Dead Unlucky (29 page)

Quite a few guests had arrived to enjoy Patricia Luft’s company on the final night of the year and so Hart had to park his Mondeo fifty yards down the street on his second visit to her house. Thankfully the weather had switched its allegiance and the rain had stopped; perhaps it only stuck up for the side it thought was going to win. It was only a few seconds after the door chimes sang out that Hart and Kanjaria could hear a shrill voice advancing down the hallway. ‘I’ve no idea; I wasn’t expecting anybody else.’ Light gushed out into the porch through the opening door and the figure within struggled at first to make sense of the shapes standing in the darkness outside. She was still beautiful, but the deity was now tottering a little and clutching a flute of champagne. As her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, she recoiled and regally waved away the two uninvited guests with a fluttering left hand. Hart simply stared at her and shook his head.

Grudgingly, Patricia Luft unlocked the porch door and spoke through the gap. ‘Harry, I thought I’d made it clear that my idea of a satisfying evening does not include spending time with a little worm like you. Go away, there’s a dear.’ She looked down from the step at Asha like she was a piece of muck that had been deposited on her carpet. ‘And take your friend with you.’

‘Can’t do that Patricia. When we leave, you’re coming with us. I’m arresting you for attempted murder.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She tried to pull the porch door to but Kanjaria was too quick and grabbed the handle. By the time Patricia Luft had got back inside the hall, pushing on the heavy front door in an attempt to keep the intruders out, Kanjaria’s boot was in there with her. The contest over, they followed Luft into the living room.

‘Look everybody, we’ve got a brace of surprise visitors come to join us,’ she exclaimed to her startled guests, some of whom were already shifting from one foot to another with embarrassment. ‘He may not look it, but he’s a real live policeman, the one in the grubby raincoat. And we can see from her exotic uniform that she’s genuine filth, unless she’s got lost on her way to the fancy dress ball.’ Luft took a swig of her champagne. ‘I’ll give you this though, Harry. I never thought an ugly little twit like you would be able to pull a pretty tart like that.’

‘Shut up Mrs Luft and get your coat.’ Hart looked around at the twenty or so guests whose eyes were boring into him. Some of them he knew as white-collar crooks, friends of Patricia Luft’s husband. Their watches and clothes stated clearly that they had experienced considerable success in their chosen careers. ‘You’ll all need to leave,’ he stated calmly as he produced his warrant card and panned it around the room. ‘The owner of the house will be accompanying the Constable and myself in a couple of minutes and so I cannot allow you to remain.’

‘Leave? What do you mean, leave?’ demanded a tall man of about fifty, wearing an expensive dinner jacket and female trophy. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘I’ll answer your questions in the order in which you posed them. By leave, I mean leave. To do that it will be necessary to walk to the front door, open it, and then step outside. And the time,’ finished Hart, looking down at his watch, ‘is nine minutes to twelve.’

‘You can’t do this. There must be a law against barging into somebody’s house at this time of night. And tonight of all nights.’

‘I wouldn’t say there’s a law as such, although there are rules, of course. But I’m very careful with the rules so you needn’t worry. If I’m arresting somebody for an imprisonable offence, the rules are pretty much on my side. In case there’s any doubt, that’s the side of the public.’ Hart looked at Patricia Luft and formally cautioned her. ‘I really would advise you to put your coat on before the Constable applies the handcuffs. It’s chilly outside.’

‘You pig. You complete and utter pig. You’re not going to drag me out of here in handcuffs. Not just so you can show off in front of my friends.’

‘It’s a tad more pragmatic than that, Mrs Luft. I simply don’t want you sitting behind me with your hands free when we’re in the car,’ he stated. Hart’s eyes again scanned the faces which surrounded him. ‘There are three police officers in this room and we’ll put them on you by force if we have to.’ His gaze settled on the features of Darren Redpath, who stood clutching the hand of Sophie Rand. He was mortified and contrite – a little boy who had been caught stealing money from the church collection to buy his sweets and dreaded that the news would soon be all over the village.

As the party of evening suits and dresses ambled tut-tutting out into the night, the sky exploded with colour as the reds and greens and oranges noisily proclaimed the advent of a new year. ‘Please be careful not to drink and drive,’ advised Hart helpfully. ‘There are additional police officers operating in this very area tonight.’ Some guests decided to brave the weather and walk home. After the last of them had left, Patricia Luft was placed in the back of Hart’s car with Asha Kanjaria sitting beside her, and they drove away to the station.

‘I suppose you think this is clever, Harry. You’ll find it’s not so clever as my solicitor.’

