by Clare Chase
Giles sat back in his chair, his arms folded. ‘That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’
‘Excuse me?’
He nodded. ‘Self-interest.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘You want the killer caught to protect yourself. I’ve heard a rumour that you’ve been threatened.’
Tara wasn’t quite sure if it was the relish in his voice, the assumption that she didn’t care about anyone else, or the pure fact of him knowing her business that was worse. What the hell was she doing, working for this man? She didn’t want anything to do with him. He was seeing her fear, and the threat against her, as another potential news story, just as she’d known he would.
‘Well,’ Giles sipped his coffee as the waiter arrived to deliver Tara’s tea. ‘I can see from your face that the gossip’s true then. Very interesting. And it’s another thing you could have told me if you were genuinely onside. Christ, Tara; a true journalist wouldn’t have held back for personal reasons. They’d have seen this for the gold that it is.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
But Giles wasn’t joking.
‘How did you find out, anyway?’
But he sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘I told you before, my dear: I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. Where I got it from isn’t the point. I need team players at Not Now. People who share my vision for the magazine. I felt I owed you something, given the publicity your mum got us when she was photographed carrying the magazine. But you’re far from indispensable. And with your record I doubt other publications would queue up to employ you.’
‘I haven’t got a record. Nothing official as far as the police are concerned.’
He smiled. ‘My dear girl, if your record’s known to me I can make it travel – and fast. Official or not. So, here’s the deal.’ He stretched in his seat now. ‘You give Not Now a full and frank interview explaining exactly what’s happened since you got your death threat. I want fear, I want speculation and I want your past. The lot on a plate. Daughter of famous actor Lydia Thorpe terrorised a second time. Will she be the killer’s next victim? That will make it worth keeping you on the payroll.’
She knew she had a temper on occasion, but she’d rarely known such fury. She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. ‘Don’t be too hasty. Can you afford to pay the mortgage for that dump you call home if you turn me down? I guess your mother would sub you, but I imagine you wouldn’t want that.’ Then he laughed. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s horrible being beaten, isn’t it? All journalists hate it. Perhaps you are one of us after all.’
She got up and walked out without finishing her tea.
Outside, she was still smarting – big time. She knew she’d yanked the café door open in such a way that had made her conspicuous. She’d felt the eyes of the clientele fix on her, drawn by her anger. She hoped they were all staring at Giles now, and thinking of him as the shit he most certainly was.
Unseeingly, she turned up King’s Parade towards the market square; she’d had to park her bike outside Great St Mary’s as the nearest racks were full. But then suddenly she saw a face that she knew. It was Kit, the researcher she’d been introduced to at the institute garden party. He’d been about to go into one of the shops but she could see that he’d spotted her. He paused to smile, then waited until she reached him.
‘Tara! I can’t believe we’re both enduring central Cambridge on a Saturday. What are you doing here?’
She suddenly realised, looking at his face, that he mustn’t have heard about Chiara yet. Blake had said they wanted to control the release of the news, of course. Her secret knowledge meant it was hard to react normally. ‘I had to meet a work contact, otherwise nothing would have dragged me in.’ She did her best to keep her smile natural.
He was looking at her closely, as though he could tell something was up. ‘Well, take care, okay?’ he said, his blue eyes on hers. ‘It’s good to bump into you. Maybe…’ He paused. ‘Well, maybe we’ll bump into each other again.’ Then he gave her a smaller smile, almost shy, coupled with a wave, and walked off up the street.
Tara kept thinking of the latest lot of harrowing news that Kit would have to cope with in the coming hours. The encounter had given her a moment to calm down and put Giles into perspective. She could see the world around her again. The Saturday crowds on King’s Parade filled her view. Guides holding flags on poles strode through the human traffic. The tourists milled after them, their cameras held high on selfie sticks; their screens flashing in the sunlight. People on bikes tried to weave their way through the gaggles of shoppers that had flooded out into the road; she saw one shout a sharp word at a man with a pushchair.
