A Carriage of Misjustice

by Charlie Cochrane

  “Great approach. It’s the best way to teach anyone—adult or child. Talking of which”—Adam glanced at his watch—“we need to get on. Have to be ready to face my eleven-year-olds tomorrow, so I can’t let tonight go on too late.”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. I should have thought. Shall I help clear away?”

  “Please.”

  As they tidied away the remains of the meal, loaded up the dishwasher, and put on the kettle, the conversation continued. “Will Robin be away for long? Any chance he’ll be back for the weekend?”

  “I doubt it.” Adam couldn’t make out if the choirmaster was pleased or disappointed at that response. “Not unless they have a miracle breakthrough in the next forty-eight hours. Can you add that to your prayers whenever you next say them?”

  “I will.” Martin hesitated. “But only if you’ll add a sentence to yours for me.”

  “Okay.” Adam was reluctant to open up another heart-to-heart session, but his conscience wouldn’t let him metaphorically pass by on the other side of the road. “I did wonder if something was bothering you yesterday. Like you’d seen a ghost.”

  “You don’t miss much. I got a shock when that chap walked in after we’d started singing. Thought it was somebody I’d had a disastrous date with, but it wasn’t. It’s actually his twin brother. I’d forgotten he had one until I saw he’d written Sam on the contact sheet. Such a relief.”

  “Okay, you’ve lost me. Say that again slowly while I make a cuppa.”

  “About a year ago, I had the date from hell with a guy called Joe Woakes.” Martin made a face like he’d got a lemon in his mouth. “It was when I was living in Banbury. We were introduced by a mutual friend and went out for a drink and snacks. We hit it off pretty well, helped by a couple of bottles of white wine, so we almost got to the my-place-or-yours part. Then he went green at the gills, dashed to the loo, and appeared ten minutes later looking like death. Turned out he’d been in contact with norovirus and it had come on like a train. Total passion killer.”

  “I can imagine.” Adam offered him a mug. “Do you want to sort out your own milk and sugar? Then if there’s more to this horror story, tell me it in the lounge.”

  “What about getting down to choir business so you can have an early night?” The question didn’t sound that pointed.

  “I can manage an extra ten minutes. Got to be better than the book I’ve got on the bedside table.”

  Once they’d sat down, Martin continued his account. “So, norovirus Joe. I called a cab, got him back to his place, and then left him with his flatmate to nurse. He was the one who supposedly gave him norovirus in the first place, so there was poetic justice in making him do the mopping up when the Catherine wheel started again. After that we didn’t manage a second date. I guess he was too embarrassed, and I couldn’t get the thought of d and v out of my head.”

  That couldn’t be the whole story. Martin would have flushed red rather than gone white when Joe’s brother walked into the church if it had been a case of embarrassment. “Did you catch it?”

  “No. Iron guts, that’s me. Left me wary of blind dates, though.”

  That made sense, although it still didn’t explain the horrified expression on Martin’s face; this story was the sort of thing you laughed at afterwards.

  “Two ships that passed in the night without docking, if you like,” Martin continued.

  “Very poetic. And when you saw Sam you thought that fate had tried to get you to dock again?”

  “Something like that.” Martin didn’t sound convincing. “That ship—excuse the pun—has sailed, though.”

  “Has it? I got the impression last night that he liked you. It might simply have been his friendly nature, but my money’s on him eyeing you up.”

  “Was he?” The dismayed expression returned.

  “Okay, feel free to tell me to wind my neck in, but if I’m to say a prayer for you, shouldn’t you tell me the whole story?”

  “Doesn’t Neil say that you can pray for someone without knowing all the details, on the principle that God knows what’s needed? Having said that, I’m glad you asked. In case something crops up with Sam. I had a lucky escape, and not just from the runs.” Martin stared into his mug. “I’ve kept in touch with the pal who introduced us, and about a month ago he messaged me to make an apology. He’d found out that Joe had been cautioned a few years back. Beat up an ex-partner. He wouldn’t press charges, but the police made sure Joe knew he’d better not repeat the offence. Ricky—he’s the mutual friend and incidentally the person who told me about the appeal for the injured player—said he’d have never forgiven himself if I’d got involved with Joe and the same thing happened.”

