by Clare Chase
He tried to imagine Jim Cooper deliberately engineering a carefully posed and incomplete photo of himself, ready for Samantha Seabrook to post as a tease to her followers. He was impetuous, at least when drunk – as shown by his actions that evening. Could he be equally controlled and full of guile when sober?
Blake frowned. His head felt as though it had a gang of miniature tap dancers practising in it. He glanced at his watch. Time for a couple of hours’ sleep. And then he’d go to see Tara Thorpe on his way in to work.
At the last minute, before turning down the side road where he’d parked his car, he looked back towards Jim Cooper’s flat. And there was the shadow of the building supervisor, looking down at him from the living room window. He was standing tall now – as though he must have sobered up quite a bit.
When Blake found his car and unlocked it, his mind was full of that last view of Cooper. It didn’t do to take anything for granted.
Twenty-One
Tara was watching DI Blake through the sitting room window as he made his way from Riverside towards her cottage. He’d texted to warn her he’d call in. She already knew it had been Jim Cooper outside the previous night – the detective constable who’d come to her from the station had told her that. Perhaps DI Blake had an update; he looked as though he might have been working all night. She had to admit, he wore the rough look well. She went to open up.
‘DI Blake.’
‘Just call me Blake. Everyone does.’ The detective’s eyes met hers and she tried to read his expression. He was probably marvelling at how awful she looked.
‘I can imagine what you’re thinking,’ she said, standing back to let him in.
‘On this occasion, I bet you can’t.’ There was a faint smile behind his eyes. ‘I’m sorry if I look… informal,’ he went on. ‘I’ve avoided mirrors this morning.’
‘Me too, but I’m going to have to sidle up to one soon. I’m due out in the sticks later – to interview Sir Brian. I’m assuming you’d like coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
They walked through to the kitchen.
‘So, have you spoken to Jim Cooper?’ She turned to make the drinks.
‘I have.’
And…? He paused long enough for her to glance back at him over her shoulder. Surely he can give me more detail, under the circumstances?
Perhaps he’d read her look. As she turned back towards the kettle, he sighed as though making up his mind and then spoke again.
‘His explanation fits with what we know about him – and he was quick to come up with it, despite seeming quite drunk.’
He explained what the man had said about knowing where she lived, and having been shown her photo.
‘I’ll get Mary Mayhew to confirm his story, of course,’ Blake added, ‘but even if he’s telling the truth, it doesn’t mean he can be trusted. Maybe he’s a good actor who can think on his feet. It was certainly an odd time to drop by for a chat.’
Tara nodded and put a mug of black coffee down in front of Blake. ‘Well, if he claims he’s got so much to tell me I’m definitely going to arrange to talk to him.’ She read his look. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make it somewhere public. Besides, I’ll have my knife.’
He opened his mouth.
‘Kidding.’ She didn’t want him arresting her. But in truth she wasn’t sure whether or not she was joking. She’d meant to leave the knife at home when she’d gone to meet Chiara Laurito, but at the last minute her nerve had failed her. Now she’d got the spray dye Kemp had recommended too, but when push came to shove, what if it wasn’t enough?
‘Tara, what are you going to do?’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘To cope. I’m guessing we’re both running on empty. I will eventually get some sleep, but what about you? What if tonight’s like last night? And then the next night is too?’
He must be wondering what kind of a freak she was, to have no one she could stay with.
‘I’m ahead of you,’ she said, after a moment. ‘At around two this morning, I booked myself a room for tonight at the Newmarket Road Travelodge. Not sustainable long-term, given the prices, but if I get my eight hours it ought to tide me over for the next few days. It’s the institute summer garden party this evening and I’ve been invited along, so I’ll go straight back to the hotel from there.’
The party was an annual tradition, apparently, marking the anniversary of the institute’s inauguration. Under current circumstances, she’d thought Professor da Souza might have cancelled it, but he’d said he wanted a chance to bring everyone together at such a harrowing time. He was planning to use the occasion to pay public tribute to Samantha Seabrook. Tara rather wished she could skip it.
Blake nodded. ‘Good move.’ His eyes were on hers. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing any intel from that event.’
‘Point taken.’
He sighed. ‘And you don’t need me to tell you this, but make sure no one follows you back. It’s pretty easy to slip past the front desk at a Travelodge. And then all you have to do is follow someone with a key card and you’re through to the rooms.’
And she knew he was right.
Before she left for Samantha Seabrook’s childhood home, Tara emailed Jim Cooper. She wanted to hear what he had to say and besides, if he was going to start hanging around her house she’d prefer to head him off. She suggested meeting him at the Pickerel that afternoon. He might be ready for a hair of the dog by then, and the booze should loosen his tongue. She’d probably see him again at the institute garden party that evening, but she’d rather his colleagues didn’t overhear their interview.
