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

by Clare Chase

  The man on the other side worked long hours for a big accountancy firm in London and had rarely crossed paths with Christian. He said the flat’s modern soundproofing meant he couldn’t even tell them what music the dead man had liked.

  The rest of his floor gave similar results. How had these people lived so close together without finding out more about each other? But then Tara had more reason than most to monitor the people around her; it helped keep you safe.

  ‘Let’s go to the apartment directly underneath Christian Beatty’s,’ she said. ‘You never know.’

  Max nodded. ‘Good idea.’

  They walked along the plush carpet, past gilt-framed mirrors. At the end of the corridor ahead of them was an arched window, looking out towards Coe Fen, its grassland dotted with evergreen trees and crossed with paths. It was only a short walk from here to the river, as well as Sheep’s Green – where lambs would graze in the spring – and the Paradise Nature Reserve. It would be idyllic in summer.

  ‘Reckon I’m in the wrong job,’ Max said.

  Tara smiled. ‘You and me both. I can’t imagine what this lot would think if they saw my house. Their hair would probably fall out from shock.’

  They knocked on the door of the apartment below Christian Beatty’s. The woman who answered was clothed in a dressing gown. Her blonde hair was tousled and her eyes surprised and bleary.

  Tara sympathised. Catch her unexpectedly on a weekend morning and she’d be much the same – except wearing more layers, of course. She and Max took out their warrant cards. ‘We’re speaking to several people in the building about Christian Beatty, whose apartment is just upstairs. Would it be possible to come in, Ms…? I’m sorry, I don’t have your name.’

  ‘Cammie Clifford,’ the woman said. She retreated into her flat’s hallway to allow them to come in, closing the door after them. ‘What’s this about?’

  Tara stepped forward. ‘You knew him?’

  The woman nodded and Tara explained what had happened, waiting for the news to sink in. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘It must be an awful shock.’

  Cammie Clifford nodded again, this time in slow motion.

  ‘Would you like me to make you a drink – a coffee or something?’ Max said quietly.

  ‘There’s some on the side,’ she said. ‘I was just about to have my first cup of the day when you arrived.’

  ‘I’ll get it for you.’ Max turned away.

  Cammie sank down onto a yellow leather sofa whilst Dimity crossed the open-plan room to the kitchen area. A space-age-looking coffee machine gleamed on the worktop, an espresso cup already in place and full to the brim.

  He brought it over to her.

  ‘So did you socialise with Christian?’ Tara asked, as the woman sipped her drink.

  ‘Not exactly, but we’d bumped into each other a few times in the gym. We chatted, and we’d got as far as working out that my flat was directly below his. And then one day I was catching the train to King’s Cross for a meeting and found myself sitting opposite him.’ Her eyes were still round with the shock of the news and she stared into space as she spoke, rather than looking at Tara.

  ‘I see.’

  Tara had taken a seat opposite Cammie Clifford on an armchair, and Max joined them now, perching on the edge of a second.

  ‘Had you chatted to him recently?’ Max said.

  The woman frowned. ‘Fairly. I last saw him in the gym a week or so ago. And the train journey I mentioned was back in November.’

  ‘How did he seem to you?’ Tara asked.

  ‘His usual self,’ Cammie said. ‘On the train he was off on some modelling job. It was going to keep him in Paris for several days and he sounded pretty pleased about that. He went off to catch the Eurostar when we got to London.’

  It sounded glamorous, but Tara couldn’t imagine enjoying the work. Presumably it involved long hours standing around whilst other people told you what to do. And you must have to watch your weight and keep working out. Tara kept fit herself, but she ate and drank what she liked. Even if she’d had the looks, there were some sacrifices she wouldn’t be prepared to make.

  ‘And more recently, at the gym?’ Max said.

  Cammie Clifford’s face fell. ‘He was even more buoyed up then. He’d heard he was up for a new contract. It was with Armani. It wasn’t confirmed, but he was pretty confident; already excited and telling people.’

