A Carriage of Misjustice #5
Summary:Murder doesn't care if you're a newlywed.
Detective Chief Inspector Robin Bright and Deputy Headteacher Adam Matthews have just tied the knot, and all they want to do is sink into blissful domesticity. Unfortunately, there’s no chance of that when a chilling murder at a rugby ground takes Robin miles away to help his old boss solve it.
The mystery seems impossible to crack. Everyone with a motive has an alibi, and those without alibis don’t have a motive. Robin’s determined that this won’t be the case he’s unable to unravel. Not when he’s got his old boss to impress and a new team to lick into shape.
Back at home, Adam joins a fundraising choir to keep himself occupied. Surely a case that’s so far away won’t draw him in this time? Fate has other ideas, though, and danger turns up—quite literally—on his doorstep. He’ll need Campbell the Newfoundland for both company and protection this time around.
Lock, Stock, and Peril #6
Summary:They may be locked down but this case isn’t.
Lockdown is stressful enough for Chief Inspector Robin Bright. Then a murder makes this strange time even stranger. In one of Kinechester’s most upmarket areas, the body of Ellen, a brilliant but enigmatic recluse, has lain undiscovered for days. Pinning down the time—and date—of death will be difficult, but finding a killer during unprecedented times could prove impossible.
Adam Matthew’s focus on his pupils is shaken when a teaching assistant reveals his godmother has been murdered. Keen to avoid involvement, Adam does his best to maintain a distance from his husband, Robin’s, case, but when it keeps creeping up, Adam lends his incisive mind to the clues again.
Between Robin trying to understand the complex victim and picking his way through a mess of facts, half truths, and downright lies from witnesses desperate to cover up their own rule-breaking, he realises this could be the cold case that stains his career and forever haunts a community. And when it looks like the virus has struck Adam, Robin’s torn between duty and love.
A Carriage of Misjustice #5
Original Review June 2021:
It has been over a year since A Carriage of Misjustice was released and I'm sorry to say I just got around to reading it. 2020 really screwed with my reading mojo and 2021 hasn't fared much better but I do appear to possibly be coming out of the haze. Now, I'm the first one to admit, Robin, Adam, and the Lindenshaw Mysteries may not quite reach the level of "OMG!" that the author's Cambridge Fellows Mysteries does but it's a pretty close second. This newest installment is no less brilliant than the previous entries in the series.
Robin and Adam are still just as amazing together, even though truth be told their togetherness is less as Robin is called to take over the lead in a case in another town. Don't think that means Adam doesn't find a way(or perhaps more accurately the way finds him) to be on the fringes at least of his husband's latest case. Whether physically together or not, these newlyweds are just as fun as they've always been. Campbell the dog seems to enjoy his new role as protector now that his other dad is away, even joining in on choir practice occasionally😉.
As for the case, well you know I won't divulge anything here but I will mention how some might think the mystery is a bit overloaded on the suspect list but I like it that way. Sure some might call it convoluted at times with so many suspects but you know what? That just kept me on my toes more and kind of put me more into the story right along with Robin and his fellow coppers trying to weave their way around all the leads. Simply put: sometimes less can be more but this time more is perfect.
Charlie Cochrane has once again proven to me that UK mysteries in all forms are just a little more entertaining with the well balanced levels of mayhem, drama, AND humor. Brilliant on every page. Can't wait to see what shenanigans show up on Robin and Adams' doorstep next.
Original Review August Book of the Month 2022:
Once again we find the cop and teacher duo of Robin and Adam in the middle of yet another crime, this time in the middle of pandemic restrictions. And you know what? Once again Charlie Cochrane has proven she is a queen of mystery that puts her right up there with Agatha Christie, Caroline Graham, and PD James(to list a few) in my opinion.
What makes me say that? Her talent to weave a mystery with drama, humor, romance, and of course an incredible cast of characters that makes it nearly impossible to guess who did it right up to the reveal. Some may not like having so many possibilities, I'll admit it can be hard to always keep each potential suspect straight but for me that can actually get my adrenaline pumping even more.
As for the particulars of Lock, Stock, and Peril?. I think most of you know what's coming: I refuse to put out any spoilers and as this newest entry in the author's Lindenshaw Mysteries series is in fact a mystery with a laundry list of whos, whats, and whys every little snippet can possibly spoil the reveal. So for the 3 W's I won't say anything. What I will say is that Robin and Adam are more in love and more in sync with each installment and their contribution to the romance tag of the story is a lovely balance of "aren't they just adorably sweet" and "thank goodness their couple time doesn't overshadow the crime solving".
And once again, Adam may not go looking for ways to insert himself into his husband's case but those ways just have a habit of finding him. I love how the author handles that insertion: helpful but not sneaking around trying to assist in secret and eventually causing more chaos the husband has to get him out of. And of course, their beloved furbaby, Campbell the Newfoundland offers his ever loving and undying support.
