Dead Unlucky

by Andrew Derham

  ‘It’s okay thanks, it’s only over there,’ she replied, nodding towards something big and expensive. Then she looked into Hart’s trolley. ‘Blast! Milk! I’ve forgotten the wretched milk.’ She screwed up her face. ‘I’ll have to go back for the stuff. I’m completely out.’

  Hart put his hand in the trolley and pulled out a carton. ‘Take mine. I’ll go and get myself another pint. I can’t let you hobble in and out of the supermarket.’

  Luft smiled warmly. ‘That’s kind, but I can’t take that. You’d have to go back in and get some more. I’m not sure it would look too clever wheeling a full trolley back through the checkout, but only paying for the milk. I don’t suppose the fine would be too bad, but it probably wouldn’t do your career much good.’

  ‘I’ve got some more at home. Please, take it.’

  ‘Actually, I must confess that I can’t use the kind you’ve got. Not unless I want to start wearing clothes a couple of sizes bigger.’

  ‘You guard the trolleys, I’ll nip back inside. Won’t take a moment.’

  A few minutes later Hart returned with a couple of pints of semi-skimmed as Patricia Luft fumbled with her purse. ‘Have them on me.’

  After expressing the usual objections when somebody offers to pay for something, she finally relented and replaced her purse in her handbag. ‘How are you getting on with your investigation, Harry? I know that school quite well, I’ve played badminton against some of the teachers in the local leagues.’

  ‘Pretty well, thanks,’ replied Hart. ‘I think we’ll manage to sort it out.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do a great job. Missing out on our seafood dinner with your boss a couple of weeks ago demonstrates your dedication to the cause,’ she joked. ‘Actually, it was absolutely wonderful. We’ll have to do something similar again. But perhaps just the two of us this time.’

  You’re pretty, rich, stylish, and must get plenty of offers, thought Hart. Fat chance of that.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ he replied, as he pressed the remote to unlock the boot of his car.

  *****

  Late the following morning, as Arthur Rhodes toiled to uncover any secrets that might be concealed within the body of Nicola Brown, her former headteacher was walking out of her office in the Old House.

  She was alone. Her secretary wouldn’t be back for a few days and none of the teachers had been keen enough to cut short their Christmas break just yet. As she unlocked her secretary’s door, Annalee Hargreaves still wondered whether she was making the right move. But she had thought about nothing else as she lay with her eyes open throughout the previous night, and she had finally decided this was the least bad of the two very unpalatable choices which presented themselves to her. If any further examination showed that Nicola had indeed committed suicide, then there was no harm done, nobody would come looking around this office anyway. But if it turned out that something more sinister had occurred, then she would have no chance to do what had to be done. The school would be an ants’ nest of police in an instant, no doubt led by that horrid little man. So she decided the choice of action was preferable to the option of inertia.

  The green students’ appointments file lay on the desk just inside the door, next to the red one for the teachers. Nobody had to bother the secretary, they could just write their name in any available slot that happened to be free. In practice, very few did; there was never a lengthy queue of pupils lining up to see their headteacher. But this open approach did demonstrate her accessibility and was lauded as a success, even by those cynics for whom the boss could never usually do anything right, whatever she did. If the kids chose not to see her, that was up to them. But the offer was always there.

  Mrs Hargreaves laid her handbag on the desk and placed next to it the beige cardboard folder she had tucked under her arm. She opened the green appointments file with her gloved hands, flicked the pages back to the empty space between the first and third weeks of September, and clicked the metal clasps open. From her folder she carefully extracted the piece of paper which bore her handwriting, and laid it into the file so that the appointments for the second week of term were now back in place. Finally, she extracted the original document from her folder and compared it with her own work, just one last time. It was good, she was sure of that. She couldn’t tell the difference. The three samples of her own handwriting now lying in the appointments file looked exactly like the writing of the three students she had copied. In fact, the only variation that the eye could detect was that an account of Nicola Brown’s appointment did not appear in the revised version of the school records. If the police came looking, any trace of their scheduled meeting, an engagement thwarted by her death, simply didn’t exist. A sharp snap of the file’s clasps announced the completion of her deception.

