by Clare Chase
And her tormentor must have been watching her, because it wasn’t long before they realised their little presents were being taken straight to the police.
That was when the bastard had killed her cat. Two days before, a plain letter had turned up for her with no indication that it was anything out of the ordinary. It contained a printed message: ‘I don’t like being ignored’. And on the day that Dodger had been wiped out they’d posted a note through Bea’s letterbox, addressed to Tara, telling her to look behind a wall in a nearby lane.
Tara had stopped wanting to go out. Stopped trusting new people that she’d met, but also stopped trusting her friends. She couldn’t sleep at night. And then, all of a sudden, the deliveries had stopped. But the damage had been done, and she never knew if her tormentor was still out there somewhere, watching and waiting.
Why had they stopped when they did? It had been part of the reason the detective on her case was so certain that the dead guy had been guilty.
It was only Kemp who’d got her through, really. He’d reminded her of who she was, and that she could fight back.
‘Are you all right?’
The librarian was staring at her and she realised her eyes were wet.
‘Yes. I think it’s the dust.’
‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘don’t let the cleaners hear you say that. They’d be most insulted.’
Sixteen
Blake had been feeling low all day. Babette had replied to the text he’d sent the previous evening, whilst he was at Tara’s, by asking him again to take her back.
Kitty cried when I told her you loved her, she’d texted. She said she wants you. Please, Garstin – think about it. We need to talk.
He knew the ache he’d tried to quash inside was showing on his face – whenever he wasn’t dealing directly with a suspect for Samantha Seabrook’s murder, at least. When Babette had left him, she hadn’t just been going around the corner. She’d bought one-way tickets for her and Kitty to Australia. She’d made the journey too. It had taken her two weeks to realise she’d made what she called ‘the most dreadful mistake of my life’.
He was now conscious of DS Emma Marshall watching him from the passenger seat of his car. He focused on the road ahead, and their upcoming interview with Sir Brian, hoping she’d take the hint. He could guess what she was thinking. Officially, Emma was the only one at work who knew he’d had a bust-up with his wife. By choice he wouldn’t have revealed anything, but she’d walked in on him during an acrimonious phone call. Blake had kept back the details though. Emma didn’t know what Babette had been planning and why, and then why it had all fallen through. But she knew enough to guess he was hurting. The fact made him deeply uncomfortable.
After a second she said: ‘You okay, boss?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ He overtook a tractor carrying bales of straw. Small fragments of the load blew in through the passenger window and Emma swatted them away. The smell of dried grain filled the warm air.
They were out in the wilds of Cambridgeshire under a baking sun, now passing flat fields where combine harvesters were still busy. Whichever way he looked he could see the horizon, occasionally interrupted by a farmhouse, and off to the east by Ely Cathedral. It was referred to as the ‘Ship of the Fens’ because of the way it rose above the flat landscape. The emptiness of their surroundings reminded him of how he felt inside.
There was an awkward silence.
‘Nearly there,’ Emma said at last, which they could both see (and indeed hear), thanks to the satnav.
Sir Brian Seabrook lived on the edge of the village of Great Sterringham. The houses there were lined up along one side of the road and looked out onto the countryside. They were detached and large with it – grand Queen Anne-style residences with plenty of space between them. But that didn’t stop a neighbour giving them the once-over as they drew up in Sir Brian’s spacious drive.
‘I’m tempted to give her a wave,’ Emma said.
‘Best not.’
She sighed. ‘No. You’re right. Oh God. I’m not looking forward to this.’
He wasn’t either, but needs must.
It was Sir Brian himself who answered the door. He looked marginally more together than when they’d seen him at Addenbrooke’s mortuary. Just as pale, but more composed.
‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Blake said, stepping through the door as the man stood back. ‘The more we can find out about Samantha, the quicker we can identify the person who did this and bring them to justice.’ He fought to ignore the possibility that they’d never find the guilty party. Or that they’d identify them, but fail to get a conviction.
