Dead Unlucky

by Andrew Derham

  ‘Nope, you’re right, they wouldn’t. See this?’ Hart reached inside his jacket to extract a plastic object which Rodgers at first thought was a small cheap cigarette lighter. ‘It’s a memory stick. I can load a computer programme into there and have it copied to your machine in a few seconds.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘And I could come back in a day or two, insert the stick into your computer again, and yank out the password you use to access your work account, your credit card number if you’ve entered it, and any other handy bits and pieces I might fancy finding out.’

  The Chief’s frown betrayed his disbelief that such miracles were possible.

  ‘A keystroke-logging programme records the strokes you’ve made on the computer keyboard. It’s a cinch to use. A schoolboy could do it. Perhaps a schoolboy did.’

  ‘So the note was written inside the girl’s network folder, but somebody else could have written it because they had copied her school password? Is that what you’re saying, Harry?’

  ‘No, I’m not saying somebody else could have written it. I’m saying somebody else did write it. That girl was a happy soul, she was bright and had everything to look forward to. If it’s necessary, the coroner will have her ear bent by a trail of people who knew her, queuing up to say just that.’

  ‘So why didn’t they say it before, when the Met were doing their investigations?’

  ‘They probably did. But those facts you were talking about spoke louder than the people.’

  ‘It’s not enough, Harry. Nowhere near enough. I am not going to the coroner asking her to grant an exhumation order based just on what you’ve told me. The press will be in a frenzy and they’ll tear us apart if it turns up nothing. And, anyway, I’ve already told them I shan’t question the Met’s findings.’ And then Rodgers pondered the derisive fury of Commander Sturgess of the Met, the wrath of his own Chief Constable, the wreckage of his reputation, and he sweated and breathed out noisily through his puffed cheeks. That wasn’t merely a nightmare. That was a lifetime of being relentlessly pursued by the most terrifying demons whenever his eyes were closed, or even during the waking hours that would fail to afford him a hiding place. ‘Not a chance. I’ve nothing more to say. I think you had better go, Harry.’

  The Chief had given the answer that Hart had expected. But Harry hadn’t finished. He laid his forearms on the desk before him.

  ‘Sir, you’ve got no choice in what happens next, and neither have I. The Browns will go to the coroner to request an exhumation of their daughter if we don’t. That’s a done deal, they made that plain the moment I stepped through their front door. The coroner will ask for my opinion, and I’ll have to tell her what I’ve told you.’

  ‘Suppose she asked you straight, Harry? Suppose she asked you whether this girl should be exhumed? What would you say to her?’

  ‘I’ll answer yes. I’ll say that not to do so would constitute negligence by all who have a responsibility to the family and a duty to discover for certain what happened to Nicola Brown. And I’ll also say that such a blunder may have a negative bearing on the investigation into the murder of Sebastian Emmer, because the two deaths may be connected.’

  Chief Superintendent Rodgers now looked wistful rather than angry; he wore the expression of a father reluctantly acknowledging his artless son’s wish to be an actor or social worker, instead of getting himself a proper job that would make him plenty of money.

  ‘You’ll throw away your career and your reputation if you’re wrong. It will finish you, and you’ll be crucified in full view of the whole country. This affair has turned into the nation’s big piece of Christmas news for heaven’s sake, Harry. Before asking the annual question last night about whether the Star of Bethlehem was a comet or a strange alignment of planets, they focused a camera on a reporter standing twenty yards outside your window.’ The Chief delivered what he thought was his final answer. ‘I won’t have anything to do with this. And neither will anybody else from this station.’

  ‘And when the Browns go to the coroner themselves? What if they get a result without our help and it turns out Nicola was murdered? We’ll look as compassionate as a crowd at a bullfight and as sharp as a punch-drunk boxer on the booze. That would be bad publicity all right, and the Lockingham force wouldn’t recover until after the inevitable clear-out when all of the senior officers had been transferred to administrative duties on the Moon.’

