by Clare Chase
As he turned his vehicle down the lane he needed he felt the wind buffet his car side on. The land was flat, bleak and exposed. He missed the rolling countryside he’d enjoyed as a child over in the Cotswolds. The time was coming when he’d finish up in the east and relocate, back to his roots. He’d been thinking about it for a while anyway. Now he wished he’d already made the move. The news of Freya’s death and bloody Luke being missing too had left him feeling as though an abyss was opening under his feet; something he couldn’t control.
Up ahead he saw it at last: the mill. Its sails had stopped turning years ago. One of them had chunks missing; it had been damaged in a storm apparently. In the dark the place looked menacing, looming there before him. He pulled into the driveway that went round the back of the building, and after a moment he saw Luke’s Volvo, parked out of sight of the road, slewed across the gravel. It was at an odd angle, but then tidy parking wasn’t something that tended to trouble Luke. It might not mean anything. He didn’t go towards the car – he went straight to the door of the mill and knocked.
It was hard to make a decent noise with his fist on the thick wood. He could barely hear his knocks himself above the howling of the wind. Rain trickled down his hair and dripped under his coat collar, making him shiver and curse.
‘Luke!’ he yelled, but his voice was carried off on the wind. And if the artist was inside, and heard Jonny shouting, would he feel inclined to come and answer? Jonny wasn’t sure how things stood. ‘Luke?’ he bellowed again, before walking back and looking up at the dark, blank windows.
He might have gone out, if he’d had a lift in someone else’s car. Was he thinking clearly? That was the question. If he’d done a runner in another vehicle, and anyone found this place… He should get inside – check for himself, make damn sure. He needed to talk to Luke, but this was even more imperative. He rattled at the door, then looked around for somewhere where the artist might have hidden a key, but he found nothing. There were no low windows – nothing he could reach without a ladder. Breaking in wasn’t an option. He could come back with the right equipment, but was it worth the risk? It all depended. If Luke was still on top of things, it might be okay, but if not… if not, Jonny’s whole world could come crashing down.
Sixteen
Kitty was in her pyjamas when Blake arrived home. She trotted down the stairs whilst he was asking Babette about her day and he bent down to hug her. She was warm from already having been tucked up in bed. He felt her hair shifting against his cheek as he cuddled her close. She smelt of shampoo – the same baby brand they’d always bought for her – but these last few months Blake had suddenly been conscious of how grown-up she was getting. Being in year two at school with a new teacher had made a difference.
‘What did you do today, Daddy?’ she asked, her voice alert. Blake could tell his arrival had got her stirred up again when she had been drowsy. He gave Babette an apologetic look over Kitty’s shoulder but she shook her head.
‘Work, work, work, Kitty,’ Blake said. ‘I wanted to come home much sooner than this.’
‘But what were you actually do-ing?’ She drew the word out for emphasis.
He swung her up into his arms so he could cuddle her properly without wrecking his back. Babette’s eyes were on his. She knew about Freya Cross’s murder. ‘Well, I’ve been asking people a lot of questions. And I went to see Agneta to talk to her too.’ Kitty liked Agneta and was fascinated by her and her husband’s baby, Elise.
‘Why did you have to ask them all questions?’
‘Because when you’re a detective you have find out the truth about what’s happened, so you can help people who are in trouble.’
‘And stop the baddies?’ Kitty asked. She was repeating back what he’d told her before.
‘That’s right.’ Whenever he thought about asking questions to find out the truth, he thought of Kitty’s natural father – and the fact that he still didn’t know his identity. It ate away at him. He pushed the question away now and looked into his daughter’s brown eyes. Eyes that – when she’d been a baby – he’d assumed she’d inherited from him.
‘Okay then,’ Kitty said, suddenly seeming satisfied. Perhaps she was getting sleepy again after all.
‘Shall I come and tuck you in?’ Blake said.
She nodded. ‘Will you read me a story?’
