Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  It sounded convincing.

  ‘Given all that, have you been wondering if there’s any connection between your stalker back then and the person who sent you the doll?’

  She shook her head. ‘Of course I did wonder, but the person back then wanted me to suffer on a day-to-day basis, in an ongoing way. The stalking was the whole aim – they were already doing what they wanted, which was to calmly take my life apart, until I couldn’t go on. The person this time seems more focused: to have got a purpose for me.’

  The police psychologist Blake had managed to snatch a word with mid-afternoon had said much the same, though in fancier language. She’d also made an initial assessment of the killer, based on their level of planning and the use of the handmade dolls. It hadn’t come as a surprise to learn they were looking for someone intelligent, single-minded and obsessive, but the psychologist had also added ‘patient’ to the list. And of course, it made sense. It must have taken time to plan such intricate operations, and to make the dolls too. But the profiler had pointed out that the patience might not last. Some people who kept tight control of their actions could lose it spectacularly when the pressure finally got too much.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I know I have to give you the recordings of my interviews anyway,’ Tara said. ‘Whether I like it or not.’

  It was true but he’d rather she did it willingly, and not only to avoid the red tape involved if he had to force her hand. He didn’t just want to listen and draw his own conclusions. He wanted her input – to know how each interviewee had come across whilst they’d talked. Their body language. Whether or not they’d been sweating like Jim Cooper…

  Tara got up and paced the room. ‘It’s not that I don’t want help. But the fact remains, the last time I gave the police information they ignored it. The upshot was, they missed their chance to catch the person who tried to destroy me.’ There was a long pause. ‘My life would be very different if they hadn’t failed.’

  He wanted to ask her more about what had happened back then, but at that moment there was a knock on the door. He saw Tara Thorpe flinch but she controlled it in a fraction of a second and went to open up. It was just the pizza. He’d ordered Coke too. Sugar, more carbs and caffeine. After the day he’d had, he was famished, and the smell of the fresh basil, anchovies and pepperoni made his stomach rumble.

  ‘Expenses will take care of this,’ Blake said, reaching past her to hand over the cash.

  Back in the kitchen they ate out of the box, lifting the ring pulls on their canned drinks, and for a moment there was silence.

  ‘I’ve met a lot of journalists,’ Blake said between mouthfuls.

  ‘Goes with the territory, I imagine. They’re a pain, but they help you too?’ She was giving him a look, which he returned.

  ‘Agreed.’ He swigged his Coke. ‘But one valuable lesson it’s taught me is that they’re not all the same. It’s a profession made up of individuals – some principled and intelligent, some who’re the boils on the backside of society.’

  She rolled her eyes now. ‘I’ve met quite a lot of police officers too. I grant you they might not all be like the one I dealt with years back.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, I single-handedly plan to revolutionise your opinion of the police by the end of this case.’

  She eased another slice of pizza from the box in front of her, its mozzarella stretching and finally parting company with the topping on the slice next to it. ‘Fine words, and if you fail, a side effect might be that I’m dead – in which case you’ll be off the hook anyway.’

  He put down his Coke can and raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s no need to be negative.’

  She laughed, and he found himself joining in, but he knew he was about to ruin the mood. ‘What about your more recent encounter with the police, after your run-in with that other journalist?’

  Her expression hardened. ‘They made me feel like a criminal.’

  ‘Because of the assault thing?’

  ‘Well, yeah.’ Her head titled to one side.

  He held up a hand. ‘Mitigating circumstances, what with your past. Plus the records make it quite clear the guy you decked was completely out of order.’ He paused. ‘But he could have still hauled you over the coals for it. It’s a good job you didn’t use a weapon.’

  She’d put her pizza down. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  Blake remembered his promise to DCI Fleming, after some idiot at the briefing earlier had joked about Tara getting tooled up before she went out. Blake had said he’d talk to her about it; tackle it head-on in a way that soupy Pam, their crime reduction officer, wouldn’t. Perhaps now was the moment. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘I presume, given what you’ve just said, that you haven’t resorted to carrying a weapon since you received the doll?’

  Her eyes flicked to one side and in that split second – as he followed her glance towards her bag – he knew. Hell. He hadn’t really thought she would. But then, under the circumstances, he wasn’t sure why he’d come to that conclusion.

  ‘I’m guessing it was a knife, if you managed to slip it in that bag.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘But I take it that Askey’s still in one piece, given you were pelting away from him?’ He had a vision of DCI Fleming and soupy Pam, looming over his shoulder, appalled at his flippant words. But the ghost of a smile crossed Tara’s lips, and he needed her on his side. That was becoming increasingly clear on many counts. The wrong approach could start the whole thing sliding out of control.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, meeting her eyes. ‘You’ve had a hell of a twenty-four hours, and I know I’m only guessing. You don’t have to tell me. I just need you to know that knives don’t make you safer. It’s a statistical fact. And if you take a weapon to your would-be murderer, likely as not you’ll just accelerate their plans.’

