by Clare Chase
Murder in the Fens
An utterly addictive English cozy mystery novel
Clare Chase
Books by Clare Chase
Murder on the Marshes
Death on the River
Death Comes to Call
Murder in the Fens
Available in audio
Murder on the Marshes (UK listeners | US listeners)
Death on the River (UK listeners | US listeners)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Murder on the Marshes
Hear More from Clare
Books by Clare Chase
A Letter from Clare
Death on the River
Death Comes to Call
Acknowledgements
To Phil and Jenny, and David and Pat, with love.
One
Rachel watched her four-year-old son, Jamie, trot ahead of her, the warm late-September sun on his back. He knew where they were; a trip to the circular earthworks at Wandlebury was one of their staples. You could tell he’d had a decent night’s sleep. She looked down at baby Fi, asleep on her front in her carrier. At three that morning Rachel had given up the fight against tears; she was desperate for a solid eight hours’ rest.
The last day of the month. Rachel could feel the seasons changing, despite the balmy temperature. The leaves around her were just starting to lose their lush summer green, the first tinges of orange appearing here and there. But it was more than that: something in the air told her the year was dying, not waking up. As they entered the wooded area round the Iron Age ring, the warmth of the sun faded and the way ahead of her was marked with shadows. To her left and right, cross-orbweaver spiders staked their claim to the tangled branches she wove her way through. She put out a hand to protect baby Fi’s head, but felt a cobweb brush her own face. It clung to her hair.
Jamie had dashed further ahead of her, down into the large ditch, dug more than two millennia ago. She followed him cautiously. Navigating the bank at speed might wake Fi. By the time she’d dipped right down into the bottom of the earthworks, Jamie was running up to the top again. He was way ahead now, and she enjoyed the peace as she followed him from a distance, keeping her eyes on his progress.
It was nice to find the track deserted. Most families were out in the open, picnicking in the grounds in the centre of the Ring. Sunday lunchtime had brought them out, with sandwiches and Thermoses full of tea. The weather was forecast to turn the following day. They were making the most of the Indian summer.
Walking the ancient ditch left her feeling removed from the exhaustion of everyday life. The Ring must have looked the same for centuries, and for a moment she could almost imagine that she was back in the old times.
The sound of a twig cracking somewhere behind her made her turn sharply. Fi gave a small whimper in her sleep.
There was no one there. It must have been an animal or something. But it had put her on high alert. And when she turned slowly forwards again, protecting Fi from more sudden movement, she couldn’t see Jamie.
She upped her pace. Where was he? He’d have dashed to the top of the bank again, surely? But she couldn’t spot him. She’d have to call. Damn.
‘Jamie!’
By some miracle, Fi slept on.
There was no reply, so she began to climb the bank herself, for a better vantage point. Once she was at the top she’d be able to see him. There was no reason to panic…
She made it out of the ditch and stared through the undergrowth. It wasn’t so far to the other side, and open ground.
‘Jamie? Where are—’
But then she saw him, running towards her. Thank God. He’d only been gone for half a minute, but the feeling of relief was like a wave carrying her onto shore. She took a deep breath and swept forward, picking her way past twigs and low branches to meet him.
‘There’s a lady.’ Jamie’s brow was furrowed.
‘A lady?’
Jamie nodded. ‘I think she’s asleep. But with her eyes open. Can that happen, Mummy?’
Rachel felt a chill crawl over her arms, and the hairs on her scalp rise. She took her son’s hand and held it tight. ‘Show me.’
Before they reached the spot where he’d been standing, through the tangle of undergrowth, Rachel glimpsed part of an arm, pale and motionless in the shadows under the trees.
Two
Detective Constable Tara Thorpe felt her throat catch – a hard knot that made her swallow. Sorrow and anger set her eyes smarting. She clenched her latex-gloved hands and tensed her muscles to fight her reactions.
She’d been so young, this woman lying there before her in the early autumn warmth. Late teens? Early twenties at the most. She was pale and still, surrounded by the earthy browns and mossy greens of nature. A blackbird sang in a tree, and around her the CSIs caused twigs to crack and vegetation to rustle, but otherwise everything was quiet. The cordons were keeping families, out for a weekend walk, well away from the scene.
