“I’m on PPA and got the staffroom to myself,” he said. “Want to chat?”
“Yep. I’m on my own and not in the station. Needed some space and thinking time and seeing as it’s an open-plan office, I can get precious little of it there.”
“I bet. Sorry to hear things are going slowly. Take all the time you need, though. Campbell and I will have to cope somehow.”
“What about me coping? I didn’t realise how much I’d miss you two daft buggers.”
“Same here.” A door being shut sounded in the background before Adam continued. “Bed’s too big and too quiet without you. I’ve resisted letting himself sleep up there so his snoring can make up for the loss of yours.”
“Ha ha. I could say the same about the hotel bed. Definitely too big, though. I miss your cold feet in the small of my back. I keep thinking about you.”
“Is this going to get dirty? If Campbell were here should I cover his ears?”
“Pillock. Phone sex does nothing for me. I’ll wait for the real thing. You can cover his ears then.”
“Promises, promises. Right I can hear someone coming—I’ll nip down to the car and ring you from there. Won’t be a moment.”
Robin waited, having to imagine Adam’s journey from staffroom to car, not knowing the school at all well apart from what he’d seen at the PTA fete. There must be some significance in his wanting to continue the chat but best not to speculate over what that might be. Eventually Robin’s phone sounded again.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t want to simply ring off, given that we can’t talk tonight. I’m off to try out that choir, so wish me luck.”
Robin, relieved it was nothing more significant, said, “Is that the one that’s part of the fundraising for the injured rugby player?”
“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it. Gives me something constructive to do.”
Robin wished he had something equally interesting to look forward to, rather than staring at four hotel walls.
“So, this case. Is it the usual story? Victim allegedly didn’t have an enemy in the world?”
“You’ve got it. At least he didn’t according to initial statements, but things are starting to emerge from the woodwork.”
“Nasty earwig-type things?”
“Yeah. Good description. Apt to be too much of a bruiser on the field, homophobic comments in the past, possibly caused trouble about some charity fundraising. Makes me suspicious about why nobody mentioned it initially.” Robin relished, yet again, how good it was to talk a case through with Adam, away from the police station. Explaining it to someone who had no preconceptions made him see it clearer.
“Could be the old ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead.’ Like when somebody gets killed and everybody says what a wonderful person they were, even though you get the impression they were a right tearaway.”
Robin snorted. “Oh yes. The code. ‘Rough diamond. Cheeky lad. Full of life.’”
“Tell me about it. I could add half a dozen others I’ve heard from parents defending their little darlings who’ve got into trouble at school. Like saying in a Daily Telegraph obituary that somebody never married, back in the days when you either couldn’t state that they were gay but you wanted to imply it and not risk a libel suit.”
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten that. Anyway, I don’t get the impression that Osment’s homophobic comments were that other cliché, the smoke screen for his actually being gay. His sexual relationship with his wife was out of the ordinary, though.”
“In what way?”
“There wasn’t much of one. She seemed happy about it.”
“Might be that one of them—or both—had a bit on the side that satisfied them.”
“Not turned up anything on that front. Yet.” He’d get the team at the station onto that as well. Had the low libido aspect blinded them to that possibility? Low didn’t mean nonexistent. “We need a proper hare to chase.”
“Keep your pecker up. You’ve had cases before that have felt stuck. Something will turn up to oil the wheels. Right, I really have to go now. Love you.”
“Love you too. And Campbell. Kiss him for me.”
“I will. Not as good as kissing you. Although almost as slobbery.”
Before Robin could come up with a riposte, Adam ended the call.
He rang Pru to get the team investigating Nick’s—and Melanie’s—private life. Maybe someone in the darts team would be able to dish the dirt. Meanwhile, he wanted a word with Tom the groundsman, who was freshening up the pitch markings and who waved cheerily at Robin’s approach.
“Hello, Mr. Bright. What can I do to help?”
“Tell me again about that vandalism.”
“Happy to. Hold on.” Tom carefully took his line-marking equipment off the pitch and removed his gloves. “Fire away.”
“You admitted to giving a bloke from the press a thump. He’s not complained so I’m not bothered about that.”
Tom nodded. “But you want to know if I did the same with the vandal, given that it was Jamie’s bench? Has he made a complaint?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but he may not be in a position to.” Robin remembered the bruising on Nick’s backside and the feeble way he’d accounted for it. What if he’d been the vandal, taking it out on the bench he’d objected to the fundraising for?
Tom looked blank. “Sorry, not with you. Being dim.”
“Okay, let’s take it in instalments. Did you catch the vandal in the act and tackle him the way you tackled that press bloke?”
“Ah.” Tom sheepishly raised his hands. “I guess he’s told you. He probably thinks he was unlucky, because normally nobody would have been here that evening—there hadn’t been a home fixture. I only dropped in to the ground because I’d lost something valuable and was searching everywhere for it.”
“Go on.”
“He must have seen me coming—I had a torch—and started to run. The silly sod tripped. I kicked him up the jacksie a couple of times, but that was all. He’d have had nothing worse than a sore arse. After that I told him to eff off and not come back, so he did.” The groundsman jabbed at a stone with his boot. “I shouldn’t have done it, I know, but that bench is precious to me.”
