Death Comes to Call: An absolutely unputdownable English cozy mystery novel (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 3)

by Clare Chase

  ‘As I said, I was seldom there.’ He kept his gaze steady once again.

  ‘Did you ever see anything that made you think your stepmother might have been unfaithful to your father?’

  Their eyes were on him. They were staring at him like a couple of cats, watching a bird.

  ‘Never.’

  Why did they bother asking? They knew he’d lie if he needed to. In his head, pictures spooled. The memory of staying at his old family home in St Mark’s Street during the Christmas holidays for his allotted time. Seeing Freya, dressed to kill in a low-backed black dress, ready to go to one her endless private views. His father had been going out too, to dine with some visiting professor, alone in the UK without his family over the ‘festive’ season. Why had Oscar even been there? He was just going to sit alone in the grand house with nothing to do. Freya had looked even more gorgeous than usual. Her cheeks were glowing. He knew the expression she wore; it was eager anticipation. She loved her work, but he couldn’t believe that was the only thing behind her appearance.

  In the end, he’d followed her. He’d kept a safe distance, but she’d made it easy – heading off through the nature reserve as a shortcut. It had been dry, and twigs kept cracking under his feet, but she’d been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she’d never noticed. He’d trailed after her, across Coe Fen and into town. On Magdalene Street, he’d seen her enter the gallery that was her destination, an eager smile lighting her face as someone opened the door for her. After that, he’d hung around in the shadows on the opposite side of the road, next to one of the gateways into Magdalene College.

  He could see Freya through the steamed up, brightly lit window of the gallery. He’d watched her fine-featured face as she looked up at the artworks on the wall. And then he’d stared at that same face as it gazed upon another subject: a tall man with wild dark hair and angular features. A dangerous-looking man.

  And he’d found himself crossing back over the road, and daring to stand in front of the shop next to the gallery so that he could get a better look. And that was when he’d seen the man and his ‘stepmother’, beautiful Freya, turn their backs to the window and face into the room. Everyone else did the same. One man was standing in front of them all, seemingly making a speech. And there, lit in the window, for only Oscar to see, Freya and the stranger’s hands got closer and closer, until their fingers entwined.

  He hadn’t known the man was Luke Cope then. He only realised later, when he’d followed her again.

  Suddenly he noticed that the two detectives were on their feet. He got up as well.

  ‘Thank you for your time and your statement, Mr Cross,’ the woman said.

  Mr Cross… Some of his supervisors called him that. They meant it ironically, of course.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Thirty-Two

  Dr Imogen Field’s house was on a quiet street running between Milton and Chesterton Roads. The news was out now, that Luke Cope’s body had been found at the mill – and that he’d died of a heroin overdose. The medic had looked shaken when she’d answered the door and Blake had noticed her eyes glisten as he’d thanked her for agreeing to see him. She’d arranged for a colleague to cover her surgery so that they could talk. Once again, the latest developments in the case had leaked before the official press conference. Blake still couldn’t work out who had fed the details to the media and ‘a genuine, anonymous tip-off’ was all he could get out of his contacts. Yeah, right.

  Dr Field’s house radiated calm and order, which interested Blake. How had this woman and Luke, who’d lived so chaotically, got together in the first place? It dictated the first question he addressed to her.

  There was a gleam of amusement in her eye. ‘You’re not the first person to express surprise at our relationship,’ she said, making him curse, inwardly. He hadn’t meant to give away his thoughts. ‘We met completely by chance. Our eyes locked over a cyclist who’d come off his bike down Mill Road. Luke caused the crash – he’d stepped out in front of the guy. He was carrying a large canvas and not looking where he was going. I stopped to see if the cyclist needed medical attention.’

  ‘And did he?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Even as I went over to him the stream of expletives led me to suppose his faculties were unaffected, and apart from a graze to his arm he was all right, thank God. Luke’s canvas was similarly only slightly damaged. He wasn’t too pleased about it though, and I tore him off a strip.’

