Murder in the Fens: An utterly gripping English cozy mystery novel (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 4)

by Clare Chase

Tara had gone back to checking through Julie Cooper’s laptop contents when her desk phone rang. It was Gail on reception.

  ‘There’s a woman here to see you.’

  Tara usually preferred a bit more information than that. ‘No name?’

  ‘She said she’d rather not give me one, but she asked for “the female detective who visited the Master’s Lodge at St Oswald’s College this morning”.’

  ‘I see. Thanks, Gail.’ She ended the call and got up, wondering who it could be. A student, who’d seen her enter the building and had something to say?

  She paused a moment when she reached the doorway to the reception area. There were several people sitting on the padded upright chairs there, and one that she recognised. Tara took a moment to watch the woman before she went to announce herself. Douglas Lockwood’s wife, Selina, looked just as twitchy as she had earlier. She was glancing repeatedly at the front desk, and then towards the exit, as though she was tempted to leave again without waiting.

  Tara wasn’t about to let that happen. She was almost at the woman’s side when Selina turned and realised she’d been spotted. ‘It’s good to see you again.’ Tara put out a hand. ‘Shall we find somewhere private to talk?’

  The woman nodded without speaking – her eyes still flicking towards the exit – and Tara led her to an interview room.

  ‘Can I speak to you off the record?’ Selina’s words came out in a rush the moment the door was closed. She had to be pretty damned nervous to be that breathless.

  ‘We don’t have to record anything. But because of what we’re investigating, I’m afraid I can’t absolutely guarantee to keep everything you tell me quiet. What I can do is treat what you have to say with discretion and do my utmost not to involve you, if that’s what you’d prefer.’

  Selina stood by the table for a moment, one hand on its surface, half down into the chair next to it. But her eyes were still on the door.

  ‘I could tell there was something wrong when we visited earlier,’ Tara said, slipping into the chair opposite as though their discussion was a fait accompli. She hoped Selina would feel less able to walk out that way. ‘Perhaps you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.’ The woman must be tempted, otherwise she wouldn’t be there.

  After a moment longer, Selina faced Tara properly and dropped into the seat nearest to her. ‘I suspected you’d seen something in my expression. I didn’t know your name – and if I’d asked the others it would have looked odd – but the fact that I’d already given myself away made me want to come.’

  Tara nodded. ‘I’m Tara. DC Tara Thorpe. Whatever’s on your mind, I’d be hugely grateful if you’d share it with me.’

  Selina sighed. ‘All right then. Well, I know the dead girl used to go on protest marches against my husband and father-in-law’s firm, Lockwood’s.’

  That was interesting in itself – not news to the police of course, but why should Selina be aware of it? ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘My husband mentioned it in passing. I think he and Alistair must have discussed it. Douglas was complaining about the sort of students the university gets these days, and how misinformed young people are. All the sorts of things you’d expect really.’ Selina still sounded breathless. ‘He didn’t seem cross with Julie personally, of course. I’m sure he never met her, so his ire would have been at the protesters as a whole.’

  Tara nodded. She’d expect Selina to put that spin on it, whether it was true or not.

  ‘But judging by your visit earlier, you associate Julie Cooper with Alistair directly, because she disapproved of his business. I’m not saying you think he was involved in her death, of course – that would be unthinkable. And he wasn’t even in Cambridge when she was killed. But if you’re looking for a connection between Lockwood’s and Julie Cooper then you need to know about Alistair’s son.’

  Tara paused a moment, confused. ‘What, your husband?’

  She shook her head. ‘No – Alistair’s younger son, John.’

  Twenty-Four

  ‘John Lockwood? How the hell did we not pick up on that?’

