by Clare Chase
‘It would be good to see her,’ Kemp said. Tara knew he was too matter-of-fact to feel awkward about her bereavement. His temperament meant he put his foot in it occasionally, but equally you could relax with him. He wasn’t oversensitive.
‘All the same,’ Kemp said, ‘I don’t reckon I can go knocking on her door at this hour.’
Tara glanced at her watch. Midnight now. Hell. ‘I guess you’re right. And I don’t have a spare bed yet’ – she watched Kemp raise an eyebrow – ‘so it’s the sofa for you, friend. Sorry – I’ve been up for twenty hours or something, and tomorrow will be another heavy day. Wilkins will want to make sure of that as part of his revenge.’ She knew Kemp wouldn’t take her rejection amiss. Sure enough, he was still smiling.
‘Understood.’ He launched himself out of his seat. ‘Just tell me where I can find a duvet or something.’
‘Top of the stairs in the airing cupboard.’
‘Cheers, mate.’
Suddenly she gave him a smile back. There’d been a delay with it, thanks to her tiredness and the element of surprise he’d employed. ‘No trouble. It’s good to see you.’
He grinned. ‘And you.’
In spite of her exhaustion, it took Tara a while to sleep. Downstairs she could hear Kemp snoring on the sofa. She pictured his hairy bulk, sprawled over the inadequate make-do bed. The old attraction she felt for him was still there and, just for a second, sadness washed over her as she remembered the feeling of his arms around her and the gravelly sound of his laugh as he held her close. Their friendship was special, but they’d never be each other’s one and only. There was something missing. Yet there he was, in her house, brilliant company, a whole lot of fun. It would make so much sense to be in love with him, and he her. Shame life wasn’t like that. A short while later she heard his snoring stop, and then the kitchen tap running. Shouldn’t have drunk so much beer, Kemp… But he was probably pretty uncomfortable on the sofa too, all six foot two of him. She felt a moment of guilt. But he could have given her some warning.
Whatever happened, she didn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression about their current relationship. There was no love lost between Kemp and the police force, even though he’d left of his own accord. She was pretty sure he’d resigned before they could sack him. Just like her, when she’d left Not Now magazine. She knew that could happen through no fault of your own. But the fact remained, being associated with Kemp was a complication she didn’t need right now. She guessed Karen Fleming was still assessing her, trying to work out if she was an asset or a liability to the team.
And Tara was twitchy about Blake finding out too – which was ridiculous. It felt as though she was keeping a secret, and one that might be misinterpreted. Now that she knew he lived just up the river she worried he might spot any comings and goings at her place. Kemp had worked locally; Blake might even know him by sight, though he’d bailed out of the police force long ago.
She sighed. Maybe she’d explain the situation to Blake if she got the chance. Given her role in his team and Kemp’s iffy reputation, she’d rather make sure he understood just what was going on – and what wasn’t. Other than that, of course, it was none of his business.
Saturday 15 December
It’s been two and a half weeks since Monica visited the ex-journalist and I think it’s fair to say I’ve won. From the start, it was only Tara Thorpe who seemed to look more deeply.
And now even she is off on some other job, as far as I can make out. Poor Tara. There was never anything you could get any leverage on, was there? How frustrating for you! I suspect you, at least, believed there was a decent mind at work, behind the two oh-so-unfortunate deaths.
But after you turned your back on Ralph and Lucas, even you might be suffering doubts. After all, you’ve had nothing concrete to make you keep the faith.
But that was the point, of course. You won’t get anything concrete from me. Not unless I choose to give it to you.
But I’m looking forward to putting you back into the icy grip of suspicion; perhaps even of fear.
Tonight – I believe – I will give you something fresh to think about.
Wait and see.
Fifteen
He felt on top of the world. The night was freezing and the going tricky, but most of the rooftop was clear. The rain that had turned to ice, making the streets and pavements so hazardous, must have drained off up here. Suddenly, he was in no doubt at all that he could do this. He stood up tall – stretching to his full height – put his shoulders back and laughed. He didn’t feel cold. He felt lit up inside.
