Death on the River: A gripping and unputdownable English murder mystery (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 2)

by Clare Chase

  Blake knew Tara was aware of how extraordinary her theory sounded. He took his hat off to her. Her speech had been an impressive performance. She might be willing to acknowledge the fallibility of her thoughts to him, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to be that unguarded with Wilkins.

  As for Blake, he needed to take a step back. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘I agree. Though we can’t know for certain that the snake was in the car when it went into the water.’

  ‘Which is a bit of a major sticking point,’ Patrick drawled. There ought to be a rule against any member of his team drawling.

  ‘True,’ Blake said. ‘But for what it’s worth, this scenario would fit with the lack of tyre marks on the road, too. He’d have been weaving around to try to avoid the creature; braking wouldn’t have been his reflex reaction.’

  Wilkins shrugged. ‘One thing’s certain, if you wanted to kill someone, it wouldn’t be the most reliable way to do it.’

  ‘Perfectly true,’ Tara said. Once again, her tone was well controlled. Blake felt a moment of amusement. He’d heard recordings of her interviewing her subjects when she’d been a journalist. It was frightening, the way she could deceive her interlocutors into thinking she found their input useful. The look of puzzlement on Patrick’s face when she remained so amiable was enjoyable. ‘But what if we’re dealing with someone who’s playing games?’ Tara went on. ‘If, instead of a perpetrator who was dead set on making sure Cairncross died on a particular date, at a particular time, we have someone who treats their objective as a longer-term goal. Maybe they even get a buzz out of throwing a spanner into the works – not knowing if it will get knocked harmlessly to one side, or jam the machine in a catastrophic way. What if that person tampered with Ralph Cairncross’s garage lamp the week before he died, but didn’t get anywhere? The lamp incident’s written off as an unfortunate accident. Old thing – not well maintained. Our perpetrator’s a gambler. From their point of view, they failed first time round, but it doesn’t matter. They’re free to try again, using another method that at worst will be viewed as an unpleasant prank if Cairncross arrives home, safe but shaken. But at best – from their perspective – Cairncross goes down into the water with his Indian summer windows wide open, and if anyone finds a grass snake near his body, no one thinks anything of it.’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘And maybe symbolism was important to the perpetrator too – if we believe there really was one,’ Tara added.

  ‘Symbolism?’ Patrick practically spat the word out.

  ‘In Ralph Cairncross’s final book, his main character chooses death by snake bite, whilst he’s out swimming in the water.’ She explained the passage she’d described to Blake before Wilkins’ arrival. ‘What if someone decided they’d try to make the final scene in Ralph Cairncross’s life mirror the death in his last book? He portrayed the hero’s fate as something beautiful and serene. Perhaps the perpetrator wanted to show him what dying’s really like.’

  ‘The next thing you’ll be telling me is that someone engineered Lucas Everett’s drowning, too,’ Patrick said.

  Tara paused for a second. ‘It’s not impossible.’

  His DS snorted. ‘It would be pretty hard to explain. I read your report on your findings in Kellness.’ Blake wasn’t entirely surprised by this sudden show of diligence. He’d be looking for as much information as possible, so he could hold his own when they reviewed the case. Nothing meant more to Patrick than saving face. ‘A third party would have to have persuaded Everett to swim out too far, I presume? He couldn’t have been rushing to rescue someone who was pretending to be in trouble – not with that ridiculous bravado-filled note he left on the beach. So, if we say someone was there with Everett, egging him on to take risks, wouldn’t they have shared the bottle of vodka that was found on the beach? And yet the only clear prints on it were Everett’s and the shop assistant’s.’

  ‘A third party could have brought their own booze,’ Tara said.

  ‘The idea’s even more far-fetched than your theory about the snake.’ There was a sneer on Patrick’s face.

  ‘Of course, if there is a connection between the two deaths, it might not be that a third party plotted to kill them both,’ Blake said. ‘What if, at some point, Lucas Everett had been smitten by the older man? Perhaps Cairncross rejected him, and Everett planted the snake in his car to get his own back. He might not have thought through the full consequences of what he was doing. Then when Cairncross wound up dead, maybe Lucas Everett planned his swim whilst he was consumed with guilt.’

