Dead Unlucky (19 page)

‘How about if we take the bridleway here,’ Nicola had suggested, running her finger along a dashed green line on their Ordnance Survey map. ‘Although it’s a bit further to walk it’ll be quicker because it’s a better track than the footpath and it doesn’t go up and down,’ she reasoned, now pointing at some tight brown contours.

‘Anything that doesn’t make me slog uphill is all right by me,’ agreed Hiba with a smile.

The girls were planning their route for a walk around Kinder Scout. It had rained heavily overnight but now the Sun shone brightly as they sat on the grass outside their orange tent and it made everything sparkly and new. A couple of pairs of legs came into view at eye-level, bared to the sunshine.

‘Hello Fibber, Knickerless,’ came the greeting from the owner of the front pair of legs, followed by a giggle from Timothy Grove standing behind.

‘Sebastian, you’re standing on the map,’ sighed Nicola.

‘I’m just helping you keep it flat,’ replied the young man, inching his trainers further onto the paper.

The two girls looked at each other for a few seconds and then their eyes shuffled back and forth to the legs. With perfect timing, as though they had practised the manoeuvre a thousand times before, their hands shot out and thumbs and forefingers pinched a few leg hairs and pulled hard.

‘Ouch! You bitch!’

‘Bitches, Sebastian,’ corrected Nicola. ‘There are two of us.’

Sebastian Emmer gave the map a kick and walked off, towing Timothy behind him.

‘Perfect,’ chuckled Nicola to her friend. ‘That’s the way to deal with him. Laugh at him and don’t let him get to you. He’s got no defence against it.’

‘What if it makes him come at you harder next time?’

‘He can’t. That’s all he’s got. He’s a bully but he’s not very good at it because he’s also a coward, so he can only rile you if you’re weak enough to let him.’

Three more pairs of legs appeared across the grass, the warmth inviting everyone to give their limbs an airing.

‘All sorted for your walk, girls?’ asked Sophie Rand. Then she looked down at the map. ‘What have you done with that? These things are expensive, you know.’

‘Sorry, Miss Rand,’ replied Nicola. ‘It was an accident. We’ll be more careful in future.’

‘I hope you’re not planning to go anywhere too dangerous,’ remarked Mr Outbridge.

‘Don’t be stupid, Paul. This is the Peak District, not the Himalayas,’ chided Mr Chandler. ‘I suppose you think they’re going to get buried in an avalanche, or a yeti is going to come out of the mist and gobble them up.’ He shook his head laboriously, exasperated with his simple colleague.

Mr Outbridge shifted his eyes to the crumpled map on the grass and then to the backs of Sebastian and Timothy as they reached their own tent. ‘Those two haven’t been bothering you, have they?’

The girls shook their heads. ‘No problem,’ replied Nicola.

‘Let’s have a copy of your route when you’re ready, girls,’ chivvied Miss Rand before the three teachers walked away.

‘I didn’t like that,’ said Hiba. ‘Chandler making fun of Mr Outbridge in front of us.’

‘He’s a really nice guy, a proper sweetie. And what he knows about birds would fill the British Library on its own.’

‘Who’s your favourite?’

‘Out of all the teachers at the school, Mr Outbridge and Miss Rand,’ replied Nicola without having to think.

‘Miss Rand?’ noted Hiba, surprised. ‘But you’re … you’re …’

‘Crap at sport.’

‘Just the phrase I was looking for.’

‘That’s why I like her. She doesn’t get into a strop just because I can’t hit a ball with a stick or jump a long way into some sand. She tries hard with me, even though it’s a waste of time. And she’s got a great sense of humour.’

The summer air was quiet for a while as the girls laid themselves out flat on the damp grass and watched the white fluff scudding high above them in the light blue distance.

‘Just think, our last year at school starts next week,’ observed Hiba eventually.

‘And we’ll be eighteen this year.’

‘Great. I’ll be able to get married without my parents’ permission.’

‘Which one will it be?’ asked Nicola, doing her best to keep a straight face. ‘Sebastian or Timothy?’

‘That’s a gross thought.’ They laughed. ‘But I’m sure the bliss of the wedding night would make up for a lifetime of misery.’