  Tara was sitting opposite Blake in his office. Deep inside, she knew she should have found the information, somewhere. ‘I guess researching Sir Alistair’s offspring wasn’t top of our agenda. Douglas and John weren’t mentioned on Hubert Lockwood’s Wikipedia page, and then our’ – she paused and took a deep breath – ‘my focus was on Alistair as part of Lockwood’s, rather than him as a family man. I’d been looking at his biography on the firm’s website – it mentioned Douglas, but I don’t recall any details of a younger child. And then I reviewed his wife’s biog on her own website, because I knew we’d meet, but the kids aren’t mentioned at all there. And the rest of the family didn’t let on about the extra son, or that he and Julie were connected.’

  Blake’s thoughts on that were abundantly clear from his expression. ‘There’s no doubt that they were aware?’

  ‘None at all. Selina says Douglas had been worrying about it. John lectured Julie for one of her courses and took her for supervisions – again, just in one subject. He’s based at another college and not at Julie’s main department. But someone had warned Sir Alistair that their relationship might have gone further than was proper.’

  ‘Hmm. So, when Julie told her mother she was helping this academic, “John”, with his research, that was entirely made up. But he was probably the reason she wanted to stay in Cambridge over the summer.’

  ‘It looks that way. Selina didn’t know of any project where John might have recruited student helpers.’

  ‘If this is all true, it’s surprising that Julie fell for him – given her views on Lockwood’s.’

  Tara had been thinking the same.

  ‘And who would have warned Sir Alistair about the possible affair, I wonder? Let me guess, Lucien Balfour, who was so keen to assure you and Max that there was no hint of any improper relationship between Julie and a member of university staff?’

  ‘Seems more than likely. We thought he was lying at the time.’

  ‘I remember.’ Blake put his head back for a moment and looked at the ceiling. ‘I bloody well hate it when it’s like this. People closing ranks and staying silent. So, do we take it that Sir Alistair thinks his son might have killed Julie, and that’s why he’s kept shtum? Or simply that he doesn’t want a family scandal threatening his position at St Oswald’s?’

  Tara thought back to what Selina had told her. ‘Hard to say, but if Julie and John were sleeping together, he has to be a suspect for her murder. Maybe Julie tried to break it off with him. Or perhaps their relationship hadn’t got that far but John wanted more. He could have lashed out at her, then panicked, locked her up and…’ The image of Julie was so clear in her mind.

  Blake’s brown eyes met hers. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s horrific.’

  There was a moment’s pause before Tara spoke again.

  ‘Realistically, I guess we can’t possibly judge whether John’s a likely candidate until we’ve talked to him. Or you and Megan have, rather.’ She cursed inwardly. Somehow it had come out as accusatory – as though she felt left out. In truth, she was jealous of Megan – but only of her seniority. She wanted the next step up. She’d taken the right exams now – but there was no opening for her. In her heart of hearts, she reckoned she’d do a better job than Megan, too. She’d tried to bury that thought deep; she knew it was wrong. She and Megan both had their skills and their Achilles’ heels. But wasn’t worming information out of people more important than writing up your notes correctly? Blimey. She was at it again – behaving like a five-year-old. And it was she and Jez who’d failed to pick up on John Lockwood’s existence. Megan would have found him.

  ‘You’re right,’ Blake said. He sounded normal. Hopefully her inner thoughts had passed under his radar. ‘We need to talk to him urgently. Do you know where to find him?’

  She nodded. ‘I called his department, but he’s not in today. After they’d verified my identity
by calling me back, they gave me his home address.’ She handed over the sticky note she’d written the details on, glad that she’d come prepared for that question, at least.

  Twenty-Five

  Blake was dragging his coat on as he stood amongst his team. They were all talking about Selina Lockwood’s revelation.

  ‘Megan, you’re with me. We’ll go to John Lockwood’s address – he’s over on Cardew Street, off Chesterton Road.’ He’d lived just round the corner from Julie’s summer lodgings. Convenient. ‘Tara.’ He paused a moment, thinking on his feet. ‘I want you to catch up with Bella Chadwick. Make it informal, work your way under her skin and find out why she didn’t tell us what she knew about John.’ He remembered the scared look in the girl’s eyes again, as he’d mentioned the man’s name. ‘I’m sure as hell she did know.’

