The Hard Detective (A Harriet Martens Thriller Book 1)

by H. R. F. Keating

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Right. So what else besides the body and the bicycle and the position of the bus did you notice? You took the driver’s name and number, I suppose? And the conductor’s?’

  ‘Conductress, as a matter of fact, ma’am. But she didn’t see anything. She says.’

  ‘And other witnesses? Did you get any other names?’

  ‘Well, no, ma’am. I’m afraid by the time I’d looked to see if Ruk— To see if WPC Syed could possibly still be alive everybody there at the time seemed to have buggered off. Not wanting to be caught up in it, I suppose. And then Traffic arrived and took over. I don’t know if they found any witnesses.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. So, was there anything else you saw that you should be putting in your pocket-book this moment?’

  ‘No, ma’am. No, I don’t think so. Well, there was one thing that struck me, though. Sort of funny really.’

  ‘I take it you mean odd rather than hilarious?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, ma’am. Sorry, it sort of slipped out because it was fun— I mean very kind of odd.’

  ‘Well, what was this odd circumstance?’

  ‘It was just … Well, just where it happened, on the kerb there, looking like it was deliberately pointing at the bike and— And, well, the body, someone had put down what I thought at first was a pen, a big, red, old-fashioned fountain-pen. But when I took a closer look — I don’t really know why, except it seemed somehow as if it had been placed there on purpose –– I saw it was one of those what-you-call-’ems. Laser pens. I wouldn’t of known what it was only I took one like it off a couple of kids once, playing tricks with it outside of their school, and my mates in the canteen told me about them. If you shine one at anybody it sort of dazzles them, blinds them really.’

  ‘So what did you do with it?’

  ‘I — Well, I picked it up, ma’am. Put the cap back on and slipped it into my pocket. I just thought I should. Because of the way it was where it was, sort of pointing to— To the scene.’

  ‘And where is it now? Still in your coat pocket?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Covered in your prints, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorr— Well, yes, I suppose it may be.’

  ‘It will be, Constable. It will be. But take it to CID at once. Without putting any more of your greasy dabs on it. It’s to go to Fingerprints straight away. You’ve very probably just described a clue to murder.’

  Chapter Three

  Making her way slowly up to her office, Harriet found herself in a dilemma. She now had little doubt, however minimal the evidence, that a second police officer had been deliberately killed in the area under her charge. If so, the two killings might well be connected. Perhaps they almost certainly were. All right, the presence of a laser pen — electronic blackboard pointer, and dangerous toy — at the scene of Rukshana Syed’s death was not conclusive. It could have been there simply by the merest coincidence. But PC Wilkinson, plainly not the most imaginative of men, had nevertheless been struck by the seemingly clear intention of it being put there on the kerb pointing at the dead girl’s mangled body.

  It did all add up, say what you like, to a possible scenario. Rukshana Syed cycling through the rush-hour traffic on her way back to the flat she shared with her boyfriend … And someone, someone with a grudge against her, or possibly with a grudge against police officers in general, standing there with a laser pen, something capable of temporarily blinding, waiting his chance … And then — luck or clever judgement — when Rukshana was just in front of an oncoming lumbering bus, sending that disorienting beam straight into her eyes. And perhaps, still standing at the kerb, with the packed traffic snarling and jutting its way past, stepping forward and by giving the tottering girl on her bike one quick push making it almost certain the apparent accident was fatal.

  And, an inescapable additional consideration coming suddenly to the fore in Harriet’s mind, there might be a special motive for such a crime. One that hit at her herself. The Stop the Rot campaign had aroused plenty of resentment among local criminals. Parcels of excrement coming through the letter-box were evidence enough of that. And hadn’t that pushful crime reporter, Tim Patterson, even suggested, before he was chased away from the scene of Titmuss’s death, that his murder could be a reaction to the campaign? So, yes, it was not impossible that someone had decided to deliver a warning, a pair of warnings. To say she had been pushing too hard.

