A Carriage of Misjustice

by Charlie Cochrane

  “We’ll ask him. Hearing that Osment wanted to see Cooper about the night your son died must have rocked your keel completely off-balance for a third time,” Pru said, then waited for a response.

  “It certainly took me by surprise.” The cautious response gave no elaboration.

  “Cooper asked you to go along to the meeting, with him?” she asked.

  “He did.”

  Still the clipped answers. Robin couldn’t get a grasp on what the suspect’s stance would turn out to be.

  “As a result of that request, you went along.” Before Weatherell could comment, Pru pressed on. “We know that because we’ve caught your car on the local traffic cameras.”

  “Then you’ll have the time I was seen by them, which would prove that at the point I got there, Colin had gone. If he was ever there in the first place.” A combative note appeared amongst the air of caution.

  “Oh no, he’d been there all right. He’s told us all about it. Let’s have your version.” Robin, sitting back in his chair with arms crossed, smiled and waited.

  “Nothing much to tell. I got to the car park, walked up to the clubhouse, found that nobody was around. I wasn’t going to leave the place unsecured, so I locked up and left. You’ll have a record of me heading back on your traffic camera, I assume?” The suspect must have registered the fact that neither Robin nor Pru jumped straight in with a confirmation of time and place. It was written in the relief flooding over his face. “Then you’ll know I didn’t stay long. I went home to watch the football.”

  Robin, determined not to let Weatherell gain the advantage, calmly said, “The same football you told us you were about to watch at home when your pal Archie’s call came? Why did you lie to us about that?”

  Weatherell spread his hands again. “Because I’m an idiot. I didn’t want you to know I’d been at the ground. I never thought you’d be any the wiser. Archie always rings me on the landline, and I’m not sure if he realises it rolls over to my mobile sometimes. Poor old bugger’s a touch deaf, so he wouldn’t have known if I was at home or up the Eiffel Tower. I had the car radio on, so he’d have probably thought that was the telly.”

  All very convenient and believable, although bordering on overexplanation. Still, they had other evidence they could use to better effect. “So, you ended the call, then went to find Cooper. What next?”

  “Like I said, I secured the site and went home.”

  Time for bluff-calling. “Only you didn’t. You knew you had to meet him—and Osment as well—in the clubhouse. So when you found the door open, you went in.”

  Weatherell flicked a glance at the file Robin had in front of him, maybe thinking it held additional evidence of his presence. The bluff had worked. “Yes, I went in. The bar area was empty. I know because I shone around the torch on my phone to check.”

  “And that’s when you spotted the cracked photo frame?” Robin asked. “The one Osment broke.”

  “No,” the suspect bridled. “I promise you, I didn’t see that until the day I showed you around the club. If I had found it that night and knew who’d done it, I’d have been fuming.”

  “Like you were fuming with Osment for having information about your son’s death and trying to profit financially from it?”

  That hit home. “Yes, Mr. Bright, I admit that I was very angry when I heard about that, but Colin calmed me down. Anyway, all this is irrelevant, as I never saw the young scrote. Although if I’d known it was him I encountered on the previous Saturday, he’d have got more than a kick in the arse. If he had evidence about what happened that night, he should have shared it long ago.”

  Such a strange mixture of honesty and dissembling, as though he was willing to admit only what Robin could prove—or what Weatherell believed Robin could prove—and nothing else. It also sounded as though he had not suspected Osment was the driver up to the fatal evening—understandable if those around him hadn’t wanted to speculate about the accident in his presence.

  Did this add up to a basically honest man caught up in a situation he’d never wanted to be in, overtaken by events and hoping against hope he’d get away with it?

  A loud rap at the door made Weatherell glance up sharply, betraying his first real sign of nervousness. Presumably, this was one of the constables reporting back, and while Robin would usually be fuming and demanding the interruption prove worthwhile, in this instance it already appeared to be working in their favour. Like the thick file had unnerved Cooper, despite its contents being unknown to him, any conversation outside the room where Weatherell was being interviewed would produce an unsettling effect.

