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

by Clare Chase

  And my latest achievement seems to have stirred up a hornets’ nest. Not that I’m surprised.

  Oh, Tara – you and your fellow officers have been rushing around with about as much direction as a group of bluebottles batting themselves against a pane of glass. It looks as though your enquiries have been ratcheted up a level, but they’re not getting any more effective.

  And you disappoint me. Surely you’ve seen by now the kind of person Ralph was – yet you carry on unabated? If anything, your sense of urgency has increased.

  What do you mean by it? How can you not see that a man of his sort deserved to die?

  In truth, Tara, you’re trying my patience now – with your stupidity and your determination to find a ‘guilty’ party.

  I don’t feel guilty. I’ve done the world a service and now you know, well and truly, how evil Ralph was, you ought to feel the same and curtail your investigation. Maybe it’s because you were a journalist that you can’t let go. The story is more important to you than the morality.

  But for me, it’s all about what’s right and what’s wrong. The people whose fate I’m controlling are those who damage the world by their existence.

  And I’m beginning to think you qualify for that list, Tara.

  Maybe I’ll schedule you into my plans. What shall it be: fire, suffocation… electrocution?

  Choices, choices…

  Twenty-Six

  Instead of going straight to the station the next morning, Tara cycled to Pound Hill, where Tess Curtis had a flat. She’d had a message from Max that he’d managed to set her and Wilkins up with an appointment for nine that morning. She’d already been aware of Christian Beatty’s death, apparently, having heard it on the news. It had made national programmes as well as regional, thanks to his relative fame, as well as the link with night climbing. It always captured people’s imaginations.

  As Tara cycled up the river, she had to focus on not skidding over. Other bikes had made ridges in the snow, which made the going bumpy – a combination of compacted flakes that had turned to ice and patches where the fall was still deeper. After crossing the river at Jesus Lock, with the sound of the rushing weir just below her, she reached Chesterton Road, where mercifully the early rush-hour traffic had melted the snow. It meant she could turn her thoughts to work again, rather than self-preservation. Her mind had been full of the Acolytes after her interviews the previous day: Stephen Ross, who was either Ralph’s intellectual confidant or the runt of the group, depending on who you asked; Verity Hipkiss, desperate to keep her affair with Cairncross secret for the sake of her writing career; and Thom King, who hankered after Verity, yet remained the one group member she’d definitively friendzoned. Each of them with their own egos to protect; each fighting to stand out amongst their contemporaries.

  But she needed to switch focus now and run through everything she knew about the woman she and Wilkins were about to interview. She wanted to make sure she was primed. Wilkins would either find Cairncross’s PA charming, and get blinkered, or else go at her like a bull in a china shop. At least if Tara had the information she needed, fresh in her mind, she’d be able to leap in when she could.

  So, Tess Curtis had dropped in at the house on the Forty Foot Bank the night Ralph Cairncross had died. It had been impromptu from what Tara could gather, but not unusual or out of character. She was very dedicated and would bring Ralph anything he might need promptly, even if he hadn’t asked for it. According to the Acolyte Stephen Ross, she pretty much ran his life. But what Stephen put down to her professionalism, Verity Hipkiss attributed to jealousy and a desire to be included. She’d said Tess Curtis had a fear of missing out. And of course, if the rumours were true, and Tess and Ralph had once been lovers, she might have good cause to dislike Verity. And that might extend to the other Acolytes too. Before they turned up, perhaps she’d had a lot more of Ralph’s attention. Tara tried to imagine that being a desirable thing. Difficult. Still, there was no accounting for taste.

  She’d reached the top of Chesterton Road now – behind some queueing cars – and made to cycle straight across at the traffic lights, on to Northampton Street. The usual Monday morning jam meant the cold air was full of fumes, making clouds in front of her. Safely over, she cycled past the terrace of brick and timber-framed buildings on her left and the Museum of Cambridge on her right, through the exhaust haze, the red tail lights and orange indicators in the foreground of her view.