  “Hell. Why didn’t the boyfriend proceed with his complaint? I guess he was embarrassed.” Adam had heard of a man—friend of a friend again, so the story might have grown in the telling—who’d been beaten up by his male partner and had been too ashamed to go to the police about it.

  “No. He felt there were mitigating circumstances, I believe. Joe had got himself into a state because of a hit-and-run on someone he knew. The victim was a young lad who ended up dead and who might have survived if the driver had rung for help.”

  “That’s awful.” Whether it excused Joe’s behaviour was another question but it explained a lot. “Have you asked Ricky what the brother’s like?”

  “I messaged him last night. He says Sam’s only identical in character so far as being gay. He’s supposed to be really nice.”

  Gay identical twins and both of them handsome, if Sam was anything to go by. The type of situation that would have set the keyboards of gay romance writers going like the clappers. Maybe this was the right time to concentrate on the matter in hand rather than the stuff of fantasy.

  “Understood and filed away for future reference. Let’s talk choir.”

  An hour—a very productive hour—later, they’d pretty well completed all they’d needed to, having worked together surprisingly well. Martin like to have a clear plan, as did Adam and their appreciation of what would make a good concert ran along the same lines, with an understanding of when to feature the solo performers.

  As Martin began slowly to clear his stuff away, Adam—much as he didn’t enjoy playing at agony aunts, or matchmakers—wondered if he should tell Martin to seize the day, assuming an opportunity came again, whether it was with Sam or anyone else. There was an added benefit that if he was swooning over some bloke, then he couldn’t be mooning over Robin. He was about to tackle the subject with as much delicacy as he could summon up, when something from the previous night jangled in his brain.

  “Martin, can you remember last night, Sam saying that he’d heard about the choir through his brother’s rugby club? Was that Joe?”

  Martin paused, a handful of paper midway into his case. “Yes. Ricky reckons there’s only the two of them. I checked with him earlier today and asked what team Joe played for. It was Hartwood Wasps.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier in the evening? We could have Facetimed Robin about it,” Adam added, in the slow, patient tone he adopted for some of his less able pupils.

  Martin shrugged. “I really am hopeless. I got wound up talking about my love life and the music and ignored all the rest.”

  “You are a total prat. A total prat who needs to hear this. That’s not just the club where the injury happened. It’s where the murder happened, the one Robin’s gone to investigate.”

  “I know. I googled it earlier today.”

  Adam wondered what sort of sentence he’d get for thumping a choirmaster and whether the bloke being an utter wally was an acceptable defence. “Well, what you’ve told me may mean nothing, but I’m going to have to pass that stuff about Joe straight on to Robin. He can work out if his past has any relevance. He can also advise me whether I need to be wary around Sam, assuming he’s got a connection to the case, given my relationship with the investigating officer.”

  “I could give you Ricky’s de
tails and you can get your man to give him a call. Or one of his constables could ring. Robin’s no doubt too important to pick up a job like that.”

  Adam sensed some insult to his partner, as acutely as Campbell would have sensed a dog biscuit in the offing. “In terms of rank, maybe, but you don’t know him that well if you think he’s the sort of bloke who won’t muck in with the team.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insulting. I don’t understand policing, either. I know Robin’s a good bloke—like I’ve said, you’re very lucky.”

  “I know I am.” Adam, aware that his shoulders had shot earwards with tension, tried to relax. “He’ll be grateful for the lead. Sometimes it’s the smallest items of information that make a difference to solving a case. And I don’t think he’ll need Ricky’s contact number. Joe’s name should be enough. I can always get back to you if need be. Right.” He rose. “Sorry to boot you out, but I need to make contact with the constabulary.”

