by Clare Chase
‘But they didn’t invent the writer?’ Tara had read the interview transcript. Sadie Cairncross had said it was someone she’d never heard of.
‘Oh no,’ Richardson said. ‘The writer’s real all right. But he’s very obscure. And that’s interesting in itself. Whoever dreamt up the mission they sent Sadie Cairncross on wouldn’t have stumbled across Maurice Fox-Thompson’s name very easily. But he is the kind of writer Ralph would have collected – he had a thing about youth too – and he only published a very few poetry pamphlets and essays. It looks as though whoever placed the call had also studied the literature Ralph was interested in. To the same obsessive degree as he did, it seems.’
As Tara walked back into the station, she realised Richardson’s news didn’t help Philippa’s case. She was studying literature at university and had ready access to all of her father’s papers. She could have researched his academic interests. And if her father really possessed any of Maurice Fox-Thompson’s works she might even have seen them. But that applied to Tess Curtis too. She’d clearly been very involved in her employer’s work. If he’d ever corresponded with Fox-Thompson she’d probably know about it – and more than likely have been the one to file his works in the archive store if Cairncross had ever acquired any. She’d have needed an accomplice though, to make the call to Sadie Cairncross. She’d been a constant presence in the household until six months ago. Even if she’d been able to convincingly mimic a man, Tara was sure she wouldn’t have risked her voice being recognised. But it could have been she who locked Sadie Cairncross in. She wondered where Tess Curtis had been that morning. Someone needed to check – it was no use going after Philippa to the exclusion of all others.
She knocked on Blake’s door, knowing she wouldn’t get any kind of hearing from Wilkins, and relayed her call with Richardson and her thoughts about Ralph’s former PA. Blake’s dark eyes looked thoughtful. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We need to interview her again. But I’ve just had Max in here too. He’s checked Philippa Cairncross’s record on the Police National Computer. Three years ago, Ralph Cairncross reported criminal damage to his car.’
‘What kind of damage?’
‘Someone had been piercing his tyres.’
‘Piercing?’ She’d come across people getting their tyres slashed.
Blake nodded. ‘Cairncross didn’t even know what was happening at first, they just kept going flat. The garage checked it out and found holes caused by a tough, needle-like object. It was too much of a coincidence when precisely the same type of puncture mark was inflicted on the replacement tyre as well as the original. There was nothing in the family garage that could have caused the damage accidentally, and Cairncross hadn’t visited the same locations twice on the two tyres either.’
‘And they found Philippa was responsible?’
‘Ralph caught her at it, brought her into the station and made her explain to the officer in charge what she’d done.’
‘Sounds like an annoying prank, undertaken by a rebellious teen,’ Tara said.
‘Sounds like, yes. But piercing the tyres that way causes them to deflate slowly, so that a driver might head off thinking their vehicle’s perfectly roadworthy, only to realise later that they’ve got a problem. And damage like that causes an outside possibility of a blowout. On top of that, each time the tyres were sabotaged, Cairncross was due to head off on an extended motorway journey. So, you see that this new evidence is very damaging for Philippa.’
She did. And it was the same modus operandi she’d noted herself in their perpetrator – that willingness to take a gamble; to do something that might or might not kill the victim. ‘How rare would a blow-out be, under those circumstances?’ she asked.
‘Pretty rare,’ Blake said. ‘It was far less dangerous than putting a snake into a drunk man’s car late at night. And Philippa might not even have known the possibilities. She was only fifteen at the time, and not yet a driver herself. But’ – he met Tara’s eyes – ‘on the other hand, maybe she was just getting warmed up.’ He moved closer to her, coming round from behind his desk. ‘I think you’re right, and we should check Tess Curtis out too. This isn’t case closed. But I can also imagine that you’re royally pissed off with Patrick. I know he’s rubbished your every move on this case, and if he’s right about Philippa now, after letting you do all the work, it’s going to be galling. But we have to go into this completely neutral.’
