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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.
A Carriage of Misjustice
Copyright © 2020 by Charlie Cochrane
Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com
Editors: Veronica Vega, Rachel Haimowitz, Carole-ann Galloway
Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com
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ISBN: 978-1-62649-928-7
First edition
May, 2020
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-929-4
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About A Carriage of Misjustice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
The Lindenshaw Mysteries
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
Also by Charlie Cochrane
About the Author
More Like This
Murder doesn't care if you're a newlywed.
Detective Chief Inspector Robin Bright and Deputy Headteacher Adam Matthews have just tied the knot, and all they want to do is sink into blissful domesticity. Unfortunately, there’s no chance of that when a chilling murder at a rugby ground takes Robin miles away to help his old boss solve it.
The mystery seems impossible to crack. Everyone with a motive has an alibi, and those without alibis don’t have a motive. Robin’s determined that this won’t be the case he’s unable to unravel. Not when he’s got his old boss to impress and a new team to lick into shape.
Back at home, Adam joins a fundraising choir to keep himself occupied. Surely a case that’s so far away won’t draw him in this time? Fate has other ideas, though, and danger turns up—quite literally—on his doorstep. He’ll need Campbell the Newfoundland for both company and protection this time around.
With thanks to my daughter Ros, whose misspeaking gave me the saying “Carriage of Misjustice.” After that, the book had to be written.
Adam Matthews turned his left hand so that his ring caught the light. It was an elegant piece of metalwork, Welsh gold in a chunky, slightly squared-off design, exactly the same as the ring on Robin Bright’s hand. They’d not deliberately chosen an identical pattern for romantic reasons: that was simply how it had worked out. They’d both studied the jeweller’s brochure, both written a list of three favourite choices in order of preference, put the lists into sealed envelopes . . . and opened them to find they’d picked the same one in pole position, with remarkably similar ones in second and third place.
Great minds think alike and all that.
“Are you still admiring your wedding ring?” Robin said, from over the other side of the lounge, where he and Campbell the Newfoundland were having some bonding time. Nothing better than watching the Sunday lunchtime game on the telly, especially when it featured Liverpool against Spurs. Campbell in particular seemed besotted with Harry Kane.
“I’ll never stop admiring it. Even the kids in my class think it’s cool, and they’re hard to please.” Adam took another glance at the ring, then picked up the Sunday paper to flick through the sports pages. He wasn’t really reading, though—it was more of a prop to cover the inane grin that was about to break out all over his face and for which Robin would take the micky out of him. A grin he couldn’t help producing every time he thought about it. The fact that they’d gone and tied the knot at last.
What a day it had been: a small civil ceremony out at a local upmarket pub, the Sporting Chance, with only close family and friends, their mothers wearing enormous hats and looking stunning. But the star of the day had been Campbell, outdoing everyone in terms of style with a white bow tie around his neck and stealing the show as he trotted up the aisle with the rings in a bag—waterproof to avoid the slobber—in his canine jaws. He’d dropped them at Adam’s feet, then returned to sit on a blanket at the back of the room with nonchalant ease, as though this were the sort of thing he did every day. His presence had proved to be a bonus, because when the guests were fussing over the dog, they’d been leaving the groom and groom in peace.
The newlyweds hadn’t gone off on honeymoon, given that Adam couldn’t have got away during term time, so they were saving their leave for a proper holiday later in the year. So just a celebration that weekend, then straight back to school for Adam and the nick for Robin, on Monday morning.
That had caused comment at both workplaces—as had the fact they’d opted for a small, restrained ceremony rather than the big lavish do some people had expected. They’d made it clear that they’d been making a stand against the commercialisation of weddings, believing that so long as there was a ceremony, a photographer, a good meal, and a bit of a knees-up, all boxes had been ticked. Anybody who’d suggested they were being tight wads had got subtly reminded that they’d made sizeable charity donations in the names of those who hadn’t been invited.
Now, they’d been an officially linked couple for all of a week and the sensation still felt as shiny and new as it had the previous weekend.
“I could do with a few weeks to recover from all the excitement. Wha-at?” Robin paused, frowning. “Why are you making that stop it gesture? What’s the problem?”
“Don’t say anything about time to recover. Don’t tempt fate into arranging a surprise Ofsted inspection for me or a cold-case murder that rears its head again and means weeks of you working all hours God sends.” Adam touched the wooden table. He wasn’t really superstitious, but sometimes you were trying to appease your own conscience as much as some nebulous source of fortune, good or bad. Like wearing lucky socks to play sport: your brain tells you it made no difference but your heart won’t believe it.