Now she’d got some feeling of normality back, she realised there were things she needed from Boots. She turned right down St Mary’s Passage, watching the tea-time picnickers in the grounds of the university church to her left, sitting on tartan rugs, eating ice creams and cupcakes.
Then she cut through the market square, where she could smell the freshly squeezed orange juice from the juice and smoothie stall, as well as a waft of cooking from the ostrich burger stand. They were still busy, despite it being so late in the day.
At last she reached the open walkway of Petty Cury, passing a guy selling tiny, colourful helicopter toys that he propelled into the air with rubber bands. He’d attracted a huddle of children, all staring upwards.
And then she turned left into Boots and headed towards the No. 7 section. She needed to restock her supplies. If life was intent on leaving her pale and mostly sleepless, then make-up was all the more essential to ensure she looked human.
It was after she’d grabbed some foundation that she caught sight of the Rimmel section. She thought of the battered lipstick she’d seen in Samantha Seabrook’s Dior-filled apartment. Instinctively, she went closer to the Rimmel stand and stood looking at the lipsticks there. The prices were still good – just as they’d been when she was a teenager – but the packaging had changed a lot. Appearance-wise, there wasn’t a lot to choose between the smarter brands and the ones on the rack in front of her.
And then she thought back to the cheap-looking, battered object in the apartment and suddenly it came to her. She’d assumed it had looked like that because it had been knocking around in the bottom of someone’s bag. But of course, that wasn’t it.
The reason it had looked brittle and trashed was because it was old.
Thirty-Two
Blake re-scanned the email he’d got from Tara as he sat in his car around the corner from Kit Tyler’s flat. She’d identified the woman in Samantha Seabrook’s photograph as Patsy Wentworth, tracked her down and been to interview her. Right. He might have known she’d kept something from him. She was a journalist after all, even if he’d almost let himself think of her as a partner in this. He thought about emailing back to tell her exactly what he thought of her sense of priorities, but he was quite sure she already knew.
Blake skimmed the details of the interview that Tara had sent through. He’d listen to the full recording later, but there was nothing of fundamental importance as far as he could see – though a few more incidental pieces of the jigsaw slotted into place. Annoyingly, Tara had got Patsy’s address from Old Man Seabrook himself, whereas he’d told Blake he couldn’t even remember her name. Tara was better at sweet-talking people than he was. Or better at manipulation and deception. It all depended how you looked at it.
Too many people were lying to him at the moment.
‘What is it, boss?’ Emma asked.
‘Information. Do you remember the ruby necklace we found in Samantha Seabrook’s filing cabinet at the institute, that first day we looked round?’
She nodded, her hair bouncing.
‘Sounds as though we were right about it being a family heirloom. Apparently, it belonged to her grandmother, and if her school friend’s telling the truth then she stole it. Stole from her own family. The word is her father knew she must have taken it but couldn’t b
ring himself to confront her. No wonder he went to pieces when we asked him about it. We were confirming his worst fears, and at the worst possible time too.’
‘Death has a horrible habit of revealing things,’ Emma said.
He nodded. ‘I’ve had another update too – from Patrick. Simon Askey’s in good company. Jim Cooper also has no reliable alibi for the time when Chiara Laurito was killed. In fact, so far, no one from the institute seems to. They’re loners, or keep odd hours and don’t interact in the way the rest of us do.’
But then he thought of his own empty cottage in Fen Ditton. How would he prove where he’d been overnight, if anyone wanted to know?
They got out of the car and walked round to Kit Tyler’s flat. It was above a Greek restaurant and the door had peeling paint, but because it was in town, not Chesterton like Jim Cooper’s place, Blake reckoned it would still be setting the researcher back a fair bit.
Emma pressed the bell.
When Kit answered it was clear he’d already heard the news. ‘You’ve come about Chiara?’ he said, stepping back to let them in.
