by Clare Chase
It was time to bring the woman back to reality again. ‘And how do you think someone could have engineered the accident?’ Tara asked.
‘Perhaps they tampered with the car, just as they did with the lamp.’ She held up a hand. ‘I know the authorities checked for mechanical faults after the accident, but they might have missed something. People do make mistakes. And if not that, then maybe someone put something in the road, to distract Ralph.’
Except this unknown person couldn’t have banked on Ralph being the first person to happen upon the ‘distraction’ – not unless they’d been very precise with their timing. And then they’d have had to come and take whatever it was away again afterwards. As murder methods went, it would probably score two out of ten for reliability, and a lot higher when it came to the probability of getting found out.
Monica Cairncross ignored her silence. ‘Or someone could have called him and distracted him deliberately.’
‘His mobile records would have shown that. It would have been cited as a possible reason for the accident. Even if it hadn’t been deliberate, calls are often associated with people losing concentration. Did you ask DS Wilkins if your brother’s phone records had been checked?’
After a moment, Dr Cairncross nodded. ‘He said nothing showed up for the time he was driving. But all the same…’
Tara was loath to agree, even tentatively, with DS Wilkins, but it was possible that in this case he was right about Monica Cairncross’s theories.
‘Whatever your initial reactions are, I would like you to prove yourself better than your colleagues by casting your eyes over the records for the case,’ the woman said. ‘See if anything strikes you as off. It won’t take a moment. You can reach me at the University Arms Hotel with your conclusions.’
Easy for her to say. Tara got up from her seat. ‘I can’t promise anything,’ she said, standing over her visitor. ‘But if I hear of something that makes me feel there’s more to discover, I will let you know.’ She paused. ‘Your brother’s car accident following on so closely from the incident with the lamp might have been a genuine coincidence. They’re not as uncommon as you’d think.’
Monica Cairncross gave her that cold-eyed stare again. ‘It wasn’t,’ she said.
The woman was still sitting down, looking up at her. Tara was on the point of spelling out that it was time to leave when she got to her feet.
They walked through to the square hallway. Just before she left, Dr Cairncross’s eyes lit on a supply of Tara’s business cards, sitting on the hall table.
‘I’ll take one of those, if I may.’
There wasn’t much Tara could do about it.
It was raining now, as well as dark. Across the common, the lights that ran along the path by the River Cam gave a pale glow, made more diffuse by the icy drizzle. Tara’s own porch light lit the tiny front garden but no further. Between the two was the floodplain: an expanse of dark space, dotted with patches where the shadows intensified. Leafless willows and London plane trees thrashed in the wind. The rough, narrow path that would lead Monica Cairncross back towards civilisation was unlit. Tara had been relying on a bike light or her phone to illuminate her journeys.
‘It’s an unusual place to live,’ Dr Cairncross said, stepping half out of the doorway and fumbling with a black umbrella she’d pulled from her bag. For a second she paused. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you, then.’
Tara watched for a moment as the woman started out, struggling with her brolly as the wind threatened to turn it inside out. She doubted there’d be much to tell, but she couldn’t bring herself to reiterate the fact before the woman left. It was well and truly time for a vodka and tonic, not for prolonged efforts to manage expectations.
She shut her door against the blast, but the wind whistled round the jamb and the keyhole cover rattled.
Ten minutes later, she was the right side of her drink, finishing a packet of pistachios and cooking a bolognaise. She felt almost human. There were so many maintenance jobs she needed to do around the house, but they’d have to wait. The place had been standing for 150 years, she was sure it could cope on its own for a few more months. When she’d got the money, the doors and windows would be the first priority; the al fresco atmosphere was a bit much in midwinter. And then maybe some insulation. In one corner of the kitchen, condensation ran down the wall thanks to its icy inner surface.
She put a bottle of red wine in some hot water in the sink to warm it up, then added some tomato purée to her bolognaise sauce.
She was just about to put the pasta on when her work mobile rang. The number calling wasn’t familiar and for a second she thought about shunting whoever it was through to voicemail. But the pasta wasn’t actually cooking yet…
She picked up. ‘Tara Thorpe.’
‘It’s Monica Cairncross.’ She sounded breathless, and spoke quickly. The contrast to the cool, insistent tone of earlier made Tara put down the wooden spoon she’d been about to use to stir the bolognaise.
‘What can I do for you, Dr Cairncross?’
‘I’ve only just got back to the hotel,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to call you until I was inside. Something’s happened that confirms my feelings about Ralph’s death.’
Tara waited.
‘Someone was watching me.’
‘Watching you when?’
‘As I left your house. I was halfway back towards Riverside when I saw a shadow in the distance, near the base of that narrow bridge that goes across the river.’
The Green Dragon Bridge. Tara made a noise but Dr Cairncross cut across her.
‘The moment I turned in their direction they dodged out of sight. They didn’t want to be identified. I’m not imagining it. Someone knows what I’m up to – and they want to ensure I don’t make any headway.’
Whether Monica Cairncross was mistaken or not, Tara knew fear when she heard it. And she was quite sure it wasn’t something that the woman was used to experiencing.
