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

by Clare Chase

  ‘On Julie’s murder, the felt interior of Lady Lockwood’s harp case has been matched to the wool found under her fingernails. DNA’s being worked on – evidence built up. Oh, and we found that the sedatives John Lockwood took the night he died were the same sort that his mother has been prescribed.’ He still felt sick when he imagined what the woman might have said to her son on the evening of his death. Had she really wanted to offer solace? Or had she left the wherewithal for him to take his own life at his house, then called to make him feel as low as possible? Maybe she’d convinced him everyone would think he’d killed Julie. Or perhaps she’d suggested her death was actually John’s fault. She might have hinted that Stuart Gilmour had found out about his and Julie’s relationship and killed the student in revenge. They’d never know for sure, but John had been the most likely family member to give away his parents’ secret. It gave them a motive for wanting him out of the way.

  Tara was shivering, despite the heat of the hospital ward.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He looked up for a nurse, but Tara put a hand on his arm.

  Her touch made him lean in towards her. He was conscious of Jez’s flowers again.

  ‘I’m okay. It’s just the case.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Have you been having nightmares?’

  There was a slight quaver to her voice – something almost unknown. ‘The odd one. Didn’t get my solid eight hours last night.’

  ‘We can arrange counselling, of course – but if you ever want to talk to some untrained idiot, you know where I am.’

  Her eyes looked damp. ‘Thanks, Blake. I appreciate it.’

  But she’d probably rather share with Jez Fallon. It was understandable. No baggage, no kids, charming, carefree… He thought of the decision he’d made at three o’clock that morning. But it didn’t make any difference. He’d finally come to his senses, but it was too late, and he’d have to live with it.

  ‘Take care, Tara.’ He squeezed her hand for a moment.

  ‘You too.’

  As he turned away, she was looking down, her hair falling forward, hiding her face.

  Sixty-Eight

  Patrick Wilkins was sitting opposite Giles Troy, editor of Not Now magazine, in the Mitre, enjoying a lunchtime pint of IPA.

  ‘You look very pleased with yourself,’ Troy said.

  Patrick would have bristled, but he was in too good a mood to be wound up by the man today. He was well aware that the editor had written him off, but he’d shortly be eating his words. That was compensation enough.

  ‘I’ve identified Tara Thorpe’s stalker.’

  Troy frowned, disbelief written all over his face. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’

  Patrick wasn’t going to give him the full details. He was hardly planning to highlight his botched attempt to solve the mystery earlier in the year, or how it had accidentally led him to the right answer. And then there was the part Shona had played in his success… No. Troy needn’t know any of that.

  ‘Through hard work and diligence,’ Wilkins said instead, giving a slow smile. ‘I found an old boyfriend of Tara’s, Peter Devlin, who gave me some useful information. After that, I went to the suspect and presented him with what I knew. I managed to record our conversation secretly, so we’re home and dry.’

  Troy was holding his pint halfway to his mouth, his eyes wider still now. ‘You’re seriously telling me we can unmask the guilty party?’

  ‘I can,’ Patrick corrected him, ‘and I’ll give you your story – for the fee we agreed, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ He shook his head. ‘So, you picked up on clues that a team of police officers – and no doubt that bastard Paul Kemp – all missed when they investigated the case first time around…’

  Patrick felt his pulse quicken at the incredulity in the editor’s tone. So what if the particular set of circumstances that had set him on the right track could never have occurred back then? Investigators relied on serendipity the whole time. It was what you did with your good fortune that made the difference.

  Troy licked his lips. ‘What’s the truth? How much will it hurt Thorpe?’

  Wilkins’ mood lifted again. ‘Oh, it’ll hurt all right – and the scandal will be huge. It turns out the culprit was her own father, Robin.’