Blake knew it was late for her – especially on a school night. ‘I’ll read you a poem,’ he said, ‘whilst you close your eyes.’
‘“The Owl and the Pussycat”?’
He nodded. He could say that one in his sleep. Backwards. It had been a favourite since Kitty was three years old.
Ten minutes later, he pulled the door to Kitty’s bedroom almost closed. She liked to have a chink left, so that light carried through from the landing.
Downstairs, Babette had taken a casserole dish out of the oven and was spooning out a sizeable helping of coq au vin.
‘Let me,’ he said. It was partly guilt for being an absentee husband, but partly, he knew, because he didn’t want to be beholden to her. Being in her debt – even in a small way – made him feel ever more powerless. It chipped away at his treasured place on the moral high ground, he supposed, which didn’t show him in a good light. Somehow, he felt he wanted to shore up his justifications for resentment. It was insurance, in case one day he decided to throw in the towel. At that point he’d need to explain his many reasons for leaving her.
But in reality, that wasn’t going to happen. He’d always been loath to put distance between him and Kitty. Her being another man’s child left Blake out on a limb. If he left Babette, and she and her erstwhile lover reunited, what kind of place would Blake have in Kitty’s future?
And now Babette was expecting a baby that was genuinely his – as far as he knew. He thought again of her claim that she’d forgotten to take her pill. Instead of owning up to it, when she’d found she was pregnant, she’d started to broach the subject of having another child to get Blake used to the idea, as though it wasn’t already a fait accompli. Babette’s attitude to the truth was fast and loose. Blake couldn’t call what she did lying exactly, but sometimes it seemed even worse. When he tried to call her out on it, the facts disappeared like mist. He took a deep breath. His father had left his mother when he’d been a baby. And now, his overall impression of his dad was coloured by what his mother had told him, early on. Everything his father said he processed through the filter she’d created. He didn’t want that to happen with Kitty – or with the new baby. But still, he felt trapped. In another life… For a second Tara’s unflinching green-eyed stare filled his consciousness. He closed his eyes and shut out the thought.
As Blake ate, Babette left him to it and he was grateful for that. She knew him well enough to understand that he’d benefit from fifteen minutes’ peace after a day filled with horrific images. He’d got himself a bottle of Leffe from the fridge, and as he worked his way down it and the plate of food his mind ran over the murder scene and the post-mortem. How did Agneta do it, day in, day out? He wondered what Max might have found out at the Flag and Diamond too. Not much, he guessed, or his DC would have been in touch. Still, he was glad he’d sent him. It fitted with Fleming’s desire to give him more of his own work and increase his independence.
Five minutes later he no longer felt hollow from hunger. It might be time to try to address other things that were bothering him. After he’d put his plate in the dishwasher, he took the rest of his beer over to the sofa and sat down next to Babette.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
She looked at him and smiled. ‘Good.’ And then she took his hand and placed it on her stomach. Her bump was quite pronounced now. ‘This little one’s been very active all day. The movements feel quite strong.’
She was right. He felt a ripple under the palm of his hand and experienced a sudden hot rush of affection for a person he’d yet to meet. But when his eyes found Babette’s he still came up against the same barrier. How
to connect with her, as well as with their unborn baby?
‘You still find it hard, don’t you?’ she said. ‘It’s been years now, Garstin.’ Her eyes registered irritation she’d no right to feel and his heart rate increased.
‘Yes.’ How were you supposed to get past something like what she’d done? ‘I think…’ What did he think, really? Could anything solve this? He started again: ‘I think it doesn’t help that you’ve never told me more about Kitty’s real father. I can’t put the subject to bed, because I’m always wondering. And even if you never tell me the whole truth, you’re going to have to tell her one day.’
Babette looked down. ‘Do you think so? I wondered if it was better for her simply not to know. Less worrying. I’d hate to unsettle her.’
