by Clare Chase
There was no doubt that the flat would have been carefully ‘prepared’ ahead of Tara’s arrival – Pamela and the family would want to ensure it told the story they had in mind. But it wouldn’t be a blank canvas. The smallest things could be telling. It ought to be a valuable visit.
As Tara stood outside the complex’s huge glass doors, the fitted green dress she’d chosen felt more or less suitable, even though she’d got it in a sale. It was too warm for a jacket. Shame she was encrusted with scabs from her bicycle accident. Her movements still felt stiff and uncomfortable.
Ahead of Tara, a woman entered the building clad in designer gear, a phone held to her ear. Just behind her there was a guy, also looking as though he’d come straight from work – he was carrying leather document cases and wearing a tailored suit.
Tara buzzed the entry phone for Apartment 4 and announced herself.
‘Please come in.’ The disembodied voice was clipped and precise, prim almost. It made Tara wonder what Pamela Grange would be like to deal with.
She heard a small click and pushed on the door, allowing her access to the cavernous glass atrium ahead. As she made the transition from outside the temperature plummeted. Someone had seriously overdone the air con. So much for being too warm for a jacket.
To her left and right were expansive corridors, bathed in natural light from the vast glass entrance halls to the front and rear of the building. It was upmarket in the extreme, but she couldn’t imagine wanting to live anywhere that self-advertising. And the shared entrance would enforce some kind of social interaction with the neighbours. Thank God for her tumbledown house on the common.
She heard soft footsteps from somewhere ahead of her and glanced up to see a woman making her way down a sweeping central staircase.
‘Tara Thorpe?’
Tara nodded and walked over to shake Pamela Grange’s slender outstretched hand.
The woman was presentable. The tweed skirt and white blouse made her look like a young Queen Elizabeth in country gear, ready to walk the corgis at Sandringham. Her smile was reserved.
‘Thank you for agreeing to show me round,’ Tara said. ‘I can only imagine the sort of pressure you and Professor Seabrook’s family must be under at the moment.’
The woman inclined her head. ‘It’s certainly not an easy time.’ She paused. ‘Poor Brian. But he was keen for you to see the place.’ Her eyes met Tara’s for a moment. ‘He was very proud of his daughter.’ She hesitated again, then added: ‘Well, naturally he was. It’s only proper, for a father.’ She sounded as though she was reminding herself of the fact. Perhaps she’d said it when Samantha had been alive too, like a mantra. Tara wondered how Pamela Grange fitted into the Seabrook set-up. When she’d got Sir Brian’s email she’d bought his description of Pamela as a family friend. But now, something about her tone hinted she might be more than that. Ms Grange was looking at her. She seemed to be expecting some kind of comment.
‘It’s an impressive place,’ Tara said.
‘It certainly is,’ the woman replied. ‘Of course, a professor’s salary isn’t enormous, but Samantha had savings.’
Tara wondered if her mother had left her money, when she’d died. And of course Sir Brian might have contributed too; he certainly had the means. But as Samantha had pointed out in her PhD thesis, generosity with cash couldn’t replace a parent’s attention. All the same, solvency did make life a lot easier…
Pamela Grange turned and retraced her steps, back up the staircase. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I can’t abide lifts, and besides, it does us all good to use our legs.’
Samantha’s apartment was on the third floor. There were only four flats up there; each one must be vast.
‘I have a key card,’ Pamela said. ‘Brian’s, of course – not mine. Let me show you in.’
If she’d just been a family friend, there would have been no need to clarify that. Tara was beginning to suspect that Pamela and Sir Brian were lovers. She wasn’t the sort Tara would have expected Papa Seabrook to go for – given his first wife had been a glamorous actress. Perhaps his tastes had changed as he’d got older.
Pamela Grange took out the key card and released the door lock. She opened up to reveal a hallway so wide that the stylish sofa in it looked small. Plush seating purely to aid the comfortable removal of footwear was serious luxury. On the wall there was a large abstract painting in reds and blues. An original, though Tara didn’t recognise the name of the artist.
