The sergeant nodded. “Will do. Although if I were a betting woman, I’d have a fiver on that already having happened.”
Which was likely true and extremely frustrating.
Robin felt a pang of guilt at not bringing the constables along for the two key interviews late that afternoon, but he wanted the reassuring presence of Pru at his side. They worked well as a team, and if this was a turning point of the investigation, they had to make the most of it. The others had plenty to occupy them, not least the delicate task of establishing whether there was any chance that Greg’s injuries could have been exaggerated.
Melanie was at home, though she had apparently returned to work part-time because, as she said to Pru when she phoned, it wasn’t doing her any good staring at the same four walls or being reminded of Nick at every turn. The funeral was booked for the next week and after that, she was going to have a weekend away.
“If we let her,” Pru added, as they drew up outside the block of flats.
“I’m not sure we have much choice, as long as we have a contact number for her.” Robin stared up at Melanie’s flat’s window, which had a clear view of the car park, so their arrival would likely not go unnoticed. “Come on. We’ve had trickier things to deal with.”
Once in the flat, they went through the usual pleasantries, refusing a cup of tea even though Robin was gagging for a drink. He’d have to make do with a bottle of water back in the car.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you something so delicate given the circumstances,” he began, “but you’ll appreciate that we have to follow up every lead, no matter how unpleasant.”
Melanie, face drawn and tired, perhaps exhausted by the half day she’d worked, blanched. “What’s this about?”
“Dave Venter. You two were going out before you met Nick?”
“Yes. Although if you want to be accurate”—Melanie nodded towards Pru’s notebook—“it was when Dave met Kirsty that we split up. It was for the best. They’re as happily married as we were.”
Did that sound over defensive? What Robin’s old rugby coach would have called getting your retaliation in first?
“Did you get back together afterwards?” Pru’s soothing voice held steel within its velvet softness.
“No! Of course not. What kind of woman do you think I am?”
“We don’t judge anyone. We’re only interested in the facts and how they relate to your husband’s murder.” The steel was out of the velvet sheath now.
“Well, the facts are that people have dirty minds.” Melanie rose from the settee, crossing to the window—although whether she was looking at anything, Robin doubted. “Dave and I have sometimes met up for coffee and a chat. We understand each other. Somebody must have seen us, put two and two together and got five. All we ever did was talk.”
“Nick didn’t believe that, though, did he?” Robin stated, rather than asked.
Melanie still wouldn’t face them. “Truth is, Nick sober believed it, but Nick aled up didn’t. He didn’t drink that often, but when he did, it was like someone flicked a switch. That’s why I was pleased when he stopped playing rugby: the darts guys keep—kept—him on the straight and narrow.”
Robin couldn’t remember alcohol being reported in the dead man’s system, but he’d still ask. “Had he been drinking the night he died?”
“Not when he was here. I suppose it was possible he went and had a couple after he left.”
“You said it was like someone had flicked a switch. In what way?” Pru asked.
Melanie swung round. “He didn’t get violent, if that’s what you’re thinking. My mate Shaz—that’s the one who moved to the States with her new bloke—was in an abusive relationship previously, so if Nick had started anything like that I’d have been out. He had a habit of getting silly things into his head and making a fuss about nothing.”
“Like he made a fuss over the fundraising?” Pru cut in.
“Yes. Exactly like that. He’d come home from a rugby match and go secretly snooping around in case someone had been here. Then half an hour later he’d have started sobering up and get all apologetic. One time he even followed Dave after training, in case he was meeting up with me. Silly sod. He’d been better since he took up darts.”
“Why did you put up with it?” Pru’s tone suggested that would have been beyond the pale for her.
“Because we loved each other. I took it as a joke most of the time, despite the fact that others couldn’t. That’s why Dawn didn’t get on with him. She—” Melanie’s mouth snapped shut.
“She what?”
They waited as Melanie wrestled with an answer.
Eventually she said, “She always says she’d have preferred it if I’d married Dave,” then burst into tears.
