Dead Unlucky

by Andrew Derham

  As he walked away from their table, Hart could feel their eyes burying themselves in his back. But if you minded being hated, then you minded being a copper. And Hart didn’t mind.

  They walked out of the nightclub past the bouncers and back to the car in a silence as icy as the night, but after they had both got in and the vehicle was moving, Hart gave Redpath the benefit of his wisdom. And, because he was not animated, did not raise his voice, was entirely matter-of-fact, his words hit home harder than if they had been born from a furious rant.

  ‘You’re going to have to decide if you want to investigate murders for a living or whether you want to be a cartoon copper, all smiles and jollies, pals with everyone, the lovable plod. Because your performance in there was worse than useless. I’d have been better off having a dummy sat next to me; at least it couldn’t have said anything stupid.’

  ‘But, Sir, I –’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me I’m wrong, because if I thought you really didn’t cotton on to what I mean then I’d make you walk home because having your weight in the car would be a waste of petrol.’ Hart explained anyway. ‘Not only were you embarrassed to be in there because it dented your street cred, you actually dropped an answer into the laps of those three when they were struggling to invent a tale themselves. You mustn’t even be neutral, not ever, but especially not when you’re in territory as hostile as that. And you went further than sitting on the fence, you actually climbed down one side and unloaded your rotten apples into the good guy’s garden. I’ll only forgive that treachery the once.’

  Redpath mumbled an apology, not because one was demanded, but because his boss was dead right. He had a way to go before he reached the stage of being much use in a murder enquiry and he wondered whether he would ever get there.

  ‘I’ve said my piece,’ concluded Hart, ‘and that’s the end of it. But I don’t expect to have to say something similar again.’

  To be fair to his boss, Redpath knew he wouldn’t bear a grudge, wouldn’t be cold or offhand come the morning. But he was also in no doubt that there wouldn’t be any more warnings coming his way. If it happened again, he’d be in the loop as much as the lollipop man outside the local infants’ school.

  It was way after midnight by the time Hart dropped Redpath off at his flat. He then drove home and poured himself a generous measure of Laphroaig. A wee draught of God’s good Scottish peat would help him unwind before climbing the stairs. There were no days off for the really big investigations, you didn’t do a nine-to-five Monday-to-Friday stint when there were real nutters running around the country trying their damnable best not to get caught. But Hart wouldn’t have it any other way. He liked his job. Believed in it.

  After the tiniest of refills to his cut glass tumbler, he turned off the living room light and went up to bed. He kissed his wife goodnight and then, surprisingly, went straight off to sleep. It must have been all that thumping music that knocked him out.

  13

  The following morning Hart and Redpath sat in the boss’s office to discuss the case and make some decisions on where it was going next. And, true to form, Hart wasn’t still slapping the sergeant on the wrist to punish him for his shabby performance of the previous night; he was his usual self, with both the good and the bad that implied for Redpath.

  Of course, somebody would have to pay a visit to Danny Moses. But Hart wanted a little more background on Sebastian Emmer before he made that call. It was always a good idea to close the gap between what you knew and what the person you were going to interview had tucked away inside his brain before you got to speak to him, especially if he was a loathsome scumbag, as Danny Moses might turn out to be. After all, pushing drugs wasn’t a profession that tended to recruit the kindliest and most lovable sort of folks into its ranks. So Hart didn’t want to go knocking on this guy’s door to be finding out stuff about Sebastian that he should have known already. Knowledge is power – especially if you have it and the other bloke doesn’t.

  The first snippets of knowledge of the day arrived in a pair of brown foolscap envelopes carried by Asha Kanjaria. ‘This has just come in from the control room, Sir, a report from a patrol car. And this is the preliminary crime scene report.’ Hart watched Redpath’s eyes swarm over her like ants on a pot of jam.

  ‘Thanks, Constable,’ said Hart as he reached across his desk to take the documents from her outstretched hand. She hesitated, as though she had something else to say, but looked at Redpath and saw that this wasn’t the time and so she left without another word.

  Hart read the reports quickly as he sipped at his tea and then relayed the major points to Redpath.

  ‘Sebastian Emmer’s car’s been found. One of those sporty little Mazdas, an MX-5. At the end of Green Drive, where it runs along Greenway Park.’

  ‘Green Drive? That’s where the alley starts, isn’t it? You know, the alley where he was killed.’

  ‘Do you know the area at all?’

  ‘Lots of people leave their cars around there so they can use the park. Done it myself a few times.’

  ‘You mean, they can just stick their cars there, lock them up and go about their business? Perhaps even have fun?’

  Redpath looked puzzled.

  ‘I’m amazed the council haven’t painted a pair of yellow lines along the road, then. That would be a nice little earner for them. And, to double their delight, it would also stop people from enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Not like you to be cynical, Sir,’ said Redpath, with a sarcasm more likely to have come from his boss. He must be learning something at least. ‘Anything interesting in the crime scene report?’

  ‘Those notes, the four fifty quid ones that were found on the lad’s body. There are no fingerprints on them except Sebastian Emmer’s. But some of the ink’s just run a tiny bit. It looks like someone’s rinsed them in a solvent, perhaps alcohol.’

