A Shred of Evidence (39 page)

Hannah Lewis had been charged with both Natalie’s and Erica’s murder, Lloyd had said. Erica had been an innocent victim. Lloyd had been relieved to be able to bring that news, but it wasn’t news to Colin. He had never thought anything else, not from the moment the police had told him she had been taken to the hospital. It didn’t make Erica any less dead.

But life went on. “Dinner,” he said, and Sherlock jumped up.

Colin was feeding him when someone came to the door. Another test. Try and pay the milkman, or whoever it was that came on Fridays, without breaking down. You can do it. You can.

It was Trudy Kane.

“Hello,” he said.

“I didn’t think you should be on your own,” she said, almost argumentatively, as though he had already told her to leave. “If you don’t think it’s seemly, I’ll go. But I think you should have company, so you should be with someone, and people are funny after something like this. It doesn’t have to be me. Just don’t stay here on your own, that’s all.”

He smiled, and stood aside to let her in. “I’m not alone,” he said as the dog came through to fall in love with whoever had arrived. “This is Sherlock,” he said. “He’s been a great help. But his conversation is limited.”

His voice broke on the last word, and he did break down. He was aware that he was being—with the very best of motives—earmarked before he’d even buried Erica, but he did need company. And at least it wasn’t the milkman.

* * *

Kim’s mum had made her pack a case, ready for tomorrow.

“No arguments,” she had said. “We’re going.”

A seaside hotel, for a week. She couldn’t really afford it, Kim knew that.

But she did want to get away from all of this horror. From questions. The police said it would be all right. They said that someone was being charged with both the murders. They hadn’t said who, but Kim knew, just as she had known when her mother had told her what Hannah was saying about Mrs. Cochrane.

Then she had realized how insistent Hannah had been about her not telling the police anything. How ill she had looked. How certain that it hadn’t been Colin Cochrane who had killed Natalie. Why she had felt that by talking to the police it wasn’t Natalie or Mr. Cochrane that she was betraying, but Hannah.

Everyone had been behaving as though it was Hannah who had died in that flat, but it hadn’t been. It had been Mrs. Cochrane. And that, for Kim, had been the final straw. The terrible suspicion that had lurked at the back of her mind had forced its way into her conscious thoughts.

But if that policewoman hadn’t come to see her … would she have said anything?

Probably not.

Tom watched Hannah being taken away to a youth detention centre, feeling as shell-shocked as Judy looked now that he had heard the whole story.

They walked in silence back to the empty CID room, and Tom sat down at his desk, looking with something approaching fondness at his paperwork.

“You were right, guv,” he said as Judy went towards her office.

“So were you,” she said. “About a lot of things.”

Tom didn’t exactly feel flushed with success. He had had the wrong people down for it all along. “Name one,” he said.

“Cochrane’s deodorant,” she said. “And that Mrs. Cochrane hadn’t told us the whole story. That Sherlock had smelt someone he knew. That Hannah knew exactly who Natalie had
been with,” said Judy. “Jealousy wasn’t her motive at all—I was wrong about that.”

Tom shook his head. “Who could have guessed what it really was?” he asked as Lloyd came in, and Judy slipped into her office and closed the door.

“Guessed what what really was?” asked Lloyd.

“Hannah’s motive,” said Tom. “That she killed Natalie because she
laughed
at her.”

Lloyd smiled. “I’ve heard of flimsier motives,” he said. “And I can see that you were never laughed at when you were at school.”

“No, I wasn’t,” said Tom. “But even if I had been, you don’t
kill
people for it.”

“Not unless you’re psychotic,” agreed Lloyd. “But you want to. Believe me, you want to.”

Tom frowned. “You weren’t laughed at as a kid, were you, sir?” he asked.

“I was. And if I’d been unbalanced, I could have killed.”

“But why were you laughed at?”

“Because,” said Lloyd slowly, “I wasn’t called Tom.”

