Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  ‘You can’t hold back in this job,’ Askey went on. ‘I’ll say that for Sam, she certainly gave it her all.’

  ‘So it was intense.’ She leant forward. ‘How did you pool your thoughts, then? What happened when you had opposing ideas for the direction of the funding bid, for instance? How did you decide whose to use?’

  ‘Usually via a full-on row.’ Askey gave her a look and she grinned. ‘Let’s just say she minded like hell about her work,’ he went on. ‘She and I had that in common – that and the fact that we were each always certain we were right. The thing is, I’m a high achiever too and I didn’t like her questioning my judgement any more than she liked me doubting hers.’

  His tone was light, but his fists were clenched. She saw him take a deep breath before he carried on. ‘Of course, she came from the sort of family where people tended to indulge her, so she wasn’t used to being challenged.’ He pulled a face. ‘And I come from the sort of family where no one indulged me, so I got used to being bloody-minded and refusing to take no for an answer.’

  She sighed. ‘Sounds tough.’

  He gave her a half-smile. ‘Ignore me; I got through it. It’s just that I’m a sucker for a sympathetic listener. So, my dad was in prison for most of my childhood and my mum was a junkie. But hey, look at me now. And I’m not alone – Kit, the postdoctoral researcher on my project, had a shitty upbringing too. An alcoholic dad, a mother who died young and a sister who topped herself when he was just a kid.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The people here at the institute really are a mixed bunch. Kit and I buck the trend though. There are precious few who weren’t born to parents from middle- or upper-class families.’

  ‘So really,’ she went on, remembering what Professor da Souza had said, ‘you could argue that people like you and your researcher are better placed to see what needs to be done? If you’ve both seen the problems people encounter first-hand.’

  He shrugged, but she could tell the nonchalance was put on. ‘I tend to feel that way. And my work’s been getting some great reviews.’

  ‘I expect you’ll be next in line for a professorship, given all that.’

  He grinned. ‘Thought I might have got one before now, but people like me never rise as quickly as people like Sam.’

  Tara knew he was older than Samantha Seabrook had been. ‘She was outlandishly young to have risen so far.’

  He nodded in agreement. ‘She was. You’re just saying what a lot of people thought but refused to put into words. It’s refreshing to hear you come out with it.’

  But Tara had simply meant Professor Seabrook had been an exceptionally high achiever; not that she’d had preferential treatment. Askey was leaping ahead, and clearly assumed she’d be on his side. Her careful approach must be working then. How far did his jealousy go?

  ‘Off the record, did you think it was unfair?’ she said. ‘I mean, that she got promoted more quickly than you did, what with all your experience – both through your research and in life?’ She wondered whether anyone had ever told him it’s never off the record when you speak to a journalist.

  He gave his characteristic shrug again. ‘I don’t want to be petty about it, but the promotions committees move in mysterious ways. Of course,’ he went on, ‘Sam was excellent at getting funding and that always makes an impact. She had a winning way with that pretty face of hers, and her influential connections.’ Tara bit back anything she might have been tempted to say. She could contain herself if it meant learning what he really thought about Samantha. And keeping him sweet might save her skin, too. Askey leant back in his chair again, but she wasn’t fooled. His shoulders were tense. ‘Of course, I’m not saying she wasn’t talented too. She certainly had a decent mind. But charm and knowing how to steer people can take you a long way.’

  He did a fine line in passive aggression. He was keeping everything simmering, just below the surface. She knew herself how dangerous that could be.

  For a second, she imagined him standing over Samantha Seabrook, her hair yanked taut in his hand, her head thrust beneath the water as she struggled for her life.

  Shit. She mustn’t let the conversation slide away. It was an effort to drag her focus back to the man across from her. ‘So she was just as happy networking with decision makers as she was doing her research?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh yeah – she loved to socialise. She was the sort who needed constant stimulation and sought it wherever she could.’ There was a long pause. ‘She worked and played hard.’

  As Tara watched, she saw Askey’s fingers clench, his nails digging into his palms.

  ‘Did she spend time socially with you and other people from the institute?’

  ‘Sometimes. When she was in the mood for us. Never with her PhD student though, Chiara Laurito.’

  Tara raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Personality clash,’ Askey explained. ‘Have you met her yet?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘A treat in store. I suspect she’ll be keen to give you her point of view, if you feel like asking her.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll have to look her up after a billing like that.’

  He touched his forehead with the forefinger of his right hand in a mock salute. ‘Glad to be of service.’

  She moved on to her next question. ‘I know most people find it hard to be completely honest when someone’s just died, but what did you think of Samantha’s character, if you don’t mind me asking?’ She was guessing Askey would rise to the bait. He’d hate to be classed as ‘most people’.

  ‘Honestly?’ He laughed, but it sounded forced. ‘She could be a right royal…’ he paused for a moment, ‘pain in the ass.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t put that in your article. Let’s just say she was like a kid. Totally intense one minute, frivolous the next. And every so often she’d throw a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old.’

  Tara arched her eyebrows. ‘Difficult to predict then.’

