Dead Unlucky (25 page)

They laughed as they clicked their dripping bottles together before taking a hefty slug apiece.

‘He’s sweet on you, though. It’s Danny this, Danny that, where does he live, does Danny smoke, is he sometimes a naughty boy, what’s Danny’s favourite colour. Come Valentine’s Day, look out for him on your doorstep carrying a bunch of red roses and a box of Milk Tray.’

Danny Moses ran his hand through his long, golden curls then dampened down the happy atmosphere a little.

‘He’s got nothing on me, Marco. I’ve stashed away all the gear and he’ll never find it. Never. It’s a place where no one would look, no reason to go there.’

‘And one of the guys who could give a lead back to you won’t open his mouth again. If he does, he’ll just swallow a gobful of dirt.’

‘Seb was okay. I feel sorry for him really.’

‘Don’t waste your time. There are plenty more where he came from. Greedy little schoolkids who’d peddle their own arses, never mind a bit of dope, so they could swank around in front of their mates.’

‘He had a good network, though, which just got bigger every year as a new batch of suckers walked through the school gates. Plenty of his customers left his school over the past couple of years, but they stuck with him. That’s the beauty of this business. Catch them when they’re still at school and you’ve got them in your pocket for ages. Until they clean themselves up, run out of cash, or croak. All that trade’s gone with him,’ noted Danny Moses sadly as he tipped his head back to drain his bottle.

‘Get a couple more out the fridge.’

‘I wouldn’t mind trying to get another contact at that school now Seb’s gone. He was making plenty.’

‘Yeah, well don’t touch it for a year or two,’ suggested Marco Bracken as he took the fresh icy bottle from his mate. ‘There’ll be enough heat in that academy of rich little snotgobblers to fry a chicken. You can find somewhere else. The world’s full of schools, full of kids. Just as long as the trash keep breeding, we won’t go bust in our trade.’ Their bottles clinked again as they looked forward to reaping the wealth their business acumen deserved.

‘Thanks for sorting that girl out for me, Marco.’

‘Girl? What girl? Oh, the one that fell down outside her flat. I heard about that. Got bruised up a bit. My spies tell me she was lucky. Could have been badly hurt.’

‘It was enough.’ Moses didn’t fancy any more pigs banging on his door. ‘You got it just right.’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ smiled Bracken. ‘Mind, I’m not exactly sorry. If people come to my club and start fitting up my mates with the filth, I reckon they need their brains knocking about a bit. It might be good for her health in the long run, make her do a bit of thinking before she puts her gob in gear.’

‘I’d better be getting back,’ said Moses after a final swig of his bottle.

‘Stay inside your fleapit, Danny. Don’t get greedy. Don’t go home. Just live the life of a worthless layabout until that toy copper’s performed his civic duty on behalf of a grateful public and got someone locked up for whacking your pusher.’

‘Will do. I’ve had plenty of practice at being a lazy git’.

But Bracken was serious. ‘And you never, ever, come back here until this business is sorted. Don’t even dream about the place.’

Marco Bracken surveyed his friend’s back as it moved towards the exit. He was a stocky lad and that back covered a large area. It would make a nice big target if it ever needed stabbing.

‘I heard you ate something for your tea that disagreed with you, old boy,’ observed Arthur Rhodes jovially as he sat down beside Hart’s bed at the Princess Royal. ‘You need to be more careful. We are what we eat, so the old saying goes.’

‘Then I’m poison. But most people knew that already.’

‘Horseradish sauce, is that right?’ asked Rhodes.

‘Either that or one of George’s steaks, and I don’t reckon he’s really a suspect. I’ve never even run up a tab.’

‘The boffs are looking forward to picking over the remnants of your dinner first thing tomorrow. You’ll be fast-tracked due to your privileged status as an elite customer.’

‘Any ideas?’

‘It’s not too difficult, this one. I’d be surprised if it wasn’t one of the lab’s easier jobs.’

‘Easy enough for me to twig?’

‘Even you. Almost certainly it was aconitine. That’s the posh name for a plant which the average gardener would call monkshood.’

‘The Chief does plants, Arthur. I’m a botanical buffoon.’

‘You’ll find it growing in half the gardens in Lockingham. It does best in a shady area and is really quite pretty.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘And very deadly, especially the roots. The giveaway is that it’s been mistaken for horseradish many times before. People have used it to do themselves in on purpose, of course, but it’s also claimed plenty of folks like you who were just sitting down to have a decent feed and ended up with more on their plates than they’d bargained for, if you see what I mean.’

‘Very droll.’

‘If you had eaten a bit of the root, you might well have finished up dead like some of them. The heart’s not very keen on the stuff at all.’

‘It was the wine that saved me.’

‘This should be novel.’

‘The plastic seal on the horseradish sauce jar was loose, not snug with the glass and cap. That’s unusual because normally you need a blowtorch to get the blinking things off.’

‘Unusual, but more likely than someone trying to poison you.’