I want to mention one thing about Lock, Stock, and Peril: Robin and Adam are dealing with the latest case in the midst of Covid. Personally, I think the author handled it beautifully. Lockdown barriers that can throw more than one monkey wrench into their case but it just adds another level of realism to the story, as does a personal infection risk for the couple. I'm pointing this out because I know some who have clearly stated that they just aren't ready to read about Covid in fiction yet, it's too real, it's too current, it's too fresh in their minds. I understand that and respect that but for me when the author handles is so well as Charlie Cochrane has I not only welcomed it's inclusion but enjoyed it, kind of gave me a new respect for what law enforcement has dealt with the past two years.
I've said this before and I'm sure I'll say it many times in the future so I might as well say it again here too. As much as I enjoy a good American mystery, there is just something extra special about a British mystery, both in print and on the screen. One of my absolute favorite mystery series is Midsomer Murders(and the author even mentions the show in passing later in the book-a lovely Easter Egg find for me) and Robin and Adam have reminded me of that show from the very beginning. As I say that, I don't mean the author has copied the formula or anything but the adrenaline rush I get from reading this series is the same I get from watching Midsomer. I love the whole concept of seemingly throw away comments or "minor" characters(good or bad) that can actually completely turn the case on it's axel.
I got a little wordy in this review(it happens when I get talking about my passion for reading) so I'll say it simply: Lock, Stock, and Peril is a jigsaw for the mind, some parts are easy to put together and others may stump you for a bit and then you finally find that one piece that makes it all fit. Likeable(and some not so likeable but love to hate) characters, amazing plot, well balanced humor, drama, and romance for an altogether brilliant storytelling experience.
A Carriage of Misjustice #5
Chapter 1
Adam Matthews turned his left hand so that his ring caught the light. It was an elegant piece of metalwork, Welsh gold in a chunky, slightly squared-off design, exactly the same as the ring on Robin Bright’s hand. They’d not deliberately chosen an identical pattern for romantic reasons: that was simply how it had worked out. They’d both studied the jeweller’s brochure, both written a list of three favourite choices in order of preference, put the lists into sealed envelopes . . . and opened them to find they’d picked the same one in pole position, with remarkably similar ones in second and third place.
Great minds think alike and all that.
“Are you still admiring your wedding ring?” Robin said, from over the other side of the lounge, where he and Campbell the Newfoundland were having some bonding time. Nothing better than watching the Sunday lunchtime game on the telly, especially when it featured Liverpool against Spurs. Campbell in particular seemed besotted with Harry Kane.
“I’ll never stop admiring it. Even the kids in my class think it’s cool, and they’re hard to please.” Adam took another glance at the ring, then picked up the Sunday paper to flick through the sports pages. He wasn’t really reading, though—it was more of a prop to cover the inane grin that was about to break out all over his face and for which Robin would take the micky out of him. A grin he couldn’t help producing every time he thought about it. The fact that they’d gone and tied the knot at last.
What a day it had been: a small civil ceremony out at a local upmarket pub, the Sporting Chance, with only close family and friends, their mothers wearing enormous hats and looking stunning. But the star of the day had been Campbell, outdoing everyone in terms of style with a white bow tie around his neck and stealing the show as he trotted up the aisle with the rings in a bag—waterproof to avoid the slobber—in his canine jaws. He’d dropped them at Adam’s feet, then returned to sit on a blanket at the back of the room with nonchalant ease, as though this were the sort of thing he did every day. His presence had proved to be a bonus, because when the guests were fussing over the dog, they’d been leaving the groom and groom in peace.
The newlyweds hadn’t gone off on honeymoon, given that Adam couldn’t have got away during term time, so they were saving their leave for a proper holiday later in the year. So just a celebration that weekend, then straight back to school for Adam and the nick for Robin, on Monday morning.
That had caused comment at both workplaces—as had the fact they’d opted for a small, restrained ceremony rather than the big lavish do some people had expected. They’d made it clear that they’d been making a stand against the commercialisation of weddings, believing that so long as there was a ceremony, a photographer, a good meal, and a bit of a knees-up, all boxes had been ticked. Anybody who’d suggested they were being tight wads had got subtly reminded that they’d made sizeable charity donations in the names of those who hadn’t been invited.
Now, they’d been an officially linked couple for all of a week and the sensation still felt as shiny and new as it had the previous weekend.
“I could do with a few weeks to recover from all the excitement. Wha-at?” Robin paused, frowning. “Why are you making that stop it gesture? What’s the problem?”
“Don’t say anything about time to recover. Don’t tempt fate into arranging a surprise Ofsted inspection for me or a cold-case murder that rears its head again and means weeks of you working all hours God sends.” Adam touched the wooden table. He wasn’t really superstitious, but sometimes you were trying to appease your own conscience as much as some nebulous source of fortune, good or bad. Like wearing lucky socks to play sport: your brain tells you it made no difference but your heart won’t believe it.
“Okay. Do you want me to wish that a horrible case drops in my lap on the principle that it’ll ensure life’s nice and quiet?”
Adam grinned. “Don’t say anything. Put your mind to whether we want to have a religious ceremony to go with the civil one.”
“That’s trickier than solving a murder case.”
