by Clare Chase
She was putting off going to bed. Sleep was dragging at her, pulling her limbs and making them weak, but she opened a web browser as one last delaying tactic. Once she admitted it was well and truly night she’d feel even more vulnerable.
She sat there idly googling, entering various combinations of words and phrases into the search box at once. ‘Night climbers’; ‘Cambridge’; ‘Samantha Seabrook’; ‘Unofficial’; ‘Pembroke College’; ‘Scandal’; ‘Institute for Social Studies’.
Blearily, she scanned the results with the précis of each page’s contents. The article in the Tab that Chiara Laurito had mentioned came up, as well as the book she’d remembered on the topic. And then, five pages of links in, she spotted something that made her catch her breath.
An anonymous blog by someone who indulged in the sport of night climbing themselves. The précis referred to ‘a certain Cambridge professor’ and the words ‘recent rumours’ and ‘scandal’ were used.
She clicked through. This blogger had clearly heard about the rumpus Samantha had caused at the institute. All the references to her were veiled, but there was no doubt. Female. Unusually youthful for her senior academic role. Employed at one of the city’s institutes. Much admired by many male students and colleagues (and some female ones too). It looked as though the official night-climbing community had mixed feelings about her. Maybe they were irritated that she hadn’t felt the need to be part of their gang.
And then Tara saw a sentence that made the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
‘It is believed that the good professor might be responsible for this anonymous but public Instagram account.’
Tara clicked through and felt her mouth go dry. The most recent photograph was of dark trees, lit only by moonlight. Behind them was a brick wall. And in front, a fountain, its water gleaming palely in the night.
Her eyes ran rapidly to the next picture. It was taken from a height, looking across a green expanse towards a main road in the distance, lit by street lights. Queen’s Road, she was sure of it. This was Samantha Seabrook’s secret Instagram all right; and these pictures had been taken the night she’d died.
And then she saw the next image. A dark shadow stretched across it. She clicked to enlarge it, unable to tell what she was looking at.
The photo had been artfully taken. It showed a figure clad in black, down to black gloves on their hands. They were sitting astride a wall. The wall to St Bede’s fellows’ garden – there was no doubt. They’d reached the top and paused. The image showed them from the neck down.
And then Tara clicked on the photo before, but that had quite clearly been taken on a different night and showed a view from one of the ancient colleges.
She sat tense in her chair. Her skin crawled. This had been part of the killer’s game. They’d known Samantha would delight in tantalising her followers. She’d have been pleased at the idea of taunting them. And the killer had been too. They’d wanted this.
Would the police already know? If they had her mobile then presumably they would… but if it had been stolen by the killer they might not realise yet.
Except… She kept scrolling. There were comments on the most recent photo from that day. If anyone knew Samantha Seabrook was responsible for that account they’d have surely alerted the police?
Several of her followers had put generic things like: ‘You rock!’ or ‘Very cool, as always’. But further down she found one posted the previous day. It said: ‘What goes around, comes around.’
She looked around for her phone to call DI Blake, then realised she’d left it in her bag in the hall. It was only as she got up, breaking the spell that had focused all her attention on her laptop, that she heard the noise.
The sound of footsteps on the gravel outside the sitting room window. Heavy. Almost as though someone wanted her to hear; to know they were there.
The queasiness she’d felt earlier intensified and her breath shortened. She stood perfectly still, listening. A soft thud. Not a knock, but as though a solid mass had leant against the door suddenly.
The camera. The police had put in a camera to transmit photos of anyone who approached the house straight to the station. And she had the alarm they’d left her. She’d left it on the kitchen dresser. In a second she’d pressed the button to alert them. But of course it made no sound, there in the house. The police hadn’t wanted to frighten off their quarry.
And now Tara wondered if the whole system was working properly at all. The photos had to transmit. The alarm had to sound at the station. And then there had to be officers close by to come to her aid. And any one of those things could fail.
She needed to look herself. If the cameras didn’t work properly she’d be the only one who could tell the police who it was who’d been outside. But she didn’t want to be seen.