  The perfect meet-cute – but there’d been no happy ending for them. ‘What was Luke’s reaction?’

  Field raised her eyes to heaven. ‘He shouted back and I was furious. I stalked off up the road after I’d advised the cyclist on some first aid. I didn’t look back, so I was pretty surprised when I felt a hand on my shoulder and realised he’d followed me.’

  ‘He’d decided to apologise? Was he still carrying the canvas?’ Mill Road’s pavements were narrow and normally crowded. He couldn’t imagine how the guy had managed to catch her up.

  Imogen Field pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid that was one of the things that charmed me. He’d just dumped it at the side of the road as it turned out, right by where the cyclist had come to grief, and run after me because he realised he’d been in the wrong. It seemed like a grand gesture. I didn’t know at the time that the canvas was a work he hated. He painted over it later. You can bet your bottom dollar he wouldn’t have left it there if it had been something he was proud of. His art always came first.’

  ‘Was that the reason you broke up?’

  The doctor had prepared them coffee and she took a sip of hers now. ‘Partly. But I’d dealt with that state of affairs for three years. When he started to value both his work and Freya Cross above me, I finally decided to draw the line. I should have broken it off a long while before that.’ Suddenly she put her hand over her face. ‘I can’t believe what he’s done. He always had a temper, but I never imagined he’d kill someone. Or take his own life in a fit of regret, come to that. He used to shout and get things out of his system.’

  Blake was glad she was being frank, but at the same time he thought he knew the type. Some people shocked you with their candour in order to blind you to the things they were really hiding.

  ‘I genuinely didn’t regret our break-up, even before I heard about this business. He wasn’t an easy person to live with. And given what’s happened, I guess I had a narrow escape.’

  ‘What were his other relationships like? Did he have many friends?’

  She shook her head. ‘Friends would be the wrong word. He hung out with people who might be able to advance his career. Not that they ever did. That was another reason we broke up. I got impatient with him. He was stubborn about accepting help. Matthew, his brother, is in sales. Okay, I appreciate flogging medical devices isn’t the same as convincing customers to buy art, but Matthew had ideas that Luke could have at least tried, but he wouldn’t. Too proud, I guess. I had a friend too, a woman in the music industry who felt she’d got useful contacts. She had an idea she could make him trendy, get a buzz going around his work, but oh boy, he hated that thought. Said it would be selling out.’

  Blake could see that one from both sides.

  Imogen Field drank more of her coffee. ‘I blame his parents in part,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of the way they made their wills? How they left Luke a house in trust?’

  Blake nodded.

  ‘They wanted the brothers to make their own way in life and they thought they’d manage that by making them wait for their inheritance, but it didn’t work. For Luke, at least, it was as though he was treading water until he hit forty and he could release his assets. If he could just eke out an existence until then, he’d be home and dry.’

  ‘But it was different for Matthew?’

  ‘Well, his place is out of town. It’s just as big as Luke’s was – bigger in fact, I understand. Luke told me that. But it won’t be worth as much. In fact, the combination of its size and lo
cation probably means it’ll be hard to get rid of. But Luke still felt resentful of Matthew for having inherited it, for some reason.’

  ‘He’d have preferred that property?’

  Dr Field frowned. ‘I’m not sure. But he wasn’t happy with the arrangement. As I say, he was a tricky man. Fascinating – but in the event, that wasn’t enough.’

  Very sensible to cut your losses when a relationship wasn’t working out. Blake sighed inwardly.

  The leak to the press meant he couldn’t try to trick Dr Field into admitting that she knew about Luke’s bolthole. Everyone who listened to the news would be aware of the grisly scene out in the Fens. But at least their fake-suicide theory was still under wraps. Blake asked if Cope had ever taken Field to the mill – though their relationship would have been over by the time he’d got the keys to the place. Officially.