‘Right. I supposed it could have just got slack so I didn’t give it much thought. But then the top didn’t give that plop noise when the vacuum was destroyed as I opened it.’

‘So why didn’t you chuck it, Harry?’

Hart looked at his friend in disbelief. ‘It was the only jar I had. You can’t eat steak without it, the meat would have to have gone in the bin as well. Anyway, I gave it a sniff and it seemed fine.’

‘What’s this got to do with the wine?’

‘I cut off a piece of steak with the sauce on and ate it. Then I eyed up a really lovely fatty bit around the edge of the meat, and it had a nice big chunk of … what’s that plant’s name?’

‘Monkshood.’

‘It had a nice big chunk of monkshood on it. Then I thought, savour it, don’t just bolt down the best bit. Enjoy a sip of wine. Take the time to appreciate your gastronomic masterpiece whilst exercising your usual stately decorum. And during the time when I was reaching for my glass and pausing to relish the banquet I’d cooked up, I felt a sensation on my lips, sort of a tingling and numbness all at the same time. Then I cottoned on: loose seal, no plop, tingly numbness. No offence to George, but even his steak wasn’t worth the risk.’

‘They say that red wine’s good for the heart.’

‘It certainly didn’t do mine any harm.’

‘I’m glad you decided to treat yourself to a bottle, Harry,’ said Arthur with a pained expression. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to finish my breakfast tomorrow and get to work to see your naked body laid out on my slab awaiting my consideration.’

Rhodes had unwittingly driven pictures of Maggie Hart into both of their minds, but all they could do was bat them away. ‘The prospective deceased wouldn’t disagree with you there. Remind me not to draw my last breath on your patch.’

‘Apart from the relief of not managing to get murdered, how are you feeling?’

‘Fine. The stomach pump wasn’t an instrument of delight, but it did its job right down to the last drop; I thought most of my innards were going to disappear down the tube. Actually, I suppose I should be flattered that somebody thinks I’m worth bumping off. I’m struggling to think who it could be, though. I can’t think of anyone who’s an expert gardener,’ Hart observed with a wink.

‘I think your boss has gone too far this time, Harry,’ replied Rhodes. ‘There must be something in the small print of your contract which says he’s not allowed to do you in.’

‘He’d be answering to Patricia Luft if he’d managed it.’

Rhodes just gave Hart a puzzled look and allowed him to carry on.

‘She’s invited me round to her place.’

‘Even you’re not going to wimp out of that, are you Harry?’ Rhodes looked worried that he might.

‘Nope. Even I’m not. I’ll be ringing her in a while. I’ll let her sit and pine by her phone for a day or two first,’ he joked.

‘She’s not quite what she seems. She may be well-heeled, but she’s not snobby and she doesn’t flaunt it. She could make an old man very happy. Or even a young one, like you.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Arthur. I’m just going round her place for a bite to eat. Don’t go jumping to any conclusions just because it’s only the two of us and I’m irresistible to women.’

‘Well you’d better get some rest then. Sounds like you’re going to need it. When are you out of here?’

‘First thing in the morning. I’ve got a very interesting day coming up tomorrow.’

*****

Hart reflected with a smile that he looked like the perfect caricature figure as he crossed the road and stood in the doorway of the shop: shortish, early middle-aged, male and, best of all, clad in the standard uniform for the part – the classic grey raincoat. Usually this sort of place was described as an
adult emporium
or some such nonsense, but Harry pressed down on the door handle underneath a sign proudly pronouncing “Dave & Doreen’s Sex Shop” and his arrival was heralded by a happy little jingle playing above the door.

Hart made straight for the counter, nudging past the backs of the only two customers patronizing the store early in the morning, although a youngish woman in one corner was carefully checking the shop’s dwindling stock of high-heeled boots. The clientele comprised a young couple wholeheartedly engaged in sharing the examination of a range of plastic products of indeterminate function. Hart reached the counter, produced his warrant card, and introduced himself.

‘Good morning. My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Hart.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ replied a bespectacled man in his early thirties, thrusting out his hand for Hart to shake. ‘My name’s Dave.’

It wasn’t usual for the public to display such informal bonhomie on first meeting a police officer, but his friendly eyes ensured that Hart clasped his hand. This man hadn’t killed either of the schoolkids and Hart saw no reason to assume the role of the aloof high-and-mighty.

‘How may I help you, Chief Inspector?’ A slightly concerned expression played around the proprietor’s face. ‘I can tell you now that all of our clothes and gear are perfectly legal. Just normal everyday items purchased by normal everyday people.’

Hart looked around at the creepy rubber masks staring from the walls with their round eyes and slit smiles; at the racks of mucky mags and DVDs; the frilly underwear, leather shorts and the tee-shirts with their racy messages; thongs and whips, chains and studs. And he wondered about Dave’s concept of normality. What surprised him was the abundance of everyday objects – the packs of playing cards, key fobs, cigarette lighters and pens, all imaginatively crafted to promote the message of carnal passion. Serious students of anatomy would dramatically advance their education in their chosen subject by simply purchasing a coffee mug from Dave.

