by Clare Chase
Lydia returned to the sitting room (to take the weight off her feet) and Tara made Bea go and join her, but Kemp came to help lay the table. A nice gesture, but she knew there was more to it than met the eye.
‘So how was it today then?’ he asked, glancing at her with a ready grin. He looked like what he was: a rough diamond.
She gave him a repressive glance back. ‘Just as you’d imagine.’
He heaved a sigh. ‘Yeah, I got that. Bloody awful. But how’s the investigation going?’
‘You resigned from the police, Kemp – it’s not my job to share titbits with you because you secretly miss it.’
He opened his eyes wide. ‘I can’t believe that’s why you think I’m asking. Nah. Don’t miss it at all. After all, I’m still a detective, and now I get to run my own show.’
Kemp had turned to private investigative work when he’d left the force. And he’d excelled himself when he’d secretly decided to look into the affairs of her old boss, Patrick Wilkins. He’d known the DS was a thorn in her side, intent on causing her trouble. You’d never guess that someone as big and ungainly as Kemp would be so cunning and adept at trailing their prey. He’d been looking out for her interests, but she couldn’t help feeling he’d also embarked on that little project to relieve the tedium. Since Wilkins had left the force, he’d committed the cardinal sin of setting up as a PI himself. Kemp spat blood every time he was reminded of the fact.
‘Don’t you miss the variety of police work though?’
He gave a low chuckle. ‘Maybe. Just occasionally. But the lack of a boss breathing down my neck more than makes up for it. Sure you can’t tell me anything about the case?’
‘Quite sure. I can only discuss what’s already in the public domain – you know that.’ She loved baiting Kemp. But after a moment the levity brought on by banter and a single swig of gin and tonic was gone. Her mind was back on the scene at Wandlebury. ‘And to be honest, I’d rather block it out over supper.’
His shoulders went down. ‘Fair enough. Can’t blame you there.’
Tara was fighting the urge to ask her next question, but in the end her nerves won. ‘There wasn’t anything waiting for me on the doormat when you came in, was there?’
Of course, he’d have said if there had been. Probably. Unless he’d put it down in a corner somewhere, got stuck into the beer and forgotten all about it.
Kemp put his head on one side. ‘Is this still about the package you got sent in the spring? You’re still on edge about it, even on a Sunday?’
It must be high in his mind too, then – even six months on.
‘I can’t quite switch off until I know there’s been nothing.’ There weren’t many people she’d have admitted that to.
For a second the thunder clouds rolled over Kemp’s readable face. ‘I could still try and find the bastard for you. I wish you’d let me.’
He’d had a go, way back when she’d first met him, just as he’d started working as a PI. His former CID colleagues had got wind of his activities and warned him off. It hadn’t stopped him at first, but when they’d threatened him with court action things had got tricky. Then, back in the spring, when she’d had her latest delivery, it had been Blake and her colleagues that she’d turned to. She’d asked them to abandon the case when the attempts to trace the buyer of the dead bees had gone nowhere. It felt as though she was wasting police time on a deeply personal matter.
‘I hate the effect the bastard’s had on you,’ Kempt went on. ‘It’s like that one package has wiped out the intervening years. Go on. Let me have another go at catching him.’
At last she nodded. ‘Maybe. I just need time to take stock. Once this murder case is over, we can think it through.’
He sighed. ‘All right.’
’But it’s way different this time,’ she added, ‘thanks to you. I’ve got the means to take control now.’
Yet still she hadn’t – not quite.
It was just as her visitors were about to leave, shortly before midnight, that Tara heard a text come in on her phone. She reached it out of her bag and Kemp caught her smiling.
‘Who’s sending you messages in the dead of night?’ he asked, shamelessly leaning towards the screen.
She snatched it away. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Spoilsport. You wouldn’t tell me about the case earlier and now…’ He looked mournful.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s just from Jez, that’s all.’
‘The new DC, eh?’
Kemp hadn’t met him, but she’d passed on the latest office gossip.
‘There’s no need to say it like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘In that leery tone. As though there’s dirt to be dished.’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘He’s just being friendly. He went to the Tram Depot after work with Max and Megan and he was messaging to say they’d missed seeing me there.’
‘They did? Or he did?’
She smiled again as she stuffed the phone back in her bag.
‘Stop looking for gossip when there isn’t any. It’s time to wrap the evening up, anyway. I’m knackered.’
Bea looked done in too. She’d been making noises about going for a good hour and a half as her mother had sat back in her chair, her laugh ringing out at the stories Kemp regaled them with. The time for polite hinting was over.
At last, Tara was alone in the cottage, watching her extended family tramp through the darkness, over the tussock-humped grass towards the Green Dragon foot and cycle bridge that led to Chesterton. As they reached the path by the river Cam she could see them better, lit by the lamps that were placed at intervals next to the water. Bea and Kemp walked close together and her mother still had a spring in her step, despite the hour. She’d had practice, Tara supposed, after years of late-night parties and receptions.