Both were regular if occasional churchgoers, and both would say they had a degree of faith, although they didn’t make a big thing of it. And both appreciated that only certain parts of the Christian communion wouldn’t turn their noses up at the union between two people of the same gender.
“Would Neil do us a blessing, do you think?” The vicar was pretty broad-minded and he’d never shown any disapproval towards Robin or Adam.
“Privately, maybe. If we asked for something small—smaller than even the wedding was—and maybe not in the church itself. I don’t think he’s got a problem with homosexuals but there are a few folk on the PCC who’d throw their toys out of their prams if they knew we were standing in front of the altar at St. Crispin’s making vows in the presence of God.”
“And the fear of the congregation?” Robin said, which was an old joke if still a relevant one even now.
“Some of them, but that’s inevitable. You know who I’m thinking of.” Like any parish, Lindenshaw had its share of people who would prefer it if there were no women priests, the only prayer book used was the one published in 1662, and everyone lived by the parts of the Levitican law that didn’t apply to them but stopped everyone else having fun. “I remember a few folk getting the hump on when Neil first arrived here and made them share the peace at the ten o’clock communion. They couldn’t have been more outraged if he’d taken the service in drag.”
Robin made the kind of face he produced when he had to clear up after Campbell had relieved himself in the garden. “Sounds like they’re due to be outraged again, then. Shall we make an appointment to see Neil?”
“Works for me. Although he probably can’t do anything till late spring. Lent coming up, and I’ve a feeling the church doesn’t do weddings then. I guess a blessing would come under that umbrella.”
“Our mothers would welcome deferring the event for a while. It would mean they can get new summer hats to go with the winter ones they wore last weekend.” The local milliner must have made a small fortune out of the Matthews and Bright womenfolk.
“Right. Before we start planning any of that, we have work to do this afternoon. Our good deed for the day.”
“So we have.”
The cottage three doors down was owned by a fiercely independent lady in her seventies, whom they’d told that if she ever needed anything done round the house or garden that didn’t need technical skill, just a touch of brawn, she shouldn’t hesitate to call on them. It would have to be serious for her to call in that offer, and the loss of three fence panels in a storm two days previously came into that category. They’d take Campbell—Mrs. Haig doted on him—and the pair could supervise Adam and Robin while they repaired the old panels and shifted them back into place. The fact that Mrs. Haig’s boiled fruit cake was legendary turned an act of kindness into a positive pleasure.
They got into their working clothes and set off.
An hour, a cup of tea, and a large slab of cake later, the old panels were out and the new ones ready to be installed.
“You’re doing a grand job, there,” Mrs. Haig said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“It’s a pleasure. Better than marking books or catching criminals.” Adam gave his husband a wink. “Neither of us take enough exercise.”
“I used to watch you running with Campbell.” She scratched the dog’s ear. “I suppose you’re too busy for that these days.”
“You’re right. We tend to take him for a walk together, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Robin replied. “It makes sure we spend time together too.” They had no need to hide their relationship from their hostess. Her brother was gay, a stalwart of musical chorus lines in London.
“You could join the church choir,” she suggested. “They always need tenors.”
“I’d love to, but I’d always be ringing Martin up to say I couldn’t make the practices. Armed robbery to sort out or whatever.”
Adam hid his grin in his teacup. The choirmaster fancied Robin and barely hid it.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Mrs. Haig frowned. “You work too hard, the pair of you. And here’s me eating into your weekend.”
Adam shook his head. “This isn’t work, it’s play.” And the sight of Robin in an old T-shirt, muscles rippling and working up a sweat was a sight to enjoy. Adam gave him an affectionate glance, which was immediately returned.
“These panels won’t install themselves,” Robin said hastily, perhaps with half a mind on some less strenuous but highly enjoyable activity that could go on later, assuming they weren’t too tired.
An hour later, they were home, tired but happy. Adam cleaned himself up while Robin brushed residual crumbs off the dog, then he could head into the shower while Adam had a well-earned sit-down. As he was getting dressed, Adam thought he heard Robin talking on the phone. Please God it was only Mrs. Bright touching base rather than work calling the bloke in. The fact that Robin wasn’t leaping up the stairs apologising and changing out of his old clothes so he could report for duty had to be a good sign, surely?
“What’s up?” Adam called over the banister, heart sinking when Robin entered the hallway. “Anyone would think you’d lost a tenner and found five pence.”
“Not quite. Not an ideal situation, though.” Robin weighed the phone in his hand like it was a piece of ordnance he’d like to chuck as far away as possible.
“That’s what Brits say when it’s the end of the world.”
Robin grinned. “It’s not as bad as that. I have to go off on secondment, as of tomorrow. Hopefully it’ll be a short one, but you can’t tell with murder. Or with peritonitis.”
Adam made a that’s gone right over my head gesture. “I’m sure that’s supposed to make sense, but you’ve lost me. Secondment to where?”
“Hartwood. It’s a town between Oxford and Birmingham, east of the M40. There was a murder there about ten days ago. Don’t know if you saw the story—bloke found dead in the loos at a rugby club.”
