“Not that I’m aware of, although we’re still learning what’s been going on. You could ask Laurence to prepare a briefing for us solely concentrating on the victim, his history and character. If the work’s already been done, he can draw it together, along with anything else that speaks of motive.” Pru took another deep draught; clearly this was thirsty work. “What’s your nose telling you?”
Robin wrinkled the item concerned. “That Dave on his own, or with his mate, had the opportunity to do the murder before the game or when they went in the changing rooms. That they also had a chance to mess up the crime scene and could have passed off any mess on their clothes as coming from the practice session. There’s always somebody bleeding in a rugby match.”
Pru shook her head. “Nothing doing there. Those two constables who were first on the scene say they made the two lads leave behind the kit they’d worn for training. I get the part about opportunity, though. But why make a mess on your own doorstep? If the murder was planned, why not do it elsewhere? Unless it was a scuffle that went too far because they caught him trying to rifle their bags?”
“Then why not say so?” Robin sighed. “You asked about my copper’s nose, and the trouble is it can’t make up its mind because it’s also telling me that Andy’s a credible witness.”
“You know that people panic, guv, and so one little lie snowballs until you’ve got an avalanche.”
Pru was right: they’d seen it in a recent case. Robin must be out of sorts for him not to be thinking clearly. “Okay, point taken. Let’s leave work behind for the rest of the meal. Do you think the Scarlets have got a realistic chance of winning the European Cup?”
Pru grinned. “Do you want the long answer or the short one?”
“Long answer would do me.” Anything to keep his thoughts from home and the two people—Campbell counted as a person in this case—waiting for him.
The Osments’ flat was slightly over half a mile from the rugby ground, in an area that Callum described as, “Nice enough so long as you’re careful which way you walk.” When asked to clarify what he meant, he’d said that if you went in one direction, the property prices rose gradually until you hit some of Hartwood’s most des res. Walk ten minutes the other way and you were into an area of council housing that had seen better days.
When they arrived, Melanie certainly seemed like she’d been unwell the last few weeks. Her pale, pinched face was at odds with the shiny happy person in the photographs framed on the wall of her flat’s lounge. Nick wore a big smile in them too; he’d been a handsome bloke, even when he’d sported a beard. Built like a whippet, he’d likely have been a handy runner and must have been useful at darts, if the trophies displayed on the old-fashioned desk—complete with bottle of ink and the type of panel that often concealed a hidden drawer—were anything to go by.
Robin and Callum went through the usual soothing introductions, apologised firstly for a change of lead officers on the case, then for having to ask a load of questions, explaining that routine demanded it and they were sure she’d understand. They also gently stated their intention of bringing the culprit to justice. That assertion had only produced a nod, not even a hint of something that Robin’s mistrustful mind could interpret as guilt.
“Has his phone turned up yet?” Melanie asked. “It’s not valuable, but my number’s on there and I’d hate it to be in the hands of a killer.”
“It’s not been recovered, as far as we’re aware,” Callum said. “Maybe it would be best to change your number. I know it’s a pain, but . . .”
Melanie nodded. “I’ll do that. Odd that anyone would take it and not his wallet, though. It was just an old, crappy iPhone of ours he was using until he could get a new model. Dropped the last one when he was out running, the silly sod.” She ran her hand over her face. “Right, what can I tell you?”
“Tell us about that Wednesday evening. Take as much time as you need.” Robin had briefed Callum in advance that they needed to take a softly-softly approach, despite any suspicions they had about the wife’s involvement. If and when they had evidence to back that up, they could treat her as a viable suspect.
“It was Shaz’s birthday. Her and me and Dawn have been pals since secondary school, so when she moved to the States, we decided we had to still do something to mark the event, so we chatted over Skype with a few glasses of wine. If I’d have known what was going to happen, I’d have postponed it.” Melanie fished a tissue out from her sleeve, then dabbed her eyes. “Mum keeps telling me that it doesn’t help me beating myself up, but I can’t help it.”
Robin smiled and nodded, genuinely sympathetic to the sentiment. “What was Nick doing while this was going on? Or what did he say he was going to do?”
“He’d always said he was going to leave us to have our space. As I understand it, he was off for a drink and maybe a bit of darts practice. He’s—he was—on a team, based at our local, the Goat and Compasses.”
Callum opened his mouth, shot Robin a glance, got a confirmatory nod, then said, “One of the lads in the team—Jeff Fisher—got in touch with us to say that Nick had arranged to play a couple of sets of darts with him, but not until half past nine. It was only when he saw the news next day that he realised why he’d not arrived.”
“But he left here before six,” Melanie said, frowning. “He wanted to be out before Dawn arrived at seven. He must have gone straight to the rugby ground. Where else could he have been?”
Robin couldn’t answer that one way or the other. Callum had told him they’d checked all the local places Nick was said to hang out and put out an appeal for anyone who’d seen him or his car that evening, both of which had drawn a blank. “How long does it take to get from here to the ground?”
“I have no idea. I guess it’s a five or ten minutes’ drive, but I don’t go over there much.”
