Dead Unlucky (14 page)

‘May I change tack a little, Mr Massaoud? What did you feel Nicola’s state of mind to be at the time of her death? Did Hiba report anything unusual to you?’

‘That’s the strange thing about this whole hateful business, Chief Inspector. Nicola came to visit us at our home occasionally; my wife thought the world of her. So bright, so mentally incisive, and such wonderful company. But in no way big-headed. She was a normal schoolgirl, although one with a stellar future to look forward to. And she did look forward to it. The girls were always bubbling about how much they were going to enjoy university.’ There was a pause before Massaoud reluctantly decided to continue. ‘I am a little ashamed, but I feel obliged to confess something to you. There is a part of me which feels she has let us all down by taking her own life and by making my daughter suffer so much. She could have come to any of us for help and she would have been received with our blessing. But I suppose something must have depressed her so terribly that she could not take even this small step. But what that concern was is a mystery to us all, and I think it will remain so.’

‘Is there anything else you believe I should know?’

‘Just one thing. I should tell you that she did not get on with the boy who has just been killed. Sebastian. He would taunt her rather than tease, and even sent her little notes. Puerile messages, but unpleasant all the same. Nicola showed them to Hiba and it worried my daughter rather than her.’

‘But I suppose this upset Nicola to some extent too, did it?’

‘You’re leading me on, Mr Hart, trying to obtain the obvious answer from me, the answer that would tell you that this bullying contributed to Nicola’s suicide. That’s what people thought at the time, especially when the suicide note was considered, but I shan’t give you the reply you want. Nicola was absolutely unconcerned by this affair. She had her life to lead, a full and exciting one, and she would not be put off by such pettiness. It didn’t touch her, she was too strong. I am certain that she wasn’t acting, just pretending to be unperturbed.’ Massaoud reflected a moment. ‘But I could be wrong, I suppose. Perhaps she was really bottling it all up, hiding her hurt from everybody. And then it all exploded.’

‘Thank you so much, Mr Massaoud, I shan’t take up any more of your time.’

‘You need not worry about that in the slightest, Chief Inspector. I will do whatever is necessary to help if you believe there is anything suspicious in this matter, although I don’t possibly see how there can be. That is true for Hiba as well, of course. If she were asked to give evidence in court, then she would do so. Not because her father would instruct her to take such an action, but because my daughter would never abandon her dead friend. Never.’ This was the heart speaking. Clearly, a big heart. ‘I am not the only person in my family who feels that one should make the attempt to be a decent human being.’

‘I very much doubt if it will be necessary for your daughter to go to court, Mr Massaoud, there’s still nothing to suggest that Nicola’s death is anything other than a suicide. The reasons why people do such things are sometimes buried deep in the complexities of human nature.’ Hart stood up ready to go. ‘I just wanted to make sure I knew all I could about Nicola’s suicide in case it has some connection with the murder. But it’s Sebastian’s death I’m investigating, Nicola’s has already been explained.’

‘Of course, Chief Inspector.’

The two men said their goodbyes, their warm goodbyes, and Massaoud escorted Hart to the front door personally and watched him on his way. He had given him his card with his mobile number on it, apologising for any trouble Hart had experienced in tracking him down that morning.

*****

As Hart drove north back to Lockingham, his mind was occupied with two quite unrelated thoughts. The first was what a nice chap that Mr Massaoud had turned out to be. The second was to ponder how he was going to approach Chief Superintendent Rodgers. He knew what he had to do, there was hardly any doubt at all now. There were still two other people he needed to visit, just to be as certain as he possibly could. Anyway, it would be impossible to leave Nicola’s parents out of the loop, they would actually have to be a couple of the main players in the spiteful little drama that was about to go on stage.

And then he would go and see Rodgers and tell it like it was. And the Chief would either bin his career or he would go along with what had to be done. There was no way of knowing what he would decide, it was too close to call. But if Harry backed out of this one, then he had no right to call himself a copper.

Or even a decent human being.

A few hours before Hart began his meeting with Ibrahim Massaoud, Annalee Hargreaves had been sitting in her office at the end of one ghastly week, one ghastly term, and reflecting on the unfolding disaster.

Back in September, everyone had returned from the summer break buzzing with their usual hopes and expectations for the new school year. And then, within less than a week, a senior student had committed suicide in her room at the school and Annalee had to pick up the pieces. She had managed to keep the publicity to a minimum, and the school governors had been grateful for that. There had been no television coverage and the papers hadn’t got a sniff of what had happened. The whole sordid business had been successfully squashed and forgotten.

And then Sebastian Emmer goes and gets himself murdered. It wasn’t the school’s fault; after all, the boy was killed miles away from there. And, as for the girl, Annalee hadn’t had much trouble convincing anyone who mattered that she must have been mentally unbalanced to have done what she did. But there was no escaping the fact that two violent deaths of Year 13 students hardly painted a picture of Highdean School as Happy Land, the sort of place where rich parents would want to send their kids. And the press were certainly on to this latest one. The television cameras were still camped outside, and her secretary had spent the past three days fielding reporters on the phone. And now, of course, the suicide joined the murder right out there in the open, so that Joe and Joanne Public had a double dose of delicious entertainment to salivate over at breakfast as they shovelled cornflakes into their mouths while simultaneously gorging on the more juicy bits of the national newspapers.
DEATH STALKS POSH SCHOOL
wasn’t the best form of advertisement for a prestigious institution of learning.