  ‘For sure. And she was mischievous too,’ Askey went on. ‘The day before she was killed we all knew she had an escapade planned for that evening. She kept dropping little hints. Oh boy,’ he took a deep breath, ‘she was desperate for someone to press her for information. She loved to keep us guessing. But even if anyone had asked she’d never have told. That was her all over.’

  Tara felt a chill run through her. If the police were right and she knew who it was she was meeting that night, Samantha Seabrook’s killer must have been awfully sure of her personality. They’d set up the meeting then gambled that she would enjoy withholding information about her night-time adventure from her friends and colleagues. Keeping their identity secret had depended on them being right. And they had been.

  ‘Of course, the rumours going around now are that old man da Souza did her in,’ Askey went on, ‘what with him having known her outside work, and her body being found in his college gardens.’ His eyes were amused.

  This was uncomfortable territory – especially as Askey seemed to be treating it as a joke. ‘He certainly didn’t seem the sort, when I met him earlier.’ It was easy to say; in reality she wasn’t sure.

  But Askey was nodding. ‘I agree. He probably wouldn’t have it in him.’ His eyes met hers. ‘But then who knows what anyone’s capable of, given the right provocation?’

  Was he giving her a message? Her skin was crawling again, and she fought to focus on the questions she needed to ask. ‘You think she provoked people knowingly?’

  His look was steady. ‘I think it was one of her favourite hobbies.’

  ‘You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.’

  He gave a slow, lazy smile. ‘I must tell you about it some time. Off the record again. I could come and visit you. Didn’t you say you lived by the river? That must be nice – though lonely perhaps. Do you ever find that? I’m always up for another drink if you fancy it.’

  Tara felt a chill crawl up her spine. Was he coming on to her? Or was this a threat?

  She spooled back through the small talk they’
d exchanged as he’d made her coffee. Had she mentioned where she lived? She’d been nervous, her mind less focused than usual, but she didn’t remember giving him that information…

  She found herself wondering how many other people were in their rooms on that staircase. If she cried out, would anyone hear? It was the very quietest time of the academic year. So many people had decamped for the summer, leaving nothing behind but piles of dusty books.

  ‘It’s not as isolated as you might think,’ she said at last. ‘There are always children out on the common.’ She hoped he believed her. Whether he was hitting on her or something worse, she didn’t want him turning up on her doorstep. ‘Young ones playing by day, and youths drinking by night.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, stretching out his legs. His eyes never once left hers. ‘Still, maybe you’re missing a bit of adult company.’

  With his gaze still on her she grabbed her recorder and pushed herself up out of her chair.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. The knife she was carrying filled her mind.

  He chuckled and got up from his seat too, moving between her and the door.

  Her hand was over the side pocket of her bag, one finger slipping inside. But at that moment he laughed again and opened up the door to let her go. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you off.’

  But Tara suspected he’d enjoyed the experience. As she walked back down the spiral staircase, her legs shook.

  Simon Askey had tried to hide it, but his feelings towards Samantha Seabrook had clearly been a maelstrom of mixed emotions. She’d seen admiration fighting with resentment. The time they’d spent together in Cambridge’s pressure-cooker environment could have pushed his reactions to extremes.

  And now, Askey seemed interested in her. Too interested. And for a moment she let fear get the better of her.

  She rode home on autopilot, only noticing where she was as she pelted over Silver Street bridge. To her right she passed the gleaming white frontage of the Anchor pub. She could hear its clientele somewhere down below, chatting as they enjoyed their riverside drinks. But as she went beyond it, her way narrowed, and the dark university buildings pressed in close. The shallow pavements were solid with tourists and a large group spilled into her path. It was as the road curved round to the right that she realised she was going too fast. Another cyclist pulled out of the narrow entrance to Botolph Lane – emerging from behind overgrown trees in the neighbouring churchyard – and she swerved to avoid them. As they pedalled off, oblivious, she tried desperately to pull the bike back into balance, but she was hurtling inexorably closer to the hard tarmac. She’d lost all control. She knew the impact was coming but could do nothing to avoid the fall. She hit the road with a harsh jolt to her hip, her hand, arm and the side of her face making contact an instant later. Still in motion, she skidded several feet, the bike sliding with her. Dimly, she was aware of a car braking, people calling out and someone busy with a phone.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘I’m okay.’

  She didn’t want an ambulance; didn’t want the attention. Just wanted to get home and lock the door. But as she watched, she realised the woman with the phone had stopped anyway, one finger hovering over the keypad. Her eyes were on an object a couple of feet away from Tara. The kitchen knife she’d been carrying. It had jolted out of her bag, along with the tissue she’d used to cover it, and was lying there in the road. Tara’s eyes went from the knife to those of the woman who’d been about to call for help.

  As she scrambled to her feet, blood dripping from her cheek, the woman’s eyes were wary, and she backed away.

  Eleven

  Blake bit back the curse that had been his instant reaction on seeing Tara Thorpe. ‘What happened to you?’

  She hadn’t called him before she left town, as she’d promised DS Wilkins when she’d spoken to him that morning. So Blake had turned up at her place unannounced, right after he’d finished looking round Samantha Seabrook’s posh apartment on the north side of the city, where the CSIs were still busy.

