by Clare Chase
Philippa motioned them to take seats in a sort of anteroom. It was home to three armchairs, a coffee table and a work station. Through an open door she could glimpse a bed. Another inner door was shut. Tara guessed it was to an en suite.
‘You get allocated your room according to your exam scores the previous year,’ Philippa said. She must have been following Tara’s eyes. ‘But when you’ve finished sizing up my accommodation and consequently my intellect, I’d like an explanation.’
Tara started to recount the visit she’d had from Monica Cairncross.
Philippa’s features contorted the moment her aunt’s name was mentioned and she cut Tara short. ‘Monica has always hated my mother,’ she said. ‘I gather she was horrified when Ralph “tied himself down”, as she put it. Not that he did. In no way did he feel shackled to my mother. He used her to have me and then distanced himself.’ She’d dispensed with the titles of dad and aunt, Tara noted. That spoke volumes. ‘As far as she was concerned, committing to a family was as good as having a millstone around his neck. And my mum was never special enough for her.’
Tara was surprised about that. ‘I read that your mother was a professional flautist – and a highly regarded one too. That seems pretty special to me.’
Wilkins frowned. Tara suspected he hadn’t known that.
Philippa’s features softened a fraction. She nodded. ‘I agree.’
Tara thought of the signs of paralysis around Sadie Cairncross’s mouth. Was that why her career had ended? ‘It must have been awful when she had to give it up,’ she said.
‘You didn’t ask her about that, did you?’ Philippa’s eyes flashed again.
‘No, of course not.’
‘It was devastating when it happened. I was only five, but I still remember.’
‘What did happen?’
Wilkins cut in. ‘That’s hardly—’
But Philippa answered quickly, over the top of him. ‘Car crash. It damaged her mouth.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry.’ Another life-changing event resulting from an accident.
‘But going back to Monica, I still don’t see why anything she said should lead to more questions.’ Philippa’s eyes were intense.
‘I can understand that – and ordinarily it wouldn’t have. But some very basic enquiries on paper highlighted a second death in your father’s circle, shortly after his own. A man called Lucas Everett.’
Philippa nodded. ‘I heard.’
‘But it wasn’t a connection that had been made before, officially,’ Tara went on, ‘and given the extra questions your aunt was posing, we wanted to make sure we’d covered all the angles we should have.’
Wilkins leant forward in his seat. ‘It’s really nothing for you or your mother to worry about. I don’t think we need to bother you any further.’ His tone was deliberately soothing and entirely wrong for someone like the woman they were dealing with.
And he’d said he was going to observe, not take over. Tara caught Philippa’s eye. ‘Though in fact, there were a couple of queries I had, when going through the records from September. I certainly don’t want to waste your time, but now that we’re here, we could tackle them if you don’t object? It would mean there’s less chance of having to disturb you again.’
‘In that case get on with it, for God’s sake,’ Philippa said, crossing one slim, skinny-jean clad leg over the other. ‘Term’s just ended. I’d far rather talk to you here than have you tracking me down at home, where my mother will be faced with it all again.’
‘That makes sense.’ Tara didn’t look at Wilkins. She’d got permission from Blake to conduct some enquiries, and if her immediate boss wanted to clip her wings he could square it with his DI.
‘Firstly, can you please take me back to the night your father died?’ Tara took out her notebook. ‘I understand you were with your mother at the family home on Madingley Road when he set out for the Fens.’
‘That’s right.’ Philippa’s expressive eyes transmitted her impatience.
‘And how did the evening play out after that?’
The girl put her head on one side and sighed deliberately. ‘Let’s see. We had supper together, chicken if I remember rightly, and then my mother went up to bed early. She tends to anyway, and that night she had a headache. And then I went out at around eight.’ She met Tara’s eye and clearly realised more was needed. ‘To see my boyfriend. He’s a PhD student so he was in Cambridge for most of the summer. I went to his rooms. We had sex. Jesus, what more do you want?’
‘So you were back latish?’
She nodded, fixing Tara with her stare. ‘Around one, I guess.’
