A Shred of Evidence

by Jill McGown

  “Right.” Lloyd got to his feet. “Who?” he asked, standing aside to let Judy walk ahead of him through the door.

  She didn’t actually pull him up for every act of male chauvinism. Asking Lloyd not to let ladies go first regardless of rank would be like asking a cat not to chase mice, so she didn’t try.

  “His name’s Kennedy,” said Tom, leading the way down the narrow corridor to the informal interview room. “He’s spent the last couple of days in Yorkshire with his family. Grandson’s christening.”

  “Nice for him,” said Judy. She knew Tom Finch quite well; there was an air of suppressed excitement about him.

  “Yes. He says he knew he’d get legless, so he let the train take the strain. Didn’t want to be tempted to drive home after the do.”

  “Highly commendable,” said Lloyd, exchanging glances with Judy.

  Tom had something up his sleeve, obviously; Judy just hoped that it got them further forward on this enquiry, because the folk wisdom of murder hunts said that the breakthrough had to come within the first three days, or chances were it would never come. And with any luck this really could be the breakthrough; Tom clearly thought it was.

  Lloyd hadn’t asked why Tom was dealing with what had to be the murder, though he was supposed to be setting up the warehouse job, but he would, whether it wrapped up the enquiry or not.

  “Mr. Kennedy,” said Tom as they arrived at the interview room, indicating a small man who got up awkwardly, not sure whether one shook hands in these circumstances.

  “This is DCI Lloyd and DI Hill,” he said. “Would you mind telling them what you just told me, Mr. Kennedy?”

  Mr. Kennedy eyed Judy, then turned to Lloyd. “Well—like I told the sergeant,” he said. “I got the train to Leeds, and left the car at the station. I know what I’m like—I’d have been all for driving back last night if I’d taken the car. It’s just me, you see, now that the wife’s gone.”

  Lloyd smiled and nodded, and Judy took out her notebook. Tom Finch was enjoying this. It would probably take all afternoon at this rate.

  “I was working late Tuesday, but the christening was at ten yesterday morning, so I didn’t want to leave it till the morning to leave. So I got the last train up on Tuesday night. It was a fair old rush. I didn’t finish until nine, and the train was at twelve minutes past ten. But it was late anyway, so I needn’t have—”

  “Tell the Chief Inspector about Ash Road, Mr. Kennedy,” said Tom, taking pity on them.

  “Yes, well—I was driving along Ash Road, keeping my eye on the clock. It was five to ten, and I thought I could make it to the station by five past. Give me time to park the car and get it paid for, and all that.”

  His until now fairly restive audience had become very interested in Mr. Kennedy’s story; Judy sat down, the better to note down what he was saying.

  “Anyway, I was just passing the Green, when a car comes reversing out of there like a bat out of hell. Reversing, if you don’t mind, right on to the main road at I don’t know what speed. I had to swerve to avoid it.”

  “Did you see what kind of car it was, Mr. Kennedy?” asked Judy.

  “I did, lass. But better than that, I’ve given this young lad its number. I didn’t exactly mean to memorize it, but it’s not the sort you forget. CCC 800 M.”

  Judy had never seen Cochrane’s car, but it didn’t take too much working out.

  “I am checking out the registered keeper, sir,” said Finch, smiling broadly.

  Finch himself had a very crude expression that exactly described the way he was looking right now. Judy would tell Lloyd later what it was—she liked shocking him, because it was so easy.

  “I knew nothing about this murder until I got the evening paper,” said Mr. Kennedy. “Living alone, you see. If the wife was alive she’d have been telling me all about it, but—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kennedy,” said Tom. “We may need a formal statement from you, but in the meantime, thank you for coming in. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Tom showed his star guest to the door, and Lloyd looked at Judy.

  “So much for my mind-reading abilities,” he said. “It seems that the drama group will be sorry to lose Mr. Cochrane.”

  “What about Mrs. Cochrane?” said Judy. “Do you think Tom’s right about that too?”

  “Well … you both think that there’s something she’s not telling us,” he said. “But let’s find out what condition Cochrane admits to leaving Natalia in, shall we?”