  The Chief knew this was true, but all it did was make him frustrated because he didn’t have an answer, not one that didn’t put him in even worse peril anyway, and his frustration showed. ‘I don’t care about any of that. Let the Browns do what the hell they like.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a middle way,’ suggested Hart. ‘I reckon this can be done without the force going out on a limb.’ He explained patiently. ‘Look, I’ll get the Browns to make the exhumation request themselves, so that it doesn’t actually come from us. But we can help them fill in the forms, get the fancy language right, present their case in the best possible manner. I can give them a hand with all that. This way, the force appears all caring and cuddly by helping them out, without necessarily supporting their application. They can sign all the bits of paper, and I’ll say what I feel needs to be said at the hearing, which will obviously be my personal opinion only. You don’t need to be involved at all.’

  ‘So if we do all that, why not run the whole show? That’s what people will ask. Why not do our job properly if we’re so sure? Why be so weak as to get our dirty work done for us by Mr and Mrs Brown? I don’t suppose you’ve thought of that, Harry.’ Rodgers was becoming agitated again. But Hart remained calm.

  ‘Other people don’t know the Browns like we do, Sir. They’re strong, determined folks and it’s their own daughter this affair is all about. They would insist this is done in their name because they owe it to her to make sure the truth comes out. And we’d be callous to disregard their wishes.’

  As Rodgers considered the scheme it became more to his liking and he gradually sat up a little straighter, like a heavy sack was being lifted from his shoulders.

  Hart finished painting the picture for him. ‘If it turns out that Nicola was murdered, everybody involved in making the request looks good: the Browns, the force, all of us.’

  ‘Except the Met, of course,’ noted the Chief, momentarily looking pleased with that realisation.

  ‘I’d not thought of that, Sir,’ Hart lied again. ‘But if it goes pear-shaped, then the Browns will be regarded as amateurs who acted as they did due to the understandable stress of anguished emotion. That’s no problem for them because they’ll get lashings of sympathy, not blame. And me? Well, you’ve already looked into the crystal ball and seen my future. But you and the rest of the force are in the clear whatever happens.’

  Rodgers leaned back in his leather chair, pursed his lips together and slowly nodded his head, a paragon of sagacity. ‘Harry, I’m sorry if I was a bit harsh on you a few minutes ago, but it was one hell of a shock you presented me with, talking about an exhumation of a kid right out of the blue. And, after all, it did look like you’d been insubordinate and gone behind my back.’

  ‘Nothing to apologise for, Sir. I agree it looked a bit odd, but I wouldn’t disregard a clear order like that from you on purpose. Not in a million years.’

  ‘No. No, of course you wouldn’t. Maybe I’m a bit touchy, what with Christmas coming up.’

  ‘Understandable, Sir. You have yourself a merry Christmas,’ said Hart, as he reached the door.

  ‘Thanks, Harry. You too. And, Harry.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Good luck in this enterprise. I’m with you all the way.’

  24

  If somebody had told Harry Hart a week earlier that he would be sitting at a dinner table on Christmas Day next to the newest recruit at the Lockingham factory, with her mum and dad and her little brother completing the quintet, he would have done them the favour of looking up psychiatrist in the Yellow Pages to sa
ve them the bother. So how did it happen? How did an unwelcome, not to say slightly peculiar, encounter during the purchase of a pound and a half of braising steak lead to Harry sharing the big day at the home of four strangers?

  It certainly had something to do with Arthur Rhodes and the exhortation he delivered in The Pickled Firkin for his mate to make an effort to enjoy himself, with its undertone of disapproval that he wouldn’t get anywhere by wallowing in self-pity. That began it all, but there was more. The past few days had brought home to Hart like never before that there were just too many dead people in the world, people who were past having a good time. And, what’s more, they’d left behind folks who really couldn’t be expected to party their lives away. He didn’t suppose that Ron and Daisy Brown would be belting out Happy Birthday, Dear Nicola today as they lowered funny hats onto their heads to celebrate the births of Christ and their daughter. No, Harry had decided that he should demand it of himself to make the effort that Arthur had encouraged. In fact, having a crack at enjoying a good time on Christmas Day seemed to him to be just about an obligation.

