by Jill McGown
Finch smiled.
“Look! Adolescents go through phases. Making a big fuss is no way to deal with it. I just ignored them.”
“By putting them in your pocket?”
“I didn’t want to dispose of it at the school.”
“I think you met her, Mr. Cochrane,” said Finch. “I think you met her, like you’ve been doing for months. I don’t think you were running through any industrial estate at nine-thirty. I think that’s what you do all the other nights you go out training. But on Tuesdays, it’s Natalie.”
“That’s not true!” Colin shouted, jumping to his feet.
Lloyd’s chair thumped down. “Sit down,” he said quietly.
Colin had almost forgotten he was there. He took a deep breath and sat down. “I don’t know how or why I’m here,” he said, his mouth dry. “I knew Natalie from the drama group. I didn’t even know her surname, not properly. I didn’t know that she was the one who was writing those letters. I didn’t go to meet her. I thought it was a harmless fantasy that whoever was writing those letters would grow out of.”
“Why did you keep this one?” asked Finch.
“I took it home to dispose of it,” Colin said. “It was a fantasy. Nothing more. Do you think I’d forget I had it if it had been true?”
Finch picked up the letter again. “She’s got some imagination,” he said.
Colin looked at him with something approaching loathing. “Some people do,” he said.
“Like you,” said Finch.
Colin had always thought that if you just lived your life without hurting other people, this sort of thing couldn’t happen to you. But it could. He licked dry lips. “I would like some tea,” he said, his voice quiet, a little hoarse from shouting. “And I’d like to make a phone call.” He looked up at Lloyd. “I can make a phone call even if I’m not under arrest, can I?” he asked.
“You can indeed,” said Lloyd. “Sergeant Finch will show you where the telephone is.” He leant over to the machine. “Interview suspended fifteen forty-five,” he said.
Kim heard the bell that signalled her release from school with mixed feelings.
She wanted to get out of here, to get home and away from everyone talking about Natalie, though it had helped, in a way. But her talk with the inspector had unsettled her. She felt as though she had betrayed someone, and she wasn’t even sure who.
Hannah, she supposed, though that was silly. But she ought to call in on her way home, see if she was all right and tell her that she had had to break her promise. It wasn’t as though Hannah had any reason to want Colin Cochrane’s name kept out of it, except that she idolized him.
But Kim liked him too. He was good fun in the drama group, and she really couldn’t imagine him having an affair with anyone, never mind a pupil. And she was quite certain that he could never have …
Her mind flinched away from the word. Poor Natalie. Yes, she had been right to tell the police everything she knew, even that Natalie might have very easily got in over her head with someone. And the inspector had said that rumours didn’t mean anything, so she wasn’t jumping to conclusions about who the someone was. Not officially, at any rate.
She had given her Dave Britten’s name without a qualm, and he hadn’t been seeing Natalie for months. But that was because she knew Dave, knew that he would never kill anyone. She had told the other policeman the other boys she knew had been with Natalie. So why did she feel so bad about Colin Cochrane? She hadn’t said it was him, just that there were rumours. She had just said what Natalie had told her, and what she had heard.
But he was well known, and this sort of thing couldn’t be kept quiet. If it got out, it would be in the papers, and if it wasn’t him, if it wasn’t true, then Hannah was right. It could ruin everything for him for no reason at all.
She wished she had talked to someone else first. Not Hannah—that was silly. Hannah was always going to take Colin Cochrane’s side. She should have talked to someone who would have given her proper advice. Someone like Mr. Murray.
She walked slowly in the afternoon sunshine to Hannah’s house. She didn’t want to tell her, but it would be easier just to get it over with. She would have to remember to phone her mum at the salon, so that she didn’t worry if she got home first.
Judy hadn’t been back in her office two minutes before Lloyd came in and sat, infuriatingly, on her desk.
“Cochrane’s having tea and biscuits,” he said. “Aren’t we civilized? How did you get on?”
She told him what she had found out from the neighbours, but that was old news, apparently.
“His wife stuck to her story,” she said. “She saw Natalie alive and well at nine fifty-five, and the dog found her dead fifteen or twenty minutes later.”
“Do you still believe her?” asked Lloyd.
Judy nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Though she was a bit thrown when I told her that her husband didn’t get back until twenty past ten.”
“He’s got a thing about time-keeping,” said Lloyd. He got up and walked to the window. “He doesn’t want to give us a sample for DNA,” he said.
“Finch could be right,” said Judy doubtfully. “She could be lying. She definitely thought Cochrane would be safe at home by ten, so it would have been an alibi, of sorts.” She swivelled round to look at him. “I just don’t think she is lying,” she said. “If she was making it up, why would she say she saw her in such a specific spot, standing by the wall opposite the depot—why not just say she saw her on the Green itself?”
“I think you could both be right,” said Lloyd. “You and Finch.”
Judy could feel a theory coming on.
“We said that something had to have happened between their being on intimate terms and her being murdered,” he said.
No, thought Judy. You said that. She still hadn’t made her mind up about the order in which all the things that had happened to Natalie had occurred. But she was unobtrusively jotting down Lloyd’s musings. They were almost always right.
