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

by Clare Chase

  ‘Then you went out there and waited for him to drive by?’ Blake said.

  Ross nodded. ‘I can hardly think of how stupid I was now. I even used my own car. It shows how weak Thom is; he was so scared that he didn’t take it in.’ The man’s eyes focused on the middle distance for a moment. ‘Though Thom was mainly drunk or stoned when we met anyway. Perhaps he’d never noticed what car I drove. Either way, I was lucky not to have been identified or reported by someone.

  ‘I spent a week or two feeling shocked at what I’d almost done, and questioning my actions. But at the same time, the incident had made me conscious of what I might be capable of. I’d been planning to leave the Acolytes once Letty died. I’d only stayed as long as I did to try to protect her. But the attempt I’d made on Thom’s life opened up the possibility in my head of getting my revenge on all of them. Wanting to bring them down made me stick around.

  ‘And then – not long afterwards – Ralph showed me the manuscript of his last novel, Out of the Blue. He made a big thing about sharing it with me first.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t work out what was going on. I knew from the moment we met that he didn’t think much of me. I was an amusement as far as he was concerned; it was fun to have me around as someone who had talent but who was eminently mockable. And yet there he was, singling me out for what he considered to be a great honour. I went with him to one of the downstairs back rooms at the house on the bank and he took out the manuscript. “I’m going to give this to the others to read too,” he said, “but I wanted you to see it first.” He gave me that lazy smile of his. “I know how much you’ll appreciate the dedication. To T, who managed to escape unscathed. You are blessed indeed.” As soon as he said the words I knew the T must be Letty. The bastard always called her Titty and he was aware of how much I hated it. He watched my reaction and I could see the laughter in his eyes. Then he said, “When I say she escaped unscathed, I mean she was never tainted by age, of course. She didn’t escape me. I managed to bed her before she lost her bloom.”’

  Ross’s eyes were lit with fury. Blake could understand why, even if he could never condone his actions.

  ‘And then Ralph added: “Don’t look so crestfallen. I’m sure you wouldn’t have wanted her taken from us before she’d experienced life. And it wasn’t as though she was ever interested in you, was it?” Then he patted me on the arm. “My poor Stephen,” he said. “The entire gang have been prowling round her. Had you not noticed? I had her first, but I doubt I was the last.”’

  ‘You believed him?’ Wilkins said.

  Ross had his head in his hands. ‘About the others? No! No. Well, I don’t know.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I didn’t believe Letty would willingly sleep with any of them, but I believed they’d have taken advantage; coerced her into it. It must have been before she got really ill – months earlier – and yet I hadn’t known.’ He took a great shuddering breath. ‘When I left the house on the bank that day I knew I had to make them pay; the whole lot of them, starting with Ralph. When I went after Thom in my car the resonance with Ralph’s book – where the hero is mown down on Route 66 – was a coincidence. But as I sat there that evening, planning, I realised how fitting it would be to copy the causes of death he’d used in his novels.

  ‘He’d treated the subject so lightly, showing it in such a glorious light. I wanted him and the other Acolytes to realise that there’s nothing pleasing or romantic about dying. What better way to drive home my message than to make each of them share the fate of one of Ralph’s heroes in turn? To see how they liked it when fiction became reality?

  ‘Tampering with Ralph’s garage lamp was my first, more sophisticated attempt to take action.’

  He described in detail how he’d gone to the house when he knew the family were away, walked straight into the garage, just as Tara had, and got to work. He claimed it was the only booby trap he’d left, but Blake had a team giving every accessible place at Madingley Road a thorough once-over.

  After that, Ross told them how he’d found, caught and kept the grass snake. He’d gone out to the put the snake in the car after dark on the night Ralph died, when the house’s curtains had been closed. It explained why no one had seen what went on.

  ‘Why didn’t you try to get rid of the crate, once you’d finished using it?’ Blake asked. He didn’t need the information, but he was curious.

