A Shred of Evidence

by Jill McGown

  “There are lots of people working on this besides me,” said Finch. “Right now, I’d like to know what exactly you were doing tonight, sir.”

  Colin looked at Erica, but she was just staring into her tea. She hadn’t opened her mouth since Finch had started asking questions.

  “I was running! This is ridiculous! My wife’s dog finds a body, and you seem to suspect me.”

  Finch sipped his tea. “How long were you out for?” he asked.

  “I did a three-hour run.”

  The sergeant pulled a face. “How often do you do that?” he asked.

  “Most nights,” said Colin.

  “Blimey,” said Finch. “You can’t see much of him,” he said to Erica.

  Erica lifted her eyes to the sergeant, then looked back down into her mug.

  “That’s really none of your business,” said Colin.

  “No, of course it isn’t. But that means you left the house at … what? Seven?”

  “That’s when I began the run, yes, but I didn’t leave from the house. I went from the school. I told you I had left my car there.”

  Finch smiled. “So you did,” he said. “So … what were you doing at the school until seven?”

  “I belong to the drama group. It meets on Wednesday nights—starts at half four, finishes about half six.”

  Finch finished his tea. “Drama group, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you done that?”

  “About three years or so.”

  “What … just teachers?”

  “No,” said Colin. “Teachers, pupils, anyone who’s interested.”

  “Aren’t any girls interested, then?”

  Colin frowned. “Of course they are,” he said. “It’s mostly girls.”

  “Thought it might be,” said Finch. “Only when I asked if you might be able to identify our body, you said you only knew the boys.”

  Oh, God.

  “But it seems there are some girls you know quite well.”

  Erica got up then, her chair scraping loudly on the floor, and left the room.

  Colin half rose to go after her, then thought better of it. “I … I just wasn’t thinking,” he said.

  “Think now, Mr. Cochrane. Who are the girls in the drama group?”

  “It’s very informal—we’re all on first-name terms. I can’t give you surnames.”

  “First names’ll do.”

  Colin sighed. “There’s Julie,” he said. “And Ann, and Carol. There’s Kim and Claire and Natalie—”

  “Natalie?” said the sergeant. “Can you describe her?”

  “Tail,” said Colin wearily. “Slim. Long blond hair.”

  Finch stood up. “Can you remember her surname?”

  “Are you saying that that’s who—?”

  “Can you?”

  Colin shook his head. “It’s Russian,” he said. “I know that. It begins with an O.”

  “Can I use your phone?” Without waiting for consent, Finch went out into the hallway.

  Colin sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, trying not to think about his part in this dreadful business.

  Finch came back in. “Ouspensky,” he said. “Her name is Ouspensky, Mr. Cochrane, and her mother is already on her way to identify the body.”

  Colin groaned.

  “Mr. Cochrane?” Finch asked quietly. “Would you have any objection to my taking those items away for forensic examination?”

  “What?” Colin lifted his head and saw Finch pointing at the washing machine. “Why?”

  “Because you knew the dead girl, Mr. Cochrane. You had been with her this very evening, and yet you led me to believe you would be unable to identify any girl from the school.”

  “And that makes me guilty of murder?”

  “No, sir,” said Finch, writing out a receipt for the clothes in his notebook. “But your wife went to the Green expecting to meet you on your way back from your run. You tell me that you changed your route, but you haven’t given me any explanation.”

  “I don’t see why I should!” said Colin.

  “And you washed the clothes you had been wearing as soon as you came in, and showered immediately, without even checking up where your wife was. I think I would be neglecting my duty if I didn’t make an attempt to eliminate you from the enquiry by examining those clothes. You can, of course, refuse.” He had been holding out the receipt all the time he had been talking.

  “You’re welcome to the clothes,” muttered Colin, taking the receipt. He even got Finch a bin-liner to put them in.

  Natalie, he thought, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

  “I thought my wife was in bed,” he said, answering one of the points the sergeant had made. “I didn’t think I needed to check where she was. She was going to watch a film—she often goes to bed and watches up there.”

  “And you didn’t look in on her, to say you were back?” Finch looked enquiringly at him.

  “No.” Colin looked at the policeman, who seemed little older than the boys he taught. “Are you trying to eliminate me from the enquiry, or do you think I killed Natalie for some reason?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Finch. “But if you didn’t, then there’s no harm in answering my questions.”

  “I have answered your questions,” said Colin.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for your co-operation.”

  And he left.

  Hannah tried to sleep, but all she could see whenever her eyes grew heavy was Mr. Murray, standing there, looking at her so oddly, a pair of women’s sandals in his hand. Kim mustn’t go telling the police that Colin had killed Natalie, not when Hannah knew that it wasn’t true.

  But Hannah hadn’t told Kim about Mr. Murray; she was scared to.

  He’d had a pair of shoes in his hand, and he had seen her. He had seen her. She couldn’t go to school—he’d find her, he’d recognize her. Should she go to the police? Say that she’d seen him there? No. No, she couldn’t. She didn’t dare.