  ‘But Mrs Everett dismissed the idea of her son being in love with Ralph,’ Tara said. ‘And she talked about him being energised, too. He was enthusing about continuing to live according to the ideals Ralph Cairncross had held.’

  ‘I remember you mentioned that.’ Blake thought back to the email she’d sent on Friday. ‘But mothers aren’t always the best at reading their children’s emotions’ – his certainly wasn’t – ‘and people who’re going through extreme stress can have mood swings.’

  ‘True… but there’s the testimony of the woman who served Everett in the Co-op, too. She mentioned how upbeat Lucas was.’

  ‘That could have been because he’d made up his mind to do something to combat his guilt and honour Cairncross’s memory,’ Blake said. He understood where Tara was coming from but he couldn’t help noticing that her the desire to fight her corner overrode her judgement sometimes.

  ‘There are other incidents that make me think this is a wider plot.’ Tara hesitated and glanced at Wilkins. At last she turned back to Blake. ‘As you know, when she came to see me, Monica Cairncross thought she was being followed.’

  He could understand why she’d paused before committing herself. Patrick was just the sort to assume Tara would be seeing stalkers around every corner, given that she’d been menaced as a teenager, and again just four years ago. He’d think she was more likely to believe what he’d view as a cock and bull story, because of her background. But Tara wasn’t the fanciful sort.

  ‘And’ – there was a longer pause this time – ‘someone left a booby trap for me to find when I got home on Friday night.’

  Blake leant forward. ‘What’s that? Why didn’t you report it?’

  But as Tara relayed the detail, he could see why she hadn’t. It sounded like a kid’s prank on the face of it, and he saw Patrick raise his eyes to heaven.

  ‘Sure you haven’t had a burst pipe or something?’ the DS said, with a light laugh. ‘It’s very easy for that type of problem to occur in winter and if you don’t understand about plumbing…’ Tara opened her mouth, but Patrick ploughed on. ‘And of course, even if it was a deliberate act, I imagine there are a number of people who could have been responsible.’ There was a look in his DS’s eyes that Blake didn’t like. ‘There’s your old stalker from when you were a teenager, Tara. Oh, and then there’s the journalist you attacked a few years ago. Or maybe an ex-colleague with a grudge? Is there any reason to suppose it’s to do with Ralph Cairncross and Lucas Everett?’

  ‘That’s enough, Patrick,’ said Blake firmly. The guy was way out of line. ‘I need some time to digest all this. You can both carry on.’

  After they’d left the room, he sat back in his chair. Could Tara be right? Were they dealing with some maniac who was playing God? And what about the ice on her front path? It was very easy to write it off as a joke, or as having an innocent explanation they hadn’t identified. But what if someone was trying to make Tara look or feel paranoid? And what if that same person really had been responsible for one death already?

  He rang Agneta and left a message, asking for her to contact him; he only had to wait twenty minutes before she called him back. He relayed Tara’s theory and waited for her reaction. He heard her whistle down the phone.

  ‘It’s the weirdest idea I ever heard, Blake, but it would fit every detail. I always was in doubt about the theory of seizure due to alcohol poisoning. I didn’t make
a secret of it. Hell,’ she paused for a moment, ‘that creature was big, Blake. If it really was in the car with Ralph Cairncross I can’t imagine how frightened he must have been when he saw it. And if Tara’s right then the choice the coroner had to make between accidental death and misadventure ought to have been one between misadventure and murder…’

  It was enough. He’d have to square the use of Tara’s time with Fleming, who wasn’t a fan of outlandish theories, but having spoken to Agneta he knew it was the right thing to do. A minute later he had Tara and Patrick back in his office.

  ‘In light of the developments to date, I want Tara to do some limited additional digging.’ He saw Patrick’s grim expression and it made him feel better. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? He’d have it out with him separately about his behaviour; his references to Tara’s past earlier were totally unprofessional. ‘I want to be sure. We’ve got capacity and Max can carry on helping out on the Hunter case for a couple of days.’ He turned to Tara. ‘I want to discuss what your plans are before you put them into action, and to have regular updates. Concentrate on Cairncross’s death. After that, I’ll take a view as to what we do next. It’s a sensible use of a detective constable’s time, and there are enough question marks to warrant this.’

