Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  ‘I emailed, asking you to ring me.’ Nice to speak to you too, Giles. On the upside, his economical approach cut down the time she had to spend talking to him. ‘I heard you and Matt were out on the tiles last night,’ he went on, ‘so I’m guessing that’s the reason for your late start.’

  Telling him about the doll would shut him up, but that wasn’t going to happen. He’d want to put it up as breaking news on Not Now’s website. The publication was a monthly, and still sold unusually well in print, but Giles was making a nice lot from online advertising too. He needed to keep the website’s hit-rate high, so he’d leap at the chance to draw in the punters. The news of a death threat against Tara would work well as clickbait. But no, thank you very much.

  ‘I had a doctor’s appointment,’ she said. ‘I told you about it yesterday at the editorial meeting. I had a feeling at the time that you weren’t listening.’ She loved lying to Giles. He so deserved it.

  There was a pause. ‘I’m a busy man – these things escape me. Someone was probably telling me something important at the same time. Email me next time if you’ve got an appointment.’

  He was bound to forget he’d asked her to do that too. It was one Giles’s more positive traits.

  ‘Anyway,’ Tara said. ‘What’s up? I was just opening my laptop.’ Well, she would be, once she’d got downstairs. She slid out of bed and went out onto the landing, lifting the bunched-up foil as quietly as she could.

  ‘Interesting subject for you – only just come in,’ Giles said. ‘The word is, a body’s been found in the fellows’ garden at St Bede’s.’

  Giles loved a whiff of drama. Tara suspected the fact that this person was dead was far more interesting to him than who they’d been. She stepped round the marbles on the bottom two stairs and went into the kitchen.

  ‘So it was one of their staff then?’ she said.

  ‘Puzzlingly not, from what I can gather. Apparently the dead woman is a Samantha Seabrook, Professor of Childhood Inequality. She was attached to the Cambridge Institute for Social Studies and St Francis’s College.’

  Okay – so Professor Seabrook did sound like a fascinating person to write about. Maybe Giles’s motives were more genuine than usual. But then he added: ‘And there’s no question of natural causes. She was found drowned in the fountain, apparently. They’ve no idea who attacked her.’

  Tara’s legs felt as though they’d turned liquid. Cambridge wasn’t a big place. How likely was it to be coincidence that she’d received a death threat on the very same night as a murder? She was dimly conscious of the relish in Giles’s voice as she reached for the kettle. Tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder, she went to add enough water for a coffee.

  It wasn’t the first time Giles had asked her to write about a murder victim. She was well aware that the articles had led to a spike in sales and she was helping him make money off the back of someone else’s misery. But she also felt she was fighting the victim’s corner; she made it her mission to ensure they were remembered for themselves, not just for the way they’d been wiped out. All the same, it tended to feel like a compromise.

  ‘How horrible,’ she said after a moment. Her words sounded mechanical; her mouth felt dry. ‘Was she elderly?’

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  Very young for a professor – and far too young to die, whatever the cause.

  ‘She’d still packed a lot in,’ Giles said, as though reading her mind. ‘Her work would be enough for us to feature her, even if she’d died at home in her bed.’

  Tara took that with a pinch of salt. She spooned coffee into a one-cup cafetière.

  ‘And she’s got an interesting background too,’ he added. ‘Her father, Brian Seabrook, was given a knighthood last year. He’s a multimillionaire – made his money in publishing. And her mother’s dead, but she was an actress – Bella Seabrook – so your mother might have the low-down on her.’

  Tara was tempted to say that was a bit like assuming two people from Wales would know each other, but in truth, he was probably right. Acting was something of a small world, and her mother might well have useful background – acquired on the grapevine if not in person. Whether Tara wanted to go asking her for it was another matter. Their history still weighed heavy at times, but at least her mother had insisted on hanging on to her when her father had wanted her to have an abortion. They’d both been teenagers at the time, so Tara was supposed to make allowances.

  ‘And how certain is all this?’ she said. ‘Where did you get your information from?’ She didn’t want to go calling the institute where Samantha had worked unless she was sure of her facts.

  ‘Oh, it’s certain all right,’ Giles said. She could tell he was enjoying his privileged knowledge. ‘Matt’s already putting it up as breaking news on the website, but I want the full feature and in-depth stuff from you.’

  Matt. He was her one good friend on Not Now’s staff. His wry comments about their colleagues were all that kept her going sometimes.

  ‘Okay. And who filled you in on the details so quickly?’

  He gave a light laugh. ‘I’ve got contacts everywhere. You know that. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’

  God, he was annoying.

  ‘You’re safe to call the institute,’ he went on. ‘You might want to take your lead from them as to when it’s appropriate to contact the family though.’

  She was amazed he’d managed to think of that all on his own.

  After she’d rung off she finished making her coffee. It was no wonder the police hadn’t got back to her about the doll then. They’d be stretched with a murder on their hands. But when they came, they’d probably take it away. Steeling herself, she took it from its packet for a moment and photographed it using her phone. She wanted a record. Realistically, she’d need to investigate it too. It was no use assuming someone else would do a proper job.