Still, she had just steered herself through the last day of this horrendous term and she had done a pretty good job. Almost everybody had gone home now, although there were still a few teachers in the staffroom, draining the dregs of the wine and nibbling at the remaining cheesy biscuits while they picked to pieces the only subject that had figured on the week’s timetable of gossip. Just one teacher had left the school today and he had only taught at Highdean for a couple of years, so he hadn’t been due much of a send-off anyway. She didn’t feel sorry for him, having his last day more or less overlooked and being an irrelevance in the big picture. He should have left in the summer; people who moved on halfway through the academic year were a devil to replace and should be more considerate.

Sebastian Emmer had not been a particularly pleasant young man, whatever she had told that odious little policeman who, thankfully, hadn’t turned up today. For one thing, the kid had harassed that Brown girl mercilessly. Annalee wasn’t one for rubbishing the students, because that sort of dirt stuck to the school, but the boy had also been arrogant and conceited, without possessing anything to be boastful about – well, except his good looks and his superficial charm, and he had plenty of those. But he was not the sort of boy that she found appealing, simply because he was as vacuous as outer space. He would have done better to have swaggered around the local comprehensive school rather than try to hold his own with the rather more erudite young people who enrolled at Highdean. His father was new money, and it took a generation or two before families like that acquired the necessary social polish to mix naturally with the genuine high-born, whatever the trinkets their cash might buy.

During the lunch break Annalee had taken a few minutes to have a word or two with some of her younger staff. They were good teachers; it certainly wasn’t their competence or ability that was troubling her. They knew their subjects well and they got themselves stuck in to all of the extras that make a school’s heart beat; they were always keen to take the students out on trips and expeditions, and they gave their all in after-school activities. A school needed teachers like them – almost as young as the people they taught and enjoying that same abundance of youthful energy. Annalee had only been at the place herself a few years and she had been eager to clear out dead wood and replace it with live wires, and she had successfully caught a few.

Sophie Rand had introduced a real buzz to the PE Department since she arrived from college two and a half years ago. Bubbly and jolly, she couldn’t do enough for the school. A genuine athlete, and a wonderful hockey and badminton player, she brought an enthusiasm to sport that had been lacking at the school for ages. Annalee shook her head gently as she contrasted Sophie with her head of department, who had been reduced to refereeing football matches by running up and down the sidelines because he couldn’t keep up. No wonder, what with the massive belly he had to cart around. She had no doubt which of the two of them was the better role model for the kids.

Simon Chandler had joined at the same time, and geography had certainly become more interesting for the students since he had stepped through the door. He had actually been to the places he talked about. He had sailed on the Great Lakes, had floated on the Dead Sea, had climbed Kilimanjaro. His dear old predecessor of twenty-two years could hardly haul himself up the stairs, let alone a mountain. Chandler had obviously taken a shine to Sophie, but that wasn’t surprising. If people didn’t latch on to their long-term partner at university, then the next shop window in the high street was their first job.

Paul Outbridge had arrived a year later and taken a little longer to settle in. More shy, and certainly more studious, he was an unlikely friend of the other two, but he got on just as well with the pupils, although it had taken him more time to establish himself. At first she wondered if they would find him dull, but it soon became apparent they respected his deep knowledge and his love of biology. His quiet delight in nature’s wonders had a way of diffusing itself into people and nurturing a similar fascination without them realising it. One of those people who had always been mature, he was a catch to keep an eye on for the longer term, maybe even a headteacher himself in the years to come.

No, it wasn’t their ability as teachers that was in question, but their judgement had certainly been askew. Annalee Hargreaves had seen fit to tell these three that rumours had reached her ears that they had been going out socially with some of their students, notably Timothy Grove and Sebastian Emmer. Of course, nobody could have foreseen the disaster that was to occur, but their choice of friends might not have been prudent. Naturally, Mrs Hargreaves did not heed gossip or innuendo and so would not propagate this title-tattle, not to the police nor to anybody else, but she thought they ought to understand that others may not be so judicious. Enough said.

But Annalee’s final thought before she took herself away from her desk and off home was one that had been throbbing in her head since September. Once the question had bedded itself down it had never entirely disappeared but, as the weeks had gone by, she had managed to push it to the back of her brain, from where it had only emerged during particularly sleepless nights or introspective moods. But now it thronged throughout her consciousness like an army of little gremlins, prodding and probing everywhere it went. She would never know peace from it again. Since Sebastian Emmer’s death, it had battered against her skull like it was trying to get out. And if that obnoxious little policeman had his way, then that’s just what it would do.

Why had Nicola Brown made an appointment for the day after she died to come and see her? What was it she had wanted to talk about?

