Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  At last the man who’d been on the phone came to the hatch. As soon as she’d explained who she was he called Professor da Souza.

  The institute head appeared a minute or two later. Tara watched him as he approached down the long corridor. He was a tall, strongly built man – around sixty at a guess, and aging well. He had tanned skin and wore dark trousers and a crisp white shirt. As he came closer she could see that its buttons strained a little across his middle; he was solid – powerful rather than plump. Overall he looked comfortable – as though he’d lived well and had always had just slightly more of everything than was advisable. But today, his expression was drawn.

  All the same, his grip was firm when he shook her hand. ‘My rooms are at the very top of the building,’ he said, after they’d introduced themselves. She knew from her research that he was originally from Brazil, but his accent hinted at an expensive private education in the UK. ‘We might as well go straight up. Normally I’d be able to introduce you to many more people who knew Samantha’ – she noticed a slight catch in his voice as he said her name – ‘but this place is deathly quiet in August.’ There was an awkward silence. ‘A lot of the staff take their holidays now, before the start of Michaelmas term.’

  ‘Michaelmas term’ to the university insiders; ‘autumn term’ to everyone else. Their footsteps sounded loud as they made their way along the empty corridor and up the stairs. It was a few minutes’ walk to their destination, but da Souza didn’t make small talk. Drawing alongside him, she saw his jaw was tense, and he brought his right hand up to rub his forehead more than once.

  As they entered the professor’s suite of rooms (one at the front for the absent institute secretary, and a palatial one at the back for him) she took in the rooftop views. Through a window to her right she could see the upper part of the university church, Great St Mary’s, and ahead of her, another window showed the awnings in the market square. She and the professor were very high up and the crowds below looked tiny. It was difficult not to think of how isolated they were. She watched da Souza’s strong arms as he put a capsule into his coffee machine and reached for a jug of milk from a small fridge.

  ‘It’s a beautiful office.’

  ‘Thank you. What about you yourself? Do you work at your magazine’s premises?’

  She shook her head. ‘I go in for meetings, but I’m mostly based at home. I’m by the river, so it’s nice and peaceful.’

  He nodded, and motioned for her to take a seat – there was a trio of plush velvet chairs in front of his desk, next to a coffee table. After a moment she had a coffee in front of her and permission to use her recorder. She hid it behind the milk jug in the hope that he’d forget all about it.

  ‘As you can imagine,’ he said, ‘we’re all still in a state of shock at the moment, but I’m glad that Not Now magazine has decided to cover Samantha’s life. She was always ready to push the cause of the institute and you’ll be introducing the topics she cared about to a new audience. Half the battle for us is to publicise our findings, to change the way people think.’

  He spoke as though he was reading from a script, but she didn’t believe for a moment that he was really that detached. He might be keeping himself in check for now, but she’d seen the emotion simmering just below the surface on their way upstairs. Her mission was to get under his skin so she could see what was hidden there and find out what he’d really thought of Samantha. Tara needed to see her through the eyes of the people she’d left behind. It was the closest she’d get to the truth.

  And beyond that lay the possibility that da Souza had been the professor’s killer… if she looked into his eyes and asked the right questions, would he be able to keep his secrets hidden?

  A thrill of fear ran through her, though she fought to stifle it. If she tricked him into giving himself away, he’d see the realisation in her eyes. He’d know she was an immediate danger to him. She was walking the thinnest of tightropes.

  But she owed it to Samantha to use everything she’d got to try to find out the truth.

  She relaxed her shoulders, leant forward and swallowed to moisten her dry mouth. She’d need to measure each word she spoke, but the groundwork was the same as ever. She had to get him to relax before she started to dig for the answers she really wanted. ‘It must be extraordinarily difficult for you,’ she said, ‘having to hold everyone else together as well as coping yourself. The circumstances are awful, but I’m glad we’ll have the chance to help further Professor Seabrook’s cause. Please – tell me what you’d like our readers to know about it.’

