by Clare Chase
‘I tried. But although I’m high-functioning, I’m a misfit. I overstepped the mark at work once. Syphoned off some funds from a deal. My boss is an old family friend. I swore to him that it had been an accounting error and he slapped me on the back and said he believed me, but I found myself reassigned after that. So you see, everything goes more smoothly if I make my income another way. The house I was left eats money, and no one would ever want to buy it. It’s in a terrible area.’
Blake took a deep breath. This was why they’d taken their first break. He hadn’t thought he could carry on without something internal bursting. The man seemed incapable of understanding what he’d done. In his mind, his needs trumped everyone else’s.
He clenched his fists under the desk.
‘So you had the skill to inject your brother with his overdose, making the positioning of the fingerprints you applied to the syringe accurate.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s very good of you to be so candid,’ Blake said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Cope looked surprised. ‘I’m not a fool. Your people are already searching my house. They’ll find the key to the mill and the holdall Freya was carrying. I meant to get rid of it, but I’ve been busy. And then you’ve already got the disposable phone I use to make contact with my dealers. All that, and Tara’s evidence, make your case against me quite strong. If I hide what I did, it will just draw out this interview, and I get bored easily. I’ve been bored for over an hour now.’
Once again, Blake fought to control himself. He didn’t believe Cope was finding the situation tedious; he was loving the attention – anyone could see that. He was proud of what he’d done.
After a moment, he managed to continue. ‘And then you took his phone back into town – travelling by bus, I presume – and texted Freya Cross the following day to arrange the meet up, pretending to be your brother.’
‘That’s right. And when I turned up at the nature reserve I thought I could carry on pretending, for a minute or two at least. Luke was of a similar build to me, but my hair’s different, so I wore a hat.’ He shook his head. ‘But Freya was onto me almost immediately. I suppose lovers get to know each other more intimately than I’d judged. But I’d gone prepared. I hit her with a stone I was carrying to stun her, then used her own scarf to kill her. I’d brought a tie along for the purpose but limiting the fibres you’d find seemed sensible. I wanted to imitate the scene my brother had painted as closely as possible but I’d read up on the subject. Using my bare hands seemed too uncontrolled.’
Blake thought of the man, sitting there in an armchair of an evening, carefully working out what would make life easiest for him… Freya Cross’s dead face rose up in his mind’s eye.
‘And then you nagged us to try to find your brother.’
‘It was all taking too long. I assumed Freya would be found almost immediately and suspicion would quickly fall on Luke, given that he’d disappeared. But it didn’t happen. And until there was publicity to show my brother was a suspected murderer I couldn’t make any money out of his paintings. I had my supplier breathing down my neck for payment, upping the bill. I needed to get things moving, so I made a fuss about no one taking Luke’s disappearance seriously.’
And at that, another piece of the jigsaw slotted into place. ‘The anonymous tip-offs to the press – telling them Luke was under suspicion; and then later that he’d been found dead? That was you?’
Matthew Cope raised a calm eyebrow. ‘Of course. I needed the money. But there was some satisfaction in proving myself right, too. I always did have the know-how to market my brother’s paintings. If he’d have gone into partnership with me in the first place, I wouldn’t have needed the income from selling heroin, and he would still be alive. He didn’t believe in me, any more than my parents did.’ His smile was wide now. ‘Foolish of him.’
Cope’s pride was unbearable.
‘You say you’ve still got Freya’s holdall. But what happened to the ledger from the gallery that was inside it?’
‘I burnt it. The last thing I wanted was evidence of other possible motives for the murders coming to light. It was essential for everyone to think it was a crime of passion. If people started to consider alternative possibilities, it could ruin my entire plan.’
‘You knew what Luke had been up to at the gallery, then?’
Matthew nodded. ‘I barged in one day when he was halfway through painting a lovely Matisse. Luke couldn’t resist the deal Jonny Trent had offered him – and as he pointed out, Trent never lied to a single customer. It was their fault if they decided to believe in fairy tales. So Luke managed to excuse his own behaviour. And I think he was right to do so – I told him that.’
