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

by Clare Chase

  ‘He says the two people who left Christian Beatty’s apartment block at around the same time as the hooded figure are accounted for now,’ Tara said, strands of her red-gold hair falling over her face. ‘One was a resident who has come forward, the second was a visitor who’s now been recognised. But no one has been able to identify the visitor in the hood.’

  He was about to reply but at that moment he heard the house door open and turned towards Stephen Ross. The man was around five eight, slight and elegant in a cream cashmere polo-necked jumper and jeans. Blake guessed he might be in his mid-twenties. His hair was very fair and his features were angular.

  Blake saw the look of recognition in his eyes as they lit on Tara, and then Ross met his gaze.

  ‘No need to bother with your IDs. I know DC Thorpe’s face.’ He held out a hand to Blake. ‘She was featured in an article recently, I believe. In Not Now magazine.’

  Blake saw Tara’s eyes darken. Giles, her former editor, had done his best to make her look unprofessional in the publication’s account of her work on the Samantha Seabrook murder case. He could see how much it got to her underneath, even though she was good at hiding her feelings.

  ‘If you read that, please know that it was full of exaggeration,’ she said.

  Stephen Ross shrugged. ‘It’s what I’d expect from that sort of publication.’ They were all in the hall now, and he closed the front door behind them.

  ‘Quite a remote location,’ Blake said.

  ‘One of the reasons Ralph wanted us to have the place,’ Ross replied. ‘The idea was for it to be a sort of retreat – where we could escape the world and be creative. Or at least, that was the plan.’

  The look he gave them both told Blake he didn’t appreciate them barging their way into what was supposed to be his haven.

  ‘What about for Christian Beatty?’ Tara asked. ‘His work was quite different from the rest of the group.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Stephen said. ‘He wasn’t a creative. He used this place to recharge his batteries after he’d been running around, posing for the cameras.’ He managed to keep his tone almost neutral but his words suggested he didn’t think much of modelling as a career. It matched Blake’s view, though his sister was always telling him what a tough job it was. She talked up the people who worked for her.

  ‘It’s interesting, in a way, that he was part of the group,’ Tara said.

  Blake guessed she’d noticed his prejudice too, and was playing to it, to soften the guy up. It was very much her style.

  ‘Yes, in many ways he was the odd one out.’ He put a slight emphasis on the word ‘he’, Blake noticed. It made him think of what Tara had said on the way over. Philippa Cairncross had implied that it was Stephen Ross who was on the periphery of the group. It almost sounded as though he’d been kept in the gang to make the rest feel more loud and outrageous by comparison.

  Ross was leading them down a long corridor, with doors coming off it. ‘But Ralph was inspired by his appearance. He had a weakness for physical beauty. Christian’s appeal was skin deep. I don’t mean that in a belittling way.’

  Blake couldn’t imagine how else he’d meant it…

  ‘Christian used to sit for Thom, too – Thom King, that is, the artist and another one of the gang.’ Blake could hear the inverted commas he put around that last word. Ross shook his head. ‘Thom was always saying he must paint Christian as often as possible, whilst he was still in his prime. Those paintings will be part of a small but valuable collection now.’

  Blake caught Tara’s eye for just a moment. The man sounded so cold and analytical. In fairness, you couldn’t expect anyone who’d hung around Ralph Cairncross to be an appealing character. Ross was living up to expectations.

  ‘Drinks?’ he asked.

  Blake eyed the array on a nearby side table. Just about every spirit you could imagine; though no Adnams-branded vodka. There was already a glass in use – containing something dark – whisky or brandy? Next to the table was a Sainsbury’s carrier bag.

  Stephen Ross followed his eyes. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We do have coffee in the kitchen if you’d like it.’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks,’ Blake said. Tara shook her head too.

  Ross sat down and stretched back on a large, slouchy leather sofa. ‘You police! I can see the way you’re looking at me. I’m not planning on drinking and driving if that’s what you think. I’m going to stay here tonight.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Blake said. The man was irritating him. He took a seat on a chair opposite Ross and Tara chose a second, smaller sofa at right angles to them both.

