Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  And then, behind her, she heard a faint sound. The subtlest of noises, an almost imperceptible squeak of rubber on metal.

  Bicycle brakes.

  She caught her breath. She had thought she was alone on the road.

  For a split second she had the urge to look round, but instead, she stared ahead and pedalled faster. Yet still she could hear the other bike behind, gaining on her. Whoever it was, they were fast.

  But it could be anyone. Fear was making her irrational. They’d probably overtake her in a minute and then she could have a good laugh.

  So at last she looked over her shoulder. But the person behind her was no ordinary cyclist, she was sure of that now.

  On that hot summer’s evening, they wore a black balaclava, hiding their face.

  Eighteen

  Tara cycled harder then she’d ever done before. Her lungs burned, her legs felt like jelly. It was akin to nightmares she’d had. She knew escape was crucial, but her body wasn’t functioning the way it should.

  She didn’t look over her shoulder again. She could hear enough to know her pursuer was still there. Instead she pelted around a corner, out from the lane of exclusive new properties. Where was she? Back amongst Cambridge’s terraces now, at least, but the road was still dark and deserted.

  She mustn’t crash again. Though surely if the other cyclist caught her now, people would come out of their houses?

  But maybe not. Several of the homes were in darkness.

  And then suddenly she saw salvation: a main road ahead, and to her left a pub.

  She threw her bike down on the pavement as she leapt off – not bothering to lock it – and hurled herself through the door to the Punter.

  She was dimly aware of the clientele inside, looking up from their drinks and meals as she almost fell, but her sole focus was on making her way further inside, away from the person who’d chased her.

  One of the pub’s waitresses was at her elbow. ‘Are you all right?’ Her look of concern almost made Tara lose control. She could feel tears welling up behind her eyes and swallowed hard before she nodded.

  ‘I’ll come and order a drink in a moment,’ she said. ‘I just need to make a call first.’

  ‘Of course.’ The waitress’s eyes held a mixture of curiosity and unease.

  Tara auto-dialled Blake, her fingers still trembling. She’d only given him her location and the briefest details before he broke off to issue instructions to unseen officers. He must be at the station. Patrol cars were being despatched. It was true that a cyclist in a balaclava was distinctive, but surely her pursuer would have taken it off the moment they were out of her sight?

  ‘Did you tell anyone where you were tonight?’ Blake said, speaking to her again.

  ‘Only colleagues at Not Now.’

  ‘Right. Stay where you are.’ She could hear he was on the move too. His voice changed, becoming more echoey. ‘Wait inside the pub. One of my team will drive you home and get more details from you. You’ve met Patrick Wilkins, haven’t you? It’ll be him, so you’ll know his face.’

  For once, Tara was in no mood to argue.

  Some hours later, Blake arrived back at his house in Fen Ditton. He was intending to snatch some sleep, but his mind was still buzzing. The team had gone door to door on Samantha Seabrook’s old road, as well as to the other flats in her apartment block. No one had seen anyone wearing a balaclava, and only one person said they’d noticed a stranger – a tall guy in a long coat. It sounded like the man Tara had described, but whether he’d been the one on the bike was another matter. No one had seen him out on the road, only in the apartment block grounds. Of Samantha Seabrook’s other former neighbours, no fewer than three had been watching The Great British Bake Off at the relevant time, and one had been having a bath. The whole planet could probably have been taken over by aliens without anyone noticing. He despaired of the human race.

  Checking CCTV coverage would come next. If the cyclist had been captured removing their balaclava… but how likely was that?

  He went to the pine cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and took out a bottle of whisky and a tumbler. He poured himself the sort of measure that was only reasonable after a day hunting a murderer and sat down at the round oak table. None of his furniture matched, but each piece meant something. The table had been his grandmother’s. When he was younger, he’d mistrusted people who had everything new, just for the sake of being up with the latest trend. But now he wished he could change the items that reminded him of Babette. Maybe the other people he’d noticed, whose houses looked like show homes, were simply trying to erase bad memories.