“I used to run around here,” Callum chipped in. “I’d say it’s about half an hour if you stroll, twenty minutes if you power walk, less if you’re a runner.”
“Thanks.” Now that was clear, there’d been something in the manner Melanie had spoken about her husband being keen to leave the house that Robin could explore. “How did Nick and Dawn get on?”
“Oh, you’re sharp. Not very well, actually. They always rubbed each other up the wrong way.”
That might explain why the Osments hadn’t been drawn into the rugby social circle. “When did Dawn leave?”
“I’m not sure. We’d started on the Prosecco as soon as she got here, and we were pretty sloshed by the time the call about Greg came. I ladled coffee into her, but it was obvious she’d never sober up in time, so we called a cab to take her to the hospital.”
“Why not call a cab straight away?” Robin asked.
“Shaz persuaded her not to. She’s dead set against them since she got touched up by a driver a few years back. Once I’d ended the Skype call though, we could do what we wanted.” Melanie’s brow creased in thought. “It must have been around nine I think by the time the cab came and Dawn left, but I honestly couldn’t swear to it. Not only because of the wine—I had my own shock in store, didn’t I? The officer they sent round was very nice, but she couldn’t bring him back, could she?” Melanie rubbed her hands together, perhaps to stop them shaking. “Worst night of my life all round. I couldn’t face identifying him. His dad had to do it.”
Not a task Robin would wish on anyone. “I’m sorry to make you have to go through everything a second time. Are you sure you don’t want us to call somebody to be here with you?”
“No!” Melanie’s hands slowed their entwining. “Mum wanted to come over, but she fusses too much. I’ve been staying at hers, and it’s been an incentive to stand on my own two feet again. She thinks I’m seven, not twenty-seven.”
“Mums always do,” Callum said, earning himself a smile in response. “How’s Dawn coping?”
“She’s okay. She’s a doer, somebody who makes things happen, so she’s pitching in on all sides. Been
a godsend helping me organise next week’s funeral. It’ll probably all hit her later on when there are no fires to fight.” There was clearly a genuine fondness and appreciation on Melanie’s part. “I’ll be able to be there for her then.”
“What is the prognosis for Greg?” the young constable asked.
Melanie blew out her cheeks. “Not great, but then at least he’s alive. Good news is he has all his mental faculties, and the use of his arms. They’re not so optimistic about his regaining the use of his legs. Fifty-fifty for that at the moment, the doctors told Dawn. Something to do with a legion—lesion?—between the bones in his back.”
“That’s awful.” Robin hoped that sounded heartfelt—it was meant to be. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like for Greg not to be able to charge around the pitch anymore.
“Isn’t it? He’ll never play rugby again, of course, even if he’s able to walk. Dawn’s going to make sure of that. She’ll find him a safer sport to play.”
“How will he feel about that?”
“He probably won’t like it—nothing’s ever going to take the place of being part of a rolling maul or slamming an opposition winger into touch—but he’ll have to lump it.” Melanie might not have been able to tell a legion from a lesion, but she evidently knew her rugby. “Like he’s had to lump it about the fundraising stuff his mates are doing and accept that he and Dawn need some extra help. I hope nobody tries telling him he’s inspirational, though, because Dawn reckons they’ll get a bollocking.”
Now Melanie seemed to have regained her calm, possibly due to concentrating on someone else’s problems for a while, they could return to the matter in hand.
“You’re clearly an intelligent woman,” Robin said, “and you already appreciate that we have a job to do and there are lots of questions we need answers to, no matter how painful they are. Why would anybody want to kill Nick?”
“I have no idea. Don’t you think we’ve all been asking ourselves the same thing?”
“Was there another woman?” Callum asked.
Melanie’s response—a rolling of her eyes and a suppressed chuckle—was unexpected. “God, no. He barely had an interest in making use of our bed, let alone anybody else’s.” She didn’t appear to be bitter about the fact.
Callum raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes. Not everyone in the world is sex mad, you know. And before you ask, no, Nick wasn’t in the closet or anything like that, and yes, the arrangement suited both of us. We were happy.” She shot a glance at one of the pictures on the wall. “He had his faults, like anyone, the daft sod, but I loved him.” She blew her nose, then, purposely addressing Robin rather than the constable, said, “Any further questions?”
“When you were asking yourselves about his death, did you or anyone else come up with something from his past? An old acquaintance bearing a grudge or whatever?”
“Not that me or either family are aware of. There may have been something before I met him five years ago, but his dad would have told us. He wants answers too.”
“Is Nick’s mother still alive?”
“No. She died when he was twelve. That’s why Nick and his dad are—were—so close. If any of us can think of a name for someone who might have wanted to harm him, I promise you’ll be told, straight away.”
“We appreciate that. Thank you.” Robin smiled. “Is there anything you’ve thought of since you made your initial statement?”
“Yes, actually. A couple of things. Nick used to run for the athletics club when he was a teenager, so he trained on the Hartwood track. I know he looked back on those days with the sort of nostalgia that’s too rose-tinted to be true.” Melanie blew her nose again. “Sorry. It breaks me up to think of him all happy.”