  She rested her elbows on the table. Her head was back in her hands; he couldn’t see her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’

  Twelve

  They didn’t try to talk through the rest of the pizza. Blake savoured the fishy taste of the anchovies; he was used to getting his calories under all circumstances. Being able to compartmentalise his stress kept him sane and well-fed. He noticed Tara Thorpe had left several pieces though. Maybe she’d microwave them up later, when he’d gone.

  ‘What about those digital recordings then?’ he said, handing her a USB stick.

  She got up, took the machine out of her bag and ejected the memory card.

  As she was copying off the files for him, via her laptop, his mobile rang. Patrick Wilkins. He got up from the table and stepped into the hallway.

  ‘Got an update on the boyfriend, boss, Dieter Gartner – though it’s not much of one.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I found three academics of that name employed at German universities. Only one was working in the same field as Samantha Seabrook, but I checked them all anyway.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘One’s an emeritus professor who’s in his eighties, doesn’t travel and tells me he’s never heard of Professor Seabrook. I haven’t managed to get the second one yet – he’s away on honeymoon.’

  Which didn’t totally rule him out, but made him less likely.

  ‘And then there’s the third,’ Wilkins went on, ‘the one who works in the same field Samantha Seabrook did.’ Blake heard Patrick’s impatient sigh. ‘His university says he’s on leave but under the circumstances they found me his private mobile number. Only it’s disconnected – must be out of date. I’ve left a message on his work one, but I guess he might not pick that up. His university’s asking around to see if they can find someone who knows where he is or how to contact him.’

  Blake watched Tara Thorpe through the doorway as she removed his USB stick from her laptop. ‘Okay. Thanks. Let me know when you’ve heard more.’ It wasn’t the best time of year to try to track down academics, of course. His own mother decamped to Florence ever
y year whilst she was free of lectures. She always said she worked better there… go figure. Still, the fact that the man was currently completely uncontactable added one more question mark to a sheet full of them.

  Before he went back to the kitchen he took out his private mobile and held it in his hand, looking at the time on its screen. Babette would be getting Kitty ready for bed.

  Give K a kiss from me. Tell her I love her.

  He sent the text then switched the phone off. He couldn’t bear not to message, but getting in touch meant restarting the exchange with his wife, too.

  Back in the kitchen, Tara Thorpe handed him the memory stick.

  ‘So this is Professor da Souza and Simon Askey?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll listen to them after I’ve left. But what were your impressions? Da Souza for instance; do you think he left things unsaid?’

  She sat down at the table again and he followed suit.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last, frowning. ‘He was cagey about Samantha’s mother. I tried to find out how she’d died. He didn’t like that one bit and I had to backpedal.’

  Blake could understand him clamming up about Bella Seabrook’s death. He’d had to pull rank himself to get the information out of him. It wasn’t the kind of story family and friends would want splashed all over the press. Sir Brian would never have managed to airbrush the details if the news had broken today; a whisper would have slipped into the fast-flowing currents created by social media and fed the gossip-hungry hordes for a week or so. But back when she’d died, he must have been able to pull strings in the print media, thanks to his background and the money he’d put into various news organisations.

  Tara Thorpe was looking at him closely. ‘You know what happened to her, don’t you?’

  He nodded but she didn’t ask.

  ‘Da Souza also mentioned that he’d held a drinks party in the garden where Samantha Seabrook was killed, just a month ago,’ Tara added. ‘There was a wistful look in his eye and he hesitated and opened his mouth as though he was about to say something else. But he clearly thought better of it.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Most of the conversation left me wondering exactly how far his and Samantha Seabrook’s relationship had gone.’

  It was a good question.

  ‘And what about Askey?’ Blake said. ‘Any insights there?’

  ‘Have you met him yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not to speak to. I’ve seen him in passing though.’ He remembered again that cocksure look the academic had given him when Blake had caught him peering through Samantha Seabrook’s office door.

  Tara told him how Samantha’s rooms in college had been opposite Askey’s, across a court, and that he’d spoken about watching her from a distance. She also said how quiet he was on his feet, appearing at her shoulder without warning. Finally, she gave the overriding impression that he was a womaniser. It might be odd that he knew Tara’s address, but other than that it was certainly possible to put his approaches to her down as a pushy form of flirting. The guy sounded every inch the creep that Blake had first judged him to be. ‘Was he honest about what he thought of the professor?’ he asked.

  ‘Fairly, I’d say, but in a deliberately larger than life, I-say-what-I-think-I’m-so-forthright-and-unconventional kind of way.’

  It was no wonder that just the sight of him had set Blake’s teeth on edge. But even if he was obnoxious it didn’t mean he was a killer.

  ‘I didn’t like him,’ Tara said, ‘not even at the outset. But I played along with him to get the most out of the interview. You’ll probably hate me by the time you’ve finished listening to the recordings.’ Her expression told him she didn’t care.

  ‘I’ll be prepared.’

  Tara traced a knot in the wood on her table with a forefinger, her eyes far away. ‘His body language was interesting. He wanted to show me just how relaxed he was. He kept sitting back in his chair, opening his arms, and all of that. But his tone when he talked about the professor, and the tightness of his jaw, gave him away. He was telling me all about the joint funding bid they were working on. He says he’ll still go ahead and put in the application.’

