‘Mr Emmer, do you know that your son was a user of cocaine?’
Now Clive Emmer did lift his head from his papers, although his startled gaze looked past the policemen, he didn’t make contact with their eyes.
‘That’s not possible. My wife would have found anything like that in his room and she would have told me. You’re talking rubbish, man. Complete rubbish.’
‘Traces of the drug were found on your son’s handkerchiefs and pillows. But we have no reason to suspect he used the drug at home, or at school for that matter, so your wife wouldn’t have found anything.’
‘Cocaine? Cocaine?’ Emmer continued to ask, more to himself than anybody else. ‘So where do you think he did use it, if you’re so damned sure?’
‘Probably at a place called The Temple.’
Emmer’s skin drained itself of its remaining pink and, for the first time, he glanced at both the officers.
‘Have you heard of it?’ asked Redpath.
‘Sebastian did mention that he went there occasionally.’ The stunned look on the man’s face told them this was more than an understatement, it just about constituted a lie.
‘Mr Emmer, what exactly is the nature of your business?’ asked Hart.
‘My wife did mention it to you, but I’ll be happy to fill you in on the details.’ Emmer sat up and gave his visitors his full attention. His thin lips actually smiled. ‘I import carpets and garden furniture.’
‘Where from?’ asked Redpath.
‘The carpets are from the Middle East. To tell the truth, I’m not too sure exactly, but we import them through Dubai. And the furniture comes over from Panama. It’s top quality teak, not that iroko rubbish that some places pass off as the real thing.’ Emmer seemed proud of both his knowledge of timber and the propriety of his company. ‘And the wood is from sustainable rainforests, I can assure you. I will have no truck with people who destroy our environment. None at all,’ he concluded with a hearty thump of his desk.
Clive Emmer reminded Hart of the Chief when he was putting on the act of being forthright and sincere, with a dash of virtue thrown into the mix, but was actually talking utter drivel. Still, there was no point in telling him that teak didn’t grow in rainforests, never mind asking what he thought Panama had to do with the Amazon in his firm’s name.
‘It seems an odd combination if I may say so, Mr Emmer. Carpets and garden furniture.’
‘You’re not the first person to mention that, Chief Inspector. But the reason is simple. Pure greed.’ He leaned back and smiled as he addressed other men of the world, men who would understand a natural weakness. ‘These kinds of items generate the most profit. They make me the most money.’
‘Could we just pop into the warehouse for a minute or two?’
‘I can’t think why you would want to, but you are most welcome, of course. Follow me, if you would.’ And, as a jocular afterthought, ‘Who knows, you might even be tempted into treating yourself to a bench for your garden.’
Emmer padded along the wooden floor of his little office and opened the door into the adjoining room. Hart and Redpath were immediately confronted with a smell reminiscent of over-ripe bananas.
‘Sally, two special guests, Chief Inspector Hart and Sergeant Redpath. I’m just going to give them a short tour of the warehouse.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Hart. ‘I’m sure your assistant can help instead.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ replied Emmer, forging a smile. ‘All part of the service.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of bothering the boss when you employ somebody to guide the tour groups for you.’ Hart joined in the charade of playing the chummy pal, but his graphite eyes said he wouldn’t be budged.
‘If you insist.’
Three pairs of eyes waited for Sally. Before she could assume the duty of the genial hostess, she had to cease the artwork on her talons, four of which were already parading a vivid scarlet. She carefully screwed the top back onto the varnish bottle and then disentangled herself from her personal stereo, an operation which transformed a tinny scratch into a hefty boom as she pulled the earphones away from her head.
‘Don’t forget, Sally,’ joked Emmer before he walked back to his office. ‘A sergeant and a chief inspector. We’d better be on our best behaviour.’
‘I couldn’t hear what he said before, but I’d guess he wants me to show you around.’ After a shake of her blonde hair, she was ready. ‘Please come this way,’ she offered using practised tones, ‘and I’ll be pleased to show you our range of products.’