  After a short distance, she manoeuvred right, ready to cycle up Pound Hill, between the cheerful blue and white frontage of the Punter and the imposing red-brick bulk of Westminster theological college. It was slippery again on the side road. Tara gritted her teeth. The thought of spring was very appealing.

  Dr Richardson, the Cairncross expert, had mentioned Tess Curtis too. As well as bringing up the gossip about her and Ralph’s personal relationship, he’d said she might be the ‘T’ that his final book was dedicated to – the one where the hero’s death was caused by a snake…

  Tara thought of the dedication again: To T, who managed to escape unscathed. You are blessed indeed.

  What if that message, and the subject matter of the book, had got Tess Curtis thinking? What if she didn’t feel she had come out of her affair with Ralph undamaged? What was her life like now? Did she feel better or worse off after her boss’s death?

  Tara parked her bike opposite the modern block where Tess Curtis lived and smoothed down the dress she’d chosen to wear. It hadn’t been the most practical option, but she was on her bike more often than not and wearing trousers every day was boring.

  Curtis had chosen a flat very close to Ralph Cairncross’s home, Tara reflected. As she locked up, she wondered about the lamp that had almost killed him, sitting there, as it had been, in the unsecured family garage, just around the corner.

  Two minutes later, Wilkins arrived. He nodded to her as they approached the entry phone for the block together. It was impressive that he could convey ‘up yours’ with such a subtle gesture. A moment later, he pressed the button for Tess Curtis’s flat and announced himself when she answered.

  ‘Second floor. Up the stairs then turn left,’ the disembodied voice said. The tone was low and slightly husky. In the same moment there was a buzzing sound and the door Tara had been pushing against released, allowing them inside.

  Tara guessed Tess Curtis might be in her early forties. She was smartly dressed in well-cut black trousers, matching boxy jacket and a red cowl-neck top. Her hair was a rich dark brown and currently in a French pleat. Every inch of her looked classy, but her flat was tiny. Tara had noticed three doors off the hallway they’d entered by: one must be a bedroom and one a bathroom. The third led to where they were now, an open-plan living area, with kitchen and dining spaces, an IKEA-style work station and corner sofa. It might be small, but it was a hell of a lot warmer than her own cottage. Tara was hot in her wool flannel dress and knee-length boots. She slipped off her coat and the blazer she’d worn as an added layer and put them over the back of her chair. They’d been invited to sit at the dining table and had mugs of coffee and a plate of Choco Leibniz biscuits in front of them.

  Tara suddenly wondered if Ralph Cairncross had left Tess Curtis anything in his will. If the Acolytes were getting a large house – albeit in a remote area – she might feel slighted if she’d been overlooked after twenty years of hard work. She made a mental note to request a copy of the document, though given there was no confirmed murder investigation behind the enquiry, the authorities wouldn’t rush to respond. She’d have to wait, just like other members of the public.

  Wilkins did the job of going through their standard spiel. She was half listening to him (‘Purely routine, no real reason to suppose anyone is under threat…’ ‘Just a precaution…’ ‘Warning all Ralph Cairncross’s close connections…’) and half scanning the room. A bookcase to one side held what looked like the entire collection of Ralph Cairncross’s works, as well as numerous books about him. She noticed on
e by Dr Richardson – the expert she’d talked to. Tess Curtis’s job for Ralph had clearly meant more to her than just a wage packet at the end of the month – and it seemed to go beyond any affair she might have had with him too. She’d studied his work. Then again, that had probably been necessary for her to perform her role. If she’d been fielding questions from journalists about his latest publications, she’d need to have read them.

  Wilkins was on to alibis now. ‘Again, Ms Curtis,’ he said, ‘this is all routine. We’re asking the Acolytes and Ralph Cairncross’s family exactly the same questions, as a precaution.’

  Tess Curtis didn’t look fazed. Tara had the impression it would take a lot more than this to ruffle her. ‘In October, when Lucas Everett drowned, I was visiting my sister in Whitby,’ she said. She hadn’t needed to check her diary and was already scribbling the woman’s number on a scrap of paper. Was she a little too prepared? ‘And I was here at home on Saturday night. Jean de Florette was on television; it’s a film I’ve always wanted to watch.’