  Ross looked irritated suddenly and Blake was reminded of the man when he and Tara had first been to interview him. ‘Initially, it was because I never thought anyone would find out about the snake. Once Tara Thorpe got so inquisitive about Ralph’s death, I started to wonder if some kind of evidence had been found. But at that point, I realised leaving the crate where it was might be safest. If it was found and recognised for what it was, it would point to someone from outside our group being responsible. After all, one of us could easily have removed it – broken it up, perhaps, or taken it to the dump. It would have been a much bigger risk for someone like Philippa Cairncross to start marching around the place, disposing of the evidence. I guessed you’d assume that she, or maybe Tess Curtis, must be responsible – and that they’d felt too conspicuous to come and get rid of it again.’

  Blake glanced at Wilkins, who looked sour.

  ‘Why were you so keen to frame Philippa Cairncross?’ Blake said. ‘Seems as though she hated her father just as much as you did.’

  Stephen Ross’s lips went white. ‘That may be, but she’s just as full of spite as Ralph was. We came across her at a party once. She made comments about us that were clearly meant to be overheard. She called Letty a pale-faced drip. It was just after she’d been diagnosed with cancer. She wasn’t usually pale. She was in shock. My one regret is that I haven’t managed to pay Philippa back. Maybe I will one day.’ He smiled. ‘I haven’t given up. It was my main aim when I locked her mother in the archive store. I thought it was highly likely she’d be rescued – or even call for help herself. I didn’t know if she’d got a mobile on her. But if she had died, it would have served her right too. She bought into Ralph’s ideals and went along with them.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Wilkins asked.

  ‘Any right-minded person would have divorced him. She was complicit. It’s unforgiveable.’

  Blake felt his head start to ache. He could understand Ross’s pain, but his way of looking at things was totally skewed. He’d been surrounded by a group of self-serving and in some cases amoral individuals, but in response he’d turned to murder, a far worse crime than any they’d committed, however abhorrent they were.

  ‘How did you know Mrs Cairncross would be alone, when you went to lock her in the archive store?’ It was one more detail that had been bugging him.

  ‘I’d been keeping an eye on the house.’ The man smiled. ‘I live on Grange Road, don’t forget. I can see comings and goings just by looking out of my flat’s attic window.’

  It all figured. His street led straight onto Madingley Road. ‘Tell us what happened the night Lucas Everett died,’ Blake said.

  Ross laughed. ‘You were so obsessed, weren’t you, with the idea of someone he admired egging him on? I remember you asking me who I thought would have had enough influence. But you don’t have to be the one everyone looks up to, to wield power.’

  Suddenly, the man slumped in his chair. He adopted an eager, innocent and slightly rueful expression. It was frightening to see what a different proposition he seemed to be, when he put on that guise.

  ‘I was always the underdog,’ he said, smiling again. ‘The timid one. And that was perfect. I set the whole adventure with Lucas up as a tribute to Ralph. I’d arranged to stay at that campsite I told you about, but it was easy enough to travel to Suffolk for the event.

  ‘I told Lucas I wanted to do something crazy in Ralph’s memory, but that I was scared. Then I wondered aloud about swimming out to sea, as far as I could go, daring myself to go that bit further. But then I said I’d never have the guts; I wasn’t like the rest of the gang.�
�� His blue eyes seemed to come alive with the memory of his success.

  ‘It was at that point that Lucas started to encourage me. “Come on,” he said, “it’s about time we got you involved with some of our little exploits.” He was so pleased to have the chance to take me under his wing and show me just what a brave guy he was. So much more capable, and so much more daring than me. I protested and said we should write notes to leave on the beach in case we didn’t make it back. He laughed at that, but he wrote one, all the same. I wrote one too and left it with his – only of course I removed it again when I swam back to shore.’

  ‘How could you be sure you’d make it back?’ Wilkins said.

  The smile was there again – in Ross’s eyes as much as anything. ‘We started to swim out,’ he said. ‘And I just kept going. On and on. After establishing so firmly how weak and pathetic I was in comparison to Lucas, he couldn’t very well stop before I did. Imagine how he’d lose face. Then, when I reckoned I’d pushed him beyond his limit, I said I thought I might have to give in and swim back.