‘If your solicitor was that bright, he’d have bought you a shredder for Christmas. Mind you, it would have been hard to shove a jar of horseradish sauce through the machine.’ Hart switched his wipers on to slow speed to brush away the drizzle. ‘Your timing was good, of course. While I’m looking into these murders, everyone would have expected the person who tried to bump me off to be a practised killer, not the enchanting divorcee who was so enamoured of me she invited me to her home. Naturally, I was supposed to have popped my clogs before I got there, but there was still some fun to be had for you in this evening’s charade. It’s a shame you couldn’t resist that. If I hadn’t come round and got intimate with your wheelie bin, there’s a fair chance you’d have got away with it.’

‘You can’t really think I’d be in the least bit interested in you. You’re uncultured, vulgar, unforgivably unexciting. Short. And disgustingly poor. You’re as attractive as a tramp but lacking the charm.’

‘But I’m not spending the next several years in the clink, which puts me one up on you and your ex-hubby. I hope you’ve at least learned your lesson.’

‘About getting involved with cockroaches like you?’

‘About the virtues of recycling. Particularly glass jars.’

Hart didn’t bother to go home in the early morning of New Year’s Day, but he did manage to snatch a few hours’ kip in his office. He guessed that nothing would be going on outside the headquarters and warehouse of Amazon and Oriental Trading before six o’clock and he was right. When he arrived in the sort of white van that constituted the official vehicle of the estate even the birds weren’t yet up and about, and they hadn’t been knocked out by a brain full of alcohol a few hours before, unlike the beings who inhabited the human world. The van was parked opposite the warehouse, in the car park of a plumber’s. The paddy wagon containing the reinforcements was kept out of sight around the corner.

Hart shared the van with a driver, photographer, police constable and Rosie, a gorgeous shiny black Labrador retriever. Of the five of them, Rosie was the only one who was alert and seeming like she was looking forward to the game which was about to be played. The other four were struggling to stay awake and it was only the cold which stopped them from nodding off. Hart realised that the condensation on the window was a dead giveaway to anybody curious enough to want to look inside and spent an hour wiping it off with his hanky as it formed. If he was ever unfortunate enough to be stuck in a van like this again, he would have to bring along one of those little battery fans to do the job.

At just after seven o’clock he was wondering whether the twenty pounds spent on Sally’s lunch constituted such good value after all, when a car pulled into the yard opposite. It was of indeterminate colour in the yellow sodium lights but it was definitely a soft-top Vauxhall Astra, and that was good enough. The photographer was immediately nudged into action and the rapid clicks of the camera’s shutter caused Rosie to pant harder and her dark but brilliant eyes became even more eager so that the van suddenly came alive.

It was only five minutes later that Clive Emmer’s sleek Jaguar pulled up alongside the car of his former business associate. Hart watched them get out of their vehicles and climb the wooden steps to the door of the office without a word to each other. The photographer continued clicking as the door was unlocked and the men went inside. They kept the office light off but a streak of white ran out down the steps a few seconds later as the fluorescent tubes of the windowless warehouse were switched on. As Danny Moses reappeared with a package which he loaded into his boot, Hart simply watched as the photographer clicked away.

After the third of Danny’s little parcels had been nestled into his car, Hart, Rosie and the constable quickly slipped out of the van and ran to the warehouse steps, joined by a small posse who had been waiting in the van round the corner. When Danny next emerged, carrying another package in the form of a black powder wrapped in clear plastic, he found half a dozen policemen and a dog waiting to welcome him.

‘Hello, Danny. You’re up early again.’

Moses did his best to look unsurprised. ‘Just helping the old fella in there shift a few things. He gives me a bit of pocket money for my trouble and makes me feel I’m doing something to earn my keep. Not such a liability to the public then, am I?’ he suggested nobly.

‘What’s that you’re holding?’

‘No idea. Best not to ask questions if you think you might not like the answers,’ came the reasonable reply. ‘I’m just paid to do the donkey work. I expect the guy in there would know.’

‘You might like to have a word with a solicitor before you choose that as a line of defence. Where are you taking it?’

‘Don’t know that either. He hasn’t told me yet.’

‘I reckon the sad truth is that you’re standing there with your fingers wrapped around a couple of kilos of cocaine.’

A little of Moses’ old arrogance returned. ‘Don’t be completely stupid. If I was, your mutt would be going bonkers by now. And even a copper should know coke’s white. That’s why it’s called snow,’ came the lesson in street talk. Moses enjoyed himself by putting his stubbled face in Hart’s own as he delivered his address. But the pleasure was as fleeting as it was final – he was conducting a rearguard action at the climax of an overwhelming defeat, and he knew it.

