Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  ‘Okay. I’m definitely seeing it her way.’

  But Fitzpatrick still looked irritated. ‘After that she said not to bother calling her unless the production company had a commission from BBC Four. I would have been able to set that up, in time, I’m sure, but the pay wouldn’t have been as good.’

  Blake had a tedious drive back to Cambridge, along a log-jammed M11. It gave him plenty of time to think about the case. And about the text Babette had sent the day before, too…

  Please, Garstin. Let’s meet.

  The anger he’d felt the previous night rushed through him again. But then he thought of Kitty. Suddenly, he realised the traffic in front of him was slowing yet again. The brake lights of an expensive-looking Audi were only a couple of feet away when he pulled to a halt. He needed to focus.

  Back at his desk, he took out his private mobile.

  Whatever happened, he and Babette would have to talk. Going on like this was unbearable and he needed to tell her so: set out some boundaries, and a proper routine, for Kitty’s sake. And – he had to admit – for his own. He couldn’t wait to see her.

  You’re right, he texted. We should clear the air. My place, Saturday 6pm?

  He’d be working all weekend, given the gravity of the case, but he ought to be home by then. He sent the message and then tried to block the whole thing from his mind. He wanted to search for the tweets about Samantha Seabrook that Guy Fitzpatrick had mentioned.

  There were a lot to go through but even the handful he saw were worrying. Some of them made reference to her family home, as well as her exclusive flat. It all felt very invasive, but of course Samantha Seabrook had shrugged off a death threat that had been delivered into her hands, so Guy Fitzpatrick’s story about her nonchalant response to the tweets was believable.

  Emma Marshall appeared at his side. ‘Are you ready for us?’

  Patrick Wilkins was just behind her and Blake nodded. They went to get coffees from the vending machine and then shut themselves in one of the meeting rooms.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Blake said. ‘What news? Start with Dieter Gartner, Patrick.’

  His DS took out a notebook. ‘The university managed to get us an up-to-date private mobile number from the emergency contact on his HR files. I’ve now left three messages on that line, and similarly on his work mobile, which has been switched off. The emergency contact – a friend rather than a family member – said they believe he’s travelling, possibly in the UK.’

  They all looked at each other.

  ‘I’ve searched online for his social media,’ Patrick said. ‘There’s nothing relevant that I can view on Facebook but he tweeted a photo of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh yesterday morning. I’ve been in touch with our counterparts up there to see if they can track him down. Find out where he is now. And more importantly, when he arrived and where from.’

  ‘Good.’ Why the hell wasn’t he answering his phone or returning their messages?

  He turned to Emma. ‘What about the background checks on Samantha Seabrook’s contacts?’ He’d got her digging into all the professor’s connections – both private and professional. She’d been looking for various key triggers.

  ‘Okay,’ Emma said, flipping open her own notebook. ‘First, anyone with religious connections.’

  This was off the back of the crucifix, found round Samantha Seabrook’s neck.

  ‘I have a candidate for you. Wait for it…’ She gave Blake a look. ‘Peter Mackintosh, the librarian at the institute.’

  ‘Really?’ Blake raised an eyebrow. He remembered Tara mentioning the guy, and how he seemed to have liked Samantha Seabrook.

  Emma nodded. ‘He’s the churchwarden in the village where he lives.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I know. Pillar of the community, I imagine. Beyond him, I have another suspect for you. Mary Mayhew.’

  ‘Go on then. Shock me with your details.’

  ‘She’s a regular attendee at the Catholic church on the corner of Lensfield Road.’ She grinned. ‘I know, I know. So far, so normal. But she’s certainly keen. I found a blog post she’d written, talking about a retreat she’d been on in a religious community. The post was on their website as a way of attracting others in, I suppose.’ She sighed. ‘And that’s the best I can do. For everyone else, it’s just the occasional attendance at run-of-the-mill services. Sir Brian Seabrook’s not religious. There are various interviews he’s given in the past that reveal that, as well as his generally left-wing views.’