As if she couldn’t rise above what she thought of Wilkins. She wanted him to lose, but she wanted justice and the truth more.
Blake must have read the look in her eye. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘And I trust you. But right now, Philippa Cairncross deserves the attention she’s getting. We’ve got no reason to suppose our perpetrator’s working with an accomplice. And would Tess Curtis have had enough influence over Lucas and Christian to get them to do what they did?’
But Tess Curtis was a good-looking and intelligent woman, and she’d have had time to build relationships in the group. Her planned writing venture with Christian Beatty proved that.
Tara’s mobile rang. Blake nodded and she picked up. Verity Hipkiss. She sounded slurred and emotional. Tara guessed she’d been drinking, although it was only five o’clock. ‘What can I do for you?’ Tara said.
‘I saw the report in Not Now,’ she answered. ‘I mean, I knew the ideas you were working on already, of course.’ There was a long pause. ‘But seeing it all laid out like that, in black and white – the snake and all the deaths being linked…’
Described in the most sensational way possible by Shona bloody Kennedy…
‘It just made me think about what’s happened afresh, in a more clear-headed way.’
She sounded anything but.
‘I’ve been having a think, and I’d like to talk to you again. I’ve got some ideas.’
‘Couldn’t you tell me over the phone?’
Another long pause. ‘I’m worried. I’d really like a proper chat. I need to get my thoughts in order. Can you come? I don’t think I should drive.’
Tara didn’t think so either. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at the house on the bank. I just stopped by to relive old times. It’s peaceful here.’
Tara sighed. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Blake raised an eyebrow and she told him. ‘It’s bad timing. I’d rather go to Tess Curtis,’ she said.
‘I can see why. And someone definitely does need to go to her. But maybe Verity’s more likely to open up to you than anyone else from the team – after all, it’s you she rang.’ He paused. ‘I’ve told Patrick I’ll go back with him to interview Philippa and Sadie Cairncross again. Why don’t you take Max and go to Verity via Tess Curtis, so you can check her alibi for this morning en route?’
She nodded. ‘All right.’
Tess Curtis was still at work when they rang her, finishing up an afternoon on duty for Professor Trent-Purvis. He’d had a soirée for other academics that day, and she insisted she couldn’t see them until they’d gone home.
‘The professor can’t possibly talk to them all at once,’ she’d said. ‘I’m circulating too, and handing out the drinks.’
When Tara had tried to ask about her movements that morning over the phone she’d immediately got cross and told her she’d have to wait. She sounded rattled.
So Tara and Max sat in the car, outside the professor’s grand house in Newnham – with its tall windows and wide entrance – for the optimistic ten minutes Tess Curtis had reckoned it would take to wind things up. There were still four cars on the drive: a Jaguar, a Mercedes, an Audi and a Volvo. Presumably at least one of the cars was owned by the professor, but the rest must belong to stragglers, unless Tess herself had driven the short distance across town.
After five more minutes, Tara was getting fidgety. Verity Hipkiss had sounded very drunk. She might have just wanted company, and not have useful information at all. But she’d been the most closely involved with Ralph – his lov
er. Out of all the people who might know more or remember something significant, she was one of the most promising.
Then again, Tess Curtis was in the thick of it too. Could she have an accomplice who’d made the phone call that morning? Tara remembered the contraceptives in her bathroom cabinet. A lover? Either way, she didn’t want to leave without checking her alibi. At last she turned to Max. ‘How would you feel about staying here, in the freezing cold, to wait for Tess Curtis, whilst I carry on to the house on the bank?’
He grinned. ‘I’ve got gloves. She is taking her time, isn’t she?’ He opened up the passenger door and clambered out.
‘Thanks, Max. Let me know what happens.’
He nodded. ‘You’ll know as soon as I do.’
Thirty-Nine
Philippa Cairncross’s story of what had happened earlier that day didn’t waver. Her steady look met Blake’s as she repeated what she’d told them that morning.