  “Oh, yes.” Martin leaped out of his seat, shoving the last of his stuff into his case. “See you at the next practice.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  As soon as Martin had gone, Adam got on the phone. Robin was expecting a late call, so if the bloke was lying on his hotel bed dozing in front of some awful Freeview programme, it was excusable to wake him. It turned out he’d recently got back to his room, having been down in the bar watching the footie over a pint of beer he’d made last a long time.

  “How’s everything?” Robin asked.

  “Well . . .”

  “I don’t like the sound of that well. Should I be worried?”

  “Don’t think so. Need to check I’m not potentially treading on toes. And before you say that’s never stopped me in the past, may I remind you that your cases want to draw me in, not vice versa?”

  A loud groan sounded down the line. “I thought we were safe from that this time.”

  “Same here. Connection’s only a loose one, though, and it may only exist in my overactive imagination.” Adam went on to explain about the mistaken identity at choir practice, the story of Joe’s caution, and the reasoning behind why charges hadn’t been pressed.

  At the mention of the hit-and-run, Robin’s voice changed. Noticeably alert, straight into rozzer mode. “Right, let me grab a notepad and pen, then can you say this all again, slowly, please? I think somebody mentioned a bloke called Joe being at training that night, but it’s not an uncommon name. The hit-and-run sounds significant.”

  Adam went through it all again, ending with, “You won’t shoot me if this turns out to be nothing to do with the case?”

  “Nah. Instead, I’ll get Campbell to slobber in your half of the bed. I’ve enough experience to know what’s worth following and when my chain’s being yanked. Odd, though, this all turning up in Lindenshaw right now.”

  “I’ve been having the same thoughts while I was telling you about it. Sam walking through the church door almost from nowhere.” It might simply be a coincidence—what Neil the vicar would call a Godcidence, where something that seemed accidental happened for a good reason. Not a phenomenon Adam really believed in.

  “Well if he wants to have a tête-à-tête, find an excuse not to. At least until I know whether he or his brother are embroiled in things.”

  “Will do, guv’nor.” Adam chuckled. “I’m taking Campbell with me to rehearsals, anyway, so he’ll do the bodyguard stuff. Stops him pining, too.”

  “Is he pining a lot?” Robin’s tone had become quiet and constrained, like a timid schoolboy’s.

  “A little. So am I. But don’t worry about us. Please.”

  “I’ll try not to. It’s no fun, this travelling lark. I used to think it would be dead glamorous, globetrotting for work, but it isn’t.”

  “Hartwood’s scarcely globetrotting, but I take your point. One hotel’s much like another.”

  “Yep. And nobody to say, ‘Isn’t the view nice?’ to. Not that the view is that nice.”

  “You’ll soon be home. Love you.”

  “Love you too. And himself.”

  The conversation ended with a couple of personal endearments not suitable for canine ears, after which Adam got into the bedtime routine, beginning with letting Campbell out into the garden. As he watched the dog wander around, trying to find the best place to relieve himself, Adam wondered how, yet again, he’d got caught up in a murder case, albeit at one or two removes. It kept happening. Adam didn’t include the first murder case Robin had led the investigation on—the fact the victim had been killed at Adam’s school had been the catalyst for their meeting—but three subsequent cases had touched him to some extent or another, whether directly or through friends. While matters hadn’t quite become as bad as one of those television series where the amateur detective was dealing with death in their vicinity on a weekly basis, it did feel like the universe was having a laugh.

  He remembered sitting with Campbell in the bedroom, smugly assuring himself that this case was too far away to draw him in, and how he’d touched wood afterwards, just in case. Well, that strategy hadn’t worked, had it?

  Thursday morning: the case had gone from the annoying stage where they hardly had two proper leads to rub together to the equally annoying stage where they had more leads than they needed, because all of them appeared to take them to someone with an alibi.

  His update to Betteridge—by phone as she was the other end of the county—began with what he’d learned from Adam.

