A Carriage of Misjustice

by Charlie Cochrane

  “It had been hit by a car?”

  “So Adam reckons. That’s my son, by the way, although you’ll have guessed that. He thinks it was hit, then managed to stagger away from the road.”

  Adam. Why did the son have to be called by that name? Robin had almost managed to forget that he wasn’t where he wanted to be on a Friday evening, and now thoughts of home flooded in.

  “Are you all right?” Mrs. Sanderson asked.

  “Yes. Sorry. I was reminded of something.” Time to pull himself together. “Did your son happen to notice anything else odd?”

  “No, or we’d have reported it, I promise. Naturally, there were the usual flowers and messages and soft toys left by where the lad was killed, so that meant a fair number of people were coming and going. Often they were simply standing looking at the spot, paying their respects. A number of them must have been rugby players.” Her eyes twinkled. “You can tell by the ears and noses. And in case you’re thinking that I have nothing better to do than be nosy, I was doing my neighbourly duty. The lady whose driveway the accident happened in is housebound, bless her, so Adam and I both do what we can to help out. She was extremely upset, understandably, especially with all the strangers lurking outside, so I’d go in to keep her company and try to disperse the groups when I felt they’d spent enough time there. She got rather worried about the younger people who turned up but, bless them, they just wanted to say goodbye to their friend. They turned out to be very kind.”

  Robin wondered if the local special constables fancied taking up a new recruit and whether they’d turn a blind eye to Mrs. Sanderson’s age, rather like they sometimes turned a blind eye to prospective special constables’ actual heights. “Your friend must have been grateful.”

  “She was. But that’s what neighbours are for, isn’t it? I met the young man’s parents out there—we brought them in for a cup of tea.” She shook her head. “Nothing we could say, though. I can’t begin to imagine how they felt.”

  Robin nodded his agreement. He’d noted the mention of parents, plural rather than singular. Tom Weatherell hadn’t mentioned a wife—or had he? Yes, there’d been something about him carrying around his late wife’s wedding ring in his wallet. Robin had assumed she was dead, but he’d need to check whether she was very much alive and had simply left him, throwing her wedding ring metaphorically—or literally—in the man’s face. Weatherell himself, like so many others in this case, might have an alibi for when Osment was killed but would the same apply to his wife?

  “They had such dignity about them. No hint of rancour,” Mrs. Sanderson continued. “If that had been my Adam, I’d have been beside myself. I count myself a Christian but I couldn’t have turned my cheek in that instance.”

  “I’d have felt the same.” Had that been Adam, Robin would have been on the warpath. The same—although to a lesser extent—if it had been Campbell.

  “They came back some time later, after the inquest, because they wanted to clear away the tributes. I gave them a hand. They were going to chuck the cuddly toys in the bin because they’d suffered with the weather, but I said I’d give them a clean and donate them to the local school. I go and listen to the children read.”

  “My partner’s a teacher. Or he was. Deputy headteacher now.” Well, that was out in the open now. An Adam waiting at home, rather than a madam.

  Mrs. Sanderson didn’t bat an eyelid. “A very rewarding career. Like your own. Both of them hard work, though.” She picked up the teapot. “I can wrest another one out of this, I believe.”

  “Please.” Robin proffered his cup. “We enjoy what we do. It might sound old-fashioned but we like to think we make a difference.”

  “You do. And if you can find out who killed the youngster out there—” she gestured with her teacup in the direction of the road “—as well as solve your other murder, you’ll have made a lot of difference to a lot of people.”

  When Robin had finished his tea and refused another slice of Dundee cake to eat there and then—although he did accept one all wrapped up to take back to the hotel for future consumption—he made his farewells. While he’d have been quite happy to sit and chat for another hour, it risked him falling asleep in the chair.

  “You’ll have been to see the site of the crash,” Mrs. Sanderson said, as she accompanied him to his car. “Not that there’s much to see now. Even if it were light enough to see anything.”