It wasn’t obvious how the girl had died. It could have been natural causes, but it was clear that she’d been in torment at the end. There were scratch marks on her neck and blood under her fingernails, yet no sign that she’d been strangled. Her knuckles looked bruised, too. What had happened here? Her blue eyes were bloodshot, and she lay flat on her back, her black denim skirt rucked up. The black canvas lace-ups she wore reminded Tara of the shoes her school had made pupils wear for gym lessons. There was an even paler circle of skin on the third finger of the girl’s right hand, Tara noticed. She’d worn a ring until recently. Signs of a boyfriend who was now an ex? But she might be jumping to conclusions.
The girl’s blue
T-shirt had a slogan on it. Equal rights for others does not mean less for you. It’s not pie. She’d cared – had been fighting to make the world a better place, even if it was just through the clothes she’d worn. It crushed Tara inside that she’d been stopped in her tracks when she’d barely had a chance to get going.
She glanced sideways at her DS, Max Dimity. He was easy to get on with and until recently he’d been the same grade as her. His promotion hadn’t put any distance between them; though another colleague – DS Megan Maloney – had kindly pointed out to Tara that it ought to. But they were all in it together, and Tara could tell that Max was battling the same emotions that she was. Looking any kind of death in the face was harder for him than for most. His wife had died in a car accident when she was just twenty-five. Five years had passed, but that must feel like no time when you were dealing with something so huge.
‘Hell!’
The exclamation told her Garstin Blake, their DI, had arrived. As she turned, she saw he had the pathologist, Agneta Larsson, with him. Their protective suits only revealed their eyes. Agneta’s were clear, blue and concerned. As for Blake, he looked as though he’d been up all night – the by-product of having a four-month-old baby. Though there might be other explanations for his lack of sleep too. There was a lot more to Blake’s home life than met the eye. Why the heck had his wife kept her pregnancy from him for so long? And why had she told their daughter, Kitty, first? And lastly, why had Blake shared those facts with Tara? She was glad she knew, but it hadn’t helped her put more distance between them… not that anything had ever happened.
Agneta ran her eyes over the dead woman’s body, then crouched down and gingerly began a closer examination.
‘Ah, dear God,’ she said under her breath. ‘She was hit with something. Here, under her hair on the left-hand side, near her temple.’
‘Would that have killed her?’ Blake was after instant answers, as ever.
Agneta gave him a look. ‘I’ll have to investigate more thoroughly when I’m back at Addenbrooke’s, but first impressions – I would say not. It would have stunned her though. She might have been knocked unconscious.’
Agneta moved the woman’s arm gently. ‘Almost all of her muscles have contracted – I would estimate she died sometime between two and four this morning.’
‘Late to be out here, whatever the reason,’ Max said.
Blake looked at Agneta from under his dark brows. ‘Any signs she’s been moved? We’re quite close to an access track. Someone could have brought her body here in a car.’
The pathologist shook her head. ‘None that I can see, but I’ll need to look more closely.’
‘What about the marks on her neck?’
But Agneta wouldn’t be drawn. ‘I need to do the work, Blake. Guesses could lead you on a false trail.’
Larsson was right, but Tara empathised with Blake’s urgency. Any trail felt better than none when you were faced with this sort of scene.
As she watched, Agneta bent to look more closely at the dead girl’s skirt. She hadn’t been wearing tights. Tara guessed they were all wondering the same thing. Had the attack had a sexual element? The way the skirt was rucked up like that, coupled with the bruises on her hands, made it look as though she’d fought someone off.
Agneta spoke, even as Blake opened his mouth. ‘I’ll be able to tell you later.’ Pretty impressive mind reading, given she wasn’t even looking in his direction. But Tara knew they’d been friends for years. ‘There’s something else though.’ The pathologist glanced round at them and pointed at the patch pocket in the skirt. Tara could just see the edge of something pale and pink poking out of it, soft against the rough black material. The pocket was bulky – as though it had a tissue tucked into it – but the sliver of pink looked too delicate for that.
Blake frowned and caught the eye of one of the CSIs, who’d been on her way over to their group. The woman crouched next to Agneta, an evidence bag in one hand, and eased the pocket open. The sliver of pink was part of a flower. A Japanese anemone: beautiful, delicate, crushed.
‘There are more,’ the CSI said, looking down again. ‘Her pocket’s full of them.’
Max frowned. ‘Could she have been collecting them? Or is this some kind of message?’
Tara felt goosebumps rise on her arms. She was guessing the latter. Who went to gather anemones in the dead of night? ‘There’s a language of flowers. I remember reading about it once. I’ll look it up.’