“Did you buy that, sir?” They were on the way to see Dave, who was amenable to seeing them—if not happy about it—once the school day had finished. “Could anyone be so saintly that they’d willingly put up with Osment’s crap?”
“You know the answer to that as well as I do, given what we have to deal with.” Time and again Robin had found himself wondering why people didn’t up sticks and walk away from toxic situations. “The story adds up, though. Explains his leaving Tuckton Chiefs and the troublemaking.”
“To an extent. You can see why he got strange ideas about Melanie, but not about this memorial bench. Unless it was to get back at Dave somehow.”
“Maybe it was Dave’s idea. We’ll ask him.”
In fact, it was the first question they posed, being an easy intro to another tricky conversation.
“The bench? Yes, that was me, although not alone. You can imagine the scene: the pub, me, Andy, and Coach. After a few pints, we had the whole thing planned. That’s why it’s been relatively easy to get the fundraising for Greg going. Some of the groundwork’s already done.”
If Dave had received prior warning about why the police were visiting, he was showing no signs of it.
“We know he was the Hartwood club groundsman’s son.”
“Yes. I’d not been playing for Hartwood that long when he was killed, although I knew Jamie already. He was a pupil here, and I’ve always helped with the after-school rugby club, so our paths crossed. He was a promising player.” Dave shook his head. “Such a waste. Why do you ask?”
“Connection to the case. Why Osment had a bee in his bonnet about the memorial bench and the money it cost.” Pru smiled sweetly. “We’re trying to build up a clearer picture of him and his relationship to the people we’ve spoken to. Like you, for example.”
“Me? I’m not sure I knew the bloke very much at all. Heard a lot about him, obviously, and I think I met him once or twice in the past.” Dave shrugged.
“But you knew his wife,” Robin cut in. “You and Melanie were an item before she married.”
“We were. I don’t deny it. Then I met Kirsty and everything changed.” Dave glanced at the photograph of his wife.
“Yet you didn’t recognise his body when you found it?” Or pretended you didn’t recognise it.
“No. Back then he had a beard. I remember that because Melanie told me she’d made Nick shave it off just after they were married. Made him look like a paedophile.”
Robin held his tongue. The bloke worked in a school—surely he knew that paedophiles came in all shapes, sizes, and genders? “So, to be absolutely clear, you never associated the dead man with Melanie’s husband?”
“Never.” Dave crossed his arms over his midriff. “I haven’t seen him for years. It’s Melanie and I who’ve remained friends. Just friends.”
Just friends. Robin’s gran used to sing a song about how Samson and Delilah—and other famous couples—used to say they were simply friends. When he’d asked her about it, she’d told him that was the phrase people used about relationships in interviews to cover the fact that they were having a fling. Since then he’d heard similar denials, particularly at work.
“No more than that?” he asked.
&nbs
p; “No more than that,” Dave stated.
“Nick believed your affair had started up once more.”
“He had. And he was wrong.”
For all that Dave’s responses were produced without emotion, Robin couldn’t quite believe them. Copper’s nose twitching again. “He wasn’t the only person to believe it, though.”
“I can believe that.” The same objective, bland reaction. “If Nick got it into his head that we’d rekindled the old flame, he’d have told other people. It’s like when you get some fake news buzzing round the internet. It starts in one place, then pops up everywhere.”
This sounded increasingly like a prepared set of answers. Maybe it was worth trying a few questions to try to get under Dave’s skin. “Did Nick Osment ever threaten you?”
“No. Why should he?”
Exasperated, Robin sniped, “Because of either or both of the things we’ve been discussing. If he wasn’t hurrying home from Tuckton games to catch you and Melanie at it, then who was he trying to catch with her? Has she got a whole string of blokes?”
At last they got a reaction. Dave slammed his hand on the desk. “Now, you watch it. Melanie’s not like that. She’s not like some of the rugby groupies you get hanging around players. She was a good wife to Nick, and he should have appreciated the fact.”
