Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  ‘As far as we’re aware Professor Seabrook didn’t tell anyone but Jim Cooper about the doll.’

  She was silent and he decided to change the subject. ‘What do you know about the professor’s hobbies?’

  She raised an eyebrow at that. The fact that Samantha Seabrook appeared to have climbed her way into St Bede’s fellows’ garden hadn’t been made public, so Blake didn’t explain. ‘I’ve heard she was keen on climbing. Were you aware of that?’

  Dr Mayhew frowned and hesitated. ‘I believe I might have heard it mentioned.’

  It was a pretty guarded reply. ‘Who told you? And who went with her?’

  Her hesitation was shorter this time. ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember.’ After a moment she added, ‘But no one else was mentioned.’

  Blake wasn’t appreciating her half-truths and edited highlights. ‘Do you know if she used a local sports facility?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She sounded firmer now she’d got used to his line of questioning.

  ‘Never mind. We’ll ask around.’ He made it sound like a threat and saw annoyance flit across her face. ‘Speaking of leisure time,’ he went on, ‘we noticed the professor had some leave marked in her diary a few weeks before she died. Do you know where she went?’

  Mary Mayhew sat back in her chair and relaxed her shoulders. ‘No.’

  He believed her this time. ‘Would she normally share her plans with her colleagues?’

  The administrator pulled a face, though within a fraction of a second she’d altered her expression back to neutral. ‘It very much depended with Samantha. Sometimes she’d be full of her plans and we’d all be very well aware of what she was up to. At others she enjoyed keeping us in suspense.’ She gave a smile now, but it was a wintery one.

  Next, he moved on to the guy he’d seen loitering outside Samantha Seabrook’s room.

  ‘That must have been one of our senior lecturers, Dr Simon Askey,’ Mary Mayhew said. Her tone told him she had mixed feelings about the man; feelings that Blake sensed he was going to share. ‘He’ll have headed off for the day now.’

  Blake glanced at his watch. It was a bit early to call it home time.

  Mary Mayhew was watching him. ‘He’s gone back to his college.’ Her tone was tart. ‘He’s speaking to a journalist about Samantha and then he has a series of meetings.’

  Bully for him. ‘Did Dr Askey work closely with Professor Seabrook?’ He was quite keen to know why he’d been so interested in his and Emma’s activities.

  ‘Their fields had a lot of crossover.’

  Which didn’t quite answer his question.

  ‘Has Dr Askey been at the institute long?’

  ‘About a year longer than Professor Seabrook was. He was appointed as a senior lecturer here at the university after leaving a lectureship at Manchester.’

  Interesting that he hadn’t progressed in the same way Samantha Seabrook had. ‘Were he and Professor Seabrook ever in competition for a promotion?’

  Mary Mayhew gave him an unfriendly look and he took pleasure in smiling back at her. ‘That’s not quite how it works,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘I’d still like to know.’

  At last she relented. ‘He did apply for promotion at the same time as she did. If he’d been successful he would have been promoted to Reader.’

  Blake was familiar with the set-up, thanks to his mother. ‘So he failed to move one rung up the ladder, whilst Samantha Seabrook skipped a grade and went straight to Professor?’

  The frosty look was back in Mary Mayhew’s eye. ‘Inspector, do you have any idea how many pages of rules and regulations there are to ensure promotions are made on an objective and fair basis?’

  ‘No.’ His mother hadn’t gone into that much detail.

  ‘Forty-two, at the last count.’ She nodded towards an enormous black hardback volume with ‘Statutes and Ordinances’ written on its spine in gold letters.

  But rules could usually be circumvented. ‘You’re confident the process is fair?’

  ‘As fair as anyone can possibly make it.’

  Blake raised an eyebrow.

  ‘When it comes down to it, life’s unfair,’ she said. ‘That’s the basis of all our work. If you get any kind of position here at the university – or indeed anywhere else – it’s likely to be in part because you’ve had a decent education, which is, again, frequently down to your family background.’

  All well and good, but he hadn’t come here for a lecture on inequality. ‘Is the promotion process perceived as fair by the staff?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, sighing and slumping back in her chair. ‘That’s quite another matter.’

  It was just the moment to bring up the library plaque. ‘I suppose it must be all the more difficult to convince others that it’s an even playing field if one of the candidates or their family have made a large donation to the institute? I notice this building is home to the Seabrook Library.’ People didn’t get things like that named after them for nothing.

  Mary Mayhew turned an angry red. ‘That bloody library donation!’ she said. ‘It’s been nothing but trouble.’ Then she blinked twice, quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. The funds for the library were donated by Samantha Seabrook’s father, Sir Brian. That was a good five years before Samantha applied for her post here. And we have meticulous records to show exactly why she was the successful applicant then, and again when she got her professorship. She was by far and away the best-qualified candidate.’ She sounded as though she’d made that speech before – and was sick of saying it.

  ‘But I imagine that doesn’t stop some people from drawing unfortunate conclusions.’

  There was a pause. ‘You imagine correctly.’

  ‘Simon Askey included?’

  ‘He’s never said anything to me directly.’

  ‘What about rumours via other people, snide remarks – that kind of thing?’