“I was a bit preoccupied last week, if you remember, but yes, I did see the story on the BBC site. Why can’t the local police handle it? Test Valley or East Midlands or whoever covers the area?”
“That’s a long story. Can I come and clean myself up and then I’ll tell you everything?”
“Might be an idea. You’re slightly fragrant.” Adam forced a smile. Going on a secondment? They really shouldn’t have tempted fate.
While Robin showered, Adam pottered about in the kitchen. He always found that a calming place, somewhere he could think clearly. No doubt that was associated with the house having originally been owned by his grandparents: many happy hours he’d spent there as a child, helping his granny to make the Christmas pudding on stir-up Sunday or learning firsthand the way to make a perfect Yorkshire pudding.
As he transferred from fridge to oven a defrosted casserole—courtesy of their domestic help, Sandra, who’d insisted on stocking the freezer when they’d been knee-deep in wedding preparations—Adam cast his mind back to the news story, but nothing much had registered about it. Still, it was easy enough to refresh his memory by researching the story on his phone. By the time he’d followed a few links, he’d built up a reasonable picture. Hartwood Wasps Rugby Club had used to be exclusively for gay and bi guys, but had decided to welcome everyone, initially because they’d had a bit of a crisis in terms of player numbers. They’d been so successful that they’d carried on with the strategy and were now heading up the leagues, making a tongue-in-cheek thing about their equality policy ensuring that straight players didn’t get given a hard time.
The Wednesday before last, a bloke called Nick Osment had been found dead in the changing room in the clubhouse, and so far the police had shown no signs of making an arrest. Plenty of appeals for help, though, and some noncommittal statements about following a number of leads.
Had they hit a brick wall so early in the investigation and needed a fresh pair of eyes? Robin had built up his experience of murder cases over the last few years, and he’d been a hundred percent successful on leading his team to finding the culprit, but surely he wasn’t the most experienced officer they could call on if a case had stalled? Or was there another reason, given the history of the club, that the local force had picked on this particular officer?
“This secondment,” Adam asked, as soon as Robin appeared, “they’ve not called you in because you’re gay? Rainbow rugby and all that.”
Robin shrugged. “On the surface, no. They needed to call somebody in, though—right bloody mess up at the local station—and I used to work with the detective superintendent there when I was a snotty sergeant and she was my inspector. Rukshana Betteridge. I’ve mentioned her.”
“You have.” They’d also discussed the fact that some people muttered behind her back that she’d only been fast-tracked because she was a woman, and mixed race to boot, but Robin wasn’t having that. She was simply a better copper than most of the blokes she worked alongside, and he’d learned a hell of a lot from her. “I particularly remember a story about you, her, and the nuclear-strength chicken vindaloo. Three hours on and off the loo, was it?”
“I was hoping you’d have forgotten that.” Robin gave Campbell a pat. “Your dads can’t get away with any misdemeanours, can they? Cowdrey rang me, and he says Detective Superintendent Betteridge—I’ll never be able to call her Rukshana to her face—got in touch and pleaded to have me help out. I’m hoping it’s my skills as a copper and my track record with solving murders that was the key thing, rather than who I bed.”
Adam nodded. He’d already got out and opened a couple of bottles of beer: Robin looked as though he could do with one. “So, what’s this right bloody mess you’ve got lumped with sorting out?”
“The detective inspector who reports to her, Robertson. His appendix went haywire back end of last week, and he’s developed peritonitis on top of appendicitis. They’ve operated successfully, but he won’t return to work anytime soon, no matter how much he wants to be. This bloke was running the investigation, and there’s nobody local to take his place. Even his sergeant’s been working nonstop on an abuse case.”
“Bloody mess is no exaggeration, then.”
“Yep.” Robin scratched Campbell’s head distractedly. “Cowdrey says it’ll be great for my career, but he also understands it won’t be easy, hard on the heels of last weekend.”
“I should have applied to the school for unpaid leave. We could have headed off to the back of beyond, in which case they couldn’t have got hold of us.” Adam put his arm around Robin’s shoulders and held him close. “It’ll work. We’ll make it work.”
Robin nuzzled into Adam’s chest. “Yeah, I know. I really wish I didn’t have to, but Betteridge was a good friend to me, and I feel I owe her. And there’s some poor dead sod who deserves justice.”
“Don’t apologise. Just catch the bloody killer quickly so you can get back here. This is not the sort of honeymoon I imagined having.” Adam chuckled, gave him a kiss, then had to pretend to give Campbell one too, as the dog was clearly feeling left out.
“I could tell Cowdrey to stick it. Politely, of course, because I’m neither that brave nor that stupid. He told me to take an hour to think it over.” Robin glanced at his watch. “I’ve still time to decide.”
“Hey, I was only kidding about the honeymoon. You go. It’s not like I’m some blushing bride and we only had our first night together once you’d put a ring on it. As far as I’m concerned, the honeymoon started ages ago and it’s never stopped.” Adam gave him a lingering kiss. “It would be worse if I’d fallen for a soldier.”