As she walked from her cottage towards Riverside, she kept an eye on the meadows around her. The noise of crickets filled the hot, dry air. The people she could see looked innocent: a dog walker, a man and a boy on bikes, an older man fishing by the side of the river. But round the perimeter of the common there were dense patches of trees. The startling sunlight made the shadows there all the more intense. Tara strained her eyes, removing her sunglasses for a moment when she thought she caught movement. She couldn’t be sure. But someone had been watching her recently, just as Blake had said. She hoped they hadn’t got access to a car if they were on her tail now. She’d left her Fiat where it was for days, but who knew how long they’d been spying on her. They might know exactly which car was hers, and where it was parked.
Tara found it hard to keep her eyes on the road ahead as she began her journey. Two cars had left the same network of backstreets at a similar time to her. She couldn’t say for sure if either of them had stayed on her tail. They weren’t immediately behind her on the A10, but the traffic was heavy and they could be hanging back. The distraction meant she didn’t feel ready for her interview when she arrived in Great Sterringham. She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She was going over stale territory anyway, given Blake had already visited. She realised she’d been hoping she’d spot something he’d missed. She knew it was childish – and pointless. How would she know, anyway, when he hadn’t shared his conclusions with her?
Sir Brian let her in, insisted on making her coffee and began to talk before she’d got going on her questions. They sat downstairs in an elegant drawing room for the interview and she recorded the lot. Blake would be pleased… but it was Sir Brian’s demeanour that interested Tara the most. On the face of it he seemed like a kind man, knocked sideways by grief, but she recognised his type. In spite of what life had thrown at him – the loss of his wife at a young age and now his daughter too – he had that air of being entirely secure in his own sphere. Awful things had befallen him, he was no stranger to tragedy, and yet nothing had shaken his self-belief, or his sense of where he stood in the world.
After they’d talked they went to look at Samantha Seabrook’s bedroom. Tara had angled for this. She’d said how helpful it would be to see the professor’s own space. She’d muttered something hackneyed about understanding Samantha in the round, from the girl she’d been to the woman she�
�d grown into. And when they got up there she was glad she’d talked him into it – there were several things that made her wonder. And then she saw the photograph on the wall. It was of the same woman who featured in the drunken shot in Samantha Seabrook’s flat – the one Blake had asked her about. Thanks to some googling – using the first name Pamela Grange had supplied, and the school Professor Seabrook had attended – Tara now had a surname for her too. It was interesting – clearly Blake hadn’t managed to get Sir Brian to hand that information over.
‘Oh,’ she said, walking towards the picture, ‘isn’t that… yes, it really is! Patsy Wentworth!’ She watched his face as she said it and saw it fall. In fact, it plummeted.
‘You’ve met?’ he asked.
‘I haven’t seen her in a long time, but she’s hard to forget.’ Which judging by his reaction she must be. She decided to go for it. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but you don’t by any chance have her up-to-date address, do you? She sent me the details, but it was on a phone of mine that got pinched.’
Sir Brian was standing there, clasping and unclasping his hands.
‘Perhaps you could call to check she doesn’t mind, if that would help?’ She was taking a risk, but she was willing to bet he wouldn’t. His expression told her he wanted to keep his distance.
‘I only know it myself because she came to stay here whilst I was away,’ he said at last. ‘Sammy decided she wanted to throw a house party in the country. There wasn’t enough room at her apartment in Cambridge, and not much private outdoor space. When I got back I found various belongings that her guests had left behind, including a scarf of Patsy’s. I offered to post it back, because Sammy had already gone home.’
He turned and walked out of the room and she followed him, slowing her pace to match his sad, heavy tread as he descended the stairs. There was a small thinning patch of hair on the back of his head, only visible now that she was above him, and a couple of fine grey hairs rested on the shoulder of his jacket.
In the hall he took a green leather book from a table and leafed through it to the section for W.
The pause gave her one last chance to glance around, peering through doorways into rooms they hadn’t visited.
‘Here.’ Her attention snapped back to him. He held up the book for her and she copied the London location into her iPhone.
He’d got her email address too – that was unexpected but handy.
Sir Brian followed her eyes and shook his head. ‘She never acknowledged receiving the scarf I sent, I’m afraid. I asked Sammy for her email address so I could contact her to check it had arrived.’
‘Thank you. It’ll be good to get back in touch.’
All of a sudden, he put his free hand out and touched her arm. ‘Don’t read too much into anything she might say about Sammy,’ he said. ‘Patsy was always wild; not a good influence. Sammy tended to show a rather different side when they were together.’
Suddenly, Tara’s tiredness washed over her. ‘Of course,’ she said, summoning up her last ounce of energy. ‘I understand. And I know what Patsy’s like.’
As she walked from the house, down the long drive, she thought about just how much of her life was a sham. She took a deep breath and told herself it was all in a good cause. But suddenly, she wasn’t sure she believed it.
Out on the pavement she looked back at what had been Samantha Seabrook’s family home. The place was large and square, built from soft red brick with tall chimneys. Two of the three family members were dead. Sir Brian must rattle around in it, assuming he really was living there alone…
As she’d stood in the hall, her view into the kitchen had revealed a packing case, sitting on the wooden table. She’d been able to see some of the contents: cups and other crockery. And in the hall, next to a stand full of what looked like Sir Brian’s footwear, were some women’s lace-up walking shoes, as well as some boots. No space on the rack for them, making Tara think Sir Brian’s collection of Oxfords and Derbies had expanded to fill the space available, before there was any competition.
