And what of Patricia Luft? How would she be spending her evening? From the way she was all dolled up, it didn’t look like she would be taking an early night herself. Hart had spent a couple of hours getting soaked and humiliated, sifting through fetid rubbish, and then sat twiddling his thumbs alone on New Year’s Eve. Meanwhile, the person who had tried to kill him was sipping at champagne and enjoying a merry chortle with her intimates, shady friends of her ex-husband no doubt, hooting about how she had fooled him and all the other coppers like the Chief into thinking she was a lonely, righteous lady, wronged by an evil spouse, just pining for a solid brick like Hart. That all seemed a tad unfair.
Hart walked up the road to the phone box, inserted his debit card, and dialled a local number. The person who responded wasn’t the bright but mechanical woman from BT who politely informs the caller that the subscriber is unavailable, but a real live human, with her voice framed by a chorus of jolly chatter. Hart didn’t say a word before he replaced the receiver. Patricia Luft was home.
It has been said that revenge is a dish which tastes best cold. But Hart was determined to savour his repast piping hot, straight out of the oven.
41
Inspector Lynn McCarthy was flabbergasted to see Hart walk through her door with only an hour to go to midnight, clutching a soggy box wrapped in a yellow bow and bearing a posy of pink flowers, now adorned with only a few token petals.
‘What happened, Harry? This was your big night. Get lost or something?’
Hart related his sorry tale and squeezed the pliant box out between strips of pink ribbon. ‘But clouds and silver lining and all that means I get to treat my favourite inspector to a few chocs. The flowers, I’ll put those in my own room as a fitting testament to the weakness and folly of men.’
‘So you’ve just dropped by to brighten my New Year’s Eve? You’ve done a good job so far, you’re not your usual miserable self.’
‘That’s my main reason for popping in, of course, but I do have another less vital task. Another request for a female copper.’
‘The answer’s the same as it was a couple of weeks ago. Asha Kanjaria’s on the New Year’s shift because she had Christmas off. I’ve got a few more-experienced women available this time as well, though.’
‘Asha’s just right. I reckon experience is sometimes just another word for being jaded and blase because you’ve done it all before. They reach middle age and all they do is moan about the job they’ve had for the last twenty-five years, the one that’s kept them fed and watered and pays for their cars, tellies, beer and kids. Give me someone who actually wants to be here, every time.’
Lynn McCarthy licked her chocolatey fingers. ‘Can’t accuse you of ever grumbling like that, Harry.’
‘Don’t mock. You might be the same in another few decades.’
‘I don’t deserve your flattery, not after my totally unwarranted barb,’ said Lynn as she dialled down to reception, where Kanjaria was sorting out some files.
After she had replaced the receiver, she asked Hart, ‘Where are you off to at this hour? Even you wouldn’t be daft enough to pull the stunt I fear is germinating in your fertile brain.’
‘Even I would be.’
‘Be careful, Harry,’ advised Lynn. ‘You know what the book says: calling on a person’s home should be done at a reasonable hour when possible. This could wait until the morning.’
‘Goodness gracious, we’re talking about a poisoner here, after all!’ exclaimed Hart. ‘What if she slipped a slug of strychnine into the midnight punch and a dozen guests turn turtle? Imagine the headlines: Policeman chooses to party at his station with gorgeous inspector rather than prevent a multiple murder. Nope, I’m unselfishly passing up the opportunity for unbounded pleasure for myself so I can keep the public safe.’ And then his eyes hardened. ‘The fact that my going round now will spoil the merrymaking is irrelevant. It would be unthinkable of me to deliberately ruin an evening’s fun for somebody just because she tried to take my life away, tried to stop my heart beating. That’s just a most unfortunate consequence of the necessity for an immediate arrest.’
McCarthy didn’t look convinced.
‘I’m not perfect, Lynn; not sure I want to be. And it can’t be just the baddies who have fun, or we’d all want to be depraved.’
She granted him a resigned smile just as Asha Kanjaria knocked on the door. ‘Come in.’
