Robin nodded. “Let’s see whether we can panic him again, either in here or at the ground. If he is there, when you’ve done, see if you can find somewhere to watch him from that means he doesn’t know he’s being watched, all to the good.”
Callum nodded. “I know exactly the place. My aunt’s house backs onto the ground, and she’ll let us watch from the back window. Grandstand view of . . . the grandstand, actually.”
And with the corporate groan that produced, the briefing came to an end.
An hour later, just as Robin rose from his desk to get in a swift loo break before ringing Betteridge for the daily update, Sally rang.
“We’ve got the keys, sir. Or I should say we’ve got a set of keys, although they appear to match the set of four the barman lost. There’s a grating in the room where they clean boots. I guess they use it to swill any mud and grass into, because the holes in it are pretty large. Large enough to accidentally drop a set of keys down, we thought. Callum tried to raise it but he cut himself, even through his gloves. Like Osment might have done. Remember the marks on his fingers?”
“I do indeed.”
“So, I went and got Weatherell, who was out on the pitch fiddling about with some patch of mud that he was trying to regenerate. He was annoyed to be interrupted, but eventually he said you needed an implement for hoicking the drain cover up, because it’s set pretty solid. I went with him while he fetched it from his workshop-cum-shed. It was easy enough to find the keys once we had the cover removed, because they’d got wedged in a bend. Callum watched him while I pulled them out—he reckons Weatherell seemed really unhappy about it all. And that was before I bagged the drain cover for testing, which he didn’t like, either. Made a right fuss about risks of clogging the plumbing with no cover to catch the muck. Not that I think we’ll find much if we test the thing, but the whole rigmarole probably unnerved him. He went back to poking his pitch but he wasn’t happy.”
“Good work. That implement he used wasn’t made of steel with powder-coated paint, was it?”
“No such luck, sir. Appeared to be too thin to have made the wound on Osment’s head. But we’ve got a cunning plan about that. Sorry, got to go.”
With that intriguing comment, Sally ended the call. Robin dropped her a quick text saying that if this cunning plan involved putting either her or Callum at risk, they shouldn’t be executing it. The equally mysterious reply—that the only risk initially involved was overfeeding themselves on Callum’s aunt’s almond cake—only reassured him up to a point. Still, he couldn’t stifle initiative.
By the time he was about to have another loo break—prior to going down to the interview rooms, that fostering enterprise had paid off. Callum was reporting in this time.
“Hello, sir. Got an update. I spoke to my aunt about using her room to observe what went on and she was dead keen. You remember she used to run there, so she feels a vested interest in the place. Struck me that I should ask her how well she knew the clubhouse. She said thirty years ago it was like the back of her hand, although she’s not been in there since a do they held a few years ago.”
“And?” Robin, already tensed up at the prospect of the interviews, found his patience was wearing perilously thin.
“She reckoned there was a secret hidey-hole that some of the teenagers used to use, back in the Stone Age.” Callum chuckled. “Hid their ciggies there so they could have a quick fag after training without either Mum or Dad or the coaches knowing. Osment could have known about it but—this is important—so could Tom Weatherell. Groundsmen know the ins and outs of everything.”
“Assuming it’s still in use.” Robin held his rising excitement in check.
“It is. Because we’ve been back there and opened it. We made sure we followed the proper procedures and took plenty of pictures before and after.” Callum sounded rightfully pleased with himself. “Even better, we’ve got a third-party witness of Weatherell’s actions. My aunt kept an eye on him while we drove round to hers. Apparently, no sooner had our car left than he abandoned his muddy patch and legged it round to his workshop. By the time we were in our observation place, he was nowhere in sight, but Aunty reckons when he emerged he was carrying something. By the time he was back on the pitch again he didn’t have it. There was nothing else to see—he simply tidied his stuff away and must have set off to the station.”
With not enough time to go home in between. “You went back?”
“Yep. Almost had to sedate Aunty Charity to stop her coming with us, although I noticed her still watching from her window.” Callum’s throaty laugh was almost deafening. “Anyway, you go into what the rugby club uses as an away dressing room, and there’s a big metal cabinet that’s divided into lockers. At some point in the past, a false top’s been put on. Great big length of plywood, covering over where the outside rim is higher than the internal roof of the cabinet itself. I’m not explaining this very well.”
“Do you mean like the top of a fitted kitchen cupboard where you get a decorative ridge around it?”
“Yes, exactly that. Somebody’s made that void into a hidey hole. You can’t see it from eye level, and even when you get up on the bench it’d be easy to think that top’s meant to be there. But when you prize it up—bingo.”
“Pru’s just come in—I’m putting you on the speaker.” Robin held the phone between them. “Let’s have the punch line.”
“In there, along with a packet of fags and a porno mag, there was this metal . . . thing. Like an oversize version of the gun you’d use to put sealant round a bath.”
“I know the sort.”
“This one must be used for marking pitches. Sally’s going to send some pictures over.”
“Great. Then get it bagged up and brought in for testing.” Even if the object had been cleaned and subsequently used for its proper purpose, removing and obscuring evidence, there was always a chance the forensic boffins would be able to extract some tiny but telling piece of proof. Although, Robin reminded himself, forensic evidence didn’t play as big a part in real life as it did on the small screen.
