Dead Unlucky (20 page)

‘I just walked out of my flat after I got a phone call to say there was someone tampering with my car. I looked out the window and saw a man in a black cap and coat bending down by the wheel.’

‘Anything else that would help you describe him?’

‘Just that he was very big. They both were.’

‘Both?’

‘I went down to speak to him and another guy just came from nowhere. He took my arms and twisted them round my back. I managed to get one free but he grabbed my hand and pulled my finger back. Hurt like hell. I heard it crack.’ Sophie Rand took her bandaged left hand from underneath the bedclothes and produced it as evidence.

‘Then what happened?’ enquired Redpath, his eyes reluctantly taking in the bruised red face and swollen lip, incongruous with that lovely dark hair.

‘One of them slapped me several times, the bloke who had been pretending to mess with the wheel. He didn’t punch, but he was a really big guy so he had no trouble doing this.’ She pointed to her face. ‘Then the man holding my arms kicked me on the back of my knee and I went down. They kicked me all over my legs and in my ribs and stomach.’

‘Did they say anything?’

‘Nothing. And they had baseball caps pulled down low. They were so quick, I didn’t think to try and get a good look at them.’

‘Is anything broken?’

‘Just the finger. The hospital said I can leave tomorrow. I’m bruised and a bit shaken up, that’s all.’

Simon Chandler spoke for the first time, like he was playing the part of the concerned husband.

‘Sergeant, I’ve told Sophie that she needs to make sure these people are caught and locked away, but she just says she doesn’t think it’s worth it. Tell her she’s wrong.’

‘It’s always worth catching people like this, Ms Rand. For one thing, they could do it to somebody else.’

‘They won’t. You know that. This was a one-off, a treat just for me.’

‘They could have seriously hurt you,’ said Chandler.

‘They could have. Could have killed me if they’d wanted to. But they only intended to frighten me. They didn’t want to cause too much damage, so then they guess nobody will get too uptight.’

‘But if we don’t take it seriously, then we don’t catch them. They’ll win.’ Redpath’s reddening face displayed an anger that showed this was personal.

Sophie Rand laid her unharmed hand on Redpath’s own.

‘It’s good of you to be so bothered about me, but I’m tougher than you think. I’ll be running around teaching the kids hockey come January.’

‘Who do you think did this, Sergeant?’ asked Chandler.

It was Sophie who answered. ‘Come on Simon, that’s obvious. I dobbed Danny Moses in it and sending round a couple of heavies is his little way of telling me I was a bad girl. A late Christmas pressy just for me. You and Paul had better watch out, too.’

‘Then we really do need to make sure these people are locked up,’ insisted her friend.

‘You know who I would really like to see locked up?’ asked Rand to them both.

‘Go on,’ said Redpath.

‘Your boss.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ although you didn’t actually have to be a detective sergeant to work out the answer.

‘That little toad crashes into the club like James Bond on uppers and sits with the three of us, asking us loads of questions. Danny didn’t need to be Brain of Britain to make the connection, did he? Your cocky little master landed us all in the muck, right up to our necks.’

Redpath didn’t know what to say, although he tried to stick up for Hart. ‘But he had to interview you, Sophie. He didn’t know it would turn out like this.’

‘He should have been more careful. He could have come round and seen me at my flat.’

Redpath tried again. ‘We didn’t know you were at the club when we got there. It was the manager, that Marco Bracken, who tipped us off. Be fair, Sophie. My boss couldn’t have just walked out without talking to you all, although I’d have been a bit more discreet if it was up to me.’

Rand was placated a little and Redpath felt he had done a good job.

‘Maybe you’re right, Darren. I shouldn’t let a few slaps in the face make me all grouchy like that. I’ll live. No real harm done.’

Redpath used the thaw in relations to put in another good word for Hart. ‘I know he sometimes seems like he’s clueless, but the Chief Inspector’s not really so bad. He thinks there might be a connection between all this drugs business and Sebastian’s murder. To give him his due, he’s usually right about things like that.’

‘I suppose that puts it all into perspective, really,’ commented Chandler. ‘I mean, that’s the most important thing, isn’t it – finding the person who killed Sebastian?’

Nobody could argue with that.