  He took out his phone. It was getting late, but he needed to call Tara Thorpe. Sir Brian Seabrook had been at home that evening when Emma had called to check, just as he ought to have been. And he’d confirmed – assuming he was telling the truth – that he hadn’t told anyone about Tara’s appointment with Pamela Grange. Ms Grange herself had said the same, as had Tara’s colleagues. She’d given Wilkins their numbers so they could follow up. So Blake was pretty certain she must have been followed.

  He called Tara’s number.

  ‘Yes?’

  She hadn’t been sleeping, that much he could tell from the speed at which she answered. Not that he’d have expected otherwise. She must be drained by now. That damned knife he suspected she’d been carrying… had she had it with her that evening? If she was running on empty she was all the more likely to do something stupid with it.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Dandy.’

  Her answer brought a smile to his lips for the first time that evening. ‘Look on the bright side. You could get quite a scoop out of this.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  He imagined her rolling her eyes. On conjuring up the image, he realised he’d noticed they were a rather beautiful green.

  ‘So, what’s the news?’ she asked.

  Back to business. He relayed the latest updates – or lack of them.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about the people you’ve seen today. Where were you immediately before your meeting with Pamela Grange?’

  ‘I went to Gardies for a bite to eat. Before that I’d been at the institute library and it didn’t seem worth going home.’

  Gardies: the Gardenia restaurant on Rose Crescent and probably the closest place to the institute to eat. Any of the staff could have followed her there – or spotted her on their way home. He sighed.

  ‘Then earlier on I was with Chiara Laurito, Samantha Seabrook’s PhD student, wandering the streets of Cambridge,’ Tara finished.

  Blake took a large swig of whisky. ‘How was the interview with Chiara? Enlightening?’

  ‘It was. But there’s no recording this time I’m afraid.’

  There was a moment’s pause. He could see it wouldn’t have been easy if they’d been on the move, but had she arranged it that way? To make sure she still had some command over the information she was gathering? Surely she must want to share, if it would help keep her safe? But there were other things at play here too. Tara Thorpe had probably spent a lot of her life fighting for control. Her stalker would account for that, and people like the rival journalist who’d tried to put one over on her. She’d got her own back on him, of course, when she’d decked him one. Still, she might not see things as other people would.

  ‘I’ve written up some notes I can give you,’ she said at last.

  ‘That’d be good. Could you email them over?’

  ‘One moment.’ She went off the line for a second. ‘They’re on their way to the address on your card.’

  ‘Thanks.’ But it wasn’t quite the same. ‘And what about insights? Anything that struck you?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Simon Askey was right about Chiara and Samantha Seabrook not getting on. Chiara was surprised I’d come to her for an interview, and’ – there was a sound that told Blake Tara was having a drink too, and he guessed it wouldn’t be cocoa – ‘she seemed pleased that it was
Askey who’d put her forward. She blushed a bit. Whereas I got the impression Askey has mixed feelings about her.’

  ‘I see.’ He dragged himself up from his seat and carried the phone over to the sideboard, trying to ease the drawer open there. He knew there was an unopened packet of cashews somewhere. ‘What else?’

  It suddenly came to him that his questions were coming out rather abruptly – because he was ravenous and tired and not quite sure where he was with her. She didn’t seem to care though.

  ‘You’ll see from the notes that she reckoned Askey and Samantha got on at first, but she said he’d seen through her in the end. And then she caught the look in my eye and said: “But Simon Askey wouldn’t have killed Samantha.” Or words to that effect.’

  Blake whistled as he removed the nuts from the drawer.

  ‘I know. I’d never implied he might have, so I’d say the thought’s crossed her mind independently, even if she’s dismissed it.’

  There was something in her tone. ‘You don’t think she has though?’

  ‘I’d say she was trying to convince herself as much as she was me.’

