Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  He kept his eyes on the road but could feel his DS watching him.

  ‘You think he could be the killer?’ she said after a moment.

  He shrugged as they drove over the railway bridge, past its colourful mural featuring a mishmash of international flags. It marked the crossing into the southern section of Mill Road, an area popular with students, and crowded with lively independent shops and world food outlets.

  ‘We know he and Chiara Laurito argued about something,’ he said. ‘And he certainly didn’t have any time for Professor Seabrook. Plus I think he’s a shit.’

  ‘That’ll stand up in court.’

  He signalled to turn left. ‘It just adds to the picture.’

  ‘No note or doll sent to the victim this time,’ Emma said, ‘as far as we know at least.’

  Blake pulled off the main road. ‘No. And from what Professor da Souza said about her character, I couldn’t see her keeping something like that to herself.’ There was a pause and he turned off the side road into a modern development of smart townhouses. If all of the accommodation off Mill Road went this way, it would be even harder to afford than it was now. ‘Maybe there were only ever two dolls made, way back whenever that was. But why two in the first place?’ He wiped a hand across his brow. It must mean something. ‘Or, on the other hand, if the murderer has a whole stack of old dolls, maybe he or she didn’t threaten Chiara Laurito with one because they had to act quickly for some reason. Perhaps Chiara knew something that could implicate them, or’ – he pulled up on the kerbside and engaged the handbrake – ‘if they intended Chiara as a victim from the start, along with Professor Seabrook and Tara, then maybe something’s testing their self-control, and their planning’s starting to slip.’

  ‘If the killer has had them all in their sights from the outset, then Samantha, Chiara and Tara must share something. What on earth do they have in common?’

  Blake unfastened his seatbelt. ‘Good question. Professor Seabrook and Tara both have or had actor mothers. Chiara and the professor both come from privileged backgrounds. I suppose they all do really. Tara’s mother can’t be short of a bob or two – though that might not always have been the case. I read somewhere that she had Tara when she was very young.’

  Emma grabbed her bag and opened the passenger door. ‘Either way, maybe it means they’re more likely to have made a mistake this time.’

  ‘I bloody well hope so.’ But the thought that the killer might be getting impatient and lashing out made his chest contract when he thought of Tara. She’d be striding around in her bloody-minded way, brave but terrified, living on the edge of her nerves and likely to strike out herself. One way and another he was spending a lot of time thinking about her at the moment.

  They walked up to the door of number two – panelled and painted a pristine white – and knocked.

  A woman half-opened the door and peered round. She was still in her night things – a creased, striped pair of pyjamas, the top two buttons undone – and held a baby over one shoulder.

  She furrowed her brow and looked at them through eyes that were three-quarters closed against the morning light. The baby was crying. ‘Yes?’ Blake had the feeling she’d already had enough of her Saturday.

  ‘Is Dr Askey in?’ he asked. But at that moment Askey appeared behind her, approaching slowly, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand and a newspaper under his arm. He was dressed in jeans and a navy V-necked jumper, a white T-shirt showing underneath.

  He gave Blake a look he was getting used to. Bored eyes and a contemptuous smile. ‘I didn’t expect visitors on a Saturday.’

  Which was just as Blake had been hoping. ‘Can we come in?’

  Askey motioned them into the hall and the woman with the baby moved into the interior too.

  ‘Why don’t you head back upstairs?’ he said, meeting his wife’s eye and then nodding over his shoulder towards the landing. Blake imagined he’d rather she didn’t overhear their conversation.

  Askey led them through to a spacious living room with cream sofas. Blake wondered how that would work once the baby was on its feet, with its roving sticky fingers.

  ‘Smart house,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Askey raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘It’s a step up from the sort of environment I was raised in.’ In truth, Blake disliked show homes where no one could relax.

  They all took seats on the sofas. Askey caught Emma’s eye and gave her one of his deliberately charming smiles. She was smiling back. Blake hoped it was a tactic, though he didn’t know how she could bear to play along.

