Authors: Andrew Derham
‘The week after you got back from the school camp?’
‘That’s right. How did you know about that? Anyway, I didn’t really want a party but my friends insisted.’
‘Which friends?’
‘Teachers from school. They’re the only friends I have around here.’
‘Who came to the party?’
‘The teachers. Maybe five or six of them. Two students, Sebastian and Timothy. And they brought around a whole lot of people who I didn’t know. It was really unfair. They weren’t my friends and I hated that party.’
‘Why was that, Paul?’
‘It was like they were laughing at me. Like they could all just turn up, get drunk and then go somewhere better. They weren’t really my friends, not proper friends. Proper friends wouldn’t do that.’ Outbridge carried on winding himself up. ‘Sebastian and Timothy were the worst. They brought along people I hadn’t even seen before, didn’t even like.’
‘But you can remember them? Well enough to describe them?’
‘One was that man you asked us about when you came to The Temple. That drug dealer.’
‘I would prefer it if you said his name, Paul,’ suggested Hart.
‘That Danny. Danny Moses.’ He continued gabbling, his speech becoming louder as its pace accelerated. ‘And none of them brought me a present. In fact I even lost something, one of my seaside ornaments, one of those that I put over there.’ Outbridge gestured at the mantelpiece. ‘They just laughed at them. Thought they were funny. But my mum and dad went to Norfolk and brought me one back from Cromer and somebody took it. Just to be unkind. Why do people have to be unkind to me all the time? Even at my birthday party. It was a little statue of Nelson, he came from round there. Why would somebody take my little statue of Nelson just to be unkind? The one my mum and dad gave me?’
‘I think we had better get off to the station now, Paul,’ said Hart softly. ‘When we get there, you can write your statement and you can jot down the names of everybody who was at your party. Finish combing Mirabelle before we go.’
‘Will you tell me why you want her fur?’
‘Some of her fur may have been found on Nicola’s clothes, Paul.’
‘But that could have come from any cat, not necessarily my Mirabelle.’
‘It could have, but the scientists nowadays can be pretty sure about things like that. Admittedly, not dead certain unless they have the hair roots. But when the handcuffs are taken into account, those two pieces of evidence together won’t look too good, Paul. That’s why you have to get this statement just right, no trying to mess me about.’
‘I loved Nicola,’ muttered Outbridge one last time.
Hart and Redpath left the apartment with six items in their pockets – five bags of cat fur and a murder suspect.
*****
Hart had waited a few hours before he made the phone call, so as not to appear too keen. That was the conventional wisdom in matters regarding the early stages of courtship, and this insight seemed to make sense, even to such a naive apprentice in such matters as Harry. He was amazed when Patricia Luft asked whether he was free that same evening. New Year’s Eve! In truth, he was free any evening, but her suggestion of the last day of the year for their rendezvous meant he must have been inked in to her social calendar in bright gold, bold, illuminated letters.
Life was definitely looking up.
Redpath’s mobile rang a few minutes before noon. And because he was busy filling in his expenses form and he also didn’t recognize the number calling him, he almost didn’t bother to answer. He was glad he did.
‘Sally! Yes, of course I remember you. Clive Emmer’s personal assistant. What can I do for you?’ he asked, putting his pen down and leaning back in his chair.
‘It’s me can help you,’ came the scratchy reply. ‘Your boss said to look out for anyone who came to the warehouse.’
‘I remember.’
‘Well, someone’s just been in. Been here this morning. Had a bit of a barney with Clive.’
Redpath turned the info over in his mind. ‘I’d better let the Chief Inspector know. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.’
It was during the woman’s lunch break that Hart, Redpath and Sally met in the merry surroundings of The Golden Fleece, a brisk ten minutes’ walk from where she worked. Sally removed the fluffy white coat which sported the fake fur of some animal or other and laid it on the seat by the pub window.
‘What will you have to drink, Sally?’ asked Hart as she sat down.
‘Smirnoff Ice. Just a slice of lemon, no ice, the weather’s cold enough already. What are you two having?’
‘Just a softie for us as we’re working.’
Sally looked disappointed. ‘It’s no fun drinking on your own.’
‘Okay, we’ll have a little one with you. But don’t snitch to our boss.’
Hart made a couple of trips to the bar to fetch Sally’s bottle and glass, a couple of weak halves for him and Redpath, and the menu.
‘I’ll need a straw,’ observed Sally, ‘or my lippy will end up on the glass.’ The Chief Inspector obediently embarked upon his errand.
