In Loving Memory (Honey Laird Book 3)

by Gerald Hammond

  *

  The sergeant leaned against the door and did something out of Honey’s sight. ‘I do believe they’ve gone out and left the place unlocked,’ he said. ‘Very careless. I think I’ll step inside and leave them a note to warn them to be more careful.’

  ‘I think you should do just that,’ Honey said.

  The lobby of the flat was small and stuffy. The flat itself was very small. It had been decorated cheaply and by an amateur hand but by somebody with a good eye for colour. An open door showed a sitting room furnished with four unmatched fireside chairs and nothing else. There was a simple kitchen equipped, apart from the usual fittings and a minimum of white goods, with a kettle and a pathetic array of breakfast dishes and materials for one person. There was neither the smell nor the residual warmth of cooking.

  Another open door led to a bedroom holding a tidily made bed, a lightweight chair and a wardrobe. Pippa was pulling hard, her claws scraping on the bare linoleum. Honey wanted to look inside the other bedroom but she caught the sergeant’s eye and nodded at the closed door. Then she let Pippa pull her into the first bedroom. The Labrador had suffered only elementary and basic training but had learned by human praise and rewards what was to be expected – at a crime scene as well as in the shooting field – and her sudden determination was not to be ignored.

  Pippa took a seat in front of the locked wardrobe and would not be budged. Honey called back the officer.

  DS Blair arrived back in the doorway. ‘You’d better take a look in there, Inspector,’ he said indicating the other room.

  ‘I will. That’s what I came for. I’ll look in there if you look in here. Pippa doesn’t usually make mistakes.’

  Blair seemed to be on the point of objecting but he shrugged suddenly. The door to the other bedroom was standing ajar. She stopped in the opening. One glance was enough. She had only set eyes on Jem Tanar once before, but she had not forgotten the blunt head with outthrust jaw and crooked teeth nor the slicked-down hair. It was undoubtedly his body, very much deceased, that lay on the single, unmade bed. It wore jeans and a white T-shirt. The T-shirt now exhibited the slits and stains from three stab wounds, any one of which, it seemed to Honey, would have been fatal. The blood was black and mostly dry. It had puddled on the bedclothes. Even if he had been stabbed elsewhere, which was unlikely, he had certainly died where he lay.

  It rushed through Honey’s mind that the outlook was not good. It was bad for Kate’s hopes of keeping her secret safe. It was bad for Honey’s prospect of preserving her maternity leave intact. The outlook for the owner of the flat was worst of all – except, of course for Jem Tanar, for whom the doom had already arrived.

  Chapter Four

  Honey had seen many bodies in the course of her duties. At first, she had been horrified, empathizing bitterly with the deceased. In time she had learned to treat the body as just one more clue – a piece of meat that could tell a story. Usually, in the normal course of a detective’s job, she had been called after death had occurred and been certified; and however gruesome the scene she knew that it was there and could brace herself for it. The shock of the unpleasant and unexpected scene first took her breath away and then caused a sudden nausea. This had not yet been confirmed as a dead body. Part of her mind was sure of it and yet she suffered a primitive fear that if it moved . . . Anger followed – not at the death but at the sudden break in the chain of her enquiries. She pulled herself together and returned to the other bedroom.

  She was confronted by a scene that nearly pushed murder into second place. Pippa was still sitting where Honey had left her. DS Blair had opened the wall cupboard. It contained a stack of several white packets, some other materials, a chemical balance and a few of what seemed to be mixing tools. It took little effort to guess that this was the headquarters of a major drug distributor. Apart from the open door and the presence of two people and a dog, the room was totally tidy and the air smelled fresh as though the occupant had been absent for a few days.

  ‘The chiefs won’t be too happy with the corp next door,’ DS Blair said, ‘but they’ll be delighted with this lot.’

  ‘I expect so. Have you phoned in?’

  The sergeant seemed surprised. ‘Me? It’s your case and you’re the senior officer. I only came along . . .’

  ‘To unlock doors? Are you going to tell them that? Never mind. Do you have a radio?’

