by Clare Chase
She needn’t have worried about missing it. As she rounded the corner to face south it rose up from the horizon. It was still small at this distance, but Tara couldn’t quell the feeling of unease the building gave her. It stood solid against the angry sky, the chunks out of its sails like missing teeth.
Blake was at her side as she worked with her phone, trying to see where the mill was marked on the map. She couldn’t find it.
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s around a mile from here. I’ll take a bearing.’
She gave him a quick look. ‘A bearing? Were you a boy scout or something?’
Blake gave a half-smile. ‘No, but I have my skills. You tackle the enemy by breaking their fingers, whereas I, well, I reference stuff. With my brain and your brawn, we make a crack team.’
‘Ha ha.’ It was unfair of him to bring up the broken finger incident. If she hadn’t thought the journalist she’d injured had been intent on doing her harm she’d never have attacked him in such an efficient way.
He glanced at her for a moment from under his untidy fringe, which was dripping with rainwater. ‘I’m only partly joking. It’s handy that you have such excellent skills at your disposal should the need arise.’
Tara saw from his expression that he meant it. She hoped she could perform as well as required if she was called upon. She’d certainly got enough adrenaline going round her system to power her. That and the chocolate…
She tried not to react to his dark eyes as they met hers. It was a relief when he finished the work he’d started with a compass app on his phone and strode back towards the car. Tara put her map away.
‘Want me to drive whilst you eat now?’ she asked, walking after him but keeping her distance. She’d appreciate it if he was fully fuelled too.
‘Thanks. I’ll take you up on that. I’ll call Max and Megan as well. Get them to follow us over.’
But Tara couldn’t see either her or Blake waiting for their arrival before investigating further. She felt as though the mill, still within sight now, was drawing her to it. She wanted to know the truth, whatever it cost; to find the person who’d killed Freya.
Blake’s instinct for distance and direction were good. Within minutes he’d sent her to the correct road. The mill was up ahead; imposing now that it was near.
‘What do you say to a surreptitious scout around before the others get here?’
She nodded and found a bank where she could pull up safely without landing the car in a ditch. They’d be able to approach from a distance on foot, but it wouldn’t stop them being seen if Luke Cope happened to be watching. The mill’s windows faced in multiple directions and there was no cover. Quietly, she let herself out of the vehicle and locked up once Blake had done the same. Not that anyone would be likely to steal it out here; the place was deserted. Whitwell must be the nearest village. To their left as they walked was a drain, high with water, the rain making patterns on its surface. Her hair quickly became sodden and she pushed it away from her face. Blake’s shoulders were hunched against the weather under his dark wool coat.
She wondered what awaited them. This could be a complete wild goose chase, but her gut told her not. Her insides felt taut as a drum.
At last they crossed over the road to the mill, the wind whipping at their faces; the ground was so flat, there was nothing to slow its progress. There was a large area surrounding the building, covered with shingle. And slewed across it – you couldn’t really call it parked – was a dark-red Volvo. Luke Cope’s car. Tara felt her pulse quicken. She double-checked the number plate, but it was just a formality – a way of trying to steady herself by following procedure.
She raised her eyebrows at Blake. The car looked as though it had been abandoned – left without a second thought. The action of a man who’d just killed a woman and was intending to go to ground? Or someone who had a second vehicle waiting and only cared for his getaway car? Maybe the Volvo had served its purpose.
The day was as dark as they came. If you were doing anything indoors you’d want a light on. But Tara had had her eyes trained on the building the whole way up the lane and she hadn’t seen one. ‘Reckon he came here to get sorted out, and then did a runner?’ she whispered.
Blake frowned. ‘It’s certainly possible, but we sure as hell can’t rely on it.’
She hadn’t been planning to. Together they edged round the forecourt, peering up at the mill’s blank windows. Even the lowest ones were well above their eye level; there was no way of telling who might be inside.
At last, Blake raised his fist and thumped at the knockerless door. After that he stood back and shouted up at the windows.
‘Luke Cope? Police! We want to talk to you.’
Tara kept her eyes on the upper storeys. There was no sign of movement. But even if the artist were there, she wasn’t sure he’d hear them. The mill wasn’t in a great state of repair. She tried to imagine being inside, with the wind making the ancient sails creak and rattling at the windows.
Blake thumped at the door again, but Tara’s eye had been caught by a notice, close to the entrance to the forecourt. She hadn’t seen it before, she’d been so preoccupied with the building itself.
‘What is it?’ Blake asked.
She hadn’t got to the point where she could answer that yet… ‘Details of the agency that lets the place out,’ she shouted a moment later, yelling to make herself heard above the storm.
Blake was at her side now, keying the number into his phone. A moment later she strained to hear his half of the conversation. He’d cupped his hand round his mouth and the microphone.
‘Detective Inspector Blake, Cambridgeshire Constabulary. I’m trying to reach a Luke Cope in connection with an enquiry. Is it right that he rents,’ he paused for a moment, scanning the notice board again, ‘the Great Whitwell Mill from you?’
A pause.
‘I see. When did he move in?’