Blake nodded and introduced Emma. ‘Who told you?’
‘I came back from town to a round-robin email from Mary Mayhew.’ He spoke slowly. Blake wondered if he was still assimilating what had happened. He still felt that way himself, despite his head start.
It was Patrick Wilkins who had informed Mary Mayhew, but Blake knew he’d told her the police wanted to break the news themselves.
‘She was keen to let us all know before we got doorstepped by the press.’
Blake suppressed an exasperated sigh. That figured. As before, she’d clearly decided the institute’s reputation was paramount. Unless she had her own reasons for managing the news. He thought again of her interest in religion and the cross that had been on Samantha Seabrook’s body. Gut instinct told him the killer was male, but he might be wrong. Mary Mayhew looked fit enough and she’d struck him as callous.
‘She didn’t give us any details,’ Kit added, as though sensing Blake’s frustration. He led them through a small hallway lined with books on one side and coat hooks on the other.
‘We haven’t made them public yet,’ Emma said.
Kit nodded. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ He motioned for them to take a seat. They’d entered a rectangular living room which contained everything from a kitchenette at one end to a sofa bed at the other. Emma sat on the sofa bed and Blake took an upright chair that had been tucked under a small table.
‘A glass of water would be great,’ Emma said. Blake asked for the same. The room faced south, and it was stifling. Kit had opened the hopper window but the large main pane was fixed.
It was a far cry from Chiara’s place, though it was clean and uncluttered, apart from some neat piles of papers and books. They were stacked next to shelves that were already overflowing. There were some other homely touches too: a framed photo of a young girl with long, dark hair, standing next to an older woman, sat on a narrow side table. There was a blue pot next to it, decorated with silver birds.
Kit Tyler passed them a glass each. One reminded Blake of the sort they used to get given at school, and had a chip in it. The other looked as though it might have once lived in a pub.
Kit caught his eye and gave a half-smile. ‘They came with the flat. Landlord really pushes the boat out.’
‘Doesn’t alter how grateful I am for a cool drink,’ Emma said, and took a swig.
‘So how can I help?’ Kit asked, perching on the sofa bed next to her.
‘We’re talking to everyone who saw Chiara at the institute garden party yesterday evening,’ Blake said. ‘As a matter of course, we want to know what time everyone left, where they went after that and if anyone can vouch for them.’ He looked around Kit’s one-bed pad. He was guessing he’d be another one with no alibi.
‘I left around eight,’ Kit said. ‘Chiara wasn’t in a great state by then to be honest. She’d had too much to drink. Not to the extent that I was worried about her getting home, but she was pretty far gone for that time in the evening.’
‘Did you see her again that night?’ Blake watched Kit Tyler’s eyes.
‘No.’ He frowned and then shook his head. ‘I should have hung around. Made sure she got back to her house. Or at least called her flatmate to check she’d made it home. We could have been out looking for her if only we’d known.’
Unless he was bluffing, he didn’t realise she’d spent time back at her house, before she’d gone out to meet her killer. But then again, bluffing wasn’t impossible. And someone was.
‘You know her flatmate then?’ Emma asked.
Kit pulled a face. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t the first time Chiara’s got hammered at an institute do. We’ve called Mandy in before to come and get her. She probably got a bit fed up with it, in fact.’
Blake nodded. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Chiara? Or anyone who’d been acting oddly around her recently?’
Kit frowned and paused for longer than Blake thought was natural. At last, he said, ‘I suppose Chiara worked in very close proximity to Samantha. Maybe she knew something that threatened her killer.’
‘If you suspect someone, it would be better to tell us.’
But Kit shook his head and his tone was firm now. ‘I don’t.’
‘So, to pick up on the events of last night,’ Blake said. ‘Where did you go after you left the party? Did you come straight back here?’
The man nodded.
‘And did anyone see you come in?’ Not that it would prove he hadn’t gone out again.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Kit Tyler said. ‘Or at least, not as far as I know.’