  ‘There have been some. Not just from him.’

  Blake could imagine.

  ‘But in fact,’ Mary Mayhew went on, ‘there can’t have been any significant disagreement between Simon Askey and Samantha Seabrook. They were just about to put in a joint multimillion-pound bid in response to a funding call. It would have involved them working closely together for three years. You don’t sign up for that if you’re at daggers drawn.’

  ‘What was the funding call?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Social Impacts of Poverty. The deadline’s in a week, and if they’d been successful they’d have been working together from next Easter.’

  He noticed Emma sit up straighter at that. It rang bells with him too. His DS flicked open her notebook and angled it so he could see. It said: ‘Social Impacts of Poverty – cancelled?’ This was the funding call with the deadline that had been crossed out so emphatically on Samantha Seabrook’s wall planner.

  So it looked as though Mary Mayhew’s information was out of date. And if Samantha Seabrook had thought better of putting in the joint bid with her colleague, what would Simon Askey’s reaction have been? Especially if its success had hinged on her cooperation… Blake imagined he would have been angry. He’d be interested to know how he might have vented his frustration. And what exactly had made her pull out.

  They were just about to leave Mary Mayhew’s office when Blake paused. He was behind Emma, halfway between the seat he’d occupied and Dr Mayhew’s office door.

  ‘About Professor Seabrook’s climbing,’ he said. ‘I’m well aware you know more than you’re telling me. I can’t force you to be frank, but this is a murder enquiry and your attitude’s not helpful. I don’t know what you’ve got to hide, but if you seriously think the institute’s PR is more important than what happened to Samantha Seabrook then go ahead and keep your mouth shut. I’ll walk right out of here knowing you’re being deliberately obstructive.’

  He kept his eyes on hers, hoping his expression betrayed every ounce of frustration he was feeling.

  She frowned and her eyes wer
e angry, but he could see she was about to agree.

  ‘All right,’ she said at last.

  So he took his seat again, ready for her to explain.

  When he and Emma left the room a short while later, after an acrimonious but enlightening discussion, his DS gave him a look.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I’m a detective, remember. Since you are too, you probably know what I’m thinking as well.’

  ‘Mary Mayhew may not be your number one fan, but you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs?’

  ‘You’re good. And we got our answer, didn’t we?’ He didn’t much care about anything else.

  Ten

  On King’s Parade, people were spilling out of the cafés and eateries and wandering into Tara’s path on the road. Tension had built up inside her at the institute and she was all but ready to boil over and shout at them. Giles calling her just as she’d left the building hadn’t helped. She appreciated he wanted updates, but nagging her when she’d only just got started would simply hold her up.

  She took a deep breath and channelled her energies into cycling fast towards St Francis’s College, where Simon Askey was a fellow. It had been Samantha Seabrook’s college too. At least she’d get the chance to see the professor’s other base. Most academics had offices in their college as well as at their departments and institutes.

  She turned right down a tiny side road to reach the place, which was close to King’s College and next to the river. It was small and dated back to the early 1400s. She locked her bike to a lamp-post and entered a stone-lined tunnel to find the porters’ lodge.

  ‘Dr Askey?’ A man in a white shirt and black waistcoat and trousers came out from behind the desk. ‘I’ll show you the way to his staircase.’

  There was something in the man’s eyes that increased the adrenaline already coursing round her body. His look was reserved, and he’d cooled a degree or two when she’d told him who she wanted to see. Askey wasn’t well liked, she guessed. It didn’t make him a murderer. But like everyone else she had to tackle, he was in the running. Part of her wanted to turn and rush back through the tunnel whilst she still could.

  But she followed as the porter led her across a deserted court, its pristine grass a dark, lush green. All around her, the tall mullioned windows of the college rooms looked down to where she walked, too dark and distant for her to see if she was being watched. A couple amongst the many were open, and then suddenly, as she watched, someone pulled one closed, banging it against its frame. A crow that had been perched on a nearby stone ledge took off in fright, its strangled cry ringing out before it flapped its way over the high rooftop.

  ‘Here,’ the porter said, ‘Staircase F.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She watched the man walk away, and felt her isolation.

  There was a list of names and room numbers – white characters on a blackboard background – at the bottom of a stone spiral staircase. She found Askey’s name amongst the others and made her way up, staring ahead of her to get a glimpse of what was coming.

  What the hell was she doing? But there was no going back. Sticking her head in the sand meant relying on the police to catch her would-be killer – and she’d been let down before. If things went wrong, at least she had her knife.

  At last she found the right door and knocked.

  The man who opened up was blond, good-looking and with an air of confidence she could sense even before he spoke; it was there in his eyes and the set of his shoulders.

  ‘Tara Thorpe? Great to meet you. I’m glad you’ve come to talk about Sam. She and I were – well, I guess you’d say sparring partners.’

  From his voice she put him down as a native New Yorker. It was an accent she’d always found appealing, but that didn’t stop her feeling wary. There was something in his tone that told her he might bring a very particular slant to Professor Seabrook’s story.

  He stood back to let her into his room. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please; that’d be great.’