‘Take us back to when you vandalised your dad’s car tyres,’ Blake said, without warning.
Philippa flushed, but it was anger, not shame, that much he could see. ‘That was years ago. I was just a kid.’
‘What made you do it?’
‘I was angry with him.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper now. ‘It was just after I found out that mum’s facial injuries were down to botched plastic surgery. His fake ideals had skewed her views on life and cost her her career and her happiness.’
‘What did you think would happen, as a result of puncturing his tyres?’
There was a pause, and she shrugged. ‘I hated him,’ she said. ‘And I mean really hated. I didn’t think through what might happen. I just wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt mum.’ Her fierce stare met his. ‘I’m not sorry he’s dead. Not for an instant. But whatever I feel now, and whatever I did back then, I’m not involved in what happened to him in September.’
‘And what are your feelings towards the Acolytes?’ Blake asked.
‘He knows.’ Philippa tossed her head in Patrick’s direction. ‘He was there when I said what I thought of them all. A waste of space. But there are lots of people in this world who are just that. I’d spend the rest of my life trying to wipe them all out, if that was my aim.’
‘You lumped them all together, then,’ Blake said. ‘You didn’t feel any of them were less worthy of your contempt than others?’ He wondered just how well she’d known them. Did she really understand their individual personalities? If she was the perpetrator, she must surely have studied them closely enough to see the way their minds worked. The killer had obviously been confident that they could persuade Lucas to swim out to sea, and Christian to show off and take that leap.
‘I could tell they were all as bad as each other,’ she said. ‘And I don’t believe they really cared about Ralph. Last laugh’s on him for leaving them that vast house “to carry on living by his ideals” or whatever it was. It was almost as though he’d started to believe his own tosh. If he meant the fake ideals he peddled in his books, then no way will they do that. But perhaps he was alluding to his true guiding principles, in which case I think he’s in luck. Just like him they’ll carry on working for their own ends, using their association with my father to further their careers. They strike me as a self-serving bunch.’
She seemed to be generalising – perhaps based on things she’d overheard – rather than displaying a more intimate knowledge of members of the group. But he could be wrong. ‘Didn’t one of them try to stop your dad from setting off, the night he died? It’s in the police report. That must mean they were looking out for his safety.’
Philippa looked scornful. ‘Snooty Stephen? Yes, I remember hearing that. Fat lot of good it did. My father didn’t like fussing.’
‘And what about Verity Hipkiss?’
‘I’m sure she just slept with my dad so he’d big up her work. He’d done that job, so I imagine she was planning to move on pretty quickly – if she hadn’t already. I don’t suppose she was exclusive. He really was a fool if he thought she actually liked him.’
‘But there was Letty too.’ And she’d been younger, less cynical perhaps.
‘She was a pale-faced, mock-innocent drip,’ Philippa said. ‘I met her at a party once, exchanged two words and reached my conclusion.’
All the hate and motivation were there, Blake reflected, but something didn’t ring true. Philippa Cairncross was full of bluster. She was letting her feelings out. But Blake had the notion that the person they wanted was someone who’d bottled things up; who plotted and planned in isolation, standing by quietly, ready to wreak havoc.
Forty
Once Tara left the main road the feeling of fenland isolation set in. The evening was clear and the more minor byways needed careful handling. Snow and ice melt had left the surfaces damp during the day, and now everything had frozen hard again. At first the road had taken her through a deserted residential area, but she’d left that behind now. Through the darkness she was aware of flat, lonely fields to the left and right. There seemed to be no one else on the roads. It was after six now. People had probably come home from work early, to avoid the hazardous conditions they knew would take hold as the cold intensified.
As she drove she tried to keep her focus on the road, but part of her mind was always spooling through what they knew so far. She tried again to justify her gut feeling that Philippa was innocent. Or, at least, not guilty of this series of crimes. No one could call her innocent, per se. Was Blake right? Was she simply baulking at the idea because Wilkins was so keen to prove Philippa guilty? There was plenty of evidence against her.