  A WPC appeared at the door. “Sergeant Finch wanted the registered keeper of CCC 800 M,” she said. “It’s Colin Cochrane, of 12 Ash R—”

  “Yes,” said Lloyd, interrupting her.

  Tom came back as she left.

  Lloyd looked at him. “It’s Cochrane’s license number,” he said. “Surprise, surprise.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tom.

  “Sergeant Finch,” said Lloyd. “Your facial expression borders on insubordination. Only senior officers are permitted to look unspeakably smug. Sergeants and other ranks must content themselves with looking modestly pleased.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Tom grinned. “I’ll get off to the school and pick Cochrane up, shall I?”

  “No,” said Lloyd. “DI Hill and I will go—and I think we’ll try the Derbyshire first, in view of his general demeanour when he left here.”

  Tom’s smile vanished. “But, sir—” he began.

  “You’ve got a date with a warehouse, I believe, Sergeant Finch,” said Lloyd. “And I don’t imagine you’ve done much about setting it up, since you were inadvertently asked to deal with Mr. Kennedy.” He paused. “Didn’t Sergeant Sandwell get the message that you were on other duties?”

  “But I can get someone to cover for me at Humphry Davy—”

  “You will do it yourself, Sergeant. The inspector and I will call on Mr. Cochrane.”

  Finch looked irresistibly like a child who had had a lollipop snatched away. He turned and walked out of the room.

  Judy looked at Lloyd. Vindictiveness wasn’t in his makeup; he could get toweringly angry, but he never held grudges. “What are you up to?” she asked. “You wouldn’t do him out of his arrest.”

  Lloyd smiled. “I have no intention of arresting Mr. Cochrane,” he said. “I may have to, if he’s uncooperative, but I do hope not—it’s such a hassle when you get here.”

  Judy frowned. “But if his car drove out of there at five to ten,” she said, “that’s when Mrs. Cochrane got there. She must have seen it—Finch has probably been right all along.”

  “Mm,” said Lloyd. “Probably.”

  “We have to assume that she did see it,” said Judy. “And for all we know, Cochrane had just murdered Natalie and she found the body.”

  “Mm,” he said again. “Well—we’d better go and talk to him again, hadn’t we?”

  * * *

  Kim had a decision to make, and she didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. She should have taken Hannah’s advice in the first place and not said anything at all, but she had and now she knew she had been wrong. She wanted to talk to someone, get advice about what she should do.

  She had a free period, and now she was in the fifth year she was allowed to go home to do private study; she was walking home in the sunshine, walking past the Green. She stood for a moment and looked at the cordoned-off adventure playground, blue sheeting masking where it had happened. People had left bunches of flowers there; Kim hadn’t been one of them. She didn’t want to mark where something so awful had happened; Natalie knew that she was thinking of her, and trying to do her best by her.

  Who she really wanted to talk to was Natalie. She would have been laughing at her. “You don’t need me to tell you what to do,” she would have said. “Just do it, or don’t do it—don’t keep asking me if you should.”

  But she wanted someone to listen to what she had to say before she did anything she couldn’t undo. She would speak to Hannah—she would ring her when she got home. Hannah wa
s the nearest thing to a best friend that she had now.

  The evening paper was lodged in the letter-box; no one had taken it in yet. Kim pulled it out as she went in and glanced at it. Then she sat down on the stair and read it properly. This was worse than rumours. And why? Why would he talk to the papers? It made it look as though he had had something to do with Natalie, and he hadn’t.

  Up in her bedroom, she rang Hannah’s number.

  “Oh—hello, Mrs. Lewis. Is Hannah there?” she asked.

  “No, she isn’t—is that Kim? I had to send her back to the doctor. She was up all night with this tummy bug she’s got.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Kim. “Is she worse, then?”

  “Well, I didn’t feel I had to get the doctor out to her this time, but she’s definitely not right. Can I give her a message?”

  “No … I just wanted to ask her advice, really,” said Kim, the truth coming out automatically.

  “Can I help?” asked Mrs. Lewis.

