A Shred of Evidence (22 page)

“I’d move in with you,” she said promptly. “But you wouldn’t issue an ultimatum like that,” she added.

“Wouldn’t I? What makes you so sure about that?”

She clasped her hands behind his neck. “Because you’re too unselfish.”

He took her hands away, held them. “And you’re too selfish,” he said.

“I know.” She looked penitent.

“One day,” he said, “I might have had enough of being unselfish, and then where will you be?” He pulled her up to him, and held her close to him, triumphantly glad that she wasn’t some WCI from Northumbria.

But he wanted it to be like this all the time, and he never lost an opportunity to remind her of his ultimate objective. Her answer was that it wouldn’t
be
like this all the time, as if he didn’t know that. But he wanted that; he wanted to go to bed
with her simply in order to sleep, he wanted them to grow used to one another.

“What would you do then?” he whispered mischievously in her ear. “If one day you discovered that I had had enough, and had just upped and gone?”

She didn’t answer.

“You take me for granted,” he said. “And you’ll miss me when I’ve gone—you see if you don’t.”

“Don’t even say it,” she said, her voice indistinct.

Startled, he pulled back to look at her. “Judy?” he said. “I wasn’t being—” He broke off. There were tears in her eyes.
Tears
.

“Please,” she said as they fell. “Please, don’t even say it.”

He had never even seen Judy cry, and now he had
made
her cry, when that was the very last thing he had meant to do.

“I couldn’t bear it if you left me,” she said.

He stared at her, at cool, capable, together Judy, truly distressed by a throwaway remark that had meant nothing, and he didn’t know what to do, except put his arms round her and hug her to him.

“We’ll do anything you like,” she said, through the tears. “Get married, live together, whatever you want.”

He had waited years to hear her say that. But not like this. Not because of a threat he hadn’t meant, and would never dream of carrying out. Not under some sort of duress.

“No,” he said. “No. I don’t want you to do that. I want you to feel right about it. I’m not going to leave you, you daft bat.”

She drew back. “Is that the truth?” she asked, still tearful.

“I’d
never
leave you,” he said. “Never.”

At last she relaxed a little, and he wiped her tears with his hand. “I’ve no intention of leaving you,” he said. “I wasn’t being serious, Judy—I wasn’t even
pretending
to be serious.”

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“I should think you are,” said Lloyd. “Have some flat champagne.”

How like Judy to offer him what he most wanted in circumstances which made it impossible to accept. But he had really shaken her, and he had never meant to do that. He didn’t partake
of the flat champagne, but he made Judy drink hers for its medicinal value, which she did, slowly, not speaking, lost in thought.

He watched her until she put the glass down. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said, not expecting to be told.

She looked at him as if she was only now becoming aware of his presence again. “I was just wondering how I ever got this lucky,” she said, the tears still not far away.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” he said, lying back and drawing her down to him. “It was your cleverly worded ad that did it.”

She smiled at last. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll buy it.”

“How could it miss?
‘Beautiful, independent woman with brown eyes, smashing legs, logical mind and a dislike of unreasoning arguments, seeks volatile bald male chauvinist with thickening waist and inflated ego, for flaming rows and occasional patronizing lectures.’
”

She nodded. “But luck did play a part,” she said. “It was pure luck that it was right next to
‘Lover of language, poetry, books and films seeks unromantic woman with little or no knowledge of the arts, shaky grasp of grammar and morbid fear of commitment, with a view to possible marriage.’
” She smiled again, then looked worried. “Have we really got nothing in common?” she asked.

“We’ve got this,” he said, rolling over, kissing her.

“Sex?”

“No! Though I’m not complaining,” he added hurriedly, lest she went off the idea. “No, I meant us—you and me, together. Whatever we happen to be doing. For a great deal of the time we’re not having sex.”

“We can’t have ourselves in common,” she objected.

“Yes, we can. We go together. We … complement one another. Interlock.”

She looked a little dubious. “Like pieces of a jigsaw?” she said.

He shrugged. “If you’re into tired old clichés, yes,” he said.