“And that she was there with someone when Mrs. Cochrane saw her,” Lloyd went on. “Suppose that was Cochrane? He met her, as arranged. It was five to ten—time for him to be on his way home. But—as Finch said—Mrs. C. turned up, checking up on him. He hears someone coming and makes himself scarce, but Natalia hangs around.”
Judy frowned. “Why would she do that?” she asked.
Lloyd turned to face her. “She can’t run as fast as him,” he said.
“Isn’t that ungrammatical?”
He smiled. “It’s … colloquial,” he said.
Got him, for once. Judy felt inordinately proud of that. “All right,” she said. “How does that make him angry?”
“That doesn’t,” said Lloyd. “But Natalia sees a way of forcing the issue. Mrs. Cochrane follows the dog into the woods, and Natalia goes to where Cochrane’s lying low, tells him who she’s just seen, and starts making things difficult for him. He loses his temper …”
“Kim said that Natalie wouldn’t do something like that,” said Judy.
“He goes off to the school to fetch his car. Mrs. C. comes out of the wood, and Sherlock finds Natalia’s body,” said Lloyd. “He picks up the car, and gets back at twenty past. She has no idea that any of it had anything to do with her husband. She simply reports what she saw, and what she found.”
“Mm.”
Lloyd looked offended. “Mm?” he repeated. “Mm? Is that the best you can do? What’s wrong with it?”
Judy thought about it. Most of it made sense. Perhaps it all did. What was wrong with it was something that she couldn’t tick off neatly in her notebook, because it was what Tom Finch would call a gut feeling. She took refuge in facts.
“If he was leaving to go home at five to ten,” she said, “and he’s got a thing about being on time, then he obviously hadn’t intended picking up his car. So why would he do that after he’d just murdered someone? Wouldn’t he rather just get home?”
“Ah,” said Lloyd. �
��No. Because he had blood on his track-suit—why else was he washing it? He could run along a road without anyone seeing it, perhaps, but could he walk up his garden path in full view of the neighbours? No. So he needed the car, because that way he could get right into the house without being seen.”
That seemed like very quick thinking on the part of someone who had just done away with his lover, Judy thought.
“What about the tyre marks?” she asked.
“Coincidence,” he said. “You said that yourself.”
She had. But why would someone be leaving there in a hurry? There had to be a reason. And murder was as good a reason as any.
Lloyd left to continue his interview with Cochrane, and Judy thought about what he had said. It did make sense, and if Cochrane was refusing to let them have a sample …
But theories were dangerous. Everyone seemed to have one about this, and no two were alike. Judy flicked through her notebook, already full of statements and questions and comments. Very few facts.
Fact—Natalie had had sexual intercourse. Fact—Natalie had been murdered. Fact—presumably—Cochrane had been twenty minutes later than intended getting home. Fact—until proof to the contrary was found—Cochrane’s missing twenty minutes were the ones in which Natalie had died.
But there, as far as she could see, the facts ended and the theories began. And both Lloyd’s and Finch’s depended on the one thing that had struck her as wrong. She didn’t believe Natalie had written that letter.
The interview resumed at sixteen-thirty hours.
“Mr. Cochrane,” Lloyd said. “Before the refreshment break, you asked why you were here at all, so I’ll tell you.”
Cochrane looked a little apprehensive.
“In a case like this, it’s our job to suspect people who were known to the deceased—it’s not often a complete stranger, you know. We have to talk to people who have a possible motive, people who had the opportunity. And we have circumstantial evidence which points, for the moment, to you.”
“What circumstantial evidence?” challenged Cochrane. “You’ve got a letter that could be from anyone. You’ve got a detective sergeant who doesn’t believe any man washes his own clothes. You’ve got the fact that I chose not to run across the Green, which was a departure from the norm. You can’t charge me with murder on those grounds. This whole thing is ridiculous. I had nothing to do with any of it.”
“We don’t want to charge you with murder,” said Lloyd. “But, like it or not, you have come under suspicion. Looked at another way, we have been told—and give considerable credence to the information—that Natalia was seeing a married man. A teacher. And we have a letter inviting you to meet a female person—who uses the school’s internal mail system—on the Green on Tuesday evening, with the promise of sexual favours. The letter indicates an ongoing relationship with you.”
Cochrane sighed. “I’ve told you. It’s some sort of fantasy.”
“And Natalia was found murdered on Ash Road Green last night, at a time that you could very easily have been there. You were twenty minutes later than intended getting home, and you account for this by saying that you added half a mile to your run. You do see, do you, why we must regard you as a possible suspect?”
Lloyd looked out the high window at the sunshine touching the trees that ringed the station car park. It was a shame to be cooped up in here on a glorious day like this, he thought. Even more of a shame for Cochrane if he was telling the truth, which, despite the scenario he had just outlined to Judy, Lloyd thought he was.
But there wasn’t a policeman alive who hadn’t learned the terrible lessons of others’ mistakes, of other times when inconclusive circumstantial evidence was discounted because the interviewee seemed to be telling the truth.