  Tara couldn’t let go of the idea that this death was part of the larger conspiracy she felt sure she was on to, but she made the effort to pull back. Wilkins was the one who was blinkered, not her. So, had Christian Beatty heard back about the contract, and if so, what had the results been? It was possible he’d had high hopes, puffed himself up in front of his friends and then had a knock-back. It would have been humiliating, but surely not enough to make him give up on everything? Unless there’d been other factors involved too. She made a note to find out. If Blake and Wilkins were talking to his agent, they’d probably already know the answer.

  ‘And after that last time in the gym, you didn’t have any more recent contact with him?’ Tara said.

  Cammie Clifford’s eyes met hers at last. ‘No, but I did hear him.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘These apartments cost an arm and a leg, yet they do have a downside. The soundproofing’s great between adjacent flats, but not so good from floor to floor. So I’d sometimes be aware of him playing music, or moving around.’ She blushed. ‘And occasionally I’d notice if he had a woman round.’

  ‘Anything last night at all?’ Max’s voice was soft, and Tara held her breath.

  ‘Not late,’ Cammie said, ‘but maybe eightish or thereabouts, just after I’d finished my supper, he was talking to someone.’

  ‘On the phone?’

  But Cammie shook her head. ‘No. There were two voices.’ Suddenly she looked at them more intently, as though reading their minds. ‘But it was all quiet later on. And I couldn’t even tell you if it was a man or a woman he had with him. You just get this sort of background murmuring effect down here. I tend to filter it out once I’ve noticed it; it’s a useful tactic if you want to avoid getting irritated.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to notice what time they stopped talking, did you?’ Tara said.

  The woman frowned. ‘I’m not absolutely sure, but I went to have a bath at around ten, and it was certainly quiet by that point. I remember lounging there in the bubbles and appreciating it.’

  They’d finished the interview, and Cammie Clifford was just showing them out, when the woman paused. ‘Have you been to the ground floor yet?’

  Tara shook her head.

  ‘Try apartment four,’ the woman said. ‘Ellie Wagner lives there. I used to see her with Christian occasionally. I think maybe they had a thing going at one point.’

  As the door closed, Tara said, ‘Wilkins ought to be pleased with all of this information we’re adding to his original work on Cairncross.’

  Max gave a wry smile. ‘Ought to be, yes. And I’ll bet he still won’t believe it’s all one case.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ She wondered what Blake’s latest thoughts would be. ‘Let’s go to security next and ask them to send last night’s CCTV files to the station.’

  As Tara talked to the apartment block’s security guard, Max called the station to let them know what to expect, and about the timings of the voices Cammie Clifford had heard. Then they went to the ground floor as the woman had suggested. There was no reply at number four, but the person next door appeared when they tried for a second time, his hair wet, as though he’d just dressed after a shower.

  They showed their IDs and asked if the guy had a number for her.

  He shook his head. ‘Afraid not, but she usually goes to Aromi on Bene’t Street for breakfast on a Sunday. A gang of us went once.’

  They thanked him and turned towards the exit to the block.

  ‘Sounds like the best excuse we’ll get for a coffee all morning,’ Tara said, holding the main door o
pen for Max. She was feeling the early start.

  Max had googled Ellie Wagner en route to the café. She’d been easy enough to find. It turned out she was a member of the residents’ committee for Christian Beatty’s apartment block and had been quoted in the local paper in an article about street noise. She was a striking-looking woman, with gold-blonde hair, angular features and a wide mouth which Tara guessed Wilkins would call ‘sensual’. She and Beatty must have made an impressive couple if Cammie Clifford had been right about their relationship.

  Aromi was crowded, its warm glowing interior humming with chat, its windows misted with condensation. The smell of baked goods and coffee made Tara’s stomach rumble, in spite of their mission.

  Almost as soon as they entered, Max nudged her. ‘Over on the far side there?’

  Tara nodded. ‘I think you’re right.’ Ellie Wagner was alone, a newspaper spread out on the table in front of her, a coffee and a croissant at her elbow. She had the air of someone who might linger over her food for some time to come.

