by Clare Chase
A tear trickled down her cheek. ‘I assumed she’d just crawled up to bed at that point. I never thought for a minute she’d have gone out again.’
If only he could have guessed the woman was in danger. The pain in her flatmate’s eyes was hard to witness. ‘There were no signs that she’d entertained anyone round here last night?’
Mandy Holden shook her head. ‘Just the one glass, and nothing obvious that had been left behind by anyone else.’
Blake certainly hadn’t got the impression that there’d been any kind of drama in the house recently. All the same, the CSIs would need to have a look round. He told Mandy Holden to expect them.
‘Was it usual for Chiara to go out on her own in the evening?’ he asked. Mandy Holden clearly hadn’t worried about returning home in the small hours. It would still have been dark at four that morning.
‘No. She wasn’t…’ Holden paused for a moment, ‘well, she wasn’t a very self-sufficient person, to be honest. Even the idea of her going for a stroll round the block doesn’t ring true. There’s no way she’d have gone onto one of the commons alone, however drunk she was.’ She gave Blake and Emma a look. ‘We’re all of us aware there are places you just don’t go on your own, late at night.’
Emma nodded.
So presumably someone had come knocking at the door then, to persuade her out, or had arranged a meet-up close by. Chiara’s mobile had been on her body and was being checked as they spoke. They’d need to review all the likely CCTV cameras too. If they were lucky they might pick up some useful images.
He caught Emma’s eye. His DS was shaking her head. She was probably going through the same thought processes and having the same fears: that the killer they were dealing with would have thought about CCTV. But there were cameras all over the place. They’d just have to hope.
‘Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm Chiara?’ Blake asked.
Mandy Holden let out a long breath. ‘Hell. Not to the extent that they’d kill her for it.’ But Blake notice her eyes were worried, as though she was debating something inwardly.
‘Sometimes small things can escalate,’ Emma said, pushing her blonde curls out of her eyes. ‘If you’ve got anything that might help us, we’d be glad to hear about it. You needn’t worry. We always try to be discreet, and if you give us information we’ll check the facts carefully before we draw conclusions.’
Mandy Holden nodded. ‘I understand that. I was only thinking that Chiara did tend to rub people up the wrong way. If Professor Seabrook hadn’t been murdered I’d have said she was the person with the strongest reason to dislike Chiara.’
Blake raised an eyebrow and waited for her version of the relationship breakdown between the two women.
‘Samantha Seabrook was very down on Chiara’s work. I’m no expert I’m afraid,’ Mandy Holden said, ‘so I don’t know how justified it was, but Chiara took it very personally. She upped the ante by getting her father involved, and the more she protested, the more vigorous the professor got in her criticisms.’ She flopped back in her armchair. ‘Truth to tell I got a bit fed up with the constant stream of vitriol from Chiara, and the blow-by-blow accounts of their interactions.’ There were tears in her eyes again. ‘Then one day there was a glimmer of hope. Chiara came home all upbeat. She’d talked to another of the academics at the institute – Dr Simon Askey.’ Holden’s tone changed as she mentioned him, as though she was naming the star of a blockbuster movie. She gave them a sidelong look. ‘She had a bit of a crush on him, to be honest. Anyway, Askey had listened to her problems, and sympathised, and promised to raise the matter with Professor Seabrook.’
All very interesting. ‘And what happened?’
‘I’m afraid it was a false dawn,’ Mandy said. ‘For whatever reason he didn’t make any headway – if he kept his promise. I guess Chiara felt let down, but – unusually for her – she didn’t offload so much on me after that. Clammed up, in fact, so I’m not too sure of the details.’
Blake remembered da Souza’s description of the row he’d overheard between Askey and Laurito. What was it that had happened that Chiara hadn’t wanted to share with Mandy Holden? And then he remembered the words that da Souza had thought he’d overheard. Askey reminding Chiara Laurito that it wasn’t always best to tell the truth.