Tara drew the threadbare curtains of the sitting room, noting a new tear near one of the hems. The wind had got up. It rattled the sash and stirred the thin material she’d just adjusted. She wasn’t going through another winter with the house in this state. She’d had someone in to quote for new windows two weeks earlier. The price had made her toes curl and they couldn’t fit her in until February. She should have asked way back in the spring, so they’d told her. She’d have to rig up something temporary, even if it looked hideous.
She dragged herself to bed and lay there, the only sound that of the wind. The cottage might be crazily impractical, but she loved the feeling of distance it gave her from the mayhem of the world. It was one of the few things that made her feel peaceful.
But tonight, the isolation wasn’t enough to make her feel separate from the chaos out there: the violent disturbance to the natural balance of life that had led someone to kill. She couldn’t banish the thought of Julie Cooper from her mind. As she stared up at the ceiling she was back at the crime scene at Wandlebury Ring.
So, Julie’s body had been moved: she’d been left to die in an enclosed space, not out in the open. Which begged the question: why choose to dump her body at Wandlebury? The spot where she’d been found was close to an access track, so it wouldn’t have been that hard to carry her from a vehicle. She’d been slight in stature, too. But there’d been more risk taking her body there than to open countryside, for instance. There were a handful of houses inside Wandlebury Ring. They were nowhere near the crime scene, but someone returning home late at night might have driven past. It was unlikely, but not impossible.
What had made the killer take that risk?
Fifteen
On the upside, baby Jessica was asleep. On the downside, her chosen resting place was Blake’s shoulder. For some reason she seemed impervious to background noise, but not to her position. If he tried to lay her down, her eyes flew open. Under other circumstances, he might have sat by her cot and waited for her to settle, but she had a cold so she was more fretful than usual. He didn’t want her to wake Babette, who’d gone to bed hours earlier.
&nbs
p; He wished that concern was as selfless as it sounded. Sure, he wanted to take his turn with Jessica. He’d been out all day – Babette would have been hard at it, coping with all the feeding and nappy changing, as well as keeping Kitty happy. But also, he was enjoying being on his own, with only a sleeping baby for company.
He’d just decided to end their marriage when Babs broke the news of her pregnancy – a good couple of months after she’d become aware of it herself. Suddenly he was trapped with a woman who’d betrayed him and who – he was convinced – was still lying to him.
He thought of the man who was Kitty’s father but he had no mental image. He’d never set eyes on the guy – as far as he knew. Earlier in the year, Babs had finally given him a name: Matt Smith. Really? He still wasn’t sure he believed that detail. What had happened out in Australia? It had been such a drastic move on Babs’s part to head out there. Okay, so she’d done it to be with Kitty’s biological father, but he’d only been a brief fling, according to his wife. And then – after all that – she’d rushed home to England again after just two weeks. She claimed this Smith guy hadn’t been paying eighteen-month-old Kitty enough attention. It would certainly have riled Blake – to see his beloved daughter being ignored by her biological father. But why hadn’t Babs taken a bit longer to try to fix things? Surely you didn’t make such a wrenching life change only to give up after fourteen days?
Now, when he and Babette were together, he found it increasingly hard to ignore his nagging doubts. And there was her continued lack of honesty, too. They hadn’t been trying for a baby – she’d told him she’d forgotten to take her pill. But it was always half-truths with Babette.
Through the resentment he felt, he became aware again of the warm bundle on his shoulder and a stab of guilt shot through his chest. I don’t regret you, little one. He stroked Jessica’s back through her brushed cotton babygro and nestled his head for a second against hers. How could I?
He walked the sleeping baby through to the kitchen. He ought to try to put her down again soon – get some rest himself – but maybe he’d leave it five more minutes in the hope that she’d be more deeply asleep.
He sat down with her at the round oak table, next to where he’d left his laptop, and flipped it open. In a moment, the room around him faded and his mind was one hundred per cent back on the case. The techs had reported on the contents of Julie Cooper’s phone.
The pictures from her camera roll came first. A lot of them were what you’d expect – shots of the woman he recognised as Sandra Cooper, outside a terraced house, and several he assumed were of friends in various locations. Then, about eighteen months earlier, ones of a self-confident-looking young guy started to appear. He seemed about Julie’s age. Stuart Gilmour? And then there were various shots of demonstrations. One in particular struck him. It was after dark, and the scene was lit by the torches and ignited cigarette lighters that the protesters held. They were all wearing Guy Fawkes masks like the one that had been found in Julie’s room. Then Blake realised that one of the glints of silver in the photo wasn’t coming from a flame or a bulb. It was reflected light, off a sharp piece of metal. One of the protesters had been carrying a knife.
Absently, his hand went to Jessica’s back again, stroking it. He thought ahead to when she’d be old enough make her own decisions.
The person with the knife – man or woman, there was no way of knowing – might have had it for any number of reasons. They could have been a troublemaker, intent on using the occasion to cause mayhem. You got that sort – ones that the genuine protesters bitterly resented but found it hard to weed out. Or it could be someone who’d wanted to create real fear in the heart of the opposition. He noted the date of the photograph. Had trouble broken out that night? Who or what had the protesters been targeting?