  Troy’s smile was broad. ‘That’s one of the best bits of news I’ve heard in a long time. She mentioned him once or twice, back when she worked for me. An architect, isn’t he? I always got the impression he despised her, but I didn’t think his hatred ran that deep.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than you imagine.’ Patrick had been astounded at the story that had come out. ‘And when I say he was responsible, I have to qualify that. He was responsible for every delivery after the first one. And also, for killing her cat.’

  Troy frowned. Patrick himself wasn’t best pleased that he still didn’t know who’d sent Tara her very first item of hate mail. Now he understood that it had been a one-off, he doubted he’d ever get at the truth. It might have been a school friend that she’d upset, or an ex-boyfriend perhaps. Some weirdo. Tara Thorpe was just the sort to attract them.

  The editor of Not Now’s eyes were cold. ‘Explain.’

  ‘The news of Tara’s first poison pen, with the delivery of a load of dead bees on her sixteenth birthday, made the press quite quickly. Lydia Thorpe was at the height of her career, and several national papers picked up on it, as well as some glossy magazines.’

  ‘I can imagine. If Not Now had existed back then we’d have been all over it.’ Troy sipped his beer. ‘“Bizarre hate mail sent to film star’s daughter” would draw the readers in nicely.’

  Wilkins nodded. ‘Meanwhile, it turns out Robin’s architects’ practice hadn’t been doing well. He was struggling and wondering if he’d have to close it down. It was bad timing: he and his wife were trying to start a family, so he needed the cash.’

  Troy yawned. ‘Cut to the chase, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Robin was interviewed in almost all of the press coverage. His name – and the odd photo of his work – got included as added colour when the hacks went into Tara’s colourful family background. And before Robin knew it, he was getting more clients.’

  Troy’s jaw dropped. ‘I don’t believe it! He sent the next package just to prolong the associated publicity?’

  Patrick nodded. He was lucky to have got the information out of Tara’s dad. He’d blagged his way into the man’s house and accused him of being Tara’s stalker in front of his current wife, Melissa. The woman had been so horrified at the idea of her beloved husband victimising his own daughter out of hatred, that Robin had ended up defending himself by detailing the rather more ‘practical’ reasons for his campaign. Melissa hadn’t looked any less appalled, once her husband had spilled the beans. As for Wilkins, he wasn’t fooled. Yes, the man might have acted for the sake of material gain, but he’d seen his eyes. He hated his daughter all right. And no one who knew what he’d done would doubt that.

  Patrick smiled. ‘I looked at some of the press cuttings from the period. The deliveries got more and more creative, so they continued to capture the newspapers’ imagination. Maggots, a pig’s heart, piles of feathers. It was all weird, dramatic, attention-grabbing stuff. By the time the press covered the killing of Tara’s cat, Robin was being described as a “society” architect and, along with quotes expressing his heartfelt concern at his daughter’s torment, were his firm’s contact number and little thumbnails of his latest high-end commissions. They did the same for Lydia, of course – little boxes with her photograph and details of her most recent film. Only she didn’t need the publicity, whereas for him, free advertising in a range of upmarket publications was a massive bonus. He told me he stopped once he was sure his business was secure.’ Patrick shook his head; he’d made that last statement in defensive tones, as though it showed he’d got some principles.

  ‘Remarkable. A man after my own heart, in many ways.’ Troy laughed. ‘I’m sure h
e’ll understand that we need to use publicity to keep our pockets lined, just as he did. How did Tara’s ex come to put you onto Robin, by the way?’

  ‘He became a family friend – another architect who once did a stint in her dad’s practice.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Troy raised his glass to Patrick’s. ‘I’ll see that the story’s drafted as soon as possible. Come into the office when you’re ready, and bring the recording you made.’

  ‘I’ll want to hand it over to the police too.’ They’d see his worth then. They’d be kicking themselves for forcing him into resigning.

  ‘Of course, but only as we go to print with what we know so far. They’ll probably slap restrictions on us once they’ve got your report.’

