Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  But there had to be more to it than that. Even the idea of his spontaneous vision filled him with horror. He closed his eyes tight for a second. He wished to God he could wipe it from his memory.

  The scene in front of him didn’t look like the result of uncontrolled anger. In fact, it reminded him of a canvas, its composition carefully thought out. That was his mother’s doing. Being brought up by a professor of art history had left its mark. He didn’t mention his family background much at work and his mother didn’t tell her chums about his job either. They didn’t see eye to eye on the best way to spend a working day, but they’d learnt to live with it.

  Thanks to her, the scene made Blake think of Millais’s Ophelia. It was partly the intense greens in front of him and the water that did it – not a river in this case but a fountain in the centre of the garden. But most especially it was the sense of regret. Ophelia in Millais’s painting was singing just before she drowned whereas the woman in front of him, slumped over the edge of the fountain, the bottom half of her body still quite dry, was very definitely dead already. But with both there was that aching feeling of a tragedy that might have been averted. The woman here in the garden, struggling alone, slipping from having a future to being beyond help… the idea gave him a sharp pain that stuck in his chest.

  One of her arms dangled in the fountain too. The other was bent at the elbow and rested on its stone edging. Unlike Ophelia, she hadn’t been driven to self-destruction; some bastard had made that call for her.

  Moving all over the picture in front of him were CSIs, operating efficiently, going about their work, all dressed head to toe in their white protective gear, just as he was.

  One stood photographing the woman’s body. The guy shifted position frequently, getting her from all angles. A second was videoing the woman and her surroundings. The garden was still caught in the shadows of early morning but there was enough light for their work.

  Blake was after every detail too; the only useful thing he could do now was to catch the person who’d done this. Cut off emotion and zone-in on the job in hand. He could already feel a hundred questions jostling in his mind.

  For a start, what kind of killer would choose this setting? The garden had a feeling of being totally separate: a high-walled haven for a very select few. The russet bricks kept the idyll hidden from the hoi polloi; luxurious for those who had access, distancing and hierarchical for those who didn’t. Blake had always thought that allowing such privileges for fellows whilst denying them to other hard-working staff was stupidly divisive. Cambridge was full of little rules and traditions that set people apart. He ought to know; he’d been brought up in the thick of it. But did that have any bearing on what had happened here?

  The choice of crime scene was certainly going to get the killer plenty of attention. The press wouldn’t bother disguising their satisfaction at its staginess. All around, the colours were intense: the deep greens of the late-summer foliage on the trees and shrubs, the hot pinks and intense blues of rock roses and cornflowers. The fragrant smell of grass and flowers filled the air. And then in the middle of it all the deathly pale skin of a drowned woman. As for the college fellows – well, they’d be asking each other questions. High table at formal hall would be a strained affair for a while to come. He wished he could be a fly on the wall. Who knew what might be revealed amongst the whispered sniping?

  The fellows each had a key to the gate. Ornate iron ones would have matched the garden’s style, but even in this rarefied place the twenty-first century had made its mark. It had been Professor Ernest Haverstock who’d found the murdered woman and he’d used an electronic key card to get in at – so he’d said – six that morning. And because of that modern digital arrangement, they’d been able to check.

  Blake walked over to the garden’s gateway, which was currently open, to view an area of lawn beyond. The aforementioned professor was sitting on a bench there, in the middle of the grass, being comforted by Jill, one of the PCs who’d been first on the scene. He was a frail-looking man with wispy white hair. He still clutched the copy of the Times Literary Supplement he’d been intending to read in what he’d probably imagined would be early morning tranquillity. Blake hadn’t been surprised when the St Bede’s security team had confirmed his time of entry. The guy didn’t have the air of a hardened killer.

  Both the garden and the grassland were college property, and the CCTV coverage wasn’t extensive. Still, it might yield something, and the location had at least made it easier to get the area locked down. The outside world rumbled on in the distance. Beyond the grass, Blake could see the rush-hour traffic queueing along Queen’s Road.