  ‘That’s very interesting.’ Tara Thorpe sounded wired, in spite of everything she was going through. She was getting that rush from the information, just as he did. Journalists and police shared some things.

  He was glad. It meant she’d be tempted to share her hoard of information so someone else could admire it. He was just the same. ‘Anything more?’ He’d sat back down again and jammed the phone between his shoulder and his ear, so he could rip the cashew packet open.

  ‘A couple of things. One was that she kept saying how alike she and Samantha were.’

  ‘Clear-sighted of her.’

  ‘Yes. And the other was that – even though she and the professor hadn’t got on – she made a point of saying she’d never wish that fate on anyone. Standard stuff, but in the same breath, she said: “I never imagined…” and just let the sentence hang. That made me think.’

  He swallowed the cashews he’d been chewing. ‘I’ll bet. I wonder what she meant by it? That she’d had some inkling that Professor Seabrook was headed for trouble, but she’d “never imagined” anything of this magnitude?’

  ‘That’s what it sounded like. So why was she doing any imagining on that score in the first place? Was it just that she thought Professor Seabrook had it coming, and daydreamt about her getting her comeuppance?’

  Blake frowned and swigged more whisky. ‘Or did she have some specific reason for believing that she was under threat?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And after you’d finished with her you went to the institute library?’

  ‘That’s right. The reading I did was interesting…’ She paused for a moment and he wondered what she was thinking. ‘But I also found someone other than Professor da Souza who seems to have genuinely liked Professor Seabrook.’

  That was news. ‘The librarian?’ he guessed.

  ‘Yup. He clearly had quite an indulgent view of her high spirits, even when they disturbed his peace and quiet.’

  Blake wondered if everyone at the institute had been in Samantha Seabrook’s thrall. Whether they’d loved or hated her they all seemed to have been affected. ‘Anything else of interest from him?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What about the visit to the flat then? And your conversation with Pamela Grange.’

  He heard her sigh. ‘Again, not recorded as it wasn’t an official interview.’

  He wasn’t going to let her use that as an excuse to clam up. ‘I don’t believe you’d have let that get in your way. You owe me, Tara. We’re covering your back and I need to know what you know.’

  The sound of the breath she took transmitted a mixture of impatience and resignation. ‘Okay. Well, there were some interesting photos on the wall – which you’ll have seen when you visited, I guess. Of course, you’ll already know all about Dieter Gartner.’

  ‘The absentee boyfriend? Yes.’ The moment he said it he realised he’d fallen into her trap. Had she even known Gartner and Samantha Seabrook had been in a relationship? He’d slipped up, but it was too late now. ‘There was another photograph in there that I was interested in,’ he said. ‘Of a woman sitting next to Samantha Seabrook in a bar – looking rowdy.’ He bit back the information that the same woman also featured in a photo in the professor’s childhood bedroom, and that Sir Brian Seabrook claimed not to remember her name.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She waited a moment. ‘Pamela Grange was vague about her. Someone from Samantha’s past, I think.’

  ‘I see.’ He paused. ‘Tara, I need to let you know that Sir Brian and Pamela Grange deny telling anyone else about your visit to the professor’s apartment this evening. Your colleagues at Not Now say the same.’

  He heard her swallow. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think it’s fair to assume that wherever you are, Samantha Seabrook’s killer won’t be far away. If you ever feel annoyed about sharing information with us, you might want to consider that.’

  Nineteen

  Blake sat at his kitchen table. The house was so damned quiet. If Babette hadn’t left, she’d probably have been in bed by now. Kitty certainly would have been. But the signs of their presence would have been there: the lingering smell of a supper Babette had cooked; the creak of a floorboard as she shifted in their bed; a half-cry from Kitty, caught in a dream. He might find a toy kicked under the sideboard, ready for him to pick up and put on Kitty’s chair, knowing how pleased she’d be to find it in the morning.

