Lindenshaw Mysteries #7
Some truths don’t set you free.
The pandemic may be winding down, but for Chief Inspector Robin Bright, life never really goes back to normal. One second, he’s having breakfast with his adorable husband—and their equally adorable Newfoundland, Hamish—and the next, he gets the dreaded call: a body’s been found. What initially appears to be a mugging gone wrong turns out to be murder, and Robin is on the case.
Adam Matthews is happy to act as a sounding board—much as he tries not to get involved—but when Robin’s case intersects with a mystery from within their own family, he’s embroiled whether he likes it or not. Loquacious genealogists, secret pregnancies, and a potentially dubious inheritance all ensure that Adam won’t be doing his hundred-and-one headteacher tasks in peace anytime soon.
Lies pile onto lies, and the more the story changes, the more the killer is revealed. Without proof, however, Robin and his team are powerless, and the murderer isn’t the only one with something to hide. But Robin won’t stop until he’s found the whole truth, and nothing but.
I'm going to jump out of the gate and say "YAY!!!!!!!!!"
Okay, now that I got that out of my brain let's continue.
And Nothing But the Truth is not only a great title for a mystery but it clues you in to just how many untruths Robin and his team will have to wade through before the culprit is found. I've always said how much this series brings thoughts of my favorite British mystery series, Midsomer Murders, and this entry continues on that memory-inducing love. There are even a few scenes where television cop shows reference a few laughs("If this was a tv cop show . . . "). Just something about Brits and their love of whodunits that always keep me coming back, I can only watch Columbo so many times but Midsomer, Death in Paradise, Foyle's War? Those I can watch, rewatch, watch again, etc, there will never be a number of watches that will make me turn it off. It sounds like I'm digressing into a different review here but I mention these shows and my love of them because I can read, re-read, listen, and re-listen to Lindenshaw Mysteries endlessly. The author kept me guessing up until about a chapter before the reveal and now that I know who did it, well Charlie Cochrane has a knack of storytelling that keeps it fresh and fun even when the adrenaline rush of a first time read and edge-of-my-seat guessing is gone. There seems to always be another new question or line of inquiry turn up and you just know one of the nearly throwaway threads will most likely crack the case wide open.
Some may not like the unending questions, they may feel it mires down the plot but I don't see it that way, I love playing armchair detective trying to weed my way through all the muck and mire. It makes me feel like a member of the team. Speaking of team. Robin has a great bunch of men and women working for and with him. Too often the senior cops tend to forget they were once the low man on the totem pole and only delegate chores but not Robin, he doesn't give them leads to check that he himself is unwilling to do, now that doesn't mean he don't avoid a few things by passing them on, he's human afterall but he's not a "you do the grunt work I'll take the credit" kind of guy and I love that about him.
Robin and Adam never get old, not in age of course they aren't Peter Pan, but in entertainment value. I'll admit there may have been less Adam in this newest entry, he was more of a sounding board for his husband and a go-between for Robin and someone who is helping with both the case inquiries and a personal matter regarding Robin's family background. Having said that, Adam is never window-dressing nor is he "just" the above statement. He is the supportive and loving husband who has his own career that just so happened not to overlap with his husband's case this time around. Those "sounding board" moments showcase the obvious and ever-growing chemistry the couple have. I'm sure in the non-case moments between entries, Robin plays the role of sounding board listener to many a chaotic school-related stress😉.
If I keep babbling like this I'll let something slip that I don't want to, I refuse to do spoilers. Just know that if you love a good mystery with a cozy, humorous, and all around entertaining feel then And Nothing But the Truth is for you.
RATING:
Chapter One
Late spring 2022
Adam Matthews slipped out of bed and headed for the window to have a peek at what the weather was doing. As the BBC had predicted the day before, it was a glorious morning, more flaming June than showery April.
He glanced over his shoulder at where his husband Robin Bright lay in bed, gently snoring and appearing very little older than when they’d first met eight years ago. The odd grey hair had sprouted—generally in his stubble rather than on his head—but he was still as handsome. And still as effective at catching villains and putting them behind bars as he’d been in the murder case which had introduced them, without ever resorting to any of the dodgy tricks so beloved of TV cops.