After they’d finished talking she went to switch off the kitchen light, then walked over to the room’s side window. It looked out towards the river. Drawing back the thin, checked curtains, she could see the bridge straight ahead, and to her right the route towards Fen Ditton.
The base of the bridge was shrouded in shadow, but everything looked still. Tara closed the curtain again, switched the light back on and shivered as she put the pasta on to boil.
Had there really been someone out there?
Over her supper she decided to google Monica Cairncross. And maybe download one of her brother’s books, too. She needed to know more about who she was dealing with.
Wednesday 28 November
I watched Monica today. She doesn’t know anything, of course. I’m not even sure why she’s so convinced there’s something amiss. Inbuilt arrogance, I suppose, in relation to herself and her dead brother. She can’t imagine he could ever have been at fault, therefore his death can’t have been an accident. Oh, but it was, Monica – it was. My making it all possible doesn’t alter that. I was just testing him, to see if he was ready to embrace death. From the reports of his injuries, I think I can safely say that he wasn’t. There was no calm acceptance. So satisfying to know. The pathologist spoke of flailing limbs – put down to some kind of fit. Very convenient. But if Ralph had been as invincible as he thought, he could easily have survived. I just twisted the dial of fate.
And as for him being faultless, there never was a more flawed man. He was a sexual predator and a hypocrite, responsible for so much misery, and for spreading a taint that must be stopped.
When it comes to Monica, she makes me laugh. Genuinely. She looks so frightening – shockingly witch-like – and the more bombastic and unreasonable she is, the more she plays into my hands. She’s meant to be clever, but clearly her emotional quotient is down through the floor. She’s been sniffing around everyone who was involved with Ralph, and it seems she’s put the authorities’ backs up, which is perfect. And now, I see she’s resorted to
pestering a new recruit to the local CID – a former journalist according to my research. And she hunted this woman down in her own home. I can’t imagine that will go down well if the officer who first investigated the death finds out.
What about that ex-journalist though? Will curiosity get the better of her? I’m sure it will. But even journalists need facts, unless they work for the gutter press. This one’s reputation was dodgy when it came to method, but sound when it came to quality. She’ll want facts.
And that’s the beauty of it, Tara Thorpe – they will be very hard to come by. Hints, yes. What the police might call ‘circumstantial evidence’, and oh-so-flimsy at that. Because I’m many steps ahead of you, Tara.
But if you get too close, I know what to do.
I can’t say I’m worried.
Two
‘Do I remember her?’ DS Wilkins rolled his eyes. ‘She’s pretty hard to forget and it was only a couple of months or so back. She was ranting. I took her to be completely unhinged and she looked the part too – all that wild hair.’
Tara took a deep breath. Did her boss seriously believe you could tell whether a person was talking sense by the conventionality – or otherwise – of their hairstyle?
‘If she’s been on at you too, I imagine you’ll have made the same assessment.’ Wilkins stretched in his seat. It was something he did a lot after he’d taken off his jacket. Tara was convinced the move was deliberate: engineered to show off the muscles he’d been honing at the gym. Did he also buy shirts that were ever so slightly too small to increase the effect?
‘Was she after me?’ he asked. ‘Is that why you ended up having to deal with her?’
‘I think she’d shifted her attention to me because she’d already tried you.’ Tara wasn’t going to tell him that she’d seen Monica Cairncross outside work. And she especially wasn’t going to admit she’d met her in her own home. ‘I realise she’s probably annoyed you by being so persistent, but I assume there was nothing that struck you as off-key about Ralph Cairncross’s death?’
Wilkins looked at her. ‘You think I’d have left it uninvestigated if there were?’
It all depended on how big a thing they were talking about. Tara was willing to believe he’d ignore a reasonable-sized detail if the balance of probabilities told him it wasn’t relevant. He wasn’t a man to question his own judgement. ‘No, of course not.’ She met his eye as she lied. ‘But given that she’s come asking again, I promised I’d check. I need to be able to tell her that I have.’
‘And you think that’ll shut her up? Well, good luck with that. She’s obsessed.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘God, I hate dealing with that sort of woman.’
Tara gritted her teeth. She wanted to tell DS Wilkins that women were all individuals, not grouped into stereotypes. She’d never met anyone like Dr Cairncross before, yet her boss had immediately pigeonholed her. She could imagine what he’d filed the dead man’s sister under. Wilkins had a particular way of dealing with women. If they accepted him in the role of teacher, protector and advisor, he was perfectly happy. Step outside that dynamic – dare to start asking questions – and you were in trouble. Tara had asked several during her first week. She hadn’t been criticising him; just wondering why he’d handled certain things the way he had. And rather than explaining so she understood, he’d taken offence. Not openly – that would have been fine. Tara was quite capable of dealing with confrontation. But with Wilkins, you could just see the resentment, simmering beneath the surface.
Every so often, she caught DI Blake watching them both with his dark, brooding eyes. He was probably wondering how long it would take for one of them to blow.
Tara had had to be self-controlled as a journalist – willing to hide whatever she felt about her subjects in order to get the maximum out of them. She could make the most despicable person feel she was on their side if it served her purposes. But it was different with Wilkins. With her interviewees, she’d only had to keep up the pretence for an hour or so. After one week with the DS, she realised just how much harder it was going to be to hide her real feelings towards him.