‘I understand you let Trent buy the last genuine painting of Luke’s that he had at the gallery.’
For the first time a flicker of anger twitched across Matthew Cope’s face. ‘He knew damn well how much it would be worth, with all the scandal surrounding Luke. Even now, when it comes out that I’m the killer and not him, there’ll be a moderate hike in the value.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Trent suspected I was responsible for both deaths, once it became clear the police hadn’t fully bought the murder–suicide theory. He didn’t have proof, but it would have looked odd if I’d refused to sell the painting to him. It was the same when your colleague witnessed my half-sister offering to buy one of Luke’s works. She thought she was doing me a favour, giving me a few hundred quid for one, and I couldn’t contradict her. Or risk her looking up the latest value of his works online.’
He sat back and folded his arms. ‘It’s only through luck that you caught me out and I’m still glad I decided to carry out my plan. If my parents were alive to see me they’d understand just what I’m really capable of.’
Forty-Five
Nine days later, Tara was standing on the lawn of her father Robin and stepmother Melissa’s garden in leafy Glebe Road, close to the Perse pre-prep school, the fee-paying establishment their children had attended up until the age of seven.
The weather had swung from the bitter opening of spring to warm, balmy temperatures. The March day could have been mistaken for May, which was working well for the anniversary party. Though her father and stepmother had plenty of space inside their 1930s semi if needs be. Robin’s architectural skills meant the interior had been remodelled to the highest standard. All right for some.
Tara was feeling clumsy. She’d got a too-small plate, full of slidey bits of food – vol-au-vents, cherry tomatoes, falafels and the like – as well as a glass of fizz. All of that, mixed with a bandaged right hand, which still hurt from where Matthew Cope had slashed her, made for a certain amount of awkwardness. She’d already dropped a chipolata sausage onto the shoe of Robin and Melissa’s vicar. The look her stepmother had given her spoke volumes.
Nonetheless, it was Robin, not her stepmother, who’d been the most distant when she’d arrived. It had been half an hour before he’d finally allowed their paths to cross and when they had, his jaw had been tense. Then again, Melissa was moving round like an overwound clockwork toy. She’d probably been stewing about the event. It could have rubbed off on him.
On the upside, Tara had backup. Kemp had convinced her she should attend, to wind Robin and Melissa up if nothing else. And unexpectedly, he was there too, with Bea. He’d been due to stay anyway, and when Lydia had found out she’d taken matters into her own hands and called Robin to ask if he could come along. Of course, her father had had to say yes. So Tara had Bea and Kemp, her mother and stepfather Benedict (not that she counted either of them as ‘support’), and her stepbrother Harry.
Harry was peering at her right now – uneasily. Tara already knew why. A moment later her mother sidled up to her, fizz and crostini in hand.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘thanks so much for agreeing to take Harry back with you after the party. He’ll have to sort out his university offers soon, and Benedict will self-destruct if he doesn’t accept
his place at Cambridge.’
‘I’m not going to influence him, you know,’ Tara said. ‘I won’t do your dirty work.’
Lydia raised an eyebrow. ‘You do surprise me.’
‘And you might have given me more notice. What if I’d had plans?’
Her mother gave her a calm smile. ‘You hadn’t, had you?’
Majorly irritating. ‘No, as it happens.’
‘Well then.’
‘I still can’t believe he wants to come, anyway.’ Certainly, the look on his face didn’t give any hint of it.
Lydia stopped meeting her eyes.
‘What?’
‘We said he wasn’t allowed to reject his Cambridge place until he’d been to stay with you to get to know the city.’
‘So not only will he have to sleep on my floor, he’s also coming under duress? Great!’
‘Don’t worry, darling.’ She giggled. ‘He’s got a sleeping bag and when you’re eighteen you don’t mind roughing it. It’s the perfect opportunity.’
