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

by Clare Chase

  ‘And what about his relations with the Acolytes?’ Tara asked, remembering Blake’s instruction not to discount Lucas Everett as a possible perpetrator. ‘Did he ever talk to you about them?’

  Sadie’s expression was tired. ‘Constable, he rarely talked to me about anything else. Not that we spent an awful lot of time together towards the end.’ She put her head on one side. ‘He never mentioned any trouble with them, though. He seemed to view them as a collector might view a menagerie of exotic and amusing pets.’

  Tara wondered if the Acolytes had been aware of that. ‘Did he ever mention any of them pestering him? Or taking up more of his time than he wanted? Calling him at odd hours – that kind of thing?’ If Lucas Everett had been obsessed enough with Ralph to kill him, she’d have thought he’d have given himself away somehow. She watched as Sadie frowned.

  ‘He never mentioned anything like that,’ she said at last. ‘He did describe the artist, Thom King, as needy once or twice.’ She glanced at Tara as though trying to read her expression and see if that meant anything.

  But Tara didn’t know if it did or not.

  ‘What exactly did Monica say to you?’ Sadie Cairncross asked.

  ‘She claimed it was common for her brother to drink alcohol when he was driving and that it wouldn’t have affected his performance.’ Tara watched Sadie Cairncross’s eyes. From her expression she imagined the woman had had quite enough of her sister-in-law’s interference. Tara could play to that. She sat forward in her chair to narrow the gap between them. ‘Hard facts don’t support what she’s saying, to be honest,’ she said. And that was true enough. ‘I’m sorry, because I’m sure other officers will have said this before and it’s an upsetting truth. People often imagine they’re just as capable at the wheel if they’ve had a drink – especially if they’re used to alcohol – but it’s an illusion. Dr Cairncross feels her brother was a good driver and wouldn’t have gone off the road because of it, but that’s not why I’m here.’

  Sadie Cairncross nodded, and Tara noticed her face relax a little.

  ‘Nonetheless, it would be useful to ask about that. It means I’ll have all the information I need when I’m responding to her points.’ She grimaced. ‘If you don’t mind helping me out.’

  Sadie Cairncross nodded. ‘Okay, I understand. And if it can settle Monica down then it will help us all.’ She gave Tara a look. ‘She’s been round here since she got back too.’

  Tara met her gaze. ‘I can imagine. Right, so I just wondered for a start, is what Monica said true? Was it usual for your husband to drink and drive?’

  Sadie Cairncross’s gaze was fixed on the carpet; it took her several moments to answer. ‘I doubt there was an hour of any day when he was stone-cold sober. So if ever he got into a car he was probably over the limit. And it’s true that he was used to drink; he could take more than most people without it having an obvious effect. He was a large man.’ She was clutching and unclutching her hands, which were in her lap.

  Tara nodded. ‘I see. So you assumed he’d been drinking before he set off home back in September?’

  ‘I didn’t think about it one way or the other,’ she said. ‘It was commonplace.’

  ‘Could you tell me,’ Tara asked, ‘was your husband in the habit of locking his car when he left it?’

  Sadie Cairncross frowned and her hands, which she’d been twisting together, went still as she raised her eyes to Tara’s. For a second she looked as though she was going to query the question but at last she sighed and her shoulders slumped. ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  It figured. Tara couldn’t see a man who’d been that careless of his own personal safety worrying about car alarms and central locking. Not that his classic model would have had those facilities, anyway.

  ‘What happened when he didn’t arrive back when you expected?’ she asked.

  ‘I was asleep,’ Sadie said. There was a pause. ‘I’ve taken sleeping tablets for years now. My daughter, Philippa, was in the house that night too. She’s at university – here in Cambridge – but she only lives in college accommodation during term time.’

  ‘Was your daughter up until late? She didn’t worry?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘A man who wants to live as he did when he was twenty doesn’t tell anyone what time he’ll be back. And he makes sure all his friends and family know to expect the unexpected. In any case, Philippa was occupied all evening. She nipped out to see a boyfriend in town.’ She shrugged. ‘It was only when we reconvened for breakfast that I started to worry. And before we’d got as far as calling the police, they called us.’ Her face shut down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tara said.

