by Clare Chase
Pam was the crime reduction officer and she’d be awful at it. She had a patronising tone (‘We wouldn’t want to cause extra trouble, now would we?’) that she’d couple with a soupy smile. He suspected Tara Thorpe might prefer to be treated as an adult. ‘I understand that Pam will need to talk to her about general security,’ he said, ‘but I’ll speak to her about her past, and the dangers of lashing out.’
Fleming looked as though she was about to object, and their eyes locked. At last, she nodded. ‘All right. Now, how about the person Tara Thorpe saw on the common? Will her description help us?’
‘No.’
There was a pause and Blake saw Patrick Wilkins roll his eyes. ‘Was it an “average height, average build” job?’
So easy for him to say, sitting there in his comfy chair. ‘It was. Being frightened might have had an effect on how much she took in, but she also said she’d had a few drinks.’
‘Refreshingly honest of her,’ said Fleming, drily.
But Blake was already clear that Tara Thorpe would rather be thought drunk than stupid.
‘Have you found any connection between her and the professor?’ Fleming went on.
‘Not socially, ma’am. Tara Thorpe says she never met Samantha Seabrook and so far we haven’t been able to trace any link between the circles they moved in.’ Except they both lived in Cambridge, where everyone knew someone who knew someone.
Fleming’s blue eyes were on his. ‘But?’
‘But Tara Thorpe’s a staff writer on Not Now magazine.’ He saw the DCI roll her eyes. Not Now was consciously trendy – a bit ‘read us if you think you’re cool enough’. It had a massive, national following. ‘In recent months, her editor has asked her for articles on a couple of murder victims; one from London and one up north. She won an award for the second feature.’
‘So you think the killer in this case was anticipating a connection between Tara Thorpe and Samantha Seabrook which would be triggered by the latter’s death?’
‘It seems like a possibility. By the time I arrived to talk to Ms Thorpe about the doll she was already aware that Samantha Seabrook had died. Her editor had called, given her the news and asked her to write about the professor’s life. No doubt he’ll want all the gory details about her murder too.’ He looked around the room. ‘So we’re all going to have to watch what we say in her hearing. We need every scrap of evidence she gleans as she does her job, but the information can only flow one way.’
Fleming nodded. ‘That’s true enough. So, back to the killer. We’re looking for someone who’s highly organised and capable of planning a complex series of arrangements in advance, paying a lot of attention to detail. And who had the skill to sew two near-identical rag dolls and the clothes they wore. As well as the singlemindedness.’
Blake nodded. It hinted at an obsessive, and it was another thing he wanted to run past the psychologists. They might be able to tell them the sort of qualities such a person would display, day to day. ‘And it has to be someone with plenty of nerve too,’ he said. ‘If they were the figure on the common they waited around the Riverside area, ready to put the frighteners on Tara Thorpe when she came home. And yet they were up against a deadline, assuming the meeting with the professor had already been arranged.’ And how could it not have been?
‘One hell of a cool customer.’ Karen Fleming’s eyes were on the middle distance for a moment, but then she was back with him. ‘So what about the killer’s motive for introducing Tara Thorpe to the mix?’
‘Given her job, I wonder if they want her to unearth something about Samantha Seabrook and splash it all over the press.’
Fleming looked at him. ‘If so, then what’s stopping them publicising whatever it is themselves? They could send Tara an anonymous tip-off easily enough.’
Blake frowned. He’d wondered the same thing and still wasn’t happy with his answer. ‘Maybe it’s something they know but can’t prove, so they’re looking to Tara Thorpe to dig up the evidence. But if that’s the case it’s still odd. They haven’t given her anything to go on.’ It was almost as though it was some kind of test. ‘Either way,’ he went on, ‘I think Tara Thorpe’s working to a deadline that’s in the killer’s head.’
Fleming nodded. ‘I agree.’ Her expression was grim. ‘And I don’t think we can bank on them being the patient type. We need to solve this one fast. And you mentioned that Ms Thorpe has opted to stay in her house in spite of the threat. Is that because she can’t stay with family, or won’t?’