  All he could see through the crack in the still-chained door was one half of her face – a plaster on her cheek and bruising spreading beyond it. If she’d forgotten to get in touch he could see there might be reasons behind that. Slowly, she released the chain and pulled the door back. Her arm was taped with medical gauze around the elbow and her movements were stiff.

  She pulled a face. ‘I don’t know why Samantha Seabrook’s killer’s even bothering. I managed to do this all on my own.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Bike accident?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  It was a relatively common Cambridge affliction. ‘No one else involved at all? You’re sure?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘No one. I was forced off track by another cyclist but they weren’t even looking in my direction. I wasn’t targeted. I was just going too fast.’

  Blake stepped into the square hallway, glancing over his shoulder for a second as he did so. Stourbridge Common was quiet. ‘I gather DS Wilkins explained that I wanted another word? I’m guessing you got distracted.’

  She closed the door behind him and put the chain back on. She clearly wasn’t going to relax just because he was there. ‘I did,’ she said. ‘But not because of coming off my bike. I was cycling too fast because I wanted to get away from Simon Askey, a colleague of Samantha Seabrook’s.’

  Him again. ‘I’ve already come across the name. What happened?’

  ‘He was angling for an invitation to visit me at home. He was pretty pushy about it, to be honest. He knows I live by the river too, and it freaked me out.’ She frowned and then winced as though the movement must have hurt her injured face. ‘I don’t remember telling him that.’

  That was worrying. Tara Thorpe didn’t strike him as the forgetful sort. But then again, she was operating under a hell of a lot of pressure, and – he guessed – on almost no sleep.

  She led the way to the kitchen and motioned for him to pull out one of the ladder-back chairs at the oak table. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  He shook his head – too distracted to want to think about it, one way or the other. ‘What exactly did Askey say?’

  She explained how he’d offered to come and keep her company, and said how lonely it must be by the river. Blake could see it would have been intimidating – but whether Askey had been indulging in some heavy-handed flirting or whether he’d deliberately tried to frighten her was up for debate. Either way, Blake wanted Askey’s version of events. ‘I’ll warn the rest of the team,’ he said. ‘And speak to Askey. I don’t want him to know what you’ve told me, though.’

  She nodded. She was over by the worktop and he noticed the cracked tiles on the wall behind her. Maybe she wasn’t much interested in interior décor. Or perhaps there was another reason she hadn’t made the place her own. She had the air of someone who might take off at any minute.

  He stretched in his chair. The day had made him tense and his muscles ached. ‘I haven’t had the chance to eat yet. D’you mind if I order a pizza to have whilst we talk? Would you like some too?’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  They agreed on quattro stagioni and he put in an order to an independent on Mill Road.

  ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ Tara said, removing a strand of hair that had got mixed up with the plaster on her cheek. She was wearing an updo but Blake noticed that around 40 per cent of it was now down. She still managed to look good.

  ‘I want your help.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’re talking to exactly the same people I’m interested in. And they’re likely to say somewhat different things to you than they would to me – even if they don’t mean to.’

  The look she gave him was guarded.

  ‘How do you record your interviews? Digitally?’

  She nodded. ‘Usually.’

  ‘I want to ask you to share the files with me.’ Her expression wasn’t getting any more rel
axed. He suppressed a sigh. He’d met journalists before who were cagey about their work. He’d thought she’d have more sense, given it might save her neck. The file he’d read on her past floated through his mind. Maybe it was that that was holding her back. He realised he was leaning towards her, letting his impatience show, and he made a conscious effort to relax in his chair. ‘I understand you’ve had more than your fair share of experience with the police. And I get that you probably feel let down. I know you were stalked before, and we didn’t catch the perpetrator.’

  By contrast to him she folded her arms and sat up straighter; her mouth formed a firm line.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was more to it than that – I would have understood if the officer in charge had been stumped. But no. He’d become obsessed with one man. He was convinced this guy was guilty, even though he never found enough evidence to charge him. It meant he missed the opportunity to look elsewhere. I did my best to make him see sense. In fact, I was so sure he was wrong that I walked past the man he suspected three times on the street as a test. He didn’t even recognise me. There was no doubt. I told the lead officer, but he took no notice. Word was, the suspect said something at interview that really riled him and after that he couldn’t see past it.’ She put her head in her hands for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘The guy died in the end – the suspect who wasn’t really guilty, I mean. Of natural causes. And the lead officer on the case rang me up to tell me, as though it would be a huge relief. Clearly the fact that I knew he wasn’t the one hadn’t sunk in at all.’

  Great. Blake silently thanked the officer who’d queered his pitch. And he wondered who was right. He could imagine Tara Thorpe being just as dogmatic as the lead officer had been. ‘Are you sure the suspect couldn’t have just pretended not to recognise you?’

  The look she gave him said it all. ‘Certain. I managed to cross his path out of the blue, so he’d have had no chance to prepare. He didn’t react at all; no discomfort and no flicker of recognition.’