by Clare Chase
But she had other preoccupations, as well as looking for any signs that she’d been followed. Bea had texted that morning. Bea – more like a mother to her than Lydia had ever been, and probably the only person in the world Tara felt properly close to. Tara imagined her, snatching a moment in the stuffy basement kitchen of the boarding house she ran, whizzing off a text as the bacon for her hungry guests sizzled in the heavy old pan she used. The message said:
How goes it? Fancy popping in for a G&T one evening?
Tara had flung off a reply before she had time to dwell on the secret she was keeping.
Would be lovely soon. Busy with report on St Bede’s murder victim for a few days. Hope all well with you.
A few days… she wouldn’t – couldn’t – see Bea until after this was all over. Bea was the only person who could read her. She’d know something was wrong and Tara wouldn’t allow her to get involved. She’d just have to hope it was all sorted out before her mother’s cousin started to get suspicious. And that nothing would happen. If Tara was killed, and she hadn’t confided, and Bea was unprepared… it didn’t bear thinking about. Not that Tara would be around to cope with the consequences of course. Everything would be beyond her control.
And then her thoughts strayed to DI Blake’s visit the evening before. God, she’d just been thinking no one could read her like Bea, but the detective had had a pretty good go. The accuracy of his guess about the weapon she’d been carrying was unnerving. He probably thought she was reckless and a loose cannon. She’d been considering him too, of course. She still hadn’t decided how he’d measure up against the officers she’d dealt with in the past. All in all, he’d been occupying more of her headspace than she felt comfortable with these past twelve hours. Guilty until proven innocent, she reminded herself.
She sighed. He’d be watching her to see how she behaved. And Samantha Seabrook’s killer must be spying on her too.
This is a warning.
It implied she had a chance to save herself if she behaved in the way they wanted. She was being manipulated. She wanted to investigate Samantha Seabrook’s life to satisfy her own curiosity – but others wanted it too. Giles at Not Now planned to use a killing to make a killing. And the murderer presumably wanted her to delve into Samantha’s life as well – for reasons she didn’t yet understand. By doing her job, and what she loved best, she was pleasing at least two people she’d do almost anything to be free of. For a second she thought of Blake and the police. They were digging for information just as she was, to try to get justice for Samantha. And they had right on their side, whereas she had Giles breathing down her neck. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She clenched her fists and her nails dug into the palm of each hand.
The current day ought to reveal much more about her subject. Sir Brian Seabrook had been in touch by email and arranged for a family friend, Pamela Grange, to show her round Samantha Seabrook’s flat at seven that evening.
And, after the build-up Simon Askey had given her, Tara couldn’t wait to meet Chiara. She’d emailed her just after DI Blake had left the previous evening, having got her details from the institute website. She’d also found her photograph there, so hopefully she’d recognise the woman when she appeared by the Mill Pond. In her email, Tara had asked if Chiara would be willing to show her the places she most associated with the professor. Hopefully she’d relax if she was focused on her task, rather than the questions Tara was slipping in. And then who knew what might come out?
Chiara had replied to her email within minutes, suggesting a time and promising to come back with a meeting place. It looked as though she was keen to pass on her views. Her message suggesting the Mill Pond as the rendezvous point had arrived whilst Tara’s new back door was being fitted. She’d checked it over after the joiner had finished. Everything looked secure. She’d fixed extra locks to all her windows too, whilst he worked. It might be easier to get some sleep that night, which would make a change. Despite barricading herself into her room again the night before and sleeping with the knife under her pillow, it had been impossible to switch off. Sounds on the common carried. Outside, the occasional noise of a bike, braking before it went across the cattle grid and on to Riverside, had reached her through the house’s ill-fitting windows. The weather was still hot during the day and uncomfortable at night, but she’d kept the sashes closed. What with the heat and the tension she’d only managed short snatches of dream-ridden sleep.
