by Clare Chase
His voice was unnecessarily loud, and several other guests turned their heads to look. Tara felt her chest tighten. She could guess what was coming – and that Askey was going to make the most of it.
‘What’s that?’ Chiara said. ‘You’re always in the know, Simon.’ She leant towards him, smiling. He returned the smile, though when she turned away his look was cold.
‘Well, as I’m sure we all know, Tara Thorpe here has a famous ma. One Lydia Thorpe.’
‘Lydia Thorpe the actress?’ Peter Mackintosh, the librarian said. ‘No! I didn’t know. I’ve always been a great admirer of her work.’ He smiled at Tara, who bit hard into the side of her cheek.
‘You, Peter, and of course so many others,’ Askey said. ‘Well, I can tell you that a couple of short years ago, Not Now magazine – the publication Tara works for – was at rock bottom. Not selling, not admired, and certainly not the fashion accessory it is today.’
Professor da Souza had moved closer to Askey, as though he knew he was out to make trouble but couldn’t work out how to prevent it.
‘That was until Lydia Thorpe was photographed holding a copy of the magazine under her arm. Suddenly that niche publication became the magazine of choice for everyone who’s anyone. And Tara here – who up until that point was working for them freelance, and fairly infrequently, as far as I can make out – got taken on as a staff writer and promoted to the top of the tree.’
His eyes met Tara’s and he smiled. He reminded her of a lizard, comfortable with the sun on its back but watchful and cold-blooded at heart.
‘So you see,’ he continued, ‘one more example of how people who come from a privileged background have it easy compared with those who don’t.’
Professor da Souza patted Askey on the shoulder. ‘But Simon, it’s only natural for parents to try to look after their children. And it’s not the fault of those children if they end up benefiting. It’s simply that we need to change the system so everyone’s on an equal footing.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Peter the librarian had joined her. ‘Everyone knows about your reputation as a journalist. You won an award, didn’t you? I remember reading you could get truths out of people that no one else could uncover.’
Tara could see Jim Cooper had picked up on Peter’s words. He gave her a sulky glare. And, of course, she hadn’t managed to get to the bottom of his story. If Simon Askey was already taunting him about the professor before she’d been killed it was only natural that he’d deny it. If he’d known she was laughing about him behind his back it would make him a plausible suspect. Could he have formulated such an elaborate plan to make her pay? If he had, maybe he’d regretted it afterwards. His love and remorse might have prompted him to come to Tara, wanting to pay tribute to the murdered object of his obsession. It would explain the way he’d blown hot and cold about wanting to share his memories.
She took a large swig of her wine.
‘Have you met Kit?’ Peter asked. A man of about her age stepped forward. He had dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes.
‘I’m the research associate on Simon Askey’s project,’ he said. He had an attractive northern accent. ‘I knew Samantha quite well too, of course, if there’s anything you want to ask.’ He looked around the assembled group, Chiara pouting, da Souza looking lost, Cooper gritting his teeth and Askey rolling his eyes. ‘Though if you’ve already had it up to here with the lot of us, I will perfectly understand.’ A smile crossed his lips.
She took a sip of her drink and responded in kind. It was nice to find someone who could see the institute staff with an unbiased eye, despite being one of them. ‘Not at all. I want to find out all there is to know. Did you like her?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you’d want to ask my opinion on her work.’
‘The verdict on that seems to be unanimous – unless you’re about to surprise me?’
The smile was back. ‘Fair point. And no, I’m not. All right then. I suppose I saw Samantha in the round. I could understand why she attracted such polarised views. People either loved or hated her. I even wondered if some people did both.’ He paused, his eyes on the middle distance. ‘I guess it was a dangerous combination, though I’m sure she never realised it. She was very focused on whatever her passion was at the time. She never noticed anything peripheral, which could be frustrating. Some people saw it as a by-product of her genius, but some people reckoned she was too bound up with herself.’
Very analytical. It probably stemmed from his work. It was useful, but she wanted his personal opinion too. ‘What did you think?’