‘So what happened this morning?’ Hart managed to ask eventually, but Sally was concentrating on an issue of more immediate importance.
‘I’ll have the basket of prawns,’ she replied after some consideration.
Returning from yet another visit to the bar, Hart put the question again.
‘It were dead exciting. This bloke comes in and starts talking to Clive. I couldn’t hardly hear them at first, but then they started talking really loud.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Redpath.
‘He were big. Not tall big, but sort of chunky. I’ve seen him in there a couple of times before.’
‘Anything else? His hair, for example?’ prodded Hart.
‘Fair. Very fair. And quite long. And curly.’
‘Did he walk to the warehouse?’
‘No. Drove up in a car. I remember that because he sort of made a show of it. You know, driving into the yard a bit too fast and braking at the last second.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the car?’
‘I’m not too good on cars. I know you told me to get the number if a car came up, but he were parked right against the wall. I could hardly go through the office and write the number down and then come back inside now, could I? That would tell them what I was up to.’
‘You were dead right, Sally,’ soothed Hart. ‘I’m glad you used your nous, because a mistake like that would have messed up the situation good and proper. But how about the colour? Can you remember that?’
‘Of course I can,’ she replied, as though the question was stupid. ‘Red. And, what’s more, it had one of them black plastic roofs.’
‘And when the man spoke to Clive, what did they say?’
Sally ignored the question. ‘Do you know him? This bloke?’
‘I think we do, Sally,’ replied Hart. ‘You’ve been a great help to us already,’ he added.
‘As I said, they were talking loudly. I wrote down a bit of what they talked about.’
As Sally reached into the pocket of her red skirt to retrieve her notes, a huge basket arrived containing a whole ocean of breaded prawns.
‘I couldn’t have another little drink to wash them down with, could I?’ she asked, holding the base of her glass and giving it a waggle. ‘I told Clive I was seeing a friend for an end of year drink, so I might get back a bit late. He won’t care. I think it gives him a weird sort of kick to see me a bit tipsy.’
Redpath went to the bar this time, happy to perform the duty; you never knew when the execution of a manly act might yield a dividend in the future.
‘You were telling us about Clive’s conversation with the man,’ Hart reminded her.
Sally stared at her notes. ‘I’d rather wait for your friend to get back,’ she answered without explanation. And why not? This was her show, her moment in the limelight, and she deserved the pleasure of sharing it with whoever would listen.
After a couple of minutes, Redpath set down her fresh glass, bottle and straw. ‘There you go, Sally. Enjoy.’
‘Thanks. I will. And these prawns aren’t at all bad either,’ she remarked as she expertly pinched the tail and used her incisors to pull a particularly succulent crustacean out of its shell. ‘Thanks for treating me,’ she added with a smile.
‘It’s the least we could do,’ replied Hart, ‘especially as you’ve given up your lunch hour for us.’ He enjoyed watching her pleasure, her relish of a little indulgence she could not afford herself.
‘Anyway, back to my story,’ she admonished, as though their chat had delayed her unreasonably. ‘They started off okay but then they were shouting. Trying to keep the noise down so I wouldn’t hear, if you know what I mean, but not having much luck. So you know what I did?’
‘Go on,’ said Hart leaning forward, playing the part of the enthralled audience.
‘I looked through the keyhole and could see them standing there. I thought the fair-haired one were going to thump Clive.’ She looked regretful. ‘But he didn’t.’
Although not normally given to lewd thoughts, the picture which painted itself in Hart’s mind of the bending Sally with her spying eye against the door was rather a pleasant one. Goodness knows what Redpath was thinking.
‘I can tell you what Clive said. I’ve got it word for word.’ Sally read from her paper. ‘He said, “I want it out of here now. Right now.” And the fair-haired man said, “We have got an arrangement.”’
‘What do you think Clive wanted out of the warehouse?’ asked Redpath.
‘No idea.’ And, for the first time, Sally felt threatened. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t know what he keeps in there.’
‘Of course not,’ said Hart, trying to retrieve the sociable atmosphere. ‘There’s no reason why you would. Did they say anything else?’
‘Clive just said the arrangement was over. They were never doing business again. Just get the stuff out of my place or I’ll get rid of it for you. I think Clive meant he’d chuck it.’ And then, as an afterthought, not wishing to be misunderstood, ‘Whatever it was.’
‘Sally, you’ve been really helpful,’ said Hart before presenting her with an admiring smile. ‘Just one more favour.’
‘I’ve told you all I know.’ Sally was getting near to the bottom of her list of good deeds.
