by Clare Chase
‘It’s Tara, Matthew, Tara Thorpe,’ she said, earning a raised eyebrow from Blake. He ought to be pleased. No one unbuttoned when you were constantly rubbing your job title in their faces.
There was a momentary pause. ‘You’ve got news about Luke?’
In the background, she could hear multiple noises: glasses clinking, laughter, several voices and pop music. Unless he’d taken his brother to a pub, Tara guessed her and Blake’s fears had been groundless after all. And his voice was still taut with worry.
‘Not yet, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we’ll get a lead at your brother’s house tomorrow. Our CSI colleagues have already had a first look.’
‘Have they found…?’ He let the question trail off.
‘If there’s anything concrete, we’ll let you know. Matthew, we came to find you at home, but when I saw you were out I thought I’d better call.’ She left a faint questioning note in her voice.
‘I was sitting there at my place and the tension was just building and building. I felt as though I was going crazy, with all the images spinning round in my head. I wanted to do something constructive.’ Unlike you, his tone seemed to say. The background noise receded. She guessed he’d taken his phone outside. ‘I’m at a place called the Flag and Diamond. My brother mentioned coming here a few times. I wanted to chat to the regulars – see if they know anything.’
‘Don’t put yourself at risk, Matthew. We still don’t know what we’re dealing with here.’ She heard his sharp sigh, imagined his irritation at her comment – a young woman taking it upon herself to advise him. ‘I can understand why you wanted to get out. It must be a terrible strain for you.’ She paused for a second, wishing she could see his face. ‘Have you managed to glean anything useful?’
‘Nothing. I don’t think they like outsiders here. They don’t even admit to knowing Luke.’
Tara wondered what kind of a place the Flag and Diamond was, for everyone to be so tight-lipped. Then again, she couldn’t imagine Matthew Cope being subtle in his approach. He was too short-tempered to exercise the patience and subterfuge required.
‘Please let us know immediately if anyone does tell you anything useful. Whatever time of night it is. You’ve got my number.’
‘I’d hardly keep information to myself.’
Tara remained silent. She’d rather he knew she wasn’t going to take everything he said on blind trust.
After a pause Matthew Cope spoke again. ‘Do you want me to come back home now, to speak to you?’
Tara still wanted to ask him about the blue Mercedes she’d seen racing away from his house that morning, of course, and she’d rather do it face to face. But after a moment’s thought she dismissed pushing for a meet-up that evening. ‘No, it’s okay. But I’ll be over at your brother’s house first thing tomorrow. Could you manage to drop in on your way to work? We could have a quick word then.’ She’d seen from his business card that his office was on the south side of the city. It would be on his way, even if it did mean an unnecessary detour into the town centre during rush hour.
‘All right,’ he said. She could hear his frown. ‘I’ll be there at eight fifteen.’
‘Perfect.’ She hung up and relayed the result to Blake.
‘So what do you reckon?’ he said.
‘That he’s telling the truth about where he is, though my belt and braces instinct makes me want to go and check he isn’t there with his brother. There’s a chance we could catch him out, only he’d recognise me if I went barging into the Flag and Diamond.’
‘The name of the pub rings bells. North-west of here, isn’t it, on the city’s outskirts?’
Tara nodded. ‘I think so. I drove past it once.’
Blake met her eye. ‘Near where Max lives, in fact.’
‘That’s a point.’ Max would be glad to follow up the lead, too. Tara reckoned he’d finally got the policing bug back in the last few months. He no longer wanted to work all hours solely because he couldn’t face his empty house and the memories of his wife; he needed to get his fix.
‘I’ll send him Matthew Cope’s work mugshot,’ Blake said, getting busy with his phone. A moment later he made the call to Max.
Tara could just hear the DC’s responses from where she stood, close to Blake.
She looked at his broad shoulders, his head bent down against the rain, dark hair blowing in the wind, and wished she could switch off the automatic response the sight of him always triggered. Talk about conflicting feelings…
She turned her mind back to his over-familiar behaviour towards her, when his wife had been newly pregnant. That ought to be enough to bring her to her senses.