  Blake caught her eye. He’d remembered Fleming’s warnings about not being a control freak, and this was Tara’s party.

  ‘I understand you live on Grange Road?’ she said, turning to their host.

  Stephen Ross looked surprised at the sound of Tara’s voice. For a second he continued to glance at Blake, as though waiting for him to step in. Blake suddenly felt guilty for being there at all. If he’d let Tara come alone Ross wouldn’t have expected him to take charge. Tara must suffer prejudice all the time as a young female officer. Things were better than they had been, but the problems were still there – often a completely unconscious bias. But for all his protestations earlier, he hadn’t wanted Tara to come out to this place alone. Even if it had been Wilkins he’d have felt the same. The house was so remote – it wasn’t like interviewing someone in town – and his gut told Blake that one of Ralph Cairncross’s friends or family was a murderer.

  At last, Stephen Ross turned towards Tara and nodded.

  ‘Were you in town last night at all?’

  ‘I was, as a matter of fact, having dinner with an acquaintance in the Eagle from around seven until ten or thereabouts.’ He folded his arms. ‘Nowhere near where Christian was found. I didn’t see him whilst I was out.’ His tone was short.

  Unlike Blake, Tara always managed to hide her feelings well. ‘Not to worry,’ her voice was polite; deferential. Ross would no doubt appreciate it. ‘It was a long shot. And you went home after that?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Blake watched the man’s unfriendly eyes meet Tara’s over the rim of his glass of spirits. ‘I’m having a productive patch at the moment, creatively. I wanted to return to get my ideas down on paper. I made my evening out as short as possible.’

  ‘We’re just making sure we know where everyone was, for the record, and asking for alibis. It’s routine, given that three closely connected people have died in unusual circumstances, within a few months of each other.’

  ‘Is it really?’ Ross said. ‘Well, I can give you my dinner companion’s number. Other than that I can’t help. I live alone so no one can vouch for me later on.’ He frowned. ‘What’s going on? The police think someone else is involved in all this?’

  He pulled out a silver pen and a notepad from his pocket and began to write down the details they needed in tight, almost illegible handwriting.

  ‘It’s an outside possibility,’ Tara said, her tone calm. ‘But there are a few similarities between the ways Christian Beatty and Lucas Everett died.’

  Blake held his breath, whilst telling himself he was being ridiculous; she wouldn’t say what they were. She knew the importance of withholding details. There was always a chance one of their interviewees might mention them independently and give themselves away.

  ‘There’s even some crossover with Ralph Cairncross’s death too,’ Tara added.

  Blake watched the man’s eyes. No one knew the about the grass snake except the police and – if there was one – the murderer.

  Ross was frowning, and it was a long moment before he spoke. ‘Really?’ His manner was casual. ‘What’s that? I’d picked up on the way in which Lucas and Christian’s deaths mirror Ralph’s books, of course. But Ralph’s death doesn’t fit that pattern.’

  ‘You’ve read all of his novels, I suppose?’ Tara said.

  The man nodded, his pale blond fringe
flopping over one eye. He put his hand over his mouth for a second and rubbed his chin. ‘I wondered if there was a link between The First and Last Day and Lucas’s death as soon as I heard what had happened. There was that note he left on the beach… I thought he might have been inspired to commit an act of bravado that mirrored a passage in one of Ralph’s works. However, it was interesting that he chose to copy one of the death scenes. The characters in the books take part in many death-defying adventures before they die, you see. It’s only when they’re past their prime that they choose to walk towards death and embrace it. Lucas wouldn’t have thought he was past his prime, I’m sure. But he might have swum out to sea as some sort of test. And now there’s Christian’s jump. For a moment I wondered whether a subset of our group could have formed a pact of some kind – to each take a deadly risk, based on Ralph’s writing and in his honour.’

  Blake watched Ross’s features as he seemed to turn the idea over in his head.

  ‘So no one’s mentioned such a pact to you?’ Tara asked.