“You soft bugger. I’ll get onto Cowdrey right now, and put him out of his misery. He’ll be grateful, as will Betteridge.”
“Anything I can do to help, let me know. When does he want you to travel?”
“Tomorrow, preferably.” Robin grimaced. “I’m glad Sandra got all the washing and ironing up-to-date. I need to get rummaging in the airing cupboard and get a suitcase packed. There are other phone calls I should make too.”
“Make one to your mum and another to Pru. Subcontract all other communication to them.” Mrs. Bright and Robin’s favourite sergeant would be able to handle any task set. In fact, the maternal information network would ensure the news would be halfway across the county within thirty minutes of Mrs. Bright being told. Adam wondered if she stood on her roof using semaphore flags or an Aldis lamp, depending on the time of day.
“The first would work, but Pru’s likely to be too busy. Cowdrey said he’d like her to go with me. DS Betteridge wants me to have an officer I’m used to working with on my team, and it’ll be good experience for her.” Robin was clearly warming to the positive aspects of this assignment. “I’m sure that if I give young Ben a call instead, he can pass on the news to the team. He always hints he wants extra responsibility.”
“Will you still be calling him young Ben in twenty years' time, when he’s in his forties and losing his hair?” Adam snorted. “Maybe then he’ll regard you like you regard Betteridge.”
“If he does, I’ll be pleased.” Robin returned the kiss, grabbed his phone, and went to call Cowdrey.
The casserole wouldn’t be ready for a while, so Adam nipped upstairs to get Robin’s clothes out of the airing cupboard; he laid them out on the bed, trying to be helpful and also gathering his thoughts.
It had to be a good opportunity for both Robin and Pru in terms of career development. Showing their willingness to help out even if it meant personal inconvenience, the chance of working with a new team and a new area, and maybe learning things they could bring back and apply in Abbotston. Adam felt a swell of pride at the confidence Robin’s old boss clearly felt in her protégé, whatever other considerations might have come into play. Adam wasn’t going to get sidetracked into thinking about whether this might herald a move to Hartwood itself, with Betteridge taking Robin back under her wing in a police variation on the January football transfer window. Robin would certainly enjoy working with her again. He’d never expressed anything but praise for her and the way she’d fought her corner firmly but politely at so many turns.
Adam would have loved to have been a fly on the wall the day when she’d charmingly pulled up a young sergeant who’d referred to her having had an attack of feminine intuition with the words, “If a bloke made a leap of reasoning like that, you’d call it a hunch, so that’s what we’ll call it in my case, eh?”
Heavy pawsteps on the stairs, accompanied by snuffling, heralded the arrival of Campbell, who wasn’t usually allowed upstairs except on special occasions, of which this had to be one.
“Come to make sure I’m laying out everything your other dad needs? He doesn’t want that, thank you.” Adam wrested a small stuffed toy—albeit not horribly slobbery—out of the Newfoundland’s jaws. “I’ll get him to FaceTime you every day so you’ll know he’s safe.”
What would his colleagues say if they saw him having an earnest conversation with a dog? The children wouldn’t bat an eyelid, naturally. They’d understand such things were important.
“We’ll both miss him, only don’t let on too much, eh? I don’t want him giving up the chance simply to stop us being upset.”
Campbell glanced up, big brown eyes full of what might be interpreted as understanding, then nuzzled his nose into Adam’s hand. It was going to be just the two of them again for the next few weeks, and they’d need to take care of each other. Although there was a plus side to the situation: the murder having taken place so far away, the investigation of it really couldn’t draw him or Campbell in this time. Could it?
Adam stretched over to touch the wooden bedside table, aware they’d tempted fate already that afternoon.
Lock, Stock, and Peril #6
Chapter One
“No murders allowed, right?”
Robin Bright glanced up from doom-scrolling the news to view the pleasing sight of his husband, Adam Matthews, who’d broken the silence. Hair tousled from where he’d been snuggled up on the sofa having forty winks—with Campbell their Newfoundland providing a useful blanket for his feet—Adam gave the impression of only being half-awake. Perhaps he’d not known what he was saying, still partly in a dream world.
“Eh? No murders allowed when?” Robin asked.
“Now. Anytime, really. I was saying that if we do get away for a holiday this summer, we don’t want it being spoiled by you getting called in to a murder case three days before we go.” Adam grinned, in a way that could still turn Robin’s knees to water. “You weren’t listening, were you?”
Robin held up his phone. “Exhibit A. I was trying to keep abreast of the news. If it’s possible to keep abreast of it.”
What a year 2020 had been, and the start of 2021 wasn’t shaping up that great, either. Some activities that had been allowable the previous January were now—in his opinion quite rightly—an offence, and the patterns of crimes had changed. One thing hadn’t altered, although it had been emphasized: you were most at risk from those people you knew, friends and family, rather than a homicidal stranger.
“Keeping abreast? We believe him, don’t we, boy?” Adam patted the dog’s head, getting a yawn in response.
