Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  Upstairs he could hear Kitty stomping around. Of course – no stairgates any more. But she’d got up there in one piece; it was all right. And he could hear her giggling. She hadn’t witnessed Babette’s upset. He went up to the floor above, taking the stairs two at a time, swallowing down his emotion.

  Kitty was in her old room. He’d have thought it might upset her – it looked so bare now – but she’d found something to play with. As he entered she turned her solid, cuddly body, clad in its deep-blue dress, covered in daisies, and saw him.

  ‘Daddy!’ She ran to him and clung to his legs. ‘Look!’ She held up the toy, her eyes dancing, a wide smile on her face.

  ‘You’ve found Small Bear!’ he said, bending down and sweeping her up in his arms. ‘Where was he?’

  ‘There.’ She pointed at the blue and yellow bookcase.

  ‘Behind it you mean?’

  Her head nodded emphatically. ‘But he was sticking out.’

  Blake smiled. ‘He must be glad to be back with you.’

  Kitty nodded again, but Small Bear was somewhere behind his back now. Kitty was clinging to him again, snuggling her silky head into his shoulder.

  Your choice.

  Blake paused for a long moment. Kitty’s hair smelled of Johnson’s baby shampoo.

  ‘Shall we go down and show Mummy?’ he said at last, still not knowing his plan.

  Kitty nodded her head against him, not lifting it up as he carried her downstairs.

  He opened the door to the sitting room slowly, talking to Kitty to give Babette some warning of their approach.

  He entered the room with Kitty still on his hip. Babette lifted her head to look at them. She’d managed to wipe away her tears, though her eyes were still red.

  They met his, questioningly, over Kitty’s head, as he held the child tight.

  That night, he dreamt of Samantha Seabrook and Chiara Laurito. He saw them in turn, dead where they’d been found, but in both cases he knew there was someone else there too – a man, he thought, but he couldn’t see who. He woke with a start and saw that a message had popped up on his phone. It was still glowing. Perhaps the vibration had woken him. Tara.

  Meant to mention, I think someone your end’s leaking info. My boss knows about my death threat. He wants an exclusive from me, so readers can gloat.

  Thirty-Three

  As Tara got ready to drive to her mother’s the following day, she wondered how long Giles would give her to make up her mind about her job. Not that she needed any extra time; there was no way she was going to give him the needy exclusive he wanted. No, she’d made up her mind all right. She was just putting off making it official because the prospect of paying the next mortgage bill would instantly become more frightening.

  She’d have to sell her feature as a freelance instead. If she had to she’d include some of the details Giles had been so keen to have, to make it more attractive. But it would be under her own terms and she’d be denying him, which would count for something.

  If only she had more savings. Shame she’d had to splash out on the new back door.

  As usual she was wary as she crossed the common. Swifts swooped overhead and the church bells from St Andrew’s in Chesterton rang out across the river. A gaggle of children was feeding the ducks. It was the most innocent scene you could imagine, but over in the distance the tent that had covered Chiara Laurito’s body was still there, in her mind’s eye.

  Tara was glad of her dark glasses as she drove towards her mother’s; the sun bouncing off the flooded land to her left was dazzling. To her right there was a vast channel of water too, and behind her the road stretched back, turning corners to navigate its way around the near-saturated land, but never dipping out of sight. So much sky. So much dark soil. She could see one car behind her; none ahead. It was just another driver, headed towards one of the villages located in that watery landscape. Of course it was. But Tara didn’t like the fact that there was only one other vehicle in view. What if it was the killer? They’d clearly been keeping tabs on her. If she broke down out there she wouldn’t have a chance. It was such a lonely place.

  She tried to focus on the road ahead and waited for the car to turn off. By the law of averages it ought to, sooner or later.

  But it was only when she made the turn towards her mother’s house, on the outskirts of the moneyed hamlet where she and Tara’s stepfather lived, that Tara finally lost the small green car. The day was hot and sticky, but that didn’t stop the goosebumps that crawled their way over her flesh.