Sally opened the door to the adjacent warehouse with the two police officers following. It didn’t require the most acute powers of constabulary observation to perceive that the bottom which led the way was a very agreeable guide and that its owner was fully aware of its appeal. Redpath was grateful to his boss for getting rid of Emmer.
‘So you’re policemen, eh? I’ve never shown policemen round before. I suppose you’re here about poor Sebastian.’
‘That’s right, Sally,’ replied Hart. ‘Did you know him well?’
Sally led the small party through a jungle of chairs, benches and rolled carpets to a parasol which rose from the centre of an octagonal table with eight seats tucked into the straight edges.
‘Not too well, really. He popped in now and again to see his dad. I wish he had come more often, though.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Redpath.
‘He were gorgeous, that’s why. Wouldn’t have minded him instead of an electric blanket on a cold winter’s night. He were a cocky little brat, though. Knew I fancied him rotten so he sort of led me on, if you know what I mean. Always talking about snuggling down for a bit of the other on the lounger over there.’ She nodded in a vague direction. ‘But nothing ever come of it. My boyfriend would have had a fit, but it would have been worth it. Anyway, he would never have known. Not going to happen now though, is it,’ she concluded wistfully.
‘How do you get on with Mr Emmer?’ asked Hart.
‘Him? Gives me the creeps, he does. I reckon he only has me here so he can get an eyeful, if you know what I mean. Well, he ain’t getting any more than that, that’s for sure. It’d take more than his twenty quid Christmas bonus to buy me off,’ pronounced Sally proudly.
‘Apart from showing customers around, what’s your job here?’ asked Redpath.
‘Well, that’s it really, apart from answering the phone. But I’m good at what I do, though.’
‘I’m sure you are, Sally,’ agreed Hart, not caring one way or the other. But Sally was determined to demonstrate her value to the company as she gestured towards the parasol.
‘This here’s the Chiltern. It’s the top-of-our-range product, all handmade and handcrafted. The wood is the best teak from the Amazon in South America and comes with our guarantee that you can leave it out in all weathers. You put it together yourself but it’s easy, all you need is a screwdriver. That, and a woman to make sense of the instructions for you.’ At this point in her presentation she always paused in case the prospective customer wished to chuckle. ‘And all of the screws are top quality brass so they don’t rust and they hold the furniture together for the life of the wood, and that’s a long time. A very long time without a doubt if truth be told.’ She rubbed her partly-painted hand lovingly back and forward along the smooth surface.
‘Very nice. Very nice indeed,’ commented Hart, about her patter or about the wood, he didn’t say. He noted that the rich honey colour was overlaid with grey mottling. The timber hadn’t been oiled since the day the showpiece Chiltern had been erected.
‘Do you sell many of these?’ asked Redpath.
‘Don’t sell much of anything, really. I get a bit bored sometimes, but at least I get plenty of time to read my mags and listen to my music. And he lets me use the phone when I want, for local calls, like. I could have a worse job, I suppose. I’d really like to go to college, though. You know, hairdressing or fashion or something.’
‘Who else works h
ere, Sally?’ asked Hart.
‘No one else. Just me.’
‘So what happens when you do sell some furniture? How does it get delivered?’
‘Clive, he lets me call him that, I think it makes him feel like we’re mates or something, well, Clive, he just gets a few of the builders from next door to load it into the customer’s car. Or, if it’s a big thing like the Chiltern, they’ll take it round to their house on a truck. He gives them a few quid for their trouble, so everyone’s happy.’
‘Does anybody else come to the place? Anybody at all?’
‘Sometimes people come and see Clive, but not often. I don’t take much notice really. I’ve got other things to do.’
‘Sally, I’d like you to do me a favour,’ said Hart, lowering his voice so as to manufacture an air of conspiracy.
‘What’s that?’ she whispered.
Hart passed her his card.