Sir Brian nodded and ushered them through to a shadowy drawing room where the heat of the day was less intense.
Before he’d even sat down, Blake’s opening question had changed. He gestured at a photograph he’d spotted on Sir Brian’s mantelpiece. It showed Samantha in climbing gear, sunlight gleaming off goggles that were pushed up on her forehead. She was hanging off some snow-encrusted outcrop of rock. There was a man next to her: tanned, with a smile that was as dazzling as the white backdrop. ‘I understand Kirsty Crowther’s explained how your daughter got into the college garden where she was found.’
The pain in Sir Brian’s eyes made him want to look away. ‘She has.’ He put a hand over his face. ‘I paid for climbing lessons for Sammy when she was in her teens. At the time…’ he hesitated for a moment, ‘at the time it seemed the perfect way to direct her energies. She loved excitement. But if she’d never learnt…’
‘There’s risk in everything,’ Blake said. ‘The only person to blame for what’s happened is the one who attacked your daughter. If she hadn’t climbed they’d have found another way.’
Sir Brian paused but then nodded.
‘We’ve been wondering who she usually climbed with. Is the man in the photo a current contact?’ The picture looked recent, judging by the professor’s appearance.
Sir Brian nodded. ‘That’s Dieter Gartner.’
‘Samantha’s boyfriend?’
The professor’s father looked at the carpet for a moment. ‘I believe they were quite close at one point,’ he said, ‘as I explained to DC Crowther. But they wouldn’t have been climbing together in Cambridge.’ He paused. ‘He visited the UK occasionally, but he’s based in Germany, as you know. That photograph was taken in the Bavarian Alps.’
‘I see. And he hasn’t been around recently?’
‘I don’t think so. The last time Sammy mentioned him he was certainly in Germany, as usual.’
‘Was it Samantha who brought the topic up?’
That look of discomfort again, coupled with a pause. ‘No,’ he said at last, ‘I don’t believe it was.’ Interesting that he’d been asking, then.
‘You were wondering about their relationship?’ Emma asked. Her voice was gentle and she was clearly on the same page as Blake. ‘My father tends to ask me similar questions.’
Sir Brian looked relieved. ‘That’s right. Parents can’t help being concerned. And maybe it’s old-fashioned but I liked the thought of her settling down, one day.’
Given the expression on his face Blake guessed there was more to it than that. What was he missing? ‘How about fellow climbers closer to home?’ he said. ‘Do you know anyone else who shared her hobby?’
Sir Brian shook his head slowly. ‘She never said.’ There were tears in his eyes. ‘I keep thinking how little I really knew about her life.’
Blake waited for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Brian, but I have to ask: do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm your daughter?’
He hadn’t waited long enough. The tears came now. Sir Brian pulled a damp, monogrammed handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. After a moment he said: ‘No. No, I really don’t. I believe she had her tussles at work. Things didn’t always run smoothly. But nothing that could be related to such a heartless attack.’
‘She mentioned trouble with her colleagues?’ Blake aske
d.
Sir Brian shook his head. ‘Not in general. But she did say she was having some difficulties with her PhD student, Chiara. The quality of her work was poor, but Sammy was trying to bring her up to scratch. I had the impression that Chiara didn’t take criticism well.’
Blake remembered Samantha Seabrook’s annotations on the PhD student’s work.
‘Did she ever talk about her other workmates?’ Emma asked.
‘I’m afraid she didn’t,’ Sir Brian said. ‘I don’t even know most of their names. Though of course we’d discuss Hugo. Hugo da Souza that is, the institute head. I still see Hugo fairly often, and we’ve spoken on the phone of course. Especially since – since this happened. But if I hadn’t caught up with him in a while I’d ask Sammy for his news.’
‘We understand you and he have been good friends since school.’