  The woman shook her head. ‘I had no idea he’d rented somewhere.’

  Blake nodded. ‘And when did you last see him?’

  ‘Oh, not for months. I bumped into Matthew recently, though. We had a quick chat and I gathered that Luke was his same old self.’

  ‘Were you aware that he’d painted your picture?’ Blake watched the woman’s eyes. Her surprise looked genuine.

  ‘What? I had no idea. I never sat for him.’

  She wouldn’t have lasted long if she’d posed for that particular portrait.

  Suddenly her eyes sharpened, as though she was reading his expression. ‘Was it an odd one? The painting, I mean?’

  Blake hesitated. ‘It was.’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry – you don’t need to tell me. He painted a lot of peculiar pictures.’

  Blake knew that for a fact.

  ‘Just for the record, I need to ask where you were from the evening of twenty-second February, through to Saturday twenty-fourth.’

  ‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ she said, flicking through the pages of a small Moleskine notebook. ‘Though I don’t know why I’m bothering. My life’s nothing if not predictable. I have surgery on a Thursday afternoon. It’s exhausting and I’m generally at work for over an hour after it ends. I would have been back here by seven thirty, say, and then – please don’t tell my patients – sitting with my feet up on the sofa, watching TV and eating a takeaway curry. I get one every Thursday. On Fridays, I finish slightly earlier.’ She gave him a look and raised an eyebrow. ‘Consequently, I had the exciting chance to stop off at the supermarket on my way home and cook my own meal. But the TV bit’s the same as for Thursday. On the Saturday – wahey! – I went to lunch with some friends in Newmarket. Then I had a scratch supper back here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you want the address in Newmarket?’

  But Blake shook his head. Nothing they could say would help, given Agneta couldn’t be accurate about the timing. If Field had spent the entire week at a conference in Japan – now that would have made a difference. It was always going to be a long shot…

  ‘One final thing,’ he said. ‘I could do with your advice on a technical matter.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Let me guess, you’re wondering how Luke had the expertise to inject himself with heroin. You haven’t found any signs that he was a user?’

  Blake nodded.

  ‘I’m sure he wasn’t,’ she said, ‘so I’ve been pondering the same thing.’

  ‘Presumably it wouldn’t be something a novice would pick up easily?’ He watched her eyes. The papers hadn’t got hold of just how the heroin had been injected.

  It was a moment before Imogen Field replied. ‘Some methods are simpler than others. Into muscle or subcutaneously would be easier than administering the drug intravenously, for instance. And users tend to be more nervous about injecting into a vein. They end up going for it anyway because they get a hit from the drug much faster that way.’

  ‘And is there anything else we should be aware of? We’re already looking into where Luke might have sourced the drug.’ Or where someone else might have.

  ‘Just the practical stuff. For instance, the kit he would have needed to do the job. There are different needle sizes and so on.’

  ‘What size would Luke have needed?’ Blake wasn’t aware that the type of needle used had come up in any of the reports they’d had so far. It was probably information that was waiting for him in his crowded inbox.

  Imogen Field went into some technical details, but what hit home was the type of needle she said was best for subcutaneous and intravenous injections, if the injection site was in the arm: a diabetic needle.

  Thirty-Three

  Jonny Trent’s eyes popped slightly as he regarded Tara. When she’d first arrived, he’d looked frightened. He’d been anticipating something, she was sure, but when she started to talk the blow he’d been expecting hadn’t fallen. Gradually, she’d seen his shoulders relax and that tautness of his face slacken. Why had he thought she was visiting? She must be very close to the truth. It was desperately frustrating. Her alibi checking didn’t go down well.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, with a slight splutter, ‘but why do you want to know? I saw the news that Luke was being sought in connection with Freya’s murder, and now his body’s been found. Given he died of an overdose, I’d assumed this was an open-and-shut case. Isn’t that what you call it?’