  Once she’d finished her coffee she went to shower. She’d been wearing the same clothes for over twenty-four hours and it was good to shed them. But time in the bathroom meant time to think…

  She stared at the cracked green tiles through the fragmented jets of water. This woman, Samantha Seabrook, ought to have had everything ahead of her. And she’d been researching social injustice – her findings would have made a real a difference. How dare someone take her life away? And who were these bastards who lived in the shadows and went around terrorising people? Tara reached for the shampoo bottle. As she rubbed soap suds hard into her scalp she took herself in hand. She’d won an award for the second article she’d written on a murder victim. She rinsed her hair clean. The fact was, she was more than capable of doing a decent job. Now she was going to do her damnedest to represent Samantha Seabrook’s life properly.

  And besides, she desperately needed something unrelated to focus on, alongside trying to work out who wanted to do her harm. All the same, it was pretty bloody ironic to use reporting on a murdered woman as therapy.

  Dressed and dry, she was just going to her laptop when there was a rap at the door. She went to the sitting room window to check on the caller. A man, somewhere in his thirties, Tara guessed – medium-height, in a well-cut suit. It contrasted with his dishevelled brown hair, stubbly chin and his tie, which looked as though it had been put on in a hurry. Possibly in the dark, in fact. She’d kept herself mostly hidden behind one of the curtains but he spotted her in a fraction of a second. He raised a hand and smiled – accentuating a collection of laughter lines – and dug in his pocket.

  It was four years since she’d seen a warrant card. The one he pressed up against the window looked all right. Beyond him she could see a mother walking her kids out on the common, urging a toddler along whilst she tried to steer a pushchair round a group of truculent-looking swans. Just beyond them, the poll cattle that grazed the meadows looked on as they chewed lazily on the grass. All of life went past her window – from carefree people to those who were down on their luck. People who’d seen the worst of life, a
nd perhaps those who’d been sent way off course because of it.

  The man on the doorstep stood well back when she went to open the door. ‘Detective Inspector Blake,’ he said. ‘I’m here about your call last night. You reported that you’d been followed, and that you’d received a hand-delivered package when you got home: a doll with a threatening note. If you want to close the door and call the station to check, I’ll understand.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said, stepping back.

  ‘Thanks.’ DI Blake walked into the hallway. ‘I’d like to take a look at the doll please.’

  ‘Sure.’ She led him through to the kitchen. Her breath shortened as she indicated the packet and its contents, which were still on the table. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’ She turned her back on him and her delivery before he replied.

  ‘Yes – fantastic – thank you. Black. No sugar.’ He sounded as though he’d be prepared to wrestle her for it. She put the kettle on again.

  He’d be examining the doll now.

  She shook out the old grounds from the cafetière and gave it a rinse, managing to keep her every move controlled. The days of dropping stuff and spilling things out of nerves were over. She’d learnt a long time ago that you couldn’t always eliminate what threatened you, yet somehow you had to find a way to carry on. That meant learning to cope – both practically and emotionally. You got power from knowing you hadn’t been beaten. And from learning how to protect yourself.

  She made the fresh pot of coffee and took it over to the table with a clean mug for him. The doll was there to his left, next to the note and the envelope. But she focused on his face instead. His expression had changed. His jaw was taut.

  ‘We always take something like this seriously,’ he said, as she pushed the cafetière’s plunger down, ‘but in this case there’s an extra dimension to what’s happened.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet – it’s already hitting some of the online news sites. A body was discovered this morning. That of an academic, Samantha Seabrook. She’d been drowned.’

  What was he about to say? She needed to prepare for it; news out of the blue was harder. She dropped into the seat opposite him.

  ‘Professor Seabrook was sent a doll, just like the one you received – we think a few days before she died.’ His brown eyes met hers. ‘There was a note with it. It said “This is a warning”. It looks as though it was the precursor to yours.’

  Tara felt her skin prickle. For just a second, tiny sparks of light flickered in her peripheral vision.

  DI Blake was watching her – well, of course he was. She sat up straight. She’d got no intention of buckling in front of a stranger – or anyone else for that matter. At least he’d told her outright; he must think she could take it. ‘I understand.’ Her voice was steady. ‘I’m a journalist – I’m going to be writing about Professor Seabrook. I guess I might find out more about what links us first-hand.’

  DI Blake’s eyes were on hers. He looked curious. ‘I guess you might. We’ll need to talk more about that. But first, I have some questions.’

  Five

  Blake headed straight back to the station for a briefing after he’d left Tara Thorpe, his mind full of their meeting. She wasn’t quite like anyone else he’d ever met. He’d looked up her background before he’d gone to see her. It made him wonder what on earth she was doing, living out on the common with only cattle for company. He’d imagined she’d want the comfort of crowds, but he’d been way off the mark there. Understanding her might help him keep one step ahead of her would-be killer. Maybe he’d need to keep one step ahead of her too, if he could.

