Death on the River: A gripping and unputdownable English murder mystery (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 2)

by Clare Chase

  ‘There’s still the matter of the lamp,’ Dr Cairncross persisted.

  ‘The antique lamp, handed down by his father.’

  ‘Which Sadie, his wife, now says she told him to throw away, months ago. And she no doubt saw to it that it was finally discarded. It’s very convenient that no one can check that wiring.’

  ‘Dr Cairncross, what would you have done, if you’d got a shock from an old bit of electrical equipment that had been in your family for decades? Wouldn’t you have assumed it was past its prime and taken it to the dump, just as Mrs Cairncross says?’

  ‘What I would have done is neither here nor there.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, but I really don’t think there’s anything more I can do for you.’

  She gave a sharp sigh. ‘Very well, I understand. Thank you for your time. And goodbye.’

  Tara hadn’t expected her to give up so easily. She had a strange sense of anticlimax as she went around the house, drawing the cottage’s threadbare curtains closed against the night.

  Later that evening Tara lay in the bath. She’d made the water almost scalding hot, but the enamel of the tub itself was still cold on her back. She sank lower into the water, wishing she could get her knees and shoulders underneath at the same time. Outside, she could hear an owl hooting, and the wind battering at her windows again. She wondered about the figure Monica Cairncross thought she’d seen by the Green Dragon Bridge. But there were all sorts of people out on the common. Workers travelling back out of town to villages north of Cambridge; drinkers on their way to the Green Dragon pub; drug dealers; and down-and-outs, looking for somewhere sheltered to rest. She pitied them if they were out in this weather. It was dry now, after the rain of the previous day, but the temperature was plummeting, and the flat landscape would give no protection against the bitter wind.

  She’d been stalked on the common before; she knew that fear. But most likely the figure Dr Cairncross had seen was completely innocent. It was easy to see menace where there was none in such a lonely place.

  She got out, dried herself in double-quick time, and pulled on the super-thick fleece pyjamas she’d bought two days after arriving back at the cottage. And then she dragged on two jumpers as well, and some bed socks.

  Bed socks. Hardly the height of glamour – but they did work. For a second, she thought of Blake. He wore some of the best-cut suits she’d ever seen, and he wore them well. For some reason his otherwise scruffy appearance made them all the more appealing.

  And then she thought of her actor mother, Lydia. She bet the mansion she lived in, out in the Fens, was warmer than Tara’s place now, even though none of the family was in residence. Lydia was in Madeira filming whilst Tara’s stepfather closed a property deal in China and her half-brother, Harry, was at boarding school. Tara had imagined she might be living comfortably by the time she was in her thirties. But she’d wanted to do it on her own terms, and she still did.

  She fetched two hot water bottles for her bed and then decided to have a last look at her emails on her phone, before settling down with her Kindle.

  There now. A message from Monica Cairncross, sent half an hour previously, to her work account. If only she hadn’t left her business cards out on the hall table… There was always the option to delete the message unread, of course. The subject line was: One last thought.

  Inbuilt overriding curiosity was an excellent trait for a journalist. It was less good for a detective constable who needed her sleep. She gave in to the inevitable and tapped on the email to open it.

  I appreciate that you have finished looking into this matter as a police officer, but I am sending this email in case you might want to research my brother’s death in your off-time, to satisfy your journalistic instincts.

  Tara rolled her eyes. Seriously?

  The woman had thoughtfully included the names of her sister-in-law, Sadie, and niece, Philippa, both of whom had been at her brother’s house the evening he’d died. She’d failed to provide the names of the pals he’d driven to see, out in the Fens, Tara noted. She put down her phone without replying.

  She’d bought Ralph Cairncross’s last novel for her Kindle, but she’d had just about enough of the family for the time being. Instead, she turned to the thriller she had on the go. After that she lay down with her light off, and everything but her nose under the duvet.

  Sleep was hard to come by. The fierce wind rattled her windows, making her wonder how strong the frames were. And Monica Cairncross’s email went round and round in her mind. Crazy. There was nothing in it. Why was Tara even letting it occupy her headspace? It would have helped if she could have looked at the rest of the case notes. Wilkins blocking her like that had made her feel she’d left the job half done.