Fourteen
Twenty minutes later, Tara had parked her car on Stanley Road, the Victorian-terrace-lined street that led down to Riverside. It was round the corner from where she lived. There was no vehicular access to her own house – unless there was an emergency that warranted opening the wide gate onto Stourbridge Common. Her tiny Victorian cottage was on a bit of no-man’s-land, surrounded by the meadows, close to the River Cam and the Green Dragon Bridge that led to the village of Chesterton. Not that it was a village these days really; it had become absorbed into Cambridge itself.
Her location meant reaching home involved walking or cycling – through a pedestrian gate or across a cattle grid. Red poll bullocks grazed the common in the spring and summer.
Tara reached Riverside and turned right, passing a short row of houses facing the river before pushing open the creaky swing gate. It was still raining and the common appeared darker than usual under the cloudy night sky. There were periodic lamps on the main pathways across the grass, but the light they emitted was diffused by the drizzle.
As she began to cross the dark space, Tara’s mind, which had been on Megan Maloney’s promotion to DS – news that Blake had passed on before they’d parted – shifted back to the case. She shivered. What had happened to Freya Cross brought home the dangers of walking in an isolated spot at night. It wasn’t late now, only eight, but thanks to the weather Stourbridge Common was deserted. Automatically she checked over her shoulder and then glanced up at the trees that bordered the meadow, straining to catch any movement. It seemed she really was alone, but still she quickened her pace slightly. She liked being out in the middle of nowhere: having her own space, keeping other people at arm’s length. But nearly five years earlier she’d had a killer on her trail. One who’d watched her on that very common, and who’d taken the life of one of his victims there too. She hadn’t been intimidated into moving away then, and she wasn’t going to let that sort of worry affect her now, either. She could take care of herself. But she was always wary. Thank God for Kemp. He’d given her the tools to regain control.
With one last glance over her shoulder, she walked past the low brick wall which was all that separated her tiny front garden from the common, then let herself inside her house, pushing the door shut behind her.
She picked up the pile of post that had arrived whilst she’d been out. Bill. Bill. Letter from a charity, asking for cash. She shuffled through them in her hands before she took off her coat, and finally came to one that wasn’t pre-printed. Her heart sank as she took in the telltale signs: her address completed in ink, in a copperplate script that she recognised. The sender was Robin – her father, though in name only. Why the hell was he writing to her?
The house was cold – as usual. The heating would have come on at six but the aging boiler struggled to match the temperature she’d set the thermostat to. She kept her coat on and went to dump the post on the kitchen table before heading upstairs to find a couple of extra jumpers. She made the switch from coat to woollen layers as quickly as possible, then went to put a bottle of red wine in a washing up bowl of warm water.
Only after that did she sit down to open her post. Robin’s envelope contained an invitation.
In order to ignore it for a while longer she went to the fridge and pulled out some leftover arrabbiata pasta bake.
She’d put enough chilli in it to warm her up the night before and she was more than keen to tuck into the second half now. But as it heated in the microwave, she couldn’t help letting Robin and his wife’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party filter into her mind. She couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous than them inviting her. Tara knew from an argument she’d overheard as a child that Robin had wanted her mother, Lydia, to terminate the pregnancy. If it had been up to him, she wouldn’t be sitting there today. But hey, as you’re still around, let’s be inclusive and invite you along to a family do. Talk about adding insult to injury. The argument she’d witnessed had involved Lydia complaining how difficult it was, bringing up a small child. (Even though she’d mostly off-loaded the job onto her cousin Bea anyway.) After which Robin had pointed out that she’d brought it on herself. If she’d taken his advice and had an abortion she would still be young and free.
Tara had never forgotten overhearing them. She wasn’t one to forgive easily, even at the best of times.