  That was Cambridge for you. He wouldn’t live anywhere else, but it was an odd city. Everything collided inside its compact boundaries: the ancient and the modern, the rare and the humdrum, the haves and the have-nots. And now, back in the garden, one of the most intensely beautiful scenes he’d ever witnessed was a backdrop to one of the most chilling.

  At that moment, the pathologist, Agneta Larsson, appeared in the garden’s gateway. She held up a gloved hand in greeting and raised her eyebrows from over the top of the face mask she wore. ‘So, Blake,’ she said, ‘when I saw the man sitting out there on the bench I thought for a moment I’d found my corpse. Then he opened his eyes. Gave me the fright of my life.’

  Blake managed a flicker of a smile. ‘He doesn’t look too chipper, does he? Jill’s called his doctor.’

  Agneta nodded. ‘Just as well.’ She turned towards the dead woman and Blake heard her sigh. He went to crouch by the body too. The smell of pond weed hit him as he got closer to the water.

  The victim was clothed all in black: a long-sleeved top, leggings of some kind and curious-looking shoes. She looked young – thirties at most.

  ‘You’re not going to breathe down my neck, are you?’ Agneta said, giving him a look.

  ‘That’s just exactly what I had in mind.’ He’d known her a long time. Been out with her, in fact, before he’d met his wife. He was glad they were still good friends at least.

  She was saved by one of the CSIs who came over to have a word. He stood to talk to them.

  ‘The zip pocket of her leggings contained a wallet with a couple of business cards in it,’ the woman said. ‘They show her to be Samantha Seabrook, Professor of Childhood Inequality at the Cambridge Institute for Social Studies. The name matches the University ID card that was also on her, and that’s got her photo on it.’

  Professor? She didn’t look anywhere near old enough. ‘Thanks. Any indication she was attached to St Bede’s?’

  The CSI shook her head. ‘None that we’ve found. She wasn’t carrying a key card for this place. She hadn’t got a phone on her, by the way. Maybe the killer took it.’

  Blake turned towards his detective sergeant, Emma Marshall, who had been talking to another of the CSIs. ‘Emma? Find out which college Professor Samantha Seabrook was attached to, would you?’

  ‘Boss.’ She walked over to the garden gateway and spoke to someone outside.

  If someone else had let the professor in, it hadn’t happened overnight. The security team at the college had already confirmed that no one had used a key card to enter the gardens between five thirty the previous evening and when Professor Haverstock had arrived. Other members of Blake’s team were checking out the seven fellows who’d visited the previous day. He was impatient to hear the results, but only so he could officially rule those visitors out.

  On the face of it, the last one could have let Samantha Seabrook in as a guest, either killing her or leaving her inside alive for whatever reason. But Blake had already abandoned that idea. At five thirty the previous day the heat had still been intense. The dead woman would have sweltered in the clothes she was wearing. He was putting his money on an illicit night-time visit. And if she hadn’t got in using a card…

  ‘Blake?’ Agneta’s voice brought him back to the here and now. She looked up at him from where she was kneeling, next t
o Samantha Seabrook’s body, her head cocked. ‘So you can probably guess what I’m going to say,’ she said. ‘First impression, asphyxia brought about by drowning. I hope you’re impressed.’

  ‘Overawed.’

  Her eyes gave away her smile. ‘Thank you. I’ll be able to confirm everything later, but I would guess that if she’d been drinking – or had taken anything – it hadn’t affected her much.’ She pointed to Samantha Seabrook’s hands. ‘She struggled hard to push herself up out of the water. Her palms are heavily abraded. I would say her attacker got her in just the position he or she wanted.’

  ‘I wonder how they achieved that?’ Blake said.

  Agneta’s eyes told him she had a theory. ‘Look here.’

  He moved so that he could see where she pointed, under the water. There, on the fountain’s base, he saw a pile of coins; maybe six or so – enough to have made the dead woman curious, if her killer had pointed them out to her.