  She would just keep quiet, and hope that Kim did the same.

  She had promised, but Hannah didn’t set much store by that. Kim wasn’t the strongest of people—if anyone asked her questions, she might not keep her promise.

  Oh, God. How could she think that Colin had killed anyone?

  Lloyd felt guiltily pleased that he was going to be let out of school early, in order to head the murder enquiry. He’d be home tomorrow, see Judy tomorrow after all, and have something like real police work to do.

  But a little girl had died, and that was nothing to feel pleased about. And recalling him was unnecessary; Judy was just as capable as he was of running a murder enquiry, but she didn’t have the rank. Nor did he, strictly speaking. It would be the Detective Super from headquarters who had overall charge. But he had felt that his personal intervention wasn’t necessary, providing Lloyd came back.

  “Mrs. Hill can get it under way,” he had said. “She knows what she’s about.”

  He wasn’t sure how Judy would feel about that. She had been acting DCI for the best part of two months, and the first serious crime that had come along, they were going to bring him back to take over once she had done the groundwork; it seemed hardly fair.

  He wondered if they would have done that if he’d been in the middle of the course, rather than at the end; probably not. But the headquarters Super would have taken personal charge, and Judy couldn’t stand the man.

  He’d point that out to her, if things got sticky.

  Erica lay facing away from the bedroom door; she didn’t turn round when Colin came in.

  “Are you asleep?” he asked quietly.

  “No.”

  “It’s … it was Natalie,” he said. “You know, from the drama group. The girl with the Russian name.”

  Erica stiffened at that distancing of himself from the girl.

  “That policeman seems to think I did it,” he said, with a nervous little laugh, as he got into bed, pushing Sherry down t
o the bottom with some difficulty. “Bloody dog,” he muttered.

  “Why does he think that?” Erica asked.

  “I don’t really know. I can’t imagine why he thinks I should have had anything to do with it. I think it’s because I was washing my tracksuit. He’s taken it away.”

  Erica frowned. “Can he do that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I said he could—I could have refused. But it seemed sensible to let him have it, if he was that bothered. It’s coming to it when you can’t wash your clothes without being suspected of murder.”

  “Why were you washing them?” she asked.

  “I always wash them.”

  “No, Colin.” She sat up and looked at him. “I always wash them,” she said.

  He gave a weak smile. “You know what I mean,” he said. “They always get washed straight away, and I thought you were in bed.”

  “That doesn’t usually turn you into a housewife,” she said.

  His face grew alarmed. “Good God, Erica, you don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?”

  Erica looked at him coldly. “I don’t think you killed her, if that’s what you mean,” she said steadily.

  He looked baffled. “Then what the hell do you think?” he asked.

  “I think you were screwing her,” she said. “That’s what I think.”

  Colin stared at her. “What?”

  “I said I think you were screwing her,” she repeated slowly and carefully.

  “Natalie?”

  “Are there others?”

  Colin’s eyes were wide. “What? I don’t believe we’re having this conversation,” he said. “What in God’s name makes you think that?”

  He knew why they were having this conversation, all right, thought Erica. And that sergeant knew. “The car wouldn’t start!” she shouted. “I ask you—was I expected to believe that?”

  Sherry raised his head and gave a little whine, because Erica had raised her voice, and he was trying to get over.

  “Why would I lie about that, for God’s sake?” demanded Colin.

  “Because you don’t need a car for a training run. So there had to be some reason for your not bringing it home.”

  “There was! I couldn’t make it go!”

  “It’s going all right now, though, I see.”

  Colin sighed. “Patrick fixed it.”

  “Patrick fixed it? Good for Patrick.” Erica lay down again, her back to him. “I don’t want to hear any more,” she said.

  He pulled her round to face him. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted. “You think I was having it off with a fifteen-year-old girl? What the hell is going on?”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, pulling away from him.

  “What is this? The only contact I had with that girl was the drama group! I don’t even know her other name! What’s got into you?”

  The dog barked.

  “Ssh, Sherlock,” said Erica, and he put his head back between his paws, looking doubtfully at her.

  “This is … This is …” Colin shook his head. “It’s crazy,” he said. “It’s a nightmare. It’s not happening.”

  He must be an asset to the drama group, thought Erica as she watched his performance. He just thought that if he kept denying everything, eventually she would dismiss the evidence of her own eyes. He had some sort of answer, something … he wanted her to spell it out for him, so that his explanation wasn’t too evidently prepared. She wasn’t about to do that.

  “I want to get some sleep now,” she said. “I have to go in early and do letters about the uniform.”

  Colin blinked. “What?” he said.

  “The head came round tonight—asked me to go in early and do letters to the parents saying that school uniforms needn’t be worn during the heatwave.”

  He shook his head slightly. “Erica—I don’t think that’s going to be the first thing on his mind tomorrow morning,” he said. “Natalie has been murdered.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” she said. “But the school still has to be run.”

  “No one’s going to be worrying about getting letters out!”