It didn’t go down very well with the families of victims if they found out that the murderer had been interviewed at the outset, and his less than perfect explanations accepted. Especially not if he went on to kill again, and that was clearly Judy’s fear. But less than perfect explanations were often all that the innocent could provide; all the police could do was keep up the pressure.
He left the next bit to Finch. His aggressive style was odd, compared to Judy’s, with which Lloyd was much more familiar. But it was time to let him have another go.
“Weren’t you surprised to find that your wife wasn’t at home when you got back last night?” Finch asked.
“You know that I thought she was,” said Cochrane. “I thought she’d gone to bed.”
“Didn’t you think it odd that your wife didn’t call hello to you?”
“No.”
“But you were late, and that was very unusual, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“Do you always wash your own clothes?”
“No.”
“How often do you wash your own clothes?”
“Not often.”
“How often? How many times have you done it before?”
“A few. When Erica’s been away, or sick, or something.”
“If she’s in bed watching a film?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Which film?” Lloyd asked, interrupting the rapid questioning which Finch favoured in the hope that the interviewee would trip himself up. Lloyd preferred to let them talk, but that wasn’t why he was interrupting, because Finch’s method often worked.
It was the mention of a film that he was interested in. He had checked the TV listings yesterday; that was why he had gone out to that Godforsaken pub in the middle of nowhere. He’d already seen the only film that was on—he’d even checked the regions, to see if he was missing anything by not being at home.
“I don’t know!” Cochrane said.
“A video?” asked Lloyd. “Or a satellite channel?”
“No, we don’t have satellite. Just some film on the television.”
“I think there was only one on,” said Lloyd. “And it finished at ten.”
“That’s right. That’s why I said I’d be back at ten.”
“But your wife left the house at quarter to ten, according to her statement,” Lloyd went on. “The film wouldn’t have been finished by then. Why would she leave just before the end?”
“Perhaps she didn’t watch it after all.”
“Perhaps not,” said Lloyd. “But if she didn’t watch it at all, why wouldn’t she have taken the dog out earlier, when it was still light?”
“You’d have to ask her that!”
Lloyd went back to his contemplation of the sky. He very possibly would ask Mrs. Cochrane about that. It was another little puzzle. And little puzzles always interested him. Finch was convinced that Mrs. Cochrane wasn’t being straight with them, and if she hadn’t been watching a film at all, that might explain why.
“Do you deny that what is described in that letter ever took place between you and the writer?” demanded Finch.
“Of course I do!”
“Do you deny meeting Natalie Ouspensky on the Green at any time last night?”
“Last night or any other night! I was nowhere near the Green!”
Lloyd took a hand again. “In that case, tell us where you were during the extra twenty minutes.” He turned to face him. “Now.”
Cochrane sat for a moment without speaking, then took a breath. “I was running,” he said. “I never had anything to do with Natalie in my life. I don’t know how I’ve got involved in any of this.”
“Then try to remember if anyone saw you on your run,” said Lloyd.
Cochrane shook his head. “I run that way because it’s quiet,” he said. “There’s very little traffic, and no pedestrians.”
“How convenient,” said Finch.
“There was a lorry in the industrial estate,” Cochrane said. “The people with it saw me, but I don’t know who they are, so what good does that do? They’re probably not even local.”
Probably not. Lloyd sat down and looked across at Cochrane. “In that case,” he said, �
��your only hope is DNA, Mr. Cochrane. And you have refused to let us do a test.”
“If it will get you off my back,” Cochrane said, “you can do whatever you like.”
Theories. Lloyd felt that his always seemed to come to grief as soon as he uttered them; perhaps that was why he did utter them. “Good,” he said, and he meant it. He just hoped that Cochrane really did understand what DNA was all about. “We’ll arrange for that to be done.”
Now, they would have to hope that the rest of the team had come up with something, because unless Cochrane was stupid—and he seemed to be far from that—he had not been with Natalie last night.
“Does this mean the interview’s over?” asked Cochrane.
Lloyd nodded. “Interview terminated seventeen twenty-five,” he said. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Cochrane. We’ll be in touch about the test.”
“And, just so that we’re not in any doubt,” said Cochrane, as he rose, “it will prove, beyond any doubt, that I was not with Natalie?”
“It’ll prove you didn’t have sex with her last night,” said Finch. “Unless you did. It’s as simple as that, really. It doesn’t prove that these letters aren’t true.”
Cochrane nodded. “Last night will do,” he said.
Finch stood. “I’ll show you out,” he said.
Lloyd rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day; he’d had an early drive back to Stansfield, and had come straight to work. He needed some rest and recreation, but he had a briefing to attend, and lots more work to do before he could knock off for the day.
Judy was already in the murder room; Lloyd asked her to do the honours, and confessed that his theory had just been knocked on the head by Cochrane’s changing his mind about the test.
The room filled up as he brought her up to date; she made notes, as ever, then called the murder team to order, waiting until the murmur of conversation finally ceased.
“The house-to-house has turned up two people who saw Natalie waiting at the bus stop at about quarter to nine,” she said. “One of these people came back to get something she had forgotten, and Natalie was no longer at the bus stop. That was at ten to nine, but the bus was late and didn’t get there until five to nine, according to the driver. He doesn’t remember picking anyone up at that stop.”