Hana’s father was a long way from Logan’s mind that morning; in fact, Robert McIntyre wasn’t even featuring. Because the head of English, who doubled as St Bartholomew’s temporary boarding house manager, was being yelled at by the horticulture teacher. The little man’s eyes popped and bulged in threat of an imminent heart attack, infuriated further by Logan’s apparent disinterest.
Logan Du Rose had never smoked. The haemophilia did enough damage by default without him helping its cause, but right then he considered how nice it might feel to light up a cigarette, close his eyes and block out the yowling, nonsensical tirade besieging his ears. It was tedious and boring and made him late for his Year 9 English class. He had no doubt the little idiots were already running around the classroom and would need detentions, which he didn’t have time to supervise.
“I’m sick of this!” the horticulture teacher screeched and Logan winced. At six feet four inches, Logan Du Rose dwarfed the little man bouncing before him, making the scene comical. But his shouting began to attract unwanted attention from two of the nearest classrooms and Logan’s patience snapped. He summed the annoying man up in one experienced glance, knowing with one well-aimed blow, he could kill or maim him and wondering which he should choose.
“I didn’t do it!” Logan said instead, for the twentieth time through gritted teeth. “No, I don’t want it here, but I didn’t sabotage it and I’ve no idea who did! Get out of my damn face, man.” Logan turned to leave, his black cowboy boots making a clicking sound on the concrete. Fury made him look back, calling to the green fingered teacher, “Get this heap gone, once and for all or there’ll be consequences!”
“No, it’s staying!” yelled the little man, posturing for a fight and then thinking better of it as Logan raised one dark eyebrow. The horticulture teacher put his spade carefully sharp end down, moderating his tone. “The boys need to learn about composting.” He waggled a skinny arm. “This is the best way to teach them. We dig a trench, we put the food scraps from the boarding house kitchens in and then we back-fill it and start again. It’s in the curriculum and I can’t see the problem!”
“The problem is - as I have told you numerous times already - we back onto a gully. We’ve got a bloody rat problem and the council say it’s because you’re feeding them! It’s a health hazard!” Logan tried to keep his voice level. “I don’t know why you have to do it here!”
“We have to do it next to the vegetable plot,” the man replied obstinately, “so that’s what we’re doing!”
Logan shut his eyes and tried to think calm thoughts. He imagined Hana’s beautiful smile, his fingers running through her red hair, that space on the back of her neck where...no, that wasn’t working either. It made him up tight in a different way. Logan opened his eyes. The silly man was still there, only he had turned his attention to digging in the loamy soil, attempting to uncover the trench which someone over the weekend had filled. He pulled the dark earth back to where it came from and with it, potato peelings, carrot tops and other rotting food items. “It’s ruined!” he muttered to himself as food mixed with soil turned under his ministrations.
Logan watched, transfixed as the tiny man wielded the spade with expert precision. Squashy food crap spewed from the hole with every turn of the spade, filling the air with a rotting stench. Exasperated, Logan shook his head and turned to leave, determined to let the principal sort it out.
“Oh.” The horticulture teacher’s surprised squeak forced Logan to stop, eyebrows raised. He watched as the spade hit something more solid than mud and the soil jerked around, the metal tool’s sharp edge entangled in random foodstuff under the surface. Logan spied something pink like a slice of ham and glared at the other man. “If there’s meat in there, no wonder the rats are having a field day. You said it was veggies!”
“It’s meant to be.” But as the spade wiggled free, the slice of ham came with it, only it wasn’t part of a pig but part of a man. The hand dragged free, pulling with it an arm wearing a black school tracksuit jacket, a torso and the side of a stiff, grey face. The compost heap had become a grave.
“Get out of there. Now!” Logan shouted, making the astounded man jump as he stared down at the body. “Don’t touch anything else.” He took the shocked teacher’s arm and pulled him away from the soil, seeing him leave deep footprints in the crime scene. Logan stayed on the concrete, careful not to add his fibres to the mix. He propped the teacher against the wall of St Bart’s and struggling with his other hand, pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket..
“I don’t feel so good,” the horticulture teacher spluttered as Logan stood with his large hand against the man’s chest. He sagged, forcing Logan to press harder one-handed.
“Maybe send the cops and an ambulance,” Logan told the operator. “I think we might need both.”