  ‘It would fit if she’d crouched down to look,’ Agneta said. ‘My guess is her attacker was able to hold her from behind, in such a way that all she could do was try to shove her way up by bracing her hands on the fountain’s base. I don’t think she’d have been able to reach any part of the person who killed her.’

  Such careful planning.

  ‘Did you notice the pendant?’ Agneta asked.

  He bent closer to look. It was a crucifix, wound tightly round the woman’s throat. He watched the pathologist’s eyes. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘The marking under the chain makes me think it was twisted to and fro.’

  He could see where it had cut into her skin. He turned away for just a second, but then forced himself to face the scene again. The pendant would certainly carry Samantha Seabrook’s DNA, and maybe the killer’s too.

  As one, they glanced at the surface of the fountain. It was covered in floating hair. The perpetrator must have yanked at the professor’s scalp to control her movements and force her head under the water. ‘What about time of death?’ Blake asked.

  Agneta gave him a look. ‘Two thirty-seven and twenty seconds this morning.’

  ‘Blimey.’

  Once again, the ghost of a smile showed in the pathologist’s eyes. ‘Her watch ended up in the fountain and I guess it wasn’t waterproof. Of course, it might not have stopped instantly if the water took a while to seep in, so it could have been a little earlier. But the general estimate fits roughly with rigor too.’

  ‘She’s quite petite,’ Blake said.

  Agneta nodded. ‘It would have made her more vulnerable. And if the attack was from behind and entirely unexpected…’

  ‘The killer wouldn’t have had to be very strong?’

  Agneta nodded. ‘As you say. I should have more detail for you by late morning.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  A team was gathering now, ready to move the body. They looked like strangely clad aliens in that traditional place. Nearby, a blackbird sang. Blake’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. DS Patrick Wilkins. Mr Smooth himself. ‘Blake.’

  ‘Boss, I wanted to let you know we’ve spoken to the person who entered the garden at five thirty yesterday: the last official visitor we’ve got down before Professor Haverstock this morning.’

  ‘Good. What’s the news?’

  ‘It was a Dr Jenny Devlin. She came with two other members of the college’s academic staff. I’ve got their names. She says they closed the gate after them, both on the way in and on the way out. And they all left together without noticing anything unusual. I’ve managed to track down one of the other two as well, a Dr Harry Field, and his story matches hers. I’ll get on to the third, but—’

  ‘But it looks watertight.’ An unfortunate expression under the circumstances. ‘Thanks, Patrick.’ He rang off. It was as he’d thought. Leaving aside some kind of larger conspiracy, Samantha Seabrook couldn’t have come into the garden with the last group of legitimate visitors. No – it had to have been an illicit night-time visit. He walked over to DS Emma Marshall.

  ‘Professor Seabrook was a fellow of St Francis’s College,’ she said when he got closer.

  ‘Thanks.’ He stared up at the garden’s high brick walls and she followed his gaze. They were worn, with mortar missing in several places. ‘Not an easy climb,’ Blake said, ‘but not impossible. Besides, there’s no other way in, assuming Samantha Seabrook and her killer weren’t winched down by helicopter.’

  Emma nodded. ‘And apropos of that, one of the CSIs has just found a pair of thought-provoking gloves.’

  Blake raised an eyebrow. Emma nodded towards a white-suited woman holding an evidence bag and he went over to her.

  ‘Fingerless climbing gloves with grips on the palms,’ she said when he asked, opening the bag for him to see.

  ‘They look small enough to have been the victim’s.’

  She nodded. ‘I’d say so. We can do more checks on them.’

  Blake turned back to Emma. ‘Let’s go and look at the outside walls.’

  But as they turned towards the garden’s exit, they had to pause. Two men blocked the way. They were carrying Samantha Seabrook’s body on a stretcher, under a white cover. He could see from their posture how light she was. What were her family doing now? They’d probably be waking up, going to get themselves a coffee perhaps, fetching the post from their doormat. They’d have no idea that their lives were about to be shattered forever by the worst possible news. Unless of course one of them had been involved…

  He shook himself. The exit was clear now and, after catching Emma’s eye, they followed the stretcher bearers out.