Twenty-Nine
Tara considered texting Kemp to let him know about Chiara’s murder, but eventually she decided against it. She didn’t want him abandoning the job he was doing in Berlin and muscling in. After a moment she messaged Matt at Not Now, telling him there’d been some kind of incident on the common. She didn’t give him any details, though. It was a big story, but she wouldn’t break Blake’s confidence, and it would feel totally wrong anyway. Her mind was constantly on Chiara and the horrors she must have endured the night before. At last it was time to leave for London, and she made an effort to switch her focus to the interview with Professor Seabrook’s old school friend, Patsy Wentworth.
Tara had never liked the Underground. Now, she found herself standing with her back against the station wall as she waited for a train from King’s Cross. The platform was heaving. She ran her eyes quickly over the sea of faces around her. No one she recognised.
Only when the Tube had pulled right into the station did she move forward, ready to enter the train. Inside, there was one seat, deep down in the carriage, but she stayed standing. She didn’t want to get hemmed in.
When she emerged from the Underground at Camden Town, she found it was raining properly for the first time in weeks. The London dust and dirt mingled with the large raindrops that hit the hot pavement at her feet, making marks the size of ten pence pieces. The smell of car exhaust and diesel from a passing bus mingled with that of coffee wafting out from a branch of Costa. She checked the map on her phone and scanned the road signs until she reached the right back street. The place was full of large, Victorian townhouses, with basements and attic windows; once grand, now tatty. The on-street parking displayed a fair share of motorbikes, as well as dilapidated old cars, and the pavements contained a scattering of wheelie bins. Through one of the windows, she could see a tree of life wall hanging, and another one had a chain of crystals, hanging down from the catch of its sash.
Patsy was at 4a. She found number 4, its front door painted black, with a faded sticker saying ‘no junk mail’ attached to it. The buzzers went from a to d; rain had managed to seep its way inside the casing of the labels, and the ink had run.
The woman who came to answer the door was tall – around six foot, Tara guessed – and thin. She wore long, black, baggy trousers and a sleeveless black vest top. Her hair was long too, reaching well past her shoulders, and her make-up was dramatic.
‘Patsy?’ she said.
The woman nodded, a slow grin spreading across her wide mouth. Tara was quite sure she was being judged, and that Patsy had decided she wasn’t a force to be reckoned with. The professor’s old friend clearly fancied herself a rebel.
‘Come on in,’ Patsy said, leaning for a moment against the door frame. When she spoke, Tara noticed her tongue was pierced.
Their route took them along a dark hall and down some stairs. It seemed natural, somehow, that she should occupy the basement. A bright, airy ground-floor flat wouldn’t have suited her aesthetic.
The place smelled of joss sticks, hash and petunia oil. She couldn’t detect any trace of food, which – combined with the woman’s thinness – made her wonder if Patsy was the sort of person who barely bothered with proper meals. A piece of toast here, maybe, a cup of coffee there. She was very pale.
Patsy motioned her to a low sofa. Or in fact, was it a sofa at all? Something long and flat, covered with a cotton throw. Tara had a feeling she was meant to feel diminished once she’d sat down. She gave Patsy Wentworth a look to tell her she’d have to try harder than that.
‘Mind if I record our interview?’
‘Do what you want,’ the woman said, rolling her eyes.
; Tara went through the formalities of expressing her sympathy over Patsy’s friend’s death – mainly because she was curious to see if she’d bother to fake a reaction. She certainly didn’t look emotional.
‘So, Pa Seabrook gave you my contact details?’ she said, in a gravelly voice. Tara was guessing at forty a day. There was a look of amusement in her eyes. ‘I’m kind of surprised.’
‘He was a bit cagey about you at first.’ With the police too, apparently – though she wasn’t going to tell her that.
‘I was never his favourite individual. It was unfortunate for him that mine and Samantha’s friendship was the one that lasted. The most outrageous of all her classmates.’ She drew herself up a little higher. ‘All the Sophies and Tiffanys went by the wayside.’