He shrugged. ‘I came to Cambridge specifically because I wanted to work alongside her and I’ve never regretted it. Nothing she’s done has changed my mind about her.’ He pulled a face. ‘But, to be fair, her style did make for an intense atmosphere.’
Tara raised her eyebrows.
‘Too many forceful personalities in a small space.’
Right on cue, Chiara’s voice rose. She sounded more than halfway to being drunk. ‘You see, Professor da Souza realises it’s only natural! And it’s exactly what Samantha’s father did for her too. He smoothed her path all the way. Her situation and mine were so alike, yet she could never see it. Her reaction to my parents’ concern for me was pure hypocrisy. She was spoiled, of course.’
There was an awkward silence. Peter Mackintosh looked as though he was about to say something, but then shut his mouth. Kit caught Tara’s eye and da Souza stared at the ground. Maybe he felt he couldn’t say much without having it thrown back in his face, given the library donation by Samantha Seabrook’s father, and his own closeness to her whole family.
Askey was the one who spoke, his dry drawl loud in the hush. ‘I can’t deny your point, but your timing’s dreadful as usual, Chiara.’ He met her eye. ‘You really must learn to keep your mouth shut.’ He turned and walked away.
Tara saw the PhD student’s eyes widen with shock. Askey had made it impossible for her to retort without chasing after him.
Cooper put down his empty glass and picked up another. He held it so tightly Tara was surprised the delicate flute didn’t break in his hand.
‘You’ll be glad to know these dos normally wind up by around 8 p.m.,’ Kit Tyler said, his lips quirking. His smile was infectious. ‘Can I get you another drink?’
All in all, she was more than glad of his presence. His dry humour made the evening slightly more bearable than it might have been.
Tara excused herself when Professor da Souza left. By that stage, Chiara was going over slightly on one ankle in her high heels, and definitely slurring. She must have had it out with Askey after he’d put her down so publicly. She was back at his side now. He kept removing her hand from his arm but then having to hold on to her to stop her wobbling over. He looked properly irritated. Mary Mayhew was standing to one side, drinking orange juice and pursing her lips. Peter the librarian and Kit were helping Jim Cooper clear some of the glasses.
As she turned to leave, Kit caught her eye and raised his free hand. The sun was already well down. Just the odd last streak of light stained the sky as she walked out under the stone archway to where she’d left her bike. She glanced to her left and then over her shoulder as the noises of the party receded.
She turned the key in her bike lock and went to put the chain in her basket – her usual way of transporting it whilst she cycled. It was only then that she saw the envelope someone had put there, hard up against the wickerwork, tucked in so she hadn’t seen it before.
Her name was printed on the front.
Her hands shook as she eased open the seal. There was just one printed sheet of paper inside.
I’m looking forward to reading your article. I only hope you’ve found the real scoop. Journalism’s a cut-throat business. Second-rate professionals might find themselves in trouble.
Twenty-Six
Blake sat opposite Tara. He had her latest letter, slipped inside an evidence bag, in his hands. She had a vodka and tonic in h
ers. She picked up her glass and the ice in it chinked against the side. They were sitting in the Champion of the Thames. The pub was tiny, and still very warm after another hot day. Someone had propped the front door open and Blake watched a moth fly in. Outside, the streetlights had come on.
When Tara had called him, he’d sent a car to follow her journey from the institute to the pub, where they’d arranged to meet. He wanted to know everything that had happened that day – especially at the garden party. As before, he’d checked immediately on the whereabouts of Samantha Seabrook’s father, and on Pamela Grange. They’d been safely at Seabrook’s home in Great Sterringham; he’d spoken to them both. Barring an unknown outsider, the institute staff were the main suspects for having sent Tara the message. Wilkins was checking with the editor of Not Now, and another staff reporter who’d known where Tara would be, but the main focus was on Professor da Souza’s merry gang. Unfortunately, nothing allowed him to narrow things down further. Tara had talked to most of them in turn, but hadn’t noticed when they came and went.