  Why was Dr Cairncross so obsessed with her brother’s wife and daughter? How had such a strong resentment built up? If Tara had believed there’d been any wrongdoing in this case, she’d have looked just as hard at the friends Ralph Cairncross had gone to visit, the night he’d died. After all, they’d have been more aware of his movements – better placed to intervene on his journey home.

  She thought back to the witness statement she’d been trying to read when Wilkins had interrupted her. It had been made by one of Ralph Cairncross’s ‘Acolytes’, as his sister had said he called them, Lucas Everett. It had sounded as though they’d been having quite a party that night, out in the Fens. She remembered Lucas had said Ralph had appeared to be in good spirits, and that it was possible he’d seemed drunker than usual, but not so much that Lucas was worried about him setting off home in his car. Tara imagined Lucas had probably been quite far gone himself.

  His statement had mentioned that one of the group – a man named Stephen Ross, if she remembered rightly – had tried to dissuade Ralph Cairncross from leaving. But Lucas had told his interviewer that the author hated anyone fussing over him. It mirrored what Ralph’s wife had apparently told Wilkins. Stephen’s concern had made Ralph all the more determined to go. Lucas had said none of them had thought of calling the police to warn them he was on the road. It was just too normal a circumstance.

  Tara remembered Lucas’s details. They’d stuck in her head because he was a postdoctoral researcher in the English faculty at the University of Cambridge. She’d wondered if he wanted to write books too, like Ralph Cairncross. Perhaps he’d hero-worshipped him and seen his behaviour as exotic rather than dangerous.

  Enough. She tried to switch off again, ready for sleep, but twenty minutes later it hadn’t come. At last she sat up, reached for her Kindle and opened Ralph Cairncross’s last published book, Out of the Blue. She knew enough of the writer by reputation to guess she’d find his work challenging, but the reality wasn’t what she’d expected. The opening scene was richly written. A man was swimming in a lagoon off the coast of northern Australia. Tara could smell the salt water, feel her body slide through it, appreciate its warmth. The body of the swimmer was sensuously described: the power of his muscles, the supple movement of his limbs, the weight of his dark wet hair. And then came his physical reactions to fear when he saw a creature in the water: an ornate reef snake, one of the most poisonous species in the world. The build-up made the resolution of the scene all the more shocking. The swimmer turned in the water, taking strong strokes away from the reptile, but as he ploughed through the waves, his mind turned to the life he’d had, and to his fading youth, and he stopped. He turned back in the direction of the sea snake again, dipping under water, his eyes open, scanning for the foe he’d been fleeing until a moment before. And at last he saw it. And it saw him.

  They swam towards each other, until the swimmer was close enough to the snake to grasp it and bring it up to his neck, where it struck him. And then he lay on his back, looking at the blue sky above, and waited to die.

  The act seemed all the more horrifying because the descriptions were so beautiful and vivid, and because his decision was so unnatural. Tara shivered. She read enough of the next chapter to guess
that the rest of novel must be in the form of a flashback, telling the story of the swimmer’s life up until they’d entered the lagoon on that last day.

  What kind of person wrote such a book?

  She thought again of Lucas Everett. Had he studied Ralph Cairncross’s work? What did he make of it? Hunched over her phone, swaddled in bedding in her cold room, she googled the postdoctoral researcher.

  And caught her breath, a gasp of ice-cold air that went deep into her lungs.

  Three

  Blake had been ambushed by Patrick Wilkins on his way into the station, before he’d even had the chance to raid the coffee machine. Now, he was sitting in Detective Chief Inspector Fleming’s office, feeling at odds with the world at large, and his DS in particular.

  Karen Fleming didn’t look happy either. She was intent on running a tight ship and Patrick’s complaints about their newest detective constable were creating bothersome ripples. If he’d come to Blake first, he’d have told Patrick that Fleming would be short on patience.