  “Oh—no. No, thank you. That is—it’s about my English homework,” she said as the plausible lie at last presented itself. “Could you tell her that I was wrong about what I said before? I know it wasn’t what I thought. She’ll know what you mean. Maybe she could ring me back. I’m at home.”

  “All right,” said Mrs. Lewis, sounding slightly puzzled. “But I might be able to help, you know.”

  “Oh—wait—I’ll speak to Mr. Murray,” said Kim, almost to herself. Yes, of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? “I’ll go back and talk to him,” she said, relieved to have made the decision. “Thank you, Mrs. Lewis.”

  “All right, Kim,” she said. “I’ll tell Hannah you rang.”

  Kim hung up and left a note for her mother, who was picking up her little brother from school. Mr. Murray would tell her what to do.

  The daily papers were in on the act now. Lloyd had indeed picked up Cochrane at the hotel and had steered him to the waiting car, wishing he had had the foresight to expect the invasion of reporters. For one thing, he would have made sure that he didn’t look as though he’d been sleeping in his suit, which he rather thought he did. It was very hot, and difficult for him not to get creased at the best of times.

  He had told them that Cochrane was helping them with their enquiries, but this had turned out not to be strictly true.

  Cochrane sat with his elbows on the table, looking like someone who had given up. But he had not, Lloyd was convinced, given up protesting his innocence; Cochrane, it seemed to him, had given up imagining that he would be believed. Or even caring if he wasn’t. He barely seemed to have taken in the question, never mind answered it. It was a simple enough question. Had he been driving his car out of Ash Road Green at nine fifty-five on Tuesday night?

  Judy repeated the question.

  Cochrane shook his head slightly. It was the first reaction they had got; Judy tried to build on it.

  “For the tape, please, Mr. Cochrane,” she said.

  Cochrane looked at her from under his eyebrows, then half stood, and put his mouth close to the microphone on the wall. “For the tape,” he said, and shook his head again. He sat back down. “All right?” he asked.

  Lloyd frowned. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

  “Yes. Do you want to breathalyze me too? You haven’t done that yet. What else? An intimate personal search for illegal substances? Can I choose which of you does it?”

  This was a new Cochrane. He’d been drinking, but he was far from drunk, in Lloyd’s estimation. This was a Cochrane very near the edge. It was mutiny, of a sort. He’d behaved exactly as he was expected to behave for as long as he could. Now he was past caring. But he couldn’t afford to be.

  “This is a very serious matter, Mr. Cochrane,” Lloyd reminded him.

  Cochrane smiled. “Of course it’s serious,” he said. “I’ve found myself in a Kafka novel—how serious can you get?”

  Lloyd raised his eyebrows a little. “From your television appearances, I understood that you weren’t much of a man for literature,” he said.

  “I’m not,” said Cochrane. “But I do know what The Trial’s about. I’m just prepared to admit that I haven’t read it, unlike other people.”

  Neither had Lloyd. But he could quote it, with a slight amendment. “Someone must have slandered Colin C, because one morning, without his having done anything wrong, he was arrested,” he said, quietly.

  “Quite,” said Cochrane.

  “No!” shouted Lloyd, bringing the flat of his hand down on the table, making Cochrane jump.

  Judy didn’t even react; she knew his tactics. She just sat with her pen poised over her notebook.

  “Not quite, Mr. Cochrane,” Lloyd went on, his tone normal again. “Because I have not arrested you, though every rule in the book says that I should have.”

  Cochrane frowned.

  “Natalia’s body was found on the Green, and your car was seen speeding away from the scene. The body smelt of your deodorant—you have twenty minutes which you can only account for with an uncorroborated story, you washed the clothes you had been wearing when you were out, and then to cap it all you came in here with an obviously trumped-up alibi.”

  “She smelt of—?” Cochrane began, but Lloyd carried on.

  “But I didn’t arrest you, because I don’t believe you killed her. I think you’ve been having an affair with her, though.”

  Judy reacted this time. Lloyd hadn’t tested this theory on her.