  ‘You’ve no doubt heard that Chiara Laurito’s been found murdered,’ he said, without giving Askey the chance to take control of the situation. He gave the man 100 per cent of his attention as he said it.

  The shock looked genuine. But then, if he knew what was coming he’d have had time to prepare; a chance to work out how to arrange his features to best effect.

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ He flopped back in the sofa he occupied and stared for a moment at the ceiling.

  ‘Sorry we didn’t break the news more gently,’ Emma said. ‘We thought it would have spread.’

  Askey sat forward again. ‘If it had been a working day I’m sure it would have. But we’ve just been here at home, chilling out with the papers.’

  Blake bet Askey was speaking solely for himself. Upstairs he could hear the baby crying again. ‘And were you also here last night?’ he asked. ‘Did you come straight home from the institute garden party?’

  Askey nodded. ‘Those dos always wear me out. What happened to Chiara? How did she die?’

  Blake ignored the question. ‘Can your wife vouch for you?’ he said instead. ‘I presume she was here too.’

  Askey frowned. ‘She was, but she’d gone to bed early. She gets very tired, what with all the broken nights. I often find she’s gone into Davey’s room and fallen asleep in there, next to his cot. It’s where the spare bed is.’

  ‘So she won’t be able to vouch for you? That’s what you’re saying?’

  ‘I don’t much like your tone, Inspector,’ Askey said.

  Blake smiled. ‘But is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Sandra came back to bed at some stage. I don’t know when it was. You’d have to ask her.’

  ‘We will.’ Blake relaxed back in his seat. ‘I understand you and Chiara Laurito had become quite close.’

  Askey’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Chiara’s flatmate, Mandy, says you offered to mediate between Chiara and Samantha Seabrook. I presume you must have felt sorry for her. You thought Professor Seabrook had treated her unfairly?’

  Askey pulled his hands through his blond hair and gritted his teeth for a moment. ‘The pair of them, honest to God. I wouldn’t wish either of them dead but they were enough to drive the rest of us to distraction.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Okay. So Sam didn’t mince her words when it came to criticising Chiara, and at first I hadn’t had time to look into whether her criticisms were justified or not. Either way, I thought she was overdoing it, so yes, when Chiara came to me I did offer to try to build some bridges between them.’

  ‘But you didn’t come through with the goods, from what Chiara’s flatmate says.’

  Askey’s eyes darkened. ‘Sam showed me some of Chiara’s work and defended her stand. I could see she had a point. It was more complicated than I’d originally thought. I ended up figuring that Chiara needed to learn to take Sam’s comments on the chin.’

  ‘Because they were justified?’

  ‘That’s what Sam had me believe.’ He paused for a second. ‘But then maybe she only showed me Chiara’s worst work. She was good at pulling the wool over people’s eyes and only telling the truth when she felt like it.’

  Blake noticed his knuckles were white as he gripped his coffee.

  ‘So Chiara must have felt let down by you.’ Blake paused. ‘Is that why you argued?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

&
nbsp; ‘The entire institute heard you by the sound of it,’ Blake said. ‘A couple of weeks or so before Samantha Seabrook died. Chiara was in your office and there was a whole load of shouting.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Askey put his mug down on a coffee table. ‘That place is like a goldfish bowl. The same fish swimming round the same scummy water, watching each other.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, it sounds like a case of wild exaggeration to me. I’m trying to think back.’ He paused for a moment and closed his eyes. Buying himself time? Blake and Emma exchanged a glance. She was thinking the same, he could tell. ‘Yes, I remember now. It was to do with the funding bid I was putting in with Sam; the one she pulled out of. She’d suggested yet another ridiculous change to the methodology and it got my goat. She was always mucking things around just as we’d got them sorted.’

  ‘In that case,’ Blake said, ‘I wonder why you were overheard telling Chiara it wasn’t always best to tell the truth. Was that because being honest about someone’s change of heart over research methodology could lead to discord?’ He gave the man his most innocent smile.