‘I was coming over to tell you we’ve found a black backpack,’ the CSI said. ‘It’s just over there by that tree.’ She pointed. ‘Looks like it belongs to the deceased. There’s photo ID – a student card. She’s Julie Cooper – studying at the university, at St Oswald’s College. It doesn’t look as though anything’s been taken. Her phone, purse, keys – all still there.’
Tara thought again of the pale band of skin on Julie Cooper’s right-hand ring finger. Caused by an item the woman had discarded herself? Or had it been removed? She voiced the thought.
‘If it was taken by her attacker it doesn’t look as though money was the motive,’ Blake said. ‘Not if her other valuables have been left untouched.’ He looked at the flowers in the CSI’s evidence bag. ‘Maybe her attacker took it as a souvenir.’
‘Guv!’ It was Barry – one of the uniformed officers who’d been first on the scene. He was over by the cordon. ‘Call from the control room.’
Blake strode over to speak to whoever it was on the line, but two minutes later he was back. ‘There’s a Sandra Cooper at the front desk, back at Parkside. She was due to meet her daughter at her lodgings in time for lunch. When she couldn’t find her, she got spooked.’ His colour was as pale as the overalls he was wearing. ‘Megan’s with her now. I’m going to head over and join them. I’ve got the address where Julie was staying over the summer, too – her mother passed it on.’ He turned to Max. ‘I’d like you and Tara to get over there. There are CSIs on their way too. See what you can find out.’
As Max and Tara turned to make their way back to the cordon, she pictured Blake passing on the news. It was a terrible job to have, but nothing compared with what Mrs Cooper was about to go through.
She and Max took a few minutes to struggle out of their overalls. Tara had had to drag hers on over the deep-green jersey dress she’d been wearing; she hadn’t stopped to change before responding to the call, which now seemed like a mistake. She pulled the white over-suit off carefully so that the hem of her dress fell back into place, without revealing her knickers to all and sundry.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting at the wheel of their car, waiting for a gap in the endless stream of traffic so that they could leave Wandlebury Ring. In a moment the queue would snarl up altogether, and she’d be able to edge out between the stationary vehicles. At last, she saw her chance and nudged her way forward, in front of a shiny VW which was indicating to turn in. As she made the manoeuvre she looked through the VW’s windscreen and saw a face that she knew: her former colleague, Shona Kennedy from Not Now magazine. Trust her to get her grubby mitts on this story so quickly; feeding off the kill like a vulture.
Max’s eyes were on the woman too, and her snide grin. ‘She’s not worth it,’ he said.
Tara snapped her mind back to their mission and made it to the opposite lane. In a second she’d put her foot down and screeched out of Kennedy’s line of sight.
Three
Sandra Cooper had her head buried in her hands. Blake waited, next to DS Megan Maloney. He couldn’t fault Megan – she’d said all the right things, followed every best-practice guideline to the letter. But her dedication meant she’d never come across as warm. She held all the bullet points she had to follow in her head, and her careful concentration prevented any ad-libbing. Following the rule book meant she’d probably avoid the sort of scrapes Tara got into, and spot things that got missed when you cut corners. But she’d never find the unexpected nuggets Tara unearthed by trusting the instincts she’d developed a
s a journalist.
Given all that, having each of them on the team ought to create the perfect balance. In practice, they didn’t get on. Thank goodness for Max’s calming influence and clear-headed insights. And now they’d got DC Jez Fallon on the team, their newest recruit. Great on paper, and DCI Fleming loved him…
Sandra Cooper’s crying touched Blake to his core. He wished he could make up for Megan’s lack of warmth; he’d have found it easier if they’d been alone.
The woman blew her nose on a tissue she’d pulled from the pocket of her jeans. ‘I can’t believe she was killed. Who on earth would do that?’
Blake leant forward a little. ‘We don’t know for sure that’s what happened.’
‘You said she was attacked.’
He nodded. ‘That’s right, but at the moment we don’t think that’s what caused her death. We should be able to give you some proper answers soon.’ Nothing would ease her pain, but he was sure the not knowing must add to her living hell. Would the facts be any more bearable? He thought of the scratches on Julie Cooper’s neck and her rucked-up skirt. ‘Please, Mrs Cooper, could you tell me what time you were meant to meet your daughter at her accommodation?’
