Dead Unlucky

by Andrew Derham

  He wasn’t pleased to see Hart standing on the doorstep of his investment late in the morning of the second day of the year, but he reluctantly invited him in and did his unnatural best to be civil. He was even more put out when Hart asked him for his recollections of the party he had attended the previous September, the gathering to celebrate Paul Outbridge’s twenty-fourth birthday.

  ‘It was just a party, that was all. Nothing exceptional to it. A few of Paul’s friends getting together and having a good time.’

  ‘Did everybody have a good time?’ asked Hart. ‘How about Mr Outbridge himself?’

  ‘Sure, why wouldn’t he? It was his birthday, after all. He was pleased to see everybody. I think he was actually a little bit embarrassed in a happy sort of way that so many friends had turned out.’ Chandler proffered a grin to tell Hart he knew his friend was inadequate, and it showed just how magnanimous he was to be pleased for him.

  ‘It wasn’t only his friends who were there though, was it? A fair few other people decided to gatecrash the shindig. Danny Moses and a few of his mates for starters. I bet Mr Outbridge was dead chuffed when they turned up to drink his beer.’ Hart’s eyes shuffled around the room as he spoke. They settled on Chandler’s sideboard with interest and he pushed himself up from his seat while the teacher thought of a riposte.

  Chandler’s head swivelled to follow Hart as he wandered across the room. ‘Actually, you’re wrong there. I think Paul felt it was quite exciting that people who were a bit, how shall I put it, dangerous, turned up on his big day. It made him feel like he was one of the lads.’

  ‘Hello, sailor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just introducing myself to your little statue here,’ answered Hart politely as he picked up the figure from the sideboard. ‘And how did England’s revered maritime hero come to be standing among your cups and saucers?’

  ‘Oh, that! I can’t remember where he came from, I’ve had him for years.’

  ‘Mr Chandler, I’ll only forgive a lie like that the once. Now, I’m brewing up a storm and I don’t much care whether you get blown away by it or not.’

  ‘If you must know, I took it from Paul’s. I suppose you’re going to arrest me for theft.’

  ‘Yes, I must know. And leave any sarcasm to me, because I’m better at it than you.’ Hart sat back down and looked at the tacky figure as he held it between his thumb and forefinger. At least they had managed to chop the right arm off. ‘Go on then, Mr Chandler. Why did you take Mr Outbridge’s model of Nelson from his flat?’

  Chandler rubbed his face and sighed, embarrassment disguised as tedium. ‘Before the party, we decided we’d all pinch something. Nothing valuable, it was just for a laugh.’ Hart’s impassive face did not join in with the joke. ‘Come on, Mr Hart. You know what a nerd Paul is, it was just for a giggle. I always meant to give it back, just drop it into his bag or something, but I never got round to it.’

  ‘So were you all in on this jolly jape?’

  ‘Just the four of us. Me, Sophie, Seb and Timothy. The others didn’t know Paul that well, we thought it would be a bit unkind if we got them involved.’

  ‘So, out of kindness, you restricted your membership of the band who had invaded his home for his birthday party so that they could pilfer his possessions to only his very best friends.’ Chandler thought Hart sounded like a nagging vicar but deemed it prudent to keep his opinions to himself. ‘So who nicked what?’

  ‘I took the statue. It was a bit obvious really when you think he keeps them for show on his mantelpiece. Timothy swiped a cheese grater from the kitchen.’ Chandler sported a juvenile grin as though he thought that funny despite himself. ‘And Seb took a magazine from his bedroom. And that was it.’

  ‘What about Ms Rand? What was her booty?’

  ‘She backed out. Said she had second thoughts, decided it was being a bit cruel, especially as it was his birthday party. I suppose she’s not so unkind as the rest of us, probably because she’s a girl,’ replied Chandler, confessing the defect of spite on behalf of the entire male gender.

  ‘What was the magazine about?’