‘I’d like you to check through your till records and let me know of any purchases in the past couple of years of items like these.’ Hart laid a photo on the counter, a picture of the handcuffs that had bound Nicola Brown as she hung from a rope.

‘I can delve back into the day we opened the shop if you like, and give you the answer within a minute or two,’ said Dave. ‘I need to plug in the stock number and then the computer just lets me know how many we’ve sold and the dates we shifted them. I’ll run you off a printout.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Hart. He wished all of the people he asked for assistance were as accommodating as Dave.

‘Marvellous things these computers.’

‘Absolutely,’ concurred Hart.

‘I just need to see a pair of the cuffs so I can get the details off the packet. I’ll get the wife to bring some over. Doreen!’ yelled Dave to the woman in the corner. ‘We’ve got a policeman here would like to look at a pair of our handcuffs. Grab some off the shelf, would you Love?’

The young couple examining the plastic artefacts looked around at Hart, smiling and gently elbowing each other’s ribs. They would have a funny little tale to tell the next time they saw their mates.

‘I don’t like to leave the till unattended,’ confided Dave. ‘We get all sorts of people in here. The tarts and vicars of all the jokes, secretaries, businessmen. Judges and MPs too, I wouldn’t be surprised. We get just the same people who do their shopping in John Lewis or anywhere else and so that means there’s bound to be some fishy characters come in now and again, same as in every other shop in the land. Can’t be too careful.’

‘Very wise,’ replied Hart.

‘We only stock the one brand of handcuffs, and I don’t think you’ll find there are many other kinds used for recreational purposes. This company’s just about wrapped up the whole market.’

Dave’s wife arrived clutching a packet containing a pair of gleaming silver-coloured handcuffs. Like her husband, she thrust out a hand to make the customer welcome.

‘Hi, I’m Doreen,’ she said through a smile. Hart shook the proffered hand and smiled back.

Dave took the packet from his wife and entered the code number into his computer, saying aloud the name of each digit as he prodded the keys. ‘There we are,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘We’ve shifted eighteen pairs of M’Lady’s Pleasure handcuffs over the past two years.’

‘We don’t sell too many pairs of them,’ chipped in Doreen apologetically, ‘there’s not such a big demand. It’s not like the thigh boots, we’ll get through a few pairs of those each week. It’s the ladies in the exotic dancing business, you see, who pop in for the boots, so we have to make sure we’re always well stocked up, what with all the pubs and clubs and places. Handcuffs, there isn’t such a need for them, it’s not like there’s such a flourishing profession that uses a lot of pairs. The professionals who need stuff like that for their trade are a bit more on the fringe.’

‘Except in your job, of course,’ said Dave to Hart with a smile.

‘Cut off the list any pairs that were sold after the Ninth of September this year, would you,’ instructed Hart. ‘How many does that leave us?’

‘You’re in luck. That chops off seven. It leaves out this year’s Christmas period, you see,’ reported Dave.

‘Can we work backwards from the cut-off date?’ asked Hart. ‘Can you remember selling any pairs of these handcuffs on the dates you’ve got before then? Anything about the people who bought them?’

‘Phew! You’re asking a bit much there, Chief Inspector,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll search the ol’ brain box for you, but I wouldn’t be too hopeful.’

‘It’s lucky it’s not the boots you want to know about, or then you really would be in a pickle,’ volunteered Doreen.

Dave stared at the handcuffs in the packet as he held them in front of his eyes, as though his gaze could somehow induce them to tell a tale. But it was no good. ‘Sorry, Chief Inspector, it was too long ago. But I will keep thinking and let you know if anything comes to mind.’

‘I’d appreciate that. The printout of the dates may be useful, if I could just take that before I go.’

Dave ran off the details for Hart, who glanced through them before putting them in his coat pocket.

‘How much for these?’ asked Hart, picking up the handcuffs from the counter.

‘Don’t you dare,’ warned Doreen to her husband before he could answer. ‘You’ll have those with our compliments, Chief Inspector. It’s a pleasure to be of help.’

‘That’s very kind. Do be in touch if you remember anything. It really could be important. Here’s my card,’ said Hart, and then he put the handcuffs in his pocket as he made for the door.

‘I’ve got it!’ said Doreen. The two men looked at her, momentarily unsure what she was talking about. ‘I remember a man coming in to buy a pair.’ Hart turned and made his way back to the counter.

‘You remember, Dave. It was back in the summer. A chap came in and bought a few bits and pieces. The cuffs and a couple of
Dungeon Maid
magazines. Nothing particular about him, except he had forgotten his glasses. He couldn’t read a thing. That’s why I remember him.’

‘That’s right!’ exclaimed Dave. ‘So I lent him mine and he could just about make out the print if he held stuff right at arm’s length.’

‘Can you describe this man?’ asked Hart. ‘Possibly tall and thin, with short fair hair, maybe just about shaved off?’