“Go with the evidence, wherever it leads. Although a touch of copper’s instinct never comes amiss,” was what Robin said, and his instinct had been proved correct on many occasions.
Adam yawned, stretched, and headed downstairs, to where a canine bladder was no doubt awaiting a chance at relief. He opened the kitchen door, said, “Morning Cam—” and stopped. Funny how he’d managed to avoid using the wrong name for so long, but now he wasn’t concentrating, it slipped out. As his mother had told him would no doubt happen.
“Like in the stone age, when we wrote cheques. I’d never get the year wrong on them all through January because I’d be thinking about it, and then I’d find myself writing the incorrect date come February, when my attention had wavered. It’ll be the same with the dog.”
As so often, she was spot on. “Sorry, Hamish. Old habits. Am I forgiven?”
The Newfoundland bounced up and bestowed a slobbery kiss.
“Thank you. I love you, as well.” Maybe not yet as much as he’d loved Campbell, but that would come with time.
“I heard you nearly say the wrong name as I came down the stairs.” Robin’s voice sounded chirpily as he came into the room. “I’m so pleased, because I made the same mistake yesterday. I could become paranoid that he thinks his name is actually Cam, whereas he’s a handsome Hamish. Aren’t you boy?” Robin gave the dog a good ruffling round his neck, which was received with obvious pleasure, then let him out into the garden.
“Maybe we both need to write out fifty times, ‘His name is Hamish,’ and hang it up in here.” It might have been easier if they’d chosen a different breed, rather than a dog who resembled a younger and smaller version of his predecessor, but they were used to Newfoundlands. Switching to a Labrador or other kind of pooch would have felt treasonous to the big lad’s memory.
Robin gave Adam a peck on the cheek. “I think we should. You’d have thought a whole week’s holiday away with him would have got us into the habit by now.”
“It’s being home. We’ve slipped into very old habits. We never called him you know what down in Devon.”
A term into his first headship, that break had been needed and a glorious time that had been, with generally bright weather, no murders, and no schoolchildren—none that Adam had to be responsible for, anyway. He’d done a couple of months as acting headteacher the previous year, when Jim Rashford, for whom he’d been deputy at Culdover, got appendicitis, but that didn’t bring the same kind of pressure. While it had been great preparation for taking on a similar role, the place he’d been running was someone else’s school, and he could eventually give the responsibility back. Like babysitting.
Now Adam was leading the primary school in the large village of Wickley. It was proving similar to the one at Lindenshaw where he’d been employed when he met Robin, with the same links to the local church and the same set of values espoused. Values that Adam could buy into straight away. Reconciliation, forgiveness, and loving your neighbour as yourself were right up his street, albeit difficult to do on a regular basis.
The job had its challenges, naturally, including a member of staff who wasn’t cutting the mustard and who’d need dealing with once the new term was up and running. But Jane could be put out of mind for the moment.
“Wakey wakey, daydreamer,” Robin said. “The sun’s breaking through.”
“Shining on the almost-righteous.”
“Days like these make me wish we could win the lottery and be on holiday permanently.” Robin put on the kettle while Adam got Hamish’s breakfast ready.
“You’d get bored. We both would. Besides, the experience wouldn’t feel so good if it wasn’t a treat.”
“I’d be willing to risk seeing if I could get used to it. In the interests of science. Do you want toast?”
“Nah, just cereal. I think I over-calorified myself when we were away. Anyway, you can’t win the lottery because you don’t do it. Even my most numerically challenged pupils would realise that if you ain’t in it, you can’t win it. I hope they would, anyway.” Adam called a few to mind who might struggle with the concept. The villages of England might be leafy, but they still had children with special needs or parents who didn’t quite have a proper grasp of reality.
Robin snorted. “If your pupils grow into some of the people I have to deal with, I wouldn’t bank on the fact. Not all villains are sharp. Some are simply lucky, so they get away with things they shouldn’t. Then there’s the ones who rely on the fact nobody reports them or—if they do—complaints don’t get taken seriously enough.”