“Glad to hear that you’re remorseful. You seem fond of taking the law into your own hands. The pressman, this vandal. We don’t want that to happen.” Robin hated sounding preachy, but in this instance, it was needed.
“Sometimes you have to do it yourself because the local police are sod all use.” Tom launched another stone with his boot. “Sorry, you might do a great job down where you’ve come from, but round here some of them are worse than useless. They didn’t even bother about the vandalism when we reported it. Not a priority.”
“I can only apologise for that. I realise it must be frustrating.” A case where Robin could sympathise with both parties. Police resources were pretty stretched at times and the expectations raised by television drama of the forensic tests and personnel readily available didn’t help.
“This place feels like my manor, you know?” Tom made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “I’m happy to make a statement about what happened that evening. Put down my side of things.”
Robin wasn’t sure he should identify so strongly with that view, but he did, especially when the bench had been dedicated to your lost loved one. These were the times that impartiality had to be an active process. “Did you recognise him? The bloke whose backside you kicked?”
“No. Should I have done? It was dark, he had a hoodie on, and his face was partly covered.”
“We believe it might have been Nick Osment, the man who was murdered here.” As Robin spoke, he kept his eyes fixed on the groundsman’s face, studying his reaction, but the only response appeared to be one of genuine surprise.
“No.” Tom shook his head. “I mean, I’m not contradicting you—I’m just stunned. If I’d known, I’d have told you that time you were here before. With the young sergeant.”
�
��Would you have recognised him if his face hadn’t been covered that night?”
“I doubt it. I’m not sure I’d ever met the bloke. You said you believe it was the dead man. Is there some doubt?”
That hit straight at the crux of the matter. “The evidence we have is purely circumstantial. If there was anything you could tell us that might help to positively identify him, that would be useful.”
Tom paused, gazing towards the corner of the stand, where the kicking might have happened. “The only thing I can think of, apart from any bruising on his arse, is that the hoodie had a tear along the back. I guess it could have been done that night.”
They could search through Osment’s clothes for an item matching that, although some less circumstantial would be preferable. “Can we take a stroll along the perimeter fencing? It’s a slim chance, but maybe that tear happened climbing into the ground.”
“I’ve always wanted to play CSIs.” Tom abandoned his line-marking machine and led the way.
Robin wasn’t confident they’d find any new evidence, given that the crime-scene team had gone over the clubhouse with little success, although their search might not have extended as far as the fencing. Three-quarters of the way round he’d almost given up hope of stumbling across anything other than litter, which Tom insisted on picking up and stuffing in a bag. Robin said he’d take it back to the station, although what he hoped to get out of it, he wasn’t sure. Apart from some wisps of straw to clutch at.
“What about this?” The groundsman pointed at a small strip of black material snagged on a protruding piece of wire.
“I’ll take it. Could be useful.” Robin got out the kit he’d brought in case they found anything worth sampling. Donning gloves and carefully removing the material into an evidence bag, he scanned the area for other fragments that would be useful but without any luck. He could get the crime-scene team out here to scour the area again—if they’d done so in the first place—but it had been exposed for over a week, and a fresh search was going to be a long shot. Even this scrap of cloth might end up being a red herring.
“That could be from the hoodie,” Tom said. “The fence is lower here and you could easily get over.”
Robin sealed the envelope, labelled it, then scanned where they’d been walking. “To be honest, you could find a place to get over most of the way round, if you were determined.”
Tom shrugged. “We can’t make this place Fort Knox. Some of the local troublemakers would probably see it as a challenge, anyway, if we upped security.”
“Do you get a lot of trouble with intruders?”
“We used to. Go back a few years and there were some right tearaways in the area but it seems to have calmed down. Want to examine the rest of the perimeter?”
“Might as well.” Robin carefully tucked his envelope away. “Did you find it, by the way?”
“Find what?”
“The valuable item you lost.”
“Oh, yes. Turned out it was at home all the time and I hadn’t realised. I must have dropped it, and the thing rolled under the settee. I only found it a couple of days ago and I was fuming.” The groundsman grinned. “I’d been running around like a headless chicken.”
That reminded Robin of something he’d heard in one of the vicar’s sermons about a woman hunting high and low all over the house for a missing coin. “It must have been important.”
“It was. My late wife’s wedding ring. I used to carry it in my wallet, but I won’t in the future. Not after this episode.”
“No. I can imagine.” Robin surreptitiously fingered his own wedding ring. To lose a wife and a son. Had Weatherell recognised the vandal and been angry enough to come back and kill him at a later date? Although why would Osment return to the sports ground if he’d been caught there before and if the visit was planned, would he have agreed to meet the man who held a grudge against him?
“There’s no easy way of putting this, but I suppose you’ll guess what I need to ask.” Not a part of the job Robin ever relished. Still, evidence had to be gathered.
“I’ve been expecting it. Ever since you told me who the little scrote was that I chased out. Sorry to speak ill of the dead but I don’t believe in hypocrisy.”