She ran her eyes over the rest of the room. It was an interesting mix of classic and modern, but it worked. A mahogany coat stand stood in one corner. Next to it, a mirror with a shelf below in the same wood accommodated a tortoiseshell comb, as well as a Christian Dior lipstick and matching blusher compact. Then there were several pairs of shoes on a whitewashed shelf near the floor. They were mostly designer – Jimmy Choos and the like – though there were some Dr Martens boots too, and a pair of Converse. Samantha Seabrook had clearly switched between different guises. Which had been the real her? That was the question. Or maybe she was a true chameleon, ever changing, not wanting to be pinned down.
Pamela Grange had moved to the other end of the hall and opened a heavy-looking white door. It moved silently on its hinges. ‘And here’s the flat’s main room,’ she said.
It was vast. To their right were two large outside walls, with the floor-to-ceiling windows Tara had seen from down below. The space was filled with the evening light, but the room set Tara on edge. There were no curtains. Tara imagined Samantha standing here in her ivory tower, looking down onto the communal gardens below. They were accessible to the public. Had her tormentor lurked down there, watching the object of their obsession?
Why the hell hadn’t she told anyone official about the doll? Had she thought she had everything under control? Or maybe she reckoned she knew who’d sent it, and that they weren’t a serious threat…
‘I don’t imagine many thirty-five-year-olds get to live like this,’ Pamela Grange said, breaking into her thoughts. Then after a pause she added: ‘Though of course Samantha had a tough upbringing. With her mother dying young, I mean. So, it was good that her life took a turn for the better when she reached adulthood.’ She paused for a moment and closed her eyes, no doubt reflecting on the irony of that statement, given recent events.
Again, Tara had the impression that Pamela Grange was voicing something she’d told herself before. She longed to ask her what she’d really thought of the professor, but she knew the direct route wouldn’t work. Apart from anything else, this wasn’t an interview, only a guided tour. Tara would just have to chat and see what came out.
She took out her camera; she needed to get cracking before the sun went any lower. Already it was filtering through the mature trees in the rear grounds of the complex. And besides, removing the direct focus from Pamela Grange might create a better atmosphere for eliciting confidences. ‘I’ll take a few shots, if I may?’
‘Of course. Brian explained that you would want to.’ Her hostess walked to the opposite end of the room, where there was a kitchen area with units that looked handmade. She opened the door of a cavernous fridge. ‘The milk in here is still in date. Can I make you a cup of tea? I feel rather dry. It’s the wretched air conditioning.’
‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ But the thought of drinking the milk Samantha Seabrook had bought just before she died made Tara shiver. She’d been alive and well so recently. The whole apartment still felt full of her presence. There was a faint smell of perfume and cigarettes, and a lingering hint of furniture polish. The air seemed alive with the memory of the drowned woman. Samantha Seabrook’s appearance was well known to Tara now; she even knew her facial expressions and the intonation of her voice thanks to YouTube. Images of the professor wandering to and fro in her flat came unbidden: making herself coffee, working at her desk, applying her designer make-up with a confident smile, ready to go out and paint the town red.
Tara turned her attent
ion back to the photographs she needed to take. Viewing the room through a lens, from different angles, made her focus on small details. An exotic ashtray on a mantelpiece told her that the professor had probably travelled, or had friends who had. She walked closer for a moment. The tray still held a dusting of ash, and there was a lighter nearby. Next to the ashtray was a card with a beautiful lino-cut print on the front. Tara glanced up but Pamela Grange was pouring out the freshly boiled water. She edged closer and managed to glimpse the wording inside: My darling, I’m so proud of you. Your work will change the way people think about childhood. Your contribution humbles me. Your loving Papa xxx Sir Brian might not have been around for her as a child, but it looked as though he had been trying to make up for it since.