Adam nodded in sympathy. Prior to their holiday, Robin had been dealing with the aftermath of an historic child-abuse case, where the victim had waited so long for justice that he’d taken things into his own hands and beaten seven colours of brick dust out of the choirmaster who’d made his life a misery thirty years previously. Robin only had the assault case to deal with, but the details behind it had got to him. While Robin’s own schooldays had hardly been a bundle of joy, they’d been nothing compared to what the man had endured when he was a pupil. At least Adam and Hamish had been there to support and comfort the bloke through the process, with hugs and a wet nose respectively.
Adam fetched Robin’s favourite cereal bowl. “I wish all parishes were like Wickley. If Katie Morgan had been the safeguarding officer for that choirmaster’s parish, there’d have been no nonsense about sweeping things under the carpet.” Katie was one of the foundation governors at Adam’s new school, and her opinion on the church’s lax handling of abuse cases had been a joy to hear.
“Speaking as a probably-not-very-good Christian, I have to say there’s a hell of a lot of muddled thinking around forgiveness. You won’t know this yet, boy,” Robin said to Hamish, who’d returned from the garden and wanted attention. “Actions can be forgiven but they still have consequences. Life lesson, free and gratis, from your dad.”
“If you want to give him life lessons, we should start with training him not to go throwing himself at guns or knives. Like the old boy did.”
“Maybe I should train you not to get too closely involved with my cases, as well.” Robin put the finishing touches to the food he’d laid on the breakfast bar, then perched on a stool.
“Might I remind you,” Adam said, wagging a teaspoon at him, “that if you insist on interviewing a murderer in my kitchen, in the vicinity of the lad’s Bonios, then you’re tempting fate? I’m glad this house is keeping itself a killer-free zone.” So far, no trouble had followed Robin home there, and long may that prevail. Adam surreptitiously touched wood but clearly not surreptitiously enough.
“I saw that. Was it your ‘please no murders’ touching wood?”
“Something like that.” It had been over a year since Robin had dealt with a homicide case, if one didn’t count a manslaughter due to diminished responsibility, and their luck was due to run out. Murders meant long and unpredictable hours and risked Robin getting stressed or—worse still—relocated for weeks on end.
“If I do get a murder case anytime soon, he’ll not know what’s going on with all the long hours. He’ll think I’ve deserted him.” Robin glanced over to where a supremely unbothered Hamish was concentrating on his breakfast.
“He’ll learn to cope. Another lesson for life in the Matthews-Bright household.” Adam chomped on his granola. “Any chance we can bring him up to think he’s a cat? Or another dog breed that doesn’t do water rescues?”
“Vain hope. It’s inbred. The old lad always liked being in water. Even if we didn’t think he had the urge to rescue in him.” Robin patted Adam’s hand, and they focussed on their food, probably both fighting a lump in the throat.
Late last autumn they’d been out for a walk in a country park, with Campbell off the lead but walking to heel as became his habit as he’d grown older. He’d evidently been the first of the three to see a toddler fall into the lake, at which point some deep-rooted instinct must have kicked in. Before Robin had got to the water’s edge, Campbell was already immersed, paddling like mad while taking the child by the back of his jumper and pulling him to the bank.
In the general kerfuffle of administering first aid and calming the child’s parents, it had taken Adam and Robin a while to realise that their dog wasn’t getting himself up off the ground. A minute or so later, it had all been over.
“Talk to me about something funny,” Adam said. “Daft things your newbie coppers have done.”
“Nothing to offer, sorry. Our latest recruit—Danielle—is proving far too sensible to provide you with cheering-up fodder.” Robin managed a grin. “I think Pru’s taken her under her wing, rather like I did Ben when he joined the team. Then I’ve just this morning heard we’ve got Ashok relocating from Kinechester, so he’s a known quantity.”