“Pfft. Tell you what, I’ll get in contact with all the villains on the patch to ask them to keep their hands to themselves when it’s coming up to the school holidays. Maybe a leaflet drop round all the houses would work for the ones who aren’t on the radar yet.” If only such a thing were possible and, if possible, effective. During every run up to an important family event, like a holiday or their wedding, Robin found himself worrying whether mayhem would break out in Abbotston or any of the local towns. As a result of which, all leave would get cancelled until the culprits were safely locked up.
“We’ll help you distribute them.” Adam patted the dog again. “I keep thinking that it’s been a while since you’ve had a complicated murder case to deal with and that our luck can’t keep going forever.”
“You’re tempting fate.” The last such occasion Robin had dealt with had been off their patch, when he’d been called in by his old boss to cover a team that was short-handed. This part of the world rarely saw killings that weren’t easily solved. All in line with his proven belief that you were most likely to be hurt by your nearest and dearest. “May I remind you what has a habit of happening when one of us says something like that?”
“Don’t remind me. You’re too good an officer, so I keep worrying that you’ll get whisked away to the other end of the country because the local police can’t cope or have all come down with it. Maybe when you’re handing out these flyers, can you print on them that any crimes that happen have to be within a thirty-mile radius?”
“Shall I start a blog and put my diary on it so the crooks know when they have to behave themselves? Maybe you want to put in a time frame where it would be acceptable for them to commit crimes?” Did other coppers have this kind of conversation with their partners or did his and Adam’s quirky sense of humour mean they were unique?
“That’s a great idea. Not sure your chief constable would approve, though. Campbell’s giving me a look of disapproval. Very law-abiding, this dog.” Adam tickled the Newfoundland behind his ear. “Is it wicked to hope that if you do have a major case to deal with soon, then it happens during this lockdown period, where it can’t get in the way of anything else?”
Not wicked so much as pragmatic. However . . . Robin addressed the dog. “Campbell, is your other dad hinting that he’s likely to get fed up of having me under his feet again?”
The question didn’t need a reply: banter like that had eased them through the previous lockdowns and any other occasions where they’d had no other company but their own. Being lovey-dovey all the time, with no jibes or jokes at your partner’s expense wasn’t in their repertoire.
The Newfoundland slipped away from his comfy perch on Adam’s legs, crossed the room, and rubbed his head against Robin’s hand, wagging his tail contentedly.
“He must have heard the magic word lockdown.” Adam shook his head. “Clearly looking forward to weeks of people being confined to barracks again. He loves it.”
Campbell had never been so fit and healthy as over the past year. They’d walked miles with him, singly or together, and when they’d been able to form a bubble with Adam’s mum, she’d volunteered to take him out. Ostensibly, this was so the lads could have a break from doggy parental duties and get on with the odds and ends they needed to do on their new home in Cranshaw, but Adam was in little doubt that it was really about being able to spoil the dog rotten. He also suspected the dog formed a useful excuse for her to stop and chat to people, getting the sort of contact that was proving difficult otherwise. Everybody wanted to ask about such a handsome hound, despite the fact they couldn’t get close enough to be favoured with his slobbery chops in their hands.
To bubble or not had caused some of their colleagues a lot of angst, but Adam and Robin had escaped lightly on that front. Despite Robin’s mum being widowed, they hadn’t needed to feel guilty about not choosing her, given that she’d already formed a bubble of her own with his aunt Clare. A more formidable duo than those two women was unimaginable; woe betide anyone who didn’t wear a mask or keep their distance when they got on the case. The government had no doubt missed a trick by not employing an army of retired women to make sure that everyone was obeying the rules.
Aunt Clare had a flat over at King’s Ashley, which reminded Robin . . . “Have you had any further thoughts about that headship at King’s Ashley Primary?”
“Yes. And no, I don’t think I’ll go for it.” Adam was still on the young side for taking over a school, and he reckoned the one he’d seen advertised there was going to be a poisoned chalice. It had gone through four headteachers in ten years, a stuck school that needed a big kick up the backside: anybody taking that over would either make their name as the genius who turned it round or be listed as yet another failure.
“I think that’s the right answer.” Robin hadn’t wanted to force the issue, given that he believed Adam would make a bloody great headteacher, even in such a challenging situation, and the school concerned was within easy travelling distance of their new home. But it hadn’t felt right, for whatever reason. Maybe his copper’s brain had filed away something he’d heard or read about the place, perhaps from Aunt Clare herself, which had left a definite don’t touch this with a bargepole impression.
“Oh, really? Is that why you’ve been so noticeably neutral about it?” Adam knew him too well. “Anything you want to share? A murderer on the board?”
“Nothing so concrete. If there had been, I’d have told you. Just a feeling that I’ve come across the place in the past, like the feeling I had about Aunt Clare’s Jeff.”
“That sounds ominous, given what your rozzer’s nose turned up then.”
Jeff had come on the scene the previous summer, his name ringing a worrying bell. It turned out he’d been a suspect in a peculiar burglary case back when Robin was a constable, and the months before Christmas had seen Abbotston’s finest—both Robin and his exceptionally efficient sergeant, Pru Davis—solving the cold case and clearing Jeff of suspicion in the process. Satisfying all round and further evidence that if Robin’s instinct was that something was worth investigating, it should be done.