Above the mantelpiece and to one side there was a montage of photos. Tara’s eye was drawn to one of Samantha herself. She was clearly overseas – Thailand perhaps? There was a guy next to her: good-looking, with thick, dark hair. Another of the photos showed Samantha with a woman. They were in some dark bar, each in party gear, cocktails in front of them, their arms flung out wide and their mouths open as though they’d been singing and laughing at the same time. A third photo showed an elegant woman in a shot-silk dress standing outside a shop or gallery front. There were vases and other ceramics in the window in the photo, as well as jewellery. The woman had her head on one side, a wry grin on her face. Tara wondered if it had been taken in Cambridge; the scene looked faintly familiar, but the name of the business wasn’t visible. The fourth and final picture was of a greying man in a perfectly cut suit outside Buckingham Palace. Although he was clearly the focus of the photograph there were tens of people – all dolled up to the nines – milling around behind him.
She paused for a moment. Pamela Grange was approaching with a tray containing tea in an Emma Bridgewater pot with matching mugs and a milk jug.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘No cups – Samantha thought they were a waste of time – and no sugar either. She didn’t take it herself.’
‘I don’t either,’ Tara said. And she preferred her drinks in large vessels too. All the same, Pamela’s statement told her Samantha Seabrook hadn’t been the accommodating kind. She was getting the impression of someone with a ‘like me or lump it’ mentality. Tara preferred that sort; you knew where you were with them, and the fact that they usually had thick skin meant they were difficult to offend. But few people would be tough enough to shrug off the gift of the doll.
‘These are lovely photographs,’ Tara said, as Pamela poured the tea.
Her hostess looked up. ‘Ah yes. That’s Brian there, on the day he received his knighthood.’ Tara had guessed as much. Pamela’s tone was wistful. ‘I didn’t go myself. He and Samantha treated the occasion as a father–daughter outing. He said he thought she might receive an honour in her own right one day.’ She busied herself with the milk.
The comment seemed to confirm Tara’s suspicions about Pamela Grange and Brian Seabrook’s relationship. Why would she feel cut out if she wasn’t romantically involved with him?
‘And did you spend much time with Samantha?’ Tara hoped the question sounded casual.
A small, rather sad smile touched the woman’s lips for a moment. ‘Brian would always try to get me over for drinks or dinner if Samantha was staying with him. But that wasn’t often; she was so busy.’ Then a frown crossed her brow. ‘Fortunately, he did see something of her last month; she spent a few days with him in Great Sterringham.’
Tara sipped her tea. ‘How did she seem to you then?’
But Pamela Grange shook her head. ‘I didn’t see her on that occasion in fact.’ She paused. ‘I – well, I think they were having some private father–daughter time.’
Tara wondered why.
‘I presume the other pictures are of Samantha’s friends?’ Tara said, turning back to the photographs on the wall. ‘It could be useful to talk to some of them if you think they might be willing.’
She watched as Pamela Grange’s eyes went from sad to wary. ‘The man is Dieter Gartner. He works in the same field that Samantha did.’
The picture showed the couple leaning in close and there was a light in the professor’s eye. Had they been more than colleagues? Of course, if they were together the police would already know about him. Being able to demand private details as your right had to be a huge bonus.
‘And are the women in the pictures work colleagues too?’ Tara asked.
Pamela Grange’s face twitched, as though the suggestion were laughable. ‘I understand the girl in the nightclub is a friend who dates back to Samantha’s schooldays: Patsy, I think her name is. I’m afraid I don’t have her number.’ She sounded relieved. ‘And I don’t know who the person in the fourth photo is.’
Her tone shut the topic down. All the same, Tara had found out the names of the schools Samantha Seabrook had attended. She’d be able to discover more about the woman in the nightclub.
