Dead Unlucky (22 page)

The second disc featured more larks from the lads at camp: chucking water at each other, smoking a crafty ciggie, piggyback fights – the sort of stuff that’s funny when you’re seventeen, but embarrassing if ever your mates or wife get to see it ten years later. There was only one scene Hart found interesting, but it more than made up for having to sit through the rest of the rubbish.

Now it’s time for some doggie training
, the ubiquitous commentator informed his audience.
Or bitch training, more like.
The camcorder must have been perched a few feet away because Sebastian Emmer was speaking to the lens. He stood inside a large tent where all the food and equipment for the camp were stored, with his best friend and two of his teachers alongside. He held a blue plastic bag above the head of a third teacher, Sophie Rand, who sat in front of them all on a wooden box.

Inside this plastic bag is a tasty treat that all naughty bitches like. Let’s see if she’ll beg for it like a good bitch.

This was too much for Paul Outbridge. He pulled the tent flaps aside and walked out. Timothy Grove pasted his hands over his face; it was almost more than he could bear, but exquisite fun all the same. Simon Chandler’s scowl said he didn’t find this scene funny at all.

Rand made a snatch at the package, but Sebastian Emmer was too quick.

Now, now! She won’t get what she wants unless she gives us what we want. She knows what it is.

Smiling so as to pretend it was all good fun really, Sophie Rand moved away from the box, hitched up her fluffy green jumper, and gave them all a quick flash of what was underneath. This was clearly a trick she had performed before.

Good bitch. Now she gets her reward.
Emmer tossed the little packet in the direction of his teacher and she caught it gratefully. She stood up and punched him playfully on his upper arm, just to show she could take this good-natured banter like a trouper, and give a bit back besides. Her narrowed eyes as she turned away towards the camera and out of the tent told a different story.

‘More women, more humiliation,’ noted Hart. ‘Was this absolutely all he saw in any female who walks the Earth? Just objects for him to try and bully?’

‘I felt really sorry for her, Sir.’ Redpath seethed in anger on her behalf.

‘Still, she is his teacher. She shouldn’t be letting him get away with anything like that. It’s the stuff in the little bag that turns her into what we’ve just seen, there’s no doubt about that.’

‘It’s not her fault she’s treated like that, though. No one deserves to have to put up with that from a little turd like Emmer.’ Hart was surprised at the way Redpath spat out his feelings, but he was more interested in the DVD.

‘Darren, let’s just wind it back a touch. I think I spotted a little something that was going on outside of the main performance.’

Hart pressed the remote button that sent the laser beam scanning back towards the edge of the disc and then hit the pause key.

‘See it, Darren? Underneath the door of the tent.’

‘A boot outside.’

‘Yellow and red laces on a brown boot. Let’s keep going backwards and see if we can find who it belongs to.’

They had to replace the first disc in the player, but after five minutes of pottering to and fro, they spotted the boot again. This time, they could also see the person to whose foot it was attached.

‘The tech boffs can blow up the pictures and sharpen things up, but I don’t reckon there’s much doubt that was Nicola Brown standing outside the tent.’

‘So she heard a fair bit of what was going on?’

‘Maybe. Or maybe she had just got there and then walked away with Sophie Rand when she left the tent. What a stroke of luck that Rebecca Emmer should turn up and drop these in our laps. It just goes to show, you never know where the next break’s coming from.’

‘Very fortunate indeed, Sir.’ But Redpath didn’t look like a person blessed with good fortune as he took his hangdog expression out of his boss’s office.

The clock was ticking round to three in the afternoon and Hart was thinking about taking himself off to the canteen, when the phone call he had been waiting for shattered the silence of his gastronomic deliberations. His late lunch would have to wait and become an early dinner: Arthur Rhodes was on his way. There was a seat waiting for him when he arrived, and a mug of tea steaming on the coffee table in Hart’s office; two sugars, already stirred, just how he liked it.

‘Let me have it straight, Arthur.’

‘I wish could do that, Harry. But there’s nothing straight about this one, except there’s no proof Nicola Brown was murdered. That’s the one definite conclusion I can draw; the best a coroner would give is an open verdict. There are no marks evident on the skin, no major traumas, nothing in the body that could have come close to killing her.’