  She and Max exchanged a glance and then she walked forward to the woman’s table. ‘Excuse me,’ Tara said, approaching her. ‘Ellie Wagner?’

  Five minutes later, Tara and Max had coffees too: she an Americano, he a mocha. Tara was sitting opposite Ms Wagner at her table for two. Max had managed to secure a space on the next table along when a couple had left. The place was cosy, so the distance was comfortable for a quiet chat without crowding her. They’d broken the news as gently as they could. Shock still registered on the woman’s face and her eyes watered slightly.

  ‘We understand you were good friends – at least at one time,’ Max said.

  He had a comforting voice, Tara thought. Of course, he knew all too well what it was like to receive the worst possible news. It must be harrowing, reliving the day he’d heard of his wife’s death each time he had to inform someone of a fatality.

  Ellie Wagner swallowed and nodded. ‘We met at a residents’ drinks party on the roof terrace,’ she said, ‘around eighteen months ago now.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve hardly seen him recently. Time’s gone past so quickly. I guess I’ve bumped into him a couple of times in the last six months. It was just a nod and a smile by then.’ She sighed. ‘He was planning to come to the Christmas drinks do. We hold that in the atrium downstairs.’

  ‘Did you get any impression of how he was doing these days?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Not really. I’d see his photo in a magazine occasionally, though, so I knew he was flourishing work-wise.’ She bit her lip. ‘It always brought me up short, seeing his face like that, without warning. I never quite got over my feelings for him, I suppose.’ She met Tara’s gaze. ‘We were sleeping together – only for a few months – but it meant a lot to me.’

  Tara paused. ‘Do you mind me asking why you broke up?’ she said. It was weird being a police officer. Even if Ellie Wagner did mind she’d be likely to answer without protesting. And yet it probably had no bearing whatsoever on Christian Beatty’s death. The latitude she had was a far cry from when Tara had been a journalist.

  The woman’s face was strained. ‘He joined a new circle of friends, around about a year ago now.’

  ‘The group that used to hang around with Ralph Cairncross?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. He met Ralph at some celebrity party in London, organised by one of the magazines he’d modelled for. Ralph sort of scooped him up – pulled him along, into his orbit.’ She looked from Tara to Max. ‘That’s what it was like. As though if you got too close you couldn’t pull free again.’ She took a sip of her coffee – it must be cold by now – and sat back in her chair for a moment, closing her eyes. ‘I still remember him telling me about their first meeting. Christian hadn’t read any of Ralph’s books, but he picked one up from Waterstones after they’d been introduced. He seemed really absorbed by it.’ She shook her head. ‘I dipped into it too, but I hated it – sort of boring and unpleasant at the same time. But I didn’t say so to Christian. I could tell he would have belittled my thoughts. He was already a convert.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Ralph and the group, whilst you were in the relationship with Christian?’ Max asked.

  She nodded slowly. ‘Just once. Ralph Cairncross kept saying “any friend of Christian’s is a friend of mine”, but by the time he’d said it to a third guest at his party, it was obvious what he meant. He wasn’t being inclusive. He was making it clear that he was only putting up with me because I was Christian’s girlfriend. As though he’d hate anyone to imagine that I was there at his invitation. And suddenly, I realised – or, well, thought I realised – that each new person he repeated it to was laughing at me as well, just as much as he was.

  ‘And when I turned to Christian, looking for support, I saw how uncomfortable he was. He’d become embarrassed by me.’ She held her coffee cup tightly in her right hand. Her knuckles were white. ‘I knew. And he could see that I knew.’

  She sighed. Her eyes were definitely damp now. ‘That was it for me and Christian. By Christmas of last year I’d lost him to them.’

  Nineteen

  Blake was sitting in a chilly meeting room with Wilkins, DC Megan Maloney and a mug of coffee when Tara and Max dashed in, sliding into seats round the table.