“Did you ever tell him that?” Pru asked.
“What? No. I told you. I didn’t know the bloke.”
“You wouldn’t need to know him to talk to him.” Pru would know how far she could apply pressure, given the constraints of an informal interview. “We’ve got your original statement with all the timings of what happened the night Osment died. Do you want to change any of that?”
“Of course I don’t. I’ve told you the truth, and the rest of the team can back it up.”
Robin pondered for a moment. He could press Dave about being last out of the changing rooms and how that would possibly have given him enough time to commit the deed, but he’d need to formally caution him before he asked the question and at present there wasn’t enough evidence to justify taking that step.
“Two further questions,” he said. “You and Melanie have been meeting up again, is that right?”
“Yes. I’m not denying it. But only for coffee and a chat.”
“When did you last meet?”
Dave raised his hand to his neck, as though about to run a finger round his collar but thinking better of it. “The Monday of the week before he was killed. I was working late so was going to go straight to training, after grabbing a bite to eat at Morrisons. Yeah, haute cuisine, I know, but it’s en route and convenient. Melanie happened to be in there shopping, so she had a coffee while I ate.”
Pru and Robin shared a glance. Quite a coincidence, them both being in Morrisons—or did Melanie regularly use the store at that time and Dave had deliberately gone there to catch her?
“If you and all the rugby boys can vouch for each other, who killed Osment?”
“That’s three questions, Mr. Bright.”
Robin, wishing he could grab a rag and wipe the smug grin off Dave’s face, gestured towards Pru. “I’ll let Sergeant Davis ask it, then.”
She leaned forwards. “Who killed Osment? You must have been discussing it with the rest of the team. And with Melanie.”
“I’ve not spoken to her about it. Do you think I’m a callous bastard?” It appeared to be a genuine response. Especially compared to some of his other replies.
“But with the team,” Pru pressed on. “A guy gets killed in your changing room while you’re on the field and nobody’s talking about who did it?”
Dave, eyes briefly closed, steepled his hands to his mouth, then took a deep breath before saying, “Hard as you may find this to believe, we’ve more important things to discuss. Greg’s unlikely to walk again, and he’s the one we’re spending our time and energy on, rather than gossiping like old women.”
Which was quite likely true, but left the same taste in Robin’s mouth as the whole interview had. That they were being fed a version of events that was certainly accurate in parts yet overall unconvincing.
They ended the interview with the usual formalities and returned to the car with Pru texting the police station to see if there had been any developments and Robin wrapped up in his thoughts. While they were approaching the truth, it remained no closer than on the horizon. Along with the prospect of getting back to his own bed and the person warming it.
Wednesday evening, Adam got home as early as he could. Given that it seemed increasingly unlikely that Robin would be home for the weekend, he could defer some of his planning and other school work until then, which would be a better use of time.
He’d asked Sandra to get in a few bottles of beer—in case Martin had walked from the chip shop and wasn’t driving home—plus fizzy fruit drink in case he’d brought either his car or his bike, both of them likelier than Shanks’s pony given that speed was of the essence in keeping the chips warm. The sound of a motor pulling up outside suggested they’d be opening the nonalcoholic option.
The food and drink went down accompanied by local and church chat, both having agreed that they’d keep the business for afterwards, with a side portion of two doggy eyes fixed on them.
“You’d think we never fed him,” Adam said, jerking his fork in Campbell’s direction.
Martin chuckled. “Yes, he looks thin and neglected, poor child. Do you think of him like he’s your child, by the way?”
“No. Never have. He’s just . . . Difficult to describe the relationship. Our mutual best pal, perhaps.”
“You seem such a nice couple. I can’t help feeling a touch envious.”
“We were very fortunate to meet each other.” Adam didn’t elaborate on the strange circumstances in which they’d met. It had been part of parish gossip on and off, so chances were Martin already knew. They met over a dead body in a school kitchen. Like the plot of a book. “I guess you could say we’re soul mates, me and Robin.”