  Patrick shook his head as he made to exit the room, his fists bunched.

  After the door was closed, Blake wondered if Tara would say something about the man’s attitude. He realised he wanted her to.

  But she just nodded at him. ‘So I’ll keep digging then,’ she said. ‘Until your deadline. A couple of days, you said?’

  He realised he didn’t appreciate her self-control so much when it extended to him, even though he ought to be applauding it. But he nodded. ‘Yes. Two days, today being day one.’ It was going to be tight, but he had to get the balance right. ‘Let me know what you find. Start with talking to Cairncross’s wife. And don’t write off the theory of Lucas Everett planting the snake.’

  ‘I won’t.’ She caught his look. ‘And I know. Kid gloves, obviously. I’ll go carefully.’

  She’d read his mind. Just like old times.

  She was at his office door, ready to open it, before he cracked. ‘You did well with Patrick earlier. Keeping your cool, I mean. Can’t have been easy.’

  And suddenly she turned towards him and a smile flickered across her lips. ‘I’ve got a secret weapon,’ she said, and there was a look in her eye that he remembered.

  ‘What’s that?’

  She put her head on one side. ‘Wilkins-shaped voodoo doll at home. Hand-crafted – for some inexplicable reason, they’re not on the market yet.’

  He laughed before he could stop himself and hoped no one outside had heard. It was probably the most unprofessional he’d been since he’d entered CID. ‘But joking apart, Tara,’ he said, ‘we have to make this work. And if you find anything concrete, Patrick will be right there with you, investigating.’

  Tara gave him a look. ‘And if I fail then he’ll be convinced he’s right and that I’m susceptible to fairy tales. Talk about a double-edged sword.’

  Eleven

  Ralph Cairncross’s wife, Sadie, had agreed to see Tara that afternoon. She’d sounded slightly dazed when she’d answered the phone. Then again, Tara’s call would have come out of the blue; it wasn’t unnatural that the woman had been slow to get to grips with what she was saying.

  Tara stood on Madingley Road, where Sadie Cairncross lived, the chill, foggy air catching at her throat. It tasted metallic. The early afternoon traffic was free-flowing on the wide road, and the pavement was deserted. She’d parked in a side street. She wanted to approach on foot to get an idea of the surroundings of the Cairncross home before her presence became obvious.

  To her right, long driveways stretched off from the road, leading to vast houses on spacious plots. It wasn’t the sort of street where you’d regularly bump into your neighbours. The tall evergreen hedgerow which marked the border of the Cairncross property increased its feeling of isolation. Tara wrapped her coat more tightly round herself and stepped onto the gravel driveway. As she walked further into the grounds, the noise of the cars and park-and-ride buses faded. She could hear a robin singing somewhere nearby, but then it too went quiet.

  Ahead of her and to the right there was some sort of square red-brick outhouse, and beyond that the main building itself, a substantial 1920s villa covered in thick, dark ivy, with leaded glass windows.

  The outhouse turned out to be a garage-cum-workshop with integral spaces for the storage of gardening equipment. She could see that much by peering through one of the small doors that opened onto the driveway. It had been left ajar. Inside, the compact, box-like section of the building was full of hoes, spades, edge trimmers, trowels and the like. It was all traditional stuff, smelling of oil and earth. There was nothing that you’d plug in.

  Round the side of the building she looked in through a window and saw an elderly navy Volvo. There was space for another car, and Tara thought of Ralph Cairncross’s Alfa Romeo that had been written off when he’d driven into the Forty Foot Drain.

  To the right of the double garage doors, inside, she could see there was plenty of workspace. Tara glanced up at the house for a moment. It all looked quiet, and she was still a couple of minutes early. Cautiously, she moved round to a side door that led to the garage and tried it. Unlocked. To be fair, nothing inside looked nickable, so there’d be no real reason to bother. The arrangements certainly didn’t narrow the field when it came to judging who might have tampered with the lamp that gave Ralph the electric shock. If anyone had.