  ‘This isn’t primary school.’ Fleming looked at Blake, of course. ‘And even there, I don’t suppose they call the headmistress in every time one of the class misbehaves.’

  Blake could defend himself if he chose; he hadn’t even realised Patrick and Tara were spoiling for a full-blown fight – though knowing them both, he might have guessed. But although it wasn’t fair to lay the blame at his door, he couldn’t bring himself to whine about it. It would be giving Fleming’s criticism more weight than it was due. He’d save his energy. He looked pointedly at Patrick instead.

  ‘I wanted to air the problem with someone who’s less directly involved,’ his DS said, catching Blake’s gaze for a moment before sliding his eyes to meet Fleming’s. Blake didn’t like what he seemed to be insinuating. Or his tone.

  ‘Well,’ Fleming said, ‘now that we’re all gathered here, perhaps you’d like to explain what’s wrong.’ She’d got herself a cup of coffee and wrapped her hands around it. The smell almost made Blake weep.

  Patrick expounded on his gripe. It seemed that Tara had been approached by the sister of a road traffic accident victim, with far-fetched claims that someone had helped him on his way. Blake remembered the case – and letting Patrick handle it. Patrick said he’d told Tara there was nothing to the sister’s claims, and ‘encouraged’ her to get on with her work. Blake could imagine how well that would have gone down. But Tara wouldn’t have allowed her anger to show; she’d have made up her mind to circumvent Patrick’s wishes privately.

  ‘You didn’t think it was proper to share more of the background with her, even briefly?’ Blake said.

  ‘You know how busy we all are with the Hunter case. I told her what she needed to know. That should have been enough. But later, when she thought I’d gone out to lunch, I found her digging into the files about Ralph Cairncross’s accident anyway.’

  ‘And was she taking time out from the work you’d asked her to complete to do her research?’ the DCI asked.

  Blake noticed her eyelids twitch. Never a good sign.

  Patrick frowned.

  ‘You mentioned you were on your way to lunch when you returned unexpectedly and discovered her,’ Fleming said. ‘So perhaps she was taking her break then too, and decided she could spend the time following up on the enquiry she’d received. Did she finish the task you’d given her in a reasonable timeframe?’

  The DS’s tone was grudging. ‘It was acceptable. But it was the lack of trust I objected to. She should have taken my word for it that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding the Cairncross death.’

  Fleming put her coffee down and her shoulders back. ‘I don’t want to discourage enquiring minds. I don’t think what she did implies a lack of trust, necessarily.’

  Blake agreed, though he was quite sure Tara’s level of trust in Patrick Wilkins would be low. She didn’t suffer fools gladly.

  ‘If she’d been dealing with a grieving relative, it wouldn’t be unnatural to want to see the records first-hand. It would be sensible to talk to her about her worries.’

  ‘Grieving relative.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘The woman’s a tyrant.’

  Fleming frowned. ‘Going back to Tara, I wonder if the issues you have go beyond the Cairncross incident, Patrick. If so, it’s best that we tackle them openly, now. I’m aware, of course, that you know a lot about her background, thanks to the Seabrook murder case.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but I still can’t believe we’ve got someone on the team who committed an assault as a civilian. And who was carrying an offensive weapon when she was abducted by Samantha Seabrook’s killer.’

  ‘Patrick, you know how strict the rules are about eligibility for police work. The higher-ups considered her past and accepted that there were extenuating circumstances. And she was never convicted of anything. Furthermore, she comes to us with an excellent training record and no disciplinary issues. I want us to make full use of her skills and help her develop her career. If you have any genuine cause for complaint you can of course raise it with DI Blake who will escalate it, if necessary. Do I make myself clear, both of you?’

  Patrick’s angry look was directed at him as much as at the DCI, Blake noticed. ‘Crystal clear,’ his DS said.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Blake said, when Fleming looked in his direction.

  ‘And Blake, perhaps you could have a quiet word with Tara? Make sure she’s transparent about what she’s up to. The more open we all are, the fewer the chances for these time-consuming misunderstandings.’