Hart looked disappointed, but that was actually what he had expected. ‘I’m not really surprised. The first post-mortem would have picked up something that obvious. Did you turn up anything a bit more subtle, though?’ he asked, desperate for some snippet that would back up his theory of murder, or at least not crush it.

Rhodes picked up his mug. ‘I did, actually. Something very peculiar.’

Now Hart could lean back and sip his own tea patiently. Somehow there was no rush any more, it would all come out in time.

‘Some of the cells in Nicola’s liver have been damaged. The agent which caused the necrosis appears to have been a substance called phosgene.’

Hart searched his memory banks. ‘I’ve heard of that, but it’s gone.’

‘Phosgene is a gas that was used as a weapon in the –’

‘First World War.’

‘Right. Absolutely deadly. Vile stuff; a whiff and you’re a goner, even if you don’t drop dead for a day or two after breathing it.’

‘So she was gassed using a chemical warfare agent? And then hung up from a rope? Or was it the other way round? I hope you’re not telling me I have to plump for one of those two options, because there’s more chance of me bagging the lottery a dozen weeks on the trot than either of them being true.’

‘For what it’s worth coming from an amateur sleuth, no I’m not.’

‘Maybe I’m a bit slow on the uptake here then, Arthur. You said she had nothing in her body that could have killed her, but now you’re telling me she was poisoned by a toxic gas.’

‘No she wasn’t. You’re running ahead of the story. Slow down, old boy.’

‘Okay, but you’ve lost me completely. Remember I’m just a humble policeman.’

‘Harry, you know full well that you’re only one of those two things.’

‘Spell it out. Slowly. Carefully.’

‘Firstly, she wasn’t killed by poisoning at all. She was hanged. That was the cause of death identified over three months ago, and I’ve seen nothing to suggest that conclusion was wrong.’

Hart was still a long way from understanding, but this time he didn’t interrupt.

‘No evidence of phosgene was found in the lungs. Anyway, a butcher could have spotted that in the first post-mortem, never mind a pathologist. If phosgene had been inhaled, it couldn’t get past her lungs in any case. It reacts with water, so there’s no way it would find its way transported around the body to her liver or anywhere else.’

‘Still lost, Arthur. You said she
did
have this stuff in her liver.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s easy from now on. Phosgene is a metabolite formed when certain substances break down in the body.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as some kinds of typists’ correction fluid. Or, and you’re going to like this, Harry. Or chloroform.’

‘I do like it. I like it except for one thing, because there’s been one heck of a foul-up one way or the other. The previous report said they checked Nicola’s body for ether, chloroform and even one or two of the more out-of-the-way anaesthetics just to be sure. How did they miss it?’

‘They didn’t miss it. It wasn’t there.’

‘Lost, yet again.’

‘Most of the chloroform would have been expelled in her breath and the rest broken down by her body into phosgene and a few other chemical odds and ends, and these are found mainly in the liver. There was no chloroform left in her body when they looked, it had all gone.’

‘Okay, that finally makes sense, even to me. But what about the liver damage? Why didn’t that set any alarm bells ringing?’

‘It takes a while for cell necrosis to occur. That’s why some people die from chloroform poisoning a fair time after they’ve breathed the stuff. A hundred and fifty years ago, they might survive their operation only to drop dead a week or two later from the effects of the anaesthetic. Look at a fresh liver, and there may not be a mark on it.’

Hart thought for a moment, and he didn’t enjoy the notions that were germinating in his brain. ‘How long does it take for all traces of the chloroform to be expelled from the body?’

‘I know where you’re going with this, Harry, I’ve had a bit of time to ponder it myself. I’m afraid it takes a few hours before you can be sure it’s all gone. The time would be shorter for a small person, and if the rates of respiration and heartbeat were high.’

‘As I reckon they would be if you were strung up waiting to die.’

Rhodes looked down at his shoes, as though they could give him some comfort. They couldn’t. ‘Undoubtedly.’

Hart clamped his teeth together as his face turned crimson; his knuckles bleached white as his fists clenched tightly. It wasn’t enough, so he stood up and gave the litter bin a hefty kick to send balls of paper scurrying across the floor and then paced about after them.