‘And you walked into town, and back again?’
Philippa shook her head. ‘Bike. I knew Ralph wasn’t back when I got in, but there was nothing remarkable about that. I didn’t even think about it before I went to bed. But when he still wasn’t around in the morning, we tried calling his band of Acolytes at the house on the Forty Foot Bank. It was Stephen who answered. He took a while and I guess the others were sleeping it off. He confirmed that Ralph had left in the small hours. We were about to call you lot, but you beat us to it.’
‘Thank you for confirming everything.’ Tara paused. ‘And how well do you know the Acolytes? Do you ever socialise with them?’
Philippa tossed back her head and laughed. ‘Not if I can avoid it. Ralph held them up as the crème de la crème of the next generation and they were all too ready to believe him. I wasn’t so convinced, myself.’ She started to count them off on her fingers. ‘Lucas Everett, doing some completely pointless research into an obscure writer I’d never heard of. Getting himself published in some top journals, picked by editors just as deluded as he was.’
She clearly wasn’t troubled by speaking ill of the dead.
The woman moved on to her index finger. ‘Verity Hipkiss – an over-hyped novelist, from what I hear, researching her PhD; Christian Beatty, a model, for God’s sake – he certainly isn’t bright. He breaks the mould really, but my father appreciated physical excellence. Then there’s Thom King, fancies himself as an artist, and finally Stephen Ross – a little-known poet and currently a part-time tutor to some rich kid. He’s the runt of the pack, I think. I wasn’t surprised he was the one who was up to answer the phone the day after Ralph died. I got the impression my father only kept him in the group because he enjoyed having someone to belittle.’
Tara remembered that Stephen was the one who’d tried to persuade Ralph Cairncross not to set off home when he was drunk, too.
‘There was another girl that used to be part of the merry gang as well,’ Philippa said, carelessly, ‘a child prodigy who came up to Cambridge two years early or something. But she died at the end of July.’
Wilkins looked up.
Philippa pulled a face. ‘Calm down. No question of anyone else’s involvement there. It was cancer.’
The lack of feeling in her tone got to Tara, though she didn’t let it show. ‘They took up a lot of your dad’s time, I expect,’ she said.
Philippa folded her arms across her chest. ‘If you imagine I was jealous then please think again. The one good thing they did do was keep Ralph occupied.’
Tara leant forward. ‘Were you ever aware of any of them monopolising him more than the others? Wanting to be in constant contact, calling him at odd times at home – that kind of thing?’
Philippa’s eyes narrowed and Tara couldn’t work out what she was thinking. ‘What I can tell you is that if any of them got involved with him sexually, it would have been through self-interest and what they could get out of the relationship – not because they were caught up in some kind of grand passion. I never got the impression that any of them were bothered about him for his own sake.’ She glanced deliberately at her watch. ‘Was there anything else?’
Wilkins was busy saying no, but in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘I wondered about your cover photo on Facebook,’ Tara said. ‘I noticed you’d updated it to a picture of the For
ty Foot Drain.’
A ray of low winter sunshine filtered in through Philippa Cairncross’s mullioned window. The woman smiled, and half closed her eyes. ‘I would have thought the reason behind that was obvious. It was a tribute to my darling father.’
She stood up, and Tara followed suit. She couldn’t help but be aware that for someone who claimed she had very little contact with the Acolytes, she knew an awful lot about them. And she clearly spent emotional energy on resenting them too.
As Tara followed her boss out into the stairwell, she wondered what mileage he would get from the way she’d conducted the interview. She certainly hadn’t got Philippa to love her, but instinct told her the woman respected her more than she did Wilkins. And he knew it too. It wouldn’t improve their working relationship.
Thirteen
Tara was running out of time to make something of her investigation. Two days, Blake had said, and today was the second. Wilkins was going to love rubbing her nose in her failure. She’d managed to block all thoughts of him whilst she spoke to Philippa Cairncross, but the prospect of being beaten was nagging at her again now.