‘If any visitors come to see Mr Emmer, I don’t mean customers for the furniture or carpets, but people who just come to see him without wanting to look around, I’d love you to give me a ring. Or Sergeant Redpath, if you’d prefer.’ Redpath delved into his breast pocket.
‘What do you want me to say?’ She needed to be sure she had got her new responsibilities just right.
‘Maybe you could tell us what they looked like. Perhaps look out of your window and describe their car. Even jot down the registration number.’
‘Is it important? I mean, do you think it might help to find who killed Sebastian?’ She seemed to radiate the keenness of a child. Or perhaps she was just pleased to have something to do.
‘You never know, Sally, you never know. So keep your eyes peeled and let us know if you spot anything. And, Sally.’ Hart paused to add weight to his comments as he tapped the side of his nose. ‘This is just between ourselves. I don’t think Mr Emmer needs to know anything about you helping us.’
‘Not a chance. I’ll be dead careful,’ said the newly-inducted spy.
‘We’d better be off. Thanks for your time, Sally. And good luck with getting into college. I reckon any good place would be mad not to have you.’
She enjoyed the flattery and smiled. ‘Thanks. And come round again. Especially that Sergeant What’s-His-Name. He’s dead cute, can arrest me any time,’ she said with a wink at Redpath.
‘I hope my assistant has been helpful, Chief Inspector,’ said Clive Emmer as the two men walked through his office to the car park.
‘She’s been very kind. And she’s very knowledgeable about the furniture. Thanks for your time.’
‘Not at all. I’d like to think that you’re a little nearer to finding out who killed my son.’ There was no complaint this time, it was a genuine expression of hope.
‘I know it seems a long time, Mr Emmer, but it’s only been a couple of weeks since Sebastian was killed. It’s by no means unusual for cases to take longer than this to solve. It’s far too early to worry that we won’t find the person responsible.’
*****
‘They don’t make too many like her, Sir,’ commented Redpath as they walked to the car.
‘I’m not sure whether you mean that as praise or damnation.’
‘Depends on what mood you’re in, I suppose. She’s not afraid to advertise her charms all right, but I think she’d drive you nuts after a while. The whole place was very odd, though.’
‘More out of place than a strippergram at the Queen’s garden party.’
‘Did you see how Emmer was shaken when we mentioned The Temple?’
‘Yep. That’s a place he’s heard of before.’
‘And he hardly ever seems to sell anything.’
‘Nope. It just sits in the warehouse and goes rotten. And he doesn’t care, just has a so-called assistant on call who spends more time polishing her nails than the furniture.’
‘And why did he put on that oily act, like he was really trying to be a nice bloke?’
‘The wicked Mr Sulks transforms himself into the cuddly but counterfeit Mr Smiles. I’m not sure which one I prefer.’
‘What’s it all about, Sir? What’s his game?’
‘Get on to the taxman, the pensions people, see what you can get on the accounts of that company. Try and find out exactly where he gets his stuff from.’
‘We’re not worried about whether he’s pulling a fast one with his taxes, are we? That seems a bit small.’
‘I want to know what this little show fronts up. How Clive Emmer’s thriving business tosses him enough dosh to live in a swanky house, drive a top of the range Jag, and send his son to a school which rakes in enough annual fees to buy BP outright and snap up Marks and Spencer with the loose change. He puts on a little act to kid us he’s got nothing to hide, but he’s got a secret tucked away that’s bulging at the seams and ready to burst. And I’d like to know what it is.’
28
A dusting of snow had garnished Lockingham during the afternoon, and the Parish Church of St Anselm looked a picture postcard as the pretty crystals glittered in the vanishing light. A scenic vista indeed. Except for the ugly white cuboid of a tent which rippled in the churchyard like a baggy bleached mausoleum.
Hart was there to see them start work and he noted with satisfaction that they had beaten the press to it, throwing them off the scent by beginning their work at dusk rather than the more usual dawn; the news had been deliberately leaked that they were going to start in the morning. The peace wouldn’t last, of course, and once the first reporter had stuck his snout up in the air and caught wind of what was going on, a pack of rabid hyenas would appear from nothingness and engulf the town. He hoped he had sufficient manpower in place to hold them baying on the edge, well away from their prey.