  ‘And even then, he couldn’t immediately follow me. He had to go further, to keep up the pretence that he was Mr Tough Guy. So he laughed – he sounded pretty breathless by then – and went that bit further.’

  ‘You took a risk yourself, with your own safety,’ Wilkins said.

  ‘Not much. You see, I’ve always been a good swimmer. Then, when Letty got ill, I did sponsored swims to raise money for cancer charities. The rest of the Acolytes didn’t take any notice of course – they were too busy with their own concerns – so my ability to swim a long way in tough conditions wasn’t something Lucas had banked on.’ He put his head on one side. ‘And I suggested we have a few drinks before the swim, to keep out the cold and build up courage. Only I pretended not to like the vodka he’d chosen. I brought my own bottle instead – gin on the label, but water inside.’

  ‘You bought the same vodka Lucas chose, to give to Christian Beatty, the night he died,’ Blake said.

  Ross pulled a face. ‘Yes. So sorry about that. I was playing with you. And I still thought you’d suspect Philippa Cairncross over me. And I was right. You did.’

  He seemed to have forgotten he was now sitting in a police station with a watertight case against him for attempted murder.

  ‘My reputation as tame also meant it was perfectly natural for me to discourage Ralph from driving after he’d drunk too much the night he died.’ Ross raised an eyebrow. ‘But of course, I knew the more I protested, the more determined he’d be to set off home. By the time I’d finished fussing over him, he’d had several for the road, just to make sure I knew he was ignoring my every word.’

  Blake thought back and cursed himself for not picking up on that. Talk about the perfect cover.

  He could see why Stephen Ross had hated Ralph Cairncross. He could only imagine the intense hurt and fury the older man had caused when he’d celebrated the death of the young woman Ross had loved – not to mention when he’d bragged about sleeping with her – but this wasn’t a case of a single crime of passion, committed by someone who’d been pushed to the brink. The man in front of him had had all the humanity drained out of him – if he’d had it in the first place. His love for Letty and his anger at Ralph Cairncross’s repugnant views didn’t mean he wasn’t cruel and calculating himself.

  ‘You really blew it last night, didn’t you?’ Blake was sick of seeing the man’s satisfied expression. ‘Letting two people see you setting a fire that was intended to kill them ranks as pretty stupid.’

  Ross’s eyes flashed. ‘I was within a hair’s breadth of succeeding. Your colleague happened on the truth just a moment too soon. But it took her long enough, and I believe it was down to chance rather than detection.’

  ‘Then you believe wrong,’ Blake said. ‘The evidence she’d gathered slotted into place the moment she realised you’d taken down the photos in the house labelled “Titty”.’ He could feel Patrick’s eyes on him, but the evidence had mainly been Tara’s. And she was the one who’d taken it seriously. ‘But if you were so confident she didn’t suspect you, why try to kill her?’

  Ross shrugged. ‘The fire was only meant for Verity at first. To pay her back. She was glad when Letty died; I could see it in her eyes. It meant there was no more competition for Ralph’s affection – and his patronage. But when she came up with the very theory I’d been promoting to the police – that Philippa was guilty – I saw how easy it would be for her to get Tara Thorpe over to the house on the bank, ready to pass on her worries and accusations. And then the idea of getting rid of both of them was just too tempting.’ His eyes were wild now. ‘The more time went on, the more I hated your detective constable. I’d been wondering whether to add her to my list of targets. She was interviewing all Ralph’s contacts – she must have known just how poisonous he was. But instead of letting his death go, she kept digging – preferring to victimise whoever had sought to harm him, rather than let the matter lie. What kind of person would do that?’

  ‘Someone who’s paid to uphold the law.’ Blake’s voice rose so suddenly that he had the pleasure of seeing Ross jump. It was the first time during the interview his words had had any effect. The breakthrough didn’t stop him from wanting to thump something.

