Murder in the Fens: An utterly gripping English cozy mystery novel (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 4)

by Clare Chase

  The idea of him listening to Julie, fighting for her life, left Tara with a mental film clip she’d never be able to erase.

  ‘You say those scenarios fit with Gilmour’s profile on paper?’ Fleming sipped a coffee from a tiny white cup. Tara wondered how she could stomach anything – even coffee – whilst they were discussing something so horrific. But as Fleming herself would say, you had to compartmentalise to be effective. Tara hadn’t quite mastered the art yet. She wondered what Blake felt.

  The DI nodded. He was standing now. ‘The reality doesn’t match up. Gilmour was detached in the interview. I’d expect a lot more emotion from someone who’s lost the object of their obsession – whether he killed her or not.’ As Tara watched he went absolutely still, his jaw taut. ‘He’s still a potential killer in my eyes, but he comes across as a psychopath.’

  Tara felt a chill creep over her skin. Of course, you could have those sort of tendencies without ever resorting to murder. She’d read an article not long ago that suggested psychopaths did especially well in certain careers. It hadn’t pleased her to find that two of the ones she’d worked in so far were mentioned: the police and journalism. For law enforcers it was the psychopath’s ability to do an intense and dangerous job whilst staying calm that benefitted them. She immediately thought of Fleming again. Let it go… And for journalists it was the way psychopaths could turn on the charm, coupled with a ruthless and focused streak, that made the difference.

  ‘The story about this other student, John, whom Gilmour supposedly saw Julie kissing, sounds thin too. Didn’t know his surname, didn’t know the name of the girlfriend who would supposedly be so upset with Julie if the truth came out.’

  ‘Julie doesn’t come across as the sort to be swayed by that kind of threat anyway,’ Tara said. She’d been made of sterner stuff, by the sound of things.

  ‘I agree. It’ll be hard to disprove Gilmour’s story – given the lack of details to check – but I want people on it. And I need Bella’s statement.’ Blake had been pacing the room, but now he stopped. ‘I’d like to know why the hell she didn’t report Gilmour’s reappearance as we asked her to – if they were really together last night. And I want to meet her anyway; her relationship with Julie warrants further inspection.’

  ‘It’s possible she and Gilmour worked together to kill Julie.’ Fleming put her cup down on the table next to her.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Blake’s expression was weary. Tara guessed he’d worked that one out for himself.

  ‘So, Megan, you’re with me for the interview with Bella Chadwick. Jez?’

  Tara watched her fellow DC raise his blue eyes to Blake’s. ‘Boss?’

  ‘I want you to get over to Atterton Road. See if you can find any neighbours who saw or heard Gilmour on Saturday evening or overnight. It’s a relatively quiet street. If any of them noticed he had a visitor – or that he went off for a drive in the small hours – we’d have grounds to arrest him and search his brother’s vehicle.’

  Tara saw him glance at Fleming for a moment and she nodded her approval. It made sense. Gilmour had said he’d been alone and that he’d stayed in. Catching him out in a lie would certainly leave him with some explaining to do.

  Blake strode over to stand between her and Max’s desks now. ‘I want you two to visit Sir Alistair Lockwood at the Master’s Lodge at St Oswald’s. The picture of the cat seemed like a side issue until we interviewed Gilmour. Even now, it might not be relevant, but the fact that Julie was on the march against Lockwood’s Agrochemicals is another link between her and the master. I want to know how Julie got the photo of the statue and how well the master knows his students. Dig and see if anything smells off.’ His eyes flicked to Tara’s as he finished his last sentence. She hadn’t left her journalist’s reputation behind. Max was the polite face of policing, getting answers by lulling their interviewees into a false sense of security. He was so nice they got caught out when he tied them in knots. And she – she laid traps and snares. She knew her gender still meant she got away with asking questions that sounded like nosiness too. She hated the fact that certain male interviewees seemed to find her deep interest in the minutiae of their lives entirely understandable. But the fact that they seldom questioned her – or took her all that seriously – had its benefits. She suspected Alistair Lockwood wouldn’t be so easily fooled though. You didn’t make billions without having your head screwed on and your eyes wide open. CEO had been high on the list of jobs for psychopaths too. They ought to be evenly matched…

  As she nodded she noticed Jez behind the DI, getting ready to leave the room. His eyes were on them both. When he realised she’d caught him staring he gave her a grin. She grinned back, causing Blake to turn and glance behind him. ‘Glad you two are getting on so well,’ he said.

