Dave and his mate again. Deliberately messing up the crime scene?
Callum raised a hand. “There’s another thing, sir. We’ve not had a proper statement from the wife, yet.”
Pru shot Robin a puzzled glance. “Why’s that? It’s been nearly two weeks.”
“She’s apparently been too ill. Inspector Robertson and I went to question her the day after it happened, but the doctor was there with her. Said she’d had a slight breakdown, was going to stay at her mum’s, and that we were under his orders to leave her alone until she was feeling better.”
“That sounds a touch too convenient,” Robin said.
“That’s what we thought.” Callum nodded at Sally. “Robertson said that when you’ve seen as many family members weeping and wailing about their dear departed as she was, only for it to turn out that the ones who appear to have taken it hardest are the ones who are as guilty as sin, then you become cynical. Still, these days the police always have to keep their noses clean and harassing a distressed widow wouldn’t go down well in the local media.”
“Especially as she appears to have an unbreakable alibi,” Pru observed. “We need to talk to her, though. Any idea when she’s available?”
Robin suppressed a grin: his sergeant knew as well as he did that they’d lined up an interview with Melanie the next day, Betteridge having exerted pressure on the doctor. This question was a test to see how much the team had been told or how much they’d be prepared to share.
“Anytime we want, from now on,” Callum replied. “The superintendent got the doctor to agree, but we’ve been holding fire until you arrived. Hope that was okay?”
The test had been passed, at least for the moment.
“I’d probably have made the same decision in your position,” Robin said. “We want to see all the main witnesses for ourselves, anyway. Not that we think you missed anything, but because we want to hear things firsthand. Watch people’s faces while they answer our questions. Pru and I have some interviews lined up for tomorrow, and we’ll want one of you to come along with each of us. We’ll sort that this evening. Now,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the board, “this alibi of hers. Dawn and the wine bottle. Is it really unbreakable?”
Sally shrugged. “Seems like it. They were Skyping one of their pals who moved over to Massachusetts last year. At around the time the husband was being killed.” She raised her hands. “Yeah, that looks suspicious too, but unless it turns out they’re all in it together, the wife couldn’t have been at the sports ground. Dawn says the timing has actually made it worse for Melanie. You know, the fact that she’d been drinking and making jokes while somebody was walloping her husband.”
“Somebody that she could have put up to doing the job,” Pru pointed out. Nobody disagreed.
The briefing wound up with some setting of standards—Robin expected people to do what was asked of them and to hit their deadlines, and in return he’d always be available should he be needed and he’d always listen to any ideas the constables had.
“Believe me,” he said, backing towards the corner desk that he’d decided to appropriate in lieu of having his own office, “Pru and I are bound to have heard dafter things from our own officers, and I’ve known chance remarks which have been the breakthrough to solving a major case.”
That might have been a slight exaggeration, but it appeared to make the team relax a bit. What they needed. Robin would have to forge new working relationships quickly, and he didn’t really have capacity to deal with his constables’ hesitancy. They had a murder to solve.
Monday evening, Adam settled himself on the settee with football on the telly and Campbell gently snoring on the rug. Robin had touched base earlier—he and Pru had arrived safely and they had some ideas to follow on the case, but seeing as he’d already tempted fate this week and been caught out, he’d not be getting ahead of himself.
Adam’s phone buzzed with another incoming message.
Wanted to say good night. I’ll ring properly tomorrow before breakfast.
Adam was desperate to hear Robin’s voice. That’ll be great. I’ve had a thrilling evening poring over some updated Ofsted guidance and other exhilarating reading. He’d done that over his dinner, not having anyone to talk to apart from the dog.
It’s all thrills, isn’t it? Love you.
Love you too.
Now Adam had the rest of the evening to chill out. But he was restless, in a way he’d not been restless either before Robin came into his life or when he was working late on a local case. He’d not even felt like this the odd occasions Robin had been away overnight at a conference.
You’re turning into an old married man.
He’d need to find something to occupy himself while Robin was in Hartwood, something beyond work or watching Premier League prima donnas on the gogglebox.
The incoming email alert flashing on his phone brought a welcome distraction. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a notification that the Ofsted schedule had changed yet again, at the point when he’d got his head around the latest version, although chances were it was simply an advert.
Adam opened his inbox, to find a mailing sent out to what Neil the vicar called the Big List, which comprised everyone in the St. Crispin’s congregation who made use of emails. It was an appeal but this one was different. Martin, the choirmaster, was on the hunt for volunteers to take part in a fundraising concert. Proceeds were going to a rugby player who’d been badly injured in a freak training accident and whose friends were trying to raise money to have the flat he was buying with his girlfriend properly adapted to his needs.
Adam read the email twice, then snorted so loud he woke the dog.
“Sorry, old boy.”
Another instance of Robin’s cases wanting to intertwine themselves with his life? He clicked on the link Martin had provided to the information page, prepared for what he’d find. Yep, this was the guy who’d been injured the same night and at the same place as the murder that Robin had gone to investigate, exactly the sort of thing Adam should be steering clear of. He should simply delete the email, tell anyone who asked that he was too busy, and not risk another murder case trying to draw him in. Trouble was, he’d been mulling over the idea of joining a choir since Mrs. Haig had suggested it. Martin was asking interested parties to go to the church the next evening, with a view to getting this project started as soon as possible. What better way of occupying himself while Robin was away?