The following morning, Chief Superintendent Rodgers appeared at the open door of Hart’s office while he was in conference with Redpath, a beaming smile painted underneath his moustache. Although he would occasionally stop off on the way to somewhere important, it was unusual for the Chief to actually come downstairs just to pay Hart a visit; seeing him coming in and sitting down was like spotting a camel at the South Pole. The great man usually liked to summon his subordinates to the safety of his own territory, but here he was in person, lowering himself into a bamboo chair. The reason for bestowing this honour quickly became apparent.

‘Harry, I just popped by to say what a marvellous job you’ve done. And you too, of course, Sergeant,’ he offered, not forgetting the junior man. There was plenty of bonhomie to go round.

‘Thank you, Sir, that’s very kind,’ replied Hart, accepting the praise with good grace. And then his brow furrowed. ‘What job is that exactly?’

‘Come on now, Harry, no need for false modesty,’ answered Rodgers. ‘The Emmer case looks like it’s pretty well wrapped up. And that’s down to the efforts of officers like you, the men and women who work at this station.’
My
station, he could have said.

‘There are still a few loose ends to be tied up on the case though, Sir, I wouldn’t say it’s completely put to bed just yet.’ Hart wasn’t keen on reaching the destination where this conversation was going.

‘But the murder weapon’s been found and, what’s more, it belongs to Ron Brown. We know that Sebastian Emmer was a merciless bully to the man’s daughter, absolutely abhorrent.’ The Chief shuddered to emphasise his point. ‘I’ve seen those notes he wrote. Quite pitiless, he was.’ Hart knew what was coming, but he let the Chief finish. ‘Sebastian drives Nicola to suicide with all that harassment. The father obtains his revenge by killing the boy. There are motives for both deaths, strong motives mark you, and the ownership of the weapon backs up the notion that Ron Brown is the killer.’

Hart wondered where the Chief got his information from. It was like this at most places where people worked, he supposed, not just within the force and not just inside this station. Someone likes to ingratiate themselves with the boss, so up the stairs they trot bearing the latest tittle-tattle – aren’t I a good boy to get the news to you first? Eyes wide open and desperate for praise, like a dutiful lapdog. And the bosses like to have their little spies, and the pandering of a sycophant appeals to the part of their psyche which enjoys being pumped up with flattery. Hart hadn’t mentioned the notes or the weapon to Rodgers and, whatever Redpath’s faults, he didn’t play petty little games like that.

The Chief now let them know the supreme justification for his joy. ‘This means that there’s no real reason to conduct an exhumation, is there? That would save an awful amount of bad publicity.’ Hart’s audible sigh alerted the Chief to his tactless blunder. ‘And distress to the family, of course,’ he added, too late.

Hart smiled understandingly. ‘Darren, would you nip out and check whether Clive Emmer is at his warehouse. I’d like us to pop round there later and I don’t want to drive all that way for nothing.’

Redpath gently pulled the door shut as he left the office.

‘What was Sebastian Emmer doing in that alley, Sir?’

‘He lives in Lockingham. There’s nothing strange about that.’

‘But he doesn’t live around that part of town. There was no reason for him to be there at all.’

‘I don’t live near the garden centre, but it wouldn’t be amazing to see me there. People don’t just sit at home all day in order to make our investigations more straightforward, Harry. I wish they did.’

Hart had often marvelled at how some usually rational people possess an ability to convince themselves that something is true, just because they
want
it to be. Never mind the virtue of logic and the weighing of evidence that they utilise in almost all other areas of their lives. They can be discarded for the consideration of this one issue. I want this ridiculous possibility to be a fact. Therefore it is a fact.

‘So, he’s just walking along in an area where he’s got no friends,’ countered Hart. ‘Leaving his car parked in another street instead of driving to wherever it was he was going. And it’s just his bad luck he bumps into Ron Brown, who happens to be clutching a sand wedge as he strolls along.’

‘It’s your job to find out what the boy was doing in the alley. And why he parked his car.’ The Chief held his finger in the air to indicate that his next pronouncement would be wise indeed. ‘And if you could discover how Brown came to know that the boy would be in that alley, you would have cracked this case.’

‘So, instead of taking his club home after doing the deed then giving it a rinse and placing it back in the golf trolley where no one would think of looking for the murder weapon, he carts it up the woods and chucks it away.’

Hart could somehow perceive the soundless whirring in the Chief’s brain telling him his boss remained desperate not to be convinced by his simple common sense, and so he would have to tell it like it was. He didn’t delight in what he was going to do, but if he didn’t let Rodgers have it straight the rug would be pulled out from under this investigation. And it would be Harry who would be hauling himself up off the floor and rubbing his backside.