  There was just a hint of resentment in his tone, and that made Tara smile again.

  Twenty

  The Master’s Lodge at St Oswald’s, huge, imposing and shrouded in mist, looked like the perfect setting for a ghost story. Tara and Max had parked on the gravel drive, next to a Mercedes E-Class and an Aston Martin. The Gothic-looking building was set in spacious grounds, away from the noise and hubbub of the main college. It was topped off with tall chimneys and crenellations and its mullioned windows were set well back in their surrounds. For a second, as they approached the house, Tara thought she caught movement in one of them. She stared at the dark glass, but everything was still now. The place was distancing. No one could doubt the occupant’s position of power. Whoever had designed the place had clearly wanted to ensure that each successive master was revered – and maybe feared, too. She wondered if new post holders were ever dismayed at having to move into such a forbidding-looking place. But perhaps that hadn’t been the case with Sir Alistair. His family’s unusual heirloom seemed to fit the style of the residence. Both the lodge and the cat said ‘keep back – we’ll defend our territory.’

  They rapped a lion’s head knocker on the dark, heavily varnished oak front door. As they waited, Tara noticed a stone grotesque over the lintel: a snarling beast that she couldn’t identify. Half a minute passed before a woman answered. If she’d been at the other end of the house it would have taken her that long to reach them. She had silver hair, streaked with strands of iron-grey, swept up into a French pleat. Tara tried to judge her age. Somewhere in her fifties? She was dressed in an impeccable 1930s-style suit – up-to-the-minute retro, rather than old-fashioned. She looked like someone who’d throw on a fox fur at a moment’s notice. Tara wondered how much the suit had cost.

  They introduced themselves and showed their badges.

  The woman didn’t smile or hold out a hand. ‘I’m Lady Lockwood – Sir Alistair’s wife. He’s just finished a conference call for Lockwood’s, so I can take you to him.’

  Tara had googled the family on their journey over. Lady Veronica Lockwood was a virtuoso harpist, no less well-known than her husband. Tara wondered if he would be more friendly than she was.

  The hallway they crossed was cavernous and panelled in dark wood. They followed the woman up a wide flight of stairs and along a shadowy corridor. Through a doorway Tara could see an upstairs sitting room, occupied by a woman who might be around her age. The stranger glanced at them for a moment before looking quickly away. Was it her movement Tara had detected as they walked up the drive? The windows in the room faced the right way.

  ‘Give me a moment, please.’ Lady Lockwood went ahead of them through an open door and shut it behind her.

  A minute later, she reopened it and ushered them into a large study. As they followed her inside, Tara saw a man she recognised as Sir Alistair, thanks to the internet research she’d done. There was a younger man next to him.

  Tara was slightly ahead of Max and the master put his hand out to her first, turning to the DS a moment later. ‘Welcome. My wife has explained who you are.’ His handshake was warm and firm. She could feel the strength of character behind it, but also his physical strength. ‘I�
�m devastated to hear about our student, Julie Cooper. I assume she’s the reason you’re here.’ He shook his large head. ‘To be robbed of her future so young. It’s unthinkable.’

  His tone was sincere, but Tara was sure he’d be able to perform in any situation life threw at him. You couldn’t be the figurehead of a company like his – or of an institution like St Oswald’s – without unshakable PR skills. Calling Julie ‘our student’ made it clear he was speaking for the college, rather than himself. Did he know Julie had protested against his firm? Underneath his smooth façade his feelings towards her might have been far from friendly.

