A Shred of Evidence (26 page)

He would do his best to avoid Erica for the next few days, like Patrick had said. She hadn’t exactly been supportive, hadn’t even asked if he wanted her to go to the police station with him. But all she had seen was what the police had seen; a letter giving him an alibi.

He walked through the town centre to the Derbyshire, and that was when he saw the placard outside the newsagent:

LOCAL HERO QUIZZED IN SCHOOLGIRL MURDER

Dear God.

The DCI had lost his argument with the Superintendent that a description of the possible clothing worn by Natalie’s attacker should be put out. There was, the Super had said, too much guess-work involved. It had seemed to Tom that the suggestion of a grey jacket or suit and white shirt was perfectly reasonable, given the materials involved, but the Super had said that it might stop someone coming forward who had seen someone in grey flannels and a tee-shirt. Tom supposed that it might, but he hadn’t said that to Lloyd, whose good humour had evaporated, as it had a tendency to do, without warning.

Which was a pity, because Tom had had some news concerning the warehouse job, and he had rather hoped to beg another favour.

He looked up to see Judy coming into the murder room, waving the evening paper at him. “Have you seen this?” she asked.

Under the headline
“COCKY” COCHRANE IN MURDER QUIZ
was an interview with Cochrane himself; Tom glanced at Judy, then read.

“That’s not going to make his temper any better,” Tom said. “And the thing is … I’ve just been to see my sn—my informant.”

Judy smiled. “It’s all right,” she said. “You don’t need to translate it into standard English for me. Or for the DCI for that matter—he just likes making you do it.”

“I know. Anyway—” Tom took a deep breath. “He says the delivery’s on for tonight,” he said, and closed his eyes, waiting for her reaction.

“Well,” she said. “Hand your information over to someone else—you’re on the murder enquiry.”

“It would only be a couple of hours,” he said. “And it wouldn’t really interfere with the enquiry. And if I did hand it over, I don’t think anyone else would act on it, in view of last time.”

“Neither would I. Your sninformant is unreliable.”

“But he’s not, ma’am! He says it was a mix-up between the buyers and sellers—it was the sellers that got it wrong, not him.”

“Talk to the DCI, then,” she said.

“Well, I hoped that you might …” He tried to look winning, but it wasn’t going to work.

“Oh, no. If this goes—as I’m sure you would say—pear-shaped again, I’m not going to be the one who talked him into it,” she said. “If the information seems sound, he’ll get someone on to it. If not …” She shrugged. “And I don’t think he’ll let you be in on it,” she warned, “even if it does happen. You’re murder room personnel.”

Tom nodded. He had known that would be the answer, really, but it had been worth a try. He tapped the newspaper. “What’s happening about Cochrane?” he asked.

“He’s gone,” she said.

Tom stared at her. “What?” he said.

“He’s gone,” she repeated firmly, and took the paper back. “I’d better take this along to the DCI,” she said.

“Do you mind if I come with you?” said Tom. “I’d like a word with him.”

“Sure,” said Judy. “But I’ve warned you—you’re on your own about this warehouse thing.”

It wasn’t about this warehouse thing.

In his office, with Tom and Judy uncomfortably awaiting his
reaction, Lloyd put on his glasses, read the article, then threw down the paper in disgust. “There was a time,” he said to Judy, “when you could rely on newspapers to take some pride in their job, to act responsibly, to make some effort to ensure that what they printed was accurate before they went to press.”

Judy picked up the newspaper. “They’re certainly skating on thin ice,” she said. “But their lawyers obviously wouldn’t let them quote him on the harassment business, and they haven’t really said anything about that, have they? They’ve got the press office statement more or less right. I suppose it’s up to Cochrane if he wants to go public.”

Lloyd looked puzzled for a moment, then his brow cleared. “I’m not bothered about the story!” he said. “If he wants to hang himself that’s his business. I’m talking about the appalling English—the grammar, the punctuation, the spelling! How are children supposed to learn if they don’t get taught in school and that’s the sort of stuff that gets printed in the paper? Call themselves professional writers?”

Tom laughed, as did Judy.

“It’s not funny!” said Lloyd.

“It is,” Judy said.

Lloyd smiled. “What made him do it, do you think?” he asked.

Judy looked wary. “Who?” she said. “The reporter or Cochrane?”

“Oh, I know what made the reporter do it—he’s never been taught how to write English,” said Lloyd. “But why would Cochrane do a stupid thing like that?”

She shook her head. “He won’t have done himself any good,” she said, then flashed a smile at Tom. “I think Sergeant Finch wants a word,” she threw over her shoulder as she left.

Tom waited until the door had closed behind her before he spoke. “Have you really let Cochrane go?” he demanded.

Lloyd raised his eyebrows. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said. “I have.”

“But why, sir?” said Tom, remembering the difference in their ranks a touch too late. It was easy to forget with Lloyd, but not advisable when questioning his actions.

Lloyd sighed. “Because we have absolutely nothing with which to hold him,” he said. “Nothing that we’ve got places him anywhere near Ash Road Green on Tuesday night. Not his clothes, or his trainers—”

“He washed them, sir,” Tom reminded him.

“—not a single witness who saw him anywhere near the place. Those are not his prints on Natalia’s shoes, and the hair that was found does not match Cochrane’s in anything but colour. It is now obvious that Natalia was not writing him these letters.”

“Because of that letter he showed us today?” asked Tom. “Anyone could have done that.”

“But not Natalia, Sergeant Finch.”