Her memories of the night before faded, and Tara looked around her again at the grass, the Mill Pond and the crowds. A man in a gingham shirt, blue knee-length shorts and deck shoes was stretched out on the nearest patch of grass to her. A cow approached and tried to nose its way into the crisp packet he was holding. He laughed, keeping his eyes on the woman he was with as he nudged it gently away with the palm of his free hand. The scene looked so easy and relaxed, but she doubted they were as carefree as they seemed. Life wasn’t like that.
At that moment she became aware of someone standing still, a little way to her right, and looked up.
There was no mistaking Chiara Laurito. She’d come across people who were hard to identify from their work mugshots. They’d had them taken years back, or paid for a professional job that made them look like a screen idol. But Chiara was stunning enough to be a model in real life, just as she’d been in her institute photograph. She was wearing a beautifully cut sleeveless black dress and gold jewellery. Tara might have been able to match up – in clothes at least – if she’d still had the designer dress she’d worn the day before at her disposal. Unfortunately, coming off her bike had written it off – there was a long tear down the skirt now. And then there was the unsightly graze on her cheek and elbow.
Tara stood up, feeling stiff after her fall, and caught the woman’s eye, moving forward through the crowd with her hand outstretched. ‘Chiara? I’m Tara. Thanks for agreeing to meet me.’
The woman flashed a scarlet-lipstick smile that revealed straight, white teeth. ‘I’m glad to be included.’ Her Italian accent was just discernible. ‘I was a little surprised that you contacted me. I didn’t think Professor da Souza would put me forward as an interviewee.’
Presumably the institute head knew about the personality clash, then. ‘Because you and Samantha didn’t get on?’
Chiara looked wary. ‘You’re well informed.’
‘I’m a journalist so I tend to stick my nose in. I want to hear about Samantha Seabrook from all sides, so I’m able to write the truth. If I can find people who’re willing to be honest then I’m very keen to talk to them. I won’t drop you in it, or name names when it’s not required. I don’t intend to present anyone as petty or vindictive.’ Well, not unless it’s justified, anyway.
Chiara’s shoulders relaxed a little. ‘That makes sense.’ Her eyes met Tara’s. ‘And I’m happy to tell you what I know.’
‘Then that’s great. Thank you. It was actually Simon Askey who suggested that you would be a good person to talk to.’
Chiara looked surprised for a second. ‘Did he really? That’s nice of him.’ Her eyes sparkled and Tara noticed a slight blush touch her cheeks. She also remembered Askey’s sarcastic comments about Chiara the day before, when he’d told her that meeting Samantha Seabrook’s PhD student would be a ‘treat in store’.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Tara asked, nodding behind her at the Mill.
But Chiara shook her head slowly. ‘That’s okay, thanks. I thought we could start our tour from here, but I’ve got another place to show you too.’
Walking the streets of Cambridge, with its attendant traffic noise and hubbub, meant recording the discussion might be tricky, but the trade-off ought to be worth it.
‘Okay. Sounds good. So, what made you choose to begin at this spot?’
Chiara’s gaze was far away. ‘My colleagues from the institute come here for a drink after work sometimes. When you asked what place I most associated with Samantha, at first I could only think of her in her room at the in
stitute, passing on her words of wisdom.’ She closed her eyes for a second. ‘But then I realised there are other fixed memories I have of her. One is the image of her here, lying back on the grass with Simon and Kit. Kit’s Simon’s research associate.’ She sighed. ‘I came across them unexpectedly. They must have waited for me to leave for the evening and then sneaked off here for a drink.’ She gave Tara a look. ‘I think Samantha was the ringleader. I believe she persuaded the others not to tell me they were planning to get together after work. When I arrived unexpectedly, both Simon and Kit leapt up. They were falling all over themselves to buy me a drink. And would I like crisps? And where would I like to sit?’ She sighed. ‘It wasn’t really their fault, but I could see they felt guilty about it.’
It sounded hurtful, but of course, Tara didn’t know Chiara yet, or why Samantha might have cut her out. ‘And what did Professor Seabrook do?’