She took her microwaved food and a large glass of red over to the table. Robin’s invitation included a note scrawled on the back of the card: We are hoping to see your mother, Benedict, Harry and Bea at the party too.
Her stepfather and half-brother into the bargain, eh? To say nothing of Robin and Melissa’s kids – yet more half-siblings. Bea would be the saving grace – if Tara decided to attend.
She could see where the invitation stemmed from. Her mother had thrown a party the year before, to celebrate her and Benedict’s twentieth anniversary. It had been a glamorous affair: full of film stars and other celebrities. Tara’s mother wasn’t one to hang onto the past. She would have invited all her friends without giving it much thought; even including her teenage lover and his family. (The more the merrier, she’d have said to herself. It’ll be a hoot.) But to Robin – and especially to his wife Melissa, who was the defensive, sensitive sort – it might well have seemed that Lydia was rubbing their noses in her successful, moneyed, jet-set lifestyle. Robin’s architecture firm was prosperous too, but for glitz, it wasn’t in the same league.
So maybe Melissa was behind the invitation to their anniversary do. Perhaps she was determined to show she could hold her own.
At that moment Tara’s mobile rang. She pulled it out of her trouser pocket and picked up. Kemp.
‘This is a pleasant surprise.’
The sound of an aggrieved sigh came down the phone. ‘You say that as though you think I’m up to something.’
‘Well, aren’t you?’
There was a pause. ‘I was just wondering how you were – that’s all.’
‘You didn’t, by any chance, see any news items that have led you to call?’ The brutal murder of the wife of a Cambridge professor was the kind of thing that might have reached the nationals. As usual, Tara found it frustrating that it would be Freya’s association with her husband and his institution that made her more newsworthy, despite her own successful career. A link with the university added a certain mystique that journalists loved.
‘I might have happened to notice something.’ She heard the sound of Kemp swigging a drink. Beer no doubt. He’d probably sorted himself out with refreshments before calling, as others might take popcorn into the cinema. As an ex-cop he relished hearing her gossip – even though he’d left the force under a cloud. Officially, he had no truck with his former colleagues. ‘You on the case then?’
‘Yup.’
‘And?’
‘I can’t discuss it with you. Not beyond what’s already in the public domain, anyway.’
‘Plenty of suspects?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He groaned. ‘Mean-spirited, I call it. Does our past mean nothing to you?’
He’d saved her sanity back when she was a teenager. No one else had realised how damaging the attentions of her stalker had been. And, much later on, their relationship had moved on a step. Now, they were good friends who’d once been lovers. Kemp would never imply she owed him anything for that.
He sounded so comically morose that she laughed. ‘Our past means plenty, but given my boss is currently under suspension for leaking information, I’m not about to make the same mistake.’
She heard him chuckle quietly. ‘Dear old DS Wilkins. What’s the news on him?’
Kemp had provided the evidence required to put her boss on a disciplinary. He’d been staying at the boarding house that Bea ran, just before Christmas and – at a loose end – he’d decided to do some unpaid investigative work into the man who had been proving to be a thorn in Tara’s side. After a few days he’d got photos of Wilkins making out with Shona Kennedy from Not Now magazine, and chatting cosily to the publication’s editor, Giles Troy, in a local pub. But it was the recording he’d managed to secure of their conversation that had sealed Wilkins’ fate.
‘I haven’t heard anything, but thanks to you the professional charges are pleasingly serious.’
‘There’ll be fun and games if you ever do work on the same team again.’
‘Yes, thanks for that. It had crossed my mind.’ The images it conjured up weren’t pleasant. They’d been at daggers drawn even before Kemp had got Wilkins into trouble. She wouldn’t be able to stomach so much as speaking to her DS after what he’d done.
‘I’m coming down at the weekend by the way,’ Kemp said. ‘Staying at Bea’s. She’s got one of the suites free so I’m going to give her a hand, sprucing it up.’