  ‘To get rid of any prints before they passed them to him?’

  ‘That’s a fair guess, I reckon. The blood spatters give us naff all, though. Just a fine mist on the path which was spread into the damp. The footprints are a bit better, but not much. A size eleven boot, but no detail from the tread to tell us the make or type. The killer left the scene by running in the direction away from Green Drive, but the tracks peter out before they get to the end of the alley, so they don’t reach the road or a house.’

  ‘Better than nothing though, Sir. Especially the boot size. That narrows things down a fair bit.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Hart thought for a moment to digest the new information and then jumped up from his chair. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get off to the Emmers’.’

  ‘What’s the agenda?’

  ‘Nothing heavy. Just want to get a feel for them, try and see where Sebastian was coming from, have a go at finding out what made him tick.’

  ‘Your theory again, is it? Understand the people involved and you’ll understand the crime.’

  ‘Dead right. If you want to know what makes a clock tick, find out how it works.’ Hart drained his mug of tea and grabbed his coat from the hook on the wall. ‘It may be useful to have a word with mum anyway, while her hubby’s out at work.’

  ‘And we’ll tell her Sebastian was a druggie?’

  ‘Let’s leave that for now. She’s not going to know anything about where he got his stuff from and the info may come in handy to give someone a surprise later.’

  As they were driving, Hart made sure that the mood was relaxed, and there was no mention of Redpath’s cruddy display of the previous night. You couldn’t always choose who you worked with, and continually being at the throat of someone whose capability you doubted didn’t make them perform any better, it just made you both miserable. Anyway, Darren Redpath was still pretty inexperienced and he might yet grow into the job. Hart even indulged him by chatting about football.

  As they stopped to let a couple of people walk over the zebra crossing, Redpath volunteered an observation. ‘Did you notice that,
Sir?’

  ‘I did indeed. Two young women crossing the road. Very unusual.’

  ‘And one of them was on the phone.’

  ‘Crikey, that is a miracle. A woman chatting on her mobile.’

  ‘But you’ve missed the point.’

  ‘Go on.’ Hart doubted this would be a particularly cerebral revelation.

  ‘It was the so-so one on the phone. Not the pretty one. That’s a one in a hundred event. It’s always the well-fit totty chatting on her mobile, while her average mate just gets ignored as she tags along.’

  ‘That’s absolutely fascinating, Darren. Do you always categorise females by their looks?’

  ‘Not all of them, Sir. Just the ones under thirty.’

  ‘And where does Constable Kanjaria come on your list?’ The subject needed broaching sometime and, anyway, it was Redpath himself who had brought up the topic of totty.

  ‘Right now, pretty much near the top.’

  ‘Then be a little careful.’ There was a warning coming up. It wasn’t potent enough to ruin the atmosphere, but severe enough to blemish it a fair bit. ‘The police station’s not a zoo and you two are not a pair of pandas who have been brought there to see if you can get on well enough to mate. Chat her up by all means, she’s old enough to look after herself and it’s none of my business anyway, but don’t let any amorous intentions get in the way of the work of either of you, especially not just now with this case going on.’ Hart retrieved the situation a little by being chummy. ‘Not that you’ve got the reputation of having the ladies fall at your feet, of course,’ he joked, handing the younger man a compliment to make him sound like a stud. He had done just enough to ensure that they didn’t drive the rest of the way to Alanbrooke Close in silence, but he knew their relationship was already tottering on the edge again.

  But that was just hard luck on Redpath and he’d have to lump it. Lynn McCarthy had been right about Kanjaria. She was bright and eager to learn. And Hart recognised a toughness there, despite her politeness and the girlish, charming smile she had displayed in the butcher’s. He wasn’t just going to stand watching while the new girl got swept up by the factory’s resident rake.

  14

  Emily Roberts was a cautious woman. When a man purporting to be a police officer named Hart had rung her a couple of days earlier, she took his number and promised to call back, but not before ascertaining that he really was phoning from a police station.

  In addition to being naturally careful, the Dean of Admissions at St Matilda’s College, Cambridge was also objective and mentally strong. Emily was Miss Dreamwrecker, the person who told hundreds of young people each year that they wouldn’t be joining her university. For some of them, that was the only goal they had ever set themselves in their developing lives. The only goal that had been necessary because it was the only goal whose realization guaranteed success. Parents had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds buying their children an education that enabled them to trample on the backs of poorer teenagers so they could clamber up to take their rightful places among the nation’s elite. And some families expected their offspring to go to Cambridge, or at least to the Other Place. It wasn’t simply their destiny. It was their ancestral right. A right that was handed down through the generations. When some young people received the letter that denied them their birthright they suffered a trauma that lived with them for the rest of their days. Indeed, Emily knew better than most that there were families out there who, although it may be unspoken, now expected nothing more from their sons and daughters than that they would be second-class citizens leading second-class lives. Because of the unreasonable and unfulfilled expectations that had been dumped on their young shoulders they felt rejected, shamed, inadequate, embarrassed, stupid. Dreams permanently wrecked at eighteen.