  “Pru’s subsequently found out we’re talking about the same Joe Woakes who plays for Hartwood Wasps,” Robin said, “and yes, he has a caution for assault, given only a few days after Jamie Weatherell was killed.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “It isn’t. He was the person very visibly administering first aid to Greg while they waited for the ambulance. Talking of Greg, Sally’s got a tame doctor at the hospital who told her that his injuries are every bit as real as we’ve been told, so there’s nothing dodgy there.”

  “I’d still put Woakes’s name on the incident board,” Betteridge suggested.

  “Already done it.” Even though he didn’t think Woakes was a realistic suspect.

  The morning briefing was lively, with everyone anxious to contribute.

  Laurence had been to see Howarth, who confirmed everything they’d been told by his team captain, although it seemed there’d been a touch of exaggeration. Yes, Osment had been unfit to drive, but only the once. He’d nearly collided with one of the other players, who had been walking from the ground postmatch along an unlit road to his home nearby. Howarth had volunteered to take Osment in and out to home games to prevent a rerun of the event, as his journey took him near the Osments’ flat.

  “Was Osment such a good player that they bent so far over backwards to accommodate him?” Pru asked.

  “I asked that,” Laurence said. “Howarth reckoned Osment was promising but nothing special. Trouble is the guy he nearly hit was three sheets to the wind as well and he’d been wandering all over the road, so he was dead apologetic about nearly causing the accident. The club had to find a pragmatic solution.”

  Robin could imagine such a compromise being dreamed up over a pint of IPA. “Did Howarth ever not give him a lift?”

  “A couple of times, but then he got someone else to do it.”

  “Anything emerge about Osment himself?” Robin, frustrated, kicked his heels against a desk.

  “Just one thing.” Laurence wore a self-satisfied smile. “Towards the end of his time at Tuckton, Osment was getting agitated that his wife might have reignited the flame with an old boyfriend. Howarth thinks it might have been the reason the guy stopped playing. Wanted to keep an eye on her. There was an instance postmatch where they’d left early as Howarth had to get home and Osment wanted him to step on the gas. He reckoned he could catch Melanie and the other bloke at it and give him a belting.”

  “Then the likelihood is there was another lover, as well as Dave,” Sally pointed out
. “Osment wasn’t that large and Dave’s supposed to be built like a Sherman tank. Why take him on in a fight?”

  Laurence, smile gone and shoulders hunched like he fancied a fight himself, said, “When did logic come into consideration when you’re itching for a punch-up?”

  “Okay, but if it was a match day, wouldn’t Dave have been playing at the same time? In which case, he couldn’t have been with Melanie.” She glanced at Pru for support but it didn’t come.

  “The fixtures don’t always coincide in the top leagues,” the sergeant replied. “Might be worth finding out how the lower tiers operate. We might be able to pin down a certain match day and find the start times, although that may not help. Dave might have been missing a game through injury.”

  Callum snickered. “Not an injury that affected his wedding tackle, then?”

  “Behave.” Robin couldn’t suppress a grin, though. “Trouble is, thinking back to that Wednesday, would Osment have voluntarily gone to meet Dave at the ground?”

  “They might not have arranged to meet. He might have decided to give the guy a thumping,” Callum suggested. “Especially if he had a grudge against the club because of what had happened on the Saturday.”

  “Or he might have decided to get into the dressing room and either trash or nick Dave’s stuff,” Laurence said.

  “Could be,” Pru replied, “but in that case he’d be barking up the wrong tree. The players took all their valuables and left them in a locked box pitch side, remember?”

  “Osment wouldn’t necessarily know that.” Laurence fought his corner with spirit. “He might even have been responsible for the thefts from the athletics club and was chancing his arm again.”

  “That’s a big leap of deduction, but let’s run with it. Why does he go back that Wednesday when any of Dave’s mates might have come along to defend either him or their property?” Pru swivelled in her chair to face Robin. “I’m going to sound a total arsehole, but this rugby accident really complicates the whole investigation. Everybody’s attention was on Greg, and it has been ever since. Things that witnesses might have noticed either got missed or they’ve been shocked out of people’s minds.”