by Clare Chase
After eighteen months the campaign had finally stopped, but by then she’d been a changed person – always on her guard, never trusting anyone, be they a friend or a stranger. She’d learnt self-defence from an ex-cop, Paul Kemp, and eventually regained some control. But then, earlier in the year, for the first time in more than a decade, she’d been sent a new delivery. Dead bees again. She’d been right back to her terrified sixteen-year-old self. The message with the bees had read:
Remember me? I’m still here. If you don’t want me back, call off the dogs
She’d had no idea what had sparked it. There’d been nothing since, but she still approached her doormat each morning with a thumping heart.
A hot flush of anger rose up in her – not at her own tormentor, but at the thought of someone messing with Julie’s head. As well as the lacerated heart, maybe it was they who’d stuffed her pocket with wilting flowers.
A final act, perhaps, after they’d killed her.
Five
Bella Chadwick stood just inside her closed bedroom door, listening. She still hadn’t finished packing her things. With all that had happened, she couldn’t focus. She’d have to do it later, then call a cab to transport her stuff to her new room.
She’d been by the window at first, watching to see when the two detectives left, but it had been ages now and they hadn’t appeared. The CSI van was still outside. What the hell were they looking for? Julie hadn’t had a lot of stuff. She’d always said people were more important than things. Bella had felt Julie’s eyes on her smart clothes and her expensive belongings when she’d said that. She didn’t seem to realise that it wasn’t your fault if your parents gave you money to spend. Julie’s mother wasn’t wealthy, but long-term, Julie would have been a lot better off than Bella – if only she’d lived. She’d been clever, excelling at her studies. Bella was coming unstuck on that score.
She tensed; she could hear talking out in the corridor now. Thoughts of the future were banished instantly. A man’s voice, and a woman’s. Could it be the pair of detectives she’d spoken to earlier? The place was crawling with investigators, but the tone and pitch of their voices sounded right. She longed to open the door a crack but didn’t dare. Instead, she went back to the window and stood to one side, her breath held.
After a moment, the pair appeared in front of the house. It was them. They were deep in discussion, as though they’d found something out.
Only when they got into their car did she pull her mobile from her skirt pocket. She didn’t want to be interrupted – it was a conversation she needed to get right. And whilst the detectives had still been there, she’d been worried they might come back with extra questions.
Taking a deep breath, she dialled Stuart’s number. As it rang, she practised her words. How should she put it? What precise tone should she use?
Stuart, you might not have heard. We’ve just had the police round here. You see, something awful has happened to Julie…
He was her best friend’s ex, but nothing could hurt Julie now. Bella needed to be close to him and going in quickly, with sympathy, felt like the right way. But she didn’t get the chance to recite her speech out loud. Stuart didn’t pick up. Her heart was thumping as she hung up without leaving a message.
Six
Blake had been reading the latest updates on his phone as he walked from his car to Addenbrooke’s mortuary. The sliced heart might be significant. It seemed to fit with the flowers and the way Julie’s clothes had been disturbed. If Julie’s attacker had been sexually fixated with her, had they been an ex, or someone further removed? He wondered about Bella Chadwick’s comments; that business about Julie still wearing Stuart Gilmour’s ring. He’d left Tara to track him down and do all the usual background checks. She was working with Jez Fallon, who was speaking with other contacts of Julie’s, including her colleagues at the restaurant where she’d worked over the summer… Blake frowned for a moment at the thought of the team’s newest recruit. But it was early days; he needed to give the guy a chance. He couldn’t currently sum up his objections to the bloke other than that he seemed too good to be true. Blake distrusted people who were aggressively shiny on the surface – in his experience, they were often hiding something underneath.
He knocked on Agneta Larsson’s door and, hearing her mutter something that was probably welcoming in nature, walked in.
His old friend’s eyes met his. They’d been out together once and it had ended well, with only fondness on either side. Now they were each married with kids, but the closeness hadn’t faded.