Sir Brian nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘And Mary Mayhew – the institute administrator – explained about your generous donation in aid of the institute library,’ Blake said. ‘What made you decide to support the place? I understand it was well before your daughter took up her post there.’
‘It’s always been a cause that’s close to my heart. You might not expect it, but I’m a socialist, Inspector. Sammy went to the village school. I was aware that some of her classmates had very different home lives to ours.’
Blake could only imagine. Though the Seabrooks had had their own challenges. His mind ran to Sir Brian’s dead wife, Bella.
‘Sir Brian, as you’ll understand, we had to look round Samantha’s office at the institute, just as we’ve searched her flat. Every location she occupied might hold clues that will lead us to her killer.’
The man nodded. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘There was one personal item in Samantha’s filing cabinet that I wondered about.’ Blake saw Sir Brian’s anxious expression. Was he guessing at the sort of things they’d seen – the spirits, and the condoms? He’d better put him out of his misery. ‘It was a necklace.’
Sir Brian looked up.
‘She had various items of jewellery and make-up, we imagine so that she could prepare for an evening out, straight from work. We understand she did long hours.’
He nodded. ‘She was very dedicated.’
‘It’s what we’re hearing from everyone,’ Emma said.
‘There were a number of necklaces in her drawer,’ Blake went on, ‘and one amongst them was very different in style to the others. It might have been a present, or handed-down perhaps? It looked old. But I want to rule out that it belonged to a friend we’ve yet to identify.’ It was the one with the monogram. Probably not important, but after all, a strange necklace had also been round Samantha Seabrook’s neck. It had been niggling at him.
Sir Brian frowned. ‘If you describe it to me, perhaps I might recognise it.’
‘In fact,’ Blake leant towards him, ‘I took a photograph of it when we were at the scene. Here.’ He slipped his phone from his pocket and called up the image.
The effect on Sir Brian was instant. The veneer of composure he’d managed to maintain crumpled. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled over. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do recognise it. It belonged to my late mother. A family heirloom.’
Blake put the phone back in his pocket. ‘I see. I’m sorry. Thank you for clarifying that.’ He had the urge to do something for Sir Brian, but what could you do for a man being reminded of a lost past, and the promise of a future that would never be? Emma had leant forward and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. At least she had that instinct. It deserted Blake, even at the best of times.
‘We saw you sent Samantha some beautiful roses,’ Emma said, gently moving her hand away again. ‘She had them in pride of place in her office.’
Sir Brian nodded. He was using the now-sodden handkerchief again. It was a good while before he spoke. ‘I liked to send her little presents every so often. She was so precious to me.’
Blake had the urge to offer the man something practical. Tea sprang to mind and he suggested it. For a second he was worried Sir Brian might think he was suggesting tea could help compensate for the loss of his daughter, but in fact the man seized on the idea.
‘Tea. Yes. I’ll make it. I should have offered before.’
He wouldn’t hear of them helping, so Blake asked if they could go and look at Samantha’s childhood bedroom whilst he was in the kitchen.
‘Of course,’ Sir Brian said, looking down at the floor. ‘Turn right at the top of the stairs and go through the door straight ahead of you.’ He disappeared across the hall. It wasn’t surprising that he needed a moment, but something about his reactions made Blake spool through everything he’d said once more.
The galleried landing above was shadowy and cavernous, lined with many doors, all of them shut. He felt an odd sense of something almost like fear as he approached the door on the end as directed.
The inside of Samantha Seabrook’s room heightened his sense of unease. It was partly that it looked as though it had been frozen in time. There were copies of teen magazines still on the shelves – Just Seventeen with a photo of some nineties pop star on the cover, and posters dating back to a similar era on the walls. And then there was the décor. When he’d visited Samantha Seabrook’s flat the previous day he’d been struck by its trendy minimalism. But here everything was floral and there was a hell of a lot of pink. Perhaps Sir Brian had chosen it? He thought again of the climbing lessons the man had paid for. A safe way to take some risks. And then he thought of Samantha’s ‘No tomorrow’ tattoo. Could he have been nervous about the adult she was becoming? Worried that she was following in the footsteps of her mother, perhaps?