Adam nodded. Robin had met Ashok when he’d had to take over a murder case from a nearby team which had been struck by Covid. Apparently, the constable had needed the odd rough edge knocked off but was pretty solid underneath. “That’s come out of the blue, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Part of Superintendent Cowdrey getting everything shipshape, I suspect. Played two blinders, because not only did he secure us Ashok, he’s also got rid of Gareth. He’s the new one we’d been allocated at the same time as Danielle, but he rubbed Cowdrey up the wrong way, so the boss persuaded him that he’d be getting a wider range of experience in the Kinechester team. Which is no word of a lie.”
“A very useful lie. What did Gareth make of that? What did you?”
“He’s delighted. Thinks he’s got one over on Danielle. Special treatment and all that.” Robin rolled his eyes. “As for me, I wouldn’t argue with the boss. He’s too astute and has more experience of young guns than I have. Although—and don’t quote me on this—I wouldn’t be surprised if Gareth ends up in the papers or on the telly one day, and I don’t mean him getting the George Cross.”
“Potential to be bent?” There’d been plenty of similar stories in the news recently and not confined to the Metropolitan Police. The lad must have been particularly bad for Robin to have formed such an opinion so quickly.
“I don’t know. There’s something not right about him—in the short time he’s been with us, he’s said a few things which raise alarm bells, but he may be capable of being converted away from the dark side. I suspect Cowdrey doesn’t want his patch soiled at this late stage of his working life, so he’s palmed Gareth off on Kinechester.”
“What does Denness think?” He was Cowdrey’s equivalent at Kinechester, at a not-dissimilar point in his career, so surely wouldn’t want to deal with somebody else’s issue.
“He’s happy, actually, despite the rather frank conversation Cowdrey had with him about his concerns. Denness is regarding Gareth as a challenge. A potential feather in his cap if he works the miracle.”
“Like you’ve done in the past.” Adam patted Robin’s hand. He’d had the Augean stables job given to him and performed it with aplomb. Not something he’d want to do again, though.
Robin pushed his empty plate away, a sign Hamish clearly took to mean his dad was available for making a fuss of him. The Newfoundland bounded over, to be hauled onto Robin’s lap. “I know, I know, breaking house rules, but he’s still a baby.”
“So long as you break him of the habit before he’s fully grown, or you’ll have flat thighs.” Adam watched the pair affectionately. “How’s the crown holding up?”
“I’d forgotten about it. Must be a good sign.” Robin had been having issues with his molar. The first temporary crown he’d been fitted for had barely lasted forty-eight hours, but this replacement seemed like it would last until the permanent one could be installed, first thing on Thursday. “I had a text from Mum this morning, by the way. She’s being rather mysterious. Wants to know if we’d have time to drop in today.”
Adam shrugged. “Don’t see why not. We don’t have much planned for today. Although I bet she only wants to see the boy and spoil him.”
“Yeah. No doubt who’s her favourite from us three.” Robin let Hamish lick his ear. “I’ll say we’ll pop in for a cuppa this afternoon. She says she wants us to do something for her. Bit of family business, although she’s not telling me exactly what.”
“Your aunt Clare hasn’t given Jeff the push and has a new fancy man needing investigating?”
“I’ve no idea. Mum will tell us in her own good time. Maybe she’s found a black sheep lurking among the Brights, the kind of family member nobody mentions. Everyone’s found it safer to ignore their existence in case questions get asked.”
Adam snorted. “You’ve been reading too many books this holiday. They’ve given you strange ideas. She didn’t give you any clues?”
“Not really.” Robin retrieved his phone from the worktop where he’d left it, having to reach round Hamish to do so. “She says: Too complicated to explain by text. Nothing sinister. You could call it a mystery I’d like some advice about clearing up.”
“We’ll definitely go over for an hour or so this afternoon. I’m very curious.”
“We could take this boy for a walk along the old railway line near Mum’s, then grab lunch at the pub. The one that used to be the stationmaster’s house.”
“Didn’t it used to be a dive, as well?” They’d walked past it before, with Campbell: he’d turned his wet nose up at it despite having been a huge fan of hostelries.
“It’s been tarted up, apparently. Mum says it’s dog-friendly too.” Robin addressed the last part to Hamish, who looked bemused. “I could see if I can book a table in the garden.”