‘Are Patsys different then?’ Tara couldn’t help herself, even though she knew she was spoiling for a row.
Patsy’s eyes narrowed. ‘This one is. Samantha was too. That was why we got along.’
‘How do you mean, different?’
Patsy took out a packet of Camel cigarettes from one of her baggy pockets and lit up. No filter, Tara noticed. Not on the cigarettes anyway. The woman was certainly applying one to the impression she wanted to give Tara, but it was transparent. ‘We were both poor little rich girls. Every financial advantage but with crap parents.’
‘I didn’t think Sir Brian seemed so especially crap.’
‘Oh “Sir” Brian, is it?’ Patsy let out a laugh as hard and sharp as a whip crack and then coughed. ‘I hadn’t heard. But of course, I assume he got the “Sir” for spending his whole time thinking about things other than his daughter.’
‘I understand he had a difficult time. I heard about his wife…’ But not enough, obviously. Did Patsy know the truth about what had happened?
‘The tragic Bella? Yes, he spent a lot of time running around after her.’
She couldn’t bring herself to admit she didn’t know what had happened to Sir Brian’s wife. Hopefully Patsy would let something slip, but she wasn’t going to go begging for it. She’d find out on her own terms or not at all.
‘So, you and Samantha sympathised with each other?’ she said. ‘You had a bad time with your parents too?’
‘Never mind about my parents. Let’s just say we haven’t spoken in a long time now. As for sympathising; we weren’t the sort of girls to sit around snivelling into silk handkerchiefs.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Fun and games, Tara.’ She leant back in her chair. ‘Fun and games.’
She was enjoying being the one with the information Tara wanted. She must know her knowledge was all that was preventing Tara from standing up and walking out.
Patsy’s cigarette had a centimetre of ash on it now. There was an ashtray on a bookshelf across the room from her, but she’d never reach it without losing what she’d already got to the carpet. Looking down, it was clear it wouldn’t be the first time. Patsy drew the packet out of her trouser pocket again and flicked it open. ‘Have one,’ she said.
Tara shook her head. ‘No thanks.’
Still Patsy held out the packet. ‘I said have one. Have one, and I’ll tell you what Samantha was like when she was at school.’
This was crazy; like bullying. Normally, it would have been the worst possible tactic to take with Tara. But how much did she want to know the truth? She ought to be able to override her desire to stay in absolute control if it meant getting what she wanted. Her heart was racing; anger was a powerful emotion.
‘Here.’ Patsy pushed the packet towards her and Tara waited for a second.
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘If going along with your screwed-up games is going to pay dividends, then sure.’ She took the cigarette and put it in her mouth before Patsy asked her to. She didn’t want to have to follow any more orders.
The moment the cigarette was between her lips, Patsy pulled out her lighter. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘If you smoke that, like a grown-up girl, I’ll tell you exactly what you need to know.’
Just for a second, Tara thought she was going to lose control. Heat and fury flew through her like fire across a petrol spill. She fought to calm down.
‘Go on then,’ she said at last, and her voice was steady. ‘I’m delighted if I’m relieving the tedium of your life by doing this, but I haven’t got all day. What was Samantha like at school?’
For a second the look in Patsy’s eyes made Tara wonder if she’d blown it; taken the fag for nothing. But then, without warning, the woman laughed. The laugh turned into a cough again. ‘That’s what I’m showing you, you thick bitch. Why are you smoking now?’
‘Simply because you’ve got something I want, and it seems that unless I do what you say, you’re not willing to let me have it.’
‘Quite right, so take a good big lungful right now.’ She watched. ‘Very good. And that’s just what Samantha did.’
Tara exhaled into Patsy’s face but the woman seemed oblivious. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘She had what a lot of the kids at school wanted: beauty, lots of money, a wicked sense of humour, intelligence of a high order—’ She broke off to cough again. ‘Charisma. I suppose that was it. She was the girl everyone was desperate to be in with. The cool one. And because she had what everyone else wanted, she could make people do whatever she wanted too. Simply to be closer to her.’
