Rand laid her unharmed hand on Redpath’s own.
‘It’s good of you to be so bothered about me, but I’m tougher than you think. I’ll be running around teaching the kids hockey come January.’
‘Who do you think did this, Sergeant?’ asked Chandler.
It was Sophie who answered. ‘Come on Simon, that’s obvious. I dobbed Danny Moses in it and sending round a couple of heavies is his little way of telling me I was a bad girl. A late Christmas pressy just for me. You and Paul had better watch out, too.’
‘Then we really do need to make sure these people are locked up,’ insisted her friend.
‘You know who I would really like to see locked up?’ asked Rand to them both.
‘Go on,’ said Redpath.
‘Your boss.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ although you didn’t actually have to be a detective sergeant to work out the answer.
‘That little toad crashes into the club like James Bond on uppers and sits with the three of us, asking us loads of questions. Danny didn’t need to be Brain of Britain to make the connection, did he? Your cocky little master landed us all in the muck, right up to our necks.’
Redpath didn’t know what to say, although he tried to stick up for Hart. ‘But he had to interview you, Sophie. He didn’t know it would turn out like this.’
‘He should have been more careful. He could have come round and seen me at my flat.’
Redpath tried again. ‘We didn’t know you were at the club when we got there. It was the manager, that Marco Bracken, who tipped us off. Be fair, Sophie. My boss couldn’t have just walked out without talking to you all, although I’d have been a bit more discreet if it was up to me.’
Rand was placated a little and Redpath felt he had done a good job.
‘Maybe you’re right, Darren. I shouldn’t let a few slaps in the face make me all grouchy like that. I’ll live. No real harm done.’
Redpath used the thaw in relations to put in another good word for Hart. ‘I know he sometimes seems like he’s clueless, but the Chief Inspector’s not really so bad. He thinks there might be a connection between all this drugs business and Sebastian’s murder. To give him his due, he’s usually right about things like that.’
‘I suppose that puts it all into perspective, really,’ commented Chandler. ‘I mean, that’s the most important thing, isn’t it – finding the person who killed Sebastian?’
Nobody could argue with that.
26
The following morning, Chief Superintendent Rodgers appeared at the open door of Hart’s office while he was in conference with Redpath, a beaming smile painted underneath his moustache. Although he would occasionally stop off on the way to somewhere important, it was unusual for the Chief to actually come downstairs just to pay Hart a visit; seeing him coming in and sitting down was like spotting a camel at the South Pole. The great man usually liked to summon his subordinates to the safety of his own territory, but here he was in person, lowering himself into a bamboo chair. The reason for bestowing this honour quickly became apparent.
‘Harry, I just popped by to say what a marvellous job you’ve done. And you too, of course, Sergeant,’ he offered, not forgetting the junior man. There was plenty of bonhomie to go round.
‘Thank you, Sir, that’s very kind,’ replied Hart, accepting the praise with good grace. And then his brow furrowed. ‘What job is that exactly?’
‘Come on now, Harry, no need for false modesty,’ answered Rodgers. ‘The Emmer case looks like it’s pretty well wrapped up. And that’s down to the efforts of officers like you, the men and women who work at this station.’ My station, he could have said.
‘There are still a few loose ends to be tied up on the case though, Sir, I wouldn’t say it’s completely put to bed just yet.’ Hart wasn’t keen on reaching the destination where this conversation was going.
‘But the murder weapon’s been found and, what’s more, it belongs to Ron Brown. We know that Sebastian Emmer was a merciless bully to the man’s daughter, absolutely abhorrent.’ The Chief shuddered to emphasise his point. ‘I’ve seen those notes he wrote. Quite pitiless, he was.’ Hart knew what was coming, but he let the Chief finish. ‘Sebastian drives Nicola to suicide with all that harassment. The father obtains his revenge by killing the boy. There are motives for both deaths, strong motives mark you, and the ownership of the weapon backs up the notion that Ron Brown is the killer.’
Hart wondered where the Chief got his information from. It was like this at most places where people worked, he supposed, not just within the force and not just inside this station. Someone likes to ingratiate themselves with the boss, so up the stairs they trot bearing the latest tittle-tattle – aren’t I a good boy to get the news to you first? Eyes wide open and desperate for praise, like a dutiful lapdog. And the bosses like to have their little spies, and the pandering of a sycophant appeals to the part of their psyche which enjoys being pumped up with flattery. Hart hadn’t mentioned the notes or the weapon to Rodgers and, whatever Redpath’s faults, he didn’t play petty little games like that.
The Chief now let them know the supreme justification for his joy. ‘This means that there’s no real reason to conduct an exhumation, is there? That would save an awful amount of bad publicity.’ Hart’s audible sigh alerted the Chief to his tactless blunder. ‘And distress to the family, of course,’ he added, too late.
Hart smiled understandingly. ‘Darren, would you nip out and check whether Clive Emmer is at his warehouse. I’d like us to pop round there later and I don’t want to drive all that way for nothing.’