  “Thought you might like to know this, sir,” Laurence said, once Robin had stepped into the corridor. “Archie Spenser—the bloke who rang Weatherell—says he assumed the call was answered at home because he thought that’s where Weatherell said he was but now he comes to think of it”—the constable rolled his eyes—“it could have rolled over to a mobile and what he took as noise from the telly might have been something else. He says he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice.”

  “Okay.” That didn’t seem enough to warrant interrupting an interview, though. “Unfortunately we’ve already established that. Did Archie ring of his own accord or was it prearranged?”

  “Own accord. Said he felt down in the dumps. He did add that Weatherell seemed a bit worked up when they spoke. Wanted to end the call.”

  Robin nodded. Verification of what they knew but still nothing fresh.

  “Another thing,” Laurence said. “Archie says that when they met for that drink—which is what the phone call was about in the first place—Weatherell was in a dark mood and knocked back too much. Archie drove him home, and at one point Weatherell muttered something about Lulu never being able to forgive him, now. I have no idea who Lulu was and I didn’t have the chance to ask, because Archie’s boss came along and had to talk to him urgently. I feel a right twit for not following that up.”

  “For once I’ll let you off.” Especially as that was another small weapon to put in the armoury.

  Once back in the room, trying to appear secretly pleased, Robin got Pru to recommence the interview, then said, “Back to the night in question. You entered the clubhouse. Are you saying that you simply took a cursory look around and then left? After all the issues you’ve had at the ground with vandalism and theft?”

  “The check I made was more than cursory.” The words might have been glib, but the suspect appeared rattled. Had he caught any of the discussion with Laurence? “However, the rugby team were there that night—nobody would have chanced their arm at causing damage with them around.”

  “But Osment did. He went poking around with his freshly cut set of keys, in the certain knowledge that Derek Preese doesn’t routinely let anyone off the pitch once training has started. As you’ll know from watching the Wednesday sessions,” Robin added. “You saw my officers retrieve those keys from the boot room earlier today, didn’t you?”

  “Is that what they were?” Weatherell shrugged, although it seemed a carefully careless gesture. “Your constables were being extremely secretive about what they were doing. I suppose it comes with the job.”

  “You were being mysterious too, after they left,” Pru cut in. “We have a witness who says you were acting suspiciously. You took something from your shed, then went and hid it.”

  All colour drained from the suspect’s face, but he rallied to say, “What witness? What are you talking about?”

  Pru ignored the protest. “What were you hiding this afternoon?” When no reply came, she took a photo from the file and passed it across the desk. “I’m showing the suspect a photograph of what appears to be a line-marking device. Do you use this at the ground?”

  “One much like it, yes.” Weatherell, who’d picked up the photo, quickly laid it down, perhaps to hide the fact his hands were trembling.

  “This was found hidden in one of the dressing rooms at the ground. We believe you put it there e
arlier today.” When Weatherell didn’t reply to that either, she asked, “Did you hide it there? An answer for the tape, please.”

  “Yes, yes, I did. It’s another example of me being an idiot. I found it at the ground on the Thursday morning, and I panicked because of what had happened the night before.”

  Robin pounced. “What had happened?”

  He anticipated hearing the classic I know there must be forensics that I need to explain away, but why not divert attention from me and throw my mate under the bus while I’m at it type of answer. Something along the lines of, I thought Colin might have used it to attack Osment, and I didn’t want him getting into trouble.

  But Weatherell wasn’t following the usual line that suspects took. “Somebody could have used the aeroliner—that’s the pitch tool in the photo—to commit the murder. On the spur of the moment I decided they might have had good reason to kill Osment and what if I muddied the waters? I took the pitch marker home and gave it a cleanup.”