Dimly, he remembered the words and the cautions. Are you sure? Is it wise? He could hear the awe: fear mixed with admiration.
It was the jump everyone talked about. Several people wanted to try it – talked about trying it – but didn’t have the guts. And some people had managed it, of course – people like him: the brave, the winners of this world.
He could bloody do it. He knew he could and any doubt he might have felt had left him.
He looked ahead, his eyes focused not on the gap between him and the next jutting bit of roof he wanted to reach, but on his destination.
He leapt.
Sixteen
It was Saturday night when Blake’s old friend Agneta Larsson called him. She wanted to know if he and Babette would like to join her and her husband, Frans, for dinner on Monday. Babette was soaking in the bath, Kitty in bed already, so they weren’t around to overhear the call. Monday was the perfect night to get together, in theory. Kitty already had a play date. It would be a simple matter to ask if that could be extended to a sleepover. They wouldn’t even need a babysitter. But suddenly he longed for the chance of a relaxed chat with Agneta, without the pressure of Babette being there. And it would avoid a flashpoint too. Agneta and Frans had a nine-month-old baby. Being in the house with all the attendant paraphernalia would increase Babette’s focus on getting pregnant again. And it certainly didn’t need increasing. It was already at the forefront of her mind and, consequently, of his too.
‘Blake? You are very quiet,’ Agneta said. ‘You’ve gone off us, right? And you just need time to think of a polite excuse.’
He laughed. Agneta still called him Blake – a throw-back to the fact that they’d met through work – but they’d gone out together once upon a time. It had ended in that rare way, with no awkwardness between them. He valued their easy friendship. He liked Frans too. He was informal with an appealing sense of the ironic. Plus, at six-five with blond hair and a chiselled jaw, he was never going to feel threatened by an inveterate scruff like Blake, even if he was an ex. ‘No.’ He walked to the side of the house furthest from the bathroom. ‘It’s just – oh, I don’t know how to put this without sounding either weird or like a shit.’
She laughed. ‘That’s quite a build-up. You have to say it anyway now. I’m very curious.’
‘I wondered if you’d mind me coming on my own?’
It was only a moment before she replied, and her had tone changed. ‘Sure. Of course, if that’s what you want. Are you okay?’ But before he could reply she added. ‘Not the right moment to ask. I understand. But tell me on Monday, if you want to talk.’
‘Thanks.’ He hadn’t meant to be dramatic about it. She’d be expecting something momentous now, and he couldn’t imagine telling her the whole truth about him and Babette. He’d kept it entirely to himself so far. No one would understand why he’d patched things up with her if they knew the full story. Even he had to remind himself of the reasons he’d done that – on an almost daily basis currently.
Seventeen
Shona was in Patrick’s king-sized bed, her eyes half closed, her fingers stretched out across his chest. The white sheet was pulled up as far as her waist but above that she was uncovered and naked. The colour of the thickly woven, pristine cotton offset her tan nicely. Patrick looked at the deep red of the flawless varnish on her long nails. He wondered how she managed to type the copy she filed for
Not Now magazine.
‘So, what’s happening in your world?’ she said, sleepily. It was the first time since she’d walked through his door that evening that either of them had introduced a subject unrelated to sex. ‘Well done on Hunter. That must be a great feeling.’
‘It’s got to go to court yet. I’m not counting my chickens.’
‘Seems to me it’s a safe bet. And most of it was your work. You’ve done brilliantly.’
He smiled. Fleming had said much the same thing to him. It was nice to have a bit of praise for once.
‘And how’s it going with our Tara?’ She gave him a look. ‘Though I’m very glad she’s not ours any more. Has she decked any suspects? Started a fling with your DI?’
Wilkins was keen on the idea of dropping Tara in it – she didn’t deserve the position she’d managed to claw her way into – but the mention of her name still killed the mood as far as he was concerned. ‘If she does anything newsworthy, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘Great. I promised Giles I’d remind you.’
