The fisherman supplied the necessary words of wisdom. ‘Not if the liaison between yourself and my officers is as professional as it should be. I hope we can be assured of your cooperation and competence in that respect.’
‘It must have hurt you so much to have us out-of-towners turn up a murder when you lot passed it off as suicide. That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Salvaging a bit of pride. And how does the playground bully do that after he’s been made to look a dipstick? He finds the smallest kid in the yard and punches him on the nose, just to show the rest of the world he can.’
‘Chief Inspector! I will not have a very senior police officer spoken to like that in my station. I hope that is clearly understood. Now you had better get yourself off to your office and carry out the orders you have been given. Then you will report back to me. It appears we have certain matters to discuss regarding your conduct.’
The spectacle of the death throes looked even sweeter than the Commander could have hoped.
Hart stood for a moment, wondering whether he might as well resign. Blow the lot of them. If he wasn’t going to be allowed to finish investigating murder cases he had started and then got results on against all the odds, there was no point in being in the force, no satisfaction in being a copper. He might as well go and visit his kids on the other side of the world. He could afford it. Just. The only thing that saved him was the slimy look on Sturgess’s face telling him his triumph would be absolute if Hart chucked in his job. That, and an even bigger rumpus which was erupting downstairs.
‘I don’t care where he is. And I don’t care who he’s got with him,’ gusted a familiar voice up the staircase. ‘I pay my taxes, I do. I pay my taxes and if I want to see the top man in the police then I will damn well see him. Pardon my language.’
‘Who the hell’s that?’ demanded Rodgers to nobody in particular. He sighed at the prospect of even more embarrassing tidings travelling down the A1 when his guest returned to London.
‘No idea,’ said Hart. Lying to his boss was becoming a habit.
Another blast from downstairs. ‘No I won’t wait until he’s finished. I know who he’s seeing and I don’t mind giving that idiot an earful either. I’ll find his office myself. There can’t be many doors up there labelled Chief Superintendent Rodgers.’
Footsteps could be heard bounding up the stairs, taking two at a time. The man had squeezed in through the security door in the station lobby, knocking the manila folders out of the arms of a surprised constable as he was passing the other way. Four or five officers bounced up the stairs in futile pursuit. Their prey stood puffing at the end of the corridor, somehow surprised to encounter the policeman he had been seeking.
‘Hello, Ron,’ said Hart as he walked towards him, then wrapped his arm around his shoulder and led him towards his senior colleagues. ‘I believe I heard that you were looking for Chief Superintendent Rodgers. And this is Commander Sturgess. Gentlemen, meet Nicola’s father.’
‘I’ve met this one already,’ said Ron Brown as he nodded at Sturgess, firing a look of disdain from black boots up to embroidered cap, the sort of glare that the policeman was used to dispensing, not receiving. ‘He’s just been round my house asking loads of questions. Questions I answered months ago and again to Chief Inspector Hart here, though I’m not complaining about that.’
Hart dismissed the pursuing constables, although one of them only retreated as far as the end of the corridor, brooding like a guard dog itching to receive its master’s order to attack.
Ron Brown stood smaller than the three policemen, with his jaw tight, his fists clenched by his sides, and his smooth head moist with sweat. His chest heaved, breathless and angry.
‘So he comes round my house he does,’ continued the irate husband and broken-hearted father, ‘telling me and my wife he’s taken over the investigation from the Chief Inspector. Telling us in so many words Chief Inspector Hart’s been shoved off the case. For normal procedural reasons he says. You’re the gaffer here,’ he persisted unrelentingly, now jabbing his finger at Rodgers, ‘you tell him he’s got the procedure wrong. You tell him Chief Inspector Hart is in charge of looking into my daughter’s murder.’
Rodgers shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Your daughter’s death may have been caused by something other than murder, Mr Brown. That’s far from proven at this stage,’ he countered weakly.
‘Then tell this conceited nincompoop he’s not looking into my daughter’s death which may have been caused by something other than murder,’ replied Ron Brown.