  No, damn it, she thought, I have not. Fire must be fought with fire. Pay them back in their own coin. Yes.

  But — and this was another difficulty — if she rang Froggy Froggott now, would he shoot down this notion in the way he had shot down the potential importance of that strand of cloth from a donkey jacket? Or, for that matter, the possible, if unlikely, supposition that PC Titmuss had been killed by a woman?

  What to do? Go over Froggy’s head to the Chief Constable? Not really possible. Then somehow stiffen up that one piece of insubstantial evidence? Yes, at least find out if anyone anywhere had a motive for ending Rukshana Syed’s life. And then either acknowledge that the idea of the two deaths being linked was not on, or bloody well tell Froggy what he ought to be made to realise.

  And, straight away there was the fact that Rukshana was living with a boy. Two young people in that situation were always liable to have rows. And examples enough of such rows leading to murder.

  So see the boyfriend. Find out where he had been at the time of Rukshana’s death. Then, if that eliminated him, there was another line. Rukshana was a Muslim. And she had left home to live with this boy. Parental opposition there, almost without a doubt. And more than a few cases in recent years of a Muslim father, or an uncle, or even of brothers, executing summary justice on girls who had ‘dishonoured’ the family.

  But the boyfriend first.

  She picked up her phone and called Personnel, warning herself to go canny in what she said.

  ‘Rob, it’s DCI Martens. I’m glad to find you still in your office.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am? I was just— Just looking up one or two things. Checking, really. Is it about that mac? I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to return it yet. But I’ve got it here as a matter of fact. Would you like me to bring it over?’

  ‘No, no. It’s something else I’m ringing about. I want a favour.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Whatever …’

  ‘It’s about WPC Syed —’

  ‘That poor kid. Do you know exactly what happened, ma’am? I’ve only heard the bare fact that she’s been killed. But it hit me. I mean, it was because of me in a way that she was accepted on the Force. Lot of opposition. But I thought having a Muslim and a woman on the strength would be a great help with public relations, and I had a word. So now— Well, I feel responsible somehow.’

  ‘That’s just nonsense. I still don’t know all the circumstances of the accident. On the face of it, it was the girl’s own fault. Momentary carelessness. But there is some reason to think it may have been something else.’

  ‘Not a moment of carelessness? But …’

  ‘Don’t let this go one inch further, Rob, but there is just a possibility that the accident was caused by someone blinding her with the beam from a laser pen.’

  ‘A laser pen? But— But that’d be murder.’

  ‘No, it would not. It might have been some irresponsible kid playing about. But I want to investigate a little, in case it was more than that. Check on all the possibilities. Which is why I called you. I’m told Syed shared a flat with a boyfriend. Can you give me his address?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, no trouble. As you know, premises where any officer lives have to be approved by their chief officer of police. In practice, actually, I was the one who more or less gave her the permission to move in there. My recommendation’s almost always accepted by the Chief’s office. Tell you the truth, though, I did have a bit of heart-searching when I knew Rukshana proposed to shack up with this young man. Name of Barstow, Phillip Barstow
, a window-cleaner, white. But when she told me they’d been friends for three or four years I thought — well, nowadays — there’d be no harm in it.’

  ‘All right. So let me have that address. And where was she living before? With her parents? I’d better have that address, too, if you’ve still got it. But I’ll see the boyfriend first.’

  ‘I wish you would. You see, I’ve a feeling no one will have actually told him yet about Rukshana.’

  ‘My duty then.’

  Not the easiest thing to have to do. Got to be done.

  *

  Although it was not much after half-past eight she found Phillip Barstow in bed. Or rather coming from the bed in his cramped little flat. His right foot was in plaster, and she had heard him laboriously thumping his way to the door when she had rung the bell.

  So no question of him being down in Queen Street when Rukshana had been momentarily blinded and perhaps pushed under the wheels of that No 14 bus. But the difficult task still ahead.

  ‘Mr Barstow?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’m bringing you some bad news. Detective Chief Inspector Martens from Queen Street police station.’

