by Clare Chase
‘Anyone else go in around that time?’ Wilkins asked.
Megan shook her curls. ‘No one else who needed to use the entry phone, rather than letting themselves in. All the same, I checked the image of a guy who arrived a couple of minutes later and entered independently, just in case. The security people recognised him as a resident. So it seems as though this hooded figure was the person visiting Christian Beatty – unless he met with someone who was already inside the apartment block, of course.’
Wilkins nodded. ‘And what about later in the evening?’
Megan clicked on the video again and skipped forward. ‘I found what looks like the same person in the hood, leaving at nine twenty,’ she said. And although the footage was even less good this time, as the camera only caught the person’s rear view, the coat and their gait looked the same.
‘A woman,’ Wilkins said. ‘Or a man wearing a woman’s coat?’
Megan nodded. ‘Then there are a couple of others that also left in the run-up to ten o’clock, when Tara and Max’s witness says things went quiet in Beatty’s flat.’ She showed them the footage. ‘Of course, it’s not conclusive. He could have been chatting to another resident from the apartment block, in which case the comings and goings outside won’t mean anything. The residents’ committee has email addresses for everyone who lives in the building. We’re contacting them all with the images and times to see if anyone can confirm the identities of the people who were recorded, and what they were doing there. And we’re asking each of them if they visited Beatty too.’
‘Good work, Megan,’ Blake said, leaping in before he could stop himself. ‘And what about Beatty’s own movements?’
She nodded. ‘He left the block, unaccompanied, at twenty past one.’ She found the footage. Beatty had been walking with a spring in his step, hands in his pockets. He wore a jacket and scarf but no hat, and he wasn’t obviously drunk. The line he took was straight, and purposeful.
‘We should remember,’ Wilkins said, ‘that this is more than likely a tragic accident. A young man who had a few drinks and decided to go a bit wild. Beatty was a student here in Cambridge. Perhaps something he’d seen or talked about last night reminded him of that particular jump. Maybe it was something he’d always wanted to do himself.’
‘Though his family weren’t aware that he had any interest in night climbing, or that he’d tried it before,’ Blake said.
Wilkins’ look was derisive. ‘No, but what self-respecting student would tell his parents about something like that?’
‘Fair point.’ But there was more work to do, whether his DS liked it or not. ‘All the same, it would be worth talking to his old college to see if he was ever caught climbing. And checking his name against any related news stories and blogs too, rather than making assumptions.’
He’d tried to put it tactfully – well, a bit, anyway. Wilkins looked as though he’d taken the comment as a rebuke. It took a moment for his DS to turn to Megan and raise a ‘you’ll do that, won’t you?’ eyebrow. He hadn’t bothered to convey ‘please’.
‘Will do,’ she said.
‘Anything from Beatty’s mobile yet, Megan?’ Blake asked.
The woman shook her head. ‘Nothing significant that I can see in the last few days. He called his mum, and he’d been in touch with his agency before the weekend. Whoever was with him last night must have turned up unexpectedly, made their plans some other way, or longer ago. I’ll keep going back in time, just in case.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Had Beatty’s parents or his agent noticed him acting depressed or worried recently? Or out of character?’ Tara asked. The look in her green eyes was intense.
Wilkins shook his head. ‘His work was going well – he’d just been awarded a new contract with Armani – and he seemed to be enjoying life. It would point to misadventure rather than suicide.’
Blake looked over at her and Max. ‘Anything useful from the apartment block residents – apart from what you passed on to Megan about the visitor?’
‘Nothing that indicates he was depressed,’ Tara said. ‘But we spoke to an ex-girlfriend of his who lives downstairs. She noticed a change in him a while back, when he started hanging out with Ralph Cairncross and his crowd.’
Blake saw Wilkins raise his eyes to heaven.