  He pushed the thoughts away and drained the last of his drink. He’d have to watch out for Tara Thorpe. He’d been talking to her like a colleague that evening. Probably tiredness and the whisky that had done it. And the fact was, he’d been enjoying himself. For a moment, in the heat of the investigation and sharing opinions about Chiara Laurito, he’d forgotten everyday life. But he needed to remember that although Tara portrayed herself as a straight talker she was anything but. She was measuring everything as she said it; much more than he had been that evening.

  At last he dragged himself from his chair and up the steep cottage stairs. He switched on the light in the empty bedroom and walked to his bedside table. The only one that had stuff left on it. He put his phone on to charge, removed his jacket and slung it on a chair. After that he lay down on the bed without bothering to get out of the rest of his clothes.

  Thoughts of the day mingled uncomfortably in his head, refusing to coalesce into anything useful. Simon Askey’s arrogant grin, Kit Tyler’s speculative look, Sir Brian and his reticence when it came to discussing his daughter’s friends. His caginess about her relationship with Dieter Gartner.

  He needed to switch it all off; for now at least. Sleep on it for a few hours and something might slide into place. But when he tried to avoid thoughts about the case, his brain shifted to his private life. Knowing it was the wrong thing to do, he reached out and lifted his phone from the bedside table, pulling it towards him so that its charging wire was taut. Once again he found himself staring at the message Babette had sent earlier.

  Please, Garstin. Let’s meet.

  It was a follow-up to the one she’d sent when she’d told him about Kitty crying.

  How could she? How could she?

  Mustn’t go down that spiral. He could feel his anger building up, his heart rate increasing. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  Being escorted home by DS Patrick Wilkins had added to the tension that had built up in Tara that evening. She hadn’t liked the detective sergeant when she’d first met him and being chaperoned by him hadn’t changed her mind. (‘Well done. You did the right thing to call us.’ Yes, she knew that. But being stalked by a killer didn’t mean she wanted to be treated like a five-year-old. Oh congratulations. You were being followed by the person who sent you a death threat and you worked out you should phone the police.)

  Talking to DI Blake had been better but his final words still rang in her head.
/>   For a second she felt a pang of guilt. Maybe she should have admitted she’d discovered the first name of the raucous woman in the photo in Samantha Seabrook’s flat. But this Patsy person was a friend from the professor’s teenage years. What relevance could she have to a case that so clearly revolved around Samantha Seabrook’s academic life? If Tara could talk to her first she’d get her fresh; not after she’d already polished whatever story she wanted to tell. That would make the material for her article a whole lot better.

  And then she thought again of DI Blake’s take-home message.

  Where was the killer now? Were they watching her house? Noting which of her windows was still lit? She’d leave lights on when she went up to bed, but tonight she’d have to sleep. She was trying to work but her head was spinning with fatigue. She’d allowed herself a shot of vodka to steady her nerves but it had made her feel queasy.

  For now, she sat at the back of the house in the kitchen, the curtain drawn across the window that faced towards Fen Ditton. She’d left the door to the hall open, and she was right next to the back door, which was more secure now than it had been. She wanted to keep her eyes on the main entry points to the house. It wasn’t logical. An intruder would be more likely to try one of the windows.

  She tried to distract herself from the thought of the empty common outside her cottage. She’d seen some useful things that day. And DI Blake knew it. Once again it was as though he could read her mind. Respect for that. She wasn’t used to it; she was able to fool most people. Still, she’d got one over on him, too. She smiled. She bet he was kicking himself for giving her that information about Dieter Gartner. Boyfriend confirmed. And the way he’d said ‘absentee’ made her think they were having trouble tracking him down. That latter detail wasn’t anything she’d give to Matt at Not Now as breaking news, though. She’d only be able to quote it as a rumour, anyway, and even then she couldn’t be certain that that was what DI Blake had meant. It didn’t make sense to take risks with her career at the moment. Besides, it would be pretty shitty to drop Blake in it like that. It might have been different if it had been DS Wilkins who’d said it…