  ‘Rookie? It’s something to do with Rookie, isn’t it? She should’ve been back an hour ago. More.’

  ‘Yes. It is WPC Syed. I have to tell you she has been killed in a road accident.’

  The boy tottered on his plaster-cased leg.

  She took hold of him by the arm.

  ‘You’d better sit down.’

  Then, when she saw through the open door inside that he had been in bed, she led him back there.

  He lay on top of the thin flower-patterned duvet, shivering.

  As soon as she had decided he was in a fit state to listen she spoke.

  ‘It’s been a shock to you. But there are things you can tell me that I need to know.’

  For some reason this galvanized the boy. He heaved himself halfway up and glared at her.

  ‘Bloody police. Can’t you leave me alone? I never wanted Rookie to join. But she had this idea it was a good thing to do, and I wasn’t going to stand in her way. And now look what’s happened. First, I fall off me ladder, and now this. This.’

  ‘Calm down. There’s no need for any of that. Rukshana made her decision and at least she had the guts to go through with it.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes. And now she’s dead. Dead. And it’s all your fault. Your bloody police.’

  ‘No, it is not. Now, I have got some questions for you, and I want to hear your answers. Without any more yelling and cursing.’

  A deeply mutinous look. But the boy was silent.

  ‘Right. Now, I have to tell you this. There is some possibility — nothing more than a possibility, you understand — that Rukshana’s death was not wholly an accident. It is just possible it was caused deliberately. So, now, are you going to help me find the truth of that by answering my questions?’

  It took hardly two seconds before there came a sullen ‘All right.’

  ‘Good. Now, is there anybody, anybody that you know of, who might for any reason want Rukshana dead? Think before you answer. And don’t hesitate to tell me anything, anything at all you come up with.’

  On the bed the boy had flopped back on to his yellowish thin bunched-up pillow. She could see the thoughts passing through his mind.

  ‘Yeah, well, I suppose …’

  ‘What? What do you suppose? Speak up.’

  ‘Well, her old man. He’s a bugger, and that’s all about it. Cut her off, he did, when she come to live with me. Old sod. I wouldn’t put it past him to want her dead. I mean, I don’t think he would of … But you got to see he might of.’

  ‘Right.’ She kept her gaze locked on him. ‘So, is there anyone else? I don’t suppose WPC Syed was a saintly little creature all of the time, so is there anybody she might have rubbed up against? Enough to make them, if they were a bit gone in the head, say, want to kill her?’

  The boy glanced from side to side as if looking for some way of escape.

  ‘No,’ he burst out at last. ‘No, damn you, why should there be? Rookie was a sweet kid. She was as sweet a girl as ever’s been. Why are you saying things like that about her? Why? Why?’

  Face plunged into yellowy pillow. Hands hard clutching it. The sound of deep groaning sobs.

  *

  Rukshana, before she had set up home with Phillip Barstow, had lived right across the other side of the city, and it took Harriet a good hour to get to the place. As she drove, her thoughts kept switching this way and that. Was it possible that Rukshana’s own father, or her brothers or uncles, could be so zealous in their religion as to condemn her to death? Certainly there were instances of such zeal. But it was hard to come to terms with it. Yet it could be.

  Before setting out she had rung Fingerprints and asked about the laser pen PC Wilkinson had found. No prints besides his. Whoever had laid it down on the kerb where Rukshana Syed had met her death had been wearing thick gloves.

  But every so often as she made her way through the miles of the city’s suburbs she found herself thinking of something altogether different. Some words Phillip Barstow had shouted out at her from his bed as she had opened the flat door to leave. God, you’re a hard damn bitch.

  Why pay any attention to a shouted insult from a young man she had just brought bad news to? Yet the words did rankle.

  Am I a hard bitch? Hard, yes. I’ve got to be. You’ve got to be as a police officer. If you want to see that the law is obeyed. And, damn it, that’s what I’m here to do. My duty. My task in life, put it that way. But a bitch? No. No, I don’t act the way I do out of any personal satisfaction. Others may. Hard bastards, who glory in being hard. Get their kicks like that. And, yes, there are women officers I’ve come across who are the same. Hard bitches.