Another moment’s silence.
‘We’re right outside now, but there’s no reply. I’m concerned for his welfare. Is there a spare key? I see. Yes, yes, carry on.’ He rolled his eyes at Tara.
She could see why. They could be anyone, but the person on the end of the phone was clearly quite happy to let them walk right in. Even though they were on the level, they’d normally need a warrant to enter the place, too. It was only their intention to arrest Luke for Freya’s murder that gave them a free hand.
Blake strode back towards the mill and beyond it.
Tara was hard on his heels.
‘Third from the left?’ He approached a post – one of the ones that marked the edge of the driveway, its white paint peeling. ‘At the bottom and behind? Okay.’ He crouched down and reached to the rear of the stake, into the thick, evergreen hedge that brushed against it. A moment later he had a small red and green plastic tub in his hand. He frowned as he shook it. ‘It’s empty.’
There was another pause. ‘Yes please, that would be helpful.’ He put the tub back where he’d found it, jammed his phone between his shoulder and ear and took out a pen and notebook from his pocket, scribbling down some details.
He hung up and looked at Tara. ‘The guy I spoke to said there was a spare key in the box when they let the place to Cope three months back. Apparently people are always locking themselves out and it’s inconvenient because the mill is so remote, hence the back-up provision. Maybe Luke Cope forgot to put the key back or…’
‘Or maybe he wanted to make damn sure no one else could get inside without breaking down the door?’
‘That is one alternative. But if so, he’s been foiled by a woman called Mrs Bolt, who lives in the next village. She’s got emergency keys for this place and a couple of other “character properties” let out by the same agency.’
Tara glanced up at the mill. It had character all right; much like her own home out on Stourbridge Common. What kind of character was another matter. She could see how the situation would have inspired Luke Cope’s wild compositio
ns though.
‘Shall we pay Mrs Bolt a visit?’ she said, walking back towards the road.
‘You go. Straight ahead for two miles and she’s in the white thatched cottage on your right. First place you’ll come to, apparently.’ He glanced up at the mill. ‘The letting agency are going to ring to let her know she should expect a visit. I’ll stay here. Just in case.’
Their eyes met. She didn’t actually know what Blake’s self-defence was like. ‘Okay.’
As she drove up the road like the wind, she tried to tell herself it was fear of missing out, not fear for Blake, that was causing her to ignore the speed limit.
Twenty-Three
Blake kept his eyes on the mill’s windows, blinking the rain away. Everything was quiet. He could hear from the wheels of their car that Tara was going to make short work of her mission, but the minutes still seemed to drag. He’d walked all round the building now. There was no back way out. If Luke Cope had seen them turn up, he couldn’t have done a runner without crossing their line of sight. What preparations might he be making for their entrance, if he was inside?
When Tara returned she left the car parked on the verge again. It made sense. They’d want to preserve any evidence there might be on site. There were indents in the shingle on the forecourt that might indicate there had been another car present at one point. A getaway vehicle for Luke Cope?
He watched as Tara walked closer, holding the keys up in front of her.
‘Fast work.’
‘I thought time might be of the essence.’ Her green eyes showed a mixture of anxiety and excitement. She turned towards the door to the mill, put the keys in and released the lock.
Blake pulled on gloves from a bag in his pocket and Tara did the same.
They were standing inside the mill’s ground floor. The central upright shaft, a solid iron pole that disappeared through the raised floor above them, was still in place. They could see signs of Luke Cope’s presence; there were canvases stacked against the rough plaster of the curved walls. Other than that, the place was bare. It was odd to think back to when this would have been the miller’s main control room, allowing them to adjust the whole operation, to dictate the fineness of the flour and the amount of grain that was fed into the millstones. Now the space was still and eerie in the gloomy light that filtered through from a small window, high up in the room.
The route to the next level was via some steep wooden steps – not quite a ladder but almost. Whoever was letting the place hadn’t done much to make the living space more practical. He imagined the agent would present it as ‘old world charm’.
He and Tara stood still, listening. There was nothing to hear except the creaks a building makes when its innards are connected to sails being buffeted by the wind. It was intensely cold.
‘Heating can’t be on,’ Tara whispered.
He was surprised any kind of system had been installed, given the state of the place, but there was an ancient radiator in the room.
‘If you were going to make a run for it from a rented place, would you bother to switch it off?’
Blake shook his head. ‘Perhaps it was never on in the first place. Maybe he only stopped here to pick up a hire car he’d had delivered.’ He made for the ladder-cum-steps, glancing at her over his shoulder. ‘Ready?’
Of course she is. He’d only just beaten her to the bottom step.
Cautiously, he raised his head above the level of the next floor. Through the murky half-light he could see that one of the millstones was still present. Another sign that the conversion for residential use had been minimal. The room was also home to a day bed, covered by a couple of blankets, one emerald green and one dark purple. They didn’t look anywhere near enough to keep out the cold in this place, even if the heating had been on. He climbed the rest of the steps and straightened up in the deserted room. As well as the day bed and the millstone, there was an array of artist-quality sketchpads and several pencils strewn across the floor.