“Horrible-looking thing, isn’t it?” Pru said, once the call was ended and they had the pictures to hand.
“Yeah. I remember seeing a television show where a suspect used one of those sealant guns to keep the police at bay. From a distance it seemed like an automatic weapon. I wonder if Osment saw it and got the shock of his life.”
“I can imagine Weatherell getting this from his shed before going into the clubhouse. As you say, it would scare an intruder—and be useful to keep someone at arm’s length. You could swing it like a club too.”
“I get the picture.” Robin sighed. “God, the sheer nerve of it. I think he might have had this out when I went to the ground that second occasion. And even if we had done a proper sweep of everything at the ground, it would be difficult to prove he struck the blow, simply from fingerprints. He had legitimate reason to handle it all the time.”
“Thank God for Callum’s aunt.”
“Amen to that.”
The divide-and-conquer stratagem was one Robin had used successfully in the past. One suspect in one interview room, another down the corridor but making sure that they saw each other—or were made aware of the other’s presence—before questioning started. Breaks to compare notes with the other interviewing team or alternating between rooms, whichever best seemed to suit the purpose. Sometimes the force with which one party tried to shove the other under a bus left them both beneath the wheels.
Cooper, beads of sweat on his brow, appeared the nervier of the two; Tom Weatherell having the same no-nonsense, steady air about him they’d already encountered. The rock of the family, as Joe had pointed out. He could be left to stew in his own juice for a while, to see if the experience might fluster him.
“Mr. Cooper.” Robin slapped a fat file down on the desk in front of him. In truth, much of the content was meaningless padding, but it produced a formidable impression and had the desired effect
when the suspect blanched on seeing it. They went through the formalities, then Robin said, “I believe you used to work alongside Tom Weatherell, when he was at Hepius.”
“Yes.” Cooper cast a glance at the duty solicitor, without getting a response. “Must be ten years ago, now. I’d not been with the company that long, doing my stint in sales before I got into marketing.”
That matched what they’d been told. “Did you keep in contact?”
“No. We weren’t big buddies.”
“When did he get back in touch?” Pru asked.
“He didn’t. We ran into each other.” Cooper sat back in his chair, relaxing slightly. “A group of us from the Tuckton club had gone to lay a tribute at the site Jamie died. A rugby ball, which we felt was appropriate. Tom and his wife were there, we recognised each other and got chatting. Hardly the best of circumstances, but what can you do except the right thing, which is to pay your respects and avoid clichés.”
That showed a surprising degree of sensitivity and perception. “Did he know you’d driven along there the night of the accident?”
“Yes, because I told him so. I said I wished I could have helped him find out what happened.”
“Can I clarify that?” Robin leaned forwards. “Was he asking for information about the accident or did you offer your help out of the blue?”
Cooper wriggled uneasily in his chair. “A bit of both. His wife had gone off to chat to someone, and I wanted to explain that I’d not been to the police because I’d not seen anything. There was a yellow sign right next to us, appealing for witnesses, which kept tugging at my conscience. Tom started to pump me, not that there was anything to pump, so he gave up when his wife rejoined us.”
“Did you keep in touch after that?” Robin asked.
“Not really. He invited me to the funeral—to represent the club, he said—but I had a minor op scheduled for that day so I had to give my apologies. Ashley Howarth went instead.” The expression on Cooper’s face showed how grateful he’d been to have a valid excuse not to attend.
“So, who contacted who about this meeting with Osment?”
Cooper flinched at Pru’s question, the intercutting between the two clearly unnerving him. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“When Osment contacted you,” Pru spoke slowly, as though addressing a child, “to arrange to meet you at the club, Weatherell was due to be there as well. Did you tell him about it?”
The stab in the dark worked. “Yes, I did, the week previous to the meeting. I felt he needed to know if there was new evidence about his son’s death. He was absolutely furious that somebody would want to make money out of such a tragedy. He wanted to come along and see for himself, but I only agreed to that if he promised to keep calm. Which he did. Promise, I mean.”
“He’d be backup for you too, in case Osment turned nasty,” Robin cut in. “In our previous interview, you said that Osment was going to fit you up for the hit-and-run. Is that true?”
The suspect flicked a glance at his solicitor, whose face remained impassive. “It’s true that I assumed the likeliest person in the frame would be me. But I knew Tom would believe me when I said that I hadn’t done it. Or if I had done it, I wasn’t aware of the fact because I’d been lied to about hitting a deer. Tom knows that I would never have knowingly left anyone to die without summoning help. You can ask anyone that about me.”
“We will, if it comes to that.” Robin made a note, more for show than purpose. “Why didn’t you tell us any of this before?”
“Because none of it came to anything. Tom didn’t even turn up on the night. I was supposed to get there around seven, but you know I got badly held up in the traffic. Tom was coming along later, in case his being there from the start made Osment reluctant to talk. As it turned out, I saw neither of them.”
“You’d swear to that?” Pru asked.
“I would. I saw and heard nobody in that building, from the moment I parked up to the moment I left. Ever since then I’ve been wondering if I was there at the same time as the killer, and how close a call I might have had.”