  Sadie Cairncross nodded. After a moment she took a deep breath. ‘But you said you didn’t come here based on Monica’s comments about my husband’s ability to drink and drive.’

  ‘That’s correct. I came because, on the back of her worries, we made some very basic enquiries and found that one of the friends your husband visited the night he died is now also dead. He drowned, swimming out too far in the North Sea.’ As she explained she saw the woman’s expression – there was no trace of shock. ‘You were aware of that?’

  Sadie Cairncross nodded and put a hand over her eyes for a moment. ‘The house where Ralph went that night to meet his group – the Acolytes, as you know he called them – belongs to them now. It was a family house, handed down by Ralph’s grandfather. He used it as a sort of bolthole and invited them to do the same. They all had keys to come and go whenever they wanted. And when he died, it turned out he’d left it to them in his will, on condition that they carried on championing his philosophy on life.’

  Quite a present. ‘And what philosophy was that?’

  Sadie Cairncross sighed. ‘To live fast and – if it came to it – die young. His outlook meant he despised anyone who gave in to old age, who took it lying down. By drinking too much and living life just as he had in his twenties, he was shaking his fist at age and challenging it to take him if it could.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘From his point of view, dying in the river would have robbed age of claiming him as a victim. It would have been him embracing death before his life went downhill. I think that’s why he drove into the Forty Foot Drain.’

  ‘You believe it was a deliberate act?’

  She nodded. ‘Monica won’t accept it because Ralph was still living life to the full, right up until he died. She doesn’t think he was ready to go, and a lot of people have said his ideals were just bluster. But his death proves them wrong. He always lived by the principles he championed.’ There was a crack in her voice as she uttered the last sentence, and passion in her tone too.

  Did she really believe it? Or was she just trying to find something positive to say about the husband she had been married to for so long? Her argument – that despite the guy’s repellent views, he hadn’t been a hypocrite – was hardly the most ringing endorsement. You could say the same of many dictators.

  ‘I understood there was bruising on his body consistent with him having had some kind of fit,’ Tara said.

  The woman’s eyes were cold now. ‘Due to alcohol poising? I don’t believe that. Surely a person who crashes in such a dramatic way would be covered in bruises anyway. Ralph could certainly take his drink. He’d never reacted badly before.’

  Agneta must find it frustrating when lay people dismissed her findings like that. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘we got off track. You were telling me how you heard about Lucas Everett’s death?’

  ‘Probate’s still going through,’ Mrs Cairncross said, ‘but I know the contents of Ralph’s will, of course, and the executors made each of the Acolytes aware too. We were all informed when Lucas died, and it turned out he wouldn’t be around to enjoy his part of the inheritance.’

  ‘What happens to Lucas’s share?’

  ‘It’s split equally between the remaining members of the group,’ Sadie said.

  ‘Do you know the Acolytes well yourself?’ she asked.


  ‘A little.’ She was looking down at her lap, one finger tracing a line in the tartan on her skirt.

  ‘It must feel odd, to see a family home go to people who’re just acquaintances.’

  ‘They were much more than that to Ralph.’ The woman sat up straighter in her chair. ‘And I certainly wouldn’t want the place. Too many bad associations now.’

  Tara nodded. ‘Of course.’ Sadie hadn’t mentioned the amount of money involved, she noticed. And judging by the house they were now sitting in, it probably wasn’t an issue. Places like this on Madingley Road were worth upwards of two million.

  ‘So, you’re looking into a possible connection between my husband’s death and Lucas Everett’s?’ Sadie Cairncross said.

  Tara nodded. ‘But it’s very much a belt-and-braces thing. A routine enquiry to make sure we haven’t missed anything.’

  ‘Lucas Everett’s mother thinks his recklessness might have been sparked by Ralph’s doctrines. She wrote to me.’