Blake closed his eyes for a moment. It felt as though they were going nowhere.
As he and Emma descended the stairs from Tyler’s flat, Blake pulled his phone from his pocket to check for messages. One made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A clue. It had to be. But where did it take them?
Emma had caught his change of mood and raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Here.’ He passed her his phone, with Tara’s message about the lipstick she’d seen in Samantha Seabrook’s flat. Her new theory was interesting.
‘Old?’ Emma said. ‘Like the dolls?’
He nodded. ‘Exactly. I want the lipstick picked up, so we can test Tara’s idea: find out when that lipstick was in production.’
‘I’ll organise it,’ Emma said. ‘I wasn’t out at the crime scene in the night. Remember what Fleming said.’
The DCI had called him between his interviews with Askey and Tyler to tell him to go and get some sleep before he carried on. She knew he was running on empty; the last thing she wanted was him making mistakes. ‘Delegate’ had been the last word she’d said to him.
‘Yes. I remember.’ He shrugged. As though he was going to be able to sleep at a time like this. All the same, he knew deep down that his boss was right. ‘Old dolls and an old lipstick. What does it mean? Do they date back to Samantha Seabrook’s teenage years?’ He rubbed his chin. It felt even rougher than usual. ‘Da Souza knew her back then. And she lost her mother. Life was tough on Sir Brian.’ He suddenly wondered if Pamela Grange had been a family friend back then too.
But he was too tired. He couldn’t string it all together. Maybe a couple of hours’ rest would let things slide into place.
As Blake neared Fen Ditton he found it hard to focus on the road. He thought of DCI Fleming’s words on the phone: ‘You’re no good to me unless you’re firing on all cylinders.’ Two women dead, and he was being put down for a nap, like a baby. He jumped when his phone rang, making him realise how close he’d been to dozing at the wheel.
He answered hands-free without registering who was on the line.
‘Garstin? It’s me. I’m at the house.’
Babette. Hell. He’d said six on Saturday. Since then he’d forgotten both the day and the time.
‘I’m around the corner.’
Blake h
ad spent the first ten minutes of Babette and Kitty’s visit with Kitty on his lap, trying to hold it together. They were in the sitting room at his cottage, with Babette looking on. There were tears in her eyes. Kitty was showing him her colouring book, and for some reason the elaborate, enthusiastic scribbles brought tears to his own eyes – a symbol of her and her exuberance, he supposed. And then suddenly she stopped turning the pages, cast the book down on the floor and just hugged him, wriggling further into his arms.
But after a while she clambered off his lap and announced her intention to go to the playroom.
It was after that that Babette and Blake discussed the real reason she’d tried to emigrate with Kitty.
‘I’d gone under, Garstin – I was overtaken by guilt and the thought of what was best for Kitty.’
Yes, he knew. And there was a reason for it too. ‘You tried to make me feel that same guilt,’ he said. ‘You used it to force me to let you both go.’
He hadn’t told anyone the full background. Maybe he should – it ate at him from the inside – but he wasn’t ready yet.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It was unforgivable.’ And as she said it, the realisation seemed to overtake her. She looked tiny and defeated, slumped there in the armchair. Her blue eyes were huge and full of tears as she raised her head to look at him. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘It really was unforgivable, wasn’t it? Literally. You won’t ever be able to give me another chance.’ He could see the shock on her face. ‘Of course you won’t. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ The last words came out in a whisper and Blake felt his chest tense. He wanted her to be wrong, but deep inside, he knew she wasn’t.
He got up and hesitated. For a second, he almost went over to kneel on the floor in front of her chair. He had the urge to take her in his arms, to try to ease both their pain. But at last he turned and walked away. Inside, a voice said: This is up to you. You could forgive her. Deep down you want to hurt her. You want revenge. He pushed the thoughts away, left the room and closed the door behind him.