“You do that, while I get washed and dressed. It’ll be a nice end to the holiday.”
While he headed for the bathroom, Adam’s thoughts headed off in several directions. He’d heard about people finding an illegitimate child on the family tree, one who’d manifested in the form of a stranger turning up on the doorstep to say, “Halloo. You don’t know me but I’m your half brother.” There’d been a child born out of wedlock in the Matthews’s line, which had only come to light after Adam’s great-aunt had warned his cousin Sally not to go investigating family history as she wouldn’t like what she found. That had, naturally, made her keener than ever to go delving. It had proved a general letdown that the only blot on the family escutcheon had been something that nobody would bat an eyelid at in modern days. Sally had confessed she’d been hoping for a murderer or bigamist at the very least.
Still, they wouldn’t have long to wait to find out what was exercising Mrs. Bright’s brain. And no doubt the answer would come with a healthy slice of cake. They’d have to be on the frugal side at lunch to make room for it.
***
When they got to his mum’s house, not only did Mrs. Bright provide refreshments with their mugs of tea, it was Robin’s favourite boiled fruit cake. Sweet and moist—as sweet and moist as Adam’s lips, he’d once said in a moment of high soppiness—the cake was the perfect crown on a pretty perfect day. The pub garden hadn’t been too busy, their lunch sandwiches had been delicious, and the walk had exhausted Hamish, who was sprawled on the rug, probably dreaming about the squirrels he’d not been allowed to chase.
Once they were settled and the food had been given its due attention, Robin said, “You’ve got us really puzzled with this family business stuff. You’re not about to spring a stepfather or half sister on me, are you?” He was only half-joking, having been going through various scenarios in his mind all day.
Mrs. Bright chuckled. “I’m too old for getting wed again, and if you do have a half sister, I’d be as surprised as you would be. But I have got something strange that’s cropped up, and I need two extra brains and a bit of specialist help to make sense of it. My solicitor’s drawn a blank. I think it’s to do with your dad being adopted.”
Robin cast his husband a puzzled glance. Despite not having known his father-in-law, Adam knew all about the adoption, which had never been kept secret, nor had it seemed a big deal. Robin hadn’t speculated that much about his paternal grandparents, not having felt the need of anyone but the elder Brights in his life. “You’ve lost me already, Mum. Can we start right at the beginning, please?”
“Sorry. I wouldn’t make a very good impression in a witness box. You know your father never made a fuss about his background, not like these folk on the telly who want to know exactly where they came from. Your gran and gramps were his parents, full stop, the end. He just accepted that was how it was.”
Robin nodded, feeling rather choked. His sexuality was one of the things Mr. Bright senior had readily accepted, and he would have made good friends with Adam, no doubt dragging him down the pub to discuss the test match or Robin’s foibles. But his sudden death, from a heart condition he hadn’t known he suffered from, meant that could never happen. “Is this to do with his biological parents?”
“It may be. That’s the only explanation I can think of. Somebody wants to give us some money. You and me. No, Adam, I’m not falling for a scam.” Mrs. Bright broke into a giggly smile, one which took years off her. “It isn’t somebody pretending to be a Christian lady whose pastor husband has left a fortune and who needs my bank account’s help to access it. My solicitor, Mr. Caswell, has done lots of checks and thinks it’s legitimate.”
“Who’s the benefactor, Alison, and how did they get in touch?” The worried note in Adam’s voice and the rare use he’d made of her Christian name showed he was still doubtful, official reassurance notwithstanding.
“Not by email. They wrote air mail, to Mr. Caswell’s firm. Another solicitor—somewhere in the Commonwealth, Mr. C says he’s not allowed to be any more specific about where and his name is Brown, so that’s not too helpful—has been looking for a Mr. David Bright, born on the day your father was. I think they managed to track him down through the obituary we put on the local paper’s website.” She took a sip of tea, or pretended to, as the drink must have been tepid at best. Probably a stalling tactic to allow her to get over memories of Robin’s dad’s sudden death. “Whoever is behind this has clearly done their research, because they followed the trail from the memorial notice to Mr. C. He’s heard on the grapevine they contacted various local firms to try to get a trace on your dad’s family. Mr. C didn’t get in touch with me until he’d done enough of what he calls ‘proper diligence’ to be convinced this was real.”
