Pru, perhaps sparing Robin any further questioning about his spouse, asked, “Why should Osment have expected you to pay him anything at all?”
“Given our conversation of yesterday, can’t you guess? He said he knew who’d killed Jamie Weatherell and left him to die. Had proof. Given that we’d been in the car together that night and I’d hit what I thought was a deer, I guessed he had me in mind.” Cooper put his head in his hands. “He said we needed to talk about it and work out a plan to his financial advantage. He wouldn’t discuss it further before we met, but I supposed he was going to threaten to go to the police if I didn’t cough up.”
Guessed. How much of this was fact and how much Cooper’s overimagination? Robin asked, “Can you be more specific about what Osment actually said to you during the phone call?”
Cooper raised his head, eyes welling. “Not really. It was like a bad dream, and when I tried to get the detail clear in my mind afterwards I couldn’t. I just kept thinking ‘Why now, if he had seen I killed Jamie that night?’ And what proof could he have that he hadn’t used before?”
“He didn’t give you any clue to what that proof might be?”
“I’ve told you, no. I’ve racked my brains, but I can’t imagine what he could have got hold of that wouldn’t incriminate him too. Like if he’d taken a picture of the crash site, that would show he’d been there and he’d not called for help when he should have.”
“Maybe he was simply calling your bluff,” Pru said. “The threat being enough to get you to turn up. Are those emails in your trash folder?”
Cooper, frowning, fished for his phone. “I suppose they must be. Never thought of that. Assuming they haven’t automatically been scrapped by now.”
“If you would forward them to us right now that would help us verify what you’ve said.” Pru provided him with an address to send them to, watching over him until the process was—as far as they could tell—completed.
“What email address did he send them from?” Robin asked, wondering why these emails hadn’t been flagged up when the team had performed the routine job of checking Osment’s mailbox, unless he’d double deleted everything.
“See for yourself.” Cooper gave him the phone.
Mystery solved. The team had gone through Osment’s Google account but this was a Hotmail address, and if Osment had only accessed it via his phone, they wouldn’t have known about it. Searching through that would be another job for Ben—no, Callum, he corrected himself, forcing his thoughts away from home turf. Robin scrolled through the message threads but, as Cooper had stated, the conversation seemed concerned with logistics, his questions to Osment about what he was up to going unanswered.
“It says here that you were to meet him at seven. What time did you turn up at the ground?”
“I got there around quarter past, so I’d have been in the clubhouse bar maybe twenty past or so. I could only have waited five minutes, because I was back in the car before the Radio 5 Live news at half past.”
If that was true and Osment had arrived when he was supposed to, then where was he at that point? Hiding? Being hid and kept quiet by someone else? Or already dead? Given that Joe had gone for a slash no later than ten past, the key time seemed to have narrowed considerably.
“Did you hear anything while you were in the bar? Or see anyone?” Pru’s voice had an exasperated edge, quite understandably.
“Of course I didn’t, or I’d have told you. What would be the point of hiding anything now?”
“No point, but people do it. Believe me.” Robin eased out of his chair. “You’ll need to come with us now, to make a formal statement. I’ll get one of my constables to run you home.” Assuming nothing further came up that meant they’d have grounds to keep him under arrest. And assuming he came voluntarily now and didn’t force Robin’s hand. “We’ll need to see those golf clubs of yours, if you don’t mind. To eliminate them from our search for the weapon used on Osment.”
“Don’t you need a warrant for that?”
“If you insist on me getting one, I will, but that will only put off the inevitable. Sergeant Davis here can stay with you until we’ve got a magistrate to sign one off.” She could keep an eye on both the car and the house while she was at it, ensuring he didn’t try to clear away any evidence, although if he was guilty and had any sense, that would all have been done. On the positive side, those grooves on a club were ideal for retaining fragments that the forensic team could get their teeth into.
Cooper spread his hands, resignedly. “Oh, take what you want. Doesn’t make a scrap of difference to me. I didn’t kill Nick Osment, and as far as I know I didn’t kill Jamie Weatherell, so what is there to lose?”
Which sounded horribly like the response of an innocent man.
Cooper had been deposited with Laurence, the golf clubs had gone to the forensic team—with a note to make them a priority—while Robin and Pru had headed straight to the coffee shop, bringing their takeaways back to an incident room with only Callum in occupation, Sally having taken herself off somewhere. The constable had his head down over the computer, trying to get into Osment’s Hotmail account, aided—although not greatly up to that point—with a list Melanie had provided of the passwords and PIN numbers her husband was in the habit of using.
“So, we’ve got a motive for killing and a believable story—at last—for why Osment was poking around that clubhouse.” Pru took a swig of coffee.
“I’d say it’s half a story. He was meeting Cooper, yes, and from what those emails say it was clearly his idea to set the time and place, although I’m still not convinced we know what his motive was in picking that location. Apart from sheer bloody cussedness.” Robin wrinkled his nose, like he might when encountering a strange smell. Certainly this case was proving as unsavoury as the other murders he’d tackled.
“I wonder if he was thinking that he could somehow frame Cooper if he refused to pay? Nick stuff from the changing room, then somehow plant it on Cooper?”