Perfect for whom? She knew exactly why her mother hadn’t shared her plans in advance. Any extra notice and Tara would have come up with a plausible lie to get out of it.
Moments later, as she went to talk to Bea, she caught sight of Harry’s face. He was blushing and she had a feeling he knew her eyes were on him. He’d been sent to make polite chit-chat with Robin’s kids, who were all much younger than he was.
‘I hope you’re eating a lot and talking to all your father’s friends,’ Kemp said. ‘Nice move with the vicar and the sausage, by the way.’ He picked up a chicken drumstick from his plate and tucked into it untidily for effect, looking to left and right and grinning as he did so. Bea slapped his arm and rolled her eyes, but she was grinning too, Tara noticed.
And they were standing quite close together.
‘Speaking of nice moves,’ Kemp went on, through the end of his mouthful, ‘have to hand it to you over that turd, Matthew Cope.’
Bea’s smile was gone in an instant. She balanced her wine glass on her plate for a second and manoeuvred to give Tara a hug, her face a bit pale. ‘I keep reliving it,’ she said, ‘and I wasn’t even there. Have you been having nightmares?’
Tara had had the odd one, but she couldn’t talk about it. Especially not there.
‘Sorry,’ Bea said, picking up on her mood. ‘No need to tell me. Though it’s good to talk, sometimes.’
It wasn’t something Tara found easy. She thought again of Luke Cope, painting his worst thoughts out of his system. Maybe she should pick up a paintbrush? Somehow, she couldn’t see it happening.
‘Tara knows what she’s doing,’ Kemp said, waving a crostini wrapped in Parma ham. ‘It’s all in the teaching.’
Tara rolled her eyes, but his jokey words brought relief. And he was right, anyway. He’d trained her so intensively when she’d been stalked that the old moves came back on instinct.
Suddenly Kemp’s look changed. ‘I’m proud of you, mate,’ he said.
Don’t do this to me. Not in public. She blinked hard and swigged her champagne.
‘And so am I.’ Bea was blinking as furiously as she was.
Tara glanced from one of them to the other. They looked like a pair. Two parts of a whole. It was as though the parents she’d been meant to have had suddenly coalesced in front of her eyes. And they thought she was doing a decent job.
It was the strangest feeling. She and Kemp had a past. But they’d only ever been hugely fond of each other. It had extended to a physical relationship at one time, but it had long since subsided into something else: deep and lasting. And he was closer to Bea in age than he was to Tara. Neither of them had said anything, but she had a feeling things had shifted up a gear.
One tiny part of her felt a sadness. A sense of loss at no longer having quite the level of closeness she’d previously enjoyed with either of them.
But she loved them both. Wanting them to be happy outweighed everything else.
She put her plate and glass down on the uneven grass. Her flute fell over. For some reason Melissa saw it happen, even though she was right across the lawn, and deep in conversation with a man boasting a show-off moustache.
Tara turned her attention to Kemp and Bea and managed to embrace them both in the same hug. ‘Thanks. I’m not sure where I’d be without you.’
There was a moment’s pause, during which even Kemp’s eyes glistened slightly. ‘And the dirt you gathered on my ex-boss is continuing to pay dividends too.’ Tara spoke to him quickly, whilst stepping back and managing a more normal smile.
Kemp raised an eyebrow. ‘Ex-boss? That’s definite, is it? I mean, I never thought they’d let Wilkins come back to the same role.’
For a second her feeling of happiness was unadulterated. ‘He’s resigned. I only heard yesterday.’
Kemp whistled. ‘Excellent news, mate.’
And it was. But Wilkins wasn’t out of her life. The next thing was to find out what he and Giles Troy were cooking up together. And what impact it was likely to have on her…
Lydia seemed to have entered into the full party spirit. Tara watched as she moved from group to group, Benedict scampering after her like a faithful puppy. Her mother’s laughter rang out and the people she spoke to seemed charmed – and in some cases a little star-struck – to meet her. Melissa’s eyes were often on her, Tara noted, her expression one of irritation mixed with anxiety.