He paused for a moment. ‘Won’t,’ he said at last. ‘But she has her reasons.’
The DCI pulled a face. ‘Of course she has. And what about the man who told you the professor had received a doll?’
Guilty as hell, case closed. But then again, maybe not… ‘His name’s Jim Cooper. Works at the Institute for Social Studies, just as the professor did. He’s the building supervisor – responsible for all the practical day-to-day running of the place, from making sure there’s enough loo paper to checking security.’
‘And his story?’
‘It’s pretty shaky on the face of it. Emma took the call.’ He looked at his DS.
‘That’s right, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Jim Cooper says Professor Seabrook told him she’d been sent the doll around ten days ago. He says she was quite open about it and laughed it off, even though he encouraged her to report it to someone. Then this morning when he heard the news of her death, he claims he went into the professor’s office to see if the doll was still there.’
Blake heard a snort from somewhere behind him that mirrored the one he’d given himself when Emma had passed on the explanation. But of course it could be true. On the other hand, he could have gone in there to take the doll away having sent it himself. Jim Cooper had given Emma his details – which included a home address in Chesterton. That meant – assuming he biked to work (and who didn’t, in Cambridge?) that he would cycle past Tara Thorpe’s house twice a day.
‘Good of him to call and let us know,’ Karen Fleming said. ‘Shame he didn’t do anything more proactive earlier on if he’s telling the truth.’
‘Reading between the lines,’ Emma said, ‘I’m not even sure he’d have called us today if someone hadn’t forced his hand. He told me he’d “bumped into” the institute administrator in Professor Seabrook’s office and that she’d “advised” him to call us.’
‘It’s disappointing that he got in there before us.’ Karen Fleming’s eyes had turned dark.
Blake didn’t bother to reply. They’d been through all this already. They’d asked for the door to be kept locked and one of his detective constables had picked up what he thought was the only key. Unfortunately he’d forgotten to ask if there were others and it turned out Jim Cooper had copies for every door, drawer and cupboard in the place. The DC shouldn’t have been given the job. He wasn’t firing on all cylinders at the moment. It had been Karen Fleming herself who’d sent him out there, and Blake wondered if she’d done it as a test. She saw him as a weak link.
Still, luck had been on their side. Jim Cooper hadn’t managed to complete his mission in secret, and they’d got information that might prove useful. The office was secure now and the professor’s doll had been bagged and brought to the station. Both it and the one sent to Tara Thorpe were being examined to see if the fabric used provided any clues. They were too rough to yield any prints, of course.
One way or another, Blake was looking forward to meeting Cooper. He’d have to be patient though. He and Emma were due at Addenbrooke’s Hospital mortuary to talk to Sir Brian Seabrook after they’d finished at the station. Blake was more than keen to get that out of the way. And then they’d catch up with Agneta to find out more about how Samantha Seabrook had died. Only after both those appointments would they go to the institute. Jim Cooper was top of his list of people to see.
Fleming’s beady eyes glinted. ‘Keep me informed. But before you go, is there anything else you want to highlight?’
Blake
explained about the crucifix that had sawn its way into Samantha Seabrook’s neck. ‘I got word through to officers at the institute to ask her colleagues about it. None of them recall ever seeing her wear that sort of necklace or anything with any religious connotations.’
‘So you think the killer might have brought it with them? Or that she wore it last night for some particular reason, associated with the rendezvous she’d planned?’
Blake nodded. ‘We’re checking with local and online shops to see if any of them sell the item. If it was worn especially for the occasion – at the killer’s instigation – then I can’t believe it was a random choice. They plan too carefully for that. It might hint at the murderer’s identity or their motivation.’ He’d learnt not to use the expression ‘religious nutter’ after a previous case, but Emma Marshall was probably remembering it. He could see a slight smile playing over her lips.