; “Okay. Do you want me to wish that a horrible case drops in my lap on the principle that it’ll ensure life’s nice and quiet?”
Adam grinned. “Don’t say anything. Put your mind to whether we want to have a religious ceremony to go with the civil one.”
“That’s trickier than solving a murder case.”
Both were regular if occasional churchgoers, and both would say they had a degree of faith, although they didn’t make a big thing of it. And both appreciated that only certain parts of the Christian communion wouldn’t turn their noses up at the union between two people of the same gender.
“Would Neil do us a blessing, do you think?” The vicar was pretty broad-minded and he’d never shown any disapproval towards Robin or Adam.
“Privately, maybe. If we asked for something small—smaller than even the wedding was—and maybe not in the church itself. I don’t think he’s got a problem with homosexuals but there are a few folk on the PCC who’d throw their toys out of their prams if they knew we were standing in front of the altar at St. Crispin’s making vows in the presence of God.”
“And the fear of the congregation?” Robin said, which was an old joke if still a relevant one even now.
“Some of them, but that’s inevitable. You know who I’m thinking of.” Like any parish, Lindenshaw had its share of people who would prefer it if there were no women priests, the only prayer book used was the one published in 1662, and everyone lived by the parts of the Levitican law that didn’t apply to them but stopped everyone else having fun. “I remember a few folk getting the hump on when Neil first arrived here and made them share the peace at the ten o’clock communion. They couldn’t have been more outraged if he’d taken the service in drag.”
Robin made the kind of face he produced when he had to clear up after Campbell had relieved himself in the garden. “Sounds like they’re due to be outraged again, then. Shall we make an appointment to see Neil?”
“Works for me. Although he probably can’t do anything till late spring. Lent coming up, and I’ve a feeling the church doesn’t do weddings then. I guess a blessing would come under that umbrella.”
“Our mothers would welcome deferring the event for a while. It would mean they can get new summer hats to go with the winter ones they wore last weekend.” The local milliner must have made a small fortune out of the Matthews and Bright womenfolk.
“Right. Before we start planning any of that, we have work to do this afternoon. Our good deed for the day.”
“So we have.”
The cottage three doors down was owned by a fiercely independent lady in her seventies, whom they’d told that if she ever needed anything done round the house or garden that didn’t need technical skill, just a touch of brawn, she shouldn’t hesitate to call on them. It would have to be serious for her to call in that offer, and the loss of three fence panels in a storm two days previously came into that category. They’d take Campbell—Mrs. Haig doted on him—and the pair could supervise Adam and Robin while they repaired the old panels and shifted them back into place. The fact that Mrs. Haig’s boiled fruit cake was legendary turned an act of kindness into a positive pleasure.
They got into their working clothes and set off.
An hour, a cup of tea, and a large slab of cake later, the old panels were out and the new ones ready to be installed.
“You’re doing a grand job, there,” Mrs. Haig said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“It’s a pleasure. Better than marking books or catching criminals.” Adam gave his husband a wink. “Neither of us take enough exercise.”
“I used to watch you running with Campbell.” She scratched the dog’s ear. “I suppose you’re too busy for that these days.”
“You’re right. We tend to take him for a walk together, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Robin replied. “It makes sure we spend time together too.” They had no need to hide their relationship from their hostess. Her brother was gay, a stalwart of musical chorus lines in London.
“You could join the church choir,” she suggested. “They always need tenors.”
“I’d love to, but I’d always be ringing Martin up to say I couldn’t make the practices. Armed robbery to sort out or whatever.”
Adam hid his grin in his teacup. The choirmaster fancied Robin and barely hid it.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Mrs. Haig frowned. “You work too hard, the pair of you. And here’s me eating into your weekend.”
Adam shook his head. “This isn’t work, it’s play.” And the sight of Robin in an old T-shirt, muscles rippling and working up a sweat was a sight to enjoy. Adam gave him an affectionate glance, which was immediately returned.
“These panels won’t install themselves,” Robin said hastily, perhaps with half a mind on some less strenuous but highly enjoyable activity that could go on later, assuming they weren’t too tired.