  Sir Alistair turned towards the man who was by his side, standing rigid next to a mahogany work table. ‘This is my son, Douglas – second in command at Lockwood’s.’

  He looked around Tara’s age – early to mid-thirties maybe? – with smooth chestnut hair, dark-rimmed glasses and a tidy suit.

  He nodded. ‘I was here for the conference call.’

  ‘It must be hard to fit everything in,’ Tara said. She wondered how much of Sir Alistair’s time St Oswald’s took up.

  The master nodded. ‘It can be. I’m meant to devote half a working week to the college. But of course, with my background I’m used to working round the clock as required. It’s part of the job when you’re head of a company, and part of the thrill. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  He motioned for each of them – including his family members – to take seats round the large table. Party time.

  ‘Is it common for St Oswald’s to choose industrialists for the role of master?’ Max asked.

  Tara had wondered about that too. The protest in town couldn’t have made life any easier for the college’s PR people.

  ‘It’s a tradition of this particular college. Every other master is someone with an academic background who has excelled in business. We alternate with figureheads who’ve stayed in academia.’ He smiled for a moment. ‘St Oswald’s has a good reputation for science. It’s beneficial for the students to see someone who has used their knowledge in business. But also, of course, people coming in from industry tend to be quite adept at bringing new money into the college. We have good contacts and a few words in the right ears can reap dividends. It encourages legacy giving, too. If you’ve been a master of a place, you feel a certain obligation to recognise the fact in your last will and testament.’ His smile was broader now. ‘I’m not blind to the fact, and I heartily approve of the fellows’ use of psychology.’

  ‘I expect the sergeant’s wondering about your appointment because it’s been controversial, darling.’ Veronica Lockwood’s tone was dry. She looked in Tara and Max’s direction. ‘I’ve had people accost me in the street to take me to task about my husband’s business.’

  Some people would have found that intimidating, but Tara reckoned Veronica was too tough for that.

  ‘Do you have any involvement in the firm at all?’ she asked.

  ‘None whatsoever. I come from a long line of writers, artists and musicians. I have my own career. Though I’m proud of our partnership.’ She looked at her husband. ‘I like the mingling of arts and science – a meeting of minds. And Alistair’s heritage is just as impressive as mine. He comes from generations of innovators. As for the company, the protesters fail to look at the big picture. Lockwood’s products ensure that crops flourish and millions are fed.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ Sir Alistair smiled again. ‘I’m sure the police don’t wish to be treated to a Lockwood-sponsored broadcast.’

  Douglas leant forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Mother’s right though.’

  ‘I know.’ Sir Alistair patted his son’s arm. ‘The protesters are young and passionate. Nine out of ten of them will realise the truth of what Veronica is saying by the time they reach thirty.’

  ‘Were you aware that Julie was amongst those who protested?’ Max’s tone was gentle.

  ‘I was.’ Sir Alistair looked at them from over the top of his steepled fingers. ‘Julie’s tutor, Lucien Balfour, brought the matter to my attention, because of the connection with my firm. She wasn’t the only St Oswald’s student involved. A girl called Bella Chadwick went along too. I don’t know any of the students well, but Lucien explained the background. It was clear that Julie’s beliefs were passionately held. There’s no point in trying to crush views like that. You have to provide information to change minds. And as for Bella, Lucien gave me the impression she only went along because Julie did. She wanted to be part of the gang. It’s not unusual, that fervent desire to belong. I can’t blame for her for being a typical youngster.’

  ‘So you advised Lucien Balfour to be lenient?’ Tara asked.

  Lockwood shook his head. ‘I just said the link with my company shouldn’t affect his actions. He should treat the matter just as he would any other.’

  Was it standard, then, to take no action at all? That seemed to be what Lucien had done. It had been a peaceful protest as far as Tara knew, but you’d think the carrying of knives might have provoked a response.

  ‘Did you ever chat to Julie one to one?’ Max’s tone was casual, but the master’s eyes widened all the same.

  ‘If you mean about the protest—’

  ‘I didn’t specifically. I wondered if you’d spoken to her enough to get an idea of her character?’