Between interviews and discussions the day before, she’d tried to work out how to maximise her time, and who to focus on next. She was more than curious about the Acolytes, but at five the previous evening, she’d found a contact that might be able to tell her a lot in a short space of time. She’d consulted Blake about seeing him, and he’d given his approval.
She went straight from St Audrey’s to Newnham, to meet Dr Adam Richardson, an expert on Ralph Cairncross’s work. It meant she had to leave Wilkins to return to the station alone. He’d enjoy pulling her to pieces to Blake or Fleming whilst she was absent. He’d been smiling to himself as they’d left Philippa Cairncross’s college, which was probably down to anticipation. Unless he was plotting something else…
She parked her car in a wide side road lined with a mix of shiny, upmarket vehicles and some venerable old classic cars. They must have been of such sterling quality when they were new that they’d lasted through. The 1960s-built house she was after had a front garden with one stark, leafless willow in it. The water in the bird bath was frozen and the path glinted dully with ice crystals. She knocked at the front door – painted smartly in red – and waited for less than a minute before it was answered. Dr Richardson had curly, dark-grey hair and lively brown eyes.
He stuck out a hand and took hers firmly. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ he said, standing back. ‘Come on in.’
It made a refreshing change to Philippa’s welcome, or lack of it.
‘Thanks for coming to see me at home,’ he said, ushering her down a hall that smelled of wax polish and dried flowers. ‘I work much better here when I’m not lecturing. Fewer distractions.’ He caught Tara’s eye. ‘I don’t mean you, of course. You’re a distraction too, but a worthwhile one. But academics who hang around in their faculty offices are sitting ducks for anyone who wants to ask them about who should be the next head of department, or to whinge about a colleague who’s not pulling their weight.’ He shook his head abruptly. ‘I can’t abide politics. Anyway, enough of that. Coffee?’
He walked through to a compact kitchen where he’d got some ready.
‘That would be great. Thank you.’
He poured it for her. ‘Help yourself to any of the trimmings.’ These included milk, brown sugar and tiny mince pies, coated in icing sugar which reminded her of the frost outside. The house itself was wonderfully warm.
He took up the plate of pies, then they gathered their cups and Tara followed him through to a book-lined study which was home to his desk and chair, and a spare one to its left too, for visitors. She put her drink down on a side table.
‘So how can I help?’ he said, seating himself at his desk and swivelling the brown padded office chair to face her.
‘I was approached by Ralph Cairncross’s sister, Monica, when she returned from a stint working in New Zealand. It’s common for relatives who weren’t on the spot when a loved one died to come and ask questions.’
Dr Richardson nodded. ‘I’m sure I’d do the same.’
‘Firstly, I was curious to know whether there’s been speculation about Ralph Cairncross’s death amongst the scholars who study his work.’
He smiled, his eyes dancing. ‘You’ll be aware of Ralph’s well-reported views on old age, of course, and the way he glorified people who died young?’
‘Yes.’
‘Given that, several of us wondered briefly if he’d never intended to return home that night. The police reports said there were no tyre marks on the tarmac. Could he simply have driven off the bank of his own accord, at speed, thinking he probably wouldn’t make it?’
‘You don’t think so, though.’
He nodded. ‘You’re right, I don’t. I met Ralph on frequent occasions and for all his notorious views, he wasn’t committed to them on a personal level. I’d say he was loving life. And even if he’d seemed determined to cut his time short, it wouldn’t have been the most reliable way to do it.’
That was true.
‘And then, of course, the medics decided he’d probably had some kind of fit at the wheel, so the speculation about his possible suicide ended.’
Tara nodded and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Looking into matters for Dr Cairncross revealed that one of the men Ralph had been to see, the night of the accident, has also died since. He drowned too.’
‘Lucas Everett,’ Dr Richardson said, surprising her. ‘Oh yes, I know about that.’
But then Tara remembered. ‘Of course – Lucas was a researcher. At your department?’