The camera roll also contained selfies of Julie with a girl superficially from the same mould – similar hair and make-up. This was Bella, Blake guessed. He’d confirm it with Tara and Max the next day. It was clear that it had been Bella who’d picked up the phone and taken most of the shots.
The weirdest photos went back twelve months and were in amongst pictures of a college bedroom. Had this been the start of Julie’s second year? Maybe she’d taken the shots of her room to show a friend or relative. But the odd images next to them in the roll made no sense at all.
They were of a cat. Not a real one – a statue. Could it really be made from gold? That was what it looked like. Would it be solid? Blake had no idea about that sort of thing. Babs watched Antiques Roadshow sometimes but it wasn’t his scene. It was an evil-looking creature. A wildcat with its mouth drawn back in a snarl. The maker had managed to make its green eyes – formed with jewels that might actually be emeralds – look fierce. Angry even. In that first photo the creature was sitting on a shelf. In a second, Julie had clearly picked it up with one hand whilst photographing it with the other. It showed the underside of the statue, on which there was a porcelain plaque bearing a coat of arms and some writing.
Familia supra omnia.
Blake hadn’t done Latin at school, but he’d picked up enough over the years to guess the translation. Family above all else.
The notes on Julie’s phone didn’t tell him much. Some were clearly shopping lists, from which he gathered that she’d been a healthy eater. Some seemed to be reminders about things she needed to do. ‘Pass research over to Graham.’ ‘Sort out banner.’ ‘Ring Ava.’ And one just said ‘Scotland?’ Thoughts about a holiday, perhaps?
After that, he ran his eyes down the list of people who she’d been in contact with by text recently. The exchanges with her mum were the most heartbreaking. Fond messages a week or two back – and then increasingly concerned texts going only one way, as Sandra Cooper had tried all the methods she knew to reach her daughter earlier that morning.
Next on the list was Bella Chadwick. The girl might have been living in the same house as Julie over the summer but she’d clearly made contact electronically too. Maybe because Julie had kept her distance in person? He scanned the messages.
Fancy meeting up later?
Lots of that sort. Julie had often made excuses, but occasionally she’d said yes. They’d spent some time together over the summer. And she’d sent one text the previous afternoon, before Julie had left her lodgings for the final time.
What’s up? Fancy a chat? I’ve got news.
But the reply from Julie had been discouraging.
Sorry. I’m a bit busy. Hey – text me your news though.
She’d been trying to let the girl down gently, Blake guessed. Bella hadn’t texted again but there was a call from her later that day. It was very short.
After Bella’s messages, Stuart Gilmour came next on the list, despite their break-up. Blake scrolled back in time, rewinding Julie’s life until he reached the spring, when her mother thought she and Stuart had parted company. It took a while. They’d remained in frequent contact.
There were texts back in February which were mainly practical: details of where and when to meet, for instance. He found the occasional one that seemed to refer to a recent sexual encounter…
You were amazing tonight – can’t wait to be with you again.
She’d replied, Thank you for having me, with a winky face.
And then he paused for a moment over an exchange that focused on Bella.
The first text was from Julie to Stuart and just read
Bella!
It was accompanied by an alarmed face emoji.
IKR?, he’d replied. Blake had to look that one up – I know, right?
Was she following us, do you think?
Either that or it’s one hell of a coincidence, had been Julie’s response.
It’s like I said, Stuart had come back. You’re her idol.
She’d put in a laughing face.
Hardly. Reckon she fancies you. That’s why she copies the way I dress and keeps an eye on us.
He’d signed off with a scared face emoji.
Blake wondered what he’d really thought. If there was anything in Julie’s assertion, he might have been flattered. Though maybe Bella’s behaviour was a bit over the top.
It was only a week or so later that the tide had turned.
It’s not what you think, Stuart had written.
I bet it’s exactly what I think, Julie had shot back.
Was it Bella who had come between them? Or had this been about something else? The sniping went back and forth but, of course, they both knew the problem, so there hadn’t been any need to spell it out. He rubbed his stubbly chin. Where the hell was Stuart Gilmour now? He might not tell the truth about the break-up, but at least Blake could look him in the eye as he pressed him with searching questions.
Jessica let out a soft sigh in her sleep as he read on, down the list of texts. He was almost drifting himself – thanks to the repetitive sniping in the messages – when he came across one that caught his eye. It was from Stuart to Julie.
Read this! I know about John. And I’ve got evidence. Now tell me you don’t want to talk.
John again. The name of the academic Julie’s mother had mentioned. The one her daughter was supposed to be working for over the summer.
I’ve got evidence…
If Stuart had information Julie wanted to hide, why was she dead and not her blackmailer – if that’s what Stuart had been?
At that moment he was aware of a soft footstep behind him, from over by the kitchen door. He turned to see Kitty, looking at him through half-closed eyes, her hair tousled. ‘I’m not sleepy either, Daddy.’ She spoke quietly, through a yawn.
‘Either?’ He closed the laptop lid and went over to her, Jess still on his shoulder. ‘But I am sleepy, Kitty.’ He smoothed a hand over her hair. ‘And Jessica already is asleep, so she must be as well, mustn’t she?’