After a couple of hours Tara became desperate to leave. It had been a hell of a couple of weeks.
She went to find Harry. ‘You don’t have to come now,’ she said. ‘Just follow me on when you’re ready.’ Or not at all, which would be fine.
Harry had been talking to Melissa’s mother.
‘I’m ready now,’ he said. She caught the fervent tone in his voice and the look in his eye. Maybe they had something in common after all.
The taxi ride back to Riverside was awkward. Harry sat there not saying much, clinging onto a backpack containing his overnight gear.
After Tara had paid the driver, as they were crossing the common to her cottage, Harry glanced sideways at her. His blush was back.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I know Mum forced you to have me.’
Tara raised an eyebrow as her glance met his. ‘She forced you to come, too.’
Harry gave a shy smile. ‘She’s a bit like that, isn’t she?’
Tara nodded. ‘Always has been, always will be. So what’s the deal with uni?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m worried I won’t fit in – but that’s not just here, it’s anywhere. Plus, the more Dad goes on about coming to Cambridge, the more I want to dig my heels in and do the opposite.’ The second sentence came out in a rush.
‘Do you and Benedict get on, generally?’
Another shrug. ‘I guess he’s not the kind of person you get close to, exactly – and he’s away a lot. But he’s all right. What about you and Robin?’
Tara explained about the abortion thing. ‘Mum thinks I should have forgiven and forgotten by now.’
‘Blimey.’
They reached Tara’s front door. Harry had never visited her before. They’d only ever met at parties at Lydia and Benedict’s house, out in the Fens.
‘This place is crazy!’ Harry said, but as though that was a good thing, which Tara thought it was.
He was looking not only at the house, but at its surroundings too: the river, the common, the branches of the greening willows stirring in the breeze.
Tara smiled to herself as she unlocked the door. The postman had been. She reached down to pick up the jiffy bag that had landed on her doormat, striding inside. Harry followed her through to the kitchen as she ripped open the seal on the packet. It took her longer than it might have, thanks to her bandaged hand.
She’d been chatting as she went, and Harry had gone to the kettle, ready to put it on for coffee at her suggestion.
Suddenly the room blurred, sounds faded and it was just her and her delivery. There, where she�
�d opened the envelope in one corner, she could see a single dead bee.
Instantly her mind was back in Bea’s sitting room, where she’d been for her sixteenth birthday. It had been when she’d received her first ‘present’ from her mystery stalker. Bees for her birthday at Bea’s.
She’d flung the open envelope away from her and the dead insects had showered the room, landing in her mug of hot chocolate and all over her other parcels.
Tara’s hands shook. She was dimly aware of Harry asking if she was all right and then moving towards her, taking the open packet from her numb fingers and peering inside. And then the look of confusion and horror on his face as he dropped it, just as she had, when she’d been two years younger than him.
It took a minute for her to pick the packet up and look for a note. She reached gingerly for the single sheet of paper she could see, avoiding the rest of the packet’s contents.
Remember me? I’m still here. If you don’t want me back, call off the dogs.
Forty-Six
An hour later, Tara was in her sitting room overlooking Stourbridge Common. Blake was opposite her, the packet of bees and the note on a coffee table between them, though some of the insects were still on the kitchen floor.
‘Thanks for coming out on a Saturday.’ Tara still didn’t know how the hell he’d found out what had happened. She’d just called the station. She knew she wasn’t his favourite person right now, after she’d broken the rules and gone looking for clues at Luke’s place. The fact that she’d managed to find and overpower their missing killer seemed to have gone by the wayside…
‘I was in the office tying up a few loose ends on the Cope case,’ he said. His voice was tight.
Not at home holding Babette’s hand then… Was the paperwork really that urgent?
Blake looked at her closely for a moment, as though trying to guess what she was thinking. She worked to clear her face of all expression. Despite what she was going through, and all the old horrors it brought back, she had a feeling his mind was still on her wrongdoings in the case.
