A Shred of Evidence (16 page)

“Yeah. I know. They always come to grief. But I was with these two last night, and there was grief there already, believe me.”

Lloyd tipped back his chair. Tom could see Judy tense up, as he was doing himself.

“Well,” he said, rocking gently back and forth, “is it much of an alibi? We don’t know when he got home.”

“He had told her he would be home at ten,” said Tom. “And he’s got a thing about being bang on time.”

“I can try to find out if he was,” said Judy. “That’s a very flashy car they’ve got—the neighbours might notice its comings and goings.”

“An interesting situation,” said Lloyd, coming down again, much to Tom’s relief. “If someone did see him come home at ten, he’s got an apparent alibi, which as far as Tom’s concerned makes him guilty as sin.”

“It all depends when she died, doesn’t it?” said Tom. “We’ve only got his wife’s word for it that she was alive at ten o’clock. She could have been dead half an hour by then, according to the doc.”

“She could,” said Lloyd, seriously. “Judy, see if you can get any more from Mrs. Cochrane. And talk to the neighbours.” He stood up. “I think Mr. Cochrane’s had enough time to stew now, don’t you, Tom?”

Tom couldn’t wait. They’d see how cocky Mr. Cochrane was after this.

Patrick tried to keep his mind on his work, but it wasn’t easy, what with the police fetching kids out of class all afternoon, and his drawing a blank with Erica. He had hoped to make certain
that she was on his side; he might have been able to do that if Colin hadn’t come home unexpectedly.

Colin Cochrane never did anything unexpectedly, and he had had to choose today to step out of character. Patrick needed to be certain of Erica; he needed her to trust him, and then perhaps he could get out of this all in one piece.

That policewoman was a bit of all right, he thought, his mind settling into its familiar grooves as he sidelined his problems for a moment and reflected on the pleasanter aspects of life. A few years older than him, but then so was Erica. Older women were a great deal less trouble, he had found. And if the worst came to the worst, a detective inspector in his corner might be very useful indeed.

She had asked him about Natalie, but he had said that he had only taught at the school for one day, and couldn’t be of much assistance. She had asked if he knew a girl called Kim; he had said that she had already been interviewed, but she had wanted to see her all the same.

Kim had been with her a long time, and had looked less than happy when she had been released. Poor kid. Natalie had been her best friend—Patrick had known all about Kim from the start. He felt he ought to do something.

He’d told Kim that she could come to him if she was worried about anything, or just needed someone to talk to. He was always at the school until at least seven, he’d said, so even if it was after hours, he’d be available.

He felt it was the least he could do, but he hoped that she didn’t take him up on it. He really didn’t want to think about anything but his own survival.

Erica watched anxiously at the window as the police inspector she’d met last night spoke to their neighbours. What about? Anxiety was gnawing at her, making her feel ill, as she waited to see if she would be next on the inspector’s list.

Colin had called her, said that he was at the police station, helping them with their enquiries. He seemed to be blaming her, which was hardly fair. She had done everything she could to keep him out of it.

He had said that if they let him go he would be staying at the Derbyshire. She was glad that he wouldn’t be coming home. She didn’t want to go through any more conversations like the one they had had at lunchtime.

If they let him go? Was he just being bitter, trying to make her feel bad? It wasn’t her fault he was there. If he had kept his hands off that little bitch, he wouldn’t be in this trouble.

Oh, God, that woman was coming up the path. Erica opened the door. “Why have you taken Colin to the police station?” she asked as the inspector came in.

“Oh, something came up that we wanted to discuss with him,” she said.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cochrane, but I can’t tell you that.”

“What were you talking to my neighbours about?”

Inspector Hill thought for a moment before she spoke. “They tell me that your husband didn’t come home until about twenty past ten last night,” she said.

Erica shook her head. “That can’t be right,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation.

“Oh?”

Erica sat down. It couldn’t be right. “Colin said he would be back at ten,” she said. “He’s never late.”

“They seem quite certain,” said the inspector. “They were saying goodnight to a guest. Did your husband tell you that he was home earlier than that?”

“No,” said Erica. “We didn’t discuss it.”

“So you’ve no reason to doubt what your neighbours have told me?”