  Again, telling enough of the truth not to be caught out. Still, he’d made a major mistake. “The entire ground remained shut for anything but police access on Thursday. The uniformed officer at the gate turned several people away.” Robin consulted the list towards the top of his bundle of papers. “Including you.”

  Weatherell sighed. “Yes, I admit, including me.”

  “I think,” Pru said, sympathetically, “we’d better go back to the Wednesday evening. What really happened?”

  “When I found the door to the clubhouse was unlocked, with no sign of Colin outside, I decided to check the place over, exactly as I told you. But I didn’t fancy going in there without something to defend myself with. What if I’d been set up and one or both of them—Colin and Osment—were waiting for me? I decided to slip into the shed, where I saw the aeroliner. I thought that it might appear to be a gun from a distance and put anybody off attacking me. If that didn’t work, it would be long enough and heavy enough to fend someone off with.”

  “Or whack them over the head.” Robin delved in the file again. “I’m showing the suspect a picture of the dead man, Nick Osment.”

  Weatherell winced at the photo, then turned his head away. “That’s horrible.”

  “Yes, it is.” Robin left the picture on display. “The medical and forensic evidence suggests that he hit his head on the corner of a bench, perhaps accidentally in the act of trying to get away from his assailant. Away from you.” When the suspect didn’t comment, he continued. “Tell us what happened. Everything this time, not simply the parts you think we can prove at the moment, because—believe me—we won’t let this alone, even if that means tearing the Hartwood club apart brick by brick to find the evidence we need. We’ll include your house in that, as well. One of my constables is getting warrants right now.”

  Still the silence, as Weatherell clearly wrestled with a deep dilemma.

  If pressure didn’t work, perhaps persuasion might. “Your pal Archie. He’s been a good mate to you. He understands what it’s been like. He knows Louise would have wanted you to be honest.”

  “Yes, she would. She deserves it.” Weatherell sat up straighter in his chair and smoothed back his hair. “When I went in the clubhouse and found it empty, I suspected someone was arsing me about, and needed to check the rest of the place. When I found the door through to the changing room had been unbolted and unlocked, I decided I wasn’t going in there unarmed. I went to get the aeroliner and some other things.”

  “What other things?”

  Weatherell shrugged. “A plastic bag and a handful of rags. I thought I might need them too. You have no idea some of the filth I had to clear up when vandals have been visiting in the past. I collected them, then returned to the clubhouse and when I opened the interconnecting door, I could hear swearing coming from the boot room. Osment was in there.”

  “How did you know it was Osment?” Pru asked. “Had you met him before?”

  “I didn’t know at first, although I guessed, given that it wasn’t Cooper. I clearly knew by the time the news broke the next day.”

  “Go on,” Robin said.

  “Osment was trying to get the drain cover off. I assumed it was an act of vandalism, because Cooper hadn’t turned up, so I swore at him and told him to stop. He leaped up and barrelled into me, then headed off through the changing room.” Weatherell rubbed his forehead. “I swear I didn’t touch him, he just slipped on the black plastic bag on the floor. It must have fallen from my pocket when I came through. He cracked his head against the bench, exactly as you said and was out for the count. He’d dropped his phone.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was unlocked where he’d been using it as a torch. I picked it up and saw there was a photo album open. I shouldn’t have looked at it but I was curious about what he had to show Cooper. I noticed the label on the folder. The date Jamie died.”

  “What was in it?” Robin asked gently.

  “A series of pictures. I— May I have a glass of water?”

  Robin poured a glass from the jug on the table. He passed it across to the suspect. “When you’re ready, Tom.”

  After a long drink, the groundsman said, “I saw the times on the pictures, the familiar road signs. I know that stretch like the back of my hand by now. I thought, ‘he was there the night Jamie died.’ Then I saw the photo of my Jamie with his bike. If Osment saw him trying to fix the tyre, why hadn’t he helped? There might have been no accident, in that case.” He took another draught of water. “That picture was the last insult. The last photo ever taken of him and it was this bastard who’d been keeping it, not me. Then he came round.”