  Tom had said that afternoon that Mrs. Cochrane would hardly be protecting a convicted rapist, but Lloyd thought that might be in essence just what she was doing. “You know all about DNA, don’t you, Mr. Cochrane?” he said. “You know that it can determine the identity of someone who has had sex with a woman, and you know how. But you had used a condom when you were with Natalia—so whatever we’d found to analyse, it had nothing to do with you, and you knew that. And you agreed to a blood test.”

  “This is …” The young man’s head was shaking all the time.

  Judy was writing everything down, not taking part in this.

  “But you didn’t drive home when you left there, did you? You drove up to the school to work out your cover story for your wife, now that she had proof of what you were doing. Because she’s what made you drive out of there as though the hounds of hell were after you.”

  “No—no, this isn’t true.”

  “And Natalia ran away from your wife, right into the arms of a homicidal maniac,” Lloyd said. “Your dog found her body. Your wife was frightened—she didn’t tell us what she’d seen. She was keeping you out of it, but in reality she was protecting a psychopath. And you were too fond of your own skin to tell us the truth, and let us get on with finding him.”

  There was a silence, then Cochrane exploded, this time making Judy jump.

  “I was never anywhere near the Green! I never touched Natalie! I have told you what I was doing—it wasn’t very glamorous, and it wasn’t very clever, and I’m sorry I can’t produce three independent witnesses who saw me throwing up all over myself, but that’s what I was doing! I wasn’t with Natalie, I wasn’t driving my car, I wasn’t running away from my wife! Is that clear enough for you?”

  Lloyd stared at him. He couldn’t still deny it, for God’s sake.

  “Mr. Cochrane,” Judy said, her voice calm. “We do have a witness. An independent witness—one who saw your car reverse at speed on to Ash Road from the service road on the Green at five minutes to ten on Tuesday night.”

  “None of this is real,” said Cochrane. “It’s a fiction. Someone’s making this whole thing up.” He smiled. “Someone’s inventing it,” he said.

  “Why would this man lie about seeing your car?” Lloyd asked.

  Cochrane looked back at him with eyes that held no spark, no light. Just an acceptance of defeat. “I don’t think he’s lying,” he said, still smiling. “He’s just saying what he believes. But he imagined it.”

  Lloyd sat back. “Like the write
r of these letters imagined what you and she had done?” he asked. “Like your wife imagined that you were having an affair? Does everyone involved with you imagine things?”

  “Yes,” said Cochrane, his expression not changing. “Yes. But all this is the work of someone else’s imagination—it must be, because none of these things happened. This is Natalie’s fantasy,” he said. “It must be. Natalie’s making the whole thing up.”

  Judy glanced at Lloyd, who shrugged a little. Perhaps Cochrane was Freddie’s psychopath, after all. Natalia was dead when Mrs. Cochrane found her, as Finch kept insisting, and she was covering up for her deranged husband, for reasons best known to herself. “Natalia’s dead, Mr. Cochrane,” he said. “She isn’t making anything up now, if she ever was.”

  Cochrane sat forward. “And I wasn’t driving my car at nine fifty-five on Tuesday night,” he said. “It was at the school. I’d left it there because it wouldn’t start.”

  “Why did you go back for it, in that case? What made you think it would start then?”

  “Patrick said he’d mend it for me.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Patrick Murray. He’s good with cars. He said he’d see what he could do and—” Cochrane broke off.

  “Yes?” said Lloyd.

  “Patrick,” he said, his eyes alive again. “He must have been driving my car—it must have been him. He had the keys.”

  “Is this the new English teacher?” asked Judy.

  “Yes—don’t you see? He must have been driving it!”

  “How did you get the keys back?” asked Lloyd, refusing to react to Cochrane’s sudden animation but excited all the same, even if his latest theory had been wildly wrong. “You drove it home, remember.”

  “He left them under an ornamental tree thing at the back gate,” said Cochrane. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see? Patrick has to have been driving it!” His eyes widened. “That’s why the mail was piled up like that!” he said. “It must be—I didn’t leave it like that, covering up the rear window. I don’t do that.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lloyd. He didn’t know what Cochrane was talking about, but it hardly mattered. They were just one step away now.