‘That poor girl’s murder was set up as a suicide. And now Ron Brown is being framed as the killer of Sebastian Emmer. I can understand how the first charade might have suckered a few people in, but I’d go for the Moon being made of cheese before I would ever believe in the second one.’

The Chief displayed no emotion, but inside the insinuation had hit him hard.

Hart carried on. ‘Nicola Brown no more slipped that rope around her own neck than Anne Boleyn chopped off her own head. And the Archbishop of Canterbury was more likely to have whacked Sebastian Emmer to death with a golf club than was Ron Brown.’

‘Have you quite finished, Harry?’

‘Not quite, Sir. And the person who stuck that golf club under a few leaves must think I’m the Laughing Policeman if he reckons I’ll believe that was a genuine attempt to hide it.’ The point was not lost on Rodgers that he was being cast as the fabled comic character himself. ‘Quite finished now, Sir.’

‘And do you think there is a connection between the two deaths? Is that your learned opinion, too? Does everybody have to accept that as infallible wisdom or else be regarded by you as a complete fool?’

‘Can’t say yet, Sir. I wouldn’t be surprised either way.’

Chief Superintendent Rodgers removed himself from his chair without saying another word. He didn’t have to, the fury dripped off him like an icy smoke. He shut the door on the way out. But not quite as softly as Redpath had done a few minutes earlier.

Clive Emmer’s import business was situated in a carbuncle of a trading estate on the edge of town. None of the buildings fronting the criss-cross of roads would have won an architectural award, but a few of their owners did at least make an effort to jolly the place up. They kept neat lawns on either side of the driveways, and big pots of hardy evergreens did their best to look cheerful. Some companies had spent a fair bit of cash to ensure that the signs which extolled the magnificence of their air-conditioning units, fitted kitchens or whatever it was they were trying to sell, were tasteful, or different, or sometimes even both. Perhaps a big chunk of granite embossed with fancy lettering stood at the entrance, or a happy neon sign flashed to show its pleasure at announcing the presence of the baths and lavatories within.

The warehouse, sales outlet and head office, in fact the only office, of Amazon and Oriental Trading wore no such embellishments. The black writing over the office door barely clung to the mouldy white board onto which it was painted and the detached drainpipe from the gutter accounted for the vertical smear of green moss on the outside wall.

Hart and Redpath ascended a short flight of wooden steps, Hart pushed down on the brass handle of the flaking door, and they walked inside. Clive Emmer sat behind a small desk, his head bowed over the paperwork which was receiving his attention. He didn’t look up.

‘I was told on the phone by that sergeant you were coming here, although what the bloody hell for I’ve no idea. I told you everything I know when you came rummaging around my house.’

‘Just here to clarify a few things,’ replied Hart pleasantly. ‘You don’t mind if we sit down, do you?’ he said, plonking himself onto a plastic chair in front of Emmer’s desk. ‘We shan’t keep you long, I’ve only got a few questions. I wouldn’t mind a quick look around the warehouse as well.’

‘That’s no bloody surprise, you seem to enjoy a good snoop. I suppose you think the person who murdered my son is asleep on one of the chairs out the back. That’s probably the best you can come up with.’ He still didn’t look up.

‘Mr Emmer, do you know that your son was a user of cocaine?’

Now Clive Emmer did lift his head from his papers, although his startled gaze looked past the policemen, he didn’t make contact with their eyes.

‘That’s not possible. My wife would have found anything like that in his room and she would have told me. You’re talking rubbish, man. Complete rubbish.’

‘Traces of the drug were found on your son’s handkerchiefs and pillows. But we have no reason to suspect he used the drug at home, or at school for that matter, so your wife wouldn’t have found anything.’

‘Cocaine? Cocaine?’ Emmer continued to ask, more to himself than anybody else. ‘So where do you think he
did
use it, if you’re so damned sure?’

‘Probably at a place called The Temple.’

Emmer’s skin drained itself of its remaining pink and, for the first time, he glanced at both the officers.

‘Have you heard of it?’ asked Redpath.

‘Sebastian did mention that he went there occasionally.’ The stunned look on the man’s face told them this was more than an understatement, it just about constituted a lie.

‘Mr Emmer, what exactly is the nature of your business?’ asked Hart.

‘My wife did mention it to you, but I’ll be happy to fill you in on the details.’ Emmer sat up and gave his visitors his full attention. His thin lips actually smiled. ‘I import carpets and garden furniture.’