  Too much TV… Tara watched his features. Was that really what he thought, or could this be a bluff? He might hope righteous indignation was the best way to put her off the scent. It was hard to tell. Everything Jonny Trent did seemed larger than life – slightly phoney. ‘When we investigate a case it’s essential we cover everything,’ she said. ‘If we haven’t looked at all the possibilities the coroner can’t come to a proper conclusion. And Freya’s family need to feel sure we’ve discovered the truth, too.’

  Jonny Trent was twisting the gold ring on his right hand with his left. She looked at the movement pointedly and he stopped. Their eyes met.

  Whatever you tell me, I won’t believe a word you say.

  The man let out an impatient sigh. ‘I live here – above the gallery. More often than not I’m at home during the evenings. I spend a lot of hours on my feet, talking to clients, and by the time we close I’ve no desire to head out.’

  ‘So you were here on Thursday twenty-second February, alone, all evening?’

  He frowned and took a diary from his inside jacket pocket, leafing through the pages. ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘After Monique and Freya went home at six.’

  ‘And what about your movements on the Friday through to the Sunday? Was the gallery open each day?’

  He nodded sharply. ‘It was. Again, the girls were here with me on the Friday all day until it was time to shut up shop.’

  The girls…

  ‘And Monique was on duty on the Saturday, from ten until four. I caught up on paperwork and supported her.’

  Tara rather doubted that final claim.

  ‘Then I was here alone on the Sunday until two, when we close. We had a handful of visitors but none of them bought.’ He sounded cross about that. ‘So I can’t give you their names.’

  ‘And you were here alone each evening? You didn’t go out on the Friday, Saturday or Sunday?’

  He scanned his diary again. It seemed to Tara that he was making too much of a show of it. ‘I didn’t.’

  It would take more than that to convince her, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

  ‘Thank you. I’d like to speak to Monique now.’

  He opened his mouth as though to protest before closing it again. He was probably worried he might actually have to do some work whilst Tara talked to the woman. He looked very at home behind his mahogany desk, his portly middle just nudging up against it.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t keep her long.’

  Tara decided to draw out their chat as much as possible.

  Jonny Trent led her back to the front gallery. They found Mon
ique in the room that overlooked the driveway. The space looked different somehow – lighter – in spite of the fog-darkened day outside.

  Monique’s eyes widened when she glanced up and saw Tara. She must have been out of earshot when she’d knocked on the gallery door earlier and been shown in by Jonny Trent.

  ‘I thought we had an early customer,’ she said, giving her an uncertain smile. ‘I saw the news about Luke. It’s unthinkable. I mean, I know he and Freya had argued, but I never thought…’ She let the sentence tail off and bit her lip.

  ‘I just need another quick word,’ Tara said. She glanced at Jonny Trent. ‘Somewhere private.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb your clients once they start showing up.’

  Trent sighed. ‘Very well. I will hold the fort.’

  Tara went with Monique back to the office where they’d talked previously. Once the door was firmly closed and they were seated opposite each other, she explained her mission.

  Monique’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t believe Luke’s death was suicide?’

  She decided to sidestep that one. ‘This exercise is purely routine. However obvious the evidence seems we can’t skip dotting the “i”s and crossing the “t”s.’

  Monique swallowed. ‘I understand. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be though.’ She gave the same story as Trent about how tiring it was working at the gallery, which meant she liked a quiet night in.

  ‘What about the neighbours? Would they have seen you come home? Been aware of your presence?’

  She frowned. ‘My landlady lives downstairs from me. I’m in a first-floor flat. We have a shared hallway. I think I did bump into her on my way in after work that Thursday.’ She made a rueful face. ‘Or it might have been the Friday.’

  ‘And you were here with Mr Trent all day at work on the Friday and Saturday. Neither of you left the gallery?’

  Monique confirmed the times and that they’d been together. ‘And on the Sunday I went into town, shopping,’ she said. ‘I bought a dress, so I have the receipt if you’d like me to find it?’