  Da Souza relaxed back in his chair at that. It was a good start. Interviewing was like tennis: you had to know when to keep a nice gentle rally going and when to employ the drop shot that would catch your opponent out. There was nothing more addictive than playing that game.

  She sipped her coffee and listened. Every so often she cut in to ask him for more detail and each time she did, da Souza’s answer came more readily. Before long he forgot his script and they were conversing more naturally.

  ‘It sounds as though Samantha was excellent at holding her own,’ Tara said, after da Souza had told her about a run-in she’d had with a politician at a public meeting.

  ‘Oh she was,’ the institute head said. ‘Even as a child.’ He was smiling, but she could see tears in his eyes now, too.

  Tara held her breath. She needed to react to that little revelation in the right way. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal, but all the same, she didn’t want to make him clam up by seeming overly interested. Bluffing would be best. ‘I think someone mentioned you’d known her for years,’ she said, frowning as though with the effort of trying to remember who. ‘You were family friends then?’

  Da Souza sighed. ‘Someone told you, did they? People often mention it.’ His tone was resentful. ‘Yes, that’s right. Her father and I were at Charterhouse together.’

  That they’d attended the same exclusive school didn’t come as a surprise, but the fact that they’d been contemporaries threw her off. ‘I’m sorry – I had no idea. To be honest I wouldn’t have said you looked remotely old enough.’ Hell. He’d feel she was buttering him up; in fact, the words had just slipped out. She knew from her research that Professor Seabrook’s father was seventy-five. She was relieved when the faintest smile flickered across da Souza’s face. ‘He was several years my senior, but we were in the same house.’

  ‘I see. I wonder if you could give me your opinion on something I’ve been wondering about then?’

  Da Souza’s eyes were friendly as they met hers. ‘Of course.’

  She was about to stray further into the more personal territory she needed to write about, to hook her readers. She was betting she could keep him on side though, if she was careful.

  ‘I noticed Professor Seabrook’s PhD thesis was on cash-rich, time-poor parents. I couldn’t help wondering if her choice of subject related to her own childhood? I know parents can have a tough time of it if they have to balance work and family life. Sir Brian and Bella Seabrook’s careers were so impressive – they must have been fantastic role models – but perhaps they weren’t around as much as Samantha would have liked?’ She gave him a hesitant smile. ‘But I might be putting two and two together and making five.’ She paused for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, my mother’s an actress, just as Bella Seabrook was. I didn’t see much of her as a child, and my father wasn’t around.’

  The professor leant forward and there was no pause before he answered. ‘That must have been hard on you.’ His eyes were sympathetic and then he sighed. ‘And your point’s probably fair. Brian was certainly away a lot. They had a home help who came in though. And when he was there he’d do anything for Samantha – that was never in doubt. And Bella’ – now he did hesitate for a moment – ‘Bella did what she could, until she died.’

  Tara nodded. ‘I’m sure.’ That pause before he spoke about Samantha’s mother had been interesting. ‘I gather Bella Seabrook was killed in some kind of acc
ident?’ she said.

  Da Souza stiffened suddenly. ‘That’s correct,’ he said.

  Tara took a breath. She’d have to pull back again if she didn’t want to lose him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I shouldn’t have brought it up. It must have been awful.’

  His expression was sad but the shuttered look on his face was receding again. ‘It’s all right.’

  She tried a different tack. ‘I wondered if Samantha’s ambition to work in the field of childhood inequality dated back as far as her own childhood?’

  Professor da Souza picked up his coffee cup again. His pupils were large, and his gaze distant, as though he was remembering. ‘It did; she told me so. Brian got interested in socialism at university and never let that go. He sent Samantha to the local school instead of getting her to board as he had.’ He shook his head. ‘It meant she saw children from all walks of life. She was aware of her privileged background and wanted to give something back. It mattered so much to her; she was certainly passionate about her work.’ He held his drink tightly, his knuckles white. ‘In fact, that word summed up her entire personality.’