He read the email a third time, then told himself not to be a silly sod. How could getting involved with this fundraising effort in any way embroil him with the case? A sharper prick to his conscience was a whimper from Campbell, who’d drifted back to sleep. He’d be bereft enough without his other dad, so what would he think of being left alone evenings and weekends or whenever Adam was required for rehearsals? Suddenly remembering a conversation a couple of months back, when Martin had been trying to inveigle him and Robin into joining the church choir, he recalled how Martin had graciously said that if they ever changed their minds about joining, not only would they be very welcome, but so would their dog, who could sit in a corner of the church and snooze during choir practice. Would that offer apply to the concert rehearsals? There was only one way to find out. Adam dialled the number given in the email and waited.
“Hello?”
“Martin?”
“Ye-es?” The choirmaster sounded uncertain, although given that the email had just gone out, surely he was prepared for folk ringing him out of the blue.
“Adam Matthews here. I saw your email about a local choir. Raising money for that rugby player who was hurt. I wanted to ask you a few things.”
“Excellent.” There was a distinct note of relief in Martin’s voice. “Are you interested in joining us?”
“I am, so long as the timings work out. Can I bring Campbell along, if I need to? The dog.”
“He’d be very welcome. Does he sing bass by any chance? And what about that fellah of yours?”
“That’s kind, but I think we’ll be all right. I got the core of people involved before I put it out to the Big List. You know how it is, a few cautious yeses have become a definite I’m in. I’d say we’re almost there. We’re working on a set list too.” Any awkwardness had now gone from Martin’s voice. “As a way to generate money, it’s solid. It should appeal to a different range of people, other than the rugby crowd. I’m guessing they’d support the venture no matter how awful we sound. Which we won’t, by the way.”
“I would hope not. Is it simply the concert we’re doing?”
“No. It’s a mate of mine organising this—he’s the boyfriend of one of the players on the team. He’s got half a dozen choirs holding concerts, and he’s going to produce a CD of us all. Some tracks with only one choir and then some clever techie stuff to make it sound like we’re all singing the same song at the same time. I’m not sure how that works, but Tim says it’ll be stunning.”
This all sounded like something Adam wanted to be a part of. “If the final CD’s good enough, you could potentially get a much wider range of people buying it, not only the usual friends and family of those taking part.”
“Absolutely. I know from experience that there’ll be a limited number of folk who’ll dig in their pockets to buy a copy irrespective of whether it turns out to be absolute pants, because their grandson’s involved and they want one up on the neighbours whose grandson’s a layabout.” Martin chortled. “Then once they’ve swanked over the garden hedge, they’ll probably stuff the disc in a drawer and never listen to it. If we could access people who want the CD for the music itself, not only will it bring in more money, but it’ll give everyone involved a boost. You don’t happen to know any pop or rock stars, to increase the potential saleability?”
“None, I’m afraid. There used to be some sixties rocker lived in the old Lindenshaw manor house, but he’s long gone.” Possibly literally long gone given the state he was in when Adam last saw him. “Have we got anyone with nous for publicity?”
“That’s an idea. Nobody in the choir, as far as I’m aware, but I’ve a tone-deaf mate who’s in the business. Advises charities on their social media profiles. I’ll get in touch. Good thinking, Batman.”
Was that a bad joke picking up on his relationship with somebody called Robin? Adam wasn’t going to ask. “The email says the first meet up is tomorrow.”
“Yes. Seven thirty, in the church because the table tennis league has the hall on Tuesdays. Even if we haven’t got a full choir complement by then, we can make a start.”
“I’ll be there.” As Adam ended the call, he felt a furry face land itself on his knee. “You’ll be there too. You’ve got twenty-four hours to learn to sing bass.”
Robin felt better for the short walk to their hotel and then a hot shower. The building seemed to be a similar vintage to the police station, and with the same sense of spick-and-span efficiency. His room was comfortable and the dinner menu looked interesting, and while eating with Pru wouldn’t be as satisfying as spending his evening with Adam, they could discuss the case in almost the same way as he’d have done back home in Lindenshaw. Doing something else entirely and forgetting about murder for a couple of hours had an appeal, but his priority had to be getting this case solved and getting home.
As soon as they’d ordered food, Robin got Pru to update him on that afternoon. “How did you get on with the officers who were first on the scene?”
“Pretty good. Amazing where playing dumb gets you.” She took a sip of Belgian beer. “I got them to talk me through what they did from their arrival to when they were relieved, and I’m fairly confident they did everything that we’d have done to secure the scene. They told me that Derek Preese offered to make a list of names and addresses of all those who’d been present at training, so they took him up on it. Mind you, they had the sense to do a headcount to make sure they got a full list. Kept a tally of the bags they checked too. Everything matched up.”