  ‘Weird stuff. We all had a big laugh about it afterwards, even Sophie. Some old dog with a whip and kinky boots pretending to tie a bloke up and give him a spanking. We think that’s why Paul never asked us about the stuff that went missing, he would have had to take the ribbing about the magazine.’ Chandler smiled at a memory. ‘Mind you, Sebastian took the piss anyway, about him being a perv for being into that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Did you know that the person who killed Sebastian was wearing size eleven boots?’

  This change of direction unsettled Chandler, and he shifted himself about in his armchair. ‘Lots of people wear size eleven, I’m sure.’

  ‘But, unlike you, most of them didn’t know Sebastian Emmer. I’d like us to go through your alibi one more time. Just to be certain. Where were you again on the evening he was killed?’

  But Hart wasn’t really interested in the answer. He wished it had been Simon Chandler who had killed Sebastian Emmer. Sour, mean, cowardly, sullen Simon, who enjoyed watching other people being taunted, but who never had the guts to be anything more than a spectator, or the source of merely petty unkindness, himself.

  But, sadly, it was somebody else.

  *****

  ‘Harry, how are you getting on with those murder investigations?’ asked the Chief as they passed on the stairs. ‘I hear you’re close to pulling in the girl’s murderer, but are still some way off from finding the boy’s. Just a reminder that the press are getting restless for some robust news after their festive break. They won’t forget. They never do.’

  ‘Veritable elephants those reporters, Sir. But it turns out that things have swapped around a bit and I’m actually a tad closer to finding Sebastian’s killer after this morning. I need a lab report before I’m certain about Nicola, and I shan’t make a move on either case until I’ve got all the details sorted out.’

  ‘Are they connected? Is that much known for certain?’

  ‘Kind of. If Sebastian hadn’t dabbled in drugs, no one would have had a motive to kill Nicola. And if Nicola hadn’t been killed, nobody would have done away with Sebastian.’

  The Chief pursed his lips and nodded gravely, an indication that he understood perfectly.

  ‘By the way, Sir, I’m off down to London this afternoon to see a diplomat very high up in the Egyptian embassy. Very high up indeed,’ teased Hart.

  ‘Be careful, Harry.’ The Chief wouldn’t have looked more worried if his pressed navy blue trousers had been on fire. ‘The last thing we want in Lockingham is a diplomatic incident.’ The less he knew, the less he would fret, so he changed the subject. ‘Sorry to hear the evening with Patricia Luft didn’t go too well.’

  ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Sir. It’s her that’s off to jail.’

  *****

  Hart’s drive to London resolved the questions that only the best friend of Nicola Brown could answer, and there was now little doubt remaining in his mind as to who had killed the school students. He had to spend three hours on a journey which provided him with just a twenty minute chat, but it had been worth it. And at least Hart could put the trip to Mayfair on his expenses form this time.

  Hiba Massaoud had turned out to be a delightful girl: erudite and well-spoken, charming and polite, forthright and helpful. In her cultured bearing and her integrity she reminded Hart of her father. But her lovely nature had made the conversation even more painful for Hart because it was clear that grief was still oozing from her pores.

  The lab report on Nicola’s clothes came through on the evening of the next day and it confirmed what Hart had learned from his conversation with Hiba. Early on the final morning of the school holiday, it was time for Harry to take a last swig of his tea, grab his coat, and head off to apprehend the killer of a schoolkid.

  46

  ‘Good morning,’ pronounced Hart as he stood on the doorstep side by side wi
th Asha Kanjaria. The coldness of his voice and the grimness of his face actually stated that the beginning of the day was anything but good, not even verging on half-decent. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘I suppose I can’t really say no, but why you have to drag me out of bed at this hour to ask questions I’ve answered a thousand times already, I’ve no idea.’ A pair of rubbed eyes peered into the early morning with distaste. ‘It’s still dark out.’ The front door shut and they walked into the small living room in silence.

  ‘I’ve not come here to ask you any questions, Ms Rand. I’ve come to arrest you for murdering Nicola Brown.’ Before she could break her horrified silence with a hackneyed protest drenched with indignation, Hart continued. ‘You’ll need to change out of your dressing gown before we take you to the police station.’