  “The pupils will still be there, still wearing winter uniforms. It will still be a heatwave. I’m going in early to get the letters done for distribution by the form teachers, so I would like to get some sleep now.”

  “I don’t believe this.” Colin shook his head. “You’re accusing me of adultery with a teenage girl I barely know—that policeman thinks I murdered her, and all you can worry about is letters about the school uniforms?”

  Erica shook her head. “That’s not all I can worry about,” she said. “But it’s all I can do anything about.”

  Colin stared at her without speaking for a long time, then got up. “I don’t know what’s got into you,” he said. “I … Maybe it’s the shock. I don’t know. I think I’ll sleep in the other room,” he said.

  “You do that,” said Erica.

  He left, banging the door. After a moment, Sherry crept up the bed to lie alongside her again, and Erica wept silently into his coat while he fell blissfully asleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Colin woke, surprised to find that he had slept, but sheer exhaustion had seen to that. He felt far from refreshed; it took him a moment or two to get his bearings. The wallpaper was wrong. He was facing the wrong way. Of course. He was in the spare room. The dog-house.

  He heaved himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he took his first shower of the day, shaved, and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same. A bit tired, maybe, but substantially the same man looked back as had looked back yesterday.

  But the police had taken his clothes away for forensic examination because they suspected him of having murdered Natalie, and he still couldn’t understand how that had happened. What had he done, what had he said, to make the sergeant so suspicious of him? Erica thought he’d been having an affair with her—he could hardly blame her for jumping to that conclusion, after the way Sergeant Finch had reacted.

  He looked the same, but he wasn’t. He was someone fighting for a life that he had taken for granted yesterday.

  He went into the bedroom to get dressed, and found the bed made. She would have got up early, of course, because she was determined for some reason to go into work and do these letters to the parents. Her way of dealing with it, he supposed. Think about something else, something mundane, while your husband comes under suspicion of murder. But she wasn’t downstairs either. She must have gone to work so early that she would be lucky if the school was open.

  It took him a little while to work out what was really wrong about this morning, why the house seemed so very empty. The dog wasn’t here. Colin frowned. She must have taken him for yet another walk, to see if he could find any more bodies for him to be accused of murdering.

  If only she hadn’t blurted out that she had gone to the Green to meet him, none of this would be happening. That was what had made the sergeant begin to wonder about Colin’s involvement.

  Erica hadn’t come back by the time he was leaving for school; she must be taking the damn dog with her. He supposed the head would make allowances, especially since she had gone in early for him.

  He unlocked the garage and pushed up the door, his shoulders drooping a little at the thought of school, of seeing Erica, of the police being all over the place, which they surely would be. He was a suspect. A suspect. It seemed like a nightmare, but the sun into which he backed the car was real enough. His mail was still piled up on the back shelf, obscuring his view as he backed out on to the driveway.

  He got out, and moved it on to the back seat, frowning a little. He thought he’d spread it out on the shelf, not piled it up like that. He shrugged, got back in, and drove the short distance up Larch Avenue, sweeping in to the school by the back entrance, round to the car park.

  Walking through the grounds to the school building was an odd experience. There was a muted sound, not the huge crescendo of noise usually produced b
y adolescents bursting with energy and health, eager to let everyone know. People looked shocked, and hurt, and stood in little groups, discussing what had happened.

  The younger ones were excited; they hadn’t known Natalie, they didn’t really appreciate the dreadfulness of what had happened. Police cars sat around, and they were intrigued by it all.

  A handwritten notice on the door said that everyone had to assemble in the hall at eight forty-five; it was almost that now, as the head strode towards him.

  “Ah …” The head waved his hand around. “Colin. How is …” Another moment’s panic. “Erica? It must have been a terrible shock for her.”

  Colin didn’t answer. The head must know how she was, surely.

  “Yes,” the head went on, clearly not expecting an answer. “Terrible. Tell her to take her time—I’m not at all surprised she didn’t feel like coming in. Tell her … well, you know what to tell her.”

  “Yes,” muttered Colin. “Thank you.”

  She’d done it again. She’d done her disappearing act, like she had after she’d discovered that letter. He knew where she was, but he wouldn’t try to contact her. She would come home when she was ready to, like before.

  Lloyd stood outside the door of the cramped murder room, where he couldn’t be seen by the occupants, who sat variously on or at desks.

  Judy sat at the far side, a plan of Ash Road Green behind her. A board beside it bore the name of Natalia Ouspensky, and an enlarged photograph of a blonde girl with a friendly smile. The times she had been seen, a description of her clothing, not much else, not yet.

  The general hubbub was quietened when Judy stood up and faced her crew. “Right,” she said. “Listen.”

  It took a moment or two, but eventually everyone was aware that the briefing was about to start.

  Judy looked at them, mostly seasoned professionals, mostly male, many of them drafted in from other divisions for the enquiry. Lloyd felt a little apprehensive; you could feel the hostility, just because she was a woman. You could feel them want to see her fall flat on her face.

  “Natalia Ouspensky,” she said. “Known as Natalie, or Nat, to her friends. Aged fifteen years one month.”