  Ross shook his head. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me if they’d organised something without me knowing. Christian and Lucas tended to go in for drunken escapades much more than I do.’

  That figured, given what they knew of Stephen Ross. And from his tone, it didn’t sound as though he felt there was any shame in following a safer way of life. Even if Ralph Cairncross had patronised him in the way Cairncross’s daughter had told Tara – treating him as the runt of the group – Blake got the impression the poet didn’t feel inferior.

  ‘Did you find it affected your relations with the group?’ Blake asked. ‘That fact that you didn’t enjoy the same wild activities that they did, I mean?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Ross rolled his eyes. ‘I’m aware that some of the others thought my standing with Ralph was less high then theirs, but it was me he came to first over intellectual things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I was the first to read the manuscript for his final book. He handed round copies to the others afterwards, but he gauged my reaction first. It was just before he died; the book was nearly through the production process and we had a private discussion about the contents. He wanted to know if I’d understood some of the allusions he’d made. And I had.’

  Blake wasn’t sure if Ross was just keeping his end up. He sounded as though he was remembering the occasion but there was something in his eye that told him his feelings towards Cairncross had been more complex than he was letting on. Was that a spark of anger behind the man’s cool façade?

  As for the poet’s theory about a risk-taking pact amongst the other group members, it would have been a good one, if it hadn’t been for the snake in Ralph Cairncross’s car. It looked as though Ross hadn’t considered the possibility of a third party being involved, assuming he wasn’t bluffing. And yet there were so many possible permutations. What if Christian Beatty had been present when Lucas Everett had swum out to sea, and had been or had felt responsible? He could have chosen the same vodka Everett had bought to have a final drink the previous night, before he’d jumped to his death.

  Except the CCTV footage outside Beatty’s flat showed a sober man with a spring in his step leaving the apartment block. He hadn’t looked like a guy who was consumed with guilt and ready to meet his maker.

  Tara spoke again. ‘It’s useful to get your thoughts, Mr Ross.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother with the faux formality.’ The young man was lounging back on the sofa again now. ‘Stephen will do.’

  Tara nodded. She was still managing to smile. How does she do that?

  ‘As I mentioned, Stephen, this information-gathering is purely a precaution. We’ll be asking the other Acolytes and Ralph Cairncross’s family exactly the same questions, just for the record. The other date we’re interested in is Saturday 6 October, when Lucas died.’

  ‘I went camping in the Peak District to make the most of the mild weather. I remember reading the news of his death on my phone, lounging on the grass outside my tent. The site’s called Sanderson Farm if you want to check. It’s in Wolderam.’ He gave Tara a look. ‘It won’t be much help though. I’m sure they’ll remember me, but I was there alone. I wanted to go somewhere remote so I could write.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’ Tara smiled again and sat back in her chair.

  Blake knew she liked solitude too but he suspected her empathetic tone was entirely put on. For his own part, he’d found the house had echoed round him in the time after Babette had walked out, taking Kitty with her.

  ‘I’ll make sure this is all typed up,’ Tara said. ‘Then you can read through the statement and sign it off. It’s always good to get the red tape out of the way. But I’d like to pick your brains about the rest of the group too – just in case it helps us understand what happened to your friends. Was it Ralph who christened you the Acolytes?’

  Stephen Ross looked resigned to more precious minutes spent away from his poems. He picked up his glass, sipped from it, then shook his head. ‘No. That was Tess Curtis, Ralph’s PA. She was being sarcastic – mocking us for our loyalty – but Ralph liked it. He kept using it, with a laugh each time, and it stuck.’

  ‘Were you a founding member, so to speak?’

  ‘I was,’ Stephen said. ‘Along with Letty, who died of cancer earlier this year. She was the youngest of the group – I think she caught Ralph’s eye first – she was very bright and beautiful too, like the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.’ His eyes were far away, as though he’d conjured up her image. ‘Then there was Lucas, Verity Hipkiss and Thom King. Christian came along a bit later.’ He shook his head. ‘So odd to think that there are only three of us left.’

  ‘And he found you all individually? But in quick succession?’

