Dead Unlucky (11 page)

Hart was displeased. Fuming, in fact. He made his displeasure felt like a sudden thunderstorm drenching the garden party on a happy summer’s day.

‘I’ve not made myself clear enough and so I’ll move on a little quicker,’ he said. ‘One of your students has been murdered. I will catch his killer or killers. And I will do so with your help. You can offer that help willingly or you can have it forced from you. Either way, I will have it.’

‘I don’t know anything that can help,’ said Outbridge, pushing his thick spectacles along his nose. Hart ignored him.

‘Sebastian Emmer snorted coke in this place. If I ask enough people around here and tread on their toes hard enough, they will tell me that he also spoke to you here, at this club. I’d put my house on that and not fret a jot that I’d have to be kipping on the park bench. I can go into your school tomorrow, call all the teachers for a meeting, and tell them you used to meet Sebastian Emmer at The Temple. Have you sorted out alternative employment yet for next term?’

‘You can’t do that,’ said Chandler, his lip curling into a snarl. ‘Making threats and accusations through the back door. A lawyer would see to it that it was you who lost your job, not us.’

‘But these are not threats and accusations, Sonny Jim,’ replied Hart. ‘These are facts. And they’re not coming through the back door. I’m carrying them straight up the front garden path in broad daylight and pushing them right into your face. Am I finally being clear now?’

After the storm comes the peace, and after Hart’s fury came the calm. First show them you are mean, then show them you are kind. Not weak, but kind. And it’s the meanness that makes sure they know the difference.

‘Look, nobody’s out to put the wind up any of you three. But we need help to find who killed Sebastian, a kid at your own school after all, and the only things we know are that he took cocaine and that he took it here. Drugs and murder often sleep together and when you find one, you find the other. So, who dealt Sebastian his coke?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Sophie Rand, after giving some thought as to whether she was making the right move. He would find out anyway, so she decided to accumulate some brownie points. ‘But there’s a guy comes in here now and again who was friendly with Seb.’ And then, in case she was misunderstood, ‘I’m not saying he supplies, but they hung out together. He may be able to help out.’

‘And what’s his name?’

She hesitated before answering. ‘Danny. Danny Moses.’

‘Is he in here now?’

‘No. He’s not a regular, but he shows his face now and again.’

‘Thanks, Ms Rand. That may be helpful.’

‘And, Mr Hart.’

‘Yes?’

‘Danny’s a big hitter. I don’t think he’d be too pleased to hear his name mentioned, even though I’m not saying he’s dodgy. I’m not saying that at all, if you know what I mean.’

Hart did know what she meant. ‘I know you’re not, but I’m sure he’ll understand that we have to speak to all of Sebastian’s friends and people who knew him. No need to worry, he won’t hear your name.’ Hart knew that, actually, there may be a need for the young woman to worry. That would depend upon the nature of Danny Moses and the degree of his inclination to demonstrate the understanding Hart had mentioned.

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.

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.