‘She says he pretty much disowned her at that point.’ Tara’s voice was firm and clear in the quiet room. ‘It sounds as though his social circle got smaller. But the people we spoke to also thought he seemed happy with the way his life was panning out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Nothing much of note in Beatty’s flat,’ Wilkins said. ‘There were two coffee cups though, which ties in with the witness downstairs who said she heard voices.’ His tone was grudging. ‘No sign that he’d been drinking anything strong inside the flat. Just a couple of empty beer cans in the recycling, and a glass that was still wet with beer in the dishwasher. Everything will be analysed, of course.’
Tara put up a hand.
‘Yes?’ Wilkins said, after a moment.
‘I just wondered if there were any similarities at all between the circumstances of Christian Beatty’s death and those of Lucas Everett or Ralph Cairncross?’
Wilkins’ lips went thin. ‘No,’ he said.
There was silence. But the subject needed airing. Megan Maloney didn’t know about the digging Tara had been doing into the previous two deaths and it looked as though Wilkins hadn’t been planning to bring it up. ‘There’s the fact that they were both associates of Ralph Cairncross, present at the gathering he attended the night he died,’ Blake said.
‘But there was no note left this time,’ Wilkins countered.
Blake’s patience was wearing thin. He took a deep breath. ‘True, but what about the bottle you mentioned to me, Patrick?’
Wilkins let out a sharp sigh. ‘The CSIs found an empty vodka bottle at the foot of the building which Christian Beatty had climbed. No clear prints on it, just smudges. It could have been anyone’s.’
‘Nonetheless, there was also a vodka bottle found with Lucas Everett’s clothes. And the lack of anything discernible might mean the bottle was wiped.’
‘Mr Beatty was wearing gloves when he jumped, wasn’t he?’ Tara said. ‘So the lack of his prints would make sense. What brand was the vodka?’
‘Something unusual.’ Wilkins looked down at his notes. ‘The kind of thing he probably drank to make himself feel superior to everyone else.’
Put the guy under the tiniest amount of pressure and his true colours showed. His prejudice against the dead man was already clear.
‘Adnams East Coast,’ Wilkins said, looking up again. ‘Suffolk company. At least he was supporting local business.’
‘Same brand,’ Tara said.
Her eyes met Blake’s for a second.
‘Lucas Everett bought his himself, didn’t he?’ Blake said. ‘At the Co-op in Kellness?’
Tara nodded.
And dead men told no tales, so if this was more than coincidence, then whoever had been present when Everett died must have decided to buy the same booze on this occasion. Was someone taunting them? Giving them tiny bits of evidence, knowing it wasn’t enough? He felt anger heat him, coursing through his veins. He was increasingly sure this was someone on a mission, who delighted in their own cleverness. Someone who couldn’t resist showing off. But that might be their downfall…
Blake turned to Tara, ignoring the look on his DS’s face. ‘I think you’d better give a run-down of everything you’ve got on Cairncross and Everett before we carry on,’ he said. ‘It’s my feeling that this is a coordinated series of well-disguised attacks. We can’t prove it, but it’s certainly time to bring Megan up to speed.’
Twenty
Tara went through everything they knew about the deaths of Ralph Cairncross and Lucas Everett – and also outlined her theories. As before, Wilkins leapt in to challenge her thinking, but she could take it. She wasn’t expecting anyone to acce
pt her words on trust.
Once she’d finished, Blake stood up. He was dressed in a suit that made him look like a million dollars, despite the rough stubble and dark rings under his eyes. When she’d commented on his wardrobe the week before, to Max, he’d told her Blake’s sister was a fashion designer, so that little mystery was solved. He certainly didn’t seem the sort to set much store by material goods. The way he could still look unkempt in his bespoke suits caused raised eyebrows with DCI Fleming, but as Blake had been just the same four years earlier when Tara had first met him, she guessed he wasn’t intending to change. She was glad.
‘We need more time to think this through, but not on empty stomachs.’ Blake looked from Tara and Max to Wilkins. ‘What time were you all up?’
‘Round about four,’ Max said. ‘I like my early mornings, though.’
Blake grinned. ‘Just as well. But you can’t run on empty. Let’s reconvene at the Tram Depot. I’ll get the pizzas in.’