He’d helped with another one of the guest rooms when he’d stayed just before Christmas, too. For a second Tara felt an odd twist of something that she refused to call jealousy. That would be crazy – and show her in a terrible light. It was just that Kemp had once been her special friend – one of the people she was closest to. That was still true, but his bond with Bea was becoming every bit as strong.
But she was glad of that, of course. Bea had had a horrible year – losing her husband, fighting grief, coping with running her business alone. If ever someone needed support it was her. It just felt a tiny bit odd that Bea and Kemp were arranging visits where she was only involved as an afterthought.
You are so childish. Like a toddler, clamouring for attention. She needed to get a grip; stand on her own two feet. Kemp and Blake were moving on, and she wasn’t. She took a swig of wine.
‘You’re a bit quiet,’ Kemp said. ‘Are you out of sorts?’
‘Sorry.’ She strove for inspiration and Megan Maloney’s promotion came to mind. The woman was a world away from Wilkins, and her move to DS was expected, but the change still made Tara uneasy. They’d never be on the same wavelength – not that that should matter. She relayed it all to Kemp.
‘Sure you’re not just jealous?’ he said, unhelpfully.
‘Quite sure.’
He laughed, making Tara grit her teeth. Once again she tried to move the conversation on. Her eyes fell on her father’s invitation. ‘The post today put me in a bad mood, too.’ Which was true – though shaming to admit, given the horrors of the morning. The party was such a trivial thing. She filled Kemp in on the details.
‘I’m going to call him and say I’m not going,’ Tara said. ‘They don’t want me there anyway.’ Her tone sounded whiny, even to herself.
‘In that case you should definitely go,’ Kemp said. ‘Where’s your fighting spirit? Don’t make it easy for them. Show up. Drink their drink; eat their food.’
‘That’s not compensation enough.’
‘Well, you’d have to really go for it, obviously. Start by taking more than your fair share of all the most expensive stuff. Then make an effort to talk to their stuck-up friends and explain exactly who you are. Then smile. Make a nuisance of yourself. That’s what I’d do.’
She snorted. ‘That I can believe. Well, taking your advice in the past has stood me in good stead. But on this one, I’m not sure.’ She’d have to think about it.
Two minutes later, she’d rung off and resolved not to dwell on Robin and Melissa any more. Or on her m
other. Allowing them to prey on her mind, one way or another, meant they’d won, and Kemp was right: she shouldn’t let them quash her spirit. Instead, she focused on Luke Cope.
Where was he? Somewhere close at hand, watching the police scurry round after finding Freya’s body? Or long gone? Abroad maybe? Or was he also dead?
But even if he’d met a violent end like Freya, he’d still imagined killing her. His painting proved that. If he was a victim, he couldn’t be an innocent one.
She opened up her laptop and googled him. There were multiple hits, including various sites offering punters the chance to buy his art. On two, his work was reduced, in one case as part of a pre-Christmas sale. The owner of the site clearly hadn’t bothered to update the page. The reviews of Luke’s paintings were the most interesting. One lengthy piece in an online arts magazine had heralded him as the next big thing – predicted he’d be a household name like Damien Hirst before the year was out. Tara glanced at the date. It had been written eight years previously. He must have been sick of waiting for success.
Yet he’d still had people who were prepared to champion his work. His brother thought it could sell if marketed properly, and Jonny Trent had displayed his paintings in his gallery. Two people who didn’t appear overburdened with sentimentality – so presumably their judgement counted for something. But neither of them had helped Luke Cope achieve his dreams. You’d think Trent, who had a business to run, would have given the project up as a bad job by now.
The more Tara considered it, the odder it seemed that he hadn’t.
Fifteen
Jonny Trent had finally made it to the other side of Cambridge. Now he was driving north-east, out into the Fens. The rain was lashing down, flooding the Range Rover’s windscreen as fast as the wipers could whisk it away. The sky was completely dark already. That was the thing driving eastwards, and in poor weather too. You lost the light all the more quickly. Though for his mission, darkness might be no bad thing.