  Patrick nodded. He intended to write to Tara with the news direct, too. He could leave Not Now’s coverage to come as a surprise, but that really would be low. And besides, he was enjoying mulling over the wording of his letter…

  ‘Oh,’ Troy raised his drink again, ‘and watch your back. If there’s any hint you got your information dishonestly, it won’t affect me – but I think it’s a fair assumption that Tara and her allies will find out. If you’ve indulged in malpractice – letting your “source” think you were working for Tara, for example – then I’d say you’re in for trouble. It would be a shame if your PI business went down the pan so rapidly.’

  As they left the Mitre, Troy was smiling, but Patrick wasn’t.

  Sixty-Nine

  Blake had felt a moment of peace after he’d got the truth out of Babette. He’d finally acknowledged that breaking up with her was the right thing to do. Far from protecting the kids, staying in the marriage was exposing them to a poisonous atmosphere. After doing some googling during the night, he was confident the courts would support shared care for them.

  Three days later, on Saturday, he was sitting in the kitchen at the house in Fen Ditton. He’d already told Babette what needed to happen and had begun to sort out his possessions, ready for the move. His biggest anxiety had been finding somewhere local to live, so he was buoyed up at having secured a place to rent just up the road from the family home. Kitty and Jessica would be able to run in and out of both houses as they grew up.

  He’d expected Babette to go into the same routine she had in the past when he told her about his plans – sobbing, pleading and making excuses – but something in her eye told him she knew there was no going back this time. She’d gone to talk to her mother, but the kids were in the room with him: Kitty making fairy cakes – with some help – and Jessica in her bouncy chair, flipping the pink and blue plastic rabbits that dangled from the frame he’d put over it.

  He’d sent off a fresh DNA check to try to match him to them both – not because he cared, but because he wanted them to know who their biological father was, one way or the other. He needed to be prepared too, in case the truth had any bearing on custody decisions in the family courts. But he hoped to God it wouldn’t, if it turned out Babette had lied yet again. He was the one who’d been there for them and he’d fight to the death to protect them if need be.

  All in all, things were a lot more certain than they had been – he felt more grounded than he had in years.

  But no matter how important all that was, he couldn’t entirely stop his thoughts from straying to Tara and Jez. He pushed the images away, but they sprang back at him with worrying regularity.

  Tara was still in Addenbrooke’s – they’d decided to operate on her broken foot. It was just before hospital visiting time that evening that he realised he’d have to take action. Babette was back home, so he made an excuse and left the house.

  Tara had been transferred to a new ward. Half an hour later, he approached her hospital bed once more. He’d bought her some chocolates from an eight till late. It took her a moment to realise he was there. She’d been looking at an envelope, a frown traced across her brow.

  ‘Everything all right?’ He nodded at the letter.

  ‘I’m not sure. This was delivered by hand earlier – it’s just made its way through the internal system to me.’ She held it up, and he recognised Patrick Wilkins’ handwriting.

  ‘There should be a law against Wilkins writing to people whilst they’re in a reduced state of health. Do you want to open it now?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to open it all, if I’m honest. I’ll leave it until later. Or chuck it in the bin. One or the other.’ She sat up straighter in bed and glanced at the chocolates he was holding. ‘What’s all this? Are you trying to butter me up for some reason?’

  He managed to give her what he hoped was a casual grin. ‘They’re just to keep body and soul together, in case the hospital food’s not up to much.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘As a matter of fact, I just love beetroot, mystery meat and wilting lettuce leaves – but I’m prepared to accept your kind gift anyway.’ She took the box, opened it and offered him one. ‘So, what’s the news? Is the case wrapping up okay?’