“It didn’t have to be Natalia! All it had to do was give him an alibi. And guess where the only inkjet printer that we’ve found is situated?”

“Where?” asked Lloyd sharply.

“Erica Cochrane’s office,” said Tom.

Lloyd nodded. “And does she have the sort of word processing program which has this waste-paper basket system?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Tom. “It was checked out.”

“And you didn’t find this latest letter lurking in there, did you?”

“No, sir, but you can override it. And Natalie could have had access to that word processor every time she went to her drama group. The kids aren’t supposed to go in the office—but you know kids.”

Lloyd sat back and looked at him. “You have to have evidence before you start accusing people of murder,” he said. “We have precisely none. No evidence at all against Cochrane on his supposed relationship with Natalia or the murder. No evidence at all that his wife is lying, covering up for him or manufacturing alibis for him.”

“If she did lie about seeing Natalie alive, then she wouldn’t think twice about producing that letter,” said Tom.

Lloyd ran his hand over what was left of the hair on the top
of his head. Probably why he went bald in the first place, thought Tom.

“Cochrane has been interviewed twice,” Lloyd said, his voice very Welsh and low. “He has let us have his clothes for examination, had his fingerprints taken and given us a sample of his blood and hair. What more do you want from him, Tom? What is it about him that gets to you?”

Tom sighed. “Nothing about him personally,” he said. “Unless you count his deodorant. But his wife knows more than she’s telling. I know she does—I’ve known it all along.”

“Well, if she does you’re going to have to be content with finding it out the hard way,” said Lloyd angrily. “By following leads and checking the door-to-door statements. By finding witnesses, and/or physical evidence. By playing with these expensive computers we’ve got to cross-reference similar attacks in other areas. By ploughing through interviews with known sex-offenders and child molesters like everyone else is having to do!”

“I know all that, sir!” said Tom. “But Erica Cochrane’s not being straight with us, and that’s not to protect a convicted rapist, is it?”

Lloyd looked thunderous for a moment, then visibly calmed himself down. “How did your meeting with your informant go?” he asked, changing the subject altogether.

“He says the delivery’s on again,” said Tom. “At seven forty-five tonight. The DI said you might be able to get someone to arrange something.”

“Is his information any better than it was before?” asked Lloyd.

“He’s reliable, sir,” Tom said. “It wasn’t his mistake.”

“No?” Lloyd was looking through papers; Tom wasn’t convinced that he was even listening.

“No, sir. The blokes taking delivery wanted the stuff delivered at nine forty-five a.m. on Tuesday, because no one would take any notice when the place was busy. Humphry Davy Court gets dozens of deliveries all day. But the blokes
making
the delivery thought that they must mean nine forty-five p.m., and that’s when they tried to deliver it.”

Lloyd looked up.

“And it seems the drivers won’t agree to a morning delivery, so it’s tonight,” said Tom, now less than enthusiastic.

“I think you should arrange it,” Lloyd said, after a moment’s thought.

Tom frowned. “The DI thought you wouldn’t even let me go on it,” he said.

“Well, she was wrong.”

Tom was far from happy about having his request granted. “Are you taking me off the murder enquiry, sir?” he asked.

“No,” said Lloyd. “But from now, you’re on the warehouse job. You don’t have too much time—you’d better get on with it.”

“Is it because I still think Mrs. Cochrane’s lying to us?” Tom demanded. “Do you think I’d let that affect my efficiency? I can think one thing and work on another, you know!”

“Then go back to work and do that, Sergeant,” said Lloyd. “Get this warehouse thing set up.”

Tom stood there, reluctant to leave matters like that.

“That
is
an order,” Lloyd added, mildly.

Tom stared at him. “Sir,” he managed, through his teeth, and left.

“How’s it going?” Judy asked DS Sandwell.

“Well,” he said. “We’ve had dozens of reported sightings since the evening paper came out. Most of the lads are out checking them now, but I don’t hold out much hope for any of them, really. One says she saw a girl getting into Colin Cochrane’s car, but …” He shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said.

“I doubt very much that she was with Cochrane in the first place,” said Judy. “I don’t think he would have been so keen to let us have a blood sample if he’d been with her. In fact,” she said, “I don’t think he had anything to do with it. That nonsense in the paper isn’t going to help, though.”

Sandwell looked unconvinced. “You don’t think Tom could be right? He went down there to meet her and saw her with someone else?”

“He could be,” said Judy. “But there’s nothing whatever to
prove it. And whose prints are on Natalie’s sandals, if that’s the case?”

“The one she was with?” suggested Sandwell.

Judy shrugged. Possibly. Though what reason he could have had for neatly placing them in the doorway was beyond her. “Any more hopeful sightings than that one? Anyone say they saw her with a boy?”

“No.” Sandwell smiled tiredly. “Someone reckons they saw her getting into a spaceship,” he said. “If that’s any help.”

Tom came into the murder room looking like a thunderous cherub, and Judy almost laughed.

“I’m off back to the CID room,” he said. “I’m not on murder room duties any more.” He took his jacket from the back of his chair and marched out.

Judy went after him. “Tom?” she said. “I thought you wanted to do the warehouse job. You have to get it set up.”

“I did want to do it. But I only got put on it because I’m convinced that that bastard killed Natalie,” he said. “And he thinks I’m not being objective enough.”

“I take it you’re talking about the DCI,” said Judy.

Tom lowered the heat to simmering point. “Yes,” he said.

“Then I think a little more respect would be in order.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“Did the DCI say that was why he wanted you on the warehouse detail?” she asked. “Did he say you were off the murder enquiry?”