by Clare Chase
‘If it’s true – that the dedication was to Tess Curtis – does that imply that Ralph had a lot of affairs, and that he was aware his partners were usually left damaged afterwards?’
Richardson nodded. ‘That would be my reading of it. And it fits. He enjoyed the idea of being a rogue and a heartbreaker.’
If that was the case, Tara could hardly believe the way Cairncross had openly advertised his cruelty and arrogance in print. She felt her pulse rate soar as her mind filled with all the things she would have liked to have said to the man.
‘Unfortunately, Tess Curtis’s affair with the other guy didn’t last,’ Dr Richardson went on. ‘Their break-up was just as well publicised as the original hook-up was.’
‘Was Tess still working for Ralph Cairncross when he died?’
Richardson nodded. ‘With him to the last. I should imagine she felt completely rudderless when he drowned. Though an academic from my faculty offered her a job within two weeks of her finding herself unemployed.’ He sighed. ‘I hope Professor Trent-Purvis proves to be a better boss than Ralph was, but his previous PA only lasted six months…’
Poor Tess Curtis. ‘You mentioned the dedication in Mr Cairncross’s final book was a hot topic. So there are other theories then, as well as the one about Tess?’
‘Yes.’ The man smiled again now. ‘There’s a second, less likely one.’
‘What’s that?’
‘One of Ralph’s Acolytes – you know he called them that? – Thom, claims he had a close shave with a vehicle – his theory is that the dedication relates to him for that reason. His near miss was just this last August, but although the book would have been well through the editorial process by then, Ralph could have requested a rewritten dedication at that point. Thom told me Ralph had shared some advance copies of the book with him and the other Acolytes. He noticed the dedication and wondered if it was meant for him. Apparently he managed to ask Ralph – he made a joke of it, hoping to coax the information out of him – but he wouldn’t comment, one way or the other. That figured. He loved to create an air of mystery.’
‘What kind of close shave did Thom have?’
Richardson gave her a look. ‘He said he was almost knocked down by a car driving at speed. He leapt out of the way; otherwise it would have hit him. The driver didn’t stop.’
‘You think he made it up?’
Richardson laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but I think it’s quite possible he was exaggerating the incident for attention. I happened to mention it to one of the others in the group and there was a bit of eye rolling going on. And he said himself that he didn’t bother reporting it to the police.’
But it was interesting, all the same.
‘I think the idea of being the object of one of Ralph’s dedications, even if it was insulting or tongue-in-cheek, was probably quite attractive. And now he’s gone, anyone can lay claim to being “the one” and no one will be able to prove them wrong.’
Tara hesitated for a moment. ‘I presume no one was killed in a hit-and-run in Ralph Cairncross’s novels?’ she said at last.
Richardson’s brow furrowed. He’d be wondering about her train of thought, but she couldn’t help that. She needed his input – she sure as hell hadn’t got time to read all of Cairncross’s books herself.
‘Not a hit-and-run exactly,’ he said slowly. ‘But in one novel, Interlude, the hero meets his end by walking calmly in front of an SUV on Route 66.’ His eyes met hers and she could see the wariness there now. ‘The vehicle drives on into the distance.’ There was a moment’s silence. Tara guessed Richardson was waiting to see if she’d explain herself. When she didn’t, he sighed. ‘To give you more background, every book Ralph wrote follows the same format. They all focus on a hero who’s lived their life in an extraordinary way – taking risks and making waves. And they each start at the close of the protagonist’s story. The hero spots their own particular “door” out of this world and embraces it, rather than choosing to live on into old age. The rest of the books are told in flashback, revealing the many death-defying adventures each hero undertook before that final decision to bow out whilst in their prime.’
The thought made Tara feel queasy. She could still taste the mince pie she’d eaten. ‘I read a little way into his final book,’ she said. ‘I found the way the death in the lagoon was described shocking; the combination of beauty and tranquillity, with such an unexpected decision to leave it all behind for no reason. I can’t get it out of my head.’
Dr Richardson nodded. ‘It’s a common reaction. However objectionable Ralph’s views were, his power to illicit emotion and create a searing image was second to none.’
‘What other types of deaths did his heroes embrace? Or heroines?’
‘Heroes only in Ralph’s novels.’ Dr Richardson frowned. ‘Let’s see.’ He swivelled his chair to face some shelves and pulled out a bit of stapled paper from a box file. ‘Going through his bibliography, there are plenty of them and all in different circumstances.’ He ran his eyes down the page. ‘In All But Over, the hero’s final moments are on an island. He finds an old storm shelter, standing on top of a windswept hill. It’s tiny and the door has no handle on the inside. He notes that it’s missing, nods and steps inside, where he sits down to read, knowing that it’s blowing a gale outside and that every minute he stays put he risks the wind blowing the door shut and trapping him. When it does just that he smiles and carries on reading.’
‘He dies of starvation?’ Tara said. It was horrific.
But Dr Cairncross shook his head. ‘He runs out of air. I presume Ralph thought that would be more aesthetically suitable.’
Right.