Ten minutes later they were huddled inside the pub, crowded round two slatted tables pushed together. The glowing lights and red walls next to them were cosy. Under different circumstances it might almost have made Tara relax, but today she was on edge. She had a Coke in front of her, and was sitting between Blake and Max. Wilkins was directly opposite her. Too close for comfort. Each time she glanced up, his eyes were on hers. She tried to look at Megan Maloney next to him instead; it was much less annoying. The pizza orders were in, and now she could tell Wilkins was just waiting for his chance to carry on rubbishing her theories. The place was packed – they’d be able to talk freely without being overheard.
Blake took a swig of his coffee and looked up. ‘I don’t believe these deaths are a coincidence. Despite that, they might not be the result of foul play – but I’m increasingly worried it’s a possibility. As Tara explained, her theory revolves around a perpetrator who gambles. They might have tampered with Ralph Cairncross’s work lamp the week before he was killed, but we have no proof of that. If they did, they’d have needed access to the family’s garage, but that doesn’t narrow the field of suspects.’
He glanced sideways at Tara and she tried not to react to those dark eyes in the wrong way. Sheesh. He was asking for information on a potential murder case; she ought to be able to edit out the warming effect his gaze had on her. It wasn’t as though she was on the vodka.
‘That’s right.’ She visualised the Cairncross’s property. ‘The garage is part of a large outbuilding, set apart from the house, quite close to the road. The gardens are overgrown, and the garage wasn’t locked when I visited.’
Wilkins put down the lemonade he’d been drinking and winced. ‘I hope they didn’t see you entering their property without permission.’
Tara smiled. ‘I didn’t enter – I just tried the handle. But the point is, anyone from the house or coming up the driveway could easily have got inside without being seen.’
‘All right,’ said Blake, as Tara watched Wilkins open his mouth again. ‘Then – once more all we have is guesses and circumstantial evidence – but someone could have put a grass snake in Ralph Cairncross’s car a week later. This would also indicate a chancer. Someone who gets a kick out of setting certain wheels in motion, then standing back to see what happens. If the snake was put in the car, it seems likely that it was placed there whilst Cairncross attended the gathering at the house on the Forty Foot Bank. If it had been put in earlier – when he was at home on Madingley Road – he would probably have seen it before he left the city and either crashed there, or pulled up and halted his journey.’
Two members of the pub’s staff appeared, each carrying two pizzas. Tara could smell the chorizo and felt her stomach rumble, in spite of everything.
‘Thanks.’ Blake paused as they set the platters down and went back for one more. Once they’d all been served he ripped a piece off the pizza he’d ordered. ‘We know from Sadie Cairncross that her husband wasn’t the sort to lock his car, any more than he was to wear a seatbelt, or stay sober at the wheel.’
Tara had just swallowed a piece of the chorizo pizza practically whole. She swigged some Coke. ‘I guess we’ll need to talk to the other partygoers next,’ she said.
‘But we—’ Wilkins began.
‘Yes,’ Blake said to Tara. He turned to his DS. ‘We’ll have to talk to them, Patrick. I know what you’re going to say, and I agree with you. This is far from conclusive. But whilst we’re asking them about how recently they each saw Christian Beatty – which is simply following routine procedure – I want to alert them to the possibility that someone’s going round, deliberately putting them in harm’s way. Or encouraging them to do the job themselves. I couldn’t live with my conscience if I stood back and another one of them ended up dead.’
Wilkins gave a series of sharp, annoying sighs. He’d probably start shaking his head in a minute. He hadn’t even started on his food yet, which was unusual.
‘So, let’s say just for a moment that the snake was put into Cairncross’s car out in the Fens,’ Blake said. ‘How could that have been achieved?’
Max leant forward, putting down the bit of Cajun chicken-laden dough he’d been about to eat. ‘The perpetrator would have to have caught the snake and kept it somewhere, unless it was completely impromptu. And if they’d been keeping it in Cambridge they must have taken it to the Fens in a vehicle at some point. That could have been done on the night in question or in advance, of course.’