Once again, the route to the next storey was via a set of wooden steps. Tara was there before him this time, climbing up steadily, cautious but controlled.
But then suddenly she missed her footing. He was so close behind her that for a second it was his physical presence that prevented her from falling.
That sound. What the hell had caused it?
And then, in that moment, something large and black flew straight at them. Tara and he both flinched, leaning away from the ladder to avoid being struck. Tara was flung back against him as the crow flapped down into the room below.
Tara swore. If Luke Cope was in the mill he’d know they’d managed to get inside. But that had already been the case, he guessed. It was impossible to move without making the floorboards or the steps creak.
Suddenly he realised he was still holding Tara rather more tightly than was necessary. For a second she leant against him and he could feel her heart thump. It was nothing to what his was doing. The crow had started the effect, but…
He felt her pull away from him sharply and move back close to the ladder.
For a split second she turned her head to look at him. ‘I forget sometimes,’ she said, ‘just for a moment.’ Her voice was tight. ‘It’s like it was back when we were both working on the Seabrook case, when you were single. But you’ve got more reason to remember than me – not so long until the birth of your second child now.’
Her words made him catch his breath. He had imagined that he had always hidden how he felt around her, so it was a shock to hear her refer to it so directly. And Tara had clearly felt something too… Her words stung: like someone rubbing vinegar into a cut. He thought of that old excuse, my wife doesn’t understand me. But in reality it was he who didn’t understand Babette. He sighed. Whatever the case, Tara was right. If he was going to stick by a woman he knew was lying to him, he needed to bury his feelings towards Tara and bury them deep. He fought the urge to explain; doing that might bring them closer again, but it would also make things more complicated.
‘How the hell did the bird get in, anyway?’ Tara said, snapping her head back round towards the floor above. The edge was still there in her voice.
And now that she’d refocused his mind, Blake began to wonder about the way the air shifted in the old mill. Yes, you’d expect a building like this to creak in the wind, and for there to be draughts aplenty, but the gusts blowing down from above were more than he would have expected.
Tara glanced back at him. ‘There must be a window open up there.’
He nodded. ‘Either that or a big hole in the roof.’
They stepped up onto the third storey, walking past a rudimentary kitchen which would suffice so long as your expectations didn’t go beyond beans on toast. There was some kind of cupboard Blake reckoned might have been adapted from an old grain bin. Beneath his feet he could see an ancient trapdoor through which the cereals would once have been hauled to the top of the mill. They were almost at the highest point in the building now. There could only be one more floor, surely, before they reached the roof?
Tara was at the stairs again. That didn’t surprise him. She’d be smarting at being startled by the crow. He watched her from behind, her red hair still damp, as she raised her head above the level of the final floor.
And then she stopped.
He heard her gasp for breath, and it was a full two seconds before she turned to look at him over her shoulder.
‘He’s here,’ she said. He saw her swallow – knew that look. ‘He’s dead.’
Tara called Max and Megan to update them. They were very close by, now. And then she rang Agneta Larsson and the station to request the presence of the pathologist and CSIs.
As she spoke, her eyes ran over the situation in front of her. She’d managed to control the feeling of nausea that had risen in her throat when she’d first looked into the room, but it was an ongoing effort. Luke Cope was slumped in an armchair, a syringe still sticking out of his arm, a tourniquet a little way above it. One
of the man’s eyeballs was a mess. Her mind turned to the crow… She didn’t envy Agneta for her job at the best of times, but working on Luke Cope’s body was going to be stomach churning.
A window facing away from the mill’s forecourt had been left wide open. They hadn’t been able to see it from below, standing as close to the mill as they were. For a second, she wondered if it was the cause of the low temperature, rather than a lack of heating, but she’d touched the old-fashioned radiator with the back of her gloved hand and it was stone cold. It seemed it really had been switched off.
As well as the chair occupied by Luke Cope’s body and a second armchair, this upper room was home to an easel, a work in oils sitting on it, half complete. There were a few other paintings standing against the walls, a sink in a curved stand, and a set of paints still open on a table next to the easel. The artworks were landscapes: views from the mill in all directions.
Through one of the windows she could see the scene that hung in Jonny Trent’s gallery.
Matthew Cope’s worries for his brother’s safety had been right. She was going to have to break the news to him.
The tableau rounded off the story neatly. Luke had killed Freya Cross, then driven straight here, abandoned his car on the drive and come up to the mill’s old dust floor to kill himself. But there were too many oddities for her to take the scene at face value. If Luke had travelled here solely to commit suicide, then okay, he wouldn’t have bothered to fire up the heating, but why open the window too? It was bitterly cold and wet even now, but on the night Freya had been killed the Fens would have been thick with snow. If he’d wanted to do something precise, like injecting a drug, why make it so that his hands would have gone numb within half a minute?
She wanted to chew it all over immediately, but they’d have to nail down the facts first. If Luke had been dead a week they’d already lost the advantage of getting the evidence fresh, but they’d have to work with what they’d got. Surely the mill, or Luke’s Volvo, would tell the CSIs something?
