She looked at Michaela’s expression, which wasn’t shocked like she had expected, and continued, telling her about the anonymous letter sent to the police, and the conversations she had had with Shona, Andy, the vicar, Laura and finally Luke.
“So you see, several of the people who were in the village that day had reasons to dislike him, or even hate him. Not just me.”
“Maybe,” said Michaela dubiously.
“Definitely.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“But there are things I can’t do while I’m in here. Which is where you come in.”
“Go on.”
“First off, the farmer, his name’s Rob Coombe, he said I was being threatening about Stuart that morning, in the shop. He says I called him a bastard.”
“Did you?”
“I don’t remember it at all. It doesn’t sound right. But he won’t come and see me. So I wondered if you’d go and talk to him.”
“What would I say?”
“I don’t know. Sound him out, see if he’ll tell you anything. Just get a feeling if he’s lying.” It sounded a bit desperate, but then, she was desperate. “You can say you’re a reporter or something. People sometimes like talking to the papers.”
“I’m not sure I look like a reporter.”
“Or you could—” Tabitha stopped. She couldn’t think of anything.
“It’s OK. I’ll do it.”
“Really?”
“I can borrow my aunt’s car and have a day out. You have to give me the address.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t try.”
Thirty-Two
The prosecution delivered its evidence to Tabitha on April Fools’ Day, which seemed appropriate.
The giant warden who had first escorted her to her cupboard full of mannequins and whose name, she had discovered, was Barry brought it in. Tabitha was sitting in the semidarkness: the socket the lamp had been plugged into was no longer working and the bulb that hung above her flickered dismally. She had expected a box folder or something like that. Instead, she got two large boxes full of papers, photos and forensic evidence; reports on the fallen tree, the state of the road and on what kind of heavy-duty plastic the body had been wrapped in. There were details of the fibers, hairs, blood types, blood spatter and the outside temperature at various times during the day; the marks made by tire tracks from Stuart’s car, invoices, receipts and phone logs. There were statements from people whose names she’d never heard and who hadn’t been in the village, all of them rendered into the kind of clunky legalese that made her head bang.
Even at a cursory glance, Tabitha could see that most of it was useless to her. The problem was, anything that might be relevant was buried in the avalanche of spurious information.
She sighed heavily.
“What?” said Barry, pausing on his way out.
“There’s too much here.”
“They’re fucking with you.”
“What am I meant to do with it all?”
“I’m just the guy who delivers it.” He hesitated, then said, “I could bring you some coffee.”
“What! Really?”
“I guess.”
“I would love that.”
“Maybe it’ll help you keep awake.”
Tabitha lifted the contents of the first box onto the table and started from the top. She peered at a map of Okeham, although in the dim light it was hard to make it out, and then looked at the transcript of Andy’s call to emergency services. She read the officer at the scene’s description of the body, and of herself. “Miss Hardy was in an incoherent and agitated state,” she read. “She was covered in blood and she repeatedly said, “‘I didn’t know, I didn’t know.’” Tabitha laid aside the sheet of paper and frowned. What didn’t she know? Her memory was still a horrible blank and reading about herself was like reading about a stranger.
She came to the photos of Stuart and made herself look at them again—but what could they tell her? That his carotid artery had been severed and he had been stabbed repeatedly in his chest and stomach. The autopsy used the word “frenzied”? Could she have been so frenzied that she had killed Stuart and forgotten? And how had his body got into the shed? He was overweight and she was small.
Several of the sheets of paper had been signed by DCI Dudley.
After several hours of reading she came to the CCTV shots. She saw herself going into the village shop at 08:10 and then leaving at 08:15. She saw Stuart’s car drive past at 10:34 and, in the next image, returning at 10:40. That was all.
She looked at the four grainy pictures for a long time. The sewing machines outside had stopped; everyone must have left. She had no idea what time it was. Whoever had killed Stuart had done so after 10:40 A.M., but there were no CCTV pictures for after that. If she was going to get anywhere, she needed to see who had gone past the surveillance camera throughout the day. Anyone who walked through the village toward Stuart’s house had to go that way. All of the houses except hers and Stuart’s were on the other side of the village shop, so it made sense that the murderer, whoever she or he was, would be on film.
Tabitha flicked rapidly through the pile of paper in front of her, then lifted the second batch out of its box and scrabbled through that as well. There were no other CCTV photos: they had dumped every bit of information they had, however irrelevant, but left those out.
She bundled everything together and opened her notebook to find the card she had pushed between its pages after her court appearance in February. Tom Creevey, liaison officer for the prosecution.
“I need to see all the footage,” she said, cupping her hand over the receiver and turning her back
