A Shred of Evidence (31 page)

“Fine,” said Lloyd. “Now you can go and ask Mrs. Cochrane to come in and help us with our enquiries. I think she has a little explaining to do.”

Finch brightened at last. “Yes, sir,” he said, and left before Lloyd changed his mind.

The custody sergeant was highly suspicious of Lloyd’s motives. “You can’t put any questions to them about tonight,” he said. “They’ve been charged.”

“I know,” said Lloyd.

“And they’ve been bailed,” he said. “I think they’re only staying out of curiosity.”

“Yes,” said Lloyd as he was ushered into the interview room. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said.

The two men, one young and spotty, one middle-aged and surly, looked back at him.

“We’re not grassing anyone up,” said the youth.

“Wouldn’t dream of asking you to do any such thing,” said Lloyd, sitting down opposite them. “Nothing like that at all.”

“What, then?” asked the older one. “Only if we help you, you’ve got to say. In court.”

“I will make certain that the court knows of your public spiritedness,” said Lloyd. “This sort of thing goes down well.”

Two pairs of highly suspicious eyes looked back at him, but only for a moment. Then they looked away, like they always did.

“Now,” said Lloyd. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe that you actually tried on Tuesday evening to deliver the goods in connection with which you have been charged.” He raised his eyebrows in a query.

Stony silence. Then the middle-aged one looked at the sergeant. “He can’t ask us about that,” he said.

“No questions can be put to you about the matter on which you have been charged,” the sergeant said. “But this question seems to be about your previous visit.”

“Exactly,” said Lloyd. “It doesn’t matter to us how many times you tried to deliver there. But you did try on Tuesday night, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said the older one, grudgingly.

“Now, what I want to know is … did you see anyone while you were there?”

“Of course we didn’t! Or we’d have got rid of the bloody load then, and we wouldn’t be sitting here, would we?”

“No—I don’t mean that. I mean, did you see anyone in the vicinity? Anyone at all?”

“No,” he said.

Lloyd sighed. He had been on a roller coaster ride with this. Sure that he was right, then with the sighting of the car sure that he was wrong. But this time he had been so sure, once he knew about Murray having Cochrane’s keys.

“Yes, we did,” said the youth to the older man. “We saw him off the telly—remember?”

“He doesn’t want to know about that!” said the other. “He means real people.”

“He does want to know about it,” said Lloyd. “Who did you see?”

“Him,” said the boy. “You know. That bloke that used to be a runner. Whatsisname—you know—Colin Cochrane!” he
remembered triumphantly, and turned to the other. “We couldn’t believe it, could we? Seeing him like that.”

Lloyd smiled at them. “And … what time was that?” he asked.

“Hang on,” said the older one. “Are we getting him into bother?”

Lloyd shook his head. “You’re getting him out of it,” he said. “What time?”

The man looked at him for a long time, gauging him. Lloyd put on his open, honest, blue-eyed look. “He is in deep trouble,” he said. “You’re his only alibi.”

“We got there at nine forty-five sharp,” he said. “We waited for over five minutes, then got out of the lorry and banged on the door. That’s when we saw him.”

“And where exactly was he when you saw him?”

“Passing the end of the cul-de-sac.”

“Humphry Davy Close?”

“Yeah. Running on to Byford Road.”

“At ten minutes to ten?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Lloyd, and got up, leaving the interview room, closing the door quietly, checking that there was no one around. “Yes!” he said in a fierce whisper, punching the air.

Colin Cochrane looked up wearily when Lloyd went into the interview room. “What now?” he said.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Cochrane,” said Lloyd.

Cochrane stared at him. “Was it Patrick who was driving the car?” he asked. Then, disbelievingly, “Did Patrick
kill
—?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Cochrane. I just know that
you
weren’t driving your car at five to ten on Tuesday night, and that was the only reason that you were here. So you’re free to go.”

“How do you know it wasn’t me?”

Lloyd smiled. “Your lorry,” he said. “You were right. The men had seen you. And they identified you.”

“But … how did you find them?”

“Well,” said Lloyd. “We don’t just harass people, you know. We do act on what they tell us.”

“Is the nightmare over now?”

Lloyd indicated with a movement of his head that that was still a little way off. “But we’re getting there, Mr. Cochrane,” he said. “We’re getting there.”