  Interesting. Could it be that Askey hadn’t known Samantha Seabrook was planning to pull out of the bid, and let him down flat? Or was he simply keeping the fact quiet to avoid admitting he was nursing a grudge? Either way, he obviously wasn’t put off by going it alone.

  As for Tara Thorpe’s comments on Askey’s body language – well, they were making Blake uncomfortable. She’d probably clocked his rising impatience, earlier in the evening.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He’s not the sort who likes being crossed, and I’ll bet he holds on to his grudges. When he mentioned Samantha Seabrook’s privileged background he had to take a breath to steady himself. So I guess he’s resentful.’

  ‘Though he might have good reason? If he was constantly reminded of Samantha Seabrook’s wealth?’

  She shrugged. It looked as though Askey wasn’t the only one who objected to being crossed.

  ‘He certainly feels his background has affected the way he’s been treated. And he was quick enough to assume I’d take his side. I presume he’s used to winning people over.’

  He must be a poor judge of character then. Blake had been quite sure from the start that Tara Thorpe was no pushover. Then again, she said she’d played along… maybe her acting skills were as good as her mother’s.

  Much later that evening, after listening to Tara’s recordings back at the station, and poring over the evidence one more time, Blake made it home. The place used to be a haven. Even the sight of a pink plastic bowl encrusted with dried baked-bean juice in the sink had been reassuring. It meant normality. Security. A contrast to his working life. The last hours of the day were always filled with the promise of seeing Kitty and Babette. Kitty’s mere existence had put everything else into perspective; nothing was more important.

  But all that had been an illusion. His ability to detect stuff in his day job had earned him a lot of praise over the last couple of years, but at home he’d managed to miss clues to some very fundamental truths.

  And now the home had become simply a house – a hollow stage set, holding only his own props, which reflected his solitary existence back at him.

  But despite all that he didn’t want Babette back. Even though being apart from Kitty tore at his insides – a raw, physical pain. And even though Babette wanted to start all over again.

  It was past midnight when former DC Paul Kemp finally called Tara. The sound of his voice brought back a multitude of memories. She’d met him on her way out of the local police station as a seventeen-year-old. (He’d just resigned, and she was full of rage at the officer who was supposedly ‘leading’ her stalker case.) But that first impression was now overlaid with the years of contact they’d had since, from the sessions where he’d taught her self-defence to the last night they’d spent together – a year ago now.

  ‘I guessed you wouldn’t be asleep, under the circumstances.’

  In the background she could hear laughter, followed by a shout and the sound of a glass breaking. ‘You guessed right.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re sure the person who’s doing this isn’t the same one from way back?’

  Tara only paused for a second. ‘Sure. This is different. And it’s definitely not just about me this time.’

  ‘Fair point. I wish I could come and do some digging but I’m stuck on a job in Berlin.’

  She smiled for a moment. It was probably just as well. He wasn’t the subtlest of people; if he rocked up Blake would definitely notice. As would anyone else in a five-mile radius. ‘I don’t think the police would tolerate that kind of interference anyway, especially once they knew your background.’ Kemp and the force hadn’t parted friends.

  He laughed then. Loud but not bitter. She reckoned he might have had a few drinks. ‘No. You’re right there. So, what have you got in place?’

 
; She told him about the Heath Robinson work she’d done at the house (she’d repeated it that evening), as well as what the crime reduction officer had advised and the work the police team had done on her security. She left out the knife she’d taken with her when she’d gone to interview da Souza and Askey.

  ‘Sounds reasonable. Get one of those marker dye sprays too. The downside is, they don’t hurt your attacker. The upside is that means it’s legal to carry them. They’d buy you time – no one reacts quickly when they’ve taken an explosion of dye to the face. And the stains are pretty hard to wash out, so anyone you get ought to be identifiable for a good while afterwards.’

  She sat back against the headboard of her bed and shut her eyes for a moment. ‘Yeah. Sounds good; I’ll do that.’

  Kemp’s tone turned serious. ‘You can handle this, right? I can chuck the job and come anyway if you want.’

  He’d be able to follow her round like hired muscle. But she was handy herself now, and she certainly wouldn’t be able to do her job with him there. Besides, she hated being beholden to anyone. That was just another way of giving up.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine. I appreciate the offer though. You stick to duffing up bad guys in Berlin.’

  He laughed again. ‘All right. But keep me posted.’

  ‘I will.’

  After she’d hung up she lay down and felt for the handle of the knife under her pillow. It was a long time before she slept.

  Thirteen

  Multiple thoughts ran through Tara’s mind the following lunchtime as she waited for Samantha Seabrook’s PhD student, Chiara Laurito. Half her focus was always on her surroundings. She was sitting on the low wall opposite the Mill Pond. The place was crowded with a mix of tourists and locals, enjoying take-outs from the Mill pub. Her eyes ran over the sea of faces, tensed for the possibility of meeting someone’s gaze – someone whose eyes were deliberately on her, and for all the wrong reasons. She glanced over her shoulder frequently too. Behind her, Scudamore’s were doing a roaring trade hiring punts to parties headed upriver, towards Grantchester. And ahead of her, beyond the path, on the grass, cattle explored the small gaps between groups lounging with their drinks.