  Of course, not all families were so obsessive and, in Emily’s view, perverse. And on her desk sat the details of a young person who was clearly a model of rationality and reason. Emily hadn’t really needed to check the file even once, and here she was poring over it again. This application was one of those submissions that stood out in her memory like a silk Dior at a jumble sale.

  Naturally, Nicola Brown’s past exam grades had been the top ones, as were her predicted results. With the exam system now designed to make everyone feel good, rather than provide insights into their ability, that was a given; Emily knew she must have rejected applicants with first-rate minds simply because they didn’t have the opportunity to stand out – second-rate minds had been achieving first-rate grades for years. But there was no use feeling guilty about that, it was the politicians who made the rules, not her. This candidate had also become involved in plenty of activities beyond purely academic ones, and was successful at them as well, but that too was no more than standard fare for a good applicant. However, her personal statement was extraordinarily incisive and it combined with her other credentials to lift her to the top of the pile.

  Nicola Brown had stated clearly why she would love to go to Cambridge, and what she felt her presence would give to the university. Nothing smarmy or ingratiating, she had just set out her reasons logically and was spot on in her estimations of what she would give and get. She had obviously got herself up to speed on the latest developments in the branches of medicine which most interested her. She had stated that it wasn’t a duty for her to do this, but a pleasure, and she had the knack of writing in such a way that Emily felt she really meant it and wasn’t just tritely declaring what the admissions panel would like to read. And then she explained what she would do if her application failed. How bravely and cheekily refreshing! It wouldn’t be a disaster. Cambridge wasn’t the only place that enjoyed the presence of great minds, and she would seek them out elsewhere. Failure would be a hiccup, not a fatal coughing fit. She was tougher than that.

  Nicola was from Highdean, a school St Matilda’s was very familiar with. But she had only attended for the past three years. Before that she had studied at anonymous places. Certainly she hadn’t had the advantage of a prep school to guide her in the wily arts of getting into universities where the mediocre intellect has no right to be. There was no mention of foreign travel in the application. No love of pleasures like skiing or wine or collecting art. No silver spoon in the maternity ward when Nicola Brown came into the world, then. More like iron, but Emily had the feeling it would have been polished as shiny as mum and dad could make it. This was the sort of applicant the Dean of Admissions admired, and there was nothing grudging about that admiration. Nicola was someone who had made it through brilliance, hard work, determination. Everything about her screamed that her Bio-Medical Admissions Test and interview would have made her shine even more brightly.

  But, of course, her application didn’t get that far. What a shame this girl threw it all away. At seventeen years of age. Within a few weeks she would have received the letter welcoming her to the University to read medicine. She was one of the biggest certainties Emily could recall. How very, very sad.

  But Nicola Brown clearly wasn’t the model of rationality and reason she had appeared to be, decided Emily Roberts as she closed the file for the final time and placed it into her out-tray with a sigh. How on Earth a person of Emily’s experience could have been hoodwinked into believing this was a marvellous application, truly exceptional, she didn’t know. Looking at the file again, she still didn’t see it, couldn’t find the clue she should have spotted. But deceived she must have been. After all, rational and reasoned people don’t kill themselves, she concluded as she picked up the phone to dial the police officer to repeat what she had told him the day before. Not unless there’s something really got them down. Like a terminal illness. Or, though heaven forbid it would be something so shallow, trouble with a boyfriend.

  But, as Emily was so often reminded in her job, the brightest are sometimes the oddest.

  15

  Mrs Emmer answered the door immediately the bell was pressed and ushered Hart and Redpath inside. Her red and baggy eyes see
med pleased to see them, as though she feared that it may be somebody else who had come to visit her house. They were shown into the living room, its curtains drawn to keep out the prying eyes of nosey neighbours and callous reporters, so its lights still blazed as brightly as they had when Hart and Kanjaria had called during that awful evening three days before.

  Sebastian’s sister was sitting on the sofa, using the remote to flick off the television as the guests came into the room. Although she was fourteen she was a timid little thing and looked about ten. Mrs Emmer explained her presence, apologising for her daughter playing truant. ‘Rebecca didn’t want to go to school today. Everyone will be all happy and that, just before Christmas.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hart as he lowered himself into Clive Emmer’s chair. ‘How are you both bearing up?’

  ‘It’s not easy, Mr Hart, but we’re doing the best we can. And people have been very kind. We’ve even had visitors come over from the school; teachers, you know. Even Mrs Hargreaves herself popped in to say how sorry she was about everything.’

  ‘I’m sure many people are terribly saddened by what’s happened. Of course the loss is greatest for yourselves, but there will be many teachers and friends who feel it, too.’

  ‘Would you two gentlemen like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Mrs Emmer, that would be absolutely splendid,’ replied Hart. ‘I’ve not had a cuppa all morning and I’m absolutely gasping. Here, I’ll give you a hand,’ and he followed the dumpy woman into the kitchen.

  Hart filled the kettle while she got the cups and saucers from the cupboards above the work surface and Redpath hunted for the teabags.

  ‘Becky. Tea, Love?’ shouted Mrs Emmer to her daughter.