The Other Woman by Jill McGown Page B

know about Sharon last night, and had hoped that that might have been that. But Chief Inspector Lloyd had wanted to know more, and had asked questions that Jake hadn’t expected; he had thrown him. He wasn’t used to being on the defensive.
    He’d handled it pretty well though. He was used to thinking on his feet. But he had the uncomfortable feeling that so was the chief inspector, and that could prove just a little tricky.
    Colin had been brought to Stansfield police station to help with their inquiries. He had been asked about his injuries, and they had suggested that a doctor see him. He hadn’t objected.
    The police that had come for him had said that they wanted him to answer questions in connection with the murder of a Sharon Smith. He had told them he’d never even heard of her, but they didn’t say anything else. At the station, his appearance had given rise to a lot of comment and some excitement. He had said that he didn’t want a solicitor, and that he didn’t want anyone informed. He had said that he didn’t want his own doctor present at the medical examination.
    The questions had started then, and he had lied in answer to almost every one. Hot sweats of sheer panic would come over him every time anyone came into the room, but nothing had happened, except the questions. They had brought him something to eat.
    Now, he looked up as a new face came in. A man with short, receding hair and a dark complexion. He waited for him to say something, but instead he toured the walls, reading notices, looking out of the window, doing anything but look at him. It irritated Colin.
    The man switched on a tape recorder, and told it that the interview with Colin Drummond was in the presence of Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd and DC Harris, then resumed his contemplation of the scene outside the window.
    â€˜No views here,’ he said, in a Welsh accent. ‘Not like Malworth. It’s a pretty town. I’ve a friend who lives there.’
    Colin didn’t speak, and the man still didn’t look at him.
    â€˜You were in a bit of a hurry to get home last night, weren’t you?’ he asked, still absorbed in the lack of view from the window.
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ said Colin.
    He turned then, eyebrows high on his forehead. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I can’t remember the last person who called me sir who wasn’t obliged to.’ He indicated Detective Constable Harris. ‘He calls me sir,’ he said. ‘ Well, to my face.’
    Colin smiled, not wishing to offend, as did Harris, presumably for the same reason.
    â€˜You told my officers that the clothes you were wearing this morning are the ones you were wearing last night,’ he said.
    Colin nodded.
    â€˜Can you say yes or no, Colin?’ asked Harris.
    â€˜Yes.’ Black shirt, jeans, leather jacket, boots. That was what he always wore. They had taken them away, and given him sort of white overalls.
    Lloyd nodded. ‘Were you at the football ground?’
    â€˜No.’ Another lie.
    â€˜The thing is, Colin, we took tyre impressions from the muddy grass at the entrance to the club. Motorcycle tyres. They match your motorcycle tyres, Colin. Right down to a small flaw in the tread of the front tyre.’
    Colin licked his lips.
    â€˜So. Were you at the football ground?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Why?’
    Colin frowned a little. ‘To see the match,’ he said.
    â€˜There was a fight there.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Lloyd nodded, standing behind the chair, his hands holding the back. ‘ Were you involved in it?’ he asked.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Where did you get the bruises, Colin?’ Lloyd asked.
    Why did he keep saying his name like that? It was getting on his nerves. Too many people had seen the incident at the match for him to pretend he had come by the bruises that way; Colin told the same story that he had told since he had been brought to