She went through to the sitting room, just as she’d done when DI Blake first came to see her.
She entered the dark room quietly, moving towards the bay window. The moonlight shone through the threadbare chintz curtains. Once she was closer she’d be able to ease one of them back to get a glimpse of the figure outside.
She was only a couple of feet from the window when the sound of footsteps on the gravel came again. Whoever it was, they were on the move. And then, as she stood within reach of the curtains, leaning forward, a dark shadow fell across the window. The silhouette of one hand raised up and pressed on the glass.
Twenty
Blake was glad he’d stuck to one whisky. Even as it was, that – coupled with the fifteen minutes’ sleep he’d managed before the call from the station – weren’t conducive to a sharp mind. He hated a cat nap; it was worse than no sleep at all.
Now, he was making his way behind a row of shops on Chesterton High Street. A single lamp gave the route a sickly glow. The narrow alleyway led between a newsagent and a burger joint, and was daubed with unimaginative graffiti: the black spray-painted initials of the person who’d been responsible. He’d walked through scraps of rubbish, including what looked like the remains of one of the burger meals – ribbons of onion, a handful of squashed chips – bursting over the tarmac, and some suspicious-looking meat. The smell of it mingled with the odour of urine.
Round the back he had found iron stairs leading to the door of the flat that he wanted. Now he was standing in front of it, looking at its peeling paintwork. He’d knocked three times (loudly) and waited four minutes before he heard any sound from inside. When he did, it was a crash, as though someone had knocked something over. After that there was a thump as (he guessed) someone fell against the other side of the door he’d been pummelling.
‘Police! Open up!’ he shouted once again. He’d already run out of patience – it had deserted him somewhere around the Milton Road junction of the A14. He was glad he hadn’t had to speak to DCI Fleming before he’d driven to Chesterton. He could imagine her now, asking why he wasn’t organising a voluntary interview, so everything could be recorded officially, but Blake had a feeling he’d be turned down. Even if he wasn’t, he’d lose the chance of using surprise to get an unguarded response. Waiting for a solicitor to arrive was hardly going to give Blake the advantage. He wanted to see where this approach got him first. If he needed to make it official he could pick up the pieces later.
At last the door opened and Blake took in a mix of rippling muscles, vest top, skinny jeans and buzz cut. The ruddy face that looked back at him was scowling.
Time to find out what Jim Cooper had been doing loitering outside Tara Thorpe’s cottage. The fact that he’d left without doing anything before the police arrived was a relief all round but it raised plenty of questions.
‘I’d like an account of your movements this evening please,’ Blake said, making it clear that ‘please’ was just a figure of speech. ‘Start from when you left the institute. I want to know where you’ve been and who you’ve seen.’
Cooper pulled back slightly, blinking and frowning. ‘Why d’you want to know? What’s happened?�
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‘That’s not something you get to ask. But I can promise that if I’m happy with your answers I’ll let you go to bed and sleep it off. I’d like to get to bed too.’
‘If you can tell I need to sleep it off, then I’m guessing you already know where I’ve been.’
‘The smell suggests a boozer, but a bit more detail would be helpful.’
Cooper’s fists bunched for a moment, but then he leant sideways against the doorframe. ‘Feels like I’m always the first port of call when someone’s got a problem. Have I got trouble written on my forehead or something?’ He looked too drunk and too knackered to reach the level of anger he might have managed otherwise. Just as well. Blake would have had trouble dealing with a man of his bulk if he’d got aggressive. ‘All right then,’ Cooper said at last, through a yawn. ‘Have it your way. I was at the Mitre.’
‘That’s more like it.’
He looked aggrieved. ‘Can’t you keep your voice down?’
‘Surely you’re not worried what the neighbours think?
He gave Blake a look. ‘I’ve already had the odd complaint.’ He lowered his gravelly voice. ‘Nothing to do with me – there’s a fussy woman next door. She complains if she hears my ironing board creak. I don’t want to get booted out.’