  Mrs Hargreaves walked back towards her car, which she had deliberately parked right up against the playing field, bending down to pick up a twig along the way. The Headteacher of this prestigious and exclusive school then extracted a box of matches from her coat pocket and crouched down on the grass behind her vehicle. After a few attempts had been frustrated by the breeze, she eventually ignited one of the matches and set a flame to the handwriting of Nicola Brown and three of her former schoolmates. She made certain every tiny piece of paper had turned black and then she picked up the dead matches and replaced them in the box. She took the twig and vigorously churned up the dark ashes in the moist grass, and then threw the little piece of blackened wood a yard or so onto the field in the direction of the gym. She was confident, correctly so, that nobody on Earth could put that paper back together.

  And after she had destroyed evidence that may have been pertinent to a police investigation into the death of her student, Mrs Hargreaves drove home as a criminal.

  29

  ‘Come in, Constable Kanjaria,’ instructed Hart, a sigh suggesting the invitation wasn’t one he relished dispensing. Although she didn’t know it, at least wheeling his chair to the front of his desk indicated to the practised eye that she had been summoned for a chat, not as the reluctant recipient of a caustic monologue. ‘Sit yourself down. Do you know why you’re here?’

  ‘I’ve a pretty good idea, Sir.’

  ‘Chief Superintendent Rodgers had a phone call from The Star an hour or so ago, complaining about one of the officers in the churchyard last night.’

  ‘That officer was me, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt, it was. Still, let’s at least be thankful the Chief Superintendent passed on the complaint for me to deal with, rather than plonk it on the desk of some career-bureaucrat who earns a living scolding us lesser beings while he pontificates from on high. Go on. What happened?’

  ‘This guy just appeared from nowhere, Sir; I’m sorry, I didn’t see him coming. The covered walkway joining the tent to the hearse just came apart a bit at the wrong moment and he started snapping away. It was just as the girl’s coffin was passing through, and you could see everything in the lights. I knew he was press because of the huge great camera he had.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘So I asked to see his camera. I switched it to playback and pressed the delete button a few times.’

  ‘How many times is a few?’

  ‘Well, more than few, perhaps. Maybe I overdid it a touch,’ she confessed, glancing down at her lap. ‘I think, actually, I might have got rid of the lot. All the pictures in his camera.’ Hart noticed the trace of a smile. ‘So he started banging on about his right to take a photo, the public’s right to information, destruction of property and all that, and I gave him an earful about the right to privacy and how he could stick his camera where the light can’t get to it.’

  As she looked up again, Hart could see her round face wasn’t just unhappy, it was still angry. This was a side of Asha Kanjaria that was being displayed to him for the first time. He rather liked it. Actually, he liked it a great deal.

  ‘So what should you have done?’

  ‘I should have talked about his actions
not being conducive to the public good and about the danger of a breach of the peace arising because those actions could have angered other people. I should have insisted that he hand the camera over if he refused to delete the photos himself and given him a receipt and arranged for him to come and collect it, getting backup if he started coming on too stroppy. I was just too miffed to work out a proper procedure.’

  ‘Too miffed because there were so many people who were working around that churchyard, putting their all into making the world a slightly better place, while this scumbag was sneaking around doing his best to make it worse?’

  ‘That’s about it, Sir.’

  ‘A bit of advice.’ There was some worthy counsel coming up, but it was guidance Hart hadn’t always managed to follow himself. ‘If you’re going to break the rules, never do it when you’re angry. Only do it when you’re thinking clearly and you fully understand why you’re tossing the book of regulations out the window.’ Hart paused. ‘And don’t get caught.’

  ‘Okay, Sir. Point taken.’ That was fair enough, but she still looked dejected, a little let down. She had only been in the force a few weeks and was dead keen to make a good start. ‘So what happens about the complaint?’