  That couldn’t have been an easy letter to read. Did Lucas’s mum blame Sadie in some way, by extension?

  The woman must have read her expression. ‘Lucas would have known Ralph wouldn’t have wanted him to take such a risk. He was still young. Whatever happened, it can’t be laid at Ralph’s door. My husband’s intentions were pure.’

  Pure what, was another matter. But Sadie broke down now.

  ‘You must miss him terribly.’ Tara could see that she did. It was hard to watch the woman’s reaction, even though the man she was mourning sounded abhorrent. She couldn’t help wondering how they’d met, and why Sadie seemed to have loved him until the bitter end.

  ‘The day I went to identify his body was like a final letting go, Constable Thorpe,’ she said. ‘A separation that couldn’t be bridged.’ She glanced up. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap now. ‘I don’t believe in God or reuniting on the other side. The day he was found was the end of a long road.’

  Tara raised her eyes.

  ‘When we got together we made a pact. We were both dedicated to our careers. I used to be a flautist so for me it was my music and for him, of course, his writing. We held our artistic pursuits above everything else in our lives. But we each wanted a constant too – someone to act as an anchor and make us feel grounded. In fact, we felt it was necessary, to enable us to give our best. What we had was special. It was me he chose to mother his child when he matured, and wanted to create something new and fresh. But we always agreed we wouldn’t tie each other down; we’d each dance to our own tune.’

  She glanced at Tara, her eyes damp. ‘I genuinely thought I was happy with that arrangement, but when Ralph sought the young people he needed to feed his creativity, I was weak. I gave in to jealousy.’ She hung her head. ‘I found my mind was on him, rather than my music.’ Her hand went to her mouth for a moment. ‘We reached our crisis point – a point of my making – and he told me then that his feelings for me hadn’t changed. His love for me was unique, and it was the only attachment he had that had lasted – for so many years.’

  How did the abrupt end to her career fit in with all this? And if Ralph had hurt her so badly over the years, might she be hiding the effects of the way she’d been treated? Just because she’d loved him, didn’t mean she hadn’t felt violent rage towards him too…

  As Tara made her way back down the drive towards Madingley Road she replayed Sadie Cairncross’s words and the woman’s reactions to her questions. It only increased her impression that Cairncross’s effect on his family and friends had been dangerous, his relationships unhealthy. She could certainly imagine someone wanting to kill him, but that was a far cry from proving that they had. She’d put herself out there, her reputation on the line, for something that might be utter bullshit.

  She hoped to goodness she could find some hard evidence.

  Blake was standing in his office doorway when Tara arrived back at the station. It had taken her a while; the traffic was already building up as rush-hour proper approached. The DI raised his eyebrows and she met his questioning look.

  ‘Nothing concrete, but it was interesting,’ she said. The resignation in his eyes made her heart sink. He’d decided to back her, but it had been a stretch, she guessed. He wasn’t expecting her to succeed. ‘If I was still a journalist I could write a whole book.’ But she wasn’t and time was short.

  Blake nodded and stood back in his office doorway, nodding her through rather than letting her carry on to her desk. She wondered what was up. He closed the door behind her.

  ‘Patrick has had Philippa Cairncross on the phone.’

  ‘Ralph Cairncross’s daughter?’ She knew it was; she was just processing the information.

  ‘That’s right,’ Blake said. ‘Her mother must have called her to tell her about your interview as soon as you left. Then Philippa called us.’

  ‘Quick off the mark. What did she want?’

  ‘A very precise explanation about why we’re bothering her family again and opening wounds that have barely scabbed over.’

  ‘I did give Mrs Cairncross the background; she seemed all right with it.’

  Blake nodded. ‘I get the impression the daughter’s very protective; I understand she didn’t claim to be phoning on her mother’s behalf. And apparently she wants to talk to you.’

  From his tone, Tara gathered she’d need to indulge in some intensive diplomacy if she wanted to get anything useful out of her.

  ‘Patrick wants to come along to observe. As it was his case originally I’ve given him the go-ahead.’ Blake’s look told her he sympathised, even if his words didn’t. ‘He’ll let you lead the questioning.’