And it sounded as though they’d all known in advance that she’d be at the party; it had been mentioned at a staff meeting. They’d have had plenty of time to prepare the typed message.
Askey, Chiara Laurito, Mary Mayhew, Kit Tyler, Peter Mackintosh, da Souza, Jim Cooper… the list went on.
Had it been someone who’d loathed the professor or someone who’d adored her? The thin line between love and hate was a harsh reality. He only had to think of Babette to know that.
‘I wish I knew what was on the bastard’s mind,’ Tara said, breaking into his thoughts. Her long, red-gold hair kept catching his eye as it gleamed in the lights that shone above the bar. ‘He’s set me a test and so far, I don’t understand the rules.’
Her eyes were dry, her jaw set.
‘It might not be a he,’ Blake said. ‘You – we – need to watch everyone.’
She swigged her drink. After a moment, she nodded.
‘What else happened today?’ he asked.
‘I went to interview Jim Cooper just before the garden party.’ She gave him a look. ‘No recording of that one. I couldn’t risk asking; it would have frightened him off.’ She explained how he’d tried to back out of the arrangement. ‘I don’t know what he’s afraid of. There’s something about him that makes me uneasy, but it could just be that he doesn’t want to get involved.’
‘I’d appreciate your notes then, when you’ve done them.’ She’d probably been going to send them anyway, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave it unsaid.
She just nodded again, but then after a moment she sighed, as though she was giving in, and told him how Simon Askey had been taunting Cooper. The fact that he’d been casting doubt on the supposedly close relationship he’d had with Professor Seabrook must have led to an acrimonious encounter between the two men. ‘I’m still not clear on when the taunting started,’ she said, ‘before she died or afterwards.’
Their eyes met for a long moment. ‘Thanks for that,’ Blake said. ‘I’ll make enquiries.’
‘And Cooper mentioned that some of the students have had fun at his expense too – putting it about that he and the professor were having an affair.’
Blake thought of the student who’d seen photos of Samantha Seabrook in Cooper’s drawer. When they’d gone to investigate, it turned out they’d just been press cuttings. Cooper had shared them readily enough, but they still made the custodian look obsessive.
‘And what about your visit to Sir Brian?’ he asked.
She told him about her journey up the A10, glancing up at him for a second, her green eyes meeting his over the rim of her almost-empty glass. ‘I did wonder if someone was on my tail. There were a couple of cars that left Garlic Row at the same time as me.’
‘But you didn’t see them when you arrived in Great Sterringham?’
She shook her head. ‘I came to the conclusion I’d succumbed to paranoia.’
He put Tara’s bagged note in his jacket pocket and drained his Coke, wishing it was something stronger.
Her glass was empty now too. Part of him didn’t want to suggest another. A sober potential murder victim was more likely to see another day than a drunk one.
‘Another?’ Tara said, as though reading his mind. She got up from her chair, scraping it backwards on the floor, and picked up her glass.
He got up too, glancing sideways at her. He wasn’t sure if she’d been drinking at the garden party too, though she looked steady. ‘I’ll have to watch myself,’ he said at last. ‘Too many Cokes on duty and all that.’
She gave him a sidelong glance. ‘Is that your way of telling me I should watch myself too?’
He sighed. ‘Do you make a habit of reading people’s minds?’
She smiled. ‘You’ve been doing it to me too, recently, or hadn’t you noticed?’
But he couldn’t tell what she was thinking right that minute. ‘I suppose we both spend a lot of time trying to see the truth behind what people tell us,’ he said at last. ‘We get a certain amount of practice.’
But he hadn’t seen through Babette’s lies. When she’d faced him with the truth it had come as a complete shock. The thought made him catch his breath. If he’d missed that – something so huge – then he could miss anything.
Tara ordered another vodka and tonic and he asked for his Coke. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, without catching his eye. ‘I’m careful. I’m never out of control.’
Apart from when she’d decked that journalist of course. Though maybe she counted that as being in control, in fact.