‘How do you think the killer managed to take Samantha Seabrook by surprise in the garden?’ Fleming asked.
Blake told the assembled group about the coins in the fountain. ‘It’s possible the killer slipped them in there in advance, or last night when the professor wasn’t looking. They might have used them to lure her into a vulnerable position when the time came. If they’d pointed them out, and she’d crouched down to look, it would have enabled them to come at her from above and behind.’ He visualised the scene. ‘Her head would have been in just the right place for them to force it under the water.’
There was a moment’s silence before the DCI spoke. ‘That thought’s enough to spur us all on, as if we needed it. Let’s get going, everyone.’
Blake was just about to leave the room with the rest of the team when Karen Fleming called him back. ‘What have you got Max Dimity working on next?’ she asked.
Max was the DC who’d failed to ensure Samantha Seabrook’s office was secure. ‘Trying to track down suppliers of the necklace.’
She paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Good call. But we can’t carry him, Blake.’ He went to speak but she held up a hand. ‘I know. I understand he’s going through hell, but we suggested more leave. If he wants to come in and carry on working that’s fine by me, but only if he remains operationally effective. Keep an eye on him. I want updates immediately if he’s putting this case in jeopardy – even in a small way. Understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was going to do his damnedest to find Max jobs he could manage. Though identifying the right tasks might be a challenge when the guy was still reeling from his wife’s death in a car accident. She’d only been twenty-five, and Max wasn’t much older.
‘Oh, and Blake,’ Fleming said, just as he was on the brink of freedom.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Sort that bloody tie out.’
He didn’t somehow think tidy dressing would be a consideration for Brian Seabrook when he arrived to identify his daughter’s body.
When he caught DS Marshall up she was heading straight for the car park. Blake shook his head. ‘Vending machine first, Emma. My brain feels like something the cat spat out. I need sugar. And more caffeine.’
She grinned. ‘You have a point, boss. I had a chocolate bar just before the briefing but I’ll join you in a coffee. It might work a minor miracle.’
‘In my case it’ll need to.’ He went over to the drinks machine first. He was still feeling the effects of a late phone call with his wife, Babette, the night before. They’d talked until two – a fruitless conversation that had gone round and round. It was she who’d walked out, and now it was she who wanted to get back together.
But for him the sorrow that had replaced his initial rage towards her had dulled. He was back to feeling angry. Angry, but in control. That was all the more important for Kitty’s sake. Having a two-year-old innocent bystander was the hardest part of all this. His urge to make things better for her was strong, but there were some lengths he couldn’t go to, and at the moment that included allowing Babette back into his life.
That didn’t stop Kitty’s image filling his head each night as he tried to sleep; he missed their bedtime story sessions so much that it hurt. But things were better than they had been. A few short weeks ago, his wife had made secret plans which would have cut him off from Kitty for good. At least she was back in Cambridge now. He rubbed his chin. How could he square this circle? He wanted the family life he’d thought he’d had so badly, and on the face of it, that’s what Babette was offering. But in reality, it had never existed; it had been built on a foundation of lies.
He shook the thoughts away. They were too painful, and he needed to focus. This wasn’t a case he could work on with only half his attention.
After he’d got his coffee he selected the most solid-looking chocolate from the options on offer: a large Galaxy bar. When Emma had sorted out her own drink he offered her some but she shook her head.
‘I can’t have any more. I don’t want to turn into a lard-arse.’
‘Eloquently put.’
‘Thank you. I don’t know how you manage to avoid it.’
He didn’t either. But the eating was justified. He’d learnt that – to some extent – sleep could be replaced by food.
He topped up his coffee with water from the cooler to bring it down to a drinkable temperature and they started the walk towards his car. They paused outside on the wall to finish their drinks before they got in.
‘I wonder why Samantha Seabrook was sent a doll with a noose around its neck,’ Emma said, ‘given that she was drowned.’
