Dead Unlucky

by Andrew Derham

  ‘I’m sorry about your lunch, Sir.’

  ‘Stop it Harry! Just damn well stop it! You complain about that Mrs Hargreaves being smug, but you’ve been arrogant and contemptuous from the moment you set foot in my office and I’m damn well sick of it. Cut it out.’

  ‘Point taken.’ Hart couldn’t argue with that one. Guilty as charged.

  ‘That girl’s death has been investigated, and there’s hardly ever been a more straightforward case. It barely seems worth bothering with an inquest.’ The Chief was outwardly cooling down and his speech slowed with his heartbeat. But because he was less agitated, his words carried more gravity. ‘You never pee on another force’s patch. That’s the shiniest of all the golden rules in our business. That girl died in the Met’s area of authority and the case is thoroughly shut. If you touch it again, then you will be going against a direct instruction from me, and there will be consequences for disobedience like that. Very severe consequences.’ Rodgers’ finger stopped wagging at Hart but his anger continued to seethe. ‘That should be clear enough. Even for someone as pig-headed as you.’

  Hart wanted to speak in his own defence, but he wasn’t sure he had one. His boss didn’t give him the chance anyway, he wasn’t done yet.

  ‘And talking to kids and teachers about someone they knew, someone who died in tragic circumstances like hanging herself, stirs it all up for them again. You’ve handled this case ineptly so far, Harry, but you’re not an unkind person and I’m surprised you did that. Very surprised indeed.’

  Hart didn’t mind a tongue-lashing from his boss – except when it was justified. That was what bothered him – how many of those criticisms were deserved? Some, for sure. After all, it wasn’t unknown for Harry’s self-belief to swell up into conceit. And that was the worst ear-wigging that he could remember. Still, it could have been worse. He was a little surprised Timothy Grove’s father hadn’t been on the blower with the other moaners by now but, on reflection, the man was probably scared that Harry would be round his house with a pair of scissors if he upset him.

  As he made his despondent way downstairs, Hart bumped into Lynn McCarthy on her way up for an audience with the Chief.

  ‘Lynn, answer me honestly.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Perhaps I should ask somebody else instead and get an opinion I’d prefer.’

  ‘Go on. I’ll be gentle with you.’

  ‘Am I sometimes smug?’

  ‘Yes.’ She didn’t fill the pause.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. That’s the honest answer.’

  ‘Do I have any good points? Anything at all that might make me believe I’m not evil incarnate?’

  ‘Well … no, I don’t think you have, Harry. You seem beyond salvation to me, and to anybody else with the slightest nous. But Asha Kanjaria thought you were very sweet.’ She hurried up the stairs to let her comment hang, before looking back. ‘Eventually.’

  Hart sat swivelling on his office chair, cheered that one person liked him at any rate. Well, eventually. He felt even better when he pondered the rogues’ gallery of monarchs on his tea mug. Some had died through being poisoned, some shot by arrows, drowning in a barrel of booze, red hot pokers, syphilis, suffocation, and losing his head. At least Harry hadn’t met an end like any of that lot. Well, not yet anyway.

  After a whole day spent postponing his meals, it was definitely feeding time; Hart hadn’t had a bite since yesterday’s lunch. Just two quick phone calls to be made first. One to the pathologist Arthur Rhodes to see if he fancied a beer later on.

  And the other to the Dean of Admissions at St Matilda’s College, Cambridge.

  11

  It had been dark for a good hour by the time Hart left the police station to walk to the shops. It was handy that he worked near the centre of town because he could leave the car in the station car park, do his shopping, and then carry his bags back to his free parking space. The temperature was dipping below freezing, but the air was still and so it didn’t feel cold if you were well wrapped up. Hart reflected on the Chief’s words that it had been less than a day since Sebastian Emmer had been found. It already seemed like he had been working on the case all his life.