Finding anywhere affordable to live in Cambridge was a challenge; Blake recognised that well enough. He was dog-tired but he made an effort to speak more quietly. ‘I could come inside if you want to tell me all about it?’
‘I don’t.’ The man was leaning forward again now; he had the shoulders of a wrestler.
‘But the sooner you do, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair. Then you can get your beauty sleep.’
He could see Cooper was tempted by the path of least resistance. At last he sighed, his breath damp and heavy with alcohol. ‘All right then.’ He stood back to let Blake in, but even then, it was a squeeze to get past him.
Cooper’s hallway was narrow, with just three doors opening off it. He led Blake through one that opened onto a living space: an oblong room with a sofa that looked ready to sink into the floor, a kitchenette and a small, square table. The table had an overflowing saucer-cum-ashtray on it, and there was a calendar featuring topless models on the wall. Other than that, the place was pretty bare, and also tidy. Cooper took the chair at the table. Blake didn’t fancy the sofa; he’d be way lower than the building supervisor if he sat there, not well placed if he needed to take any physical action. He leant against the wall instead.
‘You went straight from the institute to the Mitre?’
Cooper took a packet of fags from his pocket then rummaged again and dragged out a lighter. ‘S’right.’
Blake nodded. ‘Anyone go with you?’
Cooper lit up, taking a moment to get his lighter’s flame to meet the end of his cigarette, then shrugged. ‘Askey. Kit Tyler. Rick – the guy who does reception part-time.’
‘Were they all there the whole while you were?’
Cooper took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Rick was. The others left a little while earlier. Glad to see the back of them if I’m honest.’ He was flicking the thumbnail on his left hand back and forth against the nail of his middle finger. And there was a muscle going in his jaw.
‘They pissed you off?’
The flicking stopped. ‘There’s just a bit of “us and them”. You know, between staff and the institute’s academics.’ He stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Normally, when you talk about the “staff” at a place you mean everyone who works there, don’t you?’
‘Agreed.’
‘But it’s not like that at the institute. When they say “staff” it’s in the old sense.’ He brought his head down again and met Blake’s eye. ‘Like the servants. That’s how we’re viewed.’
Blake wondered where that left Mary Mayhew, the administrator. Staff, but with a PhD to her name. He was guessing she drank on her own if she ever went to the pub. But she didn’t look the sort anyway. ‘So, you and Rick the receptionist left the Mitre together,’ he said. ‘What time was this?
‘Round about closing. They stay open till midnight on Thursdays and Rick likes a drink. As for me, well, I wasn’t in the mood to go home yet.’
‘What had you and the others been talking about?’
Cooper put his head in his hands for a moment. ‘We were reminiscing about Samantha, and that made me want to drink until I couldn’t think any more.’ For a second Blake caught sight of a tear in the corner of the custodian’s eye. His face was flushed.
‘And then what?’
‘Rick went off one way, and I went off the other.’
‘You cycled?’
Cooper shook his head slowly. There was a centimetre of ash on the end of his cigarette. The smell was making Blake feel ill. He didn’t mind it normally, but the whole flat was full of it too – stale and all pervading. ‘Needed to walk it off a bit.’ He stifled a hiccough.
‘Which route did you take?’
He frowned for a long moment, his eyes unfocused. ‘I can’t— No, wait, I’ve got it. I went down Portugal Place.’
Blake imagined Cooper weaving his way along the narrow, vehicle-free lane, and pitied the residents. It was one of the most picturesque streets in Cambridge, but given its position – so close to the bustling pubs and restaurants on Bridge Street – it couldn’t be the quietest place to live. Thank God for his village bolthole. ‘And then?’
‘Across Jesus Green, of course, and all the way along the river until I got to the Green Dragon bridge.’
The wrought-iron footbridge that crossed the River Cam.
‘You went straight home?’
‘It was late.’ He looked pointedly at his digital watch. ‘I have got work in the morning.’