  Tara noticed a slight relaxation of his facial muscles.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I wondered if you’d ask and I looked at her photograph before you came, to make sure I was remembering the right person. I do make a point of passing the time of day with the students I bump into – in the dining hall perhaps, or out in the grounds. But I’m not good at putting faces to names and I don’t get to know any of them well.’

  Presumably he hadn’t looked her up after Balfour had told him she’d been on the protest, then. Assuming he was telling the truth. They needed to ask about the cat Julie had photographed next. She glanced at Max and he nodded for her to go ahead.

  ‘Sir Alistair, do you own a gold statue of a cat?’ She glanced round at each of them as she asked. The surprise was there, in all their eyes.

  It was the first time she’d seen the master frown. ‘Yes.’ He paused again. She guessed he liked to anticipate the way a conversation was going, and they’d robbed him of the chance. ‘Yes, I do. It was given to me by my father. A symbol of family unity, and his love for me and my brothers. We had one each. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Julie Cooper took some photographs of it. They were found on her phone.’

  The man sat back in his seat, the frown deepening. ‘How extraordinary.’ And then his focus was back on Tara. ‘How did you know it belonged to me?’

  ‘One of the shots showed the Lockwood coat of arms.’

  ‘But that’s on its base.’ Douglas sounded just as confused as his father.

  ‘We wondered how she got access to it. Do you have it with you here at the lodge?’ Max asked.

  ‘Oh yes. When I agreed to accept the role of master, I signed up to the standard tenure of eight years. We moved all of our personal belongings here. Our permanent home is occupied by tenants at the moment, though we have a pied-à-terre in London.’ Sir Alistair got up from his seat. ‘I’ll show you the room where the cat is kept.’

  Tara and Max followed him out onto the landing. Once again Tara saw the woman in the upstairs sitting room, watching them. They turned right and then through the last door on the left, into a relatively small room, lined with books. It had a display cabinet next to the window and in it sat the cat. It was quite small – only about the size of Sir Alistair’s hand.

  ‘There.’ He was still frowning. ‘When was the photograph taken?’

  Tara glanced at her notes. ‘Almost exactly a year ago.’ She gave the date.

  He nodded, though the frown was still present. ‘The Michaelmas term party. Each year we get the students in and ply them with cake. It’s a way of making ourselves available to them – after all, they’re the reason we’re here. I
would probably have chatted to Julie on that occasion, but she would have been one of many.’

  ‘I’m surprised the students were allowed in this room.’ Tara smiled.

  The master returned her grin. ‘I certainly didn’t intend for them to poke about upstairs, but with large numbers coming in, it’s hard to keep track of them all. Our main public reception rooms are downstairs, and the students always mill about in the kitchen too.’

  She nodded. ‘Can you think of why she might have wanted to photograph the cat?’

  The frown was back again. It was more intense this time, and it was a moment before he answered. ‘As we both know, Julie wasn’t a fan of my firm. Perhaps she resented the cat as a sign of my family’s wealth. I can’t deny that it’s rather ostentatious.’

  Tara could see that was possible, but Julie couldn’t have happened upon it by accident. What had she been doing, sneaking into this room? And if she’d simply been struck by the showiness of the statue, why examine it so closely? It was odd that she’d photographed the base. It would fit with her wanting to find out its value, as Jez had suggested. But not – Tara reckoned – in order to see if it was worth stealing. She’d had a prime opportunity to take it then and there if that had been her aim. The cat was small enough to fit into a handbag, or the backpack she’d had with her when she was killed.

  ‘Do you often hold student parties?’ Max asked.

  The smile was back now. ‘Once a year is as much as we can manage – logistically and in terms of the wear and tear on our nerves and the carpets. Shall we go back to my workroom now?’

  Back at his table, Sir Alistair picked up an invitation card and handed it to Max. ‘If it would help, you are welcome to drop in to this year’s Michaelmas student party. It’s tomorrow at five. Just turn up.’