The horticulture teacher went a dreadful colour, resembling one of the juicy green iceberg lettuces in the vegetable plot nearby. As Logan ducked deftly out of the way, the little chap threw up all over the path, further contaminating the crime scene.
“Nice one! You boffed on the evidence!” Logan said crossly. He’d seen lots of blood and injury in his forty one years on earth, usually his own. He lost the ‘squeamish gene’ the day his older brother split him open like a pig and his innards poured out. After that, other people’s injuries seemed boring. Logan leaned over the trench as far as he dared and peered at the partially covered body.
“It’s a bloke. He’s wearing a school tracksuit top and what looks like black shorts.” Logan heard the teacher groan behind him. The wind gusted and the soil shifted under its influence, cracking and pouring off the body as though attempting to escape. Logan squinted, trying to see without touching. “Ah, look, that must be his head.” He pointed at the shorts and then the pink hand, moving his finger and jabbing at a covered spot furthest away. He heard the teacher retch and squatted, careful not to lean over the burial site. It wouldn’t take much for his own DNA to appear there and Logan didn’t want to give anyone an excuse to lock him up again, not after last year. “Oh ok. I can see his knees and his feet. Ah, yeah, that makes sense then.”
The horticulture teacher spewed again, thankfully in the other direction. Logan heard it splash on the concrete like a waterfall. He focussed on the telltale, bright, orange shoe laces peeking through the soil, narrowing eyes bright with interest and shaking his head. “Poor bugger,” he mused.
Logan stood up straight and planned his next move. The emergency operator wanted him to stay on the line, but he’d cut her off after she acknowledged the ambulance and cops had been dispatched. He dialled the boarding house office and within minutes, two prefects appeared in their distinctive striped blazers. “Right,” Logan said. “The interval bell will go in fifteen minutes so you stand there and you over there. Stop the boys coming this way.”
Then he rang Angus Blair, principal and friend, at that moment enjoying a cup of tea and coveted piece of imported Scottish shortbread. His personal assistant answered the phone and Logan ignored Amanda’s flirtatious tone, which she turned on when she recognised his voice. “Just put me through to Angus,” he snapped.
Seconds later, Angus’ broad Scots accent powered across the line. “Ah, Mr Du Rose, why’re you ringing me, boy? Didn’t I just see you at staff briefing?”
Logan broke the bad news and Angus slumped in his chair with a sigh. “Bloody hell! Who is it? Do we know?” he asked.
Logan gave a sharp intake of breath, unsure whether to voice his suspicion. “I’ve got a fair idea.”
The horticulture teacher barfed again, creating a small flood of second hand coffee between his feet. Logan paused, wondering where the little man stored all that liquid. He needed to be careful and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “The player we were short of on Saturday.”
“Is someone listening?” Angus asked.
“Yep,” Logan replied, wincing as his colleague filled the pot holes in the concrete with the remains of a muffin and another coffee.
“Ok, I know who was missing,” Angus said. He attended Saturday’s game, standing under a school umbrella with the administrative assistant from the student centre. Hana’s replacement was often out and about with the widower, making the school rumour mill work overtime. Angus sighed. “Perhaps someone inadvertently stepped on his crease.”
Logan smirked into the phone, glad his employer couldn’t see his face. He heard the principal’s sudden intake of breath. “Sorry, that was disrespectful and crass; you know I wouldn’t risk saying that to anyone else.”
“Yup,” Logan answered, cupping his hand over the phone while the horticulture teacher retched some more.
The sound of sirens rent the air as the cops piled in the front gate. Their promptness was wasted as they realised there was no access to the boarding house that way. Having disturbed the whole school, they backed out onto Maui Street with their sirens still blaring, drove to the roundabout and made the turns to the boarding house entrance three streets away in Fairview Downs. It was the most exciting thing to happen in Hamilton for weeks, judging by the response time and sheer numbers of personnel who arrived. As usual, Hana’s son was in the thick of it, although as an ex-student, he drove in the correct gate first time. He came around the corner and acknowledged his stepfather with an upward jerk of his head. “S’up?”
“A stiff.” Logan pointed at the body being slowly uncovered in its shallow grave by the wind. The horticulture teacher let out a moan and puked again. Bodie jumped back just in time and Logan laughed. “Nice dodge, goalie. See, that’s where you’re going wrong.” He snorted again as Bodie gave him the ‘v’ sign. “Ooh officer!” Logan sounded scandalised. “That’s no way to treat a member of the public.”