  But Ross was already back to justifying his views. ‘Ralph Cairncross deserved to die,’ he said. ‘You’d have hated him too, if he’d treated someone you loved that way.’

  ‘I would,’ Blake said, ‘to my very core. But I would never have schemed to murder him and those who apparently shared his views.’

  By the end of the interview, Stephen Ross had also given an account of his evening with Christian Beatty. As with Lucas, Ross had kidded Beatty into thinking he was getting as drunk as his companion was. And once again, he’d played the scared friend, who’d always wished he had the guts to do something brave. They’d hatched the plan to try to leap the gap, and Ross had begun to scale the building with Beatty, choosing a route that wasn’t overlooked. But when they were nearly at the top, he’d told Beatty he’d had a change of heart. It was a crazy thing to do. Why didn’t they go back down again, sober up and get some coffee? If Beatty had agreed, that would have been that, but of course, he hadn’t. He was fuelled by vodka and bravado. He’d laughed at Ross for losing his bottle. By the time he leapt, Ross had climbed quietly down and was well out of sight.

  Forty-Nine

  Blake was writing up notes and trying to get Stephen Ross’s features out of his head. He kept thinking of small things he’d missed – like the fact that the man had recognised Tara when they’d first shown up to interview him at the house on the bank. He’d said it was because he’d seen her in Not Now magazine, but there was no way a man like Ross would normally read that sort of publication. He’d made some disparaging remark about it in the same breath. No, the fact was he’d followed her, and deliberately researched her. And then, when she’d turned up, he realised Blake had clocked the look of recognition on his face, so he’d made an excuse to explain himself. Blake should have seen through that from the start. Tara hadn’t had the chance, she’d been looking at her phone…

  He was glad when Gail on reception interrupted his thoughts. She said Paul Kemp was in the front entrance, asking to see him. Tara’s renegade police officer? What the hell did he want? Blake was curious to meet him face to face. He was still wondering if he and Tara were more than just friends.

  The man he went to collect was taller than him – around six foot two – and looked as though he’d been around the block. His nose had been broken more than once, he guessed, and he was a good ten years older than Blake. But he had a ready, roguish grin he imagined Tara would appreciate. She liked people who were straightforward; not pretending to be something they weren’t.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Blake said, after he’d introduced himself and shown Kemp to an interview room.

  The man grinned again. ‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said, and handed Blake two USB s
ticks. ‘You can copy the files off. No viruses, I promise.’

  ‘What’s on them?’

  ‘I’d rather talk you through the contents once we can look at it together,’ he said.

  Blake was too intrigued – and exhausted – to argue. He’d been up all night and Paul Kemp didn’t have the air of someone who was trying to put one over on him. Besides, Tara trusted him, and that counted for something – even if he did wonder about their relationship. He went to fetch his laptop.

  ‘This one first,’ Kemp said, pushing the silver USB stick forward.

  ‘Okay.’ Blake shoved it into the port on his machine and a folder of jpeg files popped up. What the hell was going on? He double-clicked on the first one and was presented with a picture of Patrick Wilkins, getting out of his Ford in what appeared to be the car park of a country pub called the Dog and Gun, according to the lit sign outside. It was evening time, and recent; there was snow on the ground. He right clicked and checked the image’s properties. It had been taken at 9 p.m. on Sunday.

  The next image showed a view through the pub window. It must have been taken with a long lens. Patrick again, with a woman by his side. He recognised her as Shona Kennedy, Tara’s ex-colleague from Not Now magazine and author of what everyone at the station was now referring to as ‘that article’.

  Next came one of the pair of them standing together. Patrick’s arm was round Shona’s shoulders, and opposite him was Giles Troy, Not Now’s editor – a foul man with no conscience, as Blake knew to his cost. It looked as though introductions were being made. The men were shaking hands, both looking remarkably pleased to see each other.

  Blake felt his blood pressure rise, anger flooding through his system like electricity.

  Later photos in the series showed Shona Kennedy and Patrick outside the pub again, kissing good night. They were making a thorough job of it, too.