He tightened his fists so hard that his nails dug into the palms of his hands. Did she really think it was that simple? ‘She’s got a right to know about her heritage, Babs.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Her genetics too. And what if her father comes looking for her, later in life? How the hell do you think she’d feel then, if it was a bolt from the blue?’ He strove to keep his voice down, but he could feel the anger building up inside him.
‘Let’s cross that bridge later, Garstin. She’s too young to understand properly at the moment anyway. We can talk about it again when she’s older.’
Never tackle today what you can put off until tomorrow… He tried to steady his breathing. When Babette finally told Kitty who her real father was – and he’d insist that she did, eventually – Blake would be the only one not to know the secret. It was unthinkable. ‘I want you to tell me his name, Babs. And I want you to tell me what really happened when you left me and took Kitty to Australia.’
She’d given him the bald facts before, of course: told him she’d realised quickly that she’d made a mistake and Kitty’s true parentage wasn’t as important as the relationship both she and Kitty had with Blake. But he was increasingly sure that wasn’t the whole truth. And each time she recounted events there was a chance she’d let something extra slip, or say something contradictory that would hint at what she’d left unsaid.
He was using his detective tactics on his wife. He’d never imagined being in such a situation the night, eight and a half years ago now, when they’d got engaged, on a sunny evening over a bottle of fizz and a picnic out on Ditton Meadows, by the river.
‘For God’s sake, Garstin! I told you what happened in Australia. From the moment we arrived, he started to sideline Kitty. Within days it was quite clear that it wasn’t the genetics that counted. He didn’t care for her like you do – and his claim as her father was the only reason I finally decided to go with him. It was always you that I loved. I made a terrible mistake by having a very brief fling. I don’t want to go on paying for it for the rest of my life. I can totally understand why you were angry, and why you still hurt. But what more can I say?’
‘You can tell me his name.’
‘He was just a guy, Garstin. What difference does it make what he’s called? And he emigrated to Australia anyway.’
He looked at her steadily, waiting for her to realise he meant what he said – finally. He hadn’t pushed it before but suddenly he realised it was something he needed.
‘Okay. All right. If it makes you happy, his name was Matt Smith.’
‘Matt Smith? Like the old Doctor Who actor?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Exactly like. But not him.’
No kidding.
Later that evening, in the bathroom as he washed his face, Blake thought through what Babette had said. Would anyone really arrange to emigrate to Australia with a lover they’d only known fleetingly – even if the affair had resulted in a child? And then come all the way back again after trying out the new relationship for just a couple of weeks, for the reasons Babette had told him?
And if this ‘Matt Smith’ had put that much pressure on Babette to let him be with his natural child, why had he left them entirely alone ever since, never approaching her to try to get access to Kitty?
It didn’t make sense.
And as for the name… Well, it might really be what the man was called. But it was convenient that Matt Smith was such a common combination it would prove nigh on impossible for Blake to track him down. If he googled, he’d just get page after page of hits about the actor…
Seventeen
Tara had arranged to meet Blake, Max and Megan round at Luke Cope’s house on Wednesday morning. Blake had had a change of heart about how they should arrange the day. Megan’s promotion to DS seemed to have made a difference already. She might have known.
The plan now was for Max and Megan to interview Luke’s neighbours before they left the street to start the working day. Tara and Blake would talk to Matthew Cope when he dropped in as planned. After that, she and the DI would head off to catch Monique, Freya Cross’s assistant at the gallery. Max and Megan would carry on the search of the house. Being in on the main action was what she’d wanted, of course, but she was also conscious that she’d been split up from Max. Fleming and Blake must think he’d work better with Megan…
Tara glanced up at the sky through her car windscreen as she pulled up once again on the quiet, elegant street where the missing man lived. It was weird to think of how much had happened since she’d first visited, two days earlier.