Bodie mouthed something obscene and Logan smirked. “How come you always turn up to this crap? Don’t they have any other cops in Hamilton?”
Bodie pulled a face as the horticulture teacher glanced back over at the trench and then went in for the full projectile vomit, his stomach working its way back to breakfast time and hurling the partially digested contents of his cereal bowl far and wide. “Yeah, I heard everyone respond to the call, but I don’t know where they are.” He leaned over the trench. “Great!” he said without sympathy as the sick dribbled into it. “Forensics will be thrilled. Couldn’t you take him a bit further away?”
Logan kept a straight face. “What and be accused of tampering with a crime scene? No thanks. This guy dug him up!”
The words dug him up were the last straw for the horticulture teacher. He sank to the ground looking as white as a sheet and offered up the cup of tea his wife woke him with that morning. Logan raised his eyebrow at a furious Bodie and marvelled. “You know what? This guy’s a human vending machine that just keeps on giving.”
Bodie got the late arrivals to cordon off the area, keeping Logan and the other teacher inside the tape. The clock ticked on and too soon the bell sounded, wreaking havoc on the scene as boys stampeded towards the boarding house. The cops tried to contain the hungry throng but failed. Unwilling to be denied their promised sausage roll and morning pie, the masses of testosterone went a different way and ended up at their chosen destination regardless – St Bart’s dining room.
Unfortunately, the dining room windows faced the veggie patch and the defunct groundsman. As the medical examiner arrived, he was met by a hundred pairs of eyes peering through the windows. Within minutes, gossip of the body went around the small school community and became hot news, texted to hysterical mothers who passed it on. None of the boys seemed put off their food though, which was not unexpected as the boarding house did a great sausage roll.
The horticulture teacher was led from the scene by an ambulance woman, dry retching the full length of the path. Logan warily eyed the mess he left and stayed out of it. He leaned back against the wall and waited to be told what to do. Presumably someone would come and speak to him. Someone did. But it was Detective Sergeant Odering and his face fell as he saw Logan patiently waiting, one leg bent at the knee and his boot against the wall.
“Mr Du Rose,” he said with a sigh, as though sick of hearing the name. Logan smiled and continued unwrapping his gum. Odering continued, “Your family seems to lurch from one disaster to another, doesn’t it?”
Logan shrugged and kept his face passive, feeling the man’s veiled frustration. The easier he made it, the quicker he could get away from the stink of rotting carrot and what looked like half a sandwich by the medical examiner’s foot. A couple of police women attempted to erect a white tent over the body. Logan tried not to laugh hysterically as the gusty breeze got underneath and almost sent them both into orbit. He turned away, finding it too funny to watch.
Odering deigned to take Logan’s brief statement himself, not delegating it to one of the waiting uniforms. Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw the tent get lift-off and one of the uniformed women’s feet come off the floor. He turned his laugh into a cough and Odering looked at him strangely. “Finding this humourous, Mr Du Rose?” he bit. “Want to come to the station and talk about it?”
“No, but thanks anyway.” Logan took deep breaths and felt grateful Peter North, his deputy manager wasn’t anywhere nearby. He’d be guaranteed to turn the situation into a complete farce.
“Hello,” came Pete’s voice as he trotted round the corner, trying to get his leg over the police tape and failing. He stood with one leg in the air and winced. With a look of confusion on his face, he forced his foot downwards and the plastic tape gave way with a twang, floating to the floor for its entire length and dangling from the tree it was tied to like a ribbon. “What’s going on, boss?” Pete demanded, wandering over to Logan and standing slap bang in the middle of the sick on the concrete. He watched the two police women with a smirk on his face. “Geez,” he said with a mischievous glance at the smartly dressed Detective Sergeant Odering, “don’t they teach you guys how to put up tents at cop school? One more puff of wind and they’ll be in Matamata.”
Logan snorted and Odering fixed him with a steely stare.
“Hey, love, watch what you’re doing!” Pete yelled to the tent wrestlers, tramping onto the soil and pushing past the medical examiner, “My Henrietta planted them potatoes! Don’t stamp all over them!” Satisfied his beloved’s food source was safe, Pete tutted loudly amid shouts and yells of warning and trudged right across the crime scene. At the trench he looked down at the partially exhumed body of his colleague and his eyes bugged. “Bloody hell,” he said, looking back at Logan. “Why has Collins planted himself?”