‘We’re going to try and speak to this man but, in the meantime, if he comes in again, just ring either Sergeant Redpath or me straight away. We’ll be right along.’
‘No need. He’s going round to the warehouse tomorrow first thing, before the world’s up and about he said, New Year’s Day or not. To pick up his stuff.’
‘Thanks for all that, Sally, it’s been a great bit of luck for us that someone like you is working for Clive Emmer. Would you like a lift back to work? We can’t take you to the door, of course, but we can drop you round the corner.’
Sally’s old smile was restored by the flattery and the pleasant ambience returned with her cheer. ‘I’m not in a hurry, I can spin it out for another half hour. These prawns are dead scrummy.’
‘Would you like a few more?’ offered Hart.
‘No thanks. I have to keep an eye on my figure. If I don’t, then nobody else will.’
‘One more drink to keep out the winter chill, then? But we’ll have to be leaving you to it.’
‘I’m a big girl. I’ll be okay in here on my own for a while without two hunky policemen looking after me.’ Sally smiled again and jiggled her empty Smirnoff bottle. ‘You’re right though, I wouldn’t say no to another one of these.’
As they walked out of the pub, Redpath gave Hart a pat on the back for his apparent generosity. ‘That was decent of you, Sir. Paying for her lunch like that, and dropping her a few drinks into the bargain.’
‘I’ll pay for our own beers, Sally’s vittles and alcopops are on the station’s tab.’
‘It’s lucky the force doesn’t treat all its customers to a seafood lunch and booze, the country would go bust in a week.’
‘And if we’d waited until she got home in the evening and quizzed her there? For one thing, we might have missed the boat; whatever she was going to tell us might have already been old news. For another, do you think we would have got all that info from her without making her feel a bit special, a valued colleague in our perilous quest for the truth? Call it an overhead for a business lunch.’
‘Fair point.’
‘You’re dead right it is, Darren, and she deserves every crumb and drop of it. Think of the fortune the Crown merrily fritters away on lawyers in an hour. And the money that goes down the pan cramming offices with nameless faces. And the vast expense-account lunches they scoff back every day, courtesy of the inexhaustible public purse. But the taxpayer spends a measly twenty quid on Sally, and what do they get for their money? A stash of hard drugs taken off the streets and out of the clubs. That’s a darn sight better bargain than the pricey dross they get from the horde of pen-pushers. Twenty quid for a result like that? They’re getting it on the cheap.’
The two murders were, of course, the main acts in town. But if Hart had placed a wager on who was going to be the first person to be charged for their part in one of the many sideshows that were playing to the major events, he would have lost his cash. He was surprised to be standing in a thoroughly middle-class area of north London and walking towards the front door of a thoroughly middle-classed detached house. The lawn was as finely coiffed as the occupant’s expensive hair. Asha Kanjaria kept him company instead of Redpath; it is never a good idea for policemen to visit women on their own when they are out making some of their more tricky professional calls.
Annalee Hargreaves opened the door accompanied by the usual superior scowl she reserved for Hart. ‘I hope this is important, Chief Inspector. I am very busy preparing for the new term, and I am also hosting something of a soiree this evening. You could have chosen a day other than New Year’s Eve for your visit.’
‘Yes, it is important. I like to think that everything I do is somewhat imperative to maintaining the peace of the realm. And crimes are like road accidents – we all wish they would take a rest for the festive season but they just never take the hint.’ After a while it became clear that no invitation was to be forthcoming. ‘May we come in?’
‘If you must.’ It didn’t look like Hart was going to be offered his usual cuppa by the lady of this household.
The living room was tidily antiseptic, everything spotless and perfectly in place, but devoid of any fun or joy. If Annalee Hargreaves had children, they were either away from home or banned from living in the living room.
Hart began by establishing facts, not making accusations. ‘Mrs Hargreaves, I believe you keep a file in which students can make appointments to see you.’
‘My secretary does, yes.’
‘Are you aware that somebody has tampered with this file?’
‘No. No I am not,’ she replied simply. A sensible tactic – say as little as possible, and the chance of your face or voice betraying your transgression is diminished.
‘I would like to know who did.’
‘So would I, Chief Inspector.’
Silence.
‘I was hoping you could help me.’
‘I fear that your optimism is misplaced.’
‘To find the person will be relatively simple.’ Hargreaves’ disinterested eyes said that he could either explain this simple procedure or not, she didn’t care either way. ‘Did you know Nicola Brown had made an appointment to see you? The appointment was scheduled for the day after her death.’
‘No. How could I know that? There was no record in the file.’