But there were multiple small things, on top of gut instinct, that made Tara hesitate. What about finding the grass snake, for instance? It wasn’t as though the Cairncross’s place had a stream running through its garden. If Tara had wanted to find such a creature, she’d have come to the Fens to do it. Had Philippa really travelled out here, day after day in the early autumn, to try to catch the creature she wanted? And then contained it in a crate that matched the others that had been abandoned to rot at the house on the bank?
And then, of course, Philippa would have to have fed it until it was time to put it in her father’s car. That would have involved quite a lot of creeping around the place, trying not to be seen by regulars at the house. Tess, or any of the Acolytes, would have had less difficulty with both those tasks. And that included Verity Hipkiss, the woman she was on her way to see… Tara was glad Verity was drunk; and that her own self defence-skills were sound. Unless the woman was a secret martial arts expert, Tara ought to be safe enough.
At that moment her phone rang. She touched the control to answer handsfree.
‘Tara Thorpe.’
‘It’s Max.’ The line wasn’t great. Coverage in the Fens was patchy.
‘Go ahead, Max. How’d it go with Tess Curtis?’
‘She was “in and out” all morning, so she says, fetching groceries and the like for her employer’s do. She’d got the receipts, but there’s nothing to say she didn’t nip round to Madingley Road and lock Sadie Cairncross into the archive store between errands. All the same, the times on the bills mean she’d have to have been quick.’
And someone would have had to make the call for her… ‘Hmm. That’s interesting. Thanks. I’m nearly at the Forty Foot Bank now, so I’ll be able to update you on Verity Hipkiss soon, too.’
‘Great,’ Max said. ‘I’ll follow on now I’ve finished with Curtis; I just need to pick up a car from the station. I’ve got one more bit of news, too. The number used to call Sadie Cairncross this morning was also found on Lucas Everett and Christian Beatty’s phones. Neither of them had bothered adding it to their contact lists, so we still don’t know who was using it.’
‘Wow. Thanks, Max.’
That was evidence that one person was linked to all three incidents at least. It made the theory that Wilkins was still clinging to – of the two men’s deaths being unrelated acts of misadventure – look pathetic. But
Tess Curtis’s involvement also looked less likely now. You win some, you lose some.
She was deep in thought, but still conscious of the bridge she was crossing and the dark waters of the Forty Foot Drain below. Immediately afterwards, she made the turn onto the bank.
She crawled along the icy road, wishing she wasn’t so close to the water-filled drain to her left. She could feel the changes in traction under her wheels. One minute things felt reasonably sure, the next she was gripping the steering wheel and slowing down still further to ensure she had control. She knew you were meant to steer into a skid, but if she slipped towards the water, it would be nigh-on impossible to override her instincts and follow that advice.
She tried to focus on the remaining suspects. What about Thom King’s near miss? It matched a death in one of Cairncross’s books, but in other respects it seemed different from the ‘accidents’ that had befallen Ralph, Christian and Lucas. It was an act of direct violence, where the perpetrator would have risked injuring themselves too. With the other incidents, the plotter could have remained relatively detached, but knocking someone down in a car was a whole different ball game. So why the variation? Had the near miss been a coincidence? Or had Thom made it up? Or if not, had the killer had a different mindset back then? Maybe they’d made that one, rash attempt in advance of the others for some reason, but then taken a step back, cooled down and rethought their approach? If so, what had made them lose control that day when they’d tried to mow Thom King down? And crucially, who had known where to find him? It must have been someone who knew the whereabouts of the studio he’d only just rented.
She tried to think of the timelines. If the near miss had really happened it must have been back in late summer. Thom had mentioned it had been just after Letty had died. It was the reason he’d given for not making a fuss – that and the fact that he couldn’t remember much about the car or the driver. But would he really have left the matter unreported if he’d believed it had been a deliberate attempt to knock him down?