“But you’re not allowed to know where the money comes from?” Robin asked.
“No, or who sent it. Anonymous bequest. Very Midsomer Murders.” His mum grinned again.
“Don’t you end up as the victim, then.” That was only half a joke, as well. “What do you want us to do?”
“Two things. The first is a big favour.” Mrs. Bright’s fingers twisted round each other. “I hate asking you to do anything that’s work connected, Robin, but do you have—I’m not sure what they call them—forensic lawyers, like the forensic accountants you’ve mentioned?”
“We have people who specialise in fraud and the like. One of them, Henry, probably owes me a good turn, so I’ll get him on the case. Check it’s all kosher.”
“It’s not simply a favour for a family member,” Adam pointed out. “Proactive policing, to prevent a crime. If it’s actually a clever scam, it’s unlikely you’d be the only victim.”
“Absolutely.” Robin’s brow crinkled. “Can you also make sure your solicitor has checked this isn’t linked to money laundering? That’s big business now, and the rules changed not that long ago, so I hope Caswell will be up to speed about what to keep an eye out for. Also get an understanding on your position regarding inheritance tax. You don’t want to be landed with a bill down the line because of Double Taxation treaties.”
“What the hell are they?” Adam asked.
“No idea, but Henry once mentioned them because they helped him to narrow down which country some dodgy money came from.”
“I’ll ask about both of those. Thank you.” Mrs. Bright patted Robin’s hand. “The other thing I need to ask you about is a bit silly. I’ve always wanted to find out about David’s family, but I wouldn’t have done it when he was alive because he was quite determined not to know. This seems an ideal time, because I can’t help feeling that if this inheritance is real, it has to be linked to his birth mother or father. Trouble is, I don’t know where to start and when I browse the internet, it’s bewildering. I’ve asked Clare but she’s been no help. I know you two are rushed off your feet, though.”
“We are but I’m sure we can find time. Maybe if you bribed us by coming over and cooking dinner one night, we could repay you by putting you on the right track. Friday, say?” Robin suggested.
Adam nodded, no doubt keen for another opportunity to sample his mother-in-law’s cooking. “Works for me, especially as that’ll give us time to think. We must know someone who’s into genealogy.”
“It’s not that I’m struggling with.” Mrs. Bright waved her hand so vigorously it dislodged a cushion and woke the pup, who shot her a mortally offended look before going back to sleep. “I know all about places like Ancestry or the other sites where folk put their family trees, but if David was taken off his mother when he was barely a few days old—and he was in the right generation for that to have happened—he may not be listed under the name David, if he’s listed at all.”
“That’s why you need an expert,” Robin said. “I used to work with someone who got bitten by the family history bug but was too fond of shortcuts to do things properly. If he saw a Fred Bloggs, he was sure it had to be his Fred Bloggs. It usually wasn’t.”
“Barking up the wrong family tree, was he?” Mrs. Bright giggled, Robin groaned and Hamish woke again, wearing such a disdainful expression that they all ended up laughing.
Robin could only hope they didn’t fall into the same trap. Family histories could be labyrinthine at the best of times.
***
As they drove home, Adam sat in the back with Hamish to keep the Newfoundland happy. Maybe he’d get forty winks, although Robin would probably want to chat.
“I wonder why it’s taken Mum so long to get round to this if she’s so keen to know the truth,” Robin said, when they were barely fifty yards into the journey.
“Probably she felt it was being disloyal to your dad. This inheritance gives her a legitimate excuse. I’m glad you gave her some jobs to get on with for the next few days.”
“Few weeks, I’d have said.” Robin had suggested his mother start by going up into the loft and going through the papers that had come from his paternal grandparents’ house when they’d gone into sheltered accommodation. They’d had no room to take all their old things but had been reluctant to chuck them away. Unfortunately, she couldn’t draw on their knowledge, as Mr. Bright senior’s memory was no longer reliable and Mrs. Bright senior had gone to her long home. “I wish she’d asked Gran and Gramps about this when they were able to give an answer.”