‘I really am sorry but I cannot do that.’ Rodgers was truly beginning to look sorry. ‘Your daughter died in an area under Commander Sturgess’s jurisdiction. There is nothing I can do about the matter.’
‘The papers might like to know that. They would love to have a chat with me, they would, they’ve been trying all morning. I think they’d be really interested to know that the request of me and my wife to have Chief Inspector Hart carry on looking into our Nikki’s murder has been refused. And don’t think I don’t know why. It’s just so the people who told us it was suicide can have another crack at getting it right.’
‘Ron, would you mind nipping downstairs for ten minutes, and I’ll be with you?’ said Hart. ‘I’d like to have a word with the Chief Superintendent.’
For a second Ron Brown’s eyes bore into Hart’s.
‘Ron, if I say I’ll be down, then I’ll be down.’
‘Sorry, Chief Inspector Hart. I didn’t mean that.’
‘It’s all right Ron, I know you didn’t.’
Hart called down the corridor to the guard dog. ‘Constable, take Mr Brown downstairs and find him somewhere comfy to sit. And get him a cup of tea. A proper one in a proper mug. And made by a proper person, not a machine.’
‘We’d better go into my office and out of the corridor,’ said a ruffled Rodgers. ‘Harry, you warned me about Ron Brown’s strength of character but I don’t think any of us could have been prepared for that. Barging into the station and giving us all a dressing down, and right outside my own office to boot. I’m sorry I doubted you, Harry.’
‘You wouldn’t think it by looking at him would you, Sir. You can see the trouble I had when I went round to his house. Still, no harm done. Not if we play our cards right anyway.’
After they were seated in the Chief’s office, Hart suggested which of the cards in their hand had the best chance of winning the trick. He wasn’t interested in diplomacy or compromise.
‘I wouldn’t want the parents of a murdered schoolgirl going on the telly and rubbishing the force I work for, Commander Sturgess, I really wouldn’t.’ A tactical pause which he used to penetrate deep into the fisherman’s eyes. ‘Especially if I was very high up in that force. And particularly when the massive blunder it made is on record and no amount of damage limitation can erase it.’
‘What would you suggest?’ asked Sturgess, having no choice but to knock back his pride.
‘How about the Met taking charge of the investigation?’
‘But that’s just what we proposed all along. That’s the correct procedure. How will that keep this man away from the press?’ asked Sturgess.
‘And you keep the Lockingham force on to conduct the actual enquiry, with me remaining as the real senior investigating officer, whatever the bits of paper might say. I’ll report to Chief Superintendent Rodgers as always, and he can keep you informed as to progress. So effectively there’s no change at all, but your force is seen to be in charge of the show and we are just your unworthy little helpers. Think of it as an offering to placate the unyielding God of Procedure.’
‘And you can guarantee that this man will not go running off to the papers or television?’
‘I believe I can persuade him not to do that.’ And then Hart looked through the eyes of the Commander into his calculating mind. ‘But we are making a gentleman’s agreement with the father of a murdered girl. My conscience wouldn’t permit me to renege on such a cont
ract.’ Another tactical pause. ‘As I’m sure yours wouldn’t either.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ Miraculously, the fish had swum away.
‘Well, I had better be off,’ announced Hart brightly as he stood up. ‘I’ll have a word with Ron Brown on the way out and then I’m going down to Highdean School. As I was saying earlier, I’ll be taking a few of the crew with me, so the station may be a bit light for a while.’
35
Hart and Redpath stood in the bathroom where Nicola Brown had been murdered. Hart fiddled with the tap at the sink, the cold tap from which Hiba Massaoud had untied the rope so that her friend could be laid into the bath. The rail that had held the shower curtain had not been removed and Redpath climbed on the toilet seat and gave it a tug. It would have struggled to support him, but would have had no trouble holding the weight of a wafer of humanity like Nicola. Together they went through the procedure the killer might have used to raise her into position on the rim of the bath. If she were unconscious or drowsy she could have been carried from the bedroom and then simply held in the noose until she woke up and could stand without support. With her arms immobile behind her back, the only effect of struggling would have been to topple herself off her books before her time was due.