She poked him in the ribs. “You just made sure I said it and not you,” she said.

“Naturally,” he said, smiling. “But we are like pieces of a jigsaw. We’re just different shapes, that’s all. We still fit together.”

She pulled a face. “Do you have to do that?” she said.

He grinned.

“Anyway, I’m a piece of earth and you’re a piece of sky,” she said.

He liked that. He smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “But they do meet, remember. They meet on the horizon.”

“The horizon,” Judy reminded him, “is an optical illusion.”

Lloyd shook his head. “I’ll bet even your fantasies are grittily realistic,” he said.

“What fantasies?” she said, putting her arms round him. “I don’t need fantasies.”

And she kissed him then, a kiss not calculated to ensure a good night’s sleep, until she stopped kissing him, rather as though she had forgotten what she was doing.

Lloyd drew back to see her looking thoughtful.

“Speaking of fantasies,” she said.

He groaned. “I know of no other woman who could be making love, utter these words, and be talking about work,” he said. “But you are. I know you are.”

“Sorry,” she said.

He couldn’t remember ever having had so many apologies from Judy in one night. “All right,” he sighed. “What?”

“I didn’t just
see
Natalie on the bus,” she said slowly. “I sort of fantasized about being her mother.”

Lloyd was beginning to feel he really had never known Judy at all. “Do you regret not having had children?” he asked.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Right,” he said, relieved that he had not been wrong, and that this was going to be about work, not about starting a family. “Carry on, Inspector.”

“But I was just … wondering, when I saw her. What it would be like to be her mother. So I was watching her. Listening to her. Seeing how she behaved with her friends—and without them, when she was on her own.”

“And you don’t think she wrote that letter,” he said.

“No,” said Judy. “The girl I saw on the bus seemed too … I don’t know. Too adult. That’s a very adolescent letter, in between the sexy bits.”

Lloyd nodded.

“And that means that it’s very important to find out who did write it,” she said. “Because if she
was
there, whoever she is, waiting for Cochrane, while all that was going on …”

“Then she almost certainly saw something,” said Lloyd. “But why wouldn’t she have come forward?”

“From that letter, I’d say she’s very immature,” said Judy. “And if she did see anything, then I think she’s probably very frightened. Too frightened to tell anyone.” She looked serious. “And that’s dangerous,” she said.

Hannah hadn’t even tried to sleep. Colin had been taken away by the police, that’s what Kim’s mother had said.

They couldn’t possibly think that Colin had done it—he hadn’t even been there. She had waited and waited, but he hadn’t come.

It was Kim’s fault. She’d told them about Natalie going with a teacher, and Julie wouldn’t have been able to wait to tell them those stupid rumours about Colin that seemed to have got round like wildfire. But they couldn’t arrest him because of that. There had to be something else.

She knew what that was. She had known all along; that was why she had tried to stop Kim telling the police anything that would make them suspect Colin. She lay awake, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her letter saying she would meet him had probably caused all of this. They must have found it and thought it was from Natalie, because she was there.

It was her fault. Colin was suspected of murder, and it was her fault. She would have to tell them it wasn’t Colin. She would have to do something. Tell them about the letters.

She could tell them what she’d seen. But the fear that gripped her as soon as she even thought about that made her almost faint. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.

She had to do something. Colin hadn’t been there—she had
to make them understand that. Natalie hadn’t written that letter. Her eyes widened as she thought of a way. She could do it. She could. But she would have to go to school, and that filled her with just as much dread as going to the police. Murray would see her.

She could go to Colin’s house. Yes. Yes, she could go to his house. Early. Before he left for school. Oh, but he might see her, and she didn’t want that. Really early, then, before he was even up. But what if he was still with the police? What if he never got it? He would. He would get it—they couldn’t keep him there for ever—he hadn’t done anything wrong.

She slipped out of bed and switched on the computer. If they believed the other letter they would believe this one, and it would prove that Colin hadn’t even been there.

Nothing new had come in overnight; after the morning briefing, the squad dispersed on various duties, leaving Judy, Tom and Lloyd in the murder room.