  Hart thought to himself that he had never been in a house quite like this one, although he didn’t mean that as a criticism. But it seemed especially weird today, when most dwellings in Lockingham would be adorned with angels and Santas, plastic trees and tinsel, paper decorations and jolly baubles. The Kanjarias’ home had its own embellishments, some of them as jovial, others definitely not.

  ‘So who’s this then, Jatin?’ asked Hart, being careful not to touch the Hindu murti, in case it wasn’t the done thing.

  Asha’s little brother was eager to instruct him. ‘That’s Lakshmi, she’s got four arms and she’s standing on a lotus flower.’

  ‘And we make sure we keep her happy by presenting her with offerings every day,’ volunteered Nirupa Kanjaria. ‘She’s the goddess of wealth and good fortune so we certainly don’t want to fall out with her.’ As she disappeared into the kitchen, Hart reflected that her emerald-green and ruby-red sari trimmed with gold constituted a novel yet gorgeous Christmas costume.

  ‘And this pair?’

  Asha answered this time, and treated him to a short lesson as she could feel he was genuinely interested and not just making polite conversation. ‘Rama and Hanuman, the monkey-god. Rama’s an avatar of Vishnu, the Preserver. That is, he’s an incarnation, or representation, of him. Lakshmi’s his wife.’

  ‘All of the gods are ultimately differing manifestations of the source and sum of the universe, called Brahman,’ related Sanjay. Like his daughter, he sensed that Hart really wanted to know. ‘Brahman is not a god, more an essence that infuses all creation, and we need to use numerous depictions of the characteristics of Brahman to help us understand such a difficult concept. That’s why we need so many gods, they actually represent those characteristics of Brahman, because the universe is such a complex and diverse place to comprehend.’

  ‘Too complex for me, I reckon,’ agreed Hart, sipping at a sherry. ‘But even I know this chap here. Ganesha.’

  ‘That one’s easy,’ lectured Jatin,’ because of his elephant’s head.’

  ‘The god of wisdom but, unfortunately, not of good manners,’ said Sanjay, ruffling his son’s hair.

  ‘He also has endless compassion. Just like my father,’ rejoined Jatin with a shrewd smile.

  ‘And who’s this?’ asked Hart, padding over to the to the mantelpiece in his grey socks and pointing out a bronze figure with several arms, dancing inside a circle of fire.

  ‘Shiva is often referred to as the Destroyer, Harry,’ instructed Sanjay, ‘but that’s a little bit of a misnomer. He’s not really the villain some people make him out to be; he’s more the god of rebirth, of regeneration. It’s impossible to reap the benefit of the new until the old has been put away; without the winter there could be no spring. He doesn’t just ride over the Earth looking for people to kill for a bit of a lark as some people who make little effort to understand Hinduism might like to suppose. But when he stops dancing it’s time for this universe to end, so let’s hope he keeps going a little longer.’

  Although he would have liked to have learned more, the end of Hart’s introduction to Hindu theology was at least heralded in the most marvellous fashion by Mrs Kanjaria’s return to the dining room, bearing a giant of a turkey. George the butcher had been right in his description of a monster because it really was a beast of epic proportions. Harry was thinking that, however the day turned out, it wasn’t going to be all bad, the food would certainly be more bountiful than the sparrow he would have served up for himself at home.

  Mrs Kanjaria rested the heavy platter on her husband’s place-mat and he began carving while she returned to the kitchen with Asha to collect the vegetables. Sanjay and Harry had a glass of red wine each, everybody’s plate was stacked to overflowing, and the usual compliments were afforded to the cook. And every one of them deserved, she had served up a feast.

  ‘Oh dear, I’ve forgotten the napkins,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry on my account,’ replied Hart. ‘I don’t think I’ll be looking to spill any of this down my front.’

  ‘I wish we could have turkey more often,’ suggested Jatin.

  ‘Then it wouldn’t be special,’ replied his mother. And now to Hart. ‘We are in the fortunate position of being able to enjoy the best of two cultures. We can throw out the bits of each we don’t like and savour those that we do.’

  ‘And Christmas is on the list of hits?’ enquired Hart, although the answer was obvious.