  Blake imagined Cairncross casting his net for the most bright and beautiful young things he could find, like a magpie hoarding specimens that sparkled.

  ‘That’s right. Well, almost. Letty and I were at a summer garden party last year, held at the English faculty at the university. She’d come up to Cambridge early; she was still an undergraduate at the time – eighteen years old and about to start her second year. We’d known each other back home, and then by coincidence we ended up sharing the same tutor – though I’d long since graduated by then. Lucas was a researcher at the department and he was at the same party. Verity Hipkiss joined the Acolytes a short while after that – Ralph met her at an awards ceremony – and then Thom. He was working on a commission for Verity’s parents. And Christian was the last. I think Ralph found him at some celebrity do around a year ago.’

  Tara nodded. ‘Have you all met up much, since Ralph Cairncross died?’

  ‘We were destined to, every so often – because we’d inherited this place, apart from anything else.’

  She nodded.

  Blake watched as he polished off his drink and reached to pour himself another.

  ‘Can you imagine anyone who’d have had enough influence on Lucas and Christian to encourage them to take the sort of risks that led to their deaths?’ Tara said. ‘Apart from Ralph before he died, that is?’

  Stephen Ross put down the bottle he’d been pouring from. ‘You think that’s a possibility? It seems such a fantastical idea.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it’s something we can’t discount. And we want the rest of you to be wary if you’re approached by anyone with similarly dangerous suggestions. Though I guess that goes without saying at this stage.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d be wary in that circumstance, whether you’d warned me or not. But how do you think a person might exercise that sort of influence?’

  Blake saw Tara hesitate. ‘Someone who Lucas and Christian admired might have encouraged them to show off. Or convinced them to do something extreme, in Ralph’s memory.’

  Ross shrugged. ‘I suppose they were both full of bravado. But in terms of who they might admire, Verity Hipkiss is the obvious answer. She’s stunning, and with the best will in the world she likes to
make people dance to her tune. She enjoys being the only female Acolyte left.’ Blake watched him stare calmly back at Tara, unblinking. ‘You can’t blame her, I suppose – she’s discovered her power over the opposite sex and she enjoys using it.’

  ‘Would Lucas have wanted to impress her in the same way that Christian might have?’ Blake put in. He wondered if Ross knew Everett had been gay.

  ‘He liked women as well as men,’ Stephen said. ‘So in that sense, yes. But I’m getting carried away with my argument. Verity wouldn’t want them dead, though a few people might have felt like killing her from time to time.’

  ‘Who do you mean, specifically?’ Tara asked.

  But Ross waved away her question. ‘Surely you didn’t take me seriously? She loves an adoring crowd around her; she certainly lapped up Christian’s compliments eagerly enough. And Lucas’s too. And if she makes people jealous I suspect she finds it entertaining.’

  ‘Was she ever in a relationship with any of you?’ Tara asked, lightly.

  Ross raised an eyebrow. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, but I don’t know.’

  Blake presumed Ross himself wasn’t in Verity Hipkiss’s thrall, given he’d come over to the house on the bank to avoid her that day. Of course, there was no reason to suppose he liked women rather than men.

  ‘What about someone from Ralph’s family?’ Tara smiled. ‘Would any of them have known Lucas or Christian well enough to influence them, do you think?’

  Ross took another large swig of his drink. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Though I think Ralph’s wife and daughter might have felt a certain antagonism towards us. They could have been motivated to cause trouble.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Blake asked. ‘Did you meet them often?’

  ‘Rarely. At the occasional official party, given by Ralph’s publishers – that kind of thing. All the same, on those occasions, the expression on Ralph’s daughter’s face spoke volumes. She used to pass comment too, in stage whispers.’ Blake watched as Ross’s grip on his glass tightened. The man had managed to keep his tone casual, but Philippa must have got to him with her barbed words. That was interesting. ‘Ralph called his daughter “the Dragon”,’ he added. ‘He said she took after his sister, and he was disappointed. When he’d decided to procreate he was hoping for a carbon copy of himself.’