‘She just lay back, exactly as she had been. She looked totally relaxed and she smiled at me, but with this look in her eyes. It said, “You haven’t misread the situation. I left you out on purpose.”’ Suddenly she laughed. ‘So, you’re quite right, we didn’t get on. I was surprised that Simon had suggested you talk to me; I suppose he knew the sorts of things I might say. It proves what I’ve always thought, that he’s a fair person. And he saw through Samantha eventually, even though he might have been convinced by her in the past.’
Tara’s radar was quivering. Had something happened to change Simon Askey’s opinion of Samantha Seabrook? ‘I did get the impression that he had reservations about her,’ she said carefully, watching Chiara’s face.
The student paused for a moment, but then nodded slowly. ‘She had a very hard edge beneath that charismatic veneer. She convinced most people to start with. Da Souza was clearly a little bit in love with her, that’s for sure.’ She sounded bitter. ‘Even Kit, who I like, came to study at the institute because of Samantha Seabrook and her reputation.’
‘So, Simon fell out with her too then, just as you did?’
Chiara paused for a moment. ‘I think the scales fell from his eyes.’
More and more interesting.
Chiara must have seen her expression and put a perfectly manicured hand up to her mouth. ‘I don’t mean anything serious by all this. Simon wouldn’t have killed Samantha.’
Tara tried not to show the conclusions she was drawing from the woman’s words. ‘All the same, someone did. And once the truth is known, I presume it will come as a shock, whoever was responsible.’
Chiara’s eyes widened. ‘We all realise that. It’s a horrible thought and although none of us can imagine it’s anyone from the institute it has made us all very tense.’ She looked down at the dusty path under her designer-sandalled feet. At last she shook her head. ‘No. Of course Simon wouldn’t have done it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tara said. ‘I’m just writing about the professor’s life and what happened to her. It’s not my job to try to work out who killed her. You can say what you like to me.’
And as she smiled, Chiara at last smiled back. ‘As for mine and Samantha’s relationship,’ she said, ‘I think we were just too alike in some ways.’
Tara raised an eyebrow.
‘We both came from privileged backgrounds; both had parents who championed our causes – personal as well as professional.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t relevant. I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on anyone. I never imagined—’ She broke off suddenly. ‘Would you like to follow me up Mill Lane? The other place I most associate with Samantha Seabrook is up on the New Museums Site.’
As they walked past the narrow entrance to Laundress Lane – named for the university’s washerwomen, who had once used the river to complete their chores – Tara asked Chiara about Samantha Seabrook’s standing at the institute.
‘She had a marvellous academic reputation,’ Chiara said. ‘No one can take that away from her. And she was used to managing people: their expectations, their impressions of her and her projects.’ As they reached the end of Mill Lane, she added: ‘It’s all necessary in a place like this.’ She gestured ahead and to her right, towards the ancient walls of Pembroke College. Just one building, but Tara could see how it encapsulated the university as a whole: all that tradition and history, all the countless interconnections and relationships, and a rigid hierarchy.
As they crossed over into Pembroke Street, Chiara looked over her shoulder and met Tara’s eye, her long, glossy hair twisting and gleaming in the sun. ‘But Samantha wasn’t just doing what was expedient. She actively enjoyed it. She liked to be… uppermost.’
‘Uppermost? In people’s minds you mean? Or in terms of success?’
‘Both, naturally,’ Chiara said. ‘Occasionally we have important visitors to the institute. They make a great show of talking to all the staff, from the lowliest to the most exalted, but I bet you if, after they’d left, they’d have been asked who stuck most in their minds it would have been Samantha. And that would have been because she’d made it so. She’d have made sure she seemed the most fascinated by what they said, the most ready to ask them questions about themselves, that kind of thing. All carefully orchestrated; but I ought to have admired her for that. It’s the same thing my father taught me. An important life skill.’