‘To be fair, conveying death by drowning would have been a lot more challenging. Especially by post.’ She gave him a look, but he knew she understood. They all used flippancy as a way of getting by. ‘Maybe the important point was to let her know generally what was coming,’ he added.
She shivered. ‘Quite possibly. God. Whoever’s responsible certainly made good their promise.’ She drained her drink and crumpled the paper cup.
He’d finished his too. ‘Here,’ he reached out for her empty, ‘I’ll chuck them in the car. We can get rid of them later.’
After a moment they were on their way. Parkside was crowded with traffic: coaches offloading hordes of tourists, cyclists making kamikaze moves and pedestrians dashing through concertinaing gaps between the queuing cars.
‘So, I’m guessing choosing St Bede’s as a setting was significant?’ Emma said.
‘I think so. Using a locked, walled garden for a murder certainly increased the effort involved for the killer.’ He inched his vehicle forward. ‘The more complex a murderer makes their job, the more chance they have of getting found out. It was a risk they didn’t have to take.’ He paused. ‘It gave them isolation and privacy of course, but they could have found that elsewhere.’
Emma glanced sideways at him. ‘So, what’s your thinking?’
‘The killer might have used climbing into a walled garden as a lure. If the professor liked adventure it could have tempted her into going along with the plan. Those climbing gloves the CSIs found at the scene weren’t new. I’m guessing it was a passion of hers. But I think the fountain was important too. After all, once they were in there, why go for drowning? If the killer really did put the coins on the fountain’s base to lure the professor into position, it was all very calculated. They’d have to have known the water was shallow and clear enough to see the bottom by torch or moonlight.’
‘So,’ Emma said, ‘supposing drowning was a deliberate choice, then why?’
Blake stared ahead as a bus moved off at last and allowed them to drive on. ‘It would have given the killer a way of drawing out Samantha Seabrook’s death. She’d have known she couldn’t escape, but her murderer could have kept her going like that for some time. Allowing her up for air for long enough to deliver a message and then plunging her under again.’
It might not have been that way, but now he’d imagined it, he couldn’t get it out of his head. And then his thoughts turned to Tara Thorpe.
Six
Th
ere were police all over Tara’s house – or that’s what it felt like. She hadn’t got a clue who most of them were, though the man with them, DS Patrick Wilkins, had introduced them all by name when they’d arrived. He’d also told her he worked for DI Blake.
Preparing to write about Samantha Seabrook ought to have been a distraction but it wasn’t working. The hubbub was too much, and every so often one of the team would come to check she really wasn’t going to have second thoughts about moving out.
She’d already explained to DI Blake why it wasn’t practical. The main contenders for the provision of temporary accommodation were all unsuitable. Her mother would have her, of course. Tara would explain to her about the doll and she probably wouldn’t take it in, because she’d be busy with other things. But she’d get someone to make up a bed and Tara would be installed without much fuss. She’d have to have stilted conversations with her thirteen-year-old half-brother, Harry, who would be around all day, every day, thanks to the school holidays. He was the ‘wanted child’, in stark contrast to her. Even though her mother had opted against an abortion, Tara had always been superfluous, whereas Harry was prized. Now, she found interacting with him difficult. And her stepfather, Benedict, would wonder how long they’d be saddled with her. He’d be extra polite to try to disguise what he was thinking, and she’d see right through him but have to pretend that she hadn’t. She wouldn’t be able to keep that up for long.
But all that aside, her mother lived deep in the Fens. It was the land of 180-degree skies – they were said to send people mad. It was the feeling of endless space and loneliness. The peat soil all around was black, and the landscape trapped you, just as surely as any mountainous terrain. Instead of being hemmed in by rock, you were cut off by flooded land. The area was criss-crossed with vast drains – channels of deep, dark water, dug by the Dutch centuries earlier to make it possible to farm the land. Each winter you heard of drivers who had drowned after taking a turn too quickly and running off one of the narrow byways. And although you could always see if someone was on your tail – the land was so flat – you could also be sure that you would be seen – and from miles around.