Patrick had told the inspector and the sergeant in minute detail what had been wrong with Colin’s car. DC Marshall had been quite interested—he had even suggested to the inspector that might be what had gone wrong with her car; Patrick had offered to have a look at it for her, but she had politely turned him down.

He was going to bluff his way out of this, with any luck. God knew he had that aplenty. The only place they could possibly have found his fingerprints was in the car, which was fine. The only person Natalie had confided in had turned out to be an amateur blackmailer, so she hadn’t told the police. And as long as they didn’t know which of them had been driving the car, he didn’t see that they could keep him here. Not on Colin’s say-so.

Colin was in it up to his neck, and, as far as they were concerned, Colin was her married boyfriend. Patrick was an innocent bystander, whom Colin had tried to implicate. He was anxious to be seen to be cooperating fully with the enquiry.

There was a knock at the door, and DI Hill suspended the interview.

“If you wouldn’t mind staying where you are, Mr. Murray,” she said, and he was left with DC Marshall, until another man came in. He wasn’t a big man, but his presence in the room somehow made Patrick feel much smaller, and a good deal less lucky. He was introduced as Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd.

“Are those the clothes you were wearing on Tuesday night?” he asked.

Patrick automatically looked down at what he was wearing. “It’s the same suit,” he said. “It might be the same shirt—if it is, it’s been washed, I hasten to add.”

“Could you remove them, please?”

DCI Lloyd was Welsh; dealing with a fellow Celt was sometimes good, sometimes not. They gave him paper overalls
to wear, and DC Marshall bore off his clothes. Inspector Hill came back, decency having been observed, and the interview was recommenced, with the change in personnel noted. He was reminded that he was under caution.

“Mr. Murray,” said DCI Lloyd. “I have just been given information by two independent witnesses which confirms that Mr. Cochrane wasn’t driving his or any other car at five minutes to ten on Tuesday evening. He was running along Byford Road.”

Patrick smiled, despite his worsening situation. “Ah, I’m glad,” he said, suddenly as Irish as the chief inspector was Welsh. “I’m glad. Poor Colin’s taken a bit of a hammering over this.”

Lloyd nodded agreement. “So who was driving it?” he asked.

Patrick had one more, rather desperate, attempt at bluffing. “Joyriders?” he suggested.

Lloyd studied him. He didn’t look at him—he studied him. “Joyriders?” he repeated.

“Found the keys, made off with the car. Inspector Hill said that someone might have seen me leave them.”

“So joyriders stole the car, then parked it neatly where it had come from, and put the keys back where they had found them? Have you heard of many joyriders who have done that, Mr. Murray?”

Patrick smiled. “It’s unlikely,” he said. “But not impossible. Maybe Natalie was one of them, for all I know. Maybe she got left down there with one of the others.”

“Who then killed her?”

“Could be.”

“You weren’t driving Mr. Cochrane’s car?”

“Not on the road,” said Patrick.

“You weren’t with Natalia?”

“Me? No.”

“Perhaps you would be prepared to let us have a sample of blood,” said Lloyd. “Just to be certain?”

Patrick looked at him. “For this … er … DNA test, would that be?” he asked. “Like Colin?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“We all have choices,” the inspector said again.

“And make the wrong ones,” Patrick added, again. “I’m probably making the wrong one now. But no.”

Lloyd nodded. “You are making the wrong one,” he said. “Because your refusal can—and will—be indicated at any subsequent trial. Your prints were found on Natalia’s shoes, Mr. Murray. Do you still say you weren’t with her?”

Her shoes. He’d left his fingerprints on her shoes. You had to know when to fold your cards. “Yes, all right,” he said. “I was with her.”

“Patrick Murray, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Natalia Ouspensky on …”

Don’t panic, Patrick, don’t panic, he told himself, as he found himself being led away to what they called the custody suite, being told that he had the right to inform someone of his arrest. Thanks, but no thanks.

He had known, from the moment that the inspector had said the car had been seen, that he couldn’t really bluff his way out. “It was the bugger I nearly rammed, wasn’t it?” he said when they were back in the interview room. “He told you after all. I thought I’d got away with it.”

“Are you confessing, Mr. Murray?” asked the inspector.