After a short walk, they came to the entrance to the New Museums Site, home to several of the university’s science departments. The old Cavendish Laboratory, where Watson and Crick had discovered the structure of DNA, was one of the older buildings that stood there, but from where they were standing most of the constructions they could see were more modern and utilitarian.
‘The site doesn’t look like much, does it?’ Chiara said, once again looking over her shoulder at Tara. ‘Not the most beautiful part of Cambridge.’
Tara agreed, though one or two of the buildings stood out as exceptions to the rule, with their bold, modern architecture.
‘Even though people don’t often come here to sightsee,’ Chiara said, ‘the view from the top’s magnificent.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Or at least, I assume it must be, to have made it worth Samantha’s while to climb up there.’
Tara looked up at the dizzyingly high wall Chiara had brought them to. ‘Seriously? She did that?’
Chiara nodded. ‘Have you heard of the night climbers of Cambridge?’
Tara shrugged. ‘Vaguely. I thought it was a group who scaled the city’s buildings back in the 1930s or something. Isn’t there a book about it?’
Chiara nodded. ‘There is, but they’re still active today. Google it and you’ll find an article all about it in the Cambridge Tab.’
‘I’ll do that. So Professor Seabrook was part of the current group of night climbers?’
Chiara rolled her eyes. ‘Nothing so official. Apparently, you have to answer a whole load of questions via some kind of secret email in order to be admitted. Samantha wouldn’t have had any patience with that; she loathed jumping through other people’s hoops.’
‘So she came and climbed independently?’ Tara remembered Simon Askey telling her how much Samantha Seabrook liked to regale her colleagues with her adventures. ‘And then went and told everyone at the institute?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Chiara. ‘That was the sort of thing she loved to share. Though she was a bit too full of her news. Mary Mayhew, the administrator, heard her talk about it and reacted rather badly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so angry.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Almost never.’ She met Tara’s eyes. ‘You can see why. A lot of students looked up to Samantha. Imagine if they’d copied her. What she was doing was both life-threatening and illegal. Someone emulating her without the right know-how could easily get themselves killed. It was Mary Mayhew’s worst nightmare.’
It was just after she left Chiara Laurito that Tara heard the text from her colleague Matt come in.
Darling, The cops have announced that Samantha and her killer climbed into that garden. Can you believe it? I’m putting it up
as breaking news now. Watch yourself, won’t you? Another pub trip soon? x
Good old Matt; just like him to think of updating her so quickly. And the proposed pub trip sounded tempting, but she’d have to put him off for a while. She didn’t want to tell him about her death threat – or for him to guess she was hiding something.
She made her way slowly back to where she’d parked her bike, down by the river, deep in thought. The story of Samantha Seabrook’s route into the garden at St Bede’s tied in with her hobbies all right. She wondered how many other details DI Blake was keeping from her. It seemed she was being treated just as any other member of public. It figured. But she’d hoped she might be entitled to something more, given she’d been lined up as the killer’s next victim. She’d thought she and Blake had established some kind of working relationship the night before, but of course, he’d never trust her fully. She was a journalist, and he had his head screwed on.
It must be nice to be on the inside; able to get behind the closed doors that only a police badge could open.
Fourteen
Waiting in the foyer at the Institute for Social Studies, Blake checked his messages. The first was a round-up of the news (or lack of it) relating to the necklace found round Samantha Seabrook’s neck. The team had done more checking but no one they’d asked had seen the professor wearing it before; what’s more, they’d been incredulous at the thought of her even owning a crucifix. Certainly, nothing Blake had seen inside her flat hinted at religious leanings. Meanwhile, Max Dimity hadn’t found any shops that sold that precise design of pendant, either. Blake could only assume it had been in the killer’s possession for a while. In which case, he was sure the choice of design must be significant. There had been no prints on it, and no DNA other than the professor’s. Blake wondered how the killer had persuaded her to put it on. Maybe they’d forced her to do it when they’d let her up for air. Hell. What kind of a mission had they been on?