God, if her editor was actively asking Shona to push for information he must really hate Tara Thorpe. One day, perhaps he’d ask Shona to arrange a drink with him and Giles. He’d be curious to find out if the journo knew more about his new DC than he did.
‘It was so nice of you, giving me those little extra details about Hunter,’ Shona said, reaching up a hand to touch his cheek.
‘Just don’t tell anyone they came from me. They won’t prejudice the case, but Fleming would not approve, and that’s a fact.’
She laughed, got up onto one elbow and then slunk across him, sitting astride him and looking down into his face, her long hair just skimming over his chest. ‘What’s it worth then?’
He laughed too, seized hold of her and flipped her over. ‘Let me show you!’
Patrick jumped when his phone rang in the small hours. He swore. It took him several seconds – including a moment to ease apart from Shona, who was asleep, her arm over his chest – before he found the instrument. He jabbed twice at the button to answer before the call connected.
‘Wilkins.’
‘Dimity, sir. I’ve had a call from uniform – Sue – she’s out on Amforth Street with Barry.’
‘Yes?’
‘Someone’s jumped from one of the buildings, looks like. Body’s a youngish guy – mid-twenties maybe. I’m on my way there directly.’
‘Right.’ Patrick was sitting up properly now, and Shona was stirring, rubbing her eyes. ‘I’ll be right there.’
Shona sat up as he dragged on his boxers and trousers.
‘Body,’ he said. ‘Suicide maybe? Jumped off a building in town. Feel free to stay. Help yourself to breakfast.’
She shook her head. ‘You’re kidding, right? I’m coming too.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll follow on at a discreet distance. No one will know I was with you when the call came through.’
They’d already got the area around the body cordoned off when Patrick arrived, and the CSIs were on the scene. He put on the white overalls he was handed and spotted Dim Dimity. He might have a face mask on, but Patrick would know those judging eyes anywhere.
‘What have you got?’ he said, striding over. He glanced at the body. The guy had been tall and slender. On impact, his head had been forced to an awkward angle and his limbs splayed unnaturally. Other than the blood seeping from his nose and eyes there was very little mess.
‘No one saw him jump as far as we know,’ Dimity said. ‘He was found by a couple on their way back from a club in town.’ He nodded behind him to a pair of civilians outside the cordon. They stood close together, huddled and shivering, and were talking to a uniformed officer. The shaking was probably down to shock, but the night was so cold it wouldn’t be helping. Wilkins was stamping his feet to keep warm himself and felt a wave of resentment towards the guy who’d jumped.
‘Okay,’ he said to Dimity. ‘I’ll talk to the couple in a moment. Do we know who the jumper was?’
Dimity nodded. ‘The CSIs have found all his documents in a wallet he had in his pocket. He’s—’
‘What the hell’s she doing here?’ At that moment Patrick had spotted someone else at the cordon, pulling on white overalls like his. Tara Thorpe was not required. How did she even know what had happened?
‘I called her, sir.’ Dimity’s eyes were impassive. ‘It was just after I called you that the CSIs found the man’s ID. The guy who jumped is Christian Beatty.’
The name rang a bell. Patrick felt his heart rate ramp up as he made the connection.
‘He was one of the “Acolytes” Ralph Cairncross associated with, sir,’ Dimity said. Was it Patrick’s imagination or could he see a glimmer of triumph in the detective constable’s eyes? ‘If I remember rightly from DC Thorpe’s notes, he was a professional model. Given her involvement investigating the possible interconnectedness of the previous two deaths, I thought I should call her too.’
And Patrick could hardly reprimand him for that without looking completely unprofessional. His mind spun.
On the face of it, here was one more fatality where no one else was involved. Maybe suicide, maybe misadventure. But with the others, it was bound to renew the interest in the whole Cairncross nonsense. It would make his new DC’s theories look more credible – and dilute his power over what she did on a day-to-day basis. She’d be the centre of attention all over again.