‘Rosie’s not interested because it’s got all sorts of muck in there to put her off. Charcoal for sure. A few iron filings thrown in to complete the mix, perhaps? I reckon she’ll be fascinated by what’s in the boot though, because even a copper knows what those leaves are.’ Hart nodded to the handler and Rosie clambered into the boot, her black nose twitching with controlled excitement. Then she simply sat down. Had she been human, there would have been a proud and satisfied smile painted on her lovely face. ‘I think the year’s started pretty well for her, she’ll be enjoying a few treats this morning. Take her into the warehouse please, Constable. It’s always a pleasure to see such lovely animals having fun.’

As Rosie trotted up the steps to continue her work, an irate man emerged from the opposite direction. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on out here?’

‘Morning, Mr Emmer,’ greeted Hart. ‘I’m pleased you’ve come to join us.’

It might have been expected that Clive Emmer’s features would have proclaimed the clearest surprise out of all the faces of the little band assembled outside his office on that dark winter’s morning, but Danny Moses stood utterly transfixed with astonishment. When he did eventually speak, it was to confirm that his ears had not been telling him fibs.

‘Emmer? Your name’s Emmer? Don’t tell me you’re Seb Emmer’s old man? In all our years of doing business, I never made the connection.’ Danny Moses shook his head with the wonder of it all. ‘I never told Seb or another living soul where I got my stuff from. That was my number one rule.’

‘And the police told me Sebastian fell into using drugs at The Temple. That’s your territory, so it must be you who sold this stuff to my son. So now you know why I wanted nothing more to do with you, why I wanted your goods out of here, you filthy little piece of scum. How could you? How could you sink so low?’

‘Where do you think all these plants and powders go after you’ve loaded them out of the docks and into your crummy little outhouse here? This junk goes on the street, that’s where it goes. Down the throats, up the noses and into the veins of all the kids stupid enough to pay the extortionate prices we charge them for all this muck. But you knew that, so don’t try coming on all weepy with that sentimental crap about flogging it to your dear little boy. You don’t mind other blokes’ kids killing themselves with it, but not your precious little Seb.’

Clive Emmer took a step forward, raised his fist and aimed a punch. But he wasn’t built for fighting, not physically, not mentally, and a constable easily prevented his shot reaching its destination. Moses didn’t even dignify this effort by aiming a blow himself, he just looked the man up and down as he carried on his sermon. ‘And Seb supplied to half the schoolkids in North London so I don’t suppose many people will be wasting tears on him. He was a pusher, no better than that. Just like me. Just like his old man.’

Hart found himself in the surprising position of agreeing with everything Danny Moses had said, but it was time to call a halt. He cautioned them both and they calmly accepted the restraints of the handcuffs; surrounded by the enemy, there was nowhere to run.

‘You’ve got to laugh, though,’ continued Danny, a sneer playing on his lips. ‘Seb was snorting the very coke his own old fella had brought off the boat.’

There was no clever answer to that. As he was being led to the Black Maria, Clive Emmer simply asked Hart, ‘How did you know we would be here?’

Moses was keen to reply. ‘That’s obvious, you stupid old git. That stupid bitch of a secretary of yours shot her great big mouth off.’

‘I told you she was next door. Why did you have to shout? If you hadn’t been such a fool, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘You calling me a fool, that’s a laugh. I suppose you thought you were Mastermind, hiding dope in a few mangy carpets from Timbuk-somewhere-or-other and some grotty old tables …’

Hart was glad he’d be returning to the station after this pair had got there, in the van with the dog for company.

*****

The clock had ticked past mid-morning by the time Hart finally arrived back at his office and got the kettle boiling. He forced himself to finish two quick jobs before he went home to grab a couple of hours’ sleep.

The chemistry boffs weren’t working today, so he wrote a note detailing exactly what he wanted them to do – check those fibres again, the ones that were found on the clothing Nicola Brown had been wearing when she died. But this time Hart gave them precise instructions on what to look for. He would stick the message through the lab’s letter box on the way home.

Then he picked up his telephone receiver and punched in the number on the business card he held before his eyes. Ibrahim Massaoud answered his mobile immediately. ‘Mr Hart, a happy New Year to you. Perhaps you have some good news for me regarding your investigation.’

‘Sadly not. But you’re right to suppose that I am ringing about the case. I was hoping to come down and speak to Hiba at some time during the next couple of days.’

‘I know I did say that Hiba would help if she could, but that would depend upon the nature of your intended conversation,’ replied the diplomat warily. ‘Is it important?’

‘I would just like to ask her two quick questions, but, yes, they are important. In fact, they’re absolutely crucial.’

‘Would you mind advising me why that is so?’

‘I believe the answer to the first will tell me why Nicola was killed. The second is likely to tell me who killed her.’