  Askey was clenching his fist. After a long pause he said: ‘No. I remember exactly what I said now. I didn’t tell her she shouldn’t tell the truth. I said: “you can be too honest”. It was because she was passing on what Sam had said about my own methods, word for word. It wasn’t complimentary.’

  Blake turned to Emma, who leant forward. ‘One final thing,’ she said. ‘We wanted to ask you about Jim Cooper.’

  ‘Jim?’ Askey’s shoulders relaxed a little.

  Emma nodded. ‘We understand he feels that he and Samantha Seabrook were pretty close, but in fact it’s possible the professor didn’t feel the same way.’

  Askey let out a short, humourless laugh. ‘She didn’t. She spent quite a lot of time taking the piss out of him behind his back. Says a lot about both of them.’

  ‘We wondered, did you ever tell Jim Cooper what Samantha really thought of him?’ Emma asked.

  Askey gave her a look. ‘I’m not a complete bastard. But I did try to make him see that she was taking him for a fool. I didn’t spell it out exactly, but I gave him some pretty heavy hints. I suppose I probably did make it fairly clear.’

  So he was a complete bastard then. But a bastard that wanted people to think the best of him.

  ‘And was that before or after she’d been killed?’

  Askey took a deep breath. ‘A bit of both. In fact, if I were you, that’s where I’d be looking for the killer.’

  Blake raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Someone who obsessed over Sam whilst she was alive, killed her in a passion, and then got rid of Chiara when they heard her bad-mouthing her. She was telling everyone exactly what she thought of Sam at the institute garden party last night. If the killer felt proprietorial over Sam, maybe they didn’t like that.’ His angry eyes were on Blake’s. ‘So I suggest you take yourselves off and focus on someone who might have actually committed a double murder, rather than bothering me.’

  Annoyingly, of course, he could be right. The thought had already crossed Blake’s mind. If it proved to be true, Askey would forever think he’d been the one to spot the possibility. Just another one of life’s frustrations.

  Before they left they spoke to Sandra Askey, who confirmed what her husband had said. She’d been asleep when he’d returned home. She’d woken at some stage, when the baby had, had given him a feed and then gone back to their shared bed. She’d got no idea what time it had been. After dark, before dawn. Time meant nothing these days. She felt like the living dead.

  As they drove back to Parkside, Emma said: ‘I should think Sandra Askey might be tempted to turn violent towards her husband if only she had the energy.’

  ‘You could be right. What did you reckon to his reactions?’

  ‘He did look gobsmacked about Chiara, but he might just be a good actor.’

  ‘I thought the same.’

  ‘And his response when you questioned him about the row was interesting.’

  ‘Yes. He looked as though he was playing for time.’

  ‘He did. But when he finally explained, he sounded genuine.’

  It had struck Blake that way too. But if that was the case, then why hadn’t he told them straight off? And why had he looked so uncomfortable when he realised just how much of their conversation had been overheard?

  Thirty-One

  On her journey back from London to Cambridge, Tara had sent off her email to Blake, telling him that she’d found the woman in Samantha Seabrook’s drunken snapshot and interviewed her too. There wasn’t a good way to explain the fact that she’d misled him, so she didn’t bother. He’d only think she was gutless and mealy-mouthed as well as dishonest. At least she had a recording of the interview she could send him.

  After that she’d considered what line of enquiry to pursue next. Samantha Seabrook’s childhood had become more and more fascinating. It might not help solve her murder, but gossip about her upbringing would bring Tara’s article to life.

  With that in mind, she’d decided at last to call her mother. It was just possible she’d have inside knowledge: she and Bella Seabrook had worked in the same industry, after all. So, whilst staring out of the train window at the farmland that flitted across her line of sight, she’d made the call. The sun had put in an occasional appearance, casting patterns over the fields.