  DS Blair surrendered his radio. Honey called in to report the body. ‘We need the police surgeon, a pathologist, somebody from the Drug Squad, SOCO and whichever senior officer is going to take on the case. The procurator fiscal should be told. I’m here on a completely different matter and I’m still on maternity leave. I brought DS Blair along to keep it official.’ Detective Sergeant Blair raised an approving thumb. ‘I’ll remain here for the moment as a witness.’

  After a short delay, she was told that the police surgeon was on his way.

  ‘I strongly recommend,’ Honey said, ‘that no marked vehicles are shown in the vicinity and no personnel in uniform. The principal occupier of the flat may not know about the body. The body is already dead whereas a live drug dealer is still walking around. We should spread the net for him.’

  ‘I’ll pass it on,’ said the voice.

  Honey took Pippa down to the Range Rover. She phoned June to say that she was caught up in a fresh case and would come home when she could. June sounded pleased. They were interrupted by a fresh radio message. Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist would be taking charge. Detective Inspector Laird was to remain in charge pending his arrival, maternity leave notwithstanding.

  There came a rap on the window. One of the local doctors, frequently called on to act as a police surgeon, had recognized her or the car. She got out. ‘Doctor Wiseman,’ she said.

  ‘Detective Inspector Honeypot.’

  Honey pretended to give him a knee in the groin but cut the move short. The doctor grinned. He was a clean and tidy man in his thirties, well spoken and well mannered. He had a habit of needling Honey but in a friendly and almost affectionate manner, so she refused to allow his use of her despised nickname to rile her. She led him up to the flat, carefully closing the entry door behind them. She placed DS Blair on a chair behind the door with orders to check the identity of every arrival and to detain anyone without identification as being of the police.

  The doctor studied the body, checked the temperature and examined the eyes and the wounds.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he pronounced first. ‘You could see that for yourselves but it has to be certified. He’s been dead a couple of days, give or take quite a lot. The stab wounds are obvious and could have been fatal. I can’t see any other possible cause of death without disturbing the body in a manner that would send your pathologist nuts. No smell of drink or signs of drugs. No marks of ligatures or bruising. That’s all, folks.’ He left a smile to be shared between Honey, Sergeant Blair and the corpse and went about his business.

  The next arrival was a sergeant in the Drug Squad. He had recently arrived in Edinburgh, transferred from Strathclyde, and was unknown to either Honey or Sergeant Blair. The two sergeants nearly came to blows until identities were established; but thereafter the newcomer’s delight in the treasure trove was such that the men were soon buddies. The newcomer reported to his own department – Honey gathered that there was joy in heaven – and took over duty at the flat door.

  The trickle of arrivals became almost a flood. The pathologist and a photographer sidled around each other until the state of the body was fully recorded. The removal of the body was organized so discreetly that the mortuary vehicle was only at the door for a matter of seconds. DCI Gilchrist had arrived by then and made his own inspection of the body. He unleashed his team of SOCOs to make a total search and record of the flat. Anyone in white overalls was, he said, to remain clear of the uncurtained windows or keep below sill level.

  He took Honey into the sitting room, which seemed to have seen little use except perhaps as a venue for b
usiness deals. They sat on opposite sides of a dummy fireplace like a long established couple. The flat was cold so Honey switched on the electric fire and mentally damned any change to the status quo that might occur.

  The chief inspector was near retirement. Honey guessed that this level of seniority entitled him to conduct a murder investigation but that if the case escalated in complexity or in publicity value he would find a superintendent put in over his head. Honey had noticed that few people retain the figure of their earlier years but either run to bulk or become lean and stringy. DCI Gilchrist was following the latter course and his face was almost unlined so that he looked much younger than his real years. This was sometimes an advantage and sometimes the opposite. Beneath his silver thatch Gilchrist’s smooth face was both rosy and tanned, giving him the same appearance of reversed tones as an African with bleached hair. His manner remained fatherly. Honey had been warned that he was a stickler and that his temper was uncertain, but she thought that she might prefer him to her usual bête noir, Detective Superintendent Blackhouse.