  ‘So,’ he raised an eyebrow, ‘what on earth are you doing working for Not Now?’ His tone said it all. He probably thought he was the first interviewee she’d met who’d adopted a combative stance. How innocent of him.

  She smiled, in spite of what she was feeling. ‘So you don’t count yourself as one of our fans?’

  He shrugged, but smiled back as he set his kettle to boil. ‘My wife reads the magazine – in between nappy changing and feeding duties. We’ve got a six-month-old.’

  Tara nodded. ‘An exhausting age.’ Not that she’d know, really. ‘Delighted we can provide some light relief.’

  ‘She knew your name when I said I’d be talking to you. She tells me you’re good – so that’s why I wondered what you’re doing working somewhere like that.’

  It was her turn to shrug. She offset it with a grin. ‘I’m biding my time. I’m not always one hundred per cent happy with our content, but I’m a realist. And they let me do what I want – the article on Samantha Seabrook won’t go out unless I’m happy with it.’ Tara had found Giles was generally too lazy to force an issue if she really dug her heels in.

  Askey’s eyes were on hers and a smile played round his lips. ‘I can believe that.’

  His intimate look made her want to step back and she was glad when he strode over to a worktop to put coffee into a cafetière. He made small talk as he worked.

  As they chatted, she took the opportunity to put some distance between them. From the other side of the room, she made a show of admiring the view from his window. It faced over the court she’d crossed to get to him.

  ‘Sam’s room was just over there.’

  She caught her breath. He’d managed to join her without making a sound.

  Looking at where he pointed she saw a twin staircase to the one they were currently in, diagonally opposite them across the court.

  ‘It’s funny to think I’ll never see her bound out of that doorway again,’ he said. He sighed, but Tara knew bad acting when she saw it. She didn’t think he was that upset. Interested, maybe, by the turn of events. Even nostalgic perhaps for some past times they’d spent together – but definitely, she reckoned, not unduly cut up.

  He could be the professor’s killer.

  She had the urge to stay near the window; to make sure she could be seen from outside if anything happened…

  Askey went back to the cafetière and pushed the plunger down. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘A woman after my own heart.’ He came over to hand her the drink, holding onto it for just a little longer than was necessary after she’d taken hold of the saucer it rested on.

  She was still by the window. Should she risk testing his reactions? She might get useful information – or more than she bargained for.

  ‘I had a bit of a rough night last night, so the coffee is especially welcome.’ She forced herself to smile, and watched his eyes. Did he know the background? Had he sent her the doll?

  But Askey just smiled back, his left eyebrow slightly raised. She simply couldn’t tell. And now he was motioning her to take a seat, back in the darkest part of the room, away from public view. It was an easy chair, next to a low coffee table. She felt anything but relaxed as she sank into it.

  ‘So, how can I help?’ he said.

  He was probably keen to be featured alongside Samantha Seabrook in her article, and it would work well as far as Tara was concerned. The promise of puffing him up in Not Now was a good sweetener to introduce at the outset. Even if he had filed the magazine under ‘gutter press’, it was the publication of the moment. Appearing in its pages would give Askey his five minutes of fame. ‘I’d like to focus on the areas where your and Professor Seabrook’s work overlapped,’ she said. ‘It would be good to celebrate what Samantha achieved but also to give Not Now’s readers a glimpse of the work that you will take forward now that she’s gone. If you don’t mind, I could just set m
y recorder going. That way we can relax and I won’t be scribbling away in my notepad the whole time. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Sure. Go for it.’ He leant back in his chair, his eyes on her as she moved to get her recording kit.

  She found herself holding her breath as she put the machine down on the table and switched it on.

  ‘So Professor da Souza mentioned you and Professor Seabrook were about to put in a joint funding bid?’ Tara began. She mustn’t lose focus.

  He didn’t instantly reply. Perhaps the process hadn’t been plain sailing, in which case it was a promising avenue to explore.

  ‘Will you go ahead with the application, now that she’s dead?’

  He nodded. ‘For sure. It would be wrong to pull out. I’ll just have to adjust the way the initiative will run. I’ll ask for funding for a deputy.’

  She was sure he would have been Samantha Seabrook’s second-in-command on the project, if the professor had survived. ‘Putting something like that together must involve a lot of concentrated effort and creativity. I can’t imagine what it must be like to work that closely with someone.’ She gave him a smile. ‘I’m not great at that kind of give and take, to be honest.’

  He laughed lightly. ‘Whereas it’s my forte.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah, well, I’m kidding. I guess you knew that?’

  ‘I’d find it harder to understand someone who said they found it easy.’

  He nodded. ‘I completely agree. And when you’re working on a bid like the one Sam and I were pursuing, the tension tends to build because the hours involved are so long.’

  ‘That must be tricky too, when you’ve got a young family at home.’

  ‘Right again. It tested my wife’s patience. The thing is, research work is… unconventional, and she finds that hard to accept. You can just as easily be thrashing things out in the corner of a pub as in an office. It often helps, in fact, to move out of your normal environment to get the creative juices going.’

  Tara imagined Askey arriving home at midnight smelling of beer, ready to tell his wife what a tough day he’d had. Her heart bled for him.