Yes, she had. She had every reason to doubt it. But they had no reason to lie. Erica didn’t understand; she shook her head. “It’s just that he’s never late,” she said again. “Never.” It was impossible to explain that to anyone who didn’t know Colin.

And it didn’t make any sense. Where had he gone?

“He didn’t come home the usual way, did he?”

They knew he was lying about that. Erica looked at Inspector Hill, and decided against trying to reinforce any lies
Colin may have told. She didn’t think she would be very good at pulling the wool over these shrewd brown eyes.

“Colin didn’t kill that girl,” she said. “Why are you interviewing him?”

“We’re talking to lots of people,” said the inspector easily. She opened her notebook. “But I’d like to go over your statement,” she said.

Erica gave a short sigh. “You’d better sit down,” she said.

“What made you decide to take the dog onto the Green?” she asked.

Jealousy. Curiosity. Hope that she was wrong, that she would see Colin running home. “He had to go out,” she said, nodding to the dog, whom the inspector was absently patting.

“But why the Green?”

“Why not?” Erica didn’t know how long she could keep this up.

The inspector smiled. “I don’t care much for women being advised not to do this and that because of men’s behaviour,” she said. “But the Green is unlit and lonely. It was an odd time of night to take the dog there, wasn’t it?”

Oh. Was that all? Erica could explain that.

Colin had told them the route that his training run took, and now they were sitting just looking at him.

Eventually Lloyd spoke. At least he was conducting the interview; Finch was just sitting there. “So between nine-thirty and ten o’clock you were … where, exactly, Mr. Cochrane?” he asked.

Colin thought. “At half past nine I was just entering the Branwell industrial estate,” he said. “I run through there to Byford Road … that takes about twenty minutes, I suppose. So I’d be on Byford Road by about ten to ten.”

“And you usually go down Woodthorpe Close and cut across the Green, I understand?” said Lloyd.

“Normally.”

There was silence, then. Colin tried not to let it get on his nerves, but it did. “I decided not to,” he said. “I carried on
along Byford Road until I got to Beech Street, and I ran down that way.”

Lloyd frowned slightly. “But I’ve been told that you are a very precise man,” he said. “That you time these runs to the minute. A detour must have put your timing out, surely? Why would you do that?”

Colin didn’t answer. Why he had done that had nothing to do with them. It wasn’t his fault that she had … His mind flinched away from the consequences of Natalie’s infatuation with him.

More consequences, and more. Because here he was in a police interview room, with his words being taped, under caution.

He looked at the two men who sat opposite him. They seemed convinced that he had killed Natalie. It didn’t make sense; they had no evidence.

“Look—why am I here?” he demanded. He jerked his head towards Finch. “He said that there had been a development. This is just the same stuff that he asked me yesterday.”

“Oh, we’ll get to that, Mr. Cochrane,” said Lloyd, like some sort of smooth salesman. “Bear with us, if you will. For the moment, I’m just trying to establish for myself where you were.”

“Why? What am I supposed to have to do with any of this?”

Lloyd ignored that, and pushed his glasses back up his nose to read. “So you went down Beech Street towards Ash Road. And—though you live in Ash Road—you didn’t go home, is that right?” He pushed his glasses back down and looked at Colin over them.

“That’s right, Chief Inspector. I went to the school and picked up my car. It has valuables in it. I didn’t want to leave it at the school all night.”

“Quite, quite, Mr. Cochrane. Car theft’s a problem that we are doing all in our power to curb, I do assure you.” He got up from the table and walked around, his hands in his pockets, to Colin’s side, and sat on the edge of the table. “So you picked up your car, and you got home—with your valuables—when?”

“Nineteen minutes past ten.” Colin didn’t look at him. He
felt like a criminal. They were making him feel like that, just by their body language. For the first time in his life he understood just for an instant why juvenile offenders seemed to get worse, not better, after their first brush with the police.

“You looked at your watch?” said Finch.

“Yes, I did.”

Finch smiled. “Now why would you do that?” he asked.

“I had told my wife that I’d be home at ten. If I say ten, I mean it. I don’t like being early, and I hate being late. I checked to see how late I was.” He addressed Lloyd, rather than Finch.