‘What about you?’
‘Hah! I got them to do what I wanted too, but I did it by being bigger and stronger than they were. Whereas charm’s more insidious, more deceptive. If I got a child to do something that got them into trouble, there tended to be blood and bruises and tall Patsy standing there looking guilty. When it was Samantha, there was this sweet, beautiful, clever child, with the obviously difficult home life.’
‘But you had the difficult home life too.’
‘Not in such an attractive and tragic way as Samantha did. It was largely because of that that she never got the blame. People used to assume she’d got in with a bad lot. They never realised she was the bad lot.’
It certainly put a different spin on the Samantha–Patsy relationship from the one Sir Brian had created.
Patsy let her ash fall on to the rug at her feet again. ‘She was a ringleader; a classic tearaway. Not that I blame her. She did have a lot to cope with.’
‘What type of things did she get involved in? Drugs?’
‘In a small way. Only hash; Great Sterringham wasn’t exactly awash with dealers. No, it was mainly other stuff: thieving, vandalism, boys…’ She paused at this, her eyes far away. ‘God yes, there were lots of boys.’
Tara could imagine. ‘What kind of thieving?’
Patsy waved the hand with the cigarette. ‘All sorts. Shoplifting, money and knick-knacks from family and friends, you know the sort of thing. I think it was her way of trying to get her dad to focus on her for a change.’
‘Did it work?’
Patsy let out a long breath. ‘Not really. Pa Seabrook had to put quite a lot of time and effort into smoothing ruffled feathers, compensating the local branch of Boots in return for not prosecuting her, mysteriously “finding” items she’d pinched from their acquaintances after they’d been to stay. But he only did the necessary. As soon as the latest crisis was over his focus was straight back to Bella again.’
She stretched her long legs out in front of her. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, after a moment, ‘I don’t think Samantha was ever able to stop looking for his approval and his love. For me, I chucked all that in a long time ago. If my parents couldn’t see things my way, I’d rather we just parted company, but for Samantha, not so. She’d never have admitted it though, even to herself.’
‘You think that’s why she went into the area of research she chose? Because it was her father’s pet cause?’
She got up and flicked some ash into the tray this time. ‘For sure.’
‘And had she settled down, by that stage, in other ways?’
Again, that crackling laugh. ‘I don�
�t know about that. We didn’t see so much of each other once she moved to Cambridge, but old habits die hard, so who knows? When it came to the stealing it almost seemed like a compulsion. And she was shameless.’
Patsy shuffled over to a side cupboard, painted sea green. She opened one of its doors and reached down for something. When she turned back to Tara she had a small photo album in her hand. ‘Here,’ she said, flipping it open clumsily, still busy with her cigarette. ‘Look at this.’
Tara recognised Samantha Seabrook in the photo. She looked radiant and the laughter was clear in the set of her mouth and her eyes. Around her neck was an ornate necklace with large red stones set into a gold chain. The thing looked antique.
‘Yes, those are rubies, in case you’re wondering,’ Patsy said. ‘Huge, aren’t they? That necklace belonged to her grandmother before she lifted it. Her father knew she must have it really, but she hid it well, and apparently he could never bring himself to raise the matter. She said he used to make veiled comments about it, but I suppose he thought sticking his head in the sand was less painful. Never ask a question unless you’re prepared to hear the answer.’
As Tara walked back to the Tube station she thought of Blake. She should have told him she’d identified the woman in Samantha Seabrook’s photograph as Patsy Wentworth. She was going to have to confess that she’d been dishonest. Nothing about the professor’s life was insignificant. She hadn’t been that sort of a person.
Thirty
Blake and Emma were on their way to Simon Askey’s house off Mill Road, just south of the police station. Blake was hoping they’d get the chance to break the news about Chiara. He wanted to see Askey’s face, to judge whether any show of surprise was genuine.