Redpath gently pulled the door shut as he left the office.
‘What was Sebastian Emmer doing in that alley, Sir?’
‘He lives in Lockingham. There’s nothing strange about that.’
‘But he doesn’t live around that part of town. There was no reason for him to be there at all.’
‘I don’t live near the garden centre, but it wouldn’t be amazing to see me there. People don’t just sit at home all day in order to make our investigations more straightforward, Harry. I wish they did.’
Hart had often marvelled at how some usually rational people possess an ability to convince themselves that something is true, just because they want it to be. Never mind the virtue of logic and the weighing of evidence that they utilise in almost all other areas of their lives. They can be discarded for the consideration of this one issue. I want this ridiculous possibility to be a fact. Therefore it is a fact.
‘So, he’s just walking along in an area where he’s got no friends,’ countered Hart. ‘Leaving his car parked in another street instead of driving to wherever it was he was going. And it’s just his bad luck he bumps into Ron Brown, who happens to be clutching a sand wedge as he strolls along.’
‘It’s your job to find out what the boy was doing in the alley. And why he parked his car.’ The Chief held his finger in the air to indicate that his next pronouncement would be wise indeed. ‘And if you could discover how Brown came to know that the boy would be in that alley, you would have cracked this case.’
‘So, instead of taking his club home after doing the deed then giving it a rinse and placing it back in the golf trolley where no one would think of looking for the murder weapon, he carts it up the woods and chucks it away.’
Hart could somehow perceive the soundless whirring in the Chief’s brain telling him his boss remained desperate not to be convinced by his simple common sense, and so he would have to tell it like it was. He didn’t delight in what he was going to do, but if he didn’t let Rodgers have it straight the rug would be pulled out from under this investigation. And it would be Harry who would be hauling himself up off the floor and rubbing his backside.
‘That poor girl’s murder was set up as a suicide. And now Ron Brown is being framed as the killer of Sebastian Emmer. I can understand how the first charade might have suckered a few people in, but I’d go for the Moon being made of cheese before I would ever believe in the second one.’
The Chief displayed no emotion, but inside the insinuation had hit him hard.
Hart carried on. ‘Nicola Brown no more slipped that rope around her own neck than Anne Boleyn chopped off her own head. And the Archbishop of Canterbury was more likely to have whacked Sebastian Emmer to death with a golf club than was Ron Brown.’
‘Have you quite finished, Harry?’
‘Not quite, Sir. And the person who stuck that golf club under a few leaves must think I’m the Laughing Policeman if he reckons I’ll believe that was a genuine attempt to hide it.’ The point was not lost on Rodgers that he was being cast as the fabled comic character himself. ‘Quite finished now, Sir.’
‘And do you think there is a connection between the two deaths? Is that your learned opinion, too? Does everybody have to accept that as infallible wisdom or else be regarded by you as a complete fool?’
‘Can’t say yet, Sir. I wouldn’t be surprised either way.’
Chief Superintendent Rodgers removed himself from his chair without saying another word. He didn’t have to, the fury dripped off him like an icy smoke. He shut the door on the way out. But not quite as softly as Redpath had done a few minutes earlier.
27
Clive Emmer’s import business was situated in a carbuncle of a trading estat
e on the edge of town. None of the buildings fronting the criss-cross of roads would have won an architectural award, but a few of their owners did at least make an effort to jolly the place up. They kept neat lawns on either side of the driveways, and big pots of hardy evergreens did their best to look cheerful. Some companies had spent a fair bit of cash to ensure that the signs which extolled the magnificence of their air-conditioning units, fitted kitchens or whatever it was they were trying to sell, were tasteful, or different, or sometimes even both. Perhaps a big chunk of granite embossed with fancy lettering stood at the entrance, or a happy neon sign flashed to show its pleasure at announcing the presence of the baths and lavatories within.
The warehouse, sales outlet and head office, in fact the only office, of Amazon and Oriental Trading wore no such embellishments. The black writing over the office door barely clung to the mouldy white board onto which it was painted and the detached drainpipe from the gutter accounted for the vertical smear of green moss on the outside wall.
Hart and Redpath ascended a short flight of wooden steps, Hart pushed down on the brass handle of the flaking door, and they walked inside. Clive Emmer sat behind a small desk, his head bowed over the paperwork which was receiving his attention. He didn’t look up.
‘I was told on the phone by that sergeant you were coming here, although what the bloody hell for I’ve no idea. I told you everything I know when you came rummaging around my house.’
‘Just here to clarify a few things,’ replied Hart pleasantly. ‘You don’t mind if we sit down, do you?’ he said, plonking himself onto a plastic chair in front of Emmer’s desk. ‘We shan’t keep you long, I’ve only got a few questions. I wouldn’t mind a quick look around the warehouse as well.’
‘That’s no bloody surprise, you seem to enjoy a good snoop. I suppose you think the person who murdered my son is asleep on one of the chairs out the back. That’s probably the best you can come up with.’ He still didn’t look up.
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