  Blake had called them all together for a briefing on Christian Beatty’s death. In an ideal world he’d want a much more hands-on role in this investigation, but Fleming had made it clear he needed to hold back. It was Patrick who’d dealt with Ralph Cairncross’s accident in the first place, and given Beatty’s death looked like misadventure – yet again – it didn’t warrant a DI’s involvement. Whereas – according to Fleming – it was the perfect investigation through which Patrick could extend his experience. ‘He can’t learn if you never give him his head’ was how she’d put it. And of course, you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Give him enough rope and he might even— He pushed the thought out of his mind. It was all very well, but instinct told him that there was a lot at stake here. Three deaths. And, as Tara had pointed out, two near misses. Was there really an innocent explanation? But innocent was the wrong word. Nothing that was connected with Ralph Cairncross could be described that way. Blake had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that Christian Beatty’s death wouldn’t be the last. With that in mind – and only paperwork left to do on the Hunter case – he’d taken time out to view the dead man’s apartment, and talk to his closest contacts. He thought he’d been remarkably restrained in letting his DS lead the questioning.

  ‘Patrick,’ he said, looking at the man he thought wholly unsuitable for promotion, ‘do you want to begin?’

  His DS nodded, the familiar cocksure look in his eye. Despite the man’s early start, he’d somehow found time to take care of his personal grooming. His hair gleamed in the light from the fluorescent tubes overhead. As far as Blake was concerned, that spoke of a man with the wrong priorities. ‘Deceased is Christian Fairbrother Beatty, of Gifford House – an apartment block off Fen Grove. I’ve arranged to attend the post-mortem tomorrow morning, so we might get more then. In the meantime, Agneta Larsson noted at the scene that she could smell alcohol on the deceased, so we assume he’d drunk quite heavily before he jumped. We don’t yet know if he deliberately leapt to his death, or if he was climbing and jumping from roof to roof on Amforth Street as a dare or a personal challenge. However, there was a gap he could have been trying to breach, judging by where he fell.’

  Megan Maloney put up a hand and Wilkins nodded at her. ‘I’ve had a look online. A few people who are associated with the Cambridge night-climbing community have mentioned the gap you’re referring to. It’s one people talk about as a challenge. People do attempt it successfully every couple of years, but another guy died, falling there, back in 2012. In his case, it seems he was inexperienced and should never have gone for it. It’s notoriously tricky, apparently.’

  ‘Thanks, Megan.’ Wilkins nodded. ‘Useful to have the background.’ He looked around
the room. ‘You’re all familiar with the night climbers, of course? They’re usually student crazies who endanger themselves and others by scrambling over various high-level bits of the city.’

  Blake noticed Max Dimity give a slight eye roll and mutter something to Tara. They were all already well aware of the night climbers.

  Wilkins must have heard the muttering too. ‘You had a question?’ His gaze fixed on Max.

  ‘We’ve spoken to a neighbour of Christian Beatty’s, sir, who heard voices in his flat from about eight in the evening until sometime before ten. I remembered DC Maloney was looking at the CCTV footage of the approach to the apartments, after I spoke to her on the phone earlier. I was just wondering what she’d seen.’

  Wilkins gave him a look. ‘I was coming to that next, as a matter of fact. Megan?’

  The DC turned her curly, dark-haired head round to face the room. ‘I scanned all the footage from six in the evening onwards. There was a fair amount of coming and going at that point. Then there was a quieter patch between six forty-five and seven fifty, and then’ – she looked at Tara and Max – ‘just after that, which would tie in with the information DCs Thorpe and Dimity phoned in earlier, there was a figure entering the apartment block, dressed in a hooded coat. Whoever they were, they were muffled up against the cold. The hood’s fur-lined and they’re looking down, but still.’ She turned to the table next to her and used a mouse and keyboard to bring up the video on the screen at the front of the room.

  Blake watched as the person – a woman? – approached the apartment along the pavement and pressed a button on the entry phone. The camera had been mounted on the front of the building, so it faced the figure from above, but as Megan had said, it didn’t give much away.