  “That’s what I expected. Do people leave flowers on the anniversary?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. But I suspect his parents would have asked for that not to happen. I don’t think they were comfortable about the original tributes. Oh. I remember now.” She paused, evidently trying to pin down an elusive memory. “There was one message they got rather annoyed at. We found it when we were clearing all the dead flowers and plastic wrappers away. It said, ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise.’ That was all. It had been tucked in amongst the other stuff, but it hadn’t been out there that long, because it was written in ink and there was no sign of the lettering running. It had rained on and off until a few days previously.”

  “You should join our forensic team.” Interesting timing, of the note being placed there, if her reading of the situation was correct. “What happened to the note?”

  “I assume it got chucked away, although I could be wrong. My grandson always says ‘Never assume. It makes an ass of u and me.’”

  Robin chuckled, even though he’d heard that before. “Did the Weatherells mention why they wanted to move the tributes at that point?”

  Wearing a perceptive expression, she said, “They said things seemed a bit tatty—which was true—and that it was time for them to start to move on and knowing a sort of shrine had been created here wasn’t helping. Which struck me as being a touch premature, but everyone copes with grief differently.”

  “You didn’t believe them?”

  “Am I that obvious? I must make sure I don’t get drawn into poker games.” The giggle emerged again. “I simply thought that I wouldn’t have done that. Anyway, sometime afterwards, when I read the newspaper report of the inquest, I thought of that note. Did ‘I didn’t realise’ mean the culprit had felt guilty that the lad could have survived if an ambulance had arrived earlier?”

  “That crossed my mind too.”

  “I guess they panicked. Perhaps any of us would.” Mrs. Sanderson peered out into the darkness. “I kick myself for not going out there when I heard something. Perhaps I could have seen him and called 999.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. It might have been the impact with the deer you heard. If you’d been wandering around in the dark, you might have been the one the driver hit.”

  She nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Although it’s no consolation.”

  Which was an accurate—if depressing—assessment of the situation.

  Adam’s plans to arrive mega-early for the Friday evening choir rehearsal were soon scuppered. Sandra had left a note asking if it would be all right to call and pick his brains on something, in reply to which he’d sent a text saying that would be fine so long as it was straight away. He could guess what it might be about, as she’d had a heart-to-heart with both him and Robin the back end of the previous year about whether she should worry if her daughter had put a science kit and a remote-controlled car on her Christmas list.

  This time the call was fairly straightforward, concerning a gay couple in their fifties to whose wedding Sandra’s sister had been invited and what would make a suitable present. He suggested, a touch more exasperation than he’d intended but it had been a stressful week, that she consult the wedding list, only to find that was the issue. There wasn’t a list. Adam suggested John Lewis vouchers—boring but very welcome.

  He came away from the call relieved that it had been so easy to deal with but reminded, yet again, of how he and Campbell were rattling around the house without the essential other side of the triangle. He put on some music in the kitchen—one of the bands Robin disliked and at
a volume he’d have objected to—then heated up a tin of soup, ready for his riotous Friday night. Oh, the prospect of getting his tonsils around a selection of songs and warning Martin to steer clear of Sam Woakes.

  As it turned out, he couldn’t get the choirmaster alone before the rehearsal started, other people having turned up early, including Sam himself. The awkward air between the two blokes had returned and, if anything, had intensified. Eye contact was avoided as well as physical proximity, and Adam wasn’t aware of any conversation directly between the two men all the length of the rehearsal. The singing went well, though, even if there was an embarrassing moment at one point when Campbell made his mind up to join in. Martin had decided at the last minute to give “Glory Glory Hallelujah” a go, at the suggestion of the fundraising organisers, Greg apparently being a huge Spurs fan. Adam should have warned him there was a risk of it setting the dog off, it being for some reason the only tune Campbell ever wanted to sing along to, but the whole Sam and Martin weirdness had put it out of his head. In the end he’d taken the Newfoundland outside for a stroll while the rest of the choir gave the song their all.