  But, no, I am not one of those. I am not. I’m hard, yes. Because I’ve got to be. I should be. But I’m hard in a good cause.

  Yet still those words prickled in her mind. God, you’re a hard damn bitch.

  Eventually she found the small semi-detached house where Rukshana had lived before she had gone to her shared flat, its name The Refuge on a scrolly metal plaque on the gate just visible by the light of the nearest street lamp. She was wrestling with the ironwork gate’s half-jammed latch when the front door of the house abruptly opened. Blinking in the stream of bright light from it, she made out a bulky man in his early sixties standing there. Spreading, tangled, grey-streaked beard, heavy horn-rim spectacles, a round white cap on his head, baggy pyjama-like garments below.

  ‘What you are wanting?’ he barked out.

  ‘It is Mr Syed? Mr Hamid Syed?’

  ‘I am Hamid Syed, yes.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Martens,’ she said, advancing up the cement path of the house’s neat little front garden holding out her warrant card. ‘Mr Syed, may I ask if you have heard the news about your daughter, Rukshana?’

  ‘I have no daughter Rukshana.’

  Harriet felt for a moment as if, riding a bicycle, she had come up against a solid brick wall she had had no idea was there. But she knew even as she drew breath that what the aged bearded Muslim had been saying was that he had disowned his daughter. Because she had gone to live with the young window-cleaner? Because she had joined the police?

  It was grotesque, she thought. This was Britain, not the wildest depths of Afghanistan.

  Well, give him one more chance. She could be mistaken.

  ‘Have I been given the wrong address?’ she asked. ‘You aren’t the father of Woman Police Constable Rukshana Syed?’

  ‘Holy Koran is stating,’ the implacable old man said, ‘men have authority over women because God has made one superior to the other. I had authority over a daughter. She defied me. She is no longer of my blood.’

  She let the words, the flat declaration, settle in her mind for a moment.

  All right, yes, that is what he believes. And he is acting on his belief. To the full. He belie
ves he has that authority …

  In fact, it is just as I believe I have the authority to check and stop the law-breakers, the law-ignorers.

  But not the time or place to think about that. What I have to search out is whether in the end it is possible he has done more than disown his daughter. Did he, in fact, stand there in Queen Street shortly after six o’clock this evening, waiting? And then did he flash that laser beam into her eyes? The laser beam of unrelenting justice?

  She stood there in front of the upright old man and gave him back hard stare for hard stare.

  ‘Mr Syed, I know very well that Rukshana Syed was your daughter, say what you will. And I have to tell you that she was killed earlier this evening in what appeared to be a road traffic accident.’

  ‘I have no daughter,’ the old man repeated, glaring into the darkness.

  ‘Mr Syed, there are aspects of your daughter’s death that give rise to inquiries. You may be able to assist. So, can we go inside while I ask you some questions?’

  ‘There are no questions to ask. The girl was not my daughter. She was sinful. God has punished her in this world. He will punish her also in the next.’

  Harriet absorbed this. The bitter draught, harming or healing.

  ‘Mr Syed, may I see your wife?’

  ‘My wife was dying one and a half years ago.’

  True? Or had she, too, been declared not to exist for some reason? No, there was something in the way this harsh old man had spoken of his wife that made it clear enough that she had indeed simply died.

  ‘Do you have any other relatives, Mr Syed?’

  ‘In Pakistan, yes. In this evil land, no.’

  Ask him why he chose to stay in this evil land? No point. But if he has no relatives here, then, if Rukshana’s death was an inflicted punishment, only he can have inflicted it.

  ‘Mr Syed, it is my duty to put to you certain questions.’

  The fiercely bearded figure confronted her like a steady pillar of fire. But after a long minute he visibly relented.

  Perhaps, the thought came to her, the word duty had got home where the word daughter had dropped to the ground.