  He had to rush to get to the butcher’s before it shut at half past five. The rest of his shopping he could do at Sainsbury’s because that stayed open for ever, but he always bought his meat at Charles Wainright & Son, although Charles and his son had long since departed this Earth and the business was now run by a descendant of some sort. It was the last butcher in that part of town and it relied on loyal customers like Harry to delay its demise, to prevent it going the way of the last fishmonger a few years ago.

  ‘A pound and a half of braising steak, Harry? You got company or something?’

  ‘No, George, just a belly as empty as a footballer’s head, that’s all. Any leftovers will do for tomorrow. I’ll stir it up with a tin of peas, stick in an onion and a couple of Oxo, peel a few spuds and I’ll be eating within a couple of hours.’

  While the butcher was weighing out his dinner, Hart was thinking that he could have treated himself to a bumper curry or an Italian at one of the local restaurants. He was so hungry that he almost did, but he knew he would regret it as soon as he sat down. They would ostentatiously and noisily clear away all the clutter from the other places on the tablecloth: knives and forks, glasses, table mats, plates and napkins all gathered up with a thunderous rattle, until there was just his own private little space remaining on the acre of white material. They may as well stick a flag up in the middle of his table: This bloke happens to be here on his own but please don’t stare at him. He’s actually got plenty of friends. Honestly!

  ‘Harry, turn the sign round on the door for me, will you? I’m done for the day.’

  And, just as Hart was turning the little notice around to inform the world outside that “Sorry, we’re closed!” a couple of shoppers got there just in time to get their feet over the doorstep. The older one began speaking immediately, as though she had known Harry Hart all her life.

  ‘Mr Hart, I’m so glad to have caught you. This really is a piece of luck, because I was going to have to send you a note otherwise.’

  For a moment, Hart didn’t have a clue who this woman was who had bustled in wearing her bright red coat and matching hat, pulled down to cover her ears. And then he noticed that Asha Kanjaria was standing next to her and it all clicked into place.

  ‘This is my mum, Chief Inspector Hart,’ volunteered Asha, a little too late to be really helpful.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Kanjaria,’ and Hart shook the gloved hand that she held out for him.

  ‘That’ll be six pounds fifty please, Harry,’ said the butcher as he placed the white plastic bag on the counter. ‘And what can I get for you, Mrs K?’

  ‘Nothing for me, Mr Wainright, thank you. I just popped in after noticing the cheery face of Mr Hart through your window.’

  As Hart counted out his money, Asha’s mother carried on.

  ‘I can see you’re in a rush, Mr Hart, and this nice man wants to close his shop, but I just wanted to ask you if you would do us the honour of visiting us for Christmas dinner.’

  Hart hadn’t seen that one coming, hadn’t see it coming at all. Mrs Kanjaria filled the silence by trying to persuade him.

  ‘I know what you are thinking, Mr Hart. Vegetable curry and a banana lassi will not be much of a feast on the big day. Well, you can put your mind at rest. The turkey is already on order from Mr Wainright’s very own shop and so I think we can safely say therefore that it will be one of the very finest to be eaten in Lockingham over the festive season.’

  Hart still didn’t say a word, he just itched to get home and get his beef stew into the pot and bubbling over some lighted gas.

  ‘And my naughty husband would very much enjoy having an excuse for a little drink. So please do come, Mr Hart. I’ll send you a card shortly with our address and phone number. If
you can let us know in a few days, that would be lovely. But just turn up if you like. Asha said you were so nice last night and she would love you to come along.’ And Asha’s face verified her mother’s commendation by smiling a welcome from underneath its sky-blue woolly hat.

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you both. I’m not sure whether I’m free, but I will let you know.’ Crafting a polite and plausible refusal is always easier through the written word.

  After Mrs Kanjaria and her daughter had said their goodbyes, George the butcher proffered a few opinions that Hart could have done without.

  ‘She’s right about the turkey, Harry, they’ve ordered a monster. If you’re not doing anything better on the day and you fancy a good feed, you’d be a mug not to go, even if she can’t stop nattering nineteen to the dozen.’