  The clicking of an opening door at the end of the short hallway was followed by a familiar voice announcing itself. ‘Who’s that, Sophie, banging on the door at this time of the morning? Whoever it is, he’ll be out on his ear.’

  Immediately Darren Redpath’s eyes came into view, above a body concealed only by a white towel around its waist, Hart’s own gaze bore into them like a pair of six inch nails. ‘Get changed. Get to the station. And do it now.’ Redpath spun around and fled to retreat out of the range of those spikes.

  Sophie Rand started after her boyfriend as he made his way back to their bedroom. Hart barked at her. ‘Wait until he’s gone before you get changed yourself. Sit down.’

  She tried to regain her poise and began the process of denial. ‘I don’t know how you think you can pin that on me. I suppose you can’t find the real culprit, so you think I’ll do.’

  ‘I’m pinning this on you because you strung up a seventeen-year-old girl to die. More than that, instead of killing her quickly, you let her stand on the side of a bath for hours with a rope around her neck while she knew she was going to be pushed off and hanged. Just so it would look like suicide.’ Before he had knocked on the front door, Hart had promised to keep himself calm, but his anger was boiling and he almost shouted. ‘And hanged by the person who was meant to be looking after her. You, her teacher and the person trusted with taking care of those girls.’ He recovered himself and quietened his voice, so there was a chill when he asked, ‘What did you feel when you looked into her terrified pleading eyes and nudged her to her death? How could you still go through with it?’

  Sophie Rand adopted a simultaneously defensive but aggressive pose, like a cornered cat with its claws out. ‘I’m going to sue you for talking trash like that. What makes you think you can come round my flat and accuse me of that sort of stuff? Why are you saying it was me anyway?’

  ‘You made a mistake going to Patricia Luft’s party with Darren Redpath. I had wondered why he detested Paul Outbridge so much, why he kept telling me to pull him in for murdering Nicola. You fed him those lines, didn’t you? Just like you used Mr Outbridge’s handcuffs, and stuck a few of his cat’s hairs on the rope and on Nicola’s clothes in case the suicide trick didn’t come off. Geeky Paul Outbridge can go down for life. Who cares?’

  ‘A great theory, but one that won’t put me in court. Especially for something I didn’t do.’ Hope was returning. If that was all he had, maybe she really could sue him.

  ‘No, that won’t put you away. It’s the fibres that will do that. The fibres from your green pullover.’ Sophie Rand’s insolent stare challenged him to continue. ‘Fibres from a green pullover were found on Nicola’s night clothes. A green jumper similar to the one you wore at camp in August, similar to the one you were wearing when Hiba Massaoud called you after she found her friend’s body.’

  ‘Exactly. So that’s how they got onto her clothes.’ Hart ignored the jutting of her upper body towards him as she spoke, making the unuttered statement that he was stupid.

  ‘The same jumper you wore when you chloroformed Nicola and carried her to the bathroom. Of course, it made good sense to wear exactly the same clothes again when you arrived with that manufactured shock in the morning. But, you see, those fibres are heavy around the middle of Nicola’s own nightdress, just as they would be if she was clasped over a person’s shoulder. And prominent around the back, where she had an arm wrapped around her as she was being carried. Elsewhere, there are far fewer. Of course, you won’t have that jumper any more. But identical fibres will be found in this flat. In your car. In your school apartment.’

  ‘You’re still forgetting something. Something a bit obvious.’ She shifted her body forward again but, despite her words, with less confidence this time. ‘I was bound to get stuff from my jumper on her clothes. It was me that lifted her into the bath when Hiba untied the rope.’