  His voice was quiet, and unsteady. She noticed too that his eyes were no longer on hers. Why? Because he didn’t want her to see his tears? Or because he had something to hide? Tara took a slow sip of her coffee and paused whilst she mastered the flutter of nerves in her stomach. She needed to focus. There was more going on than just da Souza’s attachment to Samantha Seabrook. She’d been able to tell from his tone that he thought her father’s insistence on a local school had been an oddity. It was unexpected from a man who oversaw projects on inequality. Maybe he believed certain things in principle but not so much when they impinged on him or his friends. It meant she knew how to aim her next comment, anyway. ‘It seems surprising in a way that they opted against a boarding school,’ she said, ‘if her parents were so tied up with work.’

  Da Souza leant forward. His gaze was intense. ‘Exactly what I said at the time! But it was no-go. Brian’s principles won out.’

  It was interesting that Professor da Souza had been involved enough to make suggestions about Samantha’s schooling to Sir Brian. And if he knew the family that well, how had the others working at the institute felt when she’d suddenly landed a plum job there – to say nothing of her almost immediate promotion? There seemed no doubt that Samantha had been a top scholar, but all the same…

  ‘Would you like to talk to Brian, to find out more about Samantha’s family life for your article?’ da Souza asked, dragging her out of her thoughts.

  ‘That would be very useful.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m sure he’ll want to help. There’s almost nothing that will be of any consolation, but I know he’d like to pay tribute to her. I’ll give him your contact details, shall I? Then he can get in touch.’

  ‘That would be very kind – thank you. Do most people choose this field for the same reason Professor Seabrook did?’ she went on. ‘To give something back when they themselves have been so lucky?’

  Da Souza put his head on one side. ‘Her case certainly isn’t uncommon amongst the staff here. I’d say it’s a fairly even split between those with privileged backgrounds and those who’ve experienced the harsher side of life. The former want to improve the lives of those less fortunate than themselves, and the latter strive to give future generations better chances than they had.’ His expression was earnest. ‘We’re all keenly aware that people who fall into that category have overcome horrendous odds to get where they are today. It’s tremendously beneficial to have staff here from all kinds of backgrounds. It means we understand the people we’re trying to help, but also those in power who might change lives by adopting new policies.’

  It made sense, but categorising people like that sounded divisive and patronising. Even if da Souza only made the distinction in his head it had to affect the way he dealt with people. ‘It must take a lot of skill to get everyone working smoothly together,’ she said. ‘Is that difficult?’

  ‘It can be,’ da Souza said, with a wry smile. ‘Those who’ve been through troubles themselves tend to feel they’re best equipped to find solutions, so disagreements can become quite passionate at times.’

  How passionate? That was the question. Maybe her talk with Simon Askey, the other academic da Souza had put her on to, would shed some light on relationships at the institute. Da Souza had mentioned on the phone that morning that Askey and Samantha Seabrook had been working on a joint funding bid. He’d be a good person to talk to. His schedule meant she’d have to follow him back to the college he was attached to. He had afternoon meetings there.

  As she thanked the professor she took his hand one more time.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s been good to talk about Samantha – cathartic in a way I hadn’t imagined. If you think of any more questions, please come and see me again.’

  His words gave her a buzz. There was nothing better than knowing she’d got an interview right. But it didn’t alter the relief she felt at rounding things off; she wanted to be out of his bolthole and back in neutral territory.

  As she moved quickly towards his office door, she noticed a tin on a shelf next to some coat hooks. It had the St Bede’s College crest on it – a bird of prey depicted in scarlet, its head turned side-on. He must have seen the direction of her gaze.

  ‘St Bede’s is my college,’ he explained. ‘I hosted a small drinks party for the institute staff, just a month ago, in the garden where Samantha was killed. She said at the time that it was enchanting, and that she’d like to go back.’