Richardson nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘I hear that several of Ralph Cairncross’s books focus on life and death. I presume none of them feature a young man swimming out to sea and not managing to make his way back again?’ She hoped he wouldn’t question her reasons for asking. She didn’t want to mention the ways in which Ralph’s own death echoed his final book; it would be giving too much away.
Dr Richardson’s eyes widened and there was a tiny pause before he replied. ‘Whatever made you wonder that? As a matter of fact, The First and Last Day features a drowning in precisely the same circumstances. A young man swims out from the shore, further and further, knowing and accepting that he’s using his entire strength on his outward journey.’ His eyes were on hers. ‘I imagine you’re thinking just what I was when I heard of Lucas’s death. Coincidence?’
Tara felt a shiver run over her. Dr Richardson picked up one of the tiny mince pies from the white bone-china saucer and put it into his mouth, whole. After he’d finished it, he said: ‘If Lucas Everett was going to do something daring and stupid in honour of Ralph’s memory, he might have been influenced by that book. I assume he didn’t mean his adventure to end in such a final way though. I saw him in the department before he went home to Suffolk. He didn’t seem depressed.’
Had the escapade really been Lucas’s tribute to Ralph? Would he have done something so risky off his own bat?
‘Don’t quote me on this,’ Dr Richardson said, ‘but I can’t say I’m sorry that Ralph’s gone. He enjoyed life to the full, but it seems to me that he damaged the people he got close to.’
Tara was surprised. ‘Sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘I somehow assumed you’d be an admirer.’
‘Because I spend so much of my time researching and writing about him?’ Richardson shook his head. ‘That was all triggered by my trying to understand what the hell made him tick.’
‘Did you ever work it out?’
He rubbed his chin with the fingers of his right hand. ‘I’m not sure I did. People put forward ideas, of course. Sadie, Ralph’s wife, suggested his obsession with youth might be to do with his maternal grandparents. They’d both been very ill in old age. And then, when Ralph’s mother died young, apparently people kept saying “at least she never had to contend with the sort of suffering that her parents did”.’
‘But you don
’t buy that?’
Dr Richardson’s eyes met hers. ‘I think Sadie knew in her heart of hearts that his attitudes were unhealthy, and that she was looking for ways to excuse his behaviour. Whether that was because she was still – against the odds – very much in love with him, or whether she wanted to convince herself that she’d been right in supporting him for so long, I’m not sure.’ He swallowed some more coffee. ‘His views were a mystery to me. If you love your youthful companions you ought to want them to grow into something. Part of the beauty of youth is the promise of what it will deliver later. And the beauty doesn’t dwindle with age, it changes in colour and depth. People who’ve lived a long life have the world in their eyes and certainty in their step. There’s nothing more compelling than that. A young person is like the opening chapters of a story – fresh and exciting – but it’s only with age that you get the whole book.’ He smiled. ‘I haven’t given up, when it comes to unravelling Ralph’s psychological make-up. I want to do more research on his parents. And he’s got a wealth of other material I’d like to study too.’
‘Really?’
Richardson nodded. ‘A whole archive of papers: works and memorabilia from other writers and artists who held similar views to his. I’m planning to contact Sadie about the collection he put together to see if she’ll let me have access.’
Tara would be more than curious to see what theories he came up with. She ate one of his mini mince pies herself. It was still faintly warm and tasted of brandy and peel. ‘What about the dedication in Ralph Cairncross’s last book?’ she said. ‘Do you know who that message was for?’
Richardson’s eyes were twinkling again. ‘Ah. Another hot topic. “To T, who managed to escape unscathed. You are blessed indeed.”’ He leant forward, his elbows on his desk. ‘A favourite theory is that T is Tess Curtis, who was Ralph’s PA for around twenty years.’ He gave Tara a look. ‘Impressive staying power, some might say. It’s rumoured that she had a reasonably extended affair with him in the early days of their working relationship. It had been over for a number of years though, if the gossip is correct, yet she’d stayed single. And then – around the time that Ralph would have submitted his last novel to his publisher – she took up, rather publicly, with another well-known writer she’d met through Ralph.’