Robin’s turn. “Who do you think the killer was, that you so narrowly avoided?”
“Eh? How do I know?”
“Mr. Cooper, you’re not stupid. You must have had a guess at what went on.” Robin waited for a response; when none came except Cooper shifting in his seat uncomfortably, he said, “We need an answer. Did you suspect anyone?”
Cooper slumped in his chair. “Yes. I suspected Tom. Is that what you wanted me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. Nothing more and nothing less. So, I ask you again. Did you suspect anyone and why?”
“The truth is that I couldn’t get the notion out of my head that Tom might have got there early, encountered Osment, and then got into a fight with him. Maybe because Osment wouldn’t share what evidence he had.” He glanced at the solicitor, who nodded. “I was scared, so I didn’t respond to the appeal for information.”
“The thing is, Mr. Cooper, that Weatherell didn’t get to the ground until later than you did.” Robin tapped the file. “Those traffic cameras that picked you up caught him too. What they haven’t shown is you leaving the ground when you said you did.”
“That’s because I went a different route. I couldn’t be sure the accident had been cleared up, so I got my satnav to take me on the back roads.”
“Are you certain of that? Sounds a good way to cover up your being at the ground and confronting Osment.”
“I had nothing to do with his death.” The force of Cooper’s assertion seemed to carry a weight of veracity, although Robin had heard similar pleas of innocence from the guiltiest of suspects.
“Then persuade us that’s the case by giving us some help,” Robin pleaded. “You suspected Tom Weatherell. Was it only that?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Cooper, head wagging, turned to his solicitor. “I swear to God, I didn’t see him on that night—I didn’t see either of them.”
“And since then,” Robin pressed. “Has he been in touch?”
“No, and I’ve been damned grateful for the fact.” Cooper raised his right hand, palm outwards. “You can put me on oath and I’ll say the same. I’ve turned things over in my brain ever since, but I honestly don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“I think I believe him, sir,” Pru said, as they emerged from the interview room. “He’s been riding his luck, hoping we wouldn’t turn any of this up. Then he wouldn’t have had to face the fact his old mate might be a killer.”
“Yeah. Let’s face that old mate and see where we get.”
Weatherell had refused a solicitor’s presence, despite repeated offers. He’d asserted that he had nothing to hide and—going on outward appearances—that could convincingly be the case. A good actor having recovered his composure following the encounter with the constables, or an innocent man with the police having backed the wrong horse? Maybe something else entirely that was outside Robin’s ability to read on first impressions. Best to cut straight to the nub of the matter and let the answers guide them.
Once the proper rigmarole of setting up the recording had been gone through, Robin stated, “We want to talk to you about the evening Nick Osment was killed. He’d arranged to meet Colin Cooper at the Hartwood club.”
“I believe so.” The calm response was followed by silence.
“It’s more than believe, though, isn’t it?” Pru asked. “Cooper contacted you about the meeting.”
Weatherell nodded. “What can I say? Yes, he did. We used to work with each other, years ago, but I suppose you know that too. I’d not seen him for years until he turned up after Jamie was killed. At the informal memorial people set up on the spot. I knew Colin played rugby, but I had no idea it was for Tuckton.”
“Did you go to Jamie’s last game?” Robin had chosen the words to be insensitive and provoke a reaction: they had the desired effect.
“No, we didn’t. I’ve regretted it every day
of my life since.” Weatherell leaned his elbows on the table, head in hands. “If we’d been there, we’d have brought him home with us. He’d be alive today, and maybe his mother would, as well.”
“That’s understandable. The guilt of those left behind.” Pru spoke kindly, seeking for a rapport with the witness. “Why weren’t you there?”
“We got invited to a wedding. One of Lulu—my wife Louise’s—friends. We got the call about Jamie at the evening do.” Weatherell rubbed his forehead. “We’d had such a lovely time and then suddenly it turned into the worst day of my life. Can you imagine what that’s like?”
“I can imagine, yes, although I’m sure I wouldn’t get anywhere near what you’ve experienced.” Robin had every sympathy for someone finding themselves in such a life-changing situation, but that compassion couldn’t blind him to what had happened to Osment. He also had a father to whom he’d been close, who’d been devastated by his death. “You must have felt angry. Did you want to punish the culprit?”
“You bet I did. Wouldn’t anyone? It was only Lu—Louise making me see sense that stopped me going on an all-out campaign to find whoever it was, especially when your lot were getting nowhere.” He looked Robin in the eye. “I had to find closure. Not just about the hit-and-run, but about my own guilt. The fact I could have saved Jamie if I’d been at the game and driven him home. I got some professional help—I was dubious about that but my wife insisted—and it worked. Young Joe could have done with it too,” he added, with a shake of his head. “He told me you’d been asking about his wobble.”
“I’d hardly call assaulting your partner a wobble.” The sympathy was starting to wane. “When your wife died, did your thirst for vengeance come to the surface again?”
“You don’t miss anything, do you? Yes, it did, but I went to see the same counsellor another time, and he helped me get back on an even keel. Joe can confirm that.”
A Carriage of Misjustice Page 27