‘Where from?’ asked Redpath.

‘The carpets are from the Middle East. To tell the truth, I’m not too sure exactly, but we import them through Dubai. And the furniture comes over from Panama. It’s top quality teak, not that iroko rubbish that some places pass off as the real thing.’ Emmer seemed proud of both his knowledge of timber and the propriety of his company. ‘And the wood is from sustainable rainforests, I can assure you. I will have no truck with people who destroy our environment. None at all,’ he concluded with a hearty thump of his desk.

Clive Emmer reminded Hart of the Chief when he was putting on the act of being forthright and sincere, with a dash of virtue thrown into the mix, but was actually talking utter drivel. Still, there was no point in telling him that teak didn’t grow in rainforests, never mind asking what he thought Panama had to do with the Amazon in his firm’s name.

‘It seems an odd combination if I may say so, Mr Emmer. Carpets and garden furniture.’

‘You’re not the first person to mention that, Chief Inspector. But the reason is simple. Pure greed.’ He leaned back and smiled as he addressed other men of the world, men who would understand a natural weakness. ‘These kinds of items generate the most profit. They make me the most money.’

‘Could we just pop into the warehouse for a minute or two?’

‘I can’t think why you would want to, but you are most welcome, of course. Follow me, if you would.’ And, as a jocular afterthought, ‘Who knows, you might even be tempted into treating yourself to a bench for your garden.’

Emmer padded along the wooden floor of his little office and opened the door into the adjoining room. Hart and Redpath were immediately confronted with a smell reminiscent of over-ripe bananas.

‘Sally, two special guests, Chief Inspector Hart and Sergeant Redpath. I’m just going to give them a short tour of the warehouse.’

‘That’s okay,’ said Hart. ‘I’m sure your assistant can help instead.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ replied Emmer, forging a smile. ‘All part of the service.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of bothering the boss when you employ somebody to guide the tour groups for you.’ Hart joined in the charade of playing the chummy pal, but his graphite eyes said he wouldn’t be budged.

‘If you insist.’

Three pairs of eyes waited for Sally. Before she could assume the duty of the genial hostess, she had to cease the artwork on her talons, four of which were already parading a vivid scarlet. She carefully screwed the top back onto the varnish bottle and then disentangled herself from her personal stereo, an operation which transformed a tinny scratch into a hefty boom as she pulled the earphones away from her head.

‘Don’t forget, Sally,’ joked Emmer before he walked back to his office. ‘A sergeant and a chief inspector. We’d better be on our best behaviour.’

‘I couldn’t hear what he said before, but I’d guess he wants me to show you around.’ After a shake of her blonde hair, she was ready. ‘Please come this way,’ she offered using practised tones, ‘and I’ll be pleased to show you our range of products.’

Sally opened the door to the adjacent warehouse with the two police officers following. It didn’t require the most acute powers of constabulary observation to perceive that the bottom which led the way was a very agreeable guide and that its owner was fully aware of its appeal. Redpath was grateful to his boss for getting rid of Emmer.

‘So you’re policemen, eh? I’ve never shown policemen round before. I suppose you’re here about poor Sebastian.’

‘That’s right, Sally,’ replied Hart. ‘Did you know him well?’

Sally led the small party through a jungle of chairs, benches and rolled carpets to a parasol which rose from the centre of an octagonal table with eight seats tucked into the straight edges.

‘Not too well, really. He popped in now and again to see his dad. I wish he had come more often, though.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Redpath.

‘He were gorgeous, that’s why. Wouldn’t have minded him instead of an electric blanket on a cold winter’s night. He were a cocky little brat, though. Knew I fancied him rotten so he sort of led me on, if you know what I mean. Always talking about snuggling down for a bit of the other on the lounger over there.’ She nodded in a vague direction. ‘But nothing ever come of it. My boyfriend would have had a fit, but it would have been worth it. Anyway, he would never have known. Not going to happen now though, is it,’ she concluded wistfully.

‘How do you get on with Mr Emmer?’ asked Hart.

‘Him? Gives me the creeps, he does. I reckon he only has me here so he can get an eyeful, if you know what I mean. Well, he ain’t getting any more than that, that’s for sure. It’d take more than his twenty quid Christmas bonus to buy me off,’ pronounced Sally proudly.

‘Apart from showing customers around, what’s your job here?’ asked Redpath.