  ‘Thanks, George,’ said Hart as he picked up his braising steak from the counter. He didn’t say goodbye as he walked out of the shop, more than a little miffed that everyone seemed to be wanting to tell him what he should be doing on his Christmas Day.

  *****

  There are a couple of pubs near Lockingham nick which are used by the local coppers, and pretty lively they are, too. There’s always something to celebrate, such as the promotion of a colleague, the cracking of a case, or the end of an exhausting shift. Of course, some of the more interesting characters in town stay away, having to be careful with the choice of company they keep while enjoying a social drink. But everyone was happy with that unspoken arrangement; it didn’t suit anybody to try and force water to mix with oil.

  Hart possessed a fondness for beer which he indulged whenever he could. And he enjoyed spending time away from a house that was so still and empty he sometimes felt he was rattling around inside a gigantic barn. So it was to be expected that he would be found in a pub when he wasn’t working. But hanging out in one of the two fuzz pubs near Lockingham Central Police Station? Not a chance. He cherished a more subdued boozer, one where he could sit and imbibe the company of other people without having it shoved down his throat along with the beer.

  His vast meal still doing its slovenly best to sink down, Hart set off to his local for a rendezvous with Arthur Rhodes. The Pickled Firkin was fifteen minutes’ walk away from his house; near enough not to make the journey a marathon, but far enough not to render it too easy – a pub on your doorstep is a bit too tempting. The night remained crisp and calm and the stinging cold air on his face as he walked made the warm welcome of the pub all the better. There was a real log fire crackling to greet the hostelry’s guests on a winter’s night like this despite the efforts of the health and safety people, who had sensibly tried to deprive folks of that pleasure.

  Arthur arrived at just past eight-thirty to see Harry already sitting at one of the small tables away from the bar. Hart left his pint on a beer mat and got up to meet his friend.

  ‘The usual, Arthur?’ he asked, as he held up his index finger to communicate his order to the publican without waiting for an answer. The usual was a pint of Spitfire, although, if they also fancied treating their brain cells to a pleasant numbing while tickling their taste buds, they might get their lips around a Bishops Finger instead. He placed three and a half quid into the landlord’s hand and wondered as he always did how beer could be so expensive. ‘Anyone would think it’s a luxury item like milk or bread, not the staple of a man’s diet.’

  They sat down, knocked their glasses together with a ‘cheers’ and both took a good slug of their brew. As he returned his glass to its mat, Rhodes started them off. ‘Right, Harry, let’s get the work bit of the evening over with first, shall we?’

  ‘What do you mean, Arthur? Work? This is a social get-together, I’ve knocked off for the day.’

  ‘When it’s murder, you’ve never knocked off. You’ll be dreaming about it, that’s if you can manage to get to sleep at all. Anyway, you’ve banished us out here at our table in the wilderness where we can’t be overheard, not sat us at the bar for a cosy chat.’

  ‘You should have been a copper, Arthur,’ smiled Hart. ‘Go on. You first.’

  Rhodes started with the boring stuff, the stuff that was obvious. He was saving his exciting little snippet of news for the end of the tale.

  ‘Well, the lad died just how it looked. A big blow to the back of his head with something blunt. There was a bruise and some swelling on the side of the head, but that wouldn’t have killed him.’

  ‘So he was knocked down with the first whack and finished off with the second?’ suggested Hart.

  ‘Of course, there’s no way of being absolutely certain which blow was struck first,’ replied Rhodes carefully, ‘but that would be my guess. There were no other marks on the body, no sign of a struggle. He was probably unconscious before he knew he’d been hit, and dead a second or two later.’

  ‘Anything unusual at all? Under the fingernails, in the stomach?’

  ‘No one else’s skin under the nails, nothing in the stomach except what a hungry teenage lad would have eaten for his lunch.’ Rhodes drank some of his beer to spin out a little time, leaving a wavy line of froth on his gingery moustache. ‘But I have got something that you might be interested in. Will be for certain, actually.’

  ‘Go on, Arthur.’

  ‘All those handkerchiefs that he carried. I suppose you were wondering why he had three of them. It’s because he wiped his nose a lot,’ informed Arthur, exhausting a bit more time with a little joke.