An hour later, they were home, tired but happy. Adam cleaned himself up while Robin brushed residual crumbs off the dog, then he could head into the shower while Adam had a well-earned sit-down. As he was getting dressed, Adam thought he heard Robin talking on the phone. Please God it was only Mrs. Bright touching base rather than work calling the bloke in. The fact that Robin wasn’t leaping up the stairs apologising and changing out of his old clothes so he could report for duty had to be a good sign, surely?
“What’s up?” Adam called over the banister, heart sinking when Robin entered the hallway. “Anyone would think you’d lost a tenner and found five pence.”
“Not quite. Not an ideal situation, though.” Robin weighed the phone in his hand like it was a piece of ordnance he’d like to chuck as far away as possible.
“That’s what Brits say when it’s the end of the world.”
Robin grinned. “It’s not as bad as that. I have to go off on secondment, as of tomorrow. Hopefully it’ll be a short one, but you can’t tell with murder. Or with peritonitis.”
Adam made a that’s gone right over my head gesture. “I’m sure that’s supposed to make sense, but you’ve lost me. Secondment to where?”
“Hartwood. It’s a town between Oxford and Birmingham, east of the M40. There was a murder there about ten days ago. Don’t know if you saw the story—bloke found dead in the loos at a rugby club.”
“I was a bit preoccupied last week, if you remember, but yes, I did see the story on the BBC site. Why can’t the local police handle it? Test Valley or East Midlands or whoever covers the area?”
“That’s a long story. Can I come and clean myself up and then I’ll tell you everything?”
“Might be an idea. You’re slightly fragrant.” Adam forced a smile. Going on a secondment? They really shouldn’t have tempted fate.
While Robin showered, Adam pottered about in the kitchen. He always found that a calming place, somewhere he could think clearly. No doubt that was associated with the house having originally been owned by his grandparents: many happy hours he’d spent there as a child, helping his granny to make the Christmas pudding on stir-up Sunday or learning firsthand the way to make a perfect Yorkshire pudding.
As he transferred from fridge to oven a defrosted casserole—courtesy of their domestic help, Sandra, who’d insisted on stocking the freezer when they’d been knee-deep in wedding preparations—Adam cast his mind back to the news story, but nothing much had registered about it. Still, it was easy enough to refresh his memory by researching the story on his phone. By the time he’d followed a few links, he’d built up a reasonable picture. Hartwood Wasps Rugby Club had used to be exclusively for gay and bi guys, but had decided to welcome everyone, initially because they’d had a bit of a crisis in terms of player numbers. They’d been so successful that they’d carried on with the strategy and were now heading up the leagues, making a tongue-in-cheek thing about their equality policy ensuring that straight players didn’t get given a hard time.
The Wednesday before last, a bloke called Nick Osment had been found dead in the chang
ing room in the clubhouse, and so far the police had shown no signs of making an arrest. Plenty of appeals for help, though, and some noncommittal statements about following a number of leads.
Had they hit a brick wall so early in the investigation and needed a fresh pair of eyes? Robin had built up his experience of murder cases over the last few years, and he’d been a hundred percent successful on leading his team to finding the culprit, but surely he wasn’t the most experienced officer they could call on if a case had stalled? Or was there another reason, given the history of the club, that the local force had picked on this particular officer?
“This secondment,” Adam asked, as soon as Robin appeared, “they’ve not called you in because you’re gay? Rainbow rugby and all that.”
Robin shrugged. “On the surface, no. They needed to call somebody in, though—right bloody mess up at the local station—and I used to work with the detective superintendent there when I was a snotty sergeant and she was my inspector. Rukshana Betteridge. I’ve mentioned her.”
“You have.” They’d also discussed the fact that some people muttered behind her back that she’d only been fast-tracked because she was a woman, and mixed race to boot, but Robin wasn’t having that. She was simply a better copper than most of the blokes she worked alongside, and he’d learned a hell of a lot from her. “I particularly remember a story about you, her, and the nuclear-strength chicken vindaloo. Three hours on and off the loo, was it?”
“I was hoping you’d have forgotten that.” Robin gave Campbell a pat. “Your dads can’t get away with any misdemeanours, can they? Cowdrey rang me, and he says Detective Superintendent Betteridge—I’ll never be able to call her Rukshana to her face—got in touch and pleaded to have me help out. I’m hoping it’s my skills as a copper and my track record with solving murders that was the key thing, rather than who I bed.”
Adam nodded. He’d already got out and opened a couple of bottles of beer: Robin looked as though he could do with one. “So, what’s this right bloody mess you’ve got lumped with sorting out?”
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