‘You wanted to see me, Ma’am.’
‘Actually, it’s the Chief Inspector who needs you tonight, Asha.’
‘I do indeed,’ agreed Hart. ‘Have a choc,’ he added, offering the box to the Constable.
She stared at Hart like he was a ghost as her fingers lighted on a fudge truffle. ‘I thought you were out with that woman, Sir.’
‘I was, and I enjoyed myself so much I’m going back in a mo. I just popped into the factory to pick up a date to accompany me to the party. But when we get back here, we’ll have an attempted murderer with us to make up a threesome.’
‘Wicked!’ Asha then narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. ‘A couple of weeks ago I asked why me? when you took me out on a job. I just wanted to say, I’ve always felt a bit daft about that.’
‘No need. The answer’s simple tonight anyway. We’ve got a skeleton staff on and I can’t find anyone better. There’s not a half-decent copper in the place over New Year’s so you’ll have to do.’ Hart looked at Lynn McCarthy. ‘Except for your boss, of course; she’s not too bad.’ Asha was enjoying the teasing praise as she went off to collect her hat.
‘She’s a good’un, Lynn. And bright. If ever I need a uniformed constable, reserve her for me, will you? And we don’t want her leaving the force because she’s bored witless after serving a two year probation spent getting intimate with the filing cabinets.’
‘You’re not so bad yourself, Harry,’ said McCarthy, as she pecked him on the cheek. ‘Happy New Year.’
‘And you too, Lynn, bless you. Right, I’d better get these flowers into some water before I head off. Don’t want them dying for nothing.’
*****
Hiba Massaoud lay on her bed, her perfect black hair fanned out on the pillow, her brown eyes staring up at a ceiling made shadowy by the shades of the lights fixed high on the walls. She was still wearing jeans and a black tee shirt, she hadn’t even changed into her night clothes. Lying there like this reminded her of the Sunday morning when she had lain down in her room at Highdean School and enjoyed the last few minutes of happiness she had known. She was just having a think, sorting out in her mind what she was going to do with her day. And then she went to the bathroom.
Somehow, it was Nicola’s tongue she remembered the most vividly. That was the first thing her mind managed to make sense of as she stood face to face with her friend’s dangling corpse. The way it drooped out of her mouth below her half open eyes. And then there was the smell, of course. Hiba shut her own eyes tight, but she could only squeeze out water, not the memory. It was all so cruel, so callous. As though death wasn’t a bad enough torment, Fate had somehow decided it hadn’t finished amusing itself with Nicola yet, it was also necessary to play with her, to humiliate and debase her. It was the same when Hiba had watched the TV and seen that tent in the churchyard. She didn’t want to think of it, hated herself for it, but she couldn’t help picturing what Nicola would look like as she was being dragged around in her coffin.
It had all been so different when they first met. Nicola nervous about starting her new school in amongst all the toffs. Hiba confident, seen it all before, but careful in her choices of the people she mixed with. They became instant friends, and friends who just knew they would be together for life. Nicola hadn’t known it, but Hiba was going to invite her on a trip around Europe in the summer as her family’s guest. Then they would be off to university. Nicola was a cert for Cambridge, of course, and Hiba would be going to a top university as well, although she wasn’t sure where yet. She had usually managed to finish in the first five in th
e school exams, although the top spot in every subject had been reserved for her friend. Now Hiba could barely concentrate on her work at all, and she felt she’d be lucky to get into a third-rate college.
Because of her father’s employment as a diplomat, Hiba had studied in loads of schools all over the world. Highdean wasn’t her favourite, although it was good at getting kids through exams and into university so it was always up near the top of the league tables. But there was an undercurrent of prejudice she didn’t like. If you weren’t one of the crowd, you got ignored or bullied. Mrs Hargreaves was simply a snob, and other people took the lead from her. It made little difference to Hiba because her wealth and family made her untouchable. But someone like Nicola, she had to struggle for everything. But she never blamed anyone, never got into fights, never badmouthed a single soul. She just carried on working towards her goal, even trying hard at sport, and did her best to make sure she got to Cambridge. All she wanted was to take the chance her mum and dad had worked so hard give her, to make them proud and happy.