Hart popped into the tent himself to greet the team inside and show his face as the leader of the investigation, but once the first spade hit the softening earth he was off and out among the frosty mounds. He didn’t kid himself that he was just staying out of the marquee so he wouldn’t be in their way while they got on with their jobs – whatever the men and women in that tent were being paid today, it wasn’t nearly enough.
Just as the final orange tint of day flickered through the leafless lime trees, Hart was joined by Arthur Rhodes, who had arrived to oversee the transfer of Nicola Brown’s body to the mortuary. He stood there like a massive boiler, his puffed cheeks pumping steam into the twilight, his hands hidden in the pockets of his own tent of an overcoat.
‘Are the Browns coming over, Harry?’ he asked.
‘I advised them against it and they didn’t take too much persuading, fortunately.’
‘Good job, too. I’m pleased to say this isn’t one of my more common tasks, but when I’ve done it before I’ve never known any good in having people hanging around watching their loved ones being hauled up from the ground. When we pop her back, that’s different. They can come and say goodbye again, with the vicar and a new coffin making the affair a bit more dignified. We’ll look after her in the meantime.’
‘You’re a good’un, Arthur. And the results of your post-mortem, they come to me first, and you come with them. No one else gets a look until we’ve talked things over.’
‘As you’ve told me a thousand times already, old boy.’
‘And Nicola doesn’t go back below ground until you’re absolutely positive, until you’re absolutely definite you’ve looked for absolutely everything. Especially the points we discussed.’
‘As you’ve told me a thousand times already, old boy.’
‘Just making certain. And make clear to your people that they mustn’t open their mouths to the press.’
A big hand clamped itself on Hart’s upper arm.
‘Harry, you’re doing the right thing, so cut out your fussing and your fretting. Whether we find anything new or not, you’re doing the right thing.’
‘I’m not so sure, Arthur, I’m not so sure. It’s only just hit home what we’re getting into here.’
‘Get back to the station
and warm yourself up with a cuppa, you’re not doing any good mooching around this place.’
‘I’ll take a walk around town. See how the other coppers are holding up.’
It wasn’t just standing next to a man as large as Arthur Rhodes that made Hart feel so small. This whole show was going to be played out in front of a fascinated nation because of one man’s tenacious insistence that it would go on stage. He now realised he was directing a very big production indeed.
*****
Hart knew the next few days were going to be hectic, whatever Nicola Brown’s exhumation did or didn’t turn up. He wouldn’t have much time to himself, but he would still need to eat. So after his stroll around Lockingham he popped in to Sainsbury’s to stock up with a few essentials. He had just wheeled his loaded trolley behind the boot of his car, when he heard a voice. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
‘Harry! Harry!’ Hart looked round to see Patricia Luft pushing her own shopping towards him, but she was hobbling as she approached. ‘It’s good to bump into you. How’s things?’
Patricia Luft was the kind of woman who always looked a treat, but somehow naturally, as though she didn’t need to put much effort into her appearance. She was dressed in a simple beige coat with a sparkling Caribbean-blue brooch pinned to the left breast. Her hands were covered with a pair of thin, dark brown leather gloves which contrasted well with the lighter shade of the coat. Her ash-blonde hair was trimmed so it rested on her shoulders and her face was pink with the cold, but unblemished by trouble or time.
‘I’m fine, thanks. And you? Looks like you’ve hurt your foot or something.’
Patricia Luft glanced down at the injured limb. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, Harry. A new pair of shoes, and I’ve broken the golden rule and strayed far from home without breaking them in. My feet are killing me, I think they’re rubbed right down to the bone.’
Hart followed her eyes to the gleaming new shoes then looked up and smiled. ‘Would you like a hand taking your trolley to your car?’
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