It was still raining – she didn’t think it had stopped all night. Each time she’d woken she’d heard it battering against her cottage windows. The heavens were leaden and the wind strong, blowing the cold torrential downpour into her face as she got out of her vehicle and made her way to the villa’s grand entrance. She nipped up the short flight of steps to the glossily painted black front door with its brass lion’s-head knocker. It had a sort of iron canopy jutting out from over the fanlight, which she appreciated as she stood there, waiting for someone to let her in. She’d given Blake the keys Matthew had entrusted to her the day before.
It was Megan herself who appeared. Her dark, curly hair was still dripping. ‘Come in.’ She stood back. ‘The DI and Max have just arrived too. Max has got an update.’
‘That’s good. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.’ She seemed to be congratulating everyone at the moment, what with Megan and her job news and Blake and the baby.
The new DS glanced at Tara over her shoulder for a split second. ‘Thanks.’
Tara followed her through to the kitchen, where Max had opened a flask of coffee and was pouring it out into plastic cups he’d brought with him.
She met his questioning look as she entered. ‘Yes, please.’
Blake was already raising a coffee to his lips. They were all aware he needed several cups each morning before the tetchy creases round his eyes smoothed out. But it was Max who’d thought to act on the fact. He was one in a million, Tara reckoned. And she thought they worked well together.
Max handed a cup to her and, as she thanked him, Megan went back to one she already had, lined up on the worktop.
‘So what happened at the Flag and Diamond last night?’ Blake asked.
Max screwed the lid back on the Thermos. ‘Our man Matthew Cope was there all right. He was chatting to a couple of young guys. One had arms full of tattoos and the other had those ear-stretching ring things.’
‘God – those always make me feel sick,’ Megan said, with a shudder.
Tara could believe that. Megan was a conventional dresser.
‘It’s a rough old place, the Flag and Diamond,’ Max said. ‘The mates he’d picked up fitted the venue.’
Blake put his empty coffee cup down. ‘What were the dynamics like? Were the regulars hostile? Did Cope seem intimidated?’
Max frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have said so, on either count. But both Cope and the locals looked as though they were finding their feet in the conversation, if you know what I mean. I couldn’t get close enough to hear what was being said, unfortunately. Cope stayed on for twenty minutes or so after I got there, then raised his hand to the landl
ord and off he went. The two guys he’d been with stayed at their table for another pint and then they left too.’
‘How did you manage to blend in?’ Megan asked.
Max shrugged. ‘I know the pub’s reputation, so I dressed for the occasion. It’s the kind of haunt where the regulars are probably taught to smell coppers from infanthood, but nobody gave me a second glance.’
‘Well done,’ Blake said. ‘So what do we think about Luke Cope being a regular at a pub like that? An artist from a wealthy background who liked to frequent private views in central Cambridge…’
‘And who used to meet his brother in the Snug.’ Tara remembered that detail. The trendy city bar would be a far cry from somewhere like the Flag and Diamond.
‘You think Matthew Cope was lying about it being a haunt of Luke’s?’ Megan said.
Blake shrugged. ‘I can think of other reasons he might want to visit the place, if he is trying to help his brother. I’d be interested to know if they do any other business there, beyond selling booze. If Matthew Cope had wanted to pick up a fake passport, for instance…’
‘It might be the perfect place to go,’ Max agreed. ‘And that would fit with the sort of discussion they seemed to be having, just as neatly as if he’d been trying to get information on his brother’s whereabouts. Want me to go back in there and try to find out more later?’
Blake nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan. It would be worth doing some background checks, too. But be careful – and let me know what you find.’ He turned to his new DS. ‘Anything useful from the database checks yesterday, Megan?’
She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t look as though we’ve crossed paths with Luke Cope, Professor Cross or his son Oscar in the past.’
‘Ah well. Thanks for trying, anyway.’ Blake glanced at his watch. ‘Matthew Cope’s due here in five minutes. Tara – we’ll tackle him when he arrives. You can lead, as you’re already on first name terms.’ His tone was wry. Out of the corner of her eye, Tara thought she caught a look from Megan, but it was gone before she could analyse it.