Tara thought of Pamela Grange. Might the shoes belong to her? They looked like her style: sensible and classic. When they’d met, Tara had wondered if she was more than just a family friend…
And if she was moving in, why now exactly? Just because she wanted to be on hand to support Sir Brian in his hour of need? Or because she and Samantha Seabrook hadn’t got on, and the way was now clear for her and Sir Brian to make their move?
It seemed likely that Samantha Seabrook had had just as much power over her father as everyone else.
As Tara got into her car, ready to tackle the drive home, she checked her phone for emails. Jim Cooper had replied. She clicked to open the message.
Sorry for last night. I’d had a few beers and thought you might be up and about still. I’ve heard journalists work long hours. Although I was keen to talk to you about Sam, it was the drink that made me think I had something important to say. I’ll only be telling you what you’ve already heard from others so I won’t come along this afternoon. Thanks all the same.
Tara clenched her fists and rubbed them into her eyes. She was so tired she knew she was only just fit to drive. She’d stop for more coffee on the way back.
She looked again at the email. It was Jim bloody Cooper who’d frightened her the evening before, and his fault she was wrung dry. And now, suddenly, he didn’t want to talk.
She wasn’t going to let him off the hook that bloody easily.
There was no auto signature on his email, so she went back to the institute website, found his direct line and dialled.
Twenty-Two
Blake was sitting in the office of Samantha Seabrook’s agent, opposite the man who’d been overseeing her book publishing career and who’d got her one appearance on a chat show where she’d had the chance to put her work in front of a wider audience.
The man – Guy Fitzpatrick – was in his early thirties, Blake guessed, and wore a suit that aimed to be as classy as Blake’s. He knew his fashion designer sister would say it had missed the mark.
They’d got drinks in front of them. Fitzpatrick’s was a short macchiato – apparently. The woman who’d asked for their orders had seemed startled when Blake had requested a black coffee. She’d echoed his choice back to him, having translated it to ‘an Americano’.
‘I saw Samantha was dead on the news,’ Guy Fitzpatrick said. ‘It was tacked on at the end – not being London and not really a national affair – but they couldn’t resist slipping it in. The tragedy of it, and the setting. Samantha always was TV-friendly and in death nothing changed.’
Blake frowned. ‘I saw the recording of her appearance on Tomorrow Today on YouTube, but I didn’t know she’d done more TV on top of that.’
Guy Fitzpatrick’s floppy fringe quivered as he shook his head. ‘Really? Is that back up again? It’s infringing copyright.’ He made a note on the pristine pad in front of him with an expensive-looking pen.
Blake made another bid for his full attention. ‘She’d done other television then?’ he said.
Fitzpatrick shook his head. ‘No. Unfortunately I wasn’t able to persuade her, though she had plenty of offers.’ He took up his cup, sipped and then pulled a face. ‘It was a failure from my point of view. I can normally talk clients round. It would have been a lucrative avenue for both of us.’
At least he was honest. ‘But that didn’t tempt her?’ Blake thought of her apartment. She hadn’t needed the cash, if that was anything to go by.
Fitzpatrick shook his head. ‘And if her mind was made up, there was no changing it.’
‘What put her off? Did she have a bad experience on Tomorrow Today?’
The man laughed. ‘Far from it. She had a whale of a time whilst it was all going on. Though she got a bit bored in make-up. She wasn’t used to waiting around. No.’ His eyes were far away for a moment. ‘Just after that show she was keen to do it all again. She wanted prime-time viewers to understand more about poverty, and
how far-reaching its effects are. But after the programme aired there was some argy-bargy on Twitter.’
Blake hadn’t got wind of that. ‘How come?’
‘One or two people took offence at a privileged Cambridge professor talking about people in poverty as though she could really understand what life was like for them.’
‘Were any of the messages threatening? Or especially aggressive?’
Fitzpatrick shook his head. ‘Not by Twitter’s standards. Nothing we complained about or asked to have taken down. Just a lot of the “who do you think you are?” sort.’
‘So that was what put her off?’ It wasn’t uncommon for complaints to come in to the police from people who’d been harassed and threatened on social media. And even tweets containing general insults could destroy someone’s quality of life – especially if there were hundreds of them.
But Fitzpatrick smiled. ‘God no – not that in itself. Samantha’s skin was like rhino’s hide. No. She realised – bright as she was – that the offers of TV work only really took off after that spate of tweets. She became aware that the companies wanted her as a controversial figure – not because of the quality of work she was doing and the way she was influencing political thinking.’
‘And her objection to that was important enough for her to give up her aim of spreading her message?’
‘Well, that and a chance comment she overheard after the first appearance. One of the producers was talking to a colleague, saying what great tits Samantha had. And how that, coupled with her being such a looker, would really bring the viewers in.’