  He turned to Max. ‘Given Tara’s occupied, I want you and Jez to interview Gilmour again. He lied to us about John – all that rubbish about him being a student. If he had evidence that Julie was sleeping with a university academic that puts a very different light on things.’ John Lockwood had a lot more to lose than some two-timing undergraduate. And if Julie minded about him, Gilmour’s knowledge would have been important to her too. But he still couldn’t see how all that might relate to her murder. They needed to keep digging – at breakneck speed. Something had to slot into place.

  Megan was on her feet, grabbing her bag, and Tara was up too, a look of zeal in her eyes. She was probably glad to be leading on something. He was still slightly worried about the dynamic between her and Max; they weren’t quite the right balance for each other – Tara always ready to take over, Max a little too accommodating. Then again, the alternative of Tara and Megan would test everyone’s resolve.

  Max and Jez were talking tactics – Max’s voice quiet, Jez’s louder. He didn’t wait to hear what their approach would be. Fleming was always telling him he should stop being a control freak.

  Cardew Street was narrow, and lined with two-up two-down terraced houses. It was off the same road as his mother’s place. Despite being significantly further out of town, the homes there would still fetch three or four hundred thousand, Blake guessed. Crazy.

  John Lockwood was at number twenty. The paintwork on the door was cracked, and there was a hairline break in the sash window at the front, too. The short path to the front door was paved, but there was grass coming up between the stones, and the tiny area of garden next to it was unkempt. He and Megan exchanged a glance. Were these the signs of an absent-minded academic with his mind on higher things? Or was something else at work? He’d certainly never have guessed the house belonged to the son of a billionaire.

  Blake rapped at the scuffed brass knocker. There was no bell. The action was met with absolute silence. He tried again, but his hopes weren’t high. The place looked empty somehow. The windows were dark, and everything was still. He glanced at the sticky note Tara had given him. There was a mobile number on it, and he dialled. Would the man pick up? Could he be on the run, having killed Julie?

  After a few rings, he got shunted through to voicemail. There was no personal message, just his network’s pre-recorded one. He left his details for what it was worth and moved closer to the window to peer inside. The interior was crowded with books, papers and an assortment of oddly matched furniture. Every surface was covered, and Blake could see unopened post on a table. It looked as though John Lockwood had let his life get out of control.

  ‘He was there last night.’

  The voice made him jump. A man had approached Megan. He had one hand on her sleeve, now, his eyes bright.

  ‘You spoke to him?’ Megan asked, showing her warrant card.

  But the man shook his head. ‘Heard him. I live next door. I think he must have dropped something. There was an almighty crash. I listened out, in case he’d hurt himself, but I heard him moving about after a moment. I haven’t seen him today.’

  Blake moved forward. ‘Is that unusual?’

  The man gave him a sharp look. ‘I don’t spend my time spying on my neighbours. But I eat breakfast in my front room, and if people come and go I usually spot them. The soundproofing is the main thing in these places.’ He nodded at number eighteen. ‘The walls might as well be made of tissue paper. I know someone rang John late last night, for instance. I didn’t hear what was said, but I expect if I’d put my ear to the wall I would have.’

  The man made Blake feel uneasy. Suddenly he saw Tara’s point, when she said living in an isolated cottage had its advantages. ‘And what about this morning?’

  ‘It’s been quiet as the grave.’

  The expression didn’t make Blake any happier.

  ‘He drinks,’ the man said, nodding. ‘It’s not a happy situation. He might be sleeping it off.’

  ‘You haven’t got a spare key, I suppose?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Keeps himself to himself, that one. There’s a footpath down the end of the gardens – for access, so we can take our bins round. You might be able to get a look round the back.’

  And Blake guessed John Lockwood’s neighbour would watch their every move. All the same, he didn’t fancy breaking off to request a warrant at a time like this. It might come to that, but maybe they could find out more first. Or raise John Lockwood from his stupor by shouting up at his rear windows.