*****

While his headteacher was torturing her mind in her office, Paul Outbridge was sitting in his flat performing much the same procedure on his own consciousness. He had tried to read the newspaper, shuffling his heavy glasses along his nose to take the weight from the red weals that sometimes appeared on either side, but he couldn’t concentrate. How in heaven’s name had he got himself into this fix? He didn’t even like those two particularly, they weren’t really his sort, to be honest. He was far too quiet, too reserved, and yet there he was going clubbing! And meeting kids from school, to boot! No more going out with Simon Chandler and Sophie Rand, that was for sure.

‘At least you’re still my friend,’ said Paul to his cat as he removed his spectacles and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He had a great career beckoning and had got an appointment to a really good school, the dream professional start of a serious young man. He knew the Head liked him, and he found he got along with the kids better than many people would have expected. He didn’t do it by trying to be chummy like some of his colleagues, but he felt he earned their respect by being a good teacher and through displaying a gentle humour. When those policemen had come into The Temple last night and started talking about cocaine, he wanted to be anywhere but there, anywhere else on this Earth. ‘Me, Paul Outbridge, being quizzed by the police about cocaine!’ he said to the cat. It was unbelievable! This was a lesson to be learned, and he would learn it all right. But he had been lucky last night. They could have been to see him about something even worse. Something much worse.

‘I’m not a bad man, Mirabelle,’ said Paul as he hoisted the cat onto his lap and tickled her under the chin. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing wrong at all. I could never harm Nicola. You know that, don’t you? In fact, in my own way it was me that helped her. Okay, I’ve been a bit silly maybe, but I haven’t really done anything that you could actually call wrong. You believe me, don’t you?’

If Paul could get out of this mess, he would never sin again. Just please let him get out of this mess, and truly, honest to God, he would never sin again.

But could he get out of this mess?

‘Somebody must know our secret, Mirabelle, or they soon will. It stands to reason, somebody has to know. There’s no doubt about that. No doubt at all.’

And Paul Outbridge turned on the taps and out gushed bitter tears.

*****

Chief Superintendent Claude Rodgers really did look the part of the assured professional as he sat in front of the television cameras and the flashing lights, right at the centre of some considerable attention. Once the news of the schoolboy murder had become a national obsession, the Chief realised that he had better take charge. Not of the actual investigation, of course, he left that to the lower ranks. But it was time for him to command the features of the case which involved the press, to become the face that the force presented to the world. He was eminently suitable for this task, having been to the barber’s for a trim and a straightening of his white moustache. Mrs Rodgers herself had polished his buttons, and the crown and the pip adorning each epaulette caught the lights beautifully. Yes, this was a natural-born leader who was sitting before the nation’s press, that was for sure.

The Chief started with a speech, to let the assembled throng know of the progress that had been made on the case so far. This progress had been considerable, he explained, and there were a number of suspects on the list, although it was a list that was becoming shorter by the day. Of course, he could not go into details of the police investigation for fear of compromising the operation. Claude Rodgers was rather enjoying himself; this was the sort of work a senior police officer
should
be undertaking.

His pale face, topped with white hair which still boasted a few streaks of grey, next adopted a countenance of even greater solemnity as he made an appeal: should any member of the public know or suspect anything that might help, they were to call the number that now rolled along the bottom of their screens, and they could call it in confidence of anonymity. Perhaps they had seen a suspicious person hanging around the alley in question? Perhaps they had noticed a car parked in the vicinity? Perhaps a friend or relative was acting strangely, perhaps such a person even had bloodstained clothing or some of their clothes had gone missing? And, finally, a word from the wise: do not hesitate to phone, because any little detail at all could help to catch a callous murderer, and the provider of such information would be something of a hero, implied his serious and sagacious visage. So, do not hesitate at all.

Chief Superintendent Rodgers would now take questions from the press.

If there has been considerable progress made in the case, why had nobody yet been called in for questioning?
asked a particularly awkward reporter from one of the serious newspapers. By keeping vigil outside the police station at Lockingham, it was clear that not a soul had been dragged in for so much as a cup of tea and a chat. Rodgers had asked himself the same question, and had put it to several officers working on the case.

‘I am not at liberty to divulge any details regarding individuals who have helped us with our enquiries. That would be grossly unfair to them. In this country we have trial by jury, not trial by media.’ He was clearly affronted by that question, and had every right to be.

Why didn’t the parents make this appeal with you, Chief Superintendent?
enquired the man from the regional television station. The answer was that Mrs Emmer would have clucked and implored and wept. Sure, her tears might have tugged at a few heartstrings and got a result or two. But her husband! It is said that any publicity is good publicity, but Clive Emmer would have disproved that aphorism in an instant. Clive Emmer would have been a great big drain, down into which any public sympathy would have plunged in a trice.

‘Sebastian’s parents have been through a considerable ordeal. It is not my intention to exacerbate their discomfort and cause them further suffering by asking them to face the cameras.’
But I am strong enough to take up their burden
, said his resolute demeanour and his martyred expression.