  ‘I’ll ring the paper and convince them that it wouldn’t have been the cleverest move from the point of view of their public relations to publish a picture like that anyway. That shouldn’t be too difficult. They’ll let it go.’

  ‘Anything else, Sir?’

  There was a knock at the door. It had to be Redpath, he was the only person who interrupted Hart while he was in session, and only then if the message was important enough. Hart ignored him for a moment.

  ‘Just one other thing. You leave this room with your cred at the factory racked up a notch. I’m pleased to see that the training college is turning out a few coppers with a bit of backbone and not just smack after smack of the jellyfish that usually drift this way. I reckon anyone who’s stopped a picture of a decaying coffin containing the body of a seventeen-year-old girl getting printed has done a bit of work they can be proud of, however they did it. So lift your chin up.’ Hart looked towards the door. ‘Come in, Darren.’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but Rebecca Emmer’s downstairs. She says she’s got something we might want to see.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve asked her but she’ll only speak to that nice policewoman who came round her house when her brother died.’ He winked at Kanjaria. ‘She won’t be shifted on that.’

  ‘So you’d better get down there, Constable, and see what this is all about. Make sure she gets a Coke, will you Darren.’

  ‘Rebecca coming here’s reminded me, I’ve got the lowdown you wanted on Clive Emmer’s import business,’ said Redpath with a proud smile.

  ‘Once you’ve seen to Rebecca’s Coke, come back up and tell me about it. On second thoughts, I’ll have Constable Kanjaria’s info from the girl first, yours second.’

  Kanjaria left the room considerably happier than when she arrived. Redpath walked out of the door fumbling in his pocket for change.

  It was only ten minutes later that Asha Kanjaria returned to report on her meeting with Sebastian Emmer’s sister.

  ‘Rebecca gave me these, Sir,’ she said, passing Hart a couple of DVDs. ‘She thought they might be worth a look.’

  ‘Any clue as to what’s on them?’

  ‘Nothing much. A few shots of her brother messing around at camp during last August bank holiday, just before the kids went back to school. She confessed to sneaking them out of his room just after he had been particularly rotten to her one time, about a week before he died. She hadn’t got around to putting them back. She said they showed a little about the sort of person Sebastian was. I think it hurt her a bit to hand them over, took some courage.’

  ‘We’d best sign her up to the force sharpish,’ suggested Hart. ‘Anyone who understands the importance of knowing what makes a person tick is a cert to make a good copper.’

  Kanjaria smiled. ‘And we’re under strict orders not to tell her dad she gave them to us.’

  ‘I’d better look at them straight away,’ Hart mused aloud. ‘Once Nicola Brown’s post-mortem results come in, we won’t have time to wipe our noses, never mind watch home movies.’

  *****

  While he was waiting for a TV and DVD player to be brought to his office, Hart kept looking at his watch, willing a call from Arthur Rhodes to come, although it was ridiculously early yet. It was like waiting for the postman to walk up the garden path to deliver an important letter, even though you know there are still hours to go before he makes his round.

  ‘Clive Emmer’s accounts seem perfect, Sir,’ began Redpath as he scanned his notes. ‘The sums seem to fit with what he’s been buying and selling, and the cash flows seem about right for an operation that size.’

  ‘Taxman?’

  ‘Very happy. Pays exactly what he should with no arguments, and pays it on time.’

  ‘And yet he’s living the lifestyle of a businessman who’s made it, not a bloke who conducts his operation from a manky wooden warehouse.’

  ‘Very odd, Sir,’ agreed Redpath, pleased to have cottoned on so easily to what his boss was getting at. ‘He’s got something cooking. But he’s not daft. He knows that if you’re up to something really fishy, don’t get yourself caught by having people look too closely at the little things, like they’d do if you weren’t being up front with your taxes. That’s a really dopey way to get rumbled. I was reading about the Black Panther. If he had been more careful he might never have been –’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘Black Panther. A guy forty-odd years back –’

  ‘I know who you’re referring to, but I think you’ve got his name wrong.’