“Good.” Robin appreciated simple jobs done with order and method. Corner cutting rarely helped anyone and often meant you missed a small, vital piece of information. Scrupulous attention to detail might be boring, but it would have picked up the clue. “Triple-checking: that list of bags accounted for included Dave’s and Andy’s?”
“Yep. They couldn’t remember everyone’s names offhand but they recalled the two blokes who wanted to get off to casualty. The officers said they checked their sports bags very carefully.” Pru grinned. “They found nothing suspicious, though. They seemed to think the murder weapon had been taken off the premises by the killer and then either dumped in a convenient skip somewhere on the way home or simply washed and put away in the garden shed or wherever it came from.”
Easier to hide a blunt instrument than a gun or a knife. Robin remembered reading a brilliant short story in which a wife murdered her husband using a leg of lamb to beat him around the head, then cooked and served it to the investigating officers.
“We know it didn’t show up when they searched the site, inside or out. If the killer had blood on their clothes, they could have been washed and put away too.”
“Or allowed to dry off, get cut into pieces, put into carrier bags, and deposited in half a dozen dustbins.” Pru took another drink. “Any of which might suggest that the killer lived alone or that their partner or housemates were in collusion.”
“Or that the outside clothes never got that much blood spattered on them in the first place. Either because the wound didn’t produce that much, or the weapon was long enough that they stayed out of range. Or what if our killer stripped to their underwear—that could have been part of the way he or she lured the victim into the loos—and then instead of indulging in a spot of hanky-panky, killed him? They then stuck the underwear in a bag, washed themselves at the basins, got dressed, and went home?” Bugger. He’d missed out an element. Let’s see if Pru challenged him about it.
“So, what about hiding the weapon when you’re in your undies? You can’t hide a truncheon or whatever down your pants.” Pru grinned. “I wouldn’t say that to young Ben back at Abbotston. He’d go red.”
“He might surprise you and produce a smutty answer. As for concealing the weapon and then producing it: you could say you needed to get something from your bag, a condom or whatever, and by the time the victim realises you’ve produced another thing entirely, it’s too late.”
Pru narrowed her eyes, bottom lip jutting out in thought. “That might work. It might even be irrelevant, because if Nick was concussed from the first knock he got to his head, then he wouldn’t have noticed the weapon until it was too late. It’s a bit too public a place to be having a spot of nookie, although some people get off on that and Nick could have been one. We’ll know more after tomorrow and talking to people who knew him.”
“I hope so.” Robin took a swig of Diet Pepsi. If he’d been at home, he might have indulged in a bottle of beer, but he didn’t feel like drinking in these circumstances.
“Tell you what else I found out. I happened to be in the ladies’ loo the same time as Sally. Coincidence, honest.”
“I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t.”
“Pfft. That joke’s too old to be allowed out. Anyway, she had that I want to ask you a question on the quiet expression on her face.” Pru raised an eyebrow. “She wanted to know if you were as good a bloke as Superintendent Betteridge makes out. Apparently, the officer she first worked under, at another station, was rather handsy. With fellow officers and with a couple of witnesses, which is what ultimately led to him losing his job. Sally hadn’t complained—too scared, I think, being relatively new to the team—but other female officers did, once it all started to come into the open.”
“What did you tell her?” Was this the moment when Robin’s sexuality became common knowledge h
ere, if it wasn’t already?
“That you’re just married, you’re a perfect gentleman, and you’re squeaky clean on all counts. And that you hadn’t even had to pay me to say that. She seemed amused.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I also mentioned the mess at Abbotston and how you were one of the new brooms sent in to sweep clean. She said she’d heard rumours about that already but wasn’t sure how you were involved, so she was reassured you were on the side of the angels. She said she’d let the other two constables know. I think they’ve been quite worried about what kind of officer was being foisted on them.”
Maybe that would explain the slightly prickly atmosphere in the incident room. “Sally appeared uncomfortable when I asked her what she thought of the case. Did she think I was targeting her for personal reasons, trying to chat her up?”
“That’s possible. Once bitten, twice shy and all that. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open and if she says anything directly, I’ll drop in a casual mention of Adam and which team you bat for.” Pru shrugged. “Let’s hope they’ll settle down once they know we won’t bite them.”
“Amen to that. Why don’t you take Sally along tomorrow when you interview Dawn and Coa . . . Derek Preese? I’ll take Callum when I go to see Melanie.” Robin sighed, unhappy at having to waste energy on dealing with things that had no place in the modern police force. “Will Laurence’s nose be put out of joint if I don’t go back to the station and swop junior officers before seeing Dave?”
“Perhaps, but he’ll have to learn to lump it. If we give him an important job to do, he might be mollified.”
“I’ll see if I can come up with one. Ben would have been all over the internet by now, raking up dirt about the victim.” Was it unfair to already be feeling pangs of regret for not having his own team to hand and knowing that he wouldn’t need to spell everything out to them? Maybe the officers here would surprise him with their competency and level of initiative: he couldn’t imagine anyone working for Betteridge being sloppy at their job, but other people might have exercised an unhelpful influence on these impressionable young coppers. “I wonder if any of them have done that kind of an online sweep?”
A Carriage of Misjustice Page 5