  ‘Explain to me, please,’ he said, ‘how you come to be here.’

  Honey had had time to choose her words. ‘Although, as you know, I’m on maternity leave,’ she said, ‘I was approached by a friend of mine with a problem. Her house had been burgled and her husband’s camera stolen. She was not too worried about the camera itself, but it held photographs of an unrepeatable occasion. It is a digital camera and she wanted the memory card back. I put the word around that there would be a reward for the return of the camera and it was indeed returned, but without the memory card. An informant, under promise of confidentiality, told me that the camera, complete with card, had at some time been in the hands of Jem Tanar, the boy through there. I came here to find out about it and I brought Sergeant Blair with me to be the official presence should any situation arise. I should point out that I’m here as a witness and not as an officer, but I would be eternally grateful if—’

  She was interrupted. A large man in jeans and a hairy sweater carrying a haversack had unsuspectingly entered the lobby of the flat. Seeing all the activity, he had turned to flee, but had been pounced on. It took the combined efforts of Sergeant Blair, the sergeant from the Drug Squad and one of the SOCOs to bring him under control, by which time his haversack had spilled more white packets and some white powder. He was handcuffed and born off in triumph. A forensic technician was set to clearing up the scattered powder.

  Honey and the chief inspector resumed their seats. ‘You were promising eternal gratitude,’ he reminded her.

  ‘It seems,’ Honey said, ‘that I have already earned undying gratitude by uncovering the den of a major drug dealer. I was promising to invest some of that gratitude in you if you would get the searchers to look particularly for a Viking Interworks SD memory card. It’s very small. About an inch by an inch and a quarter and it would have a postcode written on the back, probably in ultraviolet security pen.’

  He regarded her dispassionately for a few seconds. ‘They should spot it,’ he said at last. ‘If I read you right, you seem to be asking for special treatment because you chanced on evidence of a drug dealer. I suppose we owe you something for your sensible suggestion that we set a trap. Now you’d better go and leave me to interview the last arrival. To save police time, write out a statement of all you know. You must be well aware of the form.’

  ‘I’d prefer to be present during the search, just as an observer.’

  ‘In this case, and at this point in it,’ said the chief inspector, ‘you are a witness and nothing more.’ She thought that he had nearly added my girl. ‘Who was your informant?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  He nodded. It was understood that the identities of informants could be kept absolutely confidential. The flow of information would be cut off if informants were at risk of their identities becoming known.

  *

  The flow of information within police headquarters was still rapid and all embracing. Honey had barely returned home before Detective Superintendent Blackhouse was on the phone. ‘What’s this I hear about you getting involved in somebody else’s case?’

  ‘I decided to spend a few hours of my maternity leave –’ she put emphasis on the two words – ‘trying to help a friend to recover some stolen goods. I found the body of the man I wanted to speak to. He had been stabbed. I’m a witness but not involved in the enquiries. As the finder of the body, I’m probably a suspect.’

  This flippancy was rightly ignored. ‘You seem to be involving yourself in some other enquiries. It seems you’re quite fit to return to duty. You already took some maternity leave before the birth.’

  Honey had picked up the call in the cluttered study and was perched uncomfortably in the hard swivel chair. She had already learned that if she knuckled down to the superintendent he would walk all over her. On the other hand, if she stood up to him he would crumble – she really must take more care with her metaphors, she told herself. Sandy was inclined to laugh at her when she scrambled them so utterly. ‘And during that period,’ she retorted, ‘you asked me to undertake some enquiries for you on the understanding that that time would not count against my maternity leave. I brought those enquiries to a successful conclusion and have spent some of the succeeding time in writing statements and precognitions and directing the processes of case preparation. A tribunal might decide that my maternity leave hadn’t even started yet. You’ll have to excuse me now, your goddaughter is crying for her mother. Sir,’ she added as an afterthought.