Ah. The ultra-secret name. Lloyd had to be the worst keeper of a secret in the world. There couldn’t be a single person at Stansfield nick that didn’t know about him and Judy, and it wasn’t from her. But no one at all knew his first name; he kept it strictly to himself, and Tom had failed, despite several attempts, to get the tiniest of clues from Judy.

“I still could kill,” warned Lloyd. “Remember that. I might not always be the well-adjusted chap you see before you now.” He knocked on Judy’s door.

Tom smiled.

Judy was sitting at her desk, smoking, her hand shaking slightly. She looked up as Lloyd came in, closing the door behind him. She wasn’t sure she had forgiven him for his “women notice things like that” when she was in no position to thump him.

“Well done,” he said quietly.

Maybe. It had been Lloyd’s idea, of course, the build-up
with slightly awkward questions for which Hannah would have ready answers, to lull her into a false sense of security.

“An uncorroborated confession,” she said, releasing smoke. “That’s all it is.”

He smiled, and sat on the edge of her desk. “And a shred of evidence,” he said.

“They might not even prosecute,” she said. “If they do, she could retract the confession. The courts are paranoid about that now. She could get off.”

Lloyd looked at her seriously. “It’s out of our hands, Judy,” he said. “We’ve done our bit. And Freddie might find something in the postmortem on Mrs. Cochrane that backs up the confession, now that he knows what he’s looking for. How much blood she’d lost, for instance—he’s not convinced it’s consistent with Hannah’s original story. And they’re going to try to get prints from Natalia’s skin—the thumb and little finger, remember?”

Judy nodded. It wasn’t something that worked very often.

“Forensic are going over that flat with a fine-tooth comb right now. They could turn up some more evidence. And they think the button thread found on Natalia’s body could be from a school blazer.”

“Natalie had a school blazer—that could have been picked up in her own wardrobe.”

Lloyd smiled. “It all helps,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t think she will retract the confession. She’s proud of it.”

Judy shivered. But he was probably right. He usually was. Even about Mrs. Cochrane unwittingly protecting the psychopath. Like he said, they had done their job, and Freddie would do his, conscientiously as ever. She felt a little more confident of success.

Someone knocked, and waited to be told to come in. Judy was surprised to see Tom, who never stood on ceremony. Presumably he had thought he might catch them in a passionate embrace if he didn’t announce his presence.

“I ought to be going, guv, if that’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got a dinner date tonight. It’s our wedding anniversary.”

“How many years?” asked Judy.

“Seven,” said Tom.

She glanced at Lloyd. “Congratulations,” she said to Tom. “Give Liz my love.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Where are you taking her, Tom?” asked Lloyd.

“That new place in Barton—everyone says it’s worth the money. What’s it called? It’s in Grainger Street.”

“Pennyman’s,” said Judy. She and Lloyd had been there a couple of times since it had opened. The manager was a friend of Lloyd’s, but that didn’t get him a discount. It was worth the money, but no wonder Tom had been so anxious about his expenses. He was going to need them.

“That’s it,” said Tom. “Pennyman’s. I think Liz deserves the best for putting up with me for seven years.”

“What time are you supposed to be there?” asked Lloyd.

“Eight o’clock, so I’d better get a move on.” Tom went to the door. “She’ll be amazed that we’re actually going to get where we’re going for once,” he said, then stopped and turned, and snapped his fingers.
“All About Eve,”
he said, triumphantly.

Lloyd immediately looked interested, as if Tom could possibly be going to say anything about it that he didn’t already know. Judy practically knew the dialogue backwards.

“What about it?” he said. “Is it on somewhere? Are you going to see it?”

“No,” said Tom. “It just suddenly popped into my head. I’ve been trying to remember for days which film that quote came from—you know. ‘
Fasten your seat-belts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride
.’ ”

Lloyd shook his head. “ ‘Night,’ Tom,” he corrected.

“Night, guvs,” said Tom cheerily, and left, carefully closing the door again.

“Oh, well,” said Lloyd. “Never mind.”