  ‘They contained traces of cocaine, I expect.’ It was a bit mean of Hart to deprive the forensics expert of the pleasure of delivering the news, but he had his own reputation as a sleuth to preserve. His job was a big part of his life, and he knew he was too selfish to throw away the admiration he got from having a hunch proved right. He saw the disappointed look on his friend’s huge face. ‘I cheated though, Arthur. As well as the bloody hankies, loads of chocolate was found in the boy’s bedroom.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Cocaine users can’t utilise glucose too well. Gives them a craving for sugar.’

  ‘Still a bit of a lucky guess, though. But drugs and murder often make a cosy pair.’

  ‘So that’s work over for the evening then, Harry. Let’s get another pint in.’

  Both men liked their beer, but Rhodes had the bigger tank to fill. Hart had to guzzle the last third of his glass to keep up, although that was no great hardship.

  After visiting the bar for a couple of refills, Rhodes nestled his oval frame back into the tiny-looking chair.

  ‘Sorry, Arthur, there’s one more bit of shop before we get on to important matters and solve the problems of the world. It’s a favour, actually.’

  ‘Anything for you old boy, you know that.’

  ‘I need a post-mortem report.’

  ‘That’s easy enough.’

  ‘No it isn’t. It’s not a report for a post-mortem you’ve done yourself. Not even in your area, in fact.’

  ‘Still easy. A man of my exalted status has access to the details of every post-mortem in the country via the wonderful world of computers. Tap in my password and I can gorge myself on all the gory details of unspeakable crimes from all over the realm. Who, when and where is all I need to know.’

  ‘A girl called Nicola Brown. A little over three months ago. North London, just inside the Met area south from here. I’ll write it down,’ said Hart, reaching into his breast pocket for his pen.

  ‘No need. Not pissed yet. Brain still functioning.’

  ‘And, Arthur. Nobody must know. This is you and me only, or I’ll be looking for a job as Santa in the town square before the week’s out. I’ll explain why some other time, but let’s get off this subject or I might as well still be at the factory. I’ve had enough for today.’

  ‘You’ve got me all intrigued, old lad. You’ll have your report, but only in exchange for the accompanying gossip.’

  Hart stood up. ‘Right, that’s it, work’s over. Let’s get our backsides onto those stools at the end of the bar, next to the f
ireplace,’ he said, looking forward to a simple chat with a mate and an hour or so of respite from visions of murder and cocaine.

  They settled themselves down into their new surroundings, and it wasn’t long before they were due another pint. They watched it being pulled with wide eyes, as though they had never before witnessed such a wonder, Don the landlord himself tugging on the pump which dragged the lovely liquid up from the cellar.

  ‘I don’t know why you two bother to sit over there by the window to do your plotting,’ said Don. ‘I’ve got that table bugged.’

  ‘You’ve been rumbled,’ replied Hart. ‘I unscrewed the microphone and slipped it under my boss’s desk.’

  ‘And I thought the thing was broken. That noise that sounded like a train must have been someone snoring.’

  The horse brasses were glistening, the background buzz was merry, the festive feel was swaddling the pub, and all was wonderful with the world.

  And then Hart thought about Christmas Day. And, as it had for the past four years, the prospect became ever more depressing the closer the event loomed. Christmas was a great time of the year but, ever since his wife had died, Harry hadn’t known what to do with the Day itself.

  Two years ago he had gone round to Arthur’s place. A disaster. Husband, wife, three teenage kids; what did they want with a middle-aged man butting in to their family festivities? Working had been an even worse option. The skeleton staff buzzing and bursting with the excited anticipation of getting back to their husbands, kids, girlfriends or whoever. And then someone would drop a clanger and forget, and they’d ask Harry what he would be doing after he had got himself home. The air would turn into a fidgety silence as he kidded no one that maybe he would have a quiet day, but it would certainly be one he would thoroughly enjoy. So, no need to worry about ol’ Harry then, everyone!