Robin, with years of experience of knowing when to speak and when to keep quiet, waited for Weatherell to continue. And odd that he now thought of him by his surname rather than as Tom; he’d crossed the nebulous line between likely innocent and potential suspect.
“That Wednesday, I’d been up here in the afternoon doing some maintenance. I went home and that’s where I stayed. Couple of beers and the football on the telly.”
“Can anybody vouch for that?”
“Definitely the box, because I shouted at it often enough.” The groundsman wrinkled his brow. “I’m pretty sure that was the night I almost missed the start of the game because my mate Archie rang to talk about going out for a pint. He’s recently lost his wife, so I said if he wanted to get together anytime, I’d make myself available. Now I won’t swear to that being the Wednesday, because I watched the game on Tuesday night too, so it could have been then. You’ll find your memory goes when you get older.”
Robin gave a sympathetic grin. “I’ll need his full name and contact details.”
“I’ll find them.” Tom pulled out his phone, flicked on it until he found what he needed, then showed Robin the display. “Here. There’s both his home number and his mobile. He’ll be at work at the moment so he won’t appreciate being rung there. Touchy about that. Amy—that’s his wife—used to give him terrible stick about it.” The groundsman got out his hankie to blow his nose. “Sorry. Amy dying’s brought it all back about my Lulu. That’s Louise, my wife. I should man up, or whatever they call it, but it’s not that easy.”
“No, it’s not. I’ll ring Archie this evening.” Robin noted both numbers. “Much obliged.”
Tom stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. “You’re all right for a rozzer. Good luck with getting that scrap of cloth matched up.”
“Thanks.” Robbin involuntarily patted his pocket. “We were going to walk the rest of the perimeter. Let’s get that done.”
They completed the circuit without finding anything other than a collection of trash to stuff in the groundsman’s black bag. He carried that to Robin’s car, heaving it into the boot, then wiping his hands. “Good luck with that too. Better you than me going through it all.”
Robin eyed the bag, remembering how nasty looking some of the contents were. “I’ve got constables to do that. It’ll be character building.”
“One last thing.” Tom kicked at a stone again. “Will you let me know if it turns out the dead man was the one here that Saturday?”
“I’ll do that. And I won’t get one of my constables to deputise this time.”
Adam arrived at the church in good time, picking up Campbell en route from work and wolfing down a sandwich Sandra had left in the fridge for him. He felt guilty about taking the car when it was such a short walk, but if the dog misbehaved in church, he’d then be able to take him out and put him on the back seat. That would be punishment enough to ensure there was no repeat of the misdemeanour. He also felt guilty about Robin, who sounded like he was having a wretched time of it, although there was nothing he could do about that.
He spotted Martin’s car as he turned off the road and into the car park, suddenly remembering the strange reaction there’d been on the phone the previous night. Living with a detective—not to mention a large dog who was determined to get his wet nose into everything—had awakened Adam’s natural sense of curiosity, and made him oversuspicious, with it. Why had Martin sounded so relieved that it was only Adam calling him? Or had it simply been relief that he’d been ringing about the choir rather than demanding the choirmaster stop chatting up his bloke?
He tried to put that to the back of his mind as he entered the church, or else the evening would be no fun at all. He found Campbell a comfy spot at the back of the church
near a radiator, then tied his lead to a chair, more for effect than efficacy. A group of people were already there and others arriving by the minute, so after some informal introductions, they got down to business. Martin quickly and efficiently shared the key dates and times coming up, then asked everyone to spread the word about the concert as effectively as they could. Every bottom on a seat counted. People nodded and took notes, which gave Adam time to assess the rest of the group.
While his gaydar wasn’t the most reliable of indicators, he’d have said the odds were good that the majority of those present were gay, which was in part confirmed when a group of them mentioned knowing each other through Kinechester LGBT choir and offered to use their mailing list to pimp the concert.
One of these, Brad, explained that the choir itself hadn’t been in a position to raise money for this particular cause because they were already committed to a different charitable project, but the choir leader there had given her full support to any of the members wanting to get involved with the Lindenshaw effort. Matters nearly got derailed as another Kinechester singer tried to start up a debate about what the choir should call itself, but Adam, aware that such a discussion could in itself easily eat up all the rehearsal time, suggested that he and Martin could come up with some names and hold an online poll to choose the most popular.
Martin’s glance of gratitude for this immediately morphed into his business face, the serious expression Adam recognised from Sunday services. Rumour had it that one or two in the church choir were a bit of a handful, and he managed to keep them in line, so the choirmaster should have no trouble with such a willing group as this.
Another of the Kinechester lads, Jonny, had volunteered in advance for piano duty, so they started with a simple rendition of both “Happy Birthday” and the surprising choice of the first part of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Presumably on the principle that everybody should know the words and tunes. During these, Martin went around the group listening to each singer in turn. Disconcerting it might have felt, but it certainly worked, because at the end he rapidly sorted them into groupings of voices that he said would work together, not just in terms of register but some sort of mysterious musical fit. A quick sing through of “Jerusalem,” with everyone standing where they’d been put, proved what an instant difference the reorganisation had made.
A Carriage of Misjustice Page 9