  ‘Hmm. Interesting.’ He looked at them both. ‘Now, tell me some good news. You’ve also found that either Peter Mackintosh or Mary Mayhew are expert climbers?’

  ‘No can do, I’m afraid,’ Emma said.

  Patrick flipped over to the next page of his notebook. ‘A woman with rooms on Professor Seabrook’s staircase at St Francis’s College was registered to use the climbing wall at Kelsey Kerridge, but she only came to Cambridge from Harvard at the start of last term and there’s no indication she and the professor were more than nodding acquaintances. The other people we found registered have even less of a connection.’

  ‘But of course, we know Dieter Gartner climbs,’ Emma said.

  ‘We do.’

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Blake called, glancing over his shoulder.

  It was Detective Constable Max Dimity. Since Max’s young wife had died a few short weeks ago, his features – formerly lit by wry humour – had become shuttered and wooden. For the first time since the fatal car crash that had shattered the DC’s world, there was a spark in his eye.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, boss, but there’s some interesting news on the dolls that were sent to Samantha Seabrook and Tara Thorpe.’

  Blake caught his breath. Could it be a breakthrough? He’d been trying to keep his tone positive, for the sake of his team, but they desperately needed something. ‘Go ahead, Max.’

  ‘Apparently they’re old.’

  ‘Old?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s right. Or more precisely, the cotton they were sewn with is on the point of perishing, and the material is similarly dated. If they were made recently then they were made with cotton that’s been hanging around in a sewing basket for a long time. But it seems that’s not likely. The report said anyone trying to use the thread in the last few years would have had a frustrating experience; the cotton would have snapped each time they put the slightest strain on it.’

  It took a moment for Blake to speak. ‘Do we have any idea how old?’

  Dimity nodded. ‘Around thirty years. The team used carbon dating on the cotton.’

  Around five years younger than the professor… Blake glanced at Emma, and then at Patrick. They looked as perplexed as he felt. Two dolls, pretty much identical and both old?

  How did that make any sense?

  But it would. Sooner or later it would. ‘Thanks, Max,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got any thoughts at all on where this takes us, please let me know.’

  Max ducked his head in a nod, and the flicker of the DC he’d first recruited showed in his face before he turned and left the room again.

  Tara Thorpe had texted to say that she and Jim Cooper were going drinking in the Pickerel shortly. Maybe she’d finally taken on board the value of sharing.

  What started as a positive thought turned on its head and made him uneasy; it was such an unequal relationship. What would she say if she heard Max Dimity’s news about the dolls? He knew he couldn’t share the information, but withholding it felt wrong. Knowing more could only make her safer.

  He glanced at his watch. He was due with Professor da Souza in twenty minutes, to interview him for a second time. After reading Tara’s notes on her talk with Chiara Laurito, he wanted to know more about the woman’s relationship with Samantha Seabrook.

  As he drove across town, air con on, the sun bouncing dazzlingly off his car bonnet, his mind went back to the institute’s librarian, Peter Mackintosh. You could hardly
presume someone who acted as a church warden had outlandishly strong religious views. But the guy was in charge of a library that had been funded by Samantha Seabrook’s father. Did that extra connection mean anything? And then there was the institute administrator, Mary Mayhew. She was another unlikely candidate for murderer on the face of it. And yet she’d clearly disliked the professor. Could something have pushed that dislike far enough for her to kill? She was certainly meticulously organised – and so, most certainly, was their perpetrator.

  But what connection could either of them – or anyone else they were in contact with – have with two old rag dolls?