“Who knows what was going on in Osment’s head?” Things were starting to add up but the final answer to the sum still eluded them. “What evidence do you think he could have had about the hit-and-run?”
“Beats me. He may have picked something up at the time of the crash, but why keep it all these years before using it?” Pru drained her cup. “Like Cooper said, why now?”
“He was at risk of losing his job. What else could have changed?” Robin peered into his cup at the last dregs of coffee, but they’d lost their appeal.
“What if the old stuff wasn’t proof enough and he’d recently laid his hands on something new? Something definitive?” Pru asked.
“That’s a good point. What if he’d been searching for that extra proof for years, stirring up pools of trouble to see what came to the surface?” As logical a reason as any for Osment objecting to the fundraising. “Do you think Cooper did it?”
“The hit-and-run or the murder?”
“Either or both.” Robin turned to Callum. “What’s your take on it?”
The young constable was evidently delighted to be asked his opinion, if his grin was anything to go by. That grin soon faded, as though he were dismayed that he couldn’t produce some profound observation that would allow the case to proceed to a result. Robin could remember feeling the same way at the same stage in his career under Betteridge and how her encouragement—and allowing him to voice his opinions and thoughts, no matter how left field—had built his confidence. The fact that this team didn’t appear to have been given the same opportunities was worrying but surely had to be laid at the feet of the officer who was currently unwell. Robin couldn’t be distracted at this point by worrying whether his old boss was losing her touch.
“I think we’re closer, sir. You’ve uncovered strands to the investigation that we hadn’t.”
“Thanks, but it’s a team effort. We’ve uncovered them.”
Callum’s self-assurance visibly blossomed. “Thank you, sir. That means a
lot. Sorry that I can’t say for certain what I think about Cooper. DS Betteridge always tells us not to jump to conclusions.”
“Quite right.” Robin stretched his neck: hotel beds were never as comfy as your own. And the worries he’d had over what might have been going on with the team didn’t help ease his muscular tension. “There’s nothing much any of us can do until we have the forensic report on those clubs. Once you’ve finished with those emails, get off home. I’ll do the same with Laurence once he’s finished with Cooper, unless anything notable turns up. We’ll take the statement with us while we’re heading south to talk to Sam Woakes.”
“The other person with a motive but without an alibi,” Callum observed. “Although isn’t it looking increasingly unlikely that Osment was the driver who killed Jamie Weatherell?”
“It is. But when did the truth always coincide with what people believe? I can imagine Cooper—or whoever—being banged up for death by dangerous driving and people still swearing Osment was responsible, if they disliked him enough. Proof wouldn’t matter to them, even if it matters to us.” Suddenly conscious that he was getting on his soap box to preach to the people who should least need to hear the sermon, Robin grinned. “I’m starting to sound like Winston Churchill. Anybody want a sandwich from the café across the road? My treat.”
They organised who needed what, including something for Laurence, although nothing for Sally, who had gone off, so she’d told the team earlier, to do some poking around, having solemnly sworn not to get into trouble or danger while doing it. Robin appreciated the opportunity to get out of the station rather than sit twiddling his thumbs there. Simply revisiting the information he’d already gone through or dealing with the few emails from Abbotston that actually needed action was getting him nowhere. None of those couldn’t wait until tomorrow: clearing his head was urgent.
Early Sunday afternoon, Adam had settled down with a large mug of tea to watch the start of the early kickoff before heading for choir practice at the church. Everyone had been told to be prompt as they had to be out by six o’clock or risk the wrath of the ladies of a certain age who mainly constituted the half-past-six evensong congregation. Not even Campbell would be able to face down their wrath at being held up.
The buzzing of his phone roused him from where he’d just about dozed off, which was a lucky escape given the precarious position of his still-half-full mug.
“Hello, you. How’s life with my favourite rozzer?”
Robin chuckled. “Better than it was yesterday.”
“Got the villain bang to rights as your equivalents say on the telly?”
“No, but getting closer. Getting closer to home too. We’ll be in the Kinechester neck of the woods later today. I’ll stay over.”
“You’ll be home?” Adam fleetingly wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming the words, given that he’d been aching to hear them.
“Only for the night. We’re conducting an interview this evening. Not worth driving back afterwards when I’ll be dog-tired.”
“Too tired for some proper R and R?”
“Probably, so don’t get your hopes up.”
Adam resisted the obvious joke about getting anything up: Campbell had big ears and was easily shocked. “I’d be happy with a cuddle and your feet in the small of my back. Although won’t it be a pain driving back up to Hartwood fighting the Monday morning rush hour?”
“We can leave a bit later. I know Pru wants to get home to wash and tumble a batch of clothes overnight. Otherwise it’s using the hotel laundry and a bill as long as your arm.”
“Music to my ears.”
“That’s a great cue to what I need to say next. Like we’re a double act. You’ve another rehearsal this afternoon?”
“Ye-es. How did you know? And why do you ask?”
“We’re interviewing Sam, and I want to do it face-to-face rather than down a phone line. Hence the reason it’s this evening rather than clashing with your sing-song.”
Sam. That sounded ominous. “Anything I need to be aware of?”