‘So whoever killed her put her to sleep first using chloroform. Then they slipped a noose round her neck, handcuffs round her wrists and took a bit of spit for the suicide note envelope and dabbed her prints on the paper. And after she woke up they left her standing on the edge of a ruddy bath for a few hours, waiting for the chloroform to disappear. And then, when it was convenient for them, when Nicola’s body had obliged them by getting rid of the evidence that would show she had been anaesthetised, then they completed her horror by knocking her school books out from underneath her feet. Finally, they waited for her to die.’

‘I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t think of another explanation. If she had died immediately after being anaesthetised, the chloroform would have stayed in her body and cried murder.’

Hart sat back down and cleared the loathsome scene from his mind to make room for more-productive thoughts.

‘That explains why she died in the early hours of the morning. Someone knocks on her door at bed time, only they weren’t paying a visit to tuck her in.’

‘And, if I may venture an opinion, that narrows it down to people who knew her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have let them in without a kerfuffle.’

‘I’d go for that too, Arthur. But that’s eight hundred kids, a hundred staff and anyone else she might have known from outside of the school.’

‘We managed to find something else.’

That was typical of Arthur’s methodical mind. Instead of spilling out the bits and pieces of everything he knew all in one excited go, he had to wrap up one topic completely before moving on to the next.

‘Just one other thing?’

‘Just the one. There was evidence of adhesive near her mouth. Just the tiniest trace clinging to the hairs on her upper lip; somebody had probably washed most of it off. Not even enough to see with the magnifying glass.’

‘A strip of tape to keep her quiet while she stands there waiting to die.’

‘That’s conjecture, of course, but it would be my favourite theory. I doubt there’s enough to pinpoint the brand, though. To be truthful, there wasn’t much of anything,’ he noted morosely.

‘Any other details?’

‘I nagged the boffs on my way here, and they are confirming what we already know about the girl’s clothing. Plenty of foreign fibres attached, a few hairs, some of them probably from a cat. Nothing remarkable. Could have been picked up from anywhere.’

‘Not likely to be much use then, but you never know for sure.’

‘Harry, in legal parlance we’ve got ourselves a suspicious death, we’ve turned up nothing more than that. She could have sniffed solvents like correction fluid to get a high, for example. The adhesive could have come from her fingers after she did nothing more sinister than wrap a birthday present.’

‘And I’d believe you get your kicks by dressing up in lipstick and a frock on a Friday night before I went for that. But you’re right, Arthur. In legal parlance we’ve got ourselves a suspicious death. But in the more straightforward jargon between mates, we’ve got ourselves a murder. We’ve turned up a murder.’

Rhodes somehow felt the need to let Hart know what he really thought, express his true feelings beyond all the impartial theories of this-and-that which he had dutifully and objectively expounded. He didn’t need to say much.

‘Make sure you catch this piece of filth, Harry.’

Redpath was surprised to see Simon Chandler answer the door of Sophie Rand’s flat when he came to call. Chandler didn’t look too pleased to see him standing on the doorstep, holding a dozen red roses wrapped in pretty translucent paper and tied with a yellow bow.

Redpath walked past him into the living room and held the flowers out to Rand. ‘I hope you like roses.’ Chandler’s eyes locked on him like they were searching for fleas on a dirty dog. ‘I thought you might like a bit of cheering up.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, Sergeant. They’re beautiful. Would you mind putting them into a vase for me, Simon? There’s one in the cupboard above the sink.’

She handed Chandler the flowers without waiting for a reply and watched him trot into the kitchen and then smiled at Redpath. ‘Sit down next to the fire. And loosen that tie, for goodness’ sake. It makes you look like a policeman.’

‘Is this an official visit or merely a social call?’ asked Chandler as he returned and placed the vase of flowers on the mantelpiece.

‘Not above the fire, Simon, the heat will dry them out. Put them on the dining table.’

Chandler walked over to the table.

‘It’s my lunch hour, actually,’ replied Redpath, getting around to answering Chandler’s question. ‘But you know us coppers.’ He winked at Sophie. ‘On the job twenty-four hours a day.’

Chandler watched Rand smile again at her new guest.

‘Your lunch hour?’ she queried. ‘We’re a bit late, but we were just about to have a snack ourselves. Perhaps you’d like to join us, Sergeant? Simon may not look it, but he’s actually a bit of a red-hot chef.’