“You know what’ll happen now, don’t you?” Adam continued. “You’ll get a case come up at King’s Ashley, and it’ll turn out to be centred on the school. Some ex-colleague of mine who’s the prime suspect, and I’ll have to sweet-talk him into giving me the golden nugget of a clue.”
Robin rubbed Campbell’s ears. “Tell your other dad that I don’t deliberately set it up for him to be involved in my cases. They seem to want to draw him in.” Too often to be healthy. “He shouldn’t have so many useful connections.”
“All my useful connections have dwindled to a handful of people with whom I have the occasional Zoom chat. Most of which end up being extremely awkward.” Adam stretched out his arms, yawned, then snuggled down.
“Are you having another nap?”
“No. I’m assuming my thinking position. Those Zoom chats had me wondering whether you can murder somebody over the internet. It’s been tempting at times.”
“Sounds like perfect fodder for one of these noir television series. From Norway or somewhere else on the Baltic.” Interesting concept, though. The internet had proved a breeding ground for old crimes in new variants—a con artist’s paradise—but Robin had yet to see that taken to its ultimate variation. Except in the hideous case of people being egged into taking their own lives. “Perhaps you should use the new lockdown to start writing a murder mystery. You have plenty of ideas.”
“I have my own tame technical advisor too.” Adam shook his head. “Nah. I know too much about what cases are really like to put down a made-up version. Too mundane, no good cop, bad cop anymore, not as much reliance on forensics as the fictional varieties portray. I could write a light-hearted version, though. A super-intelligent Newfoundland who solves mysteries that leave his owners—a sassy detective and a super-sexy teacher—totally baffled. Campbell the Clever Canine. Dougal the Dog Detective.”
“Hamilton the Holmesian Hound. Write it. You’ll make a fortune.”
Adam gave a contemptuous snort. “Oh yes? In what world do the majority of writers make a fortune? I used to know one through Lindenshaw church, and he always told people who wanted to write a book not to plan on giving up the day job.”
“See, you have all the connections. If I end up with a murder case that needs specialist publishing input, I know who to come to.”
Adam had provided specialist educational input in the past, along with tales of what it was like serving on a jury. Linking up with old pals, snitching on choir colleagues—Adam’s input to solving cases had gone above and beyond on occasions, including the time he’d joined an archaeology club simply to get Robin the information he needed. The bloke was a diamond.
Robin’s mobile rang, jolting him out his thoughts, bringing the unpleasant suspicion that they’d tempted fate again and this was indeed the station calling him in for a case that would interrupt the normal running of the Matthews-Bright household.
He suspected wrongly. It was work related but nothing worse than his ex-sergeant, Stuart Anderson, picking his brains about a series of armed robberies he was investigating. Now based at Hartwood, some two hours’ drive north, he still sought help from his old and—he professed—favourite boss.
“How’s he doing on his new patch?” Adam asked, when the call ended.
“He sounds happier than ever. Taken to Hartwood and environs like a duck to water, loving fatherhood, and full of praise for Rukshana Betteridge.” If Anderson had a soft spot for Robin, the man himself had a softer one for his former superior officer, the woman who had helped form the policeman he’d become.
“She’d have been happier if you’d relocated up there, but I guess she’ll find him a chip off the old block. As long as she doesn’t have to live with him—I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.” They’d accommodated Anderson temporarily when he’d had a domestic falling out, and it wasn’t an experience they’d hurry to repeat. “I was sure that phone call was the duty officer wanting you to come in and deal with some incident or other. It usually happens when we’ve been talking about it. Perhaps we should ban the subject.”
“Like we’ve banned Covid clichés? What would there be left to talk about?” A cushion striking Robin’s head showed what Adam thought of that.
*****
By the time January was nearing its end, the dreaded major case still hadn’t reared its ugly head. Irrespective of them tempting fate. Adam had settled into his new work routine and had started to keep an eye on the primary headships that were being advertised. There were still vacancies around, in this county and over the border into Hampshire, so all he’d need was one within a reasonable travelling distance of their home. If the right one came up, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a whirl, despite his not having many years as a deputy under his belt. Good interview practice if he got short-listed, if nothing else, and his experiences when they’d recruited a new headteacher at Lindenshaw would help. Poacher turned gamekeeper and all that. His existing boss, Jim Rashford, would give him a glowing reference, despite the fact he’d told Adam he didn’t want to lose him and would do everything he could to give him further responsibility and wider experience while still retaining his services.
They’d had a conversation that very Thursday morning about whether an acting headship for a term might be a good way to tick all the boxes. And if it was within the Culdover cluster of schools, Rashford would still have Adam’s brains available to pick. The headteacher had promised he’d get on to the county education department to register Adam’s interest, as they were always desperate for good people they could parachute into empty seats. Quite a pleasant prospect to consider as Adam drove home, ready for an evening of cottage pie and football on the telly with the two people he loved most in the world.