Hiba Massaoud turned over and laid her face against the pillow, making it wet. Now it turned out someone had killed Nicola, that she hadn’t lacked strength after all. There was some comfort in knowing that, some consolation for Hiba in realising that her best friend hadn’t been hiding some unbearable hurt from her, concealing some anguish that had driven her to suicide.
But that solace would only really be worth having if the person responsible was caught and paid fully for their crime. And the only person she could think of who would have killed her dear, dear friend was Sebastian Emmer.
And he had already paid as much as he could give.
42
Quite a few guests had arrived to enjoy Patricia Luft’s company on the final night of the year and so Hart had to park his Mondeo fifty yards down the street on his second visit to her house. Thankfully the weather had switched its allegiance and the rain had stopped; perhaps it only stuck up for the side it thought was going to win. It was only a few seconds after the door chimes sang out that Hart and Kanjaria could hear a shrill voice advancing down the hallway. ‘I’ve no idea; I wasn’t expecting anybody else.’ Light gushed out into the porch through the opening door and the figure within struggled at first to make sense of the shapes standing in the darkness outside. She was still beautiful, but the deity was now tottering a little and clutching a flute of champagne. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, she recoiled and regally waved away the two uninvited guests with a fluttering left hand. Hart simply stared at her and shook his head.
Grudgingly, Patricia Luft unlocked the porch door and spoke through the gap. ‘Harry, I thought I’d made it clear that my idea of a satisfying evening does not include spending time with a little worm like you. Go away, there’s a dear.’ She looked down from the step at Asha like she was a piece of muck that had been deposited on her carpet. ‘And take your friend with you.’
‘Can’t do that Patricia. When we leave, you’re coming with us. I’m arresting you for attempted murder.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She tried to pull the porch door to but Kanjaria was too quick and grabbed the handle. By the time Patricia Luft had got back inside the hall, pushing on the heavy front door in an attempt to keep the intruders out, Kanjaria’s boot was in there with her. The contest over, they followed Luft into the living room.
‘Look everybody, we’ve got a brace of surprise visitors come to join us,’ she exclaimed to her startled guests, some of whom were already shifting from one foot to another with embarrassment. ‘He may not look it, but he’s a real live policeman, the one in the grubby raincoat. And we can see from her exotic uniform that she’s genuine filth, unless she’s got lost on her way to the fancy dress ball.’ Luft took a swig of her champagne. ‘I’ll give you this though, Harry. I never thought an ugly little twit like you would be able to pull a pretty tart like that.’
‘Shut up Mrs Luft and get your coat.’ Hart looked around at the twenty or so guests whose eyes were boring into him. Some of them he knew as white-collar crooks, friends of Patricia Luft’s husband. Their watches and clothes stated clearly that they had experienced considerable success in their chosen careers. ‘You’ll all need to leave,’ he stated calmly as he produced his warrant card and panned it around the room. ‘The owner of the house will be accompanying the Constable and myself in a couple of minutes and so I cannot allow you to remain.’
‘Leave? What do you mean, leave?’ demanded a tall man of about fifty, wearing an expensive dinner jacket and female trophy. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘I’ll answer your questions in the order in which you posed them. By leave, I mean leave. To do that it will be necessary to walk to the front door, open it, and then step outside. And the time,’ finished Hart, looking down at his watch, ‘is nine minutes to twelve.’
‘You can’t do this. There must be a law against barging into somebody’s house at this time of night. And tonight of all nights.’
‘I wouldn’t say there’s a law as such, although there are rules, of course. But I’m very careful with the rules so you needn’t worry. If I’m arresting somebody for an imprisonable offence, the rules are pretty much on my side. In case there’s any doubt, that’s the side of the public.’ Hart looked at Patricia Luft and formally cautioned her. ‘I really would advise you to put your coat on before the Constable applies the handcuffs. It’s chilly outside.’