Wilkins had ‘give that man a medal’ sarcasm written all over his face. He didn’t try to interrupt this time though; his mouth was finally full.
Blake nodded. ‘Agreed. And if they’d brought it over ahead of time, they’d have to have found a place to keep it locally – somewhere close to the house, probably – but where no one else would spot it. Or, if they brought it to the house on the night of the party, they must somehow have done it without attracting attention. They might have managed it if they’d had a legitimate reason for being there anyway.’
‘We should find out what the layout of the place is like,’ Tara said, ‘including the grounds and parking.’ She swigged some more of her Coke and reached for the next slice of pizza, pulling on it until the mozzarella snapped.
‘The house overlooks the entrance and the driveway,’ Wilkins said. ‘I went there, remember. I interviewed the party-goers the day Cairncross was fished out of the drain.’
‘So, if someone brought the snake that evening by car or motorbike they would probably have been seen or heard,’ Megan said. ‘Though if it was after dark they might have managed it. But it would have been a risk. Alternatively, they could have dropped it off in advance and hid it in some kind of container nearby, or—’
‘Or someone slung it over their shoulder and strode up the driveway hoping it would be mistaken for an unusual new fashion item,’ Wilkins said. He dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin.
‘You might scoff,’ Blake said lightly, ‘but you should see some of the designs my sister comes up with. Grass snake couture could be the next big thing.’ Megan and Max smiled. Wilkins didn’t.
‘Let’s move on to the next two deaths,’ Blake said, leaning back on the wooden bench seat they occupied. ‘One young, fit man drinks too much, leaves a note seemingly acknowledging he might not return, and then swims so far out to sea that he can’t make it back again. Then a second, similarly healthy, young man makes a dangerous jump on a high building in icy weather – again, drink may be involved. Both seemed to be displaying the sort of daring Ralph Cairncross would have encouraged, from what I’ve read about him.’
Tara nodded. ‘I think you’re right. I’ve been reading his novels over the last week and a half. He believes people should fill their lives with exciting experiences, even if they’re dangerous – because a long life isn’t worth striving for, if it’s a tame one. And then, when people reach a certain point, they should actively seek death rather than running from it.’ Tara could see the pain in Max’s eyes as she
spoke and wished he didn’t have to hear views that must strike him at his heart. Having lost his wife so young the twisted nature of Cairncross’s doctrines were personal for him, just as they’d been for Bea when she’d sat next to Tara, reading about the man.
‘Do the books tell us anything else?’ Blake said.
‘The deaths so far each resonate with the way one of Cairncross’s fictional characters dies.’ Tara met his questioning look. ‘His novels feature a man who swims too far out to sea, one that steps off a high-rise building and one where a man dies in water from a snake bite.’ And then she told him about the other causes of death their conspirator had at their disposal: fire, suffocation and electrocution.
As she finished their group fell silent, and she was conscious of the noise around them: laughter, someone exclaiming over a text they’d just opened, and music playing in the background.
‘So how does someone get a man to write a note about the daring act they’re planning to perform, and then to swim so far that they can’t get back?’ Wilkins said. ‘I seem to remember asking that before. And not getting a reasonable answer.’
Tara remembered too. Lucas Everett couldn’t have gone to help someone pretending to be in trouble. It wouldn’t fit with the note he’d left. An adventure in memory of Ralph. And if I die, then death is not the end. Hardly the act of a man rushing to someone’s rescue. That left someone somehow encouraging him to do what he’d done. ‘Someone he admired or felt indebted to might have planted the idea,’ Tara said. She could hear herself how weak it sounded. ‘If that “someone” was actually there with him, either watching, or even accompanying him, I can believe it happened that way.’ No one looked convinced. She ripped off another bit of her pizza and hoped its spicy goodness might trigger some inspiration. She had a nasty feeling chorizo didn’t count as ‘brain food’, however delicious it was.