Robin’s car wasn’t there when Adam got home, which wasn’t unusual, given that the bloke didn’t necessarily keep regular hours, but seeing his usual parking space empty produced a hollow feeling in Adam’s stomach. Maybe Robin’s copper’s nose had rubbed off on him, and now he was sniffing something wrong. He pulled out his phone, saw that he’d forgotten to put the sound back on, so had missed Robin messaging him half an hour earlier. Adam decided to go into the house before he read the message. He could pretend it was because Campbell would have heard the car and would be straining to make a fuss over him or be made a fuss of; however, the truth was that he was a touch scared that this would be notification of another case. Worse still, a case that would take Robin halfway across the country again.
Adam got out of his coat, put down the stuff he’d brought home, fussed over the dog, and then gave himself a talking to. Fine bloody headteacher he’d make, not being able to read a text in case it carried bad news. He swallowed hard.
I’ll be late home. Have tea without me. We’ve got word of a murder in Kinechester. Not really our patch but guess what—bloody Covid has hit the team there so we’re taking over the case. I’ll tell you about it when I do get home.
Kinechester? That was a relief. The main county town—technically a city because of the cathedral, though neither of them were that large—was within easy travelling distance of their house, so Robin wouldn’t need to stay away. There’d been nothing about the murder on the local radio news, however, and when Adam checked the BBC site on his phone, the story only appeared as a report of a police incident in the Ramparts ward of the city.
Kinechester was an odd place. As the name suggested, it had been founded by the Romans, although the large Iron Age hill fort a couple of miles south of the city indicated the area had been occupied long before the legions came stomping in. The city centre still based itself on the great east-west and north-south roads, although very little of the original walls and gates now remained.
“Your average Roman would have recognised what’s for sale in the local shops,” Adam told Campbell, who seemed incredibly interested in his history lesson. Perhaps he was thinking of food, although olive oil, spelt flour, fish sauce and Italian wine were hardly his cup of tea. “A deli-worshipper’s paradise. You’d have had to develop a taste for falafels if we’d moved there.” The phone ringing interrupted their mutual love fest. “Hi, Mum. How’s life?”
“Busy busy. You wait until you’re retired. Never a moment to call my own, lockdown or not. What’s this I heard on the traffic news about avoiding the Ramparts because of a police incident? Houses prices there are so astronomical you wouldn’t have thought they’d have such things.”
“Now, why do you think I’d know what this is about?” Adam chuckled. “Or that I’d tell you if I did. Anyway, Kinechester has its rough areas. One of my pupils used to live on the council estate there, although his parents had plenty to say about the prices in the cafés. Arm and a leg for a coffee near the Ramparts. Poshest of the postcodes.”
It was an area of Victorian and Edwardian housing taking its name from a much-used, much-loved and much-envied open space that was riddled with humps and bumps. At some point in the past—allegedly during the civil war although nobody was quite sure—earthworks had been set up there and cannon stationed behind them to protect the city.
“It’s as well you didn’t move there, then.”
“Exactly.” Adam and Robin had strolled around the area in the run-up to the Christmas before last, when Robin had recently completed investigating a gruelling assault case and needed some fresh air. Somewhere far away from anywhere he’d visited for work. “Nice place to visit, especially the Christmas market and the restaurants, but beyond our means.” That had put paid to any idea they’d entertained of moving to the area. “Anyway, your maternal telepathy is spot on. Robin’s got the investigation, and that’s all I’m saying.”
“Isn’t that off his patch?”
Adam snorted, always amused when his mum broke into police slang. “It’s the bloody ‘rona.’ Hit the local team so he’s got to cover for them.” A sudden silence down the line. “Hello? Are you still there?”
“Sorry, dear. I was thinking about Robin. Kinechester’s a Covid hotspot, you know. Numbers off the scale. I . . . I hope he takes care of himself.”
Ah, so that was what the call was really about. his mum was obsessed with the latest data, able to tell you exactly which local areas had the highest infection rates. Less worried for herself or Aunt Clare than for her son and son-in-law, she said, especially with Culdover usually being another hotspot.
“He’ll be fine. The king of hands, face, and space.”
After the normal goodbyes, Adam ended the call to find Campbell staring up at him. He rubbed the dog’s ear. “Don’t you go worrying yourself, as well. Anyway, your other dad’s going to be late in, mate. Maybe past your bedtime. Maybe past mine.”
However, his partner would be snug at his side in bed in the wee small hours of the morning, alive and well. Which was more than could be said for the poor victim, whoever they were. Naturally, Adam could never help worrying whether Robin would make it through a case intact—hell, the man had been threatened at gunpoint in their old kitchen. But, despite that and other incidents, they’d all three managed to get through unharmed. So far.
His mum’s phone call had left Adam feeling strangely uneasy, though. A gun or a knife were visible dangers; you couldn’t see this bloody bug. We’ll have to dodge that viral bullet too.
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.
A Carriage of Misjustice #5
Lock, Stock, and Peril #6
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