  He thanked the man without sharing his plans and walked off up the street with Megan. ‘Let’s do as he suggests, but access the path further along the road. If we’re lucky, he might have gone to make a cup of tea by the time we approach Lockwood’s garden.’

  They walked almost the entire length of Cardew Street. Every so often there was a passageway between the houses. When they’d rounded a bend in the road, Blake nodded. ‘Let’s go up this one and see if it leads to the path the neighbour was talking about.’

  He strode ahead. They were travelling between two long, well-tended gardens. The one to his right contained a couple of rowan trees, their blood-red berries striking against the overcast sky. The mist had finally lifted, but the day was still dank and darker than usual. At the end of the passageway they found the path the man had told them about. It ran behind the gardens on that side of Cardew Street, and regular gates gave house-owners access to their own plots. Blake turned left and began to count, knowing they’d started at the rear of number fifty-four.

  But when they came to the access to number twenty, he realised he could have guessed the right house without keeping track anyway. Number eighteen – the one that belonged to the neighbour they’d spoken to – was a bit untidy at the end. But John Lockwood’s looked like an abandoned wasteland. The nettles were waist high. The fence was thick with ivy, interwoven with brambles. What kind of life was John Lockwood living? Blake’s mother was an academic. She didn’t set much store by household tasks, or gardening either, but she did the minimum – before things got out of hand. And even if Lockwood hated odd jobs, he could surely get someone in to help. This – this was the sign of someone who couldn’t handle life. It was the only conclusion Blake could draw.

  He turned to Megan. ‘Shall we?’

  The garden gate opened inwards, towards the house, but it fouled against the build-up of grasses and tangled vegetation. It took him a moment to force it back, but at last they were through. He and Megan held their hands high, away from the stinging nettles. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement in the window of the neighbour’s house. Ah well.

  The back of John Lockwood’s place was L-shaped. Blake was familiar with the standard Cambridge terrace layout. There was normally a kitchen, and sometimes a downstairs bathroom, right at the rear of the house, where once the outside loo would have been. Then, if you walked past that, down an area behind the main house and next to the kitchen, there was a rear reception room that most people used for dining.

  He rapped at the back door which led into the kitchen and peered inside as he waited. It didn’t tell them anything new. The sink was full of dirty crockery.r />
  Beyond, Blake saw a depleted loaf of bread on a board. Had he been down to eat that morning? Or was it there from longer ago?

  Once again, he listened, but there was nothing. The door was locked when he tried it, after pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He called Lockwood’s mobile again. No answer.

  They’d have to get a warrant. He cursed and walked towards the window of the rear reception room for a quick peek before they left.

  It was dark inside, and at first, all Blake could see was a table, and an empty whisky bottle. But as his eyes adjusted, he realised there was something else. A man’s leg… He moved quickly, as far left as he could get, hard up against the boundary fence. From that angle he could see more. The man’s whole body. There was a pool of something that looked like vomit on the wooden floor next to him. Blake’s immediate instinct was to break the window, climb through and check for a pulse, but in his gut, he knew there was no point.

  If this was John Lockwood, he was dead.

  Twenty-Six

  It was mid-afternoon as Tara walked across Coe Fen with Bella Chadwick. The place was a traditional site for grazing cattle – Coe came from cow, she’d heard. Charles Darwin had reputedly done beetle surveys there too. The ground was close to the river and at the mercy of seasonal floods. For Tara’s purposes, it was perfect: just behind St Oswald’s, and currently almost deserted, thanks to the damp, shivery day. She could see why people had retreated indoors. As she watched, the wild wind forced the ancient willows to bend and twist.

  ‘I thought it might be easier to talk outside college.’ Tara tucked her red-gold hair behind her ears and glanced sideways at Bella. She wanted her off her own territory – but the location was also informal and as good as private. ‘I was having a chat with DI Blake, who heads up my team, about the talk you had earlier today.’

  Julie’s friend – if that was what she’d been – looked back at her. She was still wary, and her eyes were puffy. She hadn’t been holding up well, by the look of things.