‘Not how you expected to spend your Sunday,’ he said to her.
‘Nor you yours.’
They both looked at the post-mortem table where Julie Cooper’s body lay, covered by a green sheet.
Agneta sighed. ‘Poor girl. She was so young.’
He nodded.
‘Frans’s parents are staying with us,’ she said. ‘They’ve taken Elise to feed the ducks. I saw the way they looked when I got the call to attend the scene at Wandlebury. It was like they’d each just drunk a glass of sour milk.’
Blake had got the measure of Agneta’s in-laws from previous reports. ‘Frans understands, though?’
A sad smile lit her face. ‘Oh yes, he understands. And Elise will too, when she’s older. Dear God – who could doubt the importance of something like this?’ Then for a moment her eyes rested on his again. ‘You look like you haven’t slept. Those first four months are just the worst – if it’s Jessica that’s keeping you awake?’
She was the only person who knew the background to the drama in Blake’s marriage. He and Babette had two children now. He was as sure as he could be that Jessica was his, but Kitty, their seven-year-old, was another man’s. And he himself hadn’t been aware until Babette told him when Kitty was eighteen months old – right before she’d scooped her up and left for Australia to be with her ‘natural father’. The shock and sorrow had been overwhelming. There’d been no time for goodbyes. Babs had told Blake to let them go without a fight – it was better for Kitty.
Blake still didn’t know what had made her come back a mere two weeks later. His wife had spent months persuading him to give their marriage another go. He’d done it for Kitty – he still loved her so much that it hurt. But he was increasingly sure he’d made the wrong decision. It was often the thought of Babette’s lies – known and as yet unknown – that kept him awake at night. Jessica was a lot less stressful, though often noisy at 3 a.m.
‘Let’s just say it’s a whole host of different things,’ Blake said. ‘But there’s nothing fresh.’ He nodded towards the body. ‘This is what’s going to keep me awake now.’
‘I’m afraid you are right there, Blake.’ Like most people she called him by his surname. He preferred it; ‘Blake’ managed to sound less formal than ‘Garstin’.
Her intonation made him catch his breath. ‘What have you found out?’
‘Something like this is always horrendous, but what I am seeing here is the stuff of my worst nightmares.’
Blake thought of the flowers in Julie’s pocket and the missing ring. Was there something ritualistic going on? ‘Tell me.’
She nodded. ‘So, we saw at the scene that Julie had been struck on the head, near her left temple. As I speculated at the time, that didn’t cause her death. I would guess it knocked her out. She was hit with something smooth and not large – maybe seven centimetres across.’
Blake remembered the way the dead woman’s skirt had been rucked up. ‘Had intercourse taken place?’
Agneta shook her head. ‘No, but her underwear was damaged – a few stitches torn. It looks as though someone had pulled her knickers down, and then they – or Julie herself – made some effort to yank them back up again. They were lopsided. The pictures are all in the CSIs’ report – they followed-up here before I started work.’
Blake rubbed his forehead. What did that mean? Maybe whoever attacked her had had a very particular scenario in mind, and hadn’
t managed to enact it in a way that reflected their sick fantasies?
He shuddered and Agneta caught the movement.
‘I’m afraid all that is just the beginning,’ she said. ‘You asked me if I thought the body had been moved.’
He nodded.
‘My guess from the evidence I have now would be yes, and not long after her death. If she’d been left for some time, the way her blood had pooled due to gravity would make the position she died in obvious. But that effect can change up to six hours after death. Nonetheless, there are signs that she died on her side. And there was bruising, Blake.’
‘On her hands… I noticed it.’
‘Not just there, as it turns out – those instances were just the most obvious. There’d been pressure on the outer surface of her legs too, around the knee and hip area, and on her elbows and forearms also.’
He swore. ‘She was trapped? Kept in a very confined space?’ Nausea crawled through his gut.