Apart from the outside facade, there wasn’t much remaining that was antiquated about the Old House. The upper floors of the building, on which the girls of Highdean School slept, now resembled a modern hotel, sporting their neat rows of rooms, their sprinklers and smoke detectors on the high ceilings, and polyester carpets on the floors. A wide staircase at one corner of the rectangular building connected each of the floors to adjoining landings and on each storey a turquoise push-bar-to-open door gave access to the fire escape which ran to the ground outside on the point of the rectangle opposite the staircase.
On the first floor, waiting patiently behind her desk, sat Rhiannon Jenkins.
‘Ms Jenkins,’ began Hart, ‘you were on duty on the night of Nicola’s death, is that right?’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector. I was here all night.’
Ms Jenkins was an unmarried woman of about thirty-five whose prematurely greying hair formed a layer that was lifted from her head as though she were the recipient of an unending electric shock. Her face wore a countenance of perpetual worry, reinforcing the impression she exuded that the myriad of potential disasters life held in store needed to be constantly fretted over.
‘What were your duties on that night?’
‘The same as always. I have to look after the girls.’
‘Which involved what?’ Hart could already see that this was to be one of those interviews akin to coaxing a cat out from under the bed.
‘I ensure that the girls adhere to the lights-out rule and check on who leaves and who comes in.’
‘How do you do that?’
‘The older girls can sign in this book,’ she said, passing a dark green notebook over to Hart. ‘They can come and go as they please, before eight o’clock at night of course, but must sign in and out.’
‘Is there any way that a person could get in without you noticing?’
‘Everybody must come past this desk.’
‘But could they?’
‘If I’m not sitting here.’ And then, hurriedly, ‘But we do have good security, of course. There are patrols in the grounds day and night and all boarders carry a card-key to the outside door. Everyone needs one of those to get inside the building.’
‘Suppose a girl wished to have a guest visit her room?’
‘Absolutely not allowed, except for other girls who are pupils at the school, who may visit before nine o’clock. No, not allowed at all!’ Ms Jenkins shook her head vigorously as she hissed air through puffed cheeks. ‘That would be a very severe breach of the rules. It could even lead to expulsion!’
‘But just suppose she wanted to smuggle in a guest,’ Hart persisted. ‘Just suppose. She could leave the fire door ajar and her friend could come up the fire escape?’
‘Well, it’s possible I imagine. Possible, but you’re surely not suggesting that one of our girls would do such a thing. That’s a dreadful thought!’
‘Goodness gracious, no! I am just trying to get a picture of how the system works here, that’s all.’ The poor woman looked like the world already held more sins than she could bear, without having to come to terms with the realisation it is such an evil place that one or other of her girls might not be above having a lad sneak up the fire escape for a bit of hanky-panky.
‘Who has a key to the girls’ rooms?’
‘That’s easy.’ Rhiannon was relieved to be set free from her skirmish with debauched notions and afforded a simpler and purer mental task. ‘The housemistress of the night has a master key, which she keeps on her own person at all times. And there is another master key locked away. All of the boarding-staff can get access to that key.’
‘And who are they?’
‘There are six of us. We take it in turns to be the duty housemistress and there is an assistant who must be at school all night in case of an emergency. We have a room each to board in.’
‘We’ll get a list downstairs,’ noted Hart to Redpath. ‘Who was your assistant that night?’
‘Mrs McArthur. But she’s still away on her Christmas holiday.’
‘And did you notice anything suspicious? Anything at all that could help us?’
‘I’ve thought about nothing else since I saw on the television last night that Nicola was murdered. Nothing else. And I can’t recall anything. It was all quiet when I went to bed just after eleven o’clock.’
‘And who did you see before then?’