  He nodded. He still wished he could erase the drink he and Tara had had together in the Champion of the Thames, at the end of the Seabrook case. It was weird. Nothing had happened, but the atmosphere had been charged. Somehow, that occasion had opened a door onto something that could never be, but which was still on both their minds. He’d seen it in her eyes the first day she’d joined his team, and he knew she’d have seen it in his, too.

  Five minutes later, coffee in hand, Blake was on his way back to his office when he heard Tara and Patrick talking. Their voices weren’t raised by much, but he could tell tempers were frayed. Patrick was probably taking Fleming’s advice and talking to Tara about her worries over the Cairncross death. But not in the tactful way the detective chief inspector had meant. For a second, he wondered whether to let them battle it out for themselves, but it might be a good moment to have the word that Fleming had recommended. He put his head round the door of the open-plan room his team occupied.

  ‘A quick word in my office, please.’ He could cope with the politics, now he’d got his caffeine supply.

  Tara’s red-gold hair was piled high on her head. Her style hadn’t changed much since he’d first met her. Today she was wearing a classy-looking trouser suit his fashion designer sister would have appreciated: a warm brown with a subtle pattern, the jacket nipped in at the waist and the trousers fitted. He caught a glimpse of her green eyes, but she didn’t try to catch his look. Wilkins did though. His expression told him he was challenging Blake to take his side.

  Tara brought her laptop in with her. She sat down in front of his desk.

  ‘Sit please, Patrick,’ Blake had to say. He tried not to sound tired. As soon as he’d got them both settled, he asked what they’d been talking about. ‘The conversation sounded strained,’ he added. ‘Were you asking Tara about the Cairncross case, Patrick?’

  Tara’s eyes widened a fraction. It seemed she hadn’t known that Wilkins had been discussing her behind her back. And the DS wore a telltale frown, like a schoolboy who’d been caught misbehaving.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Blake said. He looked at Tara. ‘It might be an idea to tell a lead officer if you’re planning to dig for more information on their case,’ he said. ‘If everyone’s clear about what they’re up to then there’s no room for misunderstandings.’ He would tell Patrick to be more receptive to questions, too. And not to be an arse. But not in front of Tara. And perhaps not
quite in those words.

  ‘Understood,’ she said. ‘I was just looking during my break for my own satisfaction, so I didn’t think anyone would mind.’ That smile. She was treating him like all the others, managing his impression of her. Before they’d been colleagues she’d always been brutally honest. He didn’t like the change.

  ‘And was it useful, to know more?’

  She shrugged. ‘I didn’t get very far, but there was some fundamental information that supported the fact that Ralph Cairncross had died by accident rather than design. He’d been drinking very heavily the night he died. Knowing that coloured the way I reported back to his sister.’

  So that was one of the small details Patrick Wilkins had decided not to share.

  ‘Because I didn’t get much information from the records here,’ Tara went on, her eyes sliding towards Patrick for a moment, ‘I did a small amount of internet research last night instead. I wanted to make sure my background knowledge was secure.’

  He doubted the ‘small amount’ description was accurate. ‘Is that why you’ve got your laptop with you now?’

  Patrick Wilkins sat forward in his chair. ‘What DC Thorpe’s found doesn’t make any difference to the fundamentals of the original—’

  Blake cut across him. ‘All right, Patrick. I’d like Tara to answer my question, please.’

  ‘That is why I’ve brought it in,’ she said, tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear and flipping open the lid. ‘I looked up one of the group of people Ralph Cairncross was going to visit, the night he died. They were his inner circle, if you like, his “Acolytes”, as he and his sister called them.’

  Wilkins’ jaw was taut.

  ‘And what did you find?’

  Tara put her laptop on his desk and turned the screen to face him, so that he could see the news article. She glanced sideways at Wilkins. ‘This information on one of the group, Lucas Everett. It was his witness statement I’d started to read when DS Wilkins asked me not to continue.’ Her green eyes were on his. ‘I appreciate it could be a coincidence. But given that Monica Cairncross has been pushing for more information I wondered if it was worth spending a short time making enquiries, to satisfy ourselves that her worries are groundless?’