‘Then,’ he ran his finger down the list of books, ‘in On High, the protagonist steps straight off the top of a high-rise building and falls to his death. The setting’s New York at night, and the death there knocks you sideways all the more because of the beautiful descriptions of the lights of Manhattan. Whilst in The Fine Line, the death is by electrocution.’
Ralph’s ‘faulty’ lamp… Tara caught her breath. Could it be a coincidence? The feeling of deep unease in her stomach grew. ‘How did the hero receive his fatal shock in that book?’
‘The scene to start with is pastoral. The hero’s been lounging in a meadow, reading with the sun on his back whilst butterflies dance around the wildflowers he’s lying amongst. It’s an idyllic situation. In a moment of youthful exuberance he climbs a tree, but on the way up, he slips slightly and notices he’s not quite as nimble as he once was. Then at the top he looks through the branches – which are thick with leaves – and sees how close he is to an overhead power cable. He reaches out and the scene cuts just as he makes contact.’
He’d conveniently neglected to describe the full horror that would have ensued. His work was one big lie…
‘Then there’s Life Blood, where the protagonist rescues a dog from a burning house before making the decision to go back inside, even though the building is otherwise empty. There’s a description of the man walking further and further into the interior, just visible through the flames.’
Tara closed her eyes for a moment.
‘And then, of course, there’s the death in Ralph’s final book, Out of the Blue, which is caused by the bite of the sea snake.’
After she’d finished talking to Dr Richardson, Tara sat in her car to take stock of what she’d learned that day. Things had changed since she’d gone into his Newnham home. The constant knowledge, sitting on her shoulder, that her snake theory might be wrong seemed to have lifted and taken flight. Now, her journalist’s antennae told her she was definitely on to something. She had a new thrill of anxiety – at not having enough time to see the job through.
Only hours of the official investigation left…
What did she have? Four deaths – or near deaths – which each echoed one of Ralph Cairncross’s books. That was just too much of a coincidence. What if the author had made a deadly enemy
, setting something in motion that was only just starting to play out? But she couldn’t begin to imagine how such a person could have convinced Lucas Everett to do what he’d done.
Added to the way the deaths resonated with the books, she had Agneta’s doubts about the seizure that was supposed to have sent Ralph Cairncross off the road. He’d had no history of fits and she’d reckoned his blood results meant convulsions due to alcohol poisoning were unlikely.
And then there was the dead snake that had been found with Ralph’s body.
Finally, at the forefront of Tara’s mind was his dysfunctional family and the potentially unhealthy dynamic between Cairncross and his Acolytes – not to mention the long-suffering PA Dr Richardson had mentioned.
There were plenty of suspects… and, of course, still no hard evidence whatsoever.
What should she do? She’d discounted Blake’s idea now – that Lucas Everett could have put the snake in Ralph’s car and then taken his risky swim whilst he was consumed with guilt. She hadn’t bought that theory right from the start, but she’d done her bit. No one she’d spoken to had seen any sign that Lucas had been fixated on the author and the people who’d talked to him the night he’d died said he’d been in high spirits.
That left two options: either she was seeing a plot where there was none – I don’t think so – or some third party had already caused two deaths and had probably tried for a third – that of Thom King. It was interesting that the attempt on him – if it had been one – had been made before Ralph Cairncross died.
Dammit. She was just sitting there, theorising, when she needed to make use of every minute she had. She took a deep breath; she needed to think straight.
If a third party had been involved in Lucas Everett’s death, surely that person would have been seen at some point, even if the local police had drawn a blank at the time? It was an hour-and-a-half’s drive back to the coast, but a trip to Kellness offered the faint hope of picking up on some hard evidence. Without that she was definitely sunk.
So she made her decision. She was already belting along the A14 to Suffolk when she called Blake to update him and get his approval for her return trip. It was just as well that he happened to agree with her approach.
But by ten that night she’d started her drive home, knowing her luck had run out. She’d got no useful information; just a long journey to a shut-up seaside town, where most of the locals she spoke to had been tucked up in bed when Lucas Everett had taken that last swim, out from the shore beyond his mother’s house.
She parked her car on Riverside and then checked her emails on her phone as she walked across the common, briefly removing one glove to do so. She saw that Wilkins had booked in a feedback session with himself and Blake to discuss her ‘performance’ at Philippa Cairncross’s interview. She could hardly wait. And he’d also set out her tasks for the following day, now she was back on the Hunter case. She’d be with Max Dimity, doing a door-to-door, close to a fight that had taken place the day before. Max would fill her in and ‘bring her up to speed’. He could give her some much-needed direction, according to her boss.
She assumed that was supposed to sting. Wilkins clearly didn’t realise what a welcome thought it was, not having to spend the following day working with him. Tara liked what she’d seen of Max. They both shared a healthy scepticism about Wilkins, anyway.
But it didn’t alter her frustration over the deaths of Ralph Cairncross and Lucas. She felt so powerless. Her emails also included one from Monica Cairncross, asking about her progress. She hadn’t explained the official work she’d been allowed to carry out on her brother’s case. She’d wanted to see how things panned out, and now she was glad. She’d been flying up until now on her journalist’s instinct and the trip was over. Officially. But that day’s discussions with Dr Richardson had switched her mojo back on.