‘Right.’ He waited until Cooper looked up at him and met his eye. The ash had fallen from his cigarette onto the table. ‘So, what were you doing peering through Tara Thorpe’s windows then?’
Cooper sat forward in his chair, his shoulders tense. ‘She reported me?’
‘No. You were seen. It tends to look pretty suspicious when someone’s prowling round an isolated house very late at night. Especially when they don’t knock. What were you doing?’
He sighed. ‘I wanted to speak to her.’ His head nodded forward for a moment, but at last he straightened up again. ‘I mean it’s all just like I was saying. People of my sort, we don’t count. I knew Samantha Seabrook better than anyone else at the institute and this Tara Thorpe’s writing about her, but has anyone told her she needs to interview me?’ He took a deep drag of his cigarette. It looked tiny in his hand. ‘Course they bloody haven’t. What on earth could I have to say that’s remotely interesting? How would I presume to know anything about one of the professors? Shit.’ Blake could hear the emotion in his voice. He ground the cigarette out on the edge of the full saucer, tipping it up, and spilling half its contents on to the table.
‘How did you know where she lives?’
He slumped back in his chair. ‘At work, after Samantha died, Mary, my boss, told me to expect a journalist called Tara Thorpe. Explained she was writing a tribute of some kind in the magazine she works for. I’m in charge of security, so if a stranger’s going to be walking the institute corridors I need to be informed.’ There was a note of pride in his voice now. ‘And we’re getting a lot of calls from all and sundry about the murder at the moment. Mary doesn’t want just anybody blagging their way in. She showed me and Rick on reception Tara Thorpe’s photo, to make sure we’d know whether anyone giving that name was genuine.’
He smiled suddenly, and Blake didn’t like the look in his eyes.
‘But to me, she’s not a stranger,’ Cooper went on. ‘I cycle past her cottage every day, and I’ve clocked her a few times. I saw her moving in. She had to cart her stuff across the meadow on trolleys.’ That look again; a leer of sorts – he was too drunk to hide it. ‘I watched her for a bit. Almost offered to go and help, but I didn’t reckon she’d appreciate
it.’
You’re right on that score, Blake thought.
‘Okay. So, you’re telling me you went to talk to her, but although you hovered round her door and tried to see through her window you didn’t knock?’
‘I wasn’t sure if she was still up. I was looking for a light inside the house. I knew it was late.’
‘And what could you see?’
‘There was a faint glow from the front.’ His eyes closed for a moment. ‘Then after I walked off I looked back and I could see light from round the curtain of one of the side windows. But by that stage I’d thought better of it. It was after one. I still want to talk to her though.’ He pointed a chunky finger at Blake. ‘I can tell her things no one else can.’
Blake took a large lungful of air once he’d left the flat. He’d spent a while longer trying to get Cooper to explain the private knowledge he claimed to have of Professor Seabrook. The custodian’s answers hadn’t been satisfactory; he’d just gone on about the way he ‘understood’ her, and wouldn’t say any more.
Blake could still smell the inside of Cooper’s flat on his clothes. He’d need to get his jacket cleaned. He pondered the man’s reactions to his other questions. He’d been quick enough with his explanation for stopping at Tara Thorpe’s cottage, and his hurt at being left off her list of interviewees sounded genuine too. But deciding to pay her a visit in the small hours was hardly normal. Had he been drunk enough, at the time, to feel it was acceptable? Or was the explanation more sinister? Even if he was desperate to talk to Tara Thorpe, it didn’t mean he hadn’t harmed Samantha Seabrook. In fact, his obsessive interest in her made it more likely.
He checked his phone and double-took. Jim Cooper’s visit wasn’t the only development of the evening. News of Samantha Seabrook’s secret Instagram account had him pausing halfway across Chesterton High Street until a lone driver honked at him. The information came via DC Max Dimity, who’d followed uniform over to Tara’s cottage when she’d pressed her alarm button earlier that night. Tara Thorpe had discovered the account before the team who’d been tracking down Samantha Seabrook’s phone records.