  Wilkins nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Tara noted everything down. At least they could check with the sister in Whitby, though a close family member didn’t hold that much weight as far as she was concerned. ‘We understand you called in to the house on the Forty Foot Bank briefly on the night Ralph Cairncross died,’ she said. ‘Was that at his request?’

  Tess Curtis laughed for a moment, but her elegant features displayed a look that spoke of irritation rather than amusement. ‘Very little that I did was “at Ralph’s request”.’ The look she gave Tara told her the woman thought she was being terribly naive. ‘That would imply he was a forward planner, which he wasn’t. I was the one who knew what he needed and when. He’d accuse me of fussing over the details, but without that, things tended to go awry. I went over that night to take him some papers that needed to be reviewed and returned by first thing the following day. I would have emailed them, but they required a signature and there was no printer or scanner at the house on the bank.’ She gave Tara a look. ‘Needless to say, it wasn’t the first time I’d reminded him about them. In fact, I gave them to him, with full instructions, before I left his office that afternoon.’ Her jaw was tight. ‘But I knew what he was like. I went back to check later on and found they were still sitting there on his desk, unsigned. So I drove over with them. Believe you me, I almost didn’t. But I knew if I left them for him to sign when he got back he’d never get round to it. He’d be as drunk as a lord on his return, and then spend most of the next day sleeping it off.’ Tara was impressed she could contain her annoyance. ‘He used to do it on purpose, you know,’ she said, after she’d taken a deep breath. ‘I mean, ignore my instructions because he didn’t like to be fussed over – or so he said. But on reflection, I think it was because it amused him to keep me running around. I don’t much miss the work. I’m PA to Professor Douglas Trent-Purvis now. It’s a better role.’

  Though Cairncross clearly hadn’t set the bar very high. ‘Where was Ralph’s office?’ Tara asked.

  ‘At his home. If you want to check, you can ask Philippa. I came nose to nose with her on my way in that day. You can access the office space without going through the house, though. It has a separate door.’

  Just as well. If Tess Curtis and Ralph had been lovers, she couldn’t imagine constant interaction between her, Sadie and Philippa Cairncross would have made for a relaxed atmosphere. But had they been? It was hearsay so far.

  ‘Your role must have been hard work,’ Tara said. ‘But I gather Ralph very much valued your contribution.’ She watched as the woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Or at least, someone suggested you were the subject of the dedication in his final book.’

  ‘Ah.’ Tess Curtis’s smile was as cold as the air outside. ‘I have heard people expound that theory, but no – it wasn’t me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I had it from the horse’s mouth.’

  ‘The T was for Thom, then?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. The book was for Letty. Letitia – one of the Acolytes. She died – she was only eighteen. She’d started her degree here early.’

  ‘We’d heard about her,’ Wilkins said. ‘But why T?’

  Tess Curtis rolled her eyes. ‘Titty. That’s what Ralph used to call her. It’s an old-fashioned shortening for Letitia. As you can imagine, it’s seldom used these days – but Ralph being Ralph…’

  She let the sentence hang.

  ‘He’d slept with her?’ Wilkins said.

  Tess Curtis frowned. ‘Letty was an innocent; whether she fell for his tactics, I’m not sure. But I’d imagine he tried his hardest to break down her defences. When he wrote about her escaping unscathed, I’m not sure if he meant escaping him, or escaping old age – but either way he meant through death.’

  Tara’s disgust at the dead man manifested itself as a crawling sensation across her skin. Wilkins’ lip curled. For once, she suspected they were experiencing the same emotion.

  ‘He did dedicate a book to me once,’ Tess Curtis said, her tone brittle. ‘If you look through his works you can track his changing tastes. A book for Sadie, a book for me, then books for a number of others, ending in Letty. The one he was writing when he died would have been to Verity, I’d imagine.’