‘Well, that’s it really, apart from answering the phone. But I’m good at what I do, though.’

‘I’m sure you are, Sally,’ agreed Hart, not caring one way or the other. But Sally was determined to demonstrate her value to the company as she gestured towards the parasol.

‘This here’s the Chiltern. It’s the top-of-our-range product, all handmade and handcrafted. The wood is the best teak from the Amazon in South America and comes with our guarantee that you can leave it out in all weathers. You put it together yourself but it’s easy, all you need is a screwdriver. That, and a woman to make sense of the instructions for you.’ At this point in her presentation she always paused in case the prospective customer wished to chuckle. ‘And all of the screws are top quality brass so they don’t rust and they hold the furniture together for the life of the wood, and that’s a long time. A very long time without a doubt if truth be told.’ She rubbed her partly-painted hand lovingly back and forward along the smooth surface.

‘Very nice. Very nice indeed,’ commented Hart, about her patter or about the wood, he didn’t say. He noted that the rich honey colour was overlaid with grey mottling. The timber hadn’t been oiled since the day the showpiece Chiltern had been erected.

‘Do you sell many of these?’ asked Redpath.

‘Don’t sell much of anything, really. I get a bit bored sometimes, but at least I get plenty of time to read my mags and listen to my music. And he lets me use the phone when I want, for local calls, like. I could have a worse job, I suppose. I’d really like to go to college, though. You know, hairdressing or fashion or something.’

‘Who else works here, Sally?’ asked Hart.

‘No one else. Just me.’

‘So what happens when you do sell some furniture? How does it get delivered?’

‘Clive, he lets me call him that, I think it makes him feel like we’re mates or something, well, Clive, he just gets a few of the builders from next door to load it into the customer’s car. Or, if it’s a big thing like the Chiltern, they’ll take it round to their house on a truck. He gives them a few quid for their trouble, so everyone’s happy.’

‘Does anybody else come to the place? Anybody at all?’

‘Sometimes people come and see Clive, but not often. I don’t take much notice really. I’ve got other things to do.’

‘Sally, I’d like you to do me a favour,’ said Hart, lowering his voice so as to manufacture an air of conspiracy.

‘What’s that?’ she whispered.

Hart passed her his card.

‘If any visitors come to see Mr Emmer, I don’t mean customers for the furniture or carpets, but people who just come to see him without wanting to look around, I’d love you to give me a ring. Or Sergeant Redpath, if you’d prefer.’ Redpath delved into his breast pocket.

‘What do you want me to say?’ She needed to be sure she had got her new responsibilities just right.

‘Maybe you could tell us what they looked like. Perhaps look out of your window and describe their car. Even jot down the registration number.’

‘Is it important? I mean, do you think it might help to find who killed Sebastian?’ She seemed to radiate the keenness of a child. Or perhaps she was just pleased to have something to do.

‘You never know, Sally, you never know. So keep your eyes peeled and let us know if you spot anything. And, Sally.’ Hart paused to add weight to his comments as he tapped the side of his nose. ‘This is just between ourselves. I don’t think Mr Emmer needs to know anything about you helping us.’

‘Not a chance. I’ll be dead careful,’ said the newly-inducted spy.

‘We’d better be off. Thanks for your time, Sally. And good luck with getting into college. I reckon any good place would be mad not to have you.’

She enjoyed the flattery and smiled. ‘Thanks. And come round again. Especially that Sergeant What’s-His-Name. He’s dead cute, can arrest me any time,’ she said with a wink at Redpath.

‘I hope my assistant has been helpful, Chief Inspector,’ said Clive Emmer as the two men walked through his office to the car park.

‘She’s been very kind. And she’s very knowledgeable about the furniture. Thanks for your time.’

‘Not at all. I’d like to think that you’re a little nearer to finding out who killed my son.’ There was no complaint this time, it was a genuine expression of hope.

‘I know it seems a long time, Mr Emmer, but it’s only been a couple of weeks since Sebastian was killed. It’s by no means unusual for cases to take longer than this to solve. It’s far too early to worry that we won’t find the person responsible.’

*****

‘They don’t make too many like her, Sir,’ commented Redpath as they walked to the car.

‘I’m not sure whether you mean that as praise or damnation.’

‘Depends on what mood you’re in, I suppose. She’s not afraid to advertise her charms all right, but I think she’d drive you nuts after a while. The whole place was very odd, though.’