Emma caught his eye and nodded towards some more up-to-date magazines. A recent copy of Good Housekeeping and one of Vogue, sitting on a side table. And then his eyes slid towards the carpet and he noticed a pair of slippers sticking out from under the bed. They were embellished with gold flowers and leaves and looked pristine.
At that moment, he realised Sir Brian had appeared in the doorway. The man recoiled a fraction at the sight of them; the reality of two police detectives standing in his daughter’s room.
‘She came to stay here recently?’ Blake said, indicating the magazines. ‘We understand that she’d had some leave from the institute in July. She spent it here with you?’
Sir Brian sighed. ‘Part of it at least.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure what other plans she had.’
‘Did she visit often?’
The pause was longer this time. ‘Not really. But if she needed a proper break then she knew she could come here and get away from it all.’
He nodded. ‘Was she particularly stressed, the most recent time she came to see you? Do you think she felt the need to escape?’
But Sir Brian shook his head firmly. ‘I wouldn’t say so. She seemed as ebullient as ever.’
‘I see she left her slippers behind.’ Blake nodded to where they lay, under the bed.
Sir Brian had picked up a hairbrush that had been resting on a chest of drawers. It was blue and inlaid with cream flowers. Blake watched as he stroked it with his thumb, his eyes damp. ‘She was utterly focused when it came to work, but little things like that could slip her mind.’
Emma had wandered over to a shelf near Samantha Seabrook’s bedroom window. She held a framed photograph in her hand. ‘This is a familiar face,’ she said in a low voice.
Blake recognised it too. There had been a photograph of the same woman on the wall in Professor Seabrook’s flat, sitting next to the professor at some club or other. They’d been drinking and laughing. ‘We wanted to ask you about friends of your daughter’s outside work,’ he said. ‘Could you tell us please? Everyone who comes to mind.’
Sir Brian’s brow furrowed. ‘I know she had contacts in Cambridge that I wouldn’t necessarily be aware of…’
‘Perhaps you could make us a list though, of every name or nickname you can recall? If you give us as much
detail as possible, we can take it from there.’
He nodded.
‘And what about the girl there in the photo?’ She must be a long-standing friend. In the snapshot here, she looked young. She was a good twenty years older in the one in the flat.
‘One of Sammy’s old school friends,’ Sir Brian said. ‘Damned if I can remember her name though.’
Blake found that hard to believe. Sir Brian didn’t come across as the forgetful sort. ‘Please put it on your list when it comes back to you,’ he said, holding the man’s gaze. ‘It could be important.’
Seventeen
Tara had locked her bike to a lamp-post and was walking towards Samantha Seabrook’s apartment block. She made her approach along a wide, leafy pavement, the sun slanting down towards her before she entered the shadow created by the grand building. She wanted to take some photos inside, but Pamela Grange, the friend of Sir Brian Seabrook’s who’d agreed to show her round, had insisted they meet at 7 p.m. Tara glanced at the sky. Samantha had owned one of the penthouse flats. It had floor-to-ceiling windows, but she’d still have to work fast to catch the light.
And it would certainly be dark by the time she made her way home.
She remembered the patronising face of the crime reduction officer as she’d told Tara she obviously shouldn’t stay out after sunset. But curfews and working as a reporter didn’t mix. The moment she’d been offered the chance to see inside Samantha Seabrook’s flat, accepting had become non-negotiable as far as she was concerned. Seeing a person’s natural habitat revealed all sorts of information you couldn’t get any other way. Maybe Sir Brian wanted the world to see the material signs of his daughter’s success. Though the £2.5 million penthouse (Tara had checked) couldn’t have been purchased on the back of her professor’s salary alone. Perhaps family money had swelled her coffers.