‘Now, that
is
a gross thought!’

‘I think I’ll have a party round my place,’ said Hiba. ‘My mum and dad said I could.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘No. Just my friends.’

‘It’s no use me throwing a party, not on the actual day anyway. No one would come.’

‘Your fault for being born on Christmas Day.’

Nicola twisted her neck left to look at her friend’s face. ‘Would you come to my house for my eighteenth?’

‘I’ll be free. After all, Christmas isn’t exactly the most important date on a Muslim’s calendar. I’d love to come.’

‘You’re sure?’

Hiba looked right and smiled. ‘Let’s make that a definite. I’ll be spending Christmas Day and her eighteenth birthday at Nikki Brown’s place, even if I’m the only one there.’ She reached out to give her friend’s hand a squeeze. ‘Nothing will keep me away.’

Boxing Day dawned mild and grey and drizzly, there had been no chance of a white Christmas that year. Hart slept in for an hour or so, something he rarely did, and so he wasn’t fully awake until the brightness gradually seeped through the curtains. He wasn’t due at work until lunch time and there was nothing much to do until then apart from read the skinny newspaper, so he didn’t begrudge himself his indulgence. What he really wanted was for the holiday season to get itself over with so he could carry on finding out who was murdering schoolkids.

He arrived at his office door to find an excited Redpath pacing the corridor.

‘Have you heard the news, Sir?’

Hart pushed the door open. ‘Unless it’s something to do with a virgin birth, I don’t think I have, Darren. Enlighten me’.

‘The weapon’s been found. The weapon used to kill Sebastian Emmer.’

‘Has it indeed? That’s a stroke of luck, all right. Go on.’

Redpath waited. He was enjoying this little sport, being the keeper of a flame of knowledge that even his boss didn’t possess. Hart allowed him the time to appreciate his moments of pleasure, there wasn’t going to be much business to get through that afternoon anyway.

‘There are still more tests to do to be dead sure, of course. You’ll never guess what it was.’

‘If you don’t get on with it, I might.’

‘Go on then. Have a go.’

Hart nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘If you’re really pushing me to speculate, I’d say the weapon’s a golf club.’

Redpath’s face wore the surprised look of disappointment of a little boy who’s just cottoned on that Father Christmas isn’t real after all.

‘You’ve seen the report. That’s cheating.’

‘Nope. I haven’t. And I’ll also tell you the club’s a sand wedge.’

Now the sergeant’s countenance suggested he was in the presence of the supernatural.

‘And I’ll also tell you it belongs to Ron Brown, Nicola’s father. Let’s sit ourselves down, Darren, and we can fill each other in on the bits we don’t know.’

After they had made themselves comfortable, Hart related the tale of his trip to see the Browns, being careful to keep his story identical to the mishmash of lies and truth he had conveyed to the Chief. He finished by telling Redpath about his snoop around their garage.

‘There were thirteen clubs in that golf bag, and that’s one short of a full set. And every set would contain a sand wedge, it’s a stock club. It’s also the heaviest, the one you’d choose for the job of walloping someone around the head. And where was it found yesterday? That much I don’t know.’

‘Some guy stumbled on it while he was taking his dog for a walk during the afternoon. He was out on the usual stroll of a bloke who wants to get himself away from his family and the claustrophobia of his house for half an hour. You know, out of that muggy Christmas front room.’ Hart nodded with a smile. ‘Anyway, he spotted the club just off the footpath in the woods a few miles away. It was half buried under some leaves. He had seen the publicity about the case and gave us a ring.’

‘We’re very lucky it was poking out then, aren’t we Darren? Because that’s a hiding place and a half, isn’t it? You’d expect a golf club to remain hidden under a pile of leaves for years, wouldn’t you? If you were trying to keep its whereabouts a secret, you’d actually be feeling really hard done by if another human being laid eyes on it ever again. Yep, it was certainly a wind of good fortune that gusted in to blow some of those leaves away.’

*****

It was early evening when Hart dropped in at The Temple for a second visit. There was no need to put on a show this time, so the fewer punters packing the place out the better. One of the bouncers recognised him but sensibly decided to ignore him; there was no point in setting up another confrontation which he was going to lose. The other shot Hart a smug and triumphant smirk, like he was sleeping with a weaker man’s wife and didn’t care if he knew about it, and Hart found the gesture rather odd.