He watched as Tara pulled up her hood over her mask. But just as she was ready to duck under the cordon, another figure appeared behind her.
Shona.
Tara must have heard her approaching. She hesitated, one hand on the police tape, and looked round. There was a very long pause.
‘Shona,’ Patrick heard Tara say. ‘My, you managed to get here quickly.’
Shona’s smile was cat-like. ‘You know us, Tara darling. Always with one ear to the ground and Not Now’s interests at heart. I’d never let a story like this go by. It’s my duty to pick up on anything newsworthy.’
Patrick remembered Shona saying that Tara had withheld information from Giles just before she’d left the magazine. His lover clearly wasn’t going to let her forget it. He smiled for a second, but he was uneasy too. Here were two parts of his life that were entangled in ways that could be unpredictable.
He made up his mind to look all the more carefully for damaging information on Tara that he could reasonably leak to Not Now – without getting found out.
Eighteen
Conflicting feelings fought for space in Tara’s head as she set off to investigate Christian Beatty’s death later that morning. By the end of her previous official investigation she’d been convinced a third party had been involved in both Cairncross and Everett’s deaths, but there had been nothing she could grab hold of. What had she missed? Could she have saved Christian Beatty’s life? The image of his body in its unnatural, disjointed position on the pavement filled her mind each time she dropped her guard. But the gnawing feeling of guilt was mixed with a rush of adrenaline and powerful sense of urgency. The deaths had to be linked. Just as with the others, the circumstances of this one mirrored one of the Cairncross books Dr Richardson had mentioned – On High. It was too much of a pattern. She needed to find the evidence to prove she was right before anyone else died. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. What if no one had seen anything? What if, once again, she was certain there’d been foul play but had no way of proving it? Why should this time be any different?
How long had she got before another Cairncross connection died? And how would they meet their end?
By fire? Suffocation?
She needed to think, and think fast.
Wilkins had gone off with Blake to view Beatty’s apartment and interview his family. Later in the morning they’d also look up his booker at the modelling agency he was signed to, if they could track him down on a Sunday. At least they’d get decent results, now Blake had finished with Hunter and was free to make sure of it. But given no o
ne was saying murder yet, that would only be a temporary state of affairs. He was likely to get called off to something more pressing at any moment, giving Wilkins free rein again.
She and Max were on door-to-door. Amforth Street – where Beatty had jumped – proved to be a washout. It was full of retail units, as well as pubs, which had all been closed by the time Beatty took his dive. There were a couple of first-floor flats opposite the building he’d climbed, but they had bathrooms at the rear, with opaque glass. Given the weather, it wasn’t surprising that the residents they spoke to had had their windows shut and curtains drawn. Neither of them had seen anything. It was lucky that it was the weekend; without that, she and Max probably wouldn’t have found anyone to talk to at all.
They moved on to Christian Beatty’s smart apartment block, complete with gym, roof terrace and courtyard gardens. There were CSIs present there, just as there had been at the scene of the jump. As they neared the flat that Beatty had occupied, Tara listened for Wilkins’ annoying drawl and Blake’s low rumble but couldn’t hear anything. Perhaps they’d already moved on. She wished she’d been able to look inside, and that she could be a fly on the wall at the interviews too. But there were compensations for going door-to-door. Family and work contacts might know a lot, but bystanders who glimpsed a victim’s day-to-day habits were valuable too. Outsiders sometimes saw things more clearly than close contacts with preconceived ideas.
She and Max spoke to Christian Beatty’s immediate neighbours first. They were already expecting disturbing news; the presence of CSIs tended to achieve that. The woman in the flat to the left was no help. She’d had a dinner party the night before and admitted her crowd had been rather noisy. As a result of considerable quantities of prosecco (borne out by the overflowing recycling crate in her kitchen), she’d gone to sleep soundly at around midnight. She said she used to pass the time of day with Christian, but she didn’t know him well enough to say if he’d been depressed, or troubled about anything. (‘Bloody good-looking guy. Can’t believe he’s gone, just like that. So weird.’)