  The catch was back in his voice. Tara heard him take a breath, as though he was about to add something, but when she turned to look at him over her shoulder, his mouth was shut. He seemed to have changed his mind.

  Just because he was Brian Seabrook’s contemporary didn’t mean he hadn’t been in love with Samantha. The thought played in her head as she walked down through the building, conscious of the professor’s heavy tread just behind her. And just because he was sad about her death, didn’t mean he hadn’t killed her. She didn’t know what had happened the previous night in the college garden – only that Samantha Seabrook had been drowned. Professor da Souza certainly looked strong enough to have done that. She thought again of his well-toned arms. He was still in good shape too…

  They moved on past deserted rooms, and down the echoing stairwell. By the time Tara finally saw the oak door that would release her back into the sunshine she had the urge to run.

  Nine

  Blake already had a lot of questions for Mary Mayhew, the institute administrator, but on the way to her office they passed the building’s library and he added one more to the list. Emma noticed the plaque next to its double doors too and raised an eyebrow.

  Dr Mayhew’s quarters were in the basement of the institute. The whole place was dark and her room reminded him of a burrow. It had a window but it was small, and only the top part of it stretched above ground level. Every so often he could spot the feet of passers-by. Each of the office’s walls was lined with bookshelves. It was as though Dr Mayhew had had to hollow out her own small space in the middle of it all. She looked distracted and her desk was covered in papers, notebooks and an assortment of personal stuff – a packet of paracetamol, a photograph of a dog and a box of tissues. The place smelled of furniture polish and cough drops.

  ‘I understand it’s you we have to thank for the phone call we received from Jim Cooper this morning?’ Blake said. ‘He explained that you’d encouraged him to ring us. Were you surprised to see him in Professor Seabrook’s room?’

  Mary Mayhew looked uncomfortable. ‘I was,’ she said at last. ‘I’d given one of your officers Samantha’s key and let everyone know the room was out of bounds. I knew Jim Cooper had keys for the whole building of course, but I didn’t think he’d use them. And in my head he’s security staff himself – just as much in charge of our safety as you are.’

  ‘He’s very
far from being official as far as we’re concerned,’ Blake said. If she imagined the university was a law unto itself she could think again.

  Mary Mayhew glanced from him to Emma Marshall. She looked affronted. ‘I can assure you he is completely trustworthy.’

  ‘He’s a civilian who’s compromised a murder investigation. Whether he’s trustworthy or not is immaterial.’ He realised he was blaming her for the trouble Max Dimity had got into with the DCI – but it was worth driving the point home.

  ‘In any case,’ Mary Mayhew said, ‘I wouldn’t read too much into Jim’s actions. He’s very conscious of his role; he’s effectively the keeper of the institute. I manage him, but he’s the one who gets his hands dirty. On reflection, he wouldn’t see my instructions as referring to him.’

  A man who thought he was above the rules. Great. It fitted with the earlier impression he’d got of Cooper.

  ‘We understand that he and Samantha Seabrook were close,’ Emma said after a moment.

  There was a long pause. ‘I don’t think Samantha would have said so,’ Mary Mayhew answered at last. She looked away for a moment. She was talking to them like a politician, doing her best to protect the institute’s staff and its reputation. Surely she could see that a murder enquiry trumped her need to keep up appearances? Her attitude frustrated him; there was clearly more she could say. Why not just be honest, given what was at stake? He had to admit she’d put his back up from the moment he’d walked in to her office. There was something prissy about her that annoyed him. He was glad Emma couldn’t read his mind; she’d tell him to stop being so prejudiced.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘Jim Cooper claims to have had an affinity with her. Were you aware that they talked about things Professor Seabrook otherwise kept private?’

  ‘No,’ Mary Mayhew said, ‘I wasn’t.’ She frowned. ‘Samantha had the ability to make people feel special,’ she added at last. ‘Maybe Jim just imagines that that was the case.’