  Tara’s Fiat bumped up the rutted drive. It wasn’t lack of funds that stopped Lydia from having it tarmacked – the house was a family home and her mother liked its rural character. Tara was always worried the bumps would knock her exhaust off, but her mother and stepfather had a Land Rover Discovery, so it didn’t bother them. In the height of her career, Lydia Thorpe had hardly ever occupied the place. She’d had a pied-à-terre in London, which suited her acting and modelling work. But now Lydia was in residence more often than not. If she went away it was for a chunk of time to do a dedicated job. Other than that she would ‘retreat’ to her rural idyll.

  The house was huge and square: a former rectory that had been built in the mid-eighteenth century. Vicars in those days seemed to have done all right. It was surrounded on all sides by immaculate, lush green lawns, with a tennis court and a maze round at the back. And then there was a separate garage block and some stables – though no one used them.

  As well as the Land Rover, Tara saw there was a taxi waiting on her mother’s driveway and instantly wondered if either Benedict or her half-brother, Harry, had decided to make an emergency getaway, ahead of her arrival.

  Tara walked up to the front door and knocked.

  It was her stepfather, Benedict, who answered. He planted a firm, it’s-my-duty kiss on each cheek. ‘Tara, darling. I’m so glad I caught you. I’m having to dash to catch a train, but I was hoping you might make it over here before I left. Are you well?’ He picked up a briefcase and trolley suitcase and stepped outside.

  ‘I am thanks. And you?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’ He sounded relieved to have got the formalities out of the way. Tara was too. ‘Well, I must away to London. We’re about to close a deal on a new luxury development in Dubai, so I have a plane to catch.’ He peered back into the house. ‘I believe Lydia’s in the kitchen.’

  Tara went on into the hall, with its artwork, sofa and Farrow-and-Ball blue walls, leaving him to sort himself out. ‘Mum?’

  She listened for a second and heard her mother’s voice from the next room. She was giving someone instructions that seemed to relate to floral decorations for an event. Tara assumed she must be on the phone; she couldn’t hear anyone answer.

  ‘Be with you in a second, darling,’ Lydia called through, followed by: ‘No, no, red won’t do. They have to be the palest pink, with the trailing greenery and white ribbons. Silk. Yes, that’s right. Good.’

  A second later she appeared, and kissed Tara on the cheek. She was wearing a figure-hugging sleeveless dress made from shot silk. As she turned, its colour seemed to alter from sapphire to sea green. Her mid-brown hair was shampoo-advertisement shiny and neatly arranged into a French pleat.

  ‘So, this is a lovely surprise.’ Her mother’s voice still had that faint hint of accusation to it. Tara made a mental note to give her at least a week’s notice in future. ‘Such a shame you’ve missed Harry. He’s visiting a friend today, but he said to say hello.’

  Tara suspected her mother had invented the message to promote family harmony. The wanted-child had probably made good his escape the moment he knew she’d be descending on them.

  Lydia put her head on one side. ‘You look lovely,’ she said at last, and if it hadn’t been for the pause, Tara might have believed her.

  ‘So do you. Beautiful dress.’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘Birthday present from Benedict. Let’s go out into the garden. This weather’s too
good to miss, and it’s so peaceful there.’ She took the mobile she’d been holding and left it on the hall table. ‘I’ve got some refreshments ready for us in the kitchen. I managed to get them from the village just before the shop closed – once I knew you were coming.’

  Tara followed her through and saw she’d laid out pastries on a plate underneath a lace dome. She took the protective cover off and transferred the plate to a tray that also held a couple of glasses and some side plates.

  ‘Will you bring the bottle of elderflower pressé? It’s in the fridge.’

  Tara fetched it and they walked out of the back door that led off the kitchen and into the garden. Near the house it was a riot of colour, with roses, delphiniums and sweet williams against a backdrop of leafy trees, gnarled with age. Sweet scents from the flowers reached her as a soft breeze stirred the air.