  Twenty-Three

  Tara had chosen to meet Jim Cooper in the Pickerel in the hope that it wouldn’t be too crowded by mid-afternoon. As with Chiara, she’d found his mugshot on the institute website, so she knew who she was looking for. Inside the pub, she waited for a moment as her eyes got used to the light levels. The building dated back to the 1500s, and its low ceilings and the placing of its windows left it shadowy, even on hot August days. You couldn’t beat it for atmosphere and history though. It had a chequered past, having been a brothel and an undertaker’s before it became a pub. It had been C. S. Lewis’s favourite watering hole and even had its own ghost – a former landlady who’d drowned in the river nearby. Not that Tara believed in any of that, but she bet it helped draw in the punters. She ran her eyes over the clientele now, walking round to get a view of the more tucked-away spaces Jim Cooper might have chosen to sit in. It seemed she’d arrived first, so she went to the bar and scanned the beers available. In the end she ordered a small bottle of something called a Bitburger Drive. Low alcohol for a clear head. She asked them to put it in a large glass though, to make it look like she’d already drunk half. She wanted Cooper to think she was as relaxed and well-oiled as he was. The drink was welcome; she was parched after cycling up the river full-pelt. She’d grabbed a sandwich at home after her sticky drive back from Great Sterringham, then come straight out again. She was longing for a shower. She glanced at her watch and wondered if she’d manage one before the institute garden party.

  The seats near the pub’s front windows were all taken, so she went into its darker interior and bagged a spot there. It would be nice and intimate for a quiet chat. She’d probably have been able to get a decent recording if she dared to suggest it, but she wouldn’t. Not after Cooper had almost pulled out on her. She craned round so that she could see the pub door, but after five minutes there was still no sign of him.

  She picked up a beer mat and tapped it absently against the table. Maybe he’d changed his mind again. She’d spent a fair while coaxing him into reinstating the planned meet-up. And all the while she’d been wondering what he had to hide. Why go from being so keen to talk, to pulling out? But she’d kept her tone casual. (‘Your views matter,’ she’d said, ‘and at the very least it’ll be nice to stop for a beer. The weather’s so hot and I don’t know about you, but I’ve been hard at it all day.’ He’d hesitated when she’d come up with that line. And then she’d said: ‘I’d heard that the professor was close to you, in fact.’ She was careful about which way round she put it. ‘It was only time pressure that stopped me from getting in touch sooner.’ That tipped the scales. ‘Someone mentioned that, did they?’ he’d said. She’d assured him they had, only she couldn’t quite remember who.) The ends justified the means. In Cooper’s case, she didn’t question her methods. He might be the man who wanted to kill her.

  She was just starting to get seriously fidgety when a tall man, bulked up with muscle, strode in. Cooper’s portrait on the institute website hadn’t given away what he’d be like as a physical presence. Under the pub’s ancient wooden beams, he looked like a giant. His shaved head and large shoulders told her he wanted to be seen as a force to be reckoned with. She could imagine he had to read the riot act to umpteen students who broke the institute’s rules, but she was sure he wouldn’t have developed his look just for them.

  She stood up and put out a hand. ‘Jim Cooper? I’m Tara Thorpe.’

  His expression wasn’t altogether friendly as he nodded. He took her hand though, and shook it, his grip firm and rough, his palm warm.

  Tara indicated her pint. ‘I’m all sorted, but what can I get you?’

  His face relaxed one degree. ‘I can’t lie, I could do with one,’ he said. ‘I’ve been running late all day and the heat’s getting to me.’

  Along with a hangover, if Blake’s account of their interview the previous night was anything to go by. They went to the bar and Cooper opted for a pint of Foster’s.

  Back at the table Tara said: ‘I’m sorry about all the mayhem last night. I gather someone reported an intruder outside my house but it was you all along, and you just wanted to talk to me about Samantha Seabrook. Sounds as though you had a whole load of hassle in return for trying to track me down. Pretty ironic, given that I wanted to talk to you anyway.’

  He sighed, and nodded. ‘Right enough. Not your fault though. I just happened to be passing but I didn’t want to disturb you if you’d already gone to bed. I was trying to see if you had a light on.’ He took a long swig of his beer.

  ‘I am a bit of a night owl, but interviews work best during the day when I’m fresher.’ She didn’t want him dropping by in the small hours again.

  He took a longer draught of his drink this time. ‘Who have you spoken to already?’ he asked.