  Tara remembered Sadie talking about her and Ralph’s pact. ‘We always agreed we wouldn’t tie each other down,’ Sadie had said, but she’d added that she’d been weak and given in to jealousy. Tara hadn’t quite appreciated the background at the time. She must have had years of pain as a result of her marriage. The Acolytes had taken Ralph away from her – both the ones that he’d had as lovers, and the ones he’d simply spent all his time with. Had Sadie really been at home in bed when her husband died? If she was guilty then Tess Curtis might be on her list of prospective victims too…

  ‘When Ralph dedicated one of his books to me, the critics worked it out,’ the woman said. ‘I was supposed to feel guilty, according to them, for replacing Sadie. She’d been having a rough ride.’ It was as though the woman had followed her thoughts.

  Tara wondered if that had been around the time Ralph Cairncross’s wife had been forced to give up her career. ‘I heard she’d been in a car crash,’ she said. ‘I presume the resulting injury meant she had to stop playing the flute. It sounds as though she suffered a great deal.’ She was being tactless on purpose; sometimes provoking someone could reveal a lot.

  ‘Ah, yes – the car crash,’ Tess Curtis said. But there was no guilt or discomfort in her voice. ‘I think they made that up.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It was the official explanation. Sadie went away – took longer than expected to return home – and came back with some kind of injury, sure. But from a car crash? She hadn’t taken her own car with her, and there was nothing in Ralph’s post about insurance. He dealt with all that side of things.’ And then she laughed. ‘Officially. In reality, of course, that meant I dealt with all that side of things. And if a car accident put a stop to her career, wouldn’t that have been reported at the time, in the arts press at least, to explain her retirement?’

  Now she mentioned it, Tara wondered why she hadn’t thought of that before. One up to Tess Curtis. ‘You think someone hurt her?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘If so, I don’t think it was Ralph. Wherever she went, he didn’t go with her. At the time I think she claimed she’d gone off to see a cousin or something.’

  Wilkins was shifting in his seat. He probably regarded her current line of questioning as gossip gathering. At least he hadn’t interrupted. She noticed he’d helped himself to a third biscuit.

  ‘Could I please use your bathroom before we leave?’ Tara asked, after a moment. Coffee and cold weather; a killer combination.

  ‘Be my guest. Door on the left as you face the front door.’

  She went out into the hallway and turned left as advised. After she’d been to the loo, she gave the room a once-over. She couldn’t help noticing the packet
of contraceptive pills on a shelf just below the bathroom cabinet as she washed her hands. She wondered who Tess Curtis’s current lover was. The affair Dr Richardson had referred to hadn’t lasted, she remembered. Though maybe she just kept taking them, so she was free to do what she liked, as and when.

  Back in the hallway, Tara looked at the coats. Tess Curtis must like clothes. Tara did herself, but there were limits. Tess had more than enough to cover every weather condition. She scanned the winter ones and caught her breath.

  There was a coat with a fur-lined hood.

  Not an uncommon design, and yet… She took out her phone and looked at the stills Megan Maloney had emailed the team from the CCTV footage outside Christian Beatty’s flat. It was impossible to tell for sure, but Tess Curtis’s coat did look very much like the one worn by the mystery visitor to the apartment block on Saturday night.

  And then she looked again at the figure in the photo. A glimpse of nose and chin. Both exactly like the features of the woman they’d just been interviewing.

  And yet Tess Curtis had said she’d been at home on Saturday night, watching Jean de Florette. Why the heck had she lied about that – if Tara was right and she had? She’d noticed the film in the listings herself. It had been over by ten or so. It hadn’t even spanned the time when Christian Beatty had died.

  Twenty-Seven

  Back in Tess Curtis’s living room, Wilkins was gathering his coat, ready to take his leave.

  Tara sat back down again. ‘What did you think of Jean de Florette in the end?’ she asked, smiling and raising her eyebrows in a look of mock innocence.

  The look reaped rewards. Tess Curtis’s expression turned wary. ‘Great,’ she said, but she said it uncertainly, and there was a pause before she answered. Tara had been worried she might be wrong – the CCTV film was pretty grainy – but Tess Curtis’s reaction told her otherwise.

  Tara took out her phone and showed her the image. As soon as confusion registered on the woman’s face, Tara put the phone on her lap, so Wilkins could see. She’d been able to feel his eyes on her as she’d asked her question.