‘Do you know why Nicola wished to see you?’
‘If I didn’t know she had an appointment, how could I know what it was about?’
This indifference was getting on Hart’s nerves. ‘Somebody removed the page from the file on which Nicola wrote, and replaced it with one on which they had forged the appointments made by the other students. Only, they did a bodge job. The indentations from the original writing which appear on the underlying page are as deep as Cheddar Gorge.’
‘Sadly, that won’t reveal the identity of the forger.’
‘One of the three appointments was written in black but the same blue pen was used to write the other two, and yet we know that three different pens were used on the original because of the widths of those indentations.’
‘Again, that will not identify the person responsible. This must be so frustrating for you. Do you have any fingerprints that may help?’
‘Now it’s strange you should mention that, Mrs Hargreaves, very strange indeed, because it just so happens that we do.’ The woman did not flinch. She was either innocent or should be contemplating a subsequent career for herself playing poker. ‘There were no prints at all on the forged page, the one for the second week of term; I’d say the forger was wearing gloves. But she wasn’t so careful with the pages either side. Your secretary’s prints are on those two pages, of course; she puts each sheet in the file as the weeks roll by. The students’ prints are there as well, we’ve verified that. But somebody else took an interest in who was coming to see you at the beginning of the term. But only at the beginning. The prints from that person don’t appear anywhere else but on those two pages.’
‘Sadly, again that’s hardly a revelation.’
‘It reveals that the person who dabbed at the first and third pages would have a hard time convincing me or anyone else that they didn’t know what was on the second, the page on which Nicola Brown made her appointment.’
‘That’s really not very conclusive, Chief Inspector.’
‘It’s a heck of a good start, though. And you’ve just told me that Nicola made no appointment to see you. If you really did think that, then you could only have looked at the forged page, not at the one she actually wrote on. But there are no prints at all on that forged page. None whatsoever. Why wouldn’t your prints be on it?’
‘It is possible to look at a document without touching it.’
‘And still touch the pages on either side? Not likely. I reckon I’ve got enough to nail this person already, because it’s her prints I’ll find on those first and third pages. But the real clincher will be when I find those two pens. Because I’ll toss them to the forensic chemists and they’ll tear them apart like lions on a lamb. Even if they don’t find prints, they’ll manage to hit upon a skin cell or two and that’ll contain enough DNA to set their clever little machines a-twitching.’ Hart fixed his stare in her inscrutable eyes. ‘And do you know where I’m going to start?’
‘I’m sure you are about to tell me.’
‘I’m going to start by getting your dabs taken. And when I find they match those on the first and third pages in the file, we’ll move on to your handbag. If we’ve still had no luck, a fleet of cars will be round here and every one of your drawers, cupboards and tiny little hidey-holes will be prodded and poked until those pens are found. Of course, were the forger to confess, then that indignity wouldn’t be necessary.’ He locked eyes again. ‘In hackneyed police parlance, we’re not looking for any other suspects.’
‘Excuse me, I have to visit the bathroom,’ Mrs Hargreaves pronounced as she stood up.
‘Constable, please accompany Mrs Hargreaves. Ensure she doesn’t go anywhere else, or take anything in, and search that lavatory, under the carpet, in the cistern and round the rim, before she puts a foot inside.’
‘There’s no time for that, I fear the stress of your innuendo has rather taken its toll.’
‘Then you’re just going to have to suffer a little accident,’ replied Hart, confirming her opinion of a coarse little man, ‘because you are not leaving the sight of both me and the Constable.’
Mrs Hargreaves sat back down and, because her voice remained impassive and devoid of emotion, Hart at first missed the significance of her words.
‘I did it for the school.’
‘What?’
‘I did it for the school. When that girl died I thought it was suicide, just like everybody else. What was the point in prolonging the police investigation by stirring things up and telling them she had wanted to see me? The term had just started and it was all so unsettling already. The police would have just asked more and more people more and more questions and the whole situation would have dragged on endlessly, all just to confirm what we already knew.’
Hart was furious, but the manifestation of his anger was coldness rather than an increase in volume. ‘If you had bothered to muddy the waters, if you had helped the police to ask their tiresome questions, they might have found that Nicola had not committed suicide.’
‘And then what? Would that have brought her back? I managed to ensure that word of her death was not broadcast to the public and many people associated with Highdean were manifestly grateful for that. I did it for the school.’
‘You did it for yourself. Because you’re the Head and so any dirt that gets flung at the school rubs off on you. Suicide on the premises is dirty enough, but murder, that’s positively filthy. You can kid the image that looks back at you from the mirror, but you’re not kidding anyone else. You did it for yourself.’