  ‘Certainly. One of our favourite occasions, although we don’t go in for absolutely all of the trimmings. Again, we can be very picky and just adopt the parts we like or which aren’t too much trouble.’

  ‘Like the turkey,’ volunteered Jatin.

  ‘He’s only interested in taking up traditions which fill his belly,’ teased the boy’s elder sister.

  ‘I can relate to that, he’s an astute young man. A nice drop of wine, too, Sanjay,’ said Hart, lifting up his glass.

  ‘Thanks, Harry. It’s good to have someone to share it with. After dinner, we’ll round it off with a glass of that malt you brought round if that’s okay. It’s not often I get the chance to enjoy a drink. My wife doesn’t allow it.’

  ‘Don’t you listen to him, Harry; making me out to be an old dragon like that. And you don’t have to worry about Asha, either. You treat yourself to a little drink and don’t fret that she will blab. A police officer must be able to keep her mouth shut. You could dance on this table under the most intense intoxication and news of your entertainment for us would not reach the police station in the morning. If it did, Asha would be on the next plane from Heathrow to marry a man we’ve lined up for her in case she misbehaves. He’s eighty-three, has no teeth, and he beats his other ten wives with bamboo sticks.’

  ‘Mr Hart, my mum could chatter for England or India, and the country she chose to represent would win any gossiping competition,’ stated the embarrassed young woman.

  ‘I’m afraid it would be India then, as in all contests,’ explained Nirupa as she passed around the Brussel sprouts. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me. Of course we are English, and therefore British. We contribute to the economy of the country by what I hope is our hard work. My husband is an engineer for British Airways and my daughter is a British police officer, although I wish she had chosen a less dangerous career. But these are all superficial measures of Britishness.’

  ‘That all sounds pretty British to me,’ said Hart.

  ‘Maybe, but the real determinant of how English a person is must of course be their views regarding cricket. And I have to say that we are all supporters of India, we fail the test. There are certain emotions that tug at the heartstrings more than language or colour or politics, and they cannot simply be discarded by settling in another country. Certainly, we do our civic duty and we vote for whichever of those scallywags we find we dislike the least. But that’s merely politics, nothing important. So by doing
so we don’t have to abandon something which is embedded in the soul, like the loyalty to one’s cricket team. In a generation or two, Asha and Jatin’s children or grandchildren, they will probably shout for England. But for now, I’m afraid, we are all just a little bit foreign.’

  ‘Are you a cricket fan, Harry?’ asked Sanjay, hoping he had found a soulmate to welcome into the family. He wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘Love it. One of the two great games.’

  ‘And the other’s football?’ Asha asked the question, and the four Kanjarias stopped eating, forks suspended in mid-air as they awaited a reply which was clearly important to them.

  ‘Sad to say it’s rugby,’ said Hart, misjudging the answer they had hoped for.

  ‘That’s a relief!’ exclaimed Sanjay, and merriment returned to the table, as though Harry had been under suspicion of a terrible sacrilege but was now proven innocent.

  ‘If I want to watch a load of grumpy and objectionable men shout, spit and swear, I could stand in front of my bathroom mirror and do it myself. It would save me fifty quid a time as well.’

  ‘You’re not that grumpy, Mr Hart,’ said Asha.

  ‘Now, don’t be so rude to our guest,’ chided her mother.

  ‘And don’t be so dishonest either, Asha,’ scolded Hart. ‘You know full well I’m the most crabby worker at the factory, so don’t malign my hard-won reputation.’

  After the sumptuous dinner came the Christmas pud, surrounded by a moat of creamy old-fashioned custard. That lot filled Hart to the brim, but it would have been a sin not to make room for a little Stilton marinated in port. It had only been soaking for a day or two, probably just since he had phoned to accept the invitation, so it wasn’t as soggy as it should have been. But it was a delight he hadn’t enjoyed for years.

  ‘Do you have any children, Harry?’ asked Sanjay as he passed him his coffee.

  ‘A girl in Canada and a lad down in Australia. We keep in contact, the occasional email and phone call, but it’s not the same.’