Lloyd nodded, almost as though he was thinking of something else. “Would you be prepared to give us a sample of blood for DNA analysis, Mr. Cochrane?” he asked, sliding off the table. “DNA analysis produces what is sometimes called a genetic fingerprint,” he went on. “No two human beings—”

“I know what it is! I don’t see why I should. I had nothing to do with this girl.”

“It’s your privilege, for the moment, to refuse,” said Lloyd, and glanced at Finch. “Odd how we can make suspected drunk drivers give a sample of blood but we can’t make suspected murderers do the same, isn’t it?” he said.

“You have no reason to suspect me of murder!” Colin shouted.

Finch produced a sheet of paper in a plastic cover and passed it over the table. “Do you recognize this, Mr. Cochrane?” he asked.

“Sergeant Finch shows Mr. Cochrane a letter found in the pocket of his tracksuit top,” Colin heard Lloyd saying, and the words seemed to echo as he stared at the letter, feeling the blood rush to his face and pound in his ears. Dear God. He’d forgotten it was there.

“The sergeant asked if you recognized the letter, Mr. Cochrane,” said Lloyd.

He nodded, speechless.

“Mr. Cochrane nods,” said Lloyd.

He had forgotten all about it. Gradually, the pounding subsided, and he waited for the questions.

“Right, Mr. Cochrane,” said Finch, and Colin could see that
he had been waiting for this moment. “Did Natalie Ouspensky write that letter to you?”

“She must have done,” Colin muttered.

Finch leant over, his ear cocked. “Sorry?” he said.

Colin raised his voice. “I said she must have done,” he said.

“Don’t you know? If I’d been getting up to those tricks with someone, I think I’d remember who.”

Colin looked at the letter and shook his head.

“Are you saying you don’t know who wrote that letter to you?”

“I do now,” said Colin. “But I didn’t.”

“You didn’t find out who she was until you met her last night, is that what you’re saying?”

A shake of his head, a reminder, a spoken denial.

“I didn’t meet her,” he said. “I didn’t go. I deliberately avoided the Green. I found out who had written it when you told me that was who had been murdered.”

“I think you’ll have to explain that, Mr. Cochrane,” Lloyd said.

“It’s obvious! She was there hoping to meet me, but I avoided her, and she was there, alone, when some … some maniac killed her.” He didn’t want to think about it, about his responsibility for her death. She had told him she would be there. She had told him. He had left her there, just like Erica said. In the dark. On her own.

Lloyd was looking puzzled. Theatrically puzzled. Almost strip-cartoon puzzled. You could practically see the question mark in a bubble over his head. “The thing is,” he said, “the pathologist doesn’t see it like that at all.”

He sounded very Welsh now. Welsh, and terribly interested, as though he was discussing a particularly good play that they had all seen, not poor little Natalie’s murder.

“No,” he went on. “He doesn’t think she met a maniac. At least, not one with
I AM A MANIAC
printed on his tee-shirt. He thinks she was quite at ease with whoever killed her. The opinion—the professional opinion—of the pathologist and several of the investigating officers is that she knew—and trusted—whoever killed her. She was wrong to, obviously, but she did, we think.”

Colin wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.

“She knew and trusted you, Mr. Cochrane,” said Finch. “She was waiting to see you. You knew she would be there. Do you suppose anyone else did? Not the sort of thing she’d advertise, I don’t suppose.”

“Maybe … maybe someone followed her there,” Colin said, almost thinking aloud.

“Yes,” said Lloyd, enthusiastically. “Yes, could be, could be. Except … you do different lengths of run, you said. I mean, it might be two, three—even four hours. She would have no way of knowing exactly when you were going to come across the Green, would she?”

“No,” said Colin dully. “I’m usually there at about nine, though.”

“So she’d be there from about nine, wouldn’t she?”

“Yes, I suppose so. If she knew my usual times.”

“Well, she knew you’d end up there, so I think we can assume she knew when that was likely to be. And she was there from nine, let’s say.”

Colin sighed. “Let’s,” he said.

“Half past nine, it would be dusk, and nobody about. If I’d followed her there I think that’s when I’d have killed her, if I’d been going to kill her. I don’t think I’d have waited for a lady and a dog to come along before I did it. No. I’d have done it once it was dark, and quiet … half past nine, quarter to ten, say. What would you say, Mr. Cochrane?”