She allowed herself to focus on the unknown enemy she was now sure she was up against. They’d been clever. She shivered. The truth was, sometimes people did get away with murder – quite literally. Not all killers were caught. She glanced up from her phone towards her house, dark and deserted, surrounded by the shadowy common. She was dog tired, but she wanted to think how to phrase her reply to Ralph Cairncross’s sister before she allowed herself to unwind.
Possible words were playing round in her head, forming and reforming.
It left her completely unprepared when a hand came down on her shoulder, gripping her tight…
Fourteen
Her training came back to her instantly. She didn’t consciously process the thoughts that led to her reaction. Thumb innermost on her right shoulder blade, strong fingers on her collarbone. He was right behind her, not off to one side. The information came to her altogether, along with the correct reaction. Her right forearm smacked down and behind her to where her attacker’s groin ought to be.
‘Bloody hellfire.’ The words came out on the back of a deep groan, and she felt the grip loosen. ‘I taught you too well, that’s for sure.’
She didn’t have to turn around to know who was there.
Instead of smacking Kemp a second time where it would hurt him most – which was sorely tempting – she made do with a violent stream of curses and abuse instead. After a minute or so she finally stopped and fought to get her breath back.
‘I don’t know why you’re so cross,’ Kemp said. He looked injured, both physically and emotionally. ‘You came out of that just fine. And I can’t make sure you’re still on form if you know what’s coming.’ He managed to straighten up and then laughed.
Tara gritted her teeth. ‘Not funny, you bastard,’ she said. ‘I’m aware I’m in good shape. I don’t need you to prove it to me.’ He of all people knew the sort of fears she’d had to contend with as a teenager. But this sort of trick was entirely in line with his MO. He’d constantly kept her on her toes when he’d taught her self-defence, back when she’d met him at the tender age of seventeen.
Kemp laughed again. ‘Yeah, right. Everyone doubts themselves. I can confirm that you’re still a danger to all those around you. So, next time you’re on a case that puts you in harm’s way, you’ll have that bit of extra confidence.’
She gave him a look, her head on one side.
‘You can thank me later,’ he said. He was lifting up a suitcase now. He must have dumped it on the ground nearby, just before he’d grabbed her.
‘And you’re thinking I’m going to express my gratitude by offering you a bed for the night?’
‘I haven’t shared yours for a bit,’ he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.
‘And you can’t share it now.’ It came out immediately – a reflex response. But she was exhausted.
‘You are such a killjoy sometimes.’ But the smile was still present. ‘Either way, I could murder a beer. I thought you were never coming home.’
‘You haven’t been waiting out here? Why the hell didn’t you call me?’
‘I was just wondering whether to.’ He nodded over his shoulder, back towards Riverside. ‘I only got here half an hour ago, to be honest, but it feels like forever. I’ve been waiting in the pickup. Fancied giving you a surprise if I could.’ He laughed. ‘I knew it would be more fun. So, why the late return? Is it a new beau, or work?’
She sighed. She was so bloody exhausted. It was well past eleven now and she’d been up since five. ‘A case – and a weird one at that. Come on then. I’ll tell you all about it inside.’
Half an hour later, after swearing him to secrecy, she’d relayed what had been going on, including Wilkins’ scepticism and general obnoxiousness.
Kemp sat back in his chair, the remains of his beer next to him on a side table. ‘Interesting.’ He drew the word out.
She’d been fighting sleep, but now she sat up straighter again. ‘Kemp, if you’re at a loose end, you can’t come sniffing round this case. I shouldn’t even have told you as much as I have.’ She glanced pointedly at his suitcase. ‘Are you at a loose end? I thought yo
u were working on that job in Glasgow.’ The last time he’d shared his news, he’d been investigating a protection racket.
He gave her a look. ‘I got bored. Thought I’d come and see how you’re doing.’
‘It went pear-shaped, you mean? And you had to get out of town fast?’
He grinned. ‘You know me too well. I’m due in London again after Christmas, but as I was passing…’
‘Kemp,’ she summoned up as much firmness as she could muster, ‘don’t meddle in this. It’s as thin as hell as it is, and I really want to crack it. Officially my time’s run out, but I want to angle for another go. Wilkins will do almost anything to make me look stupid. I don’t need you to help him.’
‘I’m hurt by your lack of confidence.’ He swigged down the last of his drink. He was still grinning and she carried on fixing him with her gaze. At last he sighed. ‘All right. Understood, mate.’
‘As for somewhere to stay, why don’t you try Bea? I think she’s got space. And she’s had you before, hasn’t she, whilst I was away? She’ll give you friends’ rates.’
Kemp nodded. ‘She did last time.’ He glanced at Tara. ‘She’s a gem. And I haven’t seen her since her old man died.’ He went to get himself another beer from the fridge without asking and opened it before Tara could protest. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s being brave.’ If Kemp booked in with her, Tara would have a spy on the inside, to tell her how Bea was really coping. He could be a handful, but Bea had liked him, the last time he’d stayed. And she still hero-worshipped him too, for showing Tara there was light at the end of the tunnel when she’d been stalked in her teens.