Agneta’s eyes showed her emotion – and the fact the she wished she didn’t have to pass on the news. ‘She had fibres under her nails. Wool. Green wool.’
He frowned. Why the hell would that be?
‘And then there are the blood results, and the scratch marks around her neck.’
He drew in a deep breath, preparing himself.
‘There was a huge build-up of CO2 in her body, Blake. She died of asphyxiation. Sometimes people in that situation claw at their throats instinctively.’ She watched his face. ‘They feel as though there must be something physical restricting their airway. I’m sorry.’
‘So we’re dealing with someone who knocked her out, either on purpose or in the heat of the moment, then trapped her somewhere airtight, or almost so, and left her to die. Again, we can’t know for certain that they realised she’d suffocate, but they’d sure as hell have heard her trying to get free if they’d stuck around. And the signs point to someone who was sexually fixated on her.’ He put his hands over his face. They needed to get this guy and get him quick. Both for Julie and to protect anyone else who might cross his path.
‘Just one more thing, Blake,’ Agneta said. ‘Tara noticed Julie had been wearing a ring recently?’
He took his hands from his face and nodded.
‘Well, I’d say that was removed during the course of what happened to Julie last night. There was a minute cut on her finger and bruising to the knuckle that suggests it was pulled off with some force.’
Seven
Tara looked up as Blake strode through the communal office door. He reached her desk in a fraction of a second and leant forward, his eyes haunted.
‘Have you located Gilmour?’
What the heck had Agneta told him? It was bound to be awful, but she’d never seen him look so utterly desolate before.
‘He was staying at this place over the summer.’ She took the sticky note she’d used to record the details: a house on Atterton Road, just to the north of the city centre. ‘His college gave me his mobile number too – eventually – but he’s not answering. I understand he’s due to move back into St Bede’s accommodation shortly, but he hasn’t picked up his keys yet. You think he’s guilty?’
‘I don’t know, but he smells the worst so far.’
Her mind was full of questions he wouldn’t want to answer until he had more time. She’d have to be patient. He took the note from her hand. ‘Thanks.’ The look in his brown eyes had hardened suddenly: anger and determination overlaid the torment.
He turned to Jez, who was at her side. ‘Get over to St Bede’s. See what they have to say about Gilmour and check he’s not on site.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Megan?’ The DS looked up. ‘We’re going to Atterton Road.’ Then his eyes were on Tara again. ‘You and Max head over to St Oswald’s. Find someone who can give you an overview of Julie’s life there. Her mother mentioned a tutor. We’ll meet back here at six thirty for a briefing – unless something significant kicks off. I’ll want the background checks by then too.’
As Tara rose from her desk, she caught Megan watching her. The DS clearly didn’t like her and Max being paired. Did she really still think there was something between them? She must be going around with her eyes shut. Anyone could see that Max returned Megan’s romantic feelings.
Tara hadn’t expected Julie’s tutor to be at St Oswald’s on a Sunday, but within five minutes of their arrival they were told the man in question – Lucien Balfour (really?) – would speak to them immediately.
The man who arrived was smart in a dark suit, with sandy hair and blue eyes. Tara caught the smile and appraising glance he cast her, just before the porter behind the desk introduced Max. She didn’t miss his surprise as he realised she was also with the police. His initial look morphed into something more sombre as he held out his hand to her.
‘Lucien, Julie’s tutor. I heard what had happened to her as soon as I arrived, what with your people needing to access her room over on Chesterton Road. I can’t tell you how shocked I am. Let me take you somewhere quiet where we can talk.’
‘We weren’t sure we’d find you here on a Sunday,’ Max said, falling into step with Balfour as he led them along a stone walkway.
‘I like to be around when the students arrive. It’s a challenging time for a lot of them – especially the freshers, of course. Anything to make the transition to college life a little easier.’