  Tara’s mother followed her eyes. ‘The rain in April and now the warmth seems to have done its stuff,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all looking very well kept.’ Tara knew gardening wasn’t one of her mother’s passions, even though she enjoyed the end results.

  ‘New gardener,’ her mother said. ‘Benedict found the last one asleep in a deckchair when he was meant to be pruning.’ She walked over to the marble-topped table they’d had since Tara was a child, with its decorative iron stand. It was sitting in the shade of a willow.

  ‘It’s lovely to have the chance to catch up,’ her mother said. ‘What brings you over here?’

  If her mother had been one of her interviewees she’d have spun her a line at that point; not to mention preparing the ground more patiently. But blood relations deserved honesty, and her mother would see through her anyway.

  ‘The desire for showbiz gossip.’

  Lydia raised an eyebrow and the ghost of a smile crossed her face. ‘Really? Related to Bella Seabrook, I suppose, given that you’re writing about her daughter.’ Tara had explained that much on the phone. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit seedy to dig up the past like that?’

  Tara shrugged. ‘I don’t feel I can write a balanced story if I don’t know those sorts of facts.’

  Her mother gave her a look, but Tara didn’t react. Lydia could take the explanation at face value, or leave it.

  ‘The more I find out about Samantha Seabrook the more I want to know. Her childhood’s not what anyone would expect as far as I can see. She was clearly a rebel, with a doting father who was never around and a mother who – well, that’s where I’m stuck. Lots of hints, an air of tragedy, people saying less than they know.’

  ‘So you hoped I might be able to fill in the gaps?’

  ‘I thought you might know someone who knew someone, even if you didn’t know the whole story yourself.’

  Lydia poured them their drinks and motioned for Tara to take a pastry. ‘I went to their parties sometimes,’ she said. ‘And we crossed over at various award dinners and that kind of thing.’

  ‘Do you know how she died?’

  Lydia frowned. ‘An accident. That’s what everyone said. I got the impression the details were hushed up.’

  Tara began to eat the apricot and almond filled pastry she’d taken, enjoying the sweetness of the fruit. ‘Did you like them?’

  ‘I never got to know them well. Brian Seabrook did his best to keep up appearances, but everyone could tell there was something wrong with Bella. There was gossip about her among the casting directors. She was up and coming when I started out – already getting parts in big films. I thought she’d made it, but she started to get unreliable; that was what I heard.’ She pulled a face. ‘Drink and drugs, I’d guess, thinking back to some of the photos that appeared in the popular press. It happens. You either have to pick yourself up, get yourself clean and convince people to put their money on you again, or else it’s over.’

  ‘How long did that carry on for?’

  Her mother sighed. ‘A few years. Her parts got smaller and the rumours increased. And then I heard she’d died. I wasn’t really surprised, even though it was a shame.’ She pushed her chair back from the iron table and stood up. ‘Just one moment,’ she said.

  She returned with a photograph album. ‘There are quite a few shots from the old days in this one.’ She pushed the pastries to one end of the table and put the tome down. She began flicking through the pages.

  ‘Here.’ She turned the album so Tara could see the rear view of the very house she’d visited a couple of days earlier. ‘This would have been around a year before she died.’ A woman wearing diamonds at her throat and wrist, with gleaming platinum-blonde hair, stood in a strappy silver dress, one hand on a much younger Sir Brian Seabrook’s arm. She looked as though she needed him for support. Although she was smiling in the photo, there was a haunted look in her eyes, and pain in his. Tara took in the wider picture. Samantha Seabrook was nowhere to be seen, though she would have been grown-up enough to have attended parties by then – around fourteen years old. The sort of age when Lydia had ‘let’ Tara hand round canapés at the events she had hosted. Tara didn’t blame Samantha for having made herself scarce.

  Her eyes ran over the other guests. They were a glamorous lot, and most were posing, as though they’d been conscious of the cameras.

  Except for one man. Tara had been thinking he looked vaguely familiar and suddenly she realised. This was a slimmer, younger version of Professor da Souza, the head of the institute. And instead of aiming half an eye at the camera, he was looking at Sir Brian and Bella Seabrook. The look in his eyes echoed Sir Brian’s.