  Now he was sitting between his sergeants, Patrick Wilkins and Emma Marshall, listening to his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Karen Fleming. He was finding it difficult to focus. Operating as a team was essential, of course. It was just that it was hard to switch off the private information sifting he was doing in his head. He shifted in his seat and made a conscious effort to tune in. At least the briefing would be short and to the point; Fleming was on a mission to run the tightest ship in policing history, with half an eye on the victims and half on her own career. Her focus meant she spent most of her time behind a desk or schmoozing the management at drinks parties. Blake was in two minds about whether he wanted to take the next step and fill her shoes when she was inevitably promoted. He often wished he could control the investigations he worked on, but Fleming was welcome to the rest of it.

  Unfortunately, the DCI’s desire to curry favour with those in power meant she watched her team like a hawk too. He’d seen her glance at his hair and tie as he’d taken his seat. She’d given him a look and raised an eyebrow. Wilkins next to him was smart as a politician on polling day, which didn’t help. It wasn’t that Blake couldn’t comb his hair; he just didn’t feel like it. Seeing Fleming’s face confirmed his opposition to the idea.

  Karen Fleming’s own hair was perfectly in place, though the black dye and the spiky style she wore it in were a bit unconventional for the chief super’s tastes. As for her designer clothes, Blake occasionally wondered if she had some sort of private income. His own suits were the real deal too, but only because his sister worked in fashion design. He wore them to please her.

  ‘Sir Brian Seabrook, the professor’s father, has been informed of his daughter’s death,’ Fleming was saying. ‘Samantha Seabrook’s mother died some years ago. Sir Brian is based up the road, north of Ely. The local police are with him at the moment. Going forward, I’ve assigned Kirsty Crowther as family liaison officer.’ She put her shoulders back. ‘We don’t have much information from Sir Brian as yet – he’s completely flattened by all this as you can imagine – but we do have the name of a boyfriend. Apparently Samantha Seabrook had been seeing a man called Dieter Gartner on and off for the last couple of years. Sir Brian says he’s a university lecturer based in Germany and believes that’s where he is now. He’s not sure when they saw each other last, and he doesn’t know which institution Dr Gartner is based at. It turns out that there’s more than one academic with that name.’

  Blake turned to Wilkins. ‘Do some digging please, Patrick.’

  He nodded. ‘Will do, boss.’

  ‘So let’s turn our attention to Tara Thorpe – the journalist who was sent a doll, just as Professor Seabrook was.’ Fleming met Blake’s eye. ‘What’s the story there?’

  Blake explained the events Tara Thorpe had relayed to him. ‘It’s not the first time she’s had anonymous mail,’ he said. ‘Her mother’s the actress, Lydia Thorpe. When Tara was a teenager someone with an interest in the mother started stalking her instead. They look a bit alike and Tara was easier to get at. She was followed and sent a series of packages containing substances that looked ominous but turned out to be harmless.’ If you ignored the emotional impact, anyway. ‘Some of them were pretty sick though; one contained hundreds of dead bees. On top of that they killed her cat, then wrote to tell her where to find its body. All in all they made her life a misery for a year and a half. Much longer probably; they were never caught.’ She must have been waiting for the next incident for months before she finally decided they’d given up. It sounded like a particularly cruel campaign. Blake wondered again what kind of person it had turned Tara Thorpe into.

  ‘D’you think there’s any connection between her previous stalker and the current case?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ According to the notes he’d read, the investigating officer on the old case was convinced he’d identified the perpetrator; he just didn’t have enough evidence to make anything stick. Blake had done some digging and found that if he’d been right the person responsible was now dead. Right or wrong, it didn’t alter his conclusion. ‘The impetus behind the approaches appears quite different and it’s ten years between the two. All the same, I’ll ask for one of the psychologists’ take on it. But either way I’m still not sure it’s entirely a coincidence. Perhaps Samantha Seabrook’s killer knows Tara Thorpe’
s background and picked her thinking she’d be all the more vulnerable to their intimidation?’

  Fleming nodded. ‘It sounds possible.’

  ‘But if so I think they miscalculated.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Four years ago, Tara Thorpe gave a guy who was following her a black eye and broke one of his fingers. Turned out he was another journalist, trying to pinch a story she was after. He dropped the assault charges – officially when he heard about her background. Made himself out to be a humane man who understood why she’d lashed out – I think he gave up when he realised the publicity would do him more harm than good. His tactics were pretty low. Anyway, it seems Tara Thorpe took steps to get some control back in her life after she was first stalked, self-defence classes included.’ The rumour was that an ex-cop had taught her. Some guy called Paul Kemp. From asking around, Blake had the impression he’d resigned from the force before he was pushed.

  ‘D’you think she gets tooled up before she goes out?’ someone at the back said, and there was a ripple of laughter.

  Fleming’s eyes were fiery. ‘There’s nothing to joke about here.’

  The room was instantly quiet again.

  ‘She might need reining in,’ Fleming went on. ‘We all know fighting back often puts you in more danger. If she lashes out then our killer probably will too. And we certainly can’t be seen to encourage vigilantism.’

  All fine, textbook stuff. Blake wondered how Fleming would react if she received a death threat. But he was worried too. Tara Thorpe might take risks. And what if she suspected the wrong person again?

  ‘I’ll ask Pam to talk to her,’ Fleming said. ‘She can warn her about the consequences of carrying anything that could be seen as an improvised weapon. We don’t want her taking matters into her own hands.’