  Blake made sure he and his DS stood a short distance away from the garden walls, but the dry grass around the perimeter didn’t look as though it would yield any footprints. The CSIs had also had news of the gloves and were skirting the walls too. Like Blake, they focused on the areas where the mortar was most damaged. The small resulting gaps between the bricks would have made the climb slightly easier – all the same, Blake guessed Samantha Seabrook and whoever had been with her must have had practice. The walls had to be fifteen feet high.

  And even then, in the ordinary way, it would be nigh on impossible not to scrape yourself as you scaled such an obstacle. Except if you were dressed from head to toe in durable sports gear, of course. Samantha might still have grazed her fingertips as she’d climbed over but he was willing to bet her killer would have chosen a different style of glove: one that covered his or her whole hand. If they’d been wearing kit that otherwise mirrored Samantha Seabrook’s they could have cut the risk of leaving DNA evidence behind to a minimum – and all without making their victim suspicious… Blake shivered in spite of the warm morning air.

  Their perpetrator was clever; they probably thought they were quite secure. The chilly unease Blake had felt was replaced by a hot determination. We’re coming to get you, he made the mental vow. You might think you’re safe, but I’m damned if you’ll get away with this. You’d better watch your back.

  Four

  Tara watched the dawn creep in. She’d spent the first part of the night sitting rigid in her chair, straining to hear any unfamiliar sounds. She’d sat in the dark with the curtains drawn back so that she could see the common. Occasionally a late passer-by had crossed her view: a lone cyclist with a broken back light, and much later someone shuffling along, carrying a bag – a bent shadow. Probably a down and out. It took a while for thoughts that didn’t directly relate to self-preservation to crystallise. When they did, Tara focused on the note that had come with the doll.

  It was a warning. This is a warning.

  ‘This is a warning’ was clear enough. The doll sure as hell looked like one. But what about the other part of the message? Was the sender someone from her past, telling her they were back – referring to warnings they’d given her previously? But the gap after last time was huge, and the style and approach were different.

  No – more likely this was someone new. But the question remained: wh
at did ‘It was a warning’ refer to? Had she missed something? Did the sender mean they’d made a previous attempt to intimidate her and she’d ignored it? And if so, was she running out of time to react in the way they wanted? Whatever that might be.

  She sat there, staring out at the dark, her mind working. She’d had to toughen up in her life – it was that or go under. But privately she had to admit she hadn’t achieved blasé yet. Surely she’d have picked up on any earlier message, even if it had been oblique?

  Maybe the note and the doll were the random act of someone who was totally irrational. That would make it worse. At least someone driven by logic ought eventually to become predictable.

  Her mind turned to who might be responsible. What could she tell about the figure on the common? Precious little. They were agile – probably somewhere between their late teens and middle age. Medium height, medium build and as far as she was concerned, faceless. Great.

  As a journalist she’d upset the occasional person – it went with the territory. And some people felt the publication she worked for, Not Now magazine, was edgy; it liked to irk people. Even she knew it was a bit obnoxious – but work was work and it was nice to eat. Besides, her career had had the odd hiccough; she was pretty glad she had any sort of employment. She tried to mitigate Not Now’s lower-quality content by doing a professional job. All the same, she didn’t mince her words. And then there’d been occasional tensions between her and other people in the profession. But it was four years since the only serious run-in she’d had. She couldn’t imagine the guy she’d crossed then would wait until now to get his own back. In any case, this threat was way beyond anything she could imagine resulting from her role.

  The thoughts hadn’t made her plan to sleep during daylight any more realistic. She lay down on the bed, her eyes dry and wide open, every muscle tensed and ready.

  But at last she must have dropped off – at least for a short time. Her mobile ringing jolted her back to consciousness, sending her heart thudding. She grabbed the phone from the bedside table and registered the time as she picked up. Ten fifteen. And the caller was her editor, and the owner of Not Now magazine. Perfect...