  ‘Did you ever talk to this guy?’ Tara asked, pointing out da Souza.

  Her mother frowned. ‘Goodness, Tara – it’s such a long time ago. I might have.’ She leant forward. ‘Oh. I can see why you’re interested though. That’s an interesting little cameo, isn’t it?’ She sketched a finger round da Souza, Sir Brian and Bella Seabrook. ‘I recognise that look. A spurned lover of Bella Seabrook’s, do you think? I gather she had quite a few.’

  And Tara was sure she was right. Maybe that fondness she’d seen da Souza display for Samantha hadn’t been because he’d fancied her. It looked as though he’d had a soft spot for her mother. After all, if he’d been at school with Sir Brian he must have been connected with him when he’d taken up with Bella Seabrook. Perhaps da Souza wished it had been him she’d settled on.

  A blackbird was singing on a branch in the apple tree.

  ‘Mum, do you know anyone who might know more – either about that situation,’ she indicated the photo, ‘or about what really happened to Bella Seabrook?’

  Her mother gave her a look. ‘No one who’d tell me if I admitted I was asking on behalf of my ambitious journalist daughter.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider being economical with the truth?’

  Her mother sat back in her chair. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said after a moment, and closed her eyes for a second against the sun.

  Tara knew Bella felt guilty about her upbringing, and that it affected what she was prepared to do. It was against Tara’s principles to take advantage of that, but once again, the ends justified the means.

  Of course, if she had been working for the police, like Blake, she’d have found out the truth right after Samantha Seabrook had been killed, without having to resort to subterfuge. Once again, the thought frustrated her.

  Thirty-Four

  Blake’s mind had still been on his meeting with Babette the evening before as he’d entered the station that morning. Have I made the right decision? Doubt was still gnawing at his gut.

  But all that had been pushed from his mind shortly after his arrival. He ought to have felt pleased that DS Patrick Wilkins had found Dieter Gartner. But oh boy, he’d really gone on about it. DCI Fleming had duly dealt out the required praise for the glorified admin job. Blake tried to look appreciative too, but now he and Patrick were sitting opposite Dr Gartner at the station, and Blake was feeling all the more irritable.

  ‘Of course, I would love to stay for the me
morial service,’ Dr Gartner said. ‘Samantha meant a lot to me. But I have commitments at home I cannot alter.’ As far as he was concerned he’d already put himself out for them by travelling down to Cambridge and arranging to fly home from Stansted, rather than Scotland. Just like Patrick, Dieter had waited for them to make all the right appreciative noises.

  Sir Brian had arranged the memorial service for the following day. Blake would be attending. ‘You sound like a very busy man,’ he said, trying to un-grit his teeth.

  Gartner read his tone and – annoyingly – smiled. ‘I understand about keeping up appearances, Inspector, but it’s too late for me to make a difference to Samantha now.’

  Fair point, though Sir Brian might have appreciated a final show of affection.

  ‘So, you’ve been attending a job interview in Edinburgh, and that’s why you’ve been incommunicado?’ They’d already checked this out and it held water. Blake just wanted to make Gartner squirm for the time and effort he’d taken up.

  ‘Well, yes, I was attending the interview. I got the professorship,’ he said.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. But I was chiefly out of contact because of a problematic’ – he paused for a moment – ‘friend of mine, who has been calling me repeatedly. She leaves a lot of messages and she is very demanding. I had to focus on the recruitment process, so I switched off my phones until it was all over, hence the delay in getting your messages.’

  Patrick Wilkins leant forward. ‘This female friend who won’t leave you alone, she’s a girlfriend, is she?’

  ‘She’s a woman,’ Gartner said, smiling. ‘She does not want me to move to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Were you still in a relationship with Samantha Seabrook when she died?’ Blake asked.

  ‘We had a relationship, Inspector, and I guess it would have continued. We were occasional lovers. We enjoyed each other’s company. We certainly weren’t exclusive, if that’s what you mean.’