Patrick looked over at her. “I’m admitting that I was in Cochrane’s car,” he said. “And that I was with Natalie. But I didn’t kill her,” he said. “And I can prove it.”

Lloyd sat back, a little as though he was at a concert, preparing himself to listen to the music. “Then do so, Mr. Murray,” he said.

“Right,” said Patrick. “Well … I came to Stansfield just after Easter, for an interview at Oakland. I got the job, obviously, but they didn’t need me until September.”

She was writing it down. Patrick admired her doggedness. Lloyd was less patient.

“Is this relevant?” he asked.

“Oh, I think so,” said Patrick. “You see, my wife didn’t join
me here. We were going through a sticky patch. I made friends with the Cochranes, but I was lonely.”

Lloyd didn’t seem terribly moved by that, but Patrick ploughed on.

“By June my wife still hadn’t come, and I honestly thought my marriage was over,” he said. “I started going out. And I met Natalie at a disco.”

Two stony faces looked back at him.

“I took her out a few times, and … and we made love. Like you do.”

“Did you know how old she was?” asked Lloyd.

“I knew she was young, but she told me she was seventeen. Said she hadn’t been able to get a job yet. I had no reason to disbelieve her.”

Lloyd nodded. “Go on,” he said.

“I started at the school on Tuesday, and I was taking the register when I saw her name. She was right at the back of the class, practically hidden. I hadn’t seen her. That was the first time I knew that she was still at school. Still a minor.”

“Were you angry?” asked the inspector.

Patrick turned to her. “Angry?” he said. “No. No—I was shocked, but … well, I thought there was no harm done.”

Lloyd sat forward a little. “I have a sergeant,” he said, “who would by now be telling you to cut to the chase. Would you do that, Mr. Murray?”

“Yes,” he said. “Right. Well—I always work until about seven or so. Colin was having trouble with his car, and I said I’d look at it.” He smiled. “Your tape has details of that,” he said. “But it was a temporary repair—I wanted to be certain it would hold.” He shrugged. “I took it out for a test run,” he said. The truth. It seemed to have been a long time since he had told the unvarnished truth—even his confession to Erica had had the odd improvement made to it. “Just a run through the streets. And I saw Natalie waiting at a bus stop.”

“You hadn’t arranged to meet her?” Lloyd got up as he asked the question.

“No. I didn’t even know she knew anyone round there. I was
just testing the car.” He was always so much more convincing when he was lying. This sounded pathetic.

“Go on,” said Lloyd, who had begun to tour the room.

It was a bit off-putting. Patrick was giving a performance, even if it was the God’s honest truth—the audience wasn’t supposed to mill around.

“I picked her up. I thought we had to get things sorted out—I had to tell her that we couldn’t see one another again.”

No one said anything; Lloyd was stopping now and then to glance at the posters on the wall, Inspector Hill was writing in her notebook, and neither of them seemed to care whether he ever said another word.

“What happened …” Patrick began, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop up the perspiration. It was so damned hot. “What happened was that she said we ought to go somewhere we wouldn’t be seen together. She suggested the place—not me.”

“Really?” said the inspector.

Yes. Really. DI Hill had been more inclined to believe him when he had told her a pack of lies, he knew she had.

“When we got there, she … came on to me,” he said. “I didn’t go there for that, but she …” He shrugged.

Lloyd was leafing through the booklet on the Police and Criminal Evidence Act that Patrick had been told he could refer to at any time.

“She … she … wanted us to …” Patrick mopped the sweat from the back of his neck. “So we did,” he concluded.

“You had sex, in a borrowed car, with an under-age pupil,” said Lloyd, not even looking at him, still browsing through the booklet. “Is that what you’re too shy to say, Mr. Murray?”

“I didn’t want to,” said Patrick.

Lloyd’s eyes went heavenward.

“I didn’t … I …” Patrick closed his eyes. “All right, I wanted to—but I didn’t mean to. I’ve never had much willpower,” he said. “And we’d been seeing one another all summer—I couldn’t really see the difference. I pointed out to her that we were in Colin Cochrane’s car, of all things, but she—she persuaded me. She asked what harm we were doing
Colin.” He looked at Lloyd. “More than I could ever have imagined,” he said. “That’s what harm we were doing him.”