  The silence at the other end of the line was broken only by a faint sound as of a detective superintendent taking deep breaths. She thought that he might also be grinding his teeth. She disconnected. She settled herself more comfortably before phoning Kate Ingliston to break the bad news. ‘But cheer up,’ she told Kate. ‘The searchers may find it.’

  ‘Oh God! I hope so,’ Kate said. There was, Honey noted, no mention of shock or horror at the grisly death. ‘If they do, can you get it back for me without any of them looking at it?’

  ‘I have requested exactly that. Which may be all that was needed to make sure that one of them has a peep. But I don’t suppose that any of them know you by sight.’

  ‘Oh God, Honey, please be joking.’ Silence on the line was only broken by a loud sniff. ‘Do you think he was killed by somebody who wanted to get hold of my memory card? Have you let him make off with it?’

  That idea had never occurred to Honey. On the face of it, it was ridiculous. But Kate was overdue for a little more needling, Honey decided, for involving her in all this fuss and flap by being so indiscreet about her amours – and indeed for having the amours in the first place. And enjoying them: that was the ultimate sin. ‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘Luckily I can account for my time over the last few days. I hope that you and your boyfriend can do the same. You do make the obvious suspects. If he gets called . . .’

  ‘Now you’re pulling my leg,’ Kate said. ‘He couldn’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘But a defence lawyer might well use him as a red herring.’

  ‘How would a defence lawyer know anything about him?’

  ‘It is an obligation on the prosecution to reveal to the defence any facts that might contribute to the defence case.’ Honey disconnected. ‘And how does that grab you?’ she asked the dead phone.

  Chapter Five

  According to DCI Gilchrist, when they spoke next day, the searchers were adamant that they had gone through the flat with a thoroughness that would have disclosed individual fleas, and without finding anything of more interest than the drugs and evidence of some very strange sexual habits on the part of Jem Tanar. There was certainly no sign of a memory card. Honey had no reason to disbelieve either Gilchrist or the searchers. The card had little intrinsic value and she had stuck to the story that its value to the proper owner arose only from sentiment.

  Honey believed Kate to be praying, perhaps offerin
g to change her ways if only her maker would save her from disaster. Honey felt a certain curiosity as to the exact wording of the prayer but could not find an excuse for asking. Kate seemed to be in fear of public humiliation more than her husband’s wrath and kept her fingers crossed. Honey was awaiting a suitable opportunity to mention that if Kate had kept everything crossed instead of just her fingers her present anxiety need not have arisen. There are certain advantages in having a friend whose friendship is not particularly valued; freedom to speak out is the foremost of them.

  Honey rather felt that she had put out enough effort on behalf of her undeserving neighbour. She did retain enough interest to phone DCI Gilchrist to suggest that the drug peddler and official tenant of the flat might well know how young Tanar had come by the camera and how he had disposed of it. But the word that came back was that that individual would only say that he hadn’t the faintest idea and that if he did know he would rather be drowned in something unrepeatable than say a single word to the filthy fuzz who were trying to frame him for possession of substances that he did not possess, with intent to supply, which he never intended in the first place. And who was going to reimburse him for the value of the confiscated stock? They could not link him with what had happened to his flatmate, he said, because he had been away for the past week visiting his auntie in . . . in Bognor.

  Honey clung to her belief that Tanar had acquired the camera as part of a dodgy deal and that his killer had made off with it.

  After that, she tried to put the matter out of her mind. She had quite enough to think about. One of Sandy’s long-running cases, concerning suspected corruption in connection with a proposed oil refinery, was beginning to gather momentum and he was trying to be in three places at once. The Lairds had planned to take a Mediterranean break during Honey’s maternity leave but Sandy felt duty bound to see the case through until charges were filed. Honey was wondering how to juggle her own leisure when fate played into her hands. One of her colleagues broke both legs in a skiing accident and Detective Superintendent Blackhouse found himself without a trustworthy assistant to take charge of a minor but difficult case of arson and fraud. Honey allowed herself to be persuaded to do a turn of duty in exchange for the superintendent’s promise – a written promise, this time around – of time off in lieu.