  Her mother had sounded surprised (and slightly put out) at the request to come and visit her as soon as possible. To be fair, Tara hated having things sprung on her too. It probably ran in the family. Tara could hear Lydia gradually recovering her poise and modifying her tone. By the end of the conversation it was as though her mother had invited her. Tara wasn’t looking forward to driving across the Fens to keep the appointment, but she couldn’t let the threat she was under control her life. She wouldn’t be the only one on the road, even though they’d agreed she could visit the following day, on a Sunday.

  She’d arrived back in Cambridge and was on her bike, just nearing her cottage on Stourbridge Common, when her phone rang.

  As she picked up she looked over to where the tent and police cordon still stood and thought again of Chiara.

  Her heart was already sinking. And then it was Giles on the phone. Didn’t he know it was Saturday? Not that journalists got the same perks as other people when it came to hours, but there ought to be some respite – especially from bosses.

  ‘Yes?’ She knew she sounded short-tempered.

  ‘Delightful to speak to you too.’ He was drawling. He did it knowingly, for effect, which made it all the more annoying.

  ‘I’ve been down in London all day working on the story.’

  ‘Very commendable. It’s the story I wanted to talk to you about, as a matter of fact.’

  There now.

  ‘I’m in town. Come and meet me at the Copper Kettle? You must need refreshments if you’ve been out all day. And there are some pretty major developments relating to Samantha Seabrook’s murder, wouldn’t you say? I’m surprised you haven’t been in touch.’

  Tara looked longingly at her cottage. ‘Giles, you said I would be writing a feature about Samantha Seabrook and her work. You said Not Now would be covering her even if she’d died at home in her bed. I wasn’t aware I was meant to be writing about the police case.’

  Giles laughed. ‘Please don’t play the innocent with me, Tara. I know you can put on many guises but that one’s especially hard to swallow. I’ll wait for you at the café.’

  Tara could have told him to go to hell, of course, but there was something about his tone that stopped her. Her heart pumped faster now. She was spoiling for a fight; better to have it face to face.

  The Copper Kettle was crowded, but Giles had managed to bag a table by the window. He didn’t bother to stand when she arrived. In fairness, she hadn’t put herself out either. It was too hot to rush. London, followed by the train journey, then a bike ride into town and a café full of people who happened to incl
ude Giles, had made her feel fractious. She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘I gather you’ve become chummy with the police.’

  Tara looked at the menu. If Giles was going to force her to sit there he was bloody well going to buy her some tea. ‘We’ve spoken a few times.’

  ‘And this latest “incident”, as you so vaguely described it when you emailed Matt this morning, took place right outside your house, yet you’re telling me you didn’t know it was another murder, and you weren’t aware the victim was connected to Samantha Seabrook?’

  Did he really think his desire to make cash out of other people’s misery was the most important thing here? ‘I told Matt everything I could at the time.’

  ‘Everything you could? Everything you wanted to tell him, more like. You’re buggering things up for me, Tara. You came across a scoop that would have sent our hit rates soaring and you kept it to yourself. Are you crazy?’

  ‘I was asked not to pass on the news because it would affect the police investigation.’

  ‘By this policeman you’ve been seeing, I assume?’

  Tara raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Gav and Shona were in the Champion of the Thames the other night. Interesting that you didn’t notice them. They reckoned you and the detective were looking very cosy. He’s a bit of a looker, Shona said. Haute couture and rugged stubble.’

  So much for loyalty amongst colleagues.

  ‘As for his request that you should keep things quiet, you ought to have found a way round that. You could have gone straight to Chiara Laurito’s house and asked if she’d returned home last night. Then we could at least have reported her missing, along with the news that a body had been found. People would have made the leap.’

  ‘Giles—’ Tara caught the eye of a passing waiter. ‘An iced tea, please,’ she said to him. ‘Giles, had it occurred to you that we have a duty not to muck up the police’s operation? Because so far two innocent people are dead, and it might be nice if they could catch the killer before the number goes up?’