‘What happens next?’
‘I’m going to take you to the police station.’
‘For what purpose? We can talk here.’
‘Mrs Hargreaves, I don’t think you quite realise the scalding temperature of the hot water you’ve landed yourself in. You are going to the police station so you can be fingerprinted, have a DNA swab taken, and charged.’
For the first time since he had met her, Hart saw every drop of vanity leave her demeanour, every drop of blood drain from her skin, as she turned the sickly white of an old dishcloth. Her egotism had blinded her to her sins. Then, just as rapidly, she returned to her old self.
‘But I’ll be needed at school to start the new term. What will they do without me?’
‘That’s the school’s business, but if it was up to me I wouldn’t let you back through the door to collect your coffee mug.’
‘But the forgery didn’t do any harm. You already knew about the girl’s murder before you found out about that.’
‘Mrs Hargreaves, I already know the answer to this question, but let me see what you think. Why did you erase Nicola’s appointment from the records?’
She gave a condescending sigh of resignation. ‘Because it would look bad when people found out that I hadn’t mentioned it earlier, straight after she died.’
‘And it looks bad because it
is
bad. In fact, coming from a person in your position, it’s just about evil. And the worst thing about it is, if the police had known months ago that Nicola had possibly been murdered, I reckon there’s a fair chance you would still have Sebastian Emmer sitting in your senior class and not lying in St Anselm’s churchyard. And don’t you think that Mr and Mrs Brown might have been just a tad curious to know the truth about their daughter’s death?’
‘So you are still determined that I receive a criminal record, a blot on my character for such a minor infraction?’ One last look down her slender nose. ‘Even though I had no thought for myself, purely the greater good of the school.’
Now it was Hart’s turn to sigh. ‘I will charge you over the forgery, yes, because you’ll need a higher power than me to forgive you that. But there is one thing you can do to make some amends before the three of us get in the car.’
The Headteacher looked sullen. She would rather die than help him.
‘It’s more for Nicola than me. Tell me what you think Nicola wanted to see you about.’
She took a moment to spin some thoughts around her head. ‘Mr Hart, my career, my life are in ruins. Perhaps one day I will come to accept that this situation is partly a consequence of my own actions. But I would help my pupil if I could, even though I am not certain how anything I say will assist her now that she is dead. But I speak the unqualified truth when I state that I have no idea why that girl wished to see me. Absolutely no idea.’
*****
While Annalee Hargreaves was having the tips of her fingers prodded onto the plate of a Live Scan machine, Asha Kanjaria took her leave of Hart and wished him good luck. There was an important evening coming up for Harry and she hoped it would go well. Hart was not altogether delighted that his impending rendezvous with Patricia Luft was known to Kanjaria and, presumably, the rest of the factory. What’s more, it was more than a touch demeaning that they were keeping their fingers crossed for him, as though they were aunts and uncles condescendingly chuckling as their teenage nephew clumsily embarked on his first date.
It was Hart’s fault, of course. He had mentioned his assignation to Redpath, who had taken it upon himself to become his advisor on sartorial matters. Hart had listened politely, and then promptly canned the advice, preferring not to attempt to reincarnate himself as a youthful Casanova. However, he was given sufficient courage by the counsel he received to choose to wear the red tie the Kanjarias had given him for Christmas. A bold move indeed.
The truth was, he was excited. As excited as a child, and it showed. Folks were pleased for him. Perhaps good ol’ Harry was going to get himself sorted with a woman at last. And a wealthy, classy, pretty one at that.
*****
It wasn’t just Harry Hart who was looking forward to a big night out on New Year’s Eve. Sophie Rand had received a last-minute invitation to a posh party from someone she hardly knew, and she would be taking her new boyfriend along.
For Marco Bracken at The Temple, this was always an evening which put a smile on his bank manager’s face, and this year it would help to see him through the lean times, until Danny Moses was back at work, supplementing his income.
Sadly, there were others who would turn in long before midnight, who would pass over the opportunity to wail a cats’ chorus of
Auld Lang Syne
, hand in hand with a tottering horde of drunken mates. For Rebecca Emmer and her parents, this was a repeat performance of Christmas the week before: miserable, soulless, empty.
Ron and Daisy Brown were glad to see the back of the old year, but there was nothing to celebrate about the advent of the new. It would be a year of anniversaries: birth, first tooth, first steps, first day at school, first day at Highdean. Death. Every future year would be the same, they silently supposed as they sat together in their little living room.