Judy frowned as he reached across her for her phone, and got out his address book.

She squinted at it as he dialled the number. It was open at P. She sighed. Tom had put ideas into his head, obviously.

Candlelit dinners for two were all very nice, but she did like
to be asked first, and the last thing she wanted to do was get dressed up to go out. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t have a table available, and even if they did, it would hardly be fair on Tom and Liz to have them sitting there all evening, so, all in all, she didn’t think that this was one of Lloyd’s better ideas.

But maybe he wasn’t booking a table for tonight, she thought. He might just be arranging for them to have a night out next weekend, or something.

“Oh, hello,” he said, perching on her desk again. “My name is Lloyd—could I speak to the manager, please?”

Oh, God, he was even going to pull strings to get them in, so it must be for tonight. She didn’t want to go out. She wanted to go home. She wanted to have a bath and an early night.

“Bill? Lloyd here. Listen, some friends of mine are dining with you tonight at eight—Mr. and Mrs. Tom Finch? Would you trust me for a bottle of champagne to be sent to their table with my compliments?” He beamed. “Thanks, Bill,” he said, and hung up.

Judy laughed at herself. She should have known that Lloyd would be the last person to horn in on Tom’s evening out. She should have known that it would be a generous impulse, something she wasn’t convinced she had ever had.

“You are an incurable romantic,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “Will you marry me, Jude?”

She sighed, and looked at him for a long time before she answered. “Very probably” she said, crushing out her cigarette and standing up. “Let’s go home.”

She had never seen him look quite so startled. Or, she realized, with a rare pang of guilt, quite so
happy
.

But she hadn’t said when.

Barton Crown Court, Monday 6 July

“… that on the seventh of September of that year you unlawfully and with intent inflicted grievous bodily harm on Rachel Olivia Selina Ashman contrary to Section Eighteen of the Offenses against the Person Act eighteen sixty-one. Are you guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.”

“Count eight. You are charged that on the seventh of September of that year you raped Rachel Olivia …”

Harper sighed, and wished he was defending anyone but Colin Arthur Drummond, as the charges rolled on and on.

“Count eleven. You are charged that on the tenth of September of that year you raped Lucy Mary Rogerson, contrary to …”

On the day of his arrest, Drummond had made a full confession to four sexual assaults on women; now that he was on trial, facing eleven charges under the Sexual Offenses Act and three under the Offenses against the Person Act, he was pleading not guilty to them all.

The fourteenth and final plea was entered and, out of the hearing of the jury, Harper tried to have that confession declared inadmissible, as the interviewing officer had failed to fulfill the conditions, demanded by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act; the attempt, as he had expected, failed. But
Drummond had also made a statement to Detective Inspector Hill of Stansfield CID concerning another, unreported rape; this time Harper’s application that this evidence should not be admitted met with success, since it concerned an incident which had never been the subject of complaint to the police, and did not therefore concern the court.

The jury filed back, and the prosecuting counsel outlined the case which would be presented to the jury. Next, the sworn statements of those who were not being compelled to give evidence were read, and it was well into the morning before the first witness was sworn in.

In the well of the court, the prosecution barrister—tall, stout, silver-haired beneath his wig, and almost as imposing as the wood-paneled courtroom itself—was on his feet, and in the witness box stood the dark-haired, dark-eyed, childlike teenage prostitute who had been the alleged victim of the fourth assault. She was the basket in which Harper was carrying all of Drummond’s eggs; it looked to him even more fragile than its cargo.

Harper’s adversary was waiting patiently for the slightly shocked buzz of reaction to the witness’s profession to die down; the girl herself was edgy, nervous, waiting for her ordeal to begin. Just how much of an ordeal it would be had been brought home to the jury by the fact that Rachel Ashman, the second victim, had taken her own life rather than be forced to give evidence, something which in her acutely depressed state she had felt quite unable to do. Only then had Drummond agreed that the victims of the other assaults could make sworn statements, since the defense was not contesting the facts, but simply the identity of the assailant.