  He nodded as he ate the white-chocolate-covered praline and took a seat in the chair for visitors. ‘We’ve got testimonies now from witnesses dating back to Alistair Lockwood’s hit-and-run. The woman from the pub was able to match the family she remembered with a photograph of them from that period. She still remembered Sir Alistair drinking more than he should. The car mechanic was helpful, too; we were hoping he might vaguely remember encountering Sir Alistair or someone from Lockwood’s, but he still had all the paperwork for the job. Over twenty years’ worth of invoices, all neatly filed away. The evidence against both Lockwoods senior is going to fill a briefcase.’

  Tara shuddered. ‘What about Bella?’

  ‘She’ll have to answer for what she did. However manipulative Veronica was, and however much pressure her parents put on her, she was complicit in the most terrible of crimes. She might have been able to save Julie. She’s going through psychiatric assessments though, and the jury will see how she was used.’

  Tara nodded. ‘And how are the team?’

  ‘Max and Megan were behaving like a pair of love-struck kids last time I looked. The whole station’s enjoying their romance. Even Fleming’s gone all dewy-eyed.’

  ‘It’s about time Max had some joy in his life.’

  Blake nodded. ‘I know you haven’t always seen eye to eye with Megan, though.’

  ‘I was probably too hasty.’ She gave him a look. ‘If Max has fallen for her then I’m convinced. He knows what’s what.’

  The team was beginning to gel, Blake realised. Megan had relaxed a little, and Tara had begun to see the benefits of receiving backup, as well as giving it. Fleming had said much the same when they’d met to discuss the investigation into Julie’s death.

  ‘And I suppose you don’t need an update on Jez.’ There were no flowers allowed on Tara’s current ward, which saved him from having to look at the DC’s showy bouquet. It was still fresh in his mind though. ‘Are you and he an item?’

  Her eyes narrowed and her mouth formed a thin what’s it to you? line. ‘He’s asked me out, once I can walk again. I wouldn’t be hot on the dance floor right now. Why?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t just come in here to pass on gossip from the station. I wanted to say that if you and Jez ever part company… I’m waiting in the wings.’ He felt the heat rise up in his face. ‘I appreciate you might not want me anywhere near the stage, but – well – I wanted you to know.’

  She frowned. ‘And what makes you think I’d date a married man?’

  ‘It’s finally over between me and Babette.’ He hardly knew where to start. Tara – and most people at the station – knew his marriage had had its ups and downs, but most of the details were still secret. ‘I haven’t loved her for years. I kept hoping I could save our marriage for the children’s sake, but it wasn’t working. We’ve been doing them more harm than good.’ He sighed. ‘Things are really complicated just at the moment, but I wanted you to know how I feel, just in case, once I’m in my own place…’
She was quiet, and his mouth went dry. ‘I’ve finally realised what matters and how life isn’t a dress rehearsal. Obviously, if you did ever go out with me, you’d have to put up with my corniness and clichéd phrases… But,’ he hardly dared look her in the eye, ‘perhaps you could just bear it in mind?’

  She cocked her head. ‘Okay.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll see you sometime then.’ He got up to leave. At least he’d got the words out.

  He was just unlocking his car when the text came through.

  Following in-depth consideration, I plan to tell Jez I’m washing my hair. A date with him would have been a laugh, but being with you will be complicated, messy, and full of drama, which is much more my scene…

  He stood there in the chilly concrete multi-storey car park, grinning like an idiot. It was a minute before her second text came through.

  Damn it – I’m being flippant because I find emotions hard. But it’s always been you, Blake; you know that, don’t you? x

  Within three minutes, Blake was back on Tara’s ward, facing a nurse who was telling him visiting hours were now over. He showed his warrant card and asked for sixty seconds, which met with a roll of the eyes, but also precious permission for one last minute with Tara that night.

  When she looked up at him, her eyes were glistening. His own felt just as watery. He took her hand and held it tight, then raised it to his lips and kissed it: a promise until he was finally free.

  If you loved reading about Tara, Blake and the Cambridge police force, find out how it all began in Murder on the Marshes. A young woman's body is found in a locked college courtyard, but who is she and what was she doing there in the dead of night?