  Once the rehearsal was over, Adam went into helpful mode, for which Martin proved grateful as the rest of the choir had cleared off, murmuring about pubs or Bosie’s, the single gay bar in the area.

  “You okay, mate?” Adam asked as they put back the last of the chairs to its rightful place and straightened up one of the flower arrangements.

  “Yes,” Martin snapped. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Hey, don’t bite me. I’m just concerned. You seem, um, rather preoccupied.”

  Martin gave him a sharp look, opened his mouth, shut it again, and finally said, “It’s Sam. He rang me yesterday evening wanting to talk. It gave me the heebie-jeebies because I didn’t recognise the number. I’ve been overly twitchy the last few months because I went through a spate of getting peculiar calls.”

  That would explain Martin’s odd reaction when Adam had first rung in response to the appeal for choir members. “Nasty. Did you tell the police?”

  “No. I eventually had the sense to block the number so they went away. Anyhow, once I knew it was Sam, I agreed to meet him at the pub. He wanted to know why the cops had been questioning him and was it to do with me talking to you?”

  “How did he make that connection? And what did you tell him?”

  Martin raised an eyebrow. “How did he make the connection? Everybody knows you’re Robin’s partner, so when he asked Del after practice on Tuesday who the fit bloke with the green eyes was, Del said that must have been you and that Sam needed to get his paws off because not only did you have a dog, you had a rozzer at home who’d come and sort him out if he misbehaved.”

  “Great.” Adam would need to have a word with Del. Some people couldn’t see a joke for what it was, and he didn’t want Robin getting a reputation as a bad cop.

  “Anyway, I told him Robin wasn’t like that and he must only have been doing what he regarded as his job. You have to ask any and everybody when it’s a murder enquiry, and the fact he was the twin brother of somebody who was connected with the case was enough to get folk interested. I managed to get him to see sense. After a couple of pints.”

  “Well done. Could have turned very ugly.” But in that case, why the awkwardness between them? The expression on Martin’s face bellowed that he had further things to say but wasn’t sure whether he should. Best to ask him a question he could take or leave. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Well.” Martin glanced over his shoulder, towards the altar. “Can we talk about this outside? I know it’s stupid, but I don’t feel comfy discussing it in here.”

  “Whatever you want.” They collected Campbell, then headed out of the door.

  Martin’s squeamishness at discussing whatever-it-was clearly didn’t extend to the church porch. “Trouble is, I was feeling so relieved that nothing bad had happened that I asked him if he wanted to come round for a coffee rather than have another pint. I live five minutes from the pub, so it seemed the right thing to do.”

  “And?”

  “And matters got a bit out of hand. You know, he’s a handsome bloke and he seems genuinely nice so . . .” Martin shrugged.

  “You got it on with him?” No wonder Martin—fastidious, cautious Martin—hadn’t wanted to talk about it in the church.

  “Yes. I mean, it was great and all that but when he left to go home it was one of those Was that only a one-off or is this the start of something? type of situations. He said he’d call me and I said that would be cool, but he hasn’t and I don’t know if I should ring him.” Martin shrugged. “Given how uncomfortable it was between us this evening, I don’t know what’s going on. Sorry, I shouldn’t off-load onto you.”

  “If it helps to talk, I’m happy to listen.” And to pass on information to Robin, although that would remain unsaid.

  “I worry that I was too needy. That I simply grabbed at the chance of having some fun without thinking of the consequences.”

  Adam’s heart sank. “You did take precautions, didn’t you? You didn’t do anything stupid?”

  “No, of course not. I’m not that dumb.” Martin grinned sheepishly. “I’m not that worried about one-night stands, either. They happen. It’s—it’s . . . maybe Sam and I could have forged a proper relationship together if we hadn’t dived in at the deep end. It’s like he doesn’t want to know, now.”