Marco Bracken was already at his club, resplendent in another of his vast selection of execrable shirts, clashing violently with his trio of glistening medallions.

‘Mr Hart, it’s a pleasure to see you again, but I do wish you wouldn’t bother me at work.’

‘Well, the good news is that we can pop along to your office if you like, there’s no need for any more scenes like we had at our first meeting. I think we should try and get along a little better in future, don’t you?’ And Hart delivered him a phoney smile.

The manager’s office was unremarkable inside, just a few easy chairs in front of his own desk and a straight-backed swivel chair behind; the furniture of a million small offices. Three of the walls were unexceptional too, although their cherry-wood panelling surprised Hart by its good taste. The fourth was made of thick glass through which Bracken could spy on the boppers and the boozers having a good time below, and Hart glanced down at the corner where he had ambushed those three teachers. There was only a smattering of revellers down there at eight o’clock, but in a couple of hours the place would take off as the youngsters brought along their new Christmas clothes and jewellery and all their holiday excitement, everyone flashing their latest mobiles, blazing their brightest smiles, cramming the scene with one of the best buzzes of the year.

‘Thanks for the good wishes for Christmas, Mr Hart,’ began Bracken as they settled down. ‘Danny did pass them on. The bit about it being the last one I’ll be able to enjoy for a few years was a touch corny though, don’t you think?’ He manufactured a hurt expression. ‘And a touch offensive.’

‘I didn’t know you were so soft-hearted, Marco. I’ll try to be more considerate in future.’

‘So how can I help?’

Bracken wanted to get this evening’s business out of the way, he had a busy night ahead. His manner suddenly lacked even counterfeit warmth and his eyes were equally cold as they tried to pierce Hart’s own. In this clear light, away from the strobes and the flashing gloom, Hart could see that the man sitting on the other side of the coffee table was neither weak nor thick. On reflection, that made sense. This place employed nigh on a hundred people and packed in a thousand punters a night. You couldn’t be a complete dipstick and successfully run an operation like this.

‘What’s your relationship with Danny Moses?’

‘Relationship? What relationship? I haven’t got one. He’s a customer here, just the same as everyone else who comes through the door.’ And then, looking his guest up and down, ‘Well, almost everyone.’

‘Don’t ponce around with me, Marco. He drives your car, therefore you have a relationship. In the strictly innocent sense of that word.’

‘So that’s it? He drives my car, so that makes us great buddies? That thing’s a piece of prehistoric tat, he’s welcome to it.’

‘So you just toss the car keys to a complete stranger? Even if it was a heap of rust I don’t reckon someone like you would just give it away, and that one’s a more than decent motor.’

‘I didn’t say he was a complete stranger. He’s a good customer in this place, has been for years. And I take care of my good customers. So there’s no point in you rambling on about the car, that’s getting you nowhere.’

‘Where does Danny live?’

‘That seems something of a pointless question as well, considering you were at his place a couple of days ago. He lives in a fleapit on a manky estate.’

‘But where does he really live, Marco? Where’s his formal residence, the one he uses for special occasions like having a wash, not for business deals?’

‘Ask him. Look him up in the phone book. How should I know?’

‘I’ll tell you how you should know. Let me tell you what I think this relationship is all about.’

‘Go on. This should be entertaining.’

‘Danny Moses deals drugs at this club. That’s a given.’

‘No it’s not. That’s your opinion. A pretty whacky one at that.’

‘He can’t do that without the nod from you.’

‘My security people toss out loads of scum every month for trying to deal dope. You and I are in the same business, Mr Hart. The business of protecting vulnerable people. I look after the young persons who come into my club, and I keep the pushers off them.’

‘You kick the others out so Danny gets a clear run. In return for setting up this monopoly together, you do each other a few favours. Like he gets to drive a motor with nice red paint and shiny wheels, but it’s not registered under his name, that would attract attention from people like me. And you get a cut of what Danny earns, which in a place like this means there’s plenty to share.’

‘That’s a very serious allegation, Mr Hart, and one which is without foundation. Unless you have evidence for such a statement, I think it is pointless continuing this conversation.’