“Take your time.” Hopefully she had another handkerchief to hand because the present one was pretty saturated.
“Thank you. They say it helps to talk, and it does. Now, I can’t remember if I mentioned that the mobile phone company Nick worked for was planning a reorganisation. It didn’t seem important at the time, and I’m not sure it’s relevant now.”
“Tell us anyway. You never know what will help.”
“Well, I don’t know a lot. It had got no further than the consultation stage, and the staff members were told they’d probably all have a post even if they’d have to reapply for it. Still, Nick was rather worried about how things might have worked out. He doesn’t have that worry now.” Melanie blew her nose again, then leaned over to deposit the hankie in a bin along with several others that must have been in a similar state.
Robin guessed she was right—the reorganisation didn’t appear to be relevant, and the only thing that was in the case notes about Osment’s employment was that he’d got on well with his fellow workers and worked hard. Nonetheless, there was one further thing to discuss before they terminated the interview. “Can we go back to three weekends ago? We understand that Nick had suffered some bruising on his . . . upper thighs.”
“No need to be coy, Chief Inspector.” Melanie clearly found that as amusing as Callum’s suggestion of another woman. “He had bruising on his bum. It happened on the previous Saturday evening. He was supposed to have a darts match but it was cancelled because the other team were struck with a tummy bug. Nick went out for a run instead, but he slipped over on a patch of mud and hit himself on one of those stones people have their house names on. He had to hobble home. And not the easiest place to put a dressing on.”
Robin heard Callum try to suppress a titter. Time to leave.
Once back in the car and heading to see Dave at his work, Callum said, “What’s all this about her and Nick and beds? There can’t be anybody not interested in sex, surely?”
“Asexuality’s real enough. Each to his or her own.” Robin wasn’t going to hand out Callum a lesson on the spectrum of human emotions and preferences now, but the issue of sexuality was worth exploring. “Some people are born like that. Or they could choose to abstain, if they’ve been abused or assaulted in the past.”
“Wouldn’t that show up in the records?”
“Not if it was never reported, or if somebody forgot to check Melanie’s maiden name. I’ll text Laurence and add it to his list of jobs.” Distinctly a long shot from the couple’s sexual preferences to a supposed sexual assault and from there to a connection with this crime, but they’d need to check every angle. Especially given the lack of other credible leads so far.
“Sir, if he was asexual, wouldn’t that make it unlikely somebody lured him into the toilets with a promise of sex?”
“On the surface, yes, although a lack of attraction doesn’t mean asexual people don’t do it at all. Let’s not rule anything out until we’re absolutely sure.” Robin glanced sidelong at Callum, catching him wearing a sardonic expression. “You can wipe that expression off your face. When I was your age and rank, I had to deal with a serious sexual assault in which both the victim’s and the accused’s sexuality were torn inside out in the witness box. We all learned that there’s a damn sight more to the world than gay, straight, or bi.”
“Sorry, sir.” The apology sounded real enough, but they drove to the next appointment pretty much in silence, Robin trying to assess whether he was overreacting to the young constable’s comments and whether Ben and Caz on his own team would have said much the same. When he’d moved stations to Abbotston, he’d had absolute clarity over being part of the team of new brooms who’d clear up the mess. On someone else’s patch, especially someone he admired as much as Betteridge, the lines were blurred.
Dave worked as bursar in Hartwood North secondary school, so Robin and Callum had to go through the usual security procedures before being allowed “pupilside,” as the constable termed it.
“I like that word. I’m stealing it.” Robin recalled the first murder he’d led on and his surprise at the rigorous way that school site security was enforced these days, almost as rigorous as an airport. Adam would appreciate the word pupilside too.
Robin made his usual apology for making Dave go through everything a second time.
“That’s okay. Andy said you’d taken over the case and were grilling everyone again. I don’t blame you.”
“We hope everybody’s as understanding. Andy says you and he are best friends?”
“Yeah, I’ve known him forever. A number of us in the team go back a way. Played for or against each other at school level or whatever.”
“Nobody’s bothered about being part of a team that used to be exclusively for gay or bi men?” Callum chipped in.
“Why should I be? We’re all grown-up here. Nobody uses insults or calls the gay lads Baxter.”
Callum gave Robin a confused glance, then turned his gaze on Dave. “Baxter?”
“As in, ‘Watch out, he’s here. Backs to the wall’!”
Robin groaned. Long time since he’d heard that one.
“I was there the night in the pub that Andy came out. I’d tried to set him up with my cousin, ’cos she was going to be down visiting the family the next week and she’s not only fit but really nice, which don’t always go together. Andy said he was sure she was a lovely girl although maybe I should find someone else to make up the numbers on a night out.” Dave frowned, in remembrance of what had evidently been a tricky conversation. “He clammed up, face like he was waiting for me to punch him or something, but then everything clicked into place in my brain. I told him I think I understood and he ought to come along with us, anyway. Because my cousin would have preferred him to any of the other lads, even if it was just for having a laugh.”
A Carriage of Misjustice Page 6