Martin sighed, a touch too dramatically. “I thought David and I were soul mates too. I’ve been in a bit of a rut since he upped sticks, not really making any sort of an effort to get out and find myself another proper relationship. It’s all too easy to say, ‘I’m hurting too much, I’ll leave it until next month and then I’ll get serious about seeking a date,’ and then you find you’re six months down the line and nothing’s changed.”
“Yeah, it happens.” Adam hadn’t expected quite such an outpouring of personal stuff, and he didn’t fancy showing too much sympathy. He couldn’t be sure how Martin was going to interpret things, especially if he was feeling lonely. He was also half-expecting some follow up from the previous night’s comments about passing on information if it was relevant. No sign of that coming from Martin yet.
“I have Baggins, who keeps me warm on cold nights, but a cat’s not quite the same as a bloke. You’ll find that with Campbell, with Robin being away.”
“Yes. We’re both missing him.” Adam glanced down to find—as if on cue—Campbell had sidled over and was gazing up at him with doleful eyes. “At least I have himself to cuddle up to. Robin’s not so lucky.”
Martin nodded. “If and when I find someone to share my life, they’ll have to accept whisker-features and get his seal of approval as well. He sets a high standard.”
Adam could sympathise with that. If Robin had been a dog-hater, then they’d not have made it past the fancying-each-other stage. But Campbell—despite the fact that generally he was such a tart he’d be anybody’s friend for a dog biscuit—had taken to the bloke from the start. He’d kept up the affection after any suggestion of cupboard love had passed, so it must be real.
“Trouble is I don’t like the round of cruising and casual pickups,” Martin continued. “Never really been my scene, and there’s something about all your pals getting into serious relationships and then starting to live together or tie the knot that starts to make you feel you’re missing out. I haven’t go
t a biological clock, so I can’t hear it ticking at me. I’m probably feeling lonely.”
Shut up, shut up, shut up. Adam felt guilty about his thoughts, but it wasn’t as if he and Martin were bosom buddies, used to having these kinds of heart-to-hearts. The fact the bloke clearly had a crush on Robin made the situation all the more uncomfortable.
“I’m sure the right bloke will come along,” Adam said, in exactly the offhand platitudinous way he hated other people using. “Maybe this choir thing could be the start. There’s bound to be guys in a similar position.”
“Let’s hope so.” Martin scooped up the last chip. “Anyway, thanks for doing this. Not only the planning stuff, but the singing. I didn’t realise what a good voice you’ve got. Never had the chance to pick it out from the congregation.”
“Thanks. I wouldn’t say it’s good enough for a solo, but in a choir you don’t notice.”
“Don’t undersell yourself.”
“It isn’t underselling, it’s simple fact. If you’d heard my rendition of ‘Delilah’ in the university bar after a rugby game, you’d understand. Just as well you didn’t hold auditions or you might have rejected me. I feel self-conscious when I have to sing solo, but I can go along with a crowd.”
“I did think of having auditions. Had a few tunes in mind. ‘Yellow’ would be a good choice, for example. Type of song that can be sung acapella and nobody expects you to sound like Chris Martin. Shame you don’t have time to sing in the church choir.”
Adam shrugged. “Well, you know what it’s like for teachers. Especially for deputy headteachers. I agree about it being a shame, though. I used to sing in the choir at secondary school and it was fun. Never got shouted at by the conductor, anyway, unlike some of the lads who got it in the neck regularly for growling instead of singing.”
“I never shout. I gently encourage. It gets the best out of people. Have to say, it’s rare that somebody can’t carry a tune at all.” Martin gave Campbell—who’d sidled over—a tickle behind his ear. “If they do, they’re likely to know the fact. I’ve only once had to deliver the whole truth to somebody who had no voice at all but thought they were a budding Pavarotti. Anyway, kindness and encouragement, that’s my philosophy.”
A Carriage of Misjustice Page 11