‘No, I couldn’t. Really, it’s not fair to intrude.’

‘Don’t be daft. We can always find another egg to drop into the saucepan,’ she said. ‘Have a beer as well if you like.’

‘I don’t think that’d be too clever as I’ve got to get back to work, but the lunch sounds great. Thanks.’

Chandler laid his forearm across his stomach and gave a deep bow. ‘And what may I have the pleasure of serving sir for his luncheon? Perhaps a starter of smoked salmon and quails’ eggs? I would recommend a main course of beef wellington with perhaps a very light sweet to finish off, perchance a raspberry souffle would be to sir’s liking. I am so sorry that you have a duty of such great consequence awaiting you that you will be unable to enjoy a glass of Bollinger.’

‘Don’t be like that, Simon,’ said Rand. ‘He’s only stopping for lunch, I’m not asking him to spend the night.’

‘Well, I’ve got better things to do with my lunch time than wait on someone who fancies himself as your new boyfriend,’ said Chandler as he started to put his shoes on. ‘But he wasn’t around when you needed picking up from the hospital, was he? Oh no, muggins here was only too happy to do that job.’ He sat on the sofa tugging at a shoelace. ‘I’m off home to feed the fish. I’d rather see they don’t go hungry than cook this sponger a free meal.’

‘May I see that, Mr Chandler?’ asked Redpath as he picked up the man’s left shoe. He turned it over and looked at the sole.

‘It’s a shoe. It’s black. It’s size eleven. I could have told you any of that without you grabbing it and mauling it. Goodbye, Sophie.’ Chandler snatched his shoe back, slipped it on and quickly tied the lace and left the flat, leaving a slam of the door as his final statement.

‘Well, it looks like I’ll have to perform wonders in the kitchen instead,’ said Redpath quickly, immediately thwarting the possibility of any silent embarrassment invading an empty air. ‘Don’t worry, I’m a dab hand with the frying pan.’

‘Very masterful.’

‘What?’

‘You were very masterful. I liked the way you just took his shoe. Sort of asked him, but didn’t wait for an answer.’

‘That’s the way it is with us officers who are entrusted with bringing dangerous criminals to justice. Tough. Rugged. Decisive. We don’t ask. We tell.’

‘Just like poor old Simon,’ she mocked.

‘Is he really a good cook?’

‘Marvellous.’

‘Then perhaps we ought to get him back because I’m guilty of just the tiniest fib. The inhabitants on a farm would turn their noses up at my efforts to be a chef.’

‘Come on, Darren, I’ll give you a hand. But only one,’ she joked as she waved her bandaged limb while leading the way into the kitchen. ‘We’ll rustle up something together. I’m not too bothered about serving up a banquet, I’m just grateful to you for coming round. And the flowers were a really kind gesture.’

‘All part of the service, Ma’am.’

*****

Hart had spent part of his own late lunch hour at the home of Ron and Daisy Brown. His disclosure that the nature of their daughter’s death was suspicious, but that it could not be proven to be a murder unless a killer could be found, only gave them so much comfort. It was not a complete answer and so could not give them total closure. Hart decided to help them out.

‘This is not something I can say in public but, between the three of us, I’m telling you that Nicola was murdered. So you can put out of your minds any thoughts of suicide, any feelings that you let her down, any notions that she had a problem but didn’t come to you for advice or comfort. Nicola did not take her own life, and I am certain that she was a wonderfully happy young woman, just as you remember her.’

That was definitely a statement which the earnest bureaucrat or lawyer would counsel against uttering – some cliche about failing to cover your own behind rattled around Hart’s mind.

By agreement between Hart and Arthur Rhodes, the preliminary report wouldn’t be sent to the Chief until the evening. He could do what he liked then; at least the people who had to be in the know wouldn’t be gleaning their information from the TV, especially Nicola’s parents.

The press, of course, were going to love it. An officer would have to be stationed at the Browns’ place to make sure none of the hacks knocked on the door of their little terraced house. Hart thought Asha Kanjaria might just be the copper for the job, although the snappers had better make sure their cameras weren’t clicking away when she got there. Either that, or their own behinds had better be well protected.