  “He might feel the same. In which case it’s going to be stupid you two dancing around each other not speaking. Talk to him, get it out in the open. It can’t make things worse.” Hold on. Maybe that’s not the tack to take. Isn’t it time to deliver the warning? “Look, it might even not be you. It could be this case hanging over Sam’s head. His brother is still being investigated for that murder. I’m not saying either of them are involved, because Robin reckons he’s got a number of leads, but until Sam can be sure he’s not under suspicion, he might be edgy. Especially given our friendship.”

  “Good point.” A glimmer of hope lit Martin’s face. “I’ll text him and say I enjoyed our evening and if he wants to get in touch, he knows where I am. Or do you think that’s unwise, given his potential involvement with Robin’s case?”

  “Texting him will be okay. It’s unlikely he’s a danger to you—or to anyone—but just be careful. If he’s keen, you can always keep him on hold until the concert’s over and done with. Plead pressure of work and not enough hours in the day or something.”

  “Will do. Thanks. See you soon.” Martin, unexpectedly, put out his fist for a bump. Adam returned it with a grin and a “Good luck!” then headed to his car to put the dog blanket away. Rather than go straight home, he took Campbell to the little patch of ground at the back of the church, ostensibly to let the dog relieve himself. It made a great cover for messaging Robin to see if he was still awake.

  Yep. Want to talk?

  Only by message, unless you want to wait until I get home. Don’t want to risk being overheard. I’ll be about ten minutes by the time Campbell’s all sorted.

  Okay. Speak then.

  When they finally managed to connect, Robin sounded even wearier than he’d been the previous evening. Time for Adam to put any guilt aside about adding to his woes, though; he’d know if this was important or not.

  “I’ll make this brief. I was going to deliver your warning to Martin but I was too late. Apparently Sam Woakes met up with him last night to give him grief. Reckons because Martin and I met to do some planning—all the choir know that because he mailed out about it—he’ll have spoken to me and I’ll have spoken to you and that’s the reason the police questioned Sam. Which is true, but I’m surprised he didn’t come around here and talk to me, in that case.”

  “He’s probably scared of Campbell. Or frightened that you’d report his visit straight to me.” Robin’s tones felt reassuring. “Did he thump Martin or anything?”

  “Worse than that. He sweet-talked his way into Martin’s be
d.”

  “He what?”

  “They met at the pub, Martin defused the situation, asked him to come for coffee and then Sam seduced Martin. Or maybe it was the other way round. He’s pretty lonely and Sam’s dead fit.” Adam blew out his cheeks. “Anyway, I had to hurriedly rewrite the speech I was going to deliver and simply told him as a friend—rather than flogging the rozzer angle—to make sure he didn’t get in too deep while Sam was still a person of interest in the case. I felt a total bastard for spoiling love’s dream, if they hadn’t spoiled it already themselves, but what else could I do?”

  “Nothing. You did the right thing even if it wasn’t the easiest one. You’ll get used to being a bastard, believe me—I have to do it all the time. Another job you can do for me”—Robin’s tone morphed into his most serious one—“is to watch your own back. Sam might be totally innocent and just has the hump on that he’s been questioned, but you can’t be sure.”

  “I’ll keep Campbell with me at all times. The choir seem to have adopted him as their mascot, anyway. Somebody brought him dog biscuits today. He’s spoiled rotten.”

  “I got spoiled rotten tonight too. And don’t panic—it was by that seventy-odd lady I told you about. I went to see her about the hit-and-run and was given a slice of the best Dundee cake I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Don’t tell Campbell. Gran used to make that and she’d slip him a smidgeon when he was no bigger than a puppy.” Lucky the dog wasn’t in the room as he’d have no doubt sensed that cake was being discussed. He’d been allowed a smidgeon of wedding cake on the big day, but that had been a very rare treat. “Did you find out anything else about the accident?”