Marco Bracken was right. Hart had overstepped the mark. He tried to get himself back on safer ground.

‘Who were Sebastian’s mates while he was in here?’

‘Sebastian? Sebastian? Oh, yes, the young man who was killed. Surely I’ve told you that before, when I assisted you the last time you dropped in. But, as it seems you’ve forgotten, I’ll remind you that he spent most of his time with those three teachers, the ones you spoke to when you asked them about Mr Moses.’ He darted Hart a look which asked how he could be do dim. ‘Surely you remember them: the man, the woman and the mole. And he often had a spotty little friend keeping him company.’

‘And I’ll ask you one last time – who supplied Sebastian with his coke if you’re saying it wasn’t Danny?’

‘And I’ll
tell
you one last time – I don’t allow drugs on these premises. Maybe some people occasionally bring them in despite the best efforts of myself and my staff. After all, this isn’t the 1950s, when knocking back a bottle of brown ale meant you’d treated yourself to an enthralling night out. Kids nowadays expect, shall we say, a little more of a thrill than formerly. Most of them get it through downing an E or two now and again or some of the legal rubbish that’s flooding the market. It’s no secret that Sebastian preferred coke, the choice of pop stars, people who had made it. It’s expensive, he could swank a bit, set himself apart from the poor trash who couldn’t afford it.’

‘And where does Danny fit in to it all?’

‘Danny?’ Bracken forced a laugh. ‘What’s this obsession you’ve got with Danny? Danny’s a loner. Hardly mixes with anybody, especially kids like that. If anything, his best mate’s some old duffer, and I’ve never even laid eyes on him.’ Bracken looked at Hart like he had just swallowed something nasty. ‘Danny says he’s almost as old as you. And, talking of you, this is a young people’s place, so I think it’s about time you went home and tucked yourself in with a mug of cocoa.’ Bracken handed Hart his card. ‘If you want to annoy me again, do it at my house. I’ve got nothing to hide. And if you do give me a knock, I don’t want to hear any more of your funny stories. You should stop being a copper and get yourself a useful job. Like being a clown.’

Hart was sure it was Bracken who was spinning the yarns, not him. And he was reminded that life isn’t like a shoot-em-up movie where the baddies are all mean but all stupid. Hart was pretty sure Bracken was mean all right. But he wasn’t stupid. All Hart had got from their chat was that Danny Moses had an ancient mate, and he was only tossed that morsel because Bracken couldn’t resist a dig at him.

Bracken had won that encounter by a knockout, and it left Hart feeling very bruised. His humour wasn’t improved when he answered a phone call from Darren Redpath as he walked to his car.

*****

As he made his call, Redpath was running up the steps of The Princess Royal Hospital straight into the smell of frying chicken. The entrance introduced him to McDonald’s, a range of fast food cafes which would keep the cardiologists employed, and a kiddies’ play area. He walked quickly along the corridors, past the signs to obstetrics, ENT and the names of departments which advertised ailments from which he had thankfully been spared so far. Then he arrived at the rather more anticipated odour of antiseptic. All hospitals smelt like that to him eventually, and it reminded him of pain, misery and having your tonsils out when you were a kid. And then he had to take a lift to the sixth floor. Hospitals are like cities, boasting vast districts of different characters and functions. He eventually found the neighbourhood he had trekked all this way to visit, the Medawar Ward, Bay A2.

There were half a dozen beds in the bay and the staff nurse on duty pointed out the one he wanted. It wasn’t difficult to find anyway because Simon Chandler was sitting next to the patient, offering his time and his sympathy to Sophie Rand. Redpath wished he had the chance to see her alone, but he could hardly tell the other visitor to clear off. It wouldn’t have made much difference to the privacy of their conversation anyway, as the beds on either side were both occupied.

‘Ms Rand, I’m so sorry this happened,’ he said, offering formal commiserations on behalf of the force. ‘I’d like a few words if you’re up to it so we can find who did this to you as quickly as possible.’

‘I don’t think that should be too difficult, it’s pretty obvious. But I really don’t want to make a fuss over what happened.’

‘Exactly what
did
happen?’ persevered Redpath.