‘But to satisfy your needs,’ Wilkins went on, ‘you can take it from me, there was nothing to indicate that the death was anything more than an accident.’ He turned away and started sifting through some papers on his desk.
He wasn’t planning to share the details, clearly, but Tara stayed where she was, standing close to his workstation.
‘Dr Cairncross mentioned the close call her brother had the week before he died, when he got a shock off a lamp in the family’s garage.’
Wilkins let out a sharp sigh. ‘Yes. By all accounts the lamp was something of an antique. It had belonged to Ralph Cairncross’s father and had been sitting there getting knocked around in the garage for years. His wife had already suggested he get rid of it – she was worried about the wiring – but she told us her husband didn’t like people fussing. Suggesting he did something sensible pretty much ensured he wouldn’t, I understand. All the same, he gave in after he got the electric shock. By the time we enquired, the item had been junked. Cambridge is full of people with hand-me-downs like that.’
Which was a fair point; and especially true of those who lived in large houses and had enough space to simply add to their belongings without having to throw stuff out. Things could hang around for generations.
Suddenly DS Wilkins stood up, forcing her to move back, away from his desk. He laughed. ‘You can so tell you used to be a journalist. You’re scenting a story, not a case to be answered. We need more than a whiff of scandal and intrigue here. We’re spending taxpayers’ money, don’t forget, and there’s precious little of it to go round. So, I’d appreciate it if you turned that gossip-hungry mind of yours back towards what you actually should be working on: the Hunter case. I want you to check his phone records against those for the five pay-as-you-go mobiles Davies had. If we find any numbers in common, we might be in business. Get to it. The DI wants our full attention on this.’
Tara had only been there for four weeks, and she’d never given anything less than that, as Wilkins must be well aware. With effort, she resisted the impulse to give him what he wanted: a sharp retort he could complain about later.
She conjured up an innocent look instead, coupled with an earnest nod as she stepped back towards her desk. ‘Understood.’ And up yours, Wilkins. Up yours. She slid into her chair and opened the relevant file on her computer. For a second, he stood staring at her, but then seemed to abandon trying to work out if she was being sarcastic. He turned back to his own desk and appeared to forget all about her. Happy days.
Later on, when Wilkins went to lunch, Tara carried out her plan to raid the files on Ralph Cairncross. She was entitled to a break too, and if her boss wasn’t going to give her the proper background she’d use her free time to satisfy her curiosity. That and fulfil her duty to Monica Cairncross. The woman wanted a second eye on the evidence, not just to hear Wilkins’ initial findings repeated back to her.
Tara was halfway down one witness statement, frowning and absorbed, when something – a small noise? – pulled her out of what she was reading. Looking behind her, she realised that Wilkins had re-entered the room and was staring at her computer screen. His jaw was jutting, his eyes dark. If she’d met him in a pub when she’d been in uniform she’d have singled him out as the person most likely to start a fight…
‘It’s my lunch hour,’ she said.
It was a moment before Wilkins spoke. She guessed he was trying to contain himself. ‘And yet you’re working. Very commendable. However, if you don’t want to take a break I suggest you continue with the tasks you’re being paid to do. Other than that, go and buy a sandwich. You’re displaying a lack of trust and a poor sense of priorities. Not what DCI Fleming wants in her team. You’re new here, don’t forget.’
And then he actually sat back down at his desk. Tara had been convinced he’d intended to go out. Was he seriously going to sit there and wat
ch her? Like a toddler who didn’t want someone else playing with their toys when they were absent? She’d never found it so hard to control herself. At last, she stood up and walked out of the door. She didn’t want to eat lunch – she was too angry. Instead she exited the building, turned right and walked unseeingly up Parkside, waiting for the chill winter air to calm her. Eventually, she became conscious of her surroundings again: the tall townhouses to her right and the queueing traffic to her left.
Bloody Wilkins. She couldn’t believe he’d threatened her. You’re new here, don’t forget. She’d got every reason to complain about him to DCI Fleming, in fact. But that wasn’t the way she did things. Not like her snivelling boss…
As for the Ralph Cairncross files, she hadn’t read much, but what she had seen had made her almost as angry as Wilkins’ behaviour.
At home that evening, she called the dead man’s sister.
‘You didn’t tell me your brother was over the drink-drive limit when he crashed,’ she said, without preamble. The man had had enough alcohol to flatten most people, if the witness statement she’d half read was anything to go by. ‘I presume you knew?’
Monica Cairncross’s tone was clipped. ‘Of course I did. What difference does that make?’
Tara made a sound but Dr Cairncross cut across her.
‘I know the law, of course, but that’s just as a safeguard, surely? Because not everyone can drink and still drive safely. But Ralph could. He was excellent behind the wheel. He was rarely sober, but he’d never had an accident before.’
The woman really was delusional. And as for her brother, he’d certainly been lucky up until that point – as had anyone who’d crossed his path on the highways. ‘It would definitely be reason enough for what happened,’ Tara said.