“Nothing other than what’s been bubbling already. Seems Sam has rather a temper on him too. It must be in the genes.”
“I’ll steer clear of him at the rehearsal. Thank God you’re seeing him after that or he’d be going ballistic at us.” Time to concentrate on the domestics. “Will you need something to eat?”
“Probably. We only had a sandwich at lunchtime, so by the time I’ve dropped Pru off and got home, I’ll be Hank Marvin. Don’t put yourself out, though. And don’t hold off eating for my sake.”
“I won’t, I promise. Singing makes me ravenous. I’ll get something out the freezer so I can heat it up in the microwave. Can’t promise anything more exciting than cottage pie.”
“Sounds like bliss. I’ll text when I leave Pru’s. Can’t wait to see you.”
“Same here.”
As the call ended, Adam became aware of a pair of big dark eyes gazing at him hopefully. “Yep, that was your other dad. He’ll be home tonight. And yes, you can slobber all over him but, no, you won’t be sleeping on our bed tonight. Never been into threesomes.”
Campbell thumped his tail against the floor contentedly. For a few hours, normality would be restored to the Matthews-Bright household.
The rehearsal went well. The singing was better than it had been previously, and while there was still noticeable tension between Sam and Martin, it didn’t seem as intense as before. Adam got his fair share of dirty looks from Sam’s direction, but he’d been expecting them. In his turn, he treated the bloke with absolute courtesy. If they were entertaining a murderer in their midst, he couldn’t show any sign that he suspected the fact.
At the end, Martin praised them all, checked they were happy with the next few rehearsal dates, and reminded them the concert itself was less than a month away. Adam, shooting up a silent prayer that the case would be settled by then and that Robin would be home, became aware that they were being given an important update on Greg’s condition. Things were not as bad as first feared, and there might be a chance of his regaining the use of his legs with intense treatment.
The sharp reminder of why they were doing this and that somebody else had suffered irreversible consequences from the fateful night at the rugby club hit home. While it would send the choir out in a slightly sombre mood—there but for the grace of God went any of them—it also galvanised them again. They had to do this right; they had to succeed and make as much money as they could. Adam resolved to put a notice up in the staffroom rather than just mention the event over coffee. He could probably put something on the school newsletter, even if it risked outing himself to the wider parent community when the rainbow flavours to the event emerged. The kids were cool with him having a male partner, but some of the parents were as prejudiced as they came, and while the word was no doubt getting out, a trickle was preferable to a flood. Or would it be better to get the whole thing out into the open at once?
He’d sleep on it and maybe pick Robin’s brains on the subject over breakfast, if that didn’t add to the stress the bloke must already be feeling.
“Come on, boy.” Adam picked up Campbell’s lead and was heading out of the door when Martin called down the aisle, “Have you got a moment?”
Heart sinking, Adam forced a smile. “Yes, so long as it really is only a few minutes. Robin’s back for the night, then off again tomorrow.”
“He’s here to talk to Sam?”
“Yes. But you clearly know that already.”
“Hey, don’t be so tetchy. I took what you said to heart. Played it cool.”
“Okay. Sorry. I just don’t want you to get mixed up until we’re sure that Sam has got nothing to do with the case.”
“I’m trying, but he nabbed me before he left.” Martin jerked his thumb towards the door. “Said he was due for the third degree so he needed something to look forward to and was your boyfriend as hot as he’s made out to be?”
“Blimey. Who told him that
?” Probably Martin himself—pillow talk, maybe?—although Adam was prepared to give the bloke the benefit of the doubt.
Martin flushed. “I may have mentioned it. I hope I haven’t caused any trouble.”
“Robin can take care of himself.” And he’d have Pru to guard his virtue. “Is that all you wanted to see me about?” Adam edged towards the door.
“Mostly. It’s simply . . .” Martin squirmed as he struggled for the right words. “He texted me last night. Drunk text, I think, because he said he’d been to the pub and he wasn’t that coherent. Said he was sorry. I assumed he was talking about that night he came over to mine, so I said he didn’t need to apologise because we’re both grown-ups and know what we’re doing. He replied it wasn’t that he was sorry about. He didn’t regret anything about that evening.”
“In which case, what was he referring to?”
“Something about what a pain in the arse it is to have an identical twin.” Martin must have been wound up to even mildly swear in the church. “He said he wanted to explain in full but couldn’t because his phone battery was about to die. I thought he’d text this morning once it was charged, but he didn’t. Not a word about it now, either.”
“Perhaps he was so rat-arsed he doesn’t remember texting you.” Although likely he was too embarrassed to mention it. “I wouldn’t worry about it. If it’s important, he’ll mention it again.”
As Adam would be mentioning it to Robin as soon as the right moment came up.
Campbell heard the car before it pulled onto the drive. At least, Adam assumed his acute canine hearing had picked up what must be a distinctive engine sound, rather than some super doggy sixth sense kicking in. The Newfoundland was waiting at the door, blocking any entrance or exit, seemingly determined to be first to deliver the welcome home.
“Oh, go ahead.” Adam shook his head. “Only leave part of him for me, eh?”
A Carriage of Misjustice Page 21