After they’d drunk their tea, Pamela went to wash the mugs and pot, giving Tara one last chance to look round. Standing in the entrance to the room and glancing back into the hallway she could see what must have been Samantha Seabrook’s bedroom; the door was ajar. The bed looked queen-sized and had a red satin dressing-gown slung over it. There was a packet of Gauloises on the bedside table. The other doors off the corridor were closed. One of them probably led to a study; Tara felt the missed opportunity as she walked back into the open-plan living space.
She was only just inside the room when something that jarred caught her eye. On a side table, that was mainly home to papers, a pile of post and some stationery, was another lipstick. It was nestling in a box that contained a pen with a floral decoration and a set of matching pencils. It was an odd place to keep make-up, but it was also the brand that caught her attention. Rimmel. Its lid was battered and brittle-looking.
In the background, she was conscious of Pamela Grange saying something about plans to clear the flat, but Tara’s mind was overtaken by memories. She’d been pretty much brand-loyal to Rimmel as a teenager – preferring it over the expensive makes her mother had tried to persuade her to use. She could afford it herself and that was what counted. Rimmel hadn’t gone upmarket since and Samantha Seabrook would have thought the make well short of the mark if the Dior items in the hallway were anything to go by. Which begged the question, what the heck was it doing there? Had someone who’d stayed with her left it behind? And if so, had she been planning to return it next time they came? Otherwise why keep it?
Pamela Grange was drying up the mugs they’d used and putting them back into a cupboard in the kitchen.
Tara went to the massive window again, her mind still on the make-up. The sun was right down now, and the grounds were in near darkness. The moon gave a faint, silvery light to small areas of grass, but the towering trees with their broad branches and thick leaves put most of the lawn into deep shadow.
She turned and saw that Pamela Grange was making her way back towards the entrance hall.
‘If you’ve seen enough I should like to begin my journey home now,’ she said.
‘Of course.’
They walked back through the apartments’ shared upper landing, down the stairs and back to the ice-cold atrium. It must be past the time when most people returned from work. The building was very quiet now, and the entrance was deserted.
They stood for a moment, each searching for their keys. Pamela’s had a BMW fob; Tara’s own were for her bike. Once again, she’d gone for an option that took her door to door.
The pool of startling halogen light inside made the contrast with the grounds – now in total darkness – all the more intense. But the paths to the road were lit periodically with lamps, set into the ground, providing a gentle atmospheric glow. There were three walkways, fanning out in different directions.
Pamela Grange opened the main door and ushered Tara out. She heard the entrance click closed and lock again behind them.
‘Where are you parked?’
Tara asked.
‘Just a little way along the road there.’ Pamela Grange gestured in the opposite direction to where Tara had secured her bike.
‘I’m just over here,’ Tara said pointing. ‘Thank you very much for showing me round.’
Pamela Grange nodded and took the hand she held out as they said goodbye. ‘Brian and I shall be interested to read your article.’
Tara was glad she wouldn’t be watching them when they did. She wouldn’t know in advance if she was passing on truths that would be news to them.
As she turned to take the path she needed she glanced around her. Apart from herself and Pamela Grange, there was just one other person out there: a tall figure in a long coat. The ground-level lights were disconcerting. The figure’s trouser legs and boots – lace-ups – were illuminated, but the rest of him (was it a him?) faded into shadow. His face was cast down.
There was no reason to suppose he had anything to do with her.
All the same, she started walking quickly, an unreasonable shiver of fear darting through her core.
She was almost running when she reached the pavement and found the lamp-post where she’d locked her bike. As she fumbled with the key, she glanced over her shoulder. The tall figure was nowhere to be seen. She took a deep breath and tried to steady her breathing. He must have headed off without giving her a second thought. But had he looked like a resident? Had his clothes been smart enough? Hell. She really was on edge.
She put her lock in her basket, slung her bag crossways over her body and mounted her bike before pedalling off. Her hands shook slightly on the handlebars, and she tightened her grip.
The street was quiet. It was the same with all the most exclusive roads in Cambridge: the houses or apartments were at the end of long driveways and once evening set in, the pavements could feel deserted. But she was on her way. Perfectly all right.