“I’ve heard that so often. People kick themselves because they didn’t ask Aunty Win about Uncle Fred’s war record, or why nobody mentions Cousin Danny, when they had the chance. You can fish out marriage certificates and the like, but the stories get lost. Oh, behave. Sorry, not you, the boy with the raspy tongue.”
“Dog lick. Delightful.” Robin snorted.
“Have you ever wanted to do what she’s doing? Trace your biological grandparents?”
“Not really.” When they’d started dating seriously, Adam had joked about nicking a sample of hair out of Robin’s comb to do a DNA comparison, in case they were actually cousins and were in a relationship that some folk would find too consanguineous. From then on, the adoption had been merely a fact, like a date of birth, to be aware of but not make a fuss over. “Occasionally I’ve run across a bloke or woman of the right age who bears a familial resemblance to me and wondered if they’re the ones, but I’d never ask them. Anyway, I’d be a bit scared of what I’d find out, and Dad was the same. What if he’d been the offspring of an equivalent of Fred and Rosemary West, which meant he’d been removed at birth primarily to protect him? He’d decided he’d rather not know.”
“We’ll have to hope your mother doesn’t turn up anything like that.” Adam’s voice was light, although he’d no doubt be thinking of the media headlines if it was discovered that Robin was the grandson of a notorious criminal. “However, whatever facts emerge, it’s not your fault or your dad’s. You can’t be held responsible for the sins of your forefathers, irrespective of what they turn out to be.”
“Why are you so sensible?” Robin glanced into the rear-view mirror, caught Adam’s eye, and smiled. “We’ll just have to deal with what comes up, because once Mum’s got an idea, she’ll pursue it to the bitter end. She won’t settle for not knowing.”
“Worse than Hamish when he’s lost a biscuit. Do you remember my great-aunt showing us the Matthews family bible?” Adam asked. “The family tree that seemed like it went back to Noah?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I thought you were taking a surprising interest in all the names. I supposed you were either being polite or so enthralled with me that you hung on my every chromosome. Was it anything to do with the unknown family?”
Robin squinted into the mirror again, shaking his head. “Sorry, no. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I was searching for surnames I might recognise in a work connection. Checking you weren’t first cousin to an Abbotston drug baron.”
“You sneaky bugger.” Adam chuckled. “You’d better watch him, Hamish. He’ll be doing all sorts of background checks on you.”
“There’s no pit bull blood in him, I’m sure of that.” Robin pulled up at some lights, taking the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at his family. “I wish we had another week of holiday.”
“So do I. Hey, the light’s gone green.”
“Oh, heck.” Robin got his attention on the road again, before he got a blast from someone’s horn. “Back to the grindstone tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah. This is usually the point where one of us inadvertently tempts fate and then has to deliberately untempt it. I’m afraid, Hamish, that often leads to some poor sod being found murdered and your other dad spending all the hours God sends at work. And that’s all I’m telling you because you’re not to get involved like your predecessor liked to do.”
“Too right. While you’re at it, can you show Hamish how to keep his paws crossed that nobody decides to commit a serious crime over the next few days?”
“He’ll think that’s a great game.”
Robin left them to it, concentrating on driving. He’d have to ignore the fact that, by the law of averages, his team was probably due another murder.
Adam Matthews's life changed when Inspector Robin Bright walked into his classroom to investigate a murder.
Now it seems like all the television series are right: the leafy villages of England do indeed conceal a hotbed of crime, murder, and intrigue. Lindenshaw is proving the point.
Detective work might be Robin's job, but Adam somehow keeps getting involved—even though being a teacher is hardly the best training for solving crimes. Then again, Campbell, Adam's irrepressible Newfoundland dog, seems to have a nose for figuring things out, so how hard can it be?
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
NEWSLETTER / KOBO / RIPTIDE
EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
And Nothing But the Truth #7
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