  Great. Suddenly Wilkins had the spare time and was interested – now there might be a chance to watch Tara struggle, and to report back on her failings. And she knew full well her theory about the grass snake might be wrong. It fitted several aspects of Ralph Cairncross’s death, but that could be coincidental. She didn’t regret sharing it though – whatever the result. It had been the right thing to do – something Wilkins knew little about. And whatever happened she wasn’t going to show any weakness in front of him. He hadn’t seen her in action at an interview yet. It was about time she showed him what she could do. ‘Do we already have an appointment agreed?’

  Blake nodded. ‘Ten tomorrow morning, at Philippa Cairncross’s college. It’s St Audrey’s. On the upside, I was going to suggest you talk to her next anyway.’

  As Tara walked back to her desk, ready to file her notes on the interview with Sadie Cairncross, she saw a smile spread across Wilkins’ face.

  Twelve

  The sky had turned clear overnight and there was a heavy frost when Tara made her way to St Audrey’s the following day. The grass in front of the stone-built college was etched in sharp, white crystals of ice that glinted in the cool morning light. She walked under an ornate archway, decorated with a crest at its top, and found Wilkins in the Porters’ Lodge through a door to her left. He was laughing with the man behind the counter but they both stopped abruptly and looked in her direction when she entered. She wondered what her boss had been saying about their mission – and in particular about her.

  ‘I’ll direct you to Philippa Cairncross’s room now you’re both here,’ the porter said, coming out from behind the front desk. His shirtsleeves had been rolled up under his black waistcoat, but he pulled them down hastily when they left the warmth of the lodge. He took them along a short walkway, with a square, grass-covered court to the left, and pointed the way to a staircase entrance opposite them. ‘Just through that door, then third floor up.’

  He nodded in response to their thanks.

  ‘Something about your attitude with Sadie Cairncross seems to have upset Philippa,’ Wilkins said. ‘I thought I’d better keep an eye on things this time.’

  Tara felt her jaw tense and took a deep breath as she focused on the way ahead. ‘It’s unexpected. The conversation I had with Mrs Cairncross was perfectly amicable.’ It made h
er wonder what Philippa’s real reason was for not wanting her speaking to her mother. But maybe Tara was just clutching at straws…

  Wilkins’ tone was clipped. ‘Please try to remember that’s there’s no evidence whatsoever that there was anything odd about Ralph Cairncross’s death. Rather the opposite, in fact. It was a classic example of the results of drink-driving. If Philippa feels we’ve upset her mother needlessly, I’m inclined to agree.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Tara said lightly. She’d come to realise Wilkins found it far more annoying if she kept her cool. It took away his excuse to attack her, but he still knew what she was thinking.

  They walked up the spiral stone staircase to the correct floor. Philippa Cairncross had her name on a card slotted into a small brass frame outside her room. Wilkins knocked.

  Tara caught her breath when the heavy door swung slowly open. She’d looked at Philippa’s Facebook profile picture, but it hadn’t been very telling. Only part of her face had been showing, and she’d been wearing sunglasses. Now, here in front of her, it was a shock to find a female version of her father. Her features matched those of Ralph Cairncross in his younger days so closely it was like seeing a ghost. She was gamine, with a neat, slender figure, huge eyes, clear skin and hair cut into a pixie crop.

  ‘Miss Cairncross?’ Wilkins said.

  ‘Ms.’ Her tone was sharp.

  Tara enjoyed the look on Wilkins’ face as he took out his ID. She presented hers too, and introduced herself.

  Philippa hadn’t even closed the door behind them before she started on Tara. ‘I’m glad you’ve come. I want an explanation for why you went to see my mother. And you’d better have a bloody good excuse. I couldn’t believe it when she told me you’re still bothering her, eight weeks on. It’s been an appalling year for her and I bitterly resent you prolonging it.’

  Tara could see Wilkins had cheered up. For her part, the onslaught gave her an immediate chance to face what was coming head on and control the situation.