  He was leaning towards her now and his shoulders still looked tense. Could he be the person she’d seen in Samantha Seabrook’s secret Instagram photo? The picture had cut across their body so you couldn’t judge the breadth of their shoulders. That and the fact that it was night, and the trees in the background below the figure were distant, meant it had been hard to judge their stature.

  For just a second, Tara’s nerves were set on edge. The table was small, and Cooper was within inches of her. She could feel the warmth of him; his knee almost brushing hers. She dug her nails into the palm of her hand. Focus, and she could get what she wanted.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I was just wondering who you’d spoken to before me.’

  Maybe he hadn’t bought her story about wanting to talk to him all along. ‘Let’s see, Professor da Souza was first, of course. I couldn’t really speak to anyone before him. It’ – she rolled her eyes – ‘well, it wouldn’t have gone down well.’

  After a second Cooper put his shoulders back a little. ‘No. Well, I can see that.’

  ‘And then I spoke to Simon Askey because Professor da Souza had set that up for me on the same day.’ She controlled her features as she mentioned the doctor’s name, but Cooper’s expression told her he wasn’t a fan either. It would give them some common ground, so she allowed her feelings to show as she finished her sentence.

  ‘You didn’t like him?’ he asked.

  She looked down deliberately into her low-alcohol beer. ‘I shouldn’t have let it show.’

  Cooper grunted. ‘You don’t have to worry about it front of me. The guy’s an A1 shit.’

  Tara allowed herself a smile that wasn’t entirely put on. ‘I got the impression he and Professor Seabrook didn’t get on either.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Is that why you don’t like him?’

  Cooper let out a long breath. ‘Partly.’

  She sipped her drink. ‘When DI Blake came round this morning to explain what all the fuss was about last night, he mentioned you were on your way home from a pub session with Askey and some of the others.’

  Cooper put his pint down suddenly. ‘He was really taking the piss at the Mitre. That was part of the reason I—’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘Part of the reason you stopped by at my place?’ Her mind was racing. Had Askey egged Cooper on somehow, knowing she’d be scared?

  Cooper looked at her from under his thick eyebrows and nodded. ‘He was riling me about Sam,’ he said at last. ‘But what he said was wrong. I know that. And what you’ve told me pr
oves it. Shit – multiple people know how much she valued my friendship.’

  ‘I knew Askey wasn’t honest when I talked to him,’ Tara said, leaning forward. ‘Whatever he said to you, I wouldn’t trust it at all.’ She peered at him over her glass as she took another sip of her drink. Cooper’s eyes met hers. ‘It sounds as though he upset you,’ she went on. ‘He upset me too, to be honest. What did he say? You might feel better if you get it off your chest.’ She’d feel better, anyway.

  He nodded slowly. ‘I’d been talking about Sam. I was getting a bit upset, if I’m honest. I was tired – end of the day and all that. I should probably have gone straight home rather than out drinking. Anyway, I suppose he got sick of me reminiscing over old times. He suddenly turned round and told me Sam had, well’ – he paused – ‘sort of bad-mouthed me behind my back.’

  Tara widened her eyes. ‘Doesn’t sound likely, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Cooper’s shoulders were still tense but she could tell it was the thought of Askey that was keeping them that way now.

  ‘Maybe Askey was jealous of you,’ Tara said.

  Cooper raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t like Samantha because he knew Samantha didn’t like him. If he realised you two were close, he might have resented you for it. He’d be dying to put you down and make himself feel better.’

  Cooper didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d want to show emotion in front of any other human being, but his eyes were moist, and his grip on his pint had tightened. He took another long swig of his drink, so that the glass was three-quarters empty. ‘You think?’

  Tara decided to press ahead, given she was getting a reaction. ‘Seems like the kind of mind games he’d play, if my experience is anything to go by.’

  Cooper nodded. ‘He is like that.’

  ‘But you know better, don’t you? I mean, I got the impression you and Professor Seabrook were as thick as thieves. I’m sorry.’ She met his eyes. ‘This must be a terrible time for you.’