Tara remembered the notes from Blake’s interview with Julie Cooper’s mother. The tutor had spoken to Sandra when she’d dropped Julie off at the start of her second year. She’d found his words reassuring. She mentioned it to the man now.
‘Ah yes.’ He turned to look at Tara over his shoulder. ‘I well remember the occasion. There was a close mother–daughter bond, I felt. I understand it was just the two of them at home, before Julie came away to study.’ He put a hand to his forehead for a moment. ‘This must be causing Ms Cooper unimaginable pain.’ His words sounded genuine, but there was something theatrical about the gesture.
All around them the start of term was apparent. They were walking alongside a grassy court, surrounded by ancient stone buildings on all four sides, high and imposing. Tara could see students toing and froing, weighed down with boxes, carrier bags and rucksacks. One was dragging along a wooden trolley by an iron handle. It was loaded with bulging sacks and creaked as it went. Everywhere there was a sense of hubbub and she could almost taste the nerves in the air. Tara had had mixed feelings when she’d started university. Her stalker had stopped their anonymous mail campaign six months earlier, but she hadn’t relaxed. She hadn’t known why they’d gone quiet, or who they were. When she went off to study in a new city, she didn’t know if they were still keeping tabs on her. She’d found it intimidating, moving into student rooms for the first time, in amongst all those strangers. In those days, everyone had seemed like a potential threat.
And here in Cambridge there must be extra pressures: to succeed academically in a highly challenging environment, and to fit in socially, too. It went way beyond simply standing on your own two feet, having left your family behind. You had the weight of their expectations on your shoulders. That was always the case, of course, but where expectations were high, you had further to fall. She thought of Julie’s mother’s desire to see her daughter blaze a trail for people of her background. The interview notes had made it sound that way. But equally, there’d been nothing wrong in encouraging her daughter. She’d wanted it for Julie’s own sake, from what she’d said to Blake. For a second Tara wondered about her own half-brother, Harry. He was starting at Cambridge that weekend too – and had been pushed into it by his dad.
Lucien Balfour took them diagonally across the next court they came to, over the grass, whereas the students all walked round the edges, sticking to the stone pathways. Balfour turned and caught her gaze. He smiled. ‘Fellows and their guests are allowed to walk on the lawns, as are the crows. Other than that, it’s strictly forbidden. That said, we get some drunken excursions onto the grass e
very year. The last wise guy who tried it had to write a letter of apology to the Dean.’
At last they came to a door in the corner of the building that surrounded the court.
‘This is my staircase. Second floor up.’
As they mounted the spiral stairs inside, shadowy in the minimal light let in by narrow windows, Tara looked at the nameplates next to the doors that they passed. It appeared that academics shared their staircases with the students – maybe so that they could keep an eye on things. The place felt timeless; nothing she could see placed the setting in the modern day. It was only when Balfour opened the oak door to his office, revealing a MacBook Pro on his desk, that the spell was broken.
The sun was getting low now and the heavy curtains blocked out much of the fading light. Their red velvet gave the place a theatrical air, and the whole room looked rich: full of oak furniture, darkened by age and buffed to a high shine. The place smelled of polish combined with a faint tinge of what Tara reckoned were spirits. She could see a half-full decanter on a side table, nestled amongst tumblers, turned upside down to escape the dust. Except there wasn’t any. A cleaner must come in regularly – Tara couldn’t imagine Balfour doing the job himself. He didn’t look the sort to get his hands dirty – his suit was immaculate – and besides, she got the impression he enjoyed the college hierarchy. There’d been relish in his tone when he’d talked about the grass rules. He knew his place (relatively elevated) and probably thought everyone else should know theirs too.
‘I presume I can’t offer you a drink?’ Balfour nodded at the decanter and reached to switch on a side lamp.
‘No, thank you,’ Max said.
Balfour nodded. ‘I shan’t want one myself until later. Much more to be done before the day is out.’ He sat at his desk and motioned for Tara and Max to take seats opposite. ‘How can I help?’