‘What did you think of Sir Brian?’ he asked, when they were back at their table.
‘A weird combination. It was as though he’d been knocked sideways, yet he hadn’t lost his sense of self, if you know what I mean.’
He’d felt the same.
‘You’ll be pleased to learn I recorded the interview with him,’ she said. ‘My kit’s back at the Travelodge but I can send the file across to you.’
‘Please.’
Her voice had a tone he recognised now; it was the same as she’d had the previous night when she’d told him what she’d got out of Chiara Laurito. And there was a spark in her eyes too, despite all the shock and exhaustion. Whatever it was she’d found out he could see she was longing to share, to show off her spoils.
‘What?’ he said. He found himself smiling.
Her own smile was in her eyes. She ran her forefinger absently round the rim of her glass. ‘I saw a couple of interesting things.’
‘Come on then; don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘I managed to get Sir Brian to show me Professor Seabrook’s old room.’
‘I’m impressed.’
She put her head on one side. ‘Thank you. So, the slippers intrigued me.’
He remembered noticing them; glamorous and in good condition.
‘They were this season’s,’ Tara said. ‘I saw them in the window of Harvey Nichols last time I was in London; £150, no less.’
‘You can spend that much on a pair of slippers?’
‘Yup. Or at least, if you’re Samantha Seabrook you can. Or indeed, if you’re Sir Brian.’
‘You think it was he who bought them, not her?’
‘I did wonder. They’re gorgeous – and I suppose if the professor had chosen them herself she’d have probably taken them with her. She hasn’t struck me as the disorganised sort. Nor the sort to make frequent stays back at the family home and leave them there for convenience.’ She sipped her drink.
‘No,’ he said at last, wondering why he hadn’t got that far with his thinking. ‘You have a point.’
‘And then there’s the matter of the magazines that were in her room.’
He vaguely remembered those too.
‘Vogue, yes,’ Tara said. ‘Having snooped round Samantha Seabrook’s apartment I could imagine her buying that for herself, but Good Housekeeping? It’s a quality glossy, but I’d have said it would be more Pame
la Grange’s scene.’
‘The sort of thing Sir Brian might have bought for his daughter, not having made a thorough study of the women’s magazine market?’
‘Exactly that sort of thing.’
‘Interesting. So if you’re right’ – her look told him she wasn’t suffering from self-doubt – ‘then Sir Brian was making a special effort for his daughter’s most recent stay.’
‘I’d definitely say so,’ Tara said. She frowned and took another sip of her drink. ‘I mean, I could imagine him buying the magazines when he knew she was coming. Or putting some flowers in her room maybe. But the slippers seem to go beyond that. He was really looking after her. I wondered if she’d been ill, and had gone home to recuperate?’ Her eyes suddenly lit up. ‘In fact, that would fit with something Pamela Grange said too.’
‘Really?’
She bit her lip. ‘Hell, yes. Sorry – I think it slipped my mind when I reported back on my meeting with her, what with being chased on my way home and everything.’
Or had she just been holding back? Still, she sounded genuine. He waited.
‘Pamela said Samantha had been to stay in Great Sterringham quite recently. And she mentioned that would normally be a cue for Sir Brian to invite her over too, but on this occasion, that didn’t happen.’
‘That does sound interesting.’ Samantha having been ill was a good theory. Blake made a mental note to look into it. ‘I know you hate us all,’ he said, ‘but you could have a second career as a copper, if you ever fancy switching jobs.’
She gave him a look. ‘Yeah, right.’
Twenty-Seven
As she cycled back to the Travelodge, Tara realised Blake was on her tail in his car. The traffic was as heavy as usual, and she could slip through the gaps, so their progress was finely balanced. In fact, she was about to lose him. She turned to check over her shoulder, moved into the right-hand lane to make the U-turn to reach the Travelodge, and gave him an ironic wave as she went. Her route meant she had to double back and the streetlight shone in through Blake’s windscreen. She tried to catch his expression, but his face was still in shadow, down to his chin.