Poor Lloyd, thought Judy. She must have petrified him last night, but she had had to deal with an overwrought pathologist, a distraught mother, a garage mechanic, hostile colleagues and a post-mortem all before just being alone with him, which had in itself brought her emotions dangerously close to the surface. The sudden, frightening thought that she might have taken him for granted for too long had just been one emotional jolt too many. Now that she was herself again, she couldn’t really recapture that dreadful feeling; just the effect it had had on her. She felt more than a little silly, if truth be told, and grateful to Lloyd for behaving as though it had never happened.

“I think Natalie got tired of waiting for Cochrane and let someone else have a legover,” Tom said. “Cochrane caught her at it and lost his rag—finished her off when he saw the damage he’d done.”

Lloyd looked at him over his specs as he read the night duty’s reports. “You have such a poetic touch,” he said.

“He did it, guv,” said Tom. “If he washes his own clothes, I’m Groucho Marx. And I smelt that deodorant.”

Lloyd took off his glasses. “It makes sense,” he said. “But I don’t want us concentrating on Cochrane to the exclusion of all else, because all this is purely circumstantial.”

Oh, get him, thought Judy. He had built up more fool-proof circumstantial cases than anyone she knew. Except, of course, that he didn’t actually believe in them. He wanted them to be
picked over and the bones extracted, because the flesh was pure invention, and he knew it.

Tom simply believed that he was right, and Lloyd was determined not to encourage that.

“Until we get forensic or eye-witness evidence to the contrary, I think we have to assume that what we have been told by Mrs. Cochrane is true,” Lloyd went on.

“But, sir—”

“Don’t make the facts fit your theory, Tom. Keep an open mind. We should get the reports on the physical evidence at the scene today—let’s not speculate.”

But oh,
God
, he could be so irritating, thought Judy, watching Tom’s reaction with a smile.

Tom was due at the forensic lab; he had turned to go, but he turned back again, deciding to put up a fight. “He was having an affair with her, sir. The letters say so. She arranges to meet him on the Green. He can’t account for twenty minutes of that so-called run, and his wife just happens to see her alive before Sherlock the bloodhound conveniently finds her dead? Come on, guv—even if I hadn’t smelt his deodorant, it’s got to be worth looking into.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t worth looking into. Of course it is. But I’m sure the inspector will tell you what’s wrong with your theory.” He smiled at Judy. “You have the floor,” he said.

Judy looked at Tom, and smiled sympathetically. Lloyd in his wise and wonderful mood was perhaps the
most
irritating thing that could happen to a person first thing in the morning. It happened to her a lot more than it happened to Tom.

“The twenty minutes unaccounted for is your best bet from that lot, Tom,” she said.

“What’s wrong with the rest of it?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t believe that the letters are from Natalie, so I’d give you an argument there—and you haven’t proved that they are, yet. And while Cochrane can’t prove he was running, he’s not obliged to. You have to prove that he wasn’t, and you haven’t done that yet either.” She smiled. “Where were you on Tuesday evening?” she asked.

“Here, doing that stuff for the CPS,” he said gloomily.

“Did anybody see you?”

“No,” said Tom. “I was here alone—but my wife didn’t happen to see the victim alive, and my dog didn’t find her dead.”

“No,” Judy agreed. “But if they had, would that automatically make you a suspect?”

“I wasn’t getting passionate love letters from the victim,” said Tom.

“Perhaps neither was Cochrane,” she said. “And wasn’t Mrs. Cochrane’s call logged at ten twenty-five?”

“Yes,” said Tom.

“So all in five minutes, despite the fact that he’d just come in covered in blood and told her he’s an adulterer and a murderer, they work out this elaborate alibi between them? And then she ad libs?”

“She didn’t know the neighbours had seen him.”

“He did—I think he might have mentioned it. And what sort of alibi would it have been, anyway?”

“Well—like you said, they didn’t have much time to organize it.”

“That they didn’t. Even if she called us from their own phone, she would still have had to get to the Green—which is a ten-minute walk away—by the time the patrol car got there in answer to her call, and it was a fast response, as I remember.”