  Robin waited while Weatherell took another drink. “Go on. He came round?”

  “Yes, and he wanted the phone back. That’s all he cared about. No mention of Jamie or any apology for taking the pictures, just him saying I had no right to touch his phone. I got angrier and angrier.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I asked him what he’d been playing at, that night Jamie died. He told me to eff off.” Another sip of water. “He got to his feet, lunged at me, but I dodged him. I said he wasn’t getting his hands on the phone until I had an explanation.”

  “Did you get one?” Pru asked.

  “No. He just sneered at me. Said if I’d been there that night, I would have seen what happened. That was the last straw.” Weatherell pushed away his glass, then stuck his head in his hands. “I must have hit him. I don’t remember, honestly, except that I came to and found myself with the aeroliner in my hand and him dead. I checked his pulse and he was gone, I swear to God. I dragged him into the toilets, because I couldn’t bear to be around the body. Then I tidied up. There wasn’t much mess because he’d slipped and his head was lying on the bag. Stroke of luck for me, given that I heard sirens at that point. I left everything and hid in the bar.”

  So luck—bad for Osment and fortunate for his killer—had played its part, time and again. Still, the clothes Weatherell had worn that night should tell as much of a tale as the murder weapon would, assuming he’d not got rid of them.

  “Then what?”

  “As I said several times, I locked up and went home. It was too chaotic out there for anyone to notice me. Persuaded myself I’d done the right thing by Jamie. Been in the right place at the right time, like he’d been in the wrong one.”

  “What did you do with Osment’s phone afterwards?” Pru asked.

  “I was going to keep it, so I had the snap of Jamie, but I couldn’t. I stopped on the way home and slung it into a front garden. If I’d been thinking logically, I’d have taken it somewhere and smashed it into smithereens with a hammer. Trouble was I couldn’t bear having the thing with me. Lulu always said I hadn’t got enough common sense to fill an egg cup.” Weatherell screwed his eyes shut, obviously fighting back tears. “She was right. The last few weeks have shown that. But I thought that maybe I’d been lucky, rather than smart. I should have known I couldn’t get away with it much longer.
”

  In other circumstances, Robin might have made a barbed response, but this didn’t feel like the time and place.

  “I’d like to show you something.” Weatherell, eyes dewy, reached into his trouser pocket, brought out his wallet, then opened it to reveal a small, much-folded piece of paper he kept inside a small plastic case. This he took out and spread carefully so they could see it. Written in ink pen, faded and crumpled, the words were barely legible.

  Sorry. I didn’t realise.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “With the flowers left at the site of Jamie’s murder.” Interesting that Weatherell chose to use that word at this point. “I’ve kept it with me ever since. It must be from the driver, either saying they didn’t realise they’d hit him or that if they’d stopped and rung for help they could have saved him. Only Osment didn’t appear to be in any way sorry for what he’d done.”

  “I have to take that for evidence, I’m afraid. Please, could you put it back into the case?” Robin held out his hand. “You won’t want to hear this, Tom, but there might be a good reason Osment wasn’t sorry. We doubt he was the person who killed your son.”

  “No!” Weatherell slammed the table. “No. That can’t . . .” He slumped into his chair, face ashen, muttering, “That can’t be true. Lulu would never forgive me. It can’t be.”

  Robin and Pru shared a glance: this job stank at times.

  The evening post-choir-practice phone call from Robin—immaculately timed just as Campbell had gone into the garden for his final toilet visit of the day—turned out to be the one Adam had been longing to receive.

  “We think we’ve got this Hartwood case sorted,” he said, as soon as the initial small talk was done. “We need a couple of days to finalise everything and tie up a loose end or two, but I should be home this weekend.”

  Adam, feeling tears threatening to well up, took a deep breath. “That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Yeah. Want the story?”