  Tara made her way back to the main driveway and continued her walk up to the house. All around her the grounds faded into the fog but the villa was crystal clear now. It looked dark, sombre and uninviting.

  She walked up to the varnished wooden door with its leaded glass panel and made use of the art deco knocker. After a moment she saw a change in the lighting levels inside as someone opened an inner door to a lit room. A shadow approached and the front door was pulled slowly open.

  Tara found it easy to recognise Sadie Cairncross from the old photos she’d found on the internet. She knew the former flautist was around fifty, but she didn’t look it. Her rich chestnut hair reached past her shoulders and she’d avoided middle-aged spread. She had good skin too, and few lines on her face. Her bone structure struck Tara as elegant. She was wearing a high-necked black sweater, a tartan miniskirt and long black boots.

  Tara introduced herself and showed her ID. She knew she was expected, but Mrs Cairncross’s eyes still widened just a fraction as she read her name. Tara had got used to it. Even though she was only a junior rank people still tended to expect someone older. Some of them even seemed to feel slighted at being landed with what they thought of as a whippersnapper. For a second she wished she’d worn a suit. Her brown polo neck and herringbone weave trousers were formal enough, but she could use some extra gravitas.

  ‘Come in,’ Sadie Cairncross said. She sounded tired and wary rather than curious. Her eyes told Tara this had already been a terrible year. She probably wanted to put the whole thing behind her; whatever the truth behind her husband’s death.

  And she’d had to battle with something else too. It was only when she spoke that Tara noticed it. She’d lost some mobility in the bottom half of her face. She went through the formality of smiling, and her mouth was beautiful, but lopsided. Could she have had a stroke at a young age? Or maybe she was suffering from Bell’s palsy? A family friend had had that; they’d been given steroids and got their mobility back after five months.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tara said, as Sadie Cairncross stood back and held open an inner door to a spacious living room. It was lit by a number of table lamps, but the space was big and the windows less so. The overall effect was still of a dark room with the odd patch of illumination. Already the north-facing garden outside seemed to be dimming; the murky day sliding towards an early dusk.

  ‘I’m co
nfused about why you need to see me again at this stage,’ Mrs Cairncross said.

  Tara nodded. ‘I understand, and I’m sorry to intrude. We’re making a few additional enquiries, following what’s probably a coincidence.’

  Mrs Cairncross raised a well-shaped eyebrow.

  ‘Your sister-in-law, Dr Monica Cairncross, came to see us. We understand she was out of the country in New Zealand when your husband had his accident, even though she managed to fly back for the funeral. You’re no doubt aware that she’s back in the UK permanently now. It seems she has a few more questions about the circumstances of Mr Cairncross’s death.’

  The woman’s eyes flashed. ‘She thinks someone else was involved,’ she said. ‘She emailed me at the time to say she didn’t believe it was as simple as everyone was “making out”.’

  ‘That’s pretty much what she told us.’ She smiled at Sadie to show she was on her side. ‘Just to get Dr Cairncross’s thoughts on her brother’s death out of the way immediately, are you aware of anyone who would have wanted to harm your husband? I’m so sorry to ask.’ It seemed best to pass the topic off as a matter of pure routine, to be recorded, filed and not raised again… probably.

  Sadie Cairncross looked hollow. ‘His outlook on life invited strong reactions, Constable. Some people expressed their anger at his views quite openly. Critics and the like.’

  ‘That must have been hard.’ Though richly deserved, in Tara’s opinion.

  Mrs Cairncross shrugged. ‘He was used to it.’

  ‘What about closer to home? Was anyone in your husband’s immediate circle ever seriously antagonistic towards him?’

  ‘No.’ But she said it too quickly, and suddenly, her eyes flitted away from Tara’s. Tara couldn’t help thinking of how angry Agneta Larsson said Philippa Cairncross had been when she’d come to jointly identify her father’s body. What if that anger wasn’t at the careless way in which Ralph had lost his life, causing her mother so much grief, but for other reasons? Tara thought again of the photograph she’d put up on Facebook of the scene of her father’s death.