  ‘I’m definitely right. He was caught because he –’

  ‘Let’s be straight about this man, Darren. He was called Donald Neilson and he died a year ago. He was neither black nor was he a panther. He caused the deaths of four innocent people, one of them in a particularly appalling manner. To award him a name which glamorizes him makes him feel like a star, causes him to obtain more pleasure from his wickedness. It also misleads people into feeling that murder has an appealing, exotic side, as though it’s a branch of show business to be gawped at along with The X Factor. It hasn’t and it isn’t. It’s about anguish and bereavement and suffering. And it’s real. It’s not acted out by idiots who are prepared to humiliate themselves on telly for a few quid or five minutes of fame. It’s actually experienced by people who endure unimaginable pain and terror.’

  They sat in silence for a minute, which seemed to Redpath like an hour. ‘So we need to find out how Clive Emmer earns his money?’ ventured the sergeant at last.

  ‘You’re right, Darren,’ sighed Hart, rubbing his brow. ‘You’re right. Clive Emmer is up to some sort of fiddle, and he’s too careful to have his big secret unearthed by people trying to dig up something small.’

  *****

  ‘There’s not much here, is there, Sir?’ remarked Redpath after he had sat with Hart for a further half hour, viewing the first DVD Rebecca Emmer had brought in. They watched a succession of schoolkids poking their heads out of tents and, despite their best efforts to be witty, miserably failing to say anything amusing when a camera was thrust in their faces. The cameraman and commentator was Sebastian Emmer himself. ‘I’ve seen better entertainment at a Punch and Judy show.’

  ‘Just keep your eyes and ears open,’ replied Hart edgily, still checking his watch every few seconds. ‘We could get lucky and I don’t want us to miss anything.’

  After being subjected to a further quarter of an hour of execrable humour, at last a scene appeared which managed to prod their interest. The reporter was getting the hang of the camcorder by now, and certainly loving the sound of his own voice.

  Let’s get some shots of the girls’ group as they head out into the hills, said Sebastian Emmer, as half a dozen of his female class
mates waddled into view, struggling under the weights of their rucksacks. Nicola Brown’s clung to her small back like a gigantic barnacle, it was a miracle she could move at all.

  They’re led by their intrepid leader, Nikki Brown. Perhaps the great explorer will give us an interview if we’re lucky.

  Sebastian walked over to where the girls had stopped to look at their maps and resumed his commentary. Spotty Nick, what great training did you have to do to turn yourself into such a brilliant female specimen? Tell us all your secret.

  Nicola ignored him and started walking. As she moved off, it took only the tiniest tug at the bottom of her rucksack to pull her backwards and over. She thrashed about in the mud like an upturned turtle, her four limbs flaying uselessly in the air as she struggled to get up. The footpath was soggy and her clothes and rucksack were caked in muck even before she had begun her walk. The cameraman was laughing so much he could hardly hold the camera still as it panned the faces of the spectators observing the blood sport.

  One of the boys unclipped her sack and helped her up while a girl lifted the muddy bag and held it for her so she could put it on again. From her dark complexion, Hart assumed it was Hiba Massaoud, who also found time to hurl a few spicy invectives at Sebastian and his camera.

  As the girls walked out of the campsite with the camcorder pointing towards them, one last barb was thrust at their backs. And there they go. At least they won’t have to worry about flashers or perverts or anything like that. Any man would run a mile if he saw this herd of cows coming towards him.

  Hart clicked the pause button on the DVD player.

  ‘What have we got so far then, Darren?’

  ‘Every time I find out more about this kid, it makes my guts curdle. I’ve known some nasty bits of work in this job, but he’s somewhere near the scummiest.’

  ‘And how about the other folks in the play? The girls, for instance? Some of them laughing at the humiliation, just out of habit probably. After all, everything their hero does is automatically funny. But others clearly think he’s an obnoxious prat.’