‘You pig. You complete and utter pig. You’re not going to drag me out of here in handcuffs. Not just so you can show off in front of my friends.’
‘It’s a tad more pragmatic than that, Mrs Luft. I simply don’t want you sitting behind me with your hands free when we’re in the car,’ he stated. Hart’s eyes again scanned the faces which surrounded him. ‘There are three police officers in this room and we’ll put them on you by force if we have to.’ His gaze settled on the features of Darren Redpath, who stood clutching the hand of Sophie Rand. He was mortified and contrite – a little boy who had been caught stealing money from the church collection to buy his sweets and dreaded that the news would soon be all over the village.
As the party of evening suits and dresses ambled tut-tutting out into the night, the sky exploded with colour as the reds and greens and oranges noisily proclaimed the advent of a new year. ‘Please be careful not to drink and drive,’ advised Hart helpfully. ‘There are additional police officers operating in this very area tonight.’ Some guests decided to brave the weather and walk home. After the last of them had left, Patricia Luft was placed in the back of Hart’s car with Asha Kanjaria sitting beside her, and they drove away to the station.
‘I suppose you think this is clever, Harry. You’ll find it’s not so clever as my solicitor.’
‘If your solicitor was that bright, he’d have bought you a shredder for Christmas. Mind you, it would have been hard to shove a jar of horseradish sauce through the machine.’ Hart switched his wipers on to slow speed to brush away the drizzle. ‘Your timing was good, of course. While I’m looking into these murders, everyone would have expected the person who tried to bump me off to be a practised killer, not the enchanting divorcee who was so enamoured of me she invited me to her home. Naturally, I was supposed to have popped my clogs before I got there, but there was still some fun to be had for you in this evening’s charade. It’s a shame you couldn’t resist that. If I hadn’t come round and got intimate with your wheelie bin, there’s a fair chance you’d have got away with it.’
‘You can’t really think I’d be in the least bit interested in you. You’re uncultured, vulgar, unforgivably unexciting. Short. And disgustingly poor. You’re as attractive as a tramp but lacking the charm.’
‘But I’m not spending the next several years in the clink, which puts me one up on you and your ex-hubby. I hope you’ve at least learned your lesson.’
‘About getting involved with cockroaches like you?’
‘About the virtues of recycling. Particularly glass ja
rs.’
43
Hart didn’t bother to go home in the early morning of New Year’s Day, but he did manage to snatch a few hours’ kip in his office. He guessed that nothing would be going on outside the headquarters and warehouse of Amazon and Oriental Trading before six o’clock and he was right. When he arrived in the sort of white van that constituted the official vehicle of the estate even the birds weren’t yet up and about, and they hadn’t been knocked out by a brain full of alcohol a few hours before, unlike the beings who inhabited the human world. The van was parked opposite the warehouse, in the car park of a plumber’s. The paddy wagon containing the reinforcements was kept out of sight around the corner.
Hart shared the van with a driver, photographer, police constable and Rosie, a gorgeous shiny black Labrador retriever. Of the five of them, Rosie was the only one who was alert and seeming like she was looking forward to the game which was about to be played. The other four were struggling to stay awake and it was only the cold which stopped them from nodding off. Hart realised that the condensation on the window was a dead giveaway to anybody curious enough to want to look inside and spent an hour wiping it off with his hanky as it formed. If he was ever unfortunate enough to be stuck in a van like this again, he would have to bring along one of those little battery fans to do the job.
At just after seven o’clock he was wondering whether the twenty pounds spent on Sally’s lunch constituted such good value after all, when a car pulled into the yard opposite. It was of indeterminate colour in the yellow sodium lights but it was definitely a soft-top Vauxhall Astra, and that was good enough. The photographer was immediately nudged into action and the rapid clicks of the camera’s shutter caused Rosie to pant harder and her dark but brilliant eyes became even more eager so that the van suddenly came alive.
Dead Unlucky Page 29