  ‘Yes, you did. That would have been a prudent move. Except you bottled it. This wasn’t the same unconscious but living girl you’d slung over your shoulder a few hours before. This was a corpse that had been hanging dead half the night. Nicola’s clothes were soiled. She smelt awful. Her tongue was hanging out, her dead eyes were gazing down at the floor, stuck to a drooping head unsupported by a limp neck, and her limbs were blue. A witness says you held her under her armpits at arm’s length to lay her in that bath; no way did you fancy tangling with the mess you had created. Those areas of heavy fibre residues could only have been deposited on Nicola’s clothes when you put her up, not when you took her down.’

  Redpath had tiptoed back into the room and stood there clutching an overnight bag; a ridiculous, bumbling figure. ‘Sorry, Sir. I’ll see you back at the station then, Sir.’

  As he moved towards the front door, he heard a shout behind him. ‘Don’t come back. You can’t really think I enjoyed having an arrogant pig in my bed.’ And then to Hart. ‘He thinks he’s God’s gift. It would have been marginally less revolting sleeping with you.’

  *****

  Even during the fairly lengthy span of Hart’s career, it was unusual to wrap up two cases of murder on the same day. But, just as no two victims are identical, their killers also are constructed from different mental components, their evil plunging to differing depths. So it was with sadness rather than a sense of fulfilment in a job well done that Hart paid a second visit of the morning to another household which should have dreaded his knock on the door. He was surprised by the welcome he received.

  ‘You’ve come to tell me you’ve found Nicola’s murderer!’ exclaimed a hopeful voice as the door was pulled open.

  ‘We probably have, but –’

  ‘That’s wonderful news! The best news anybody could hope for! I’m so excited I don’t think I’ll stop celebrating for a month!' The thrilled tremor in the voice lowered itself to a tone of conspiracy. ‘Who did it? Who was the beast who killed Nicola? Was it Sebastian? I knew it was.’

  ‘Paul,’ began Hart after reaching the tidy living room and setting his hands on the back of a chair littered with a smattering of cat’s hairs, ‘you know I didn’t come here to tell you that. I’ve come to take you away for killing Sebastian Emmer.’

  ‘Christmas has come late for me this year. You’ve brought me the best present I could have hoped for!’

  ‘Sebastian made fun of you for having that magazine which he took, so you assumed he must have taken the handcuffs as well. That’s why you thought he had killed Nicola. That and his obvious hatred for her. And so you murdered him. Maybe you found out Ron Brown played golf when you were at his house, and it would have been easy enough to nip into that garage for the club.’ After telling Outbridge how he knew he was guilty, Hart wondered why he was bothering to argue against a denial of murder that never came.

  ‘But you’re not lying to me are you, Chief Inspector? You wouldn’t do that, would you? You really have found the person who did this thing to Nicola?’ Some of the excitement had metamorphosed into worry as Paul Outbridge sat down to make himself comfortable, a concern that he had misunderstood the policeman.

  ‘No, I’m not lying to you, Paul. It does look like we have found the person responsible.’

&n
bsp; Paul Outbridge leaned back in his chair and smiled. He was more than content; for the first time since he had met the man, Hart saw a picture of real joy painted on his face. ‘Come on, Paul. You had better get your coat.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ came the happy reply as he stood up and made his way to the kitchen. ‘I’ll just make sure Mirabelle has enough to eat before we set off.’

  47

  Arthur Rhodes wasn’t the first person to pop into Hart’s office and congratulate him on his success. And even the Chief and Commander Sturgess in their joint news conference had generously acknowledged that they didn’t deserve all of the credit themselves, that recognition should also be afforded to “other officers” who had most certainly assisted in apprehending the suspects. As Hart poured Arthur his tea, Asha Kanjaria arrived to unload some paperwork.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Constable,’ offered Hart, ‘and take time out for a cuppa. You’ve been involved in this affair so you’re entitled to pick over the pieces with the pair of us.’ She was unaware of the honour accorded her of being the first constable ever to be offered tea in the very room where Hart had laid a thousand cases to rest.

  ‘So you’re the officer who gave my friend here his Christmas dinner,’ remarked Rhodes. ‘It was a feast by all accounts, but you’ll have to have him round a few more times before he catches up with a figure to be truly proud of,’ he continued, patting his belly.