‘Some of the girls were about just prior to ten o’clock, coming back from the common room. They’re very naughty, you know,’ she said with some pride that her girls were such spirited scamps. ‘They leave it until the very last minute before they go up to bed! Before the last rush it’s always very quiet, especially on a Saturday. And then it’s completely silent again after the ten o’clock curfew.’
‘Anybody else?’
‘I knocked on Mrs McArthur’s door, just to let her know I was off to bed.’
‘Did you get a reply?’
‘Yes. She’s very diligent is Mrs McArthur. Very trustworthy.’
‘Thank you Ms Jenkins, you’ve been most helpful.’
Just as the two men set foot on the top of the stairs, she called behind them.
‘I didn’t look after her very well, did I? Nicola I mean. She died when I was supposed to be looking after her.’
‘Ms Jenkins,’ replied Hart, ‘I don’t think you could have done any more. Sometimes evil people can be very determined and there’s not much we can do about it.’ It was the best he could manage for her.
‘She’s a funny old thing,’ whispered Redpath when they were out of earshot. ‘Looks like she could do with a good night on the town.’
‘Not with you I hope. A single hour of cavorting about in your company would give the poor woman even more to worry her, enough for a dozen of her lifetimes.’ As they descended, Hart peered down at the figure walking past the bottom of the staircase. ‘Talking of women with plenty to worry about, there’s Mrs H, bang on cue.’
It wasn’t easy to know how to greet the Headteacher. I’m sorry one of your students probably turns out to have been murdered after all didn’t seem entirely appropriate, so Hart and Redpath contented themselves with a bland ‘good morning’.
‘I had rather hoped that I would be meeting some different faces today,’ she started.
‘So my chief superintendent mentioned after we first met,’ replied Hart. ‘Sorry you’re not too pleased to see me. I’m vain enough to think the killer might be a bit upset that I’m still on the case as well.’ Hart was careful to look Mrs Hargreaves hard in both eyes.
‘I cannot believe you had the impudence to make an insinuation like that. That really is unconscionable of you.’
‘If you’re suggesting you’re not a s
uspect for the murders of both Nicola Brown and Sebastian Emmer, then you need to bring your brain along to the planet the rest of us are inhabiting. Everybody who works and studies at your school is sailing along in the same boat that you are the captain of, and there are a few more passengers on board besides you lot.’
‘You really are an appallingly rude man.’
‘Get used to it. Even a phone call to my boss won’t get a sympathetic ear this time so you’re stuck with me. You may also like to reflect that you’re not exactly easy to have around yourself. You’ve not been the most forthcoming of folks considering that two of your students have recently suffered violent deaths.’
Mrs Hargreaves didn’t want to go there, so she changed the subject by finding something else to moan about. ‘Your officers have rifled through all the files in the offices and taken half of them away. I trust they’ll be returned before the beginning of term.’
‘I expect my people to cart a lorry load of stuff out of this place before the day’s out, and I’ll be suggesting they find alternative employment if they don’t. And you’ll get them back when I see fit to release them.’
‘Have you finished? I’m busy.’
‘Not quite. Will you be here all morning?’
‘I expect so. Why do you ask?’
‘Please make yourself available to be interviewed regarding your whereabouts at the times Nicola and Sebastian died. It would help if you could supply contact details of people who can vouch for you. I’ll send a constable to your office shortly.’
Being a copper certainly had its enjoyable moments.
*****
The remainder of Hart’s day turned out to be very peculiar, very peculiar indeed, and for two reasons which couldn’t have been more different.
Getting back to his office in the afternoon, he filled his mug with tea and settled down to attack the contents of his in-tray. There were the usual bits and pieces to keep him busy: reports from more-junior officers, an expenses claim form returned because he had forgotten to sign it, and, of course, half a dozen or so foolscap manila envelopes bearing tidings good, bad and unintelligible. There was also a small card inside a pink envelope, on which the handwriting was petite, neat, and pretty.
Dead Unlucky Page 24