Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  All fascinating – or Wilkins looked fascinated, anyway. But also irrelevant, given that Gartner couldn’t be the killer.

  Blake sipped the tea in front of him and felt tired.

  After they’d finished with Gartner, Blake went to find DCI Fleming, who was putting in overtime, just like the rest of them. He bumped into her in the corridor by the coffee machine.

  His boss looked at him and raised an eyebrow, reading his expression. ‘My office?’

  He nodded, followed her in and closed the door behind them. ‘Tara Thorpe messaged me. Apparently her editor has got wind of the death threat she’s received. She thinks someone at the station’s leaking information, and I’m inclined to agree with her. It’s not the first time it’s happened.’

  Fleming nodded, her jaw tightening. He knew how angry the lack of loyalty made her. For him, it was the thought of someone putting their own agenda before the needs of the people they were trying to help.

  ‘I’ll have a word at the next briefing,’ she said, and shook her head. ‘We’re just going to have to keep our eyes and ears open.’

  But they’d been doing that for months. Unless he bugged his officers it wasn’t likely to do much good. Not for the first time, Blake contemplated feeding false information to selected members of staff to see if any of it reached the press…

  It was half an hour later that Jan, one of the computer forensics experts, dashed into his office. He could see she was high on overtime: her eyes gleamed like someone who’d taken something illegal – or stayed up all night.

  ‘I’ve found something interesting,’ she said, sliding into the chair opposite him and slapping a laptop down on his desk.

  Suddenly his own tiredness fell away. You didn’t get someone looking like she did unless the news was important.

  ‘Tell me, for God’s sake. We really need a break here.’

  ‘It’s a location search in Professor Seabrook’s history.’ She flipped open her laptop lid and spun it round to face him.

  Google Maps showed a spot pinpointed with the standard red balloon marker, just north of Newmarket. He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The address belongs to a clinic. An abortion clinic.’

  That made him sit up. ‘When did she do the search?’

  ‘Around a month before she died.’

  ‘Right. Right.’ He paused for a moment, his mind on overdrive. ‘Excellent work. Thanks, Jan. Better let DCI Fleming know if you haven’t already.’

  She nodded and he was pleased she’d told him first.

  ‘Anything else in her history related to that? Emails?’

  Jan shook her head. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Because this certainly looked like a breakthrough.

  Twenty minutes later, he and Emma were sitting over takeaway coffees on a bench on Parker’s Piece, the large, square green opposite the police station. The smell of his drink blended with the aroma of the recently cut grass at their feet. In front of him it felt as though half of Cambridge was out, enjoying the summer heat. Tourists lounged with bottled water and books, and parents watched as toddlers clad in sunhats stumbled to and fro. It made him think of Kitty. It felt odd to sit down to talk about a murder case with such an innocent scene in front of them.

  Wilkins had gone for a break and Blake couldn’t help being glad.

  ‘So, let’s go through it again,’ he said to Emma. ‘Tara Thorpe pointed out that the slippers and magazines in Samantha Seabrook’s old room made it look as though her father had been taking special care of her.’

  ‘And we now guess that that was because she was recovering after an abortion.’

  ‘It seems quite possible. The wheels are in motion to get confirmation from the clinic, but once the red tape’s out of the way we’ll know for sure. It also fits with the way she left the holiday unexplained in her work diary.’

  Emma nodded. ‘No glamorous location noted there, nor any boasting to her colleagues, because her sojourn was just outside Newmarket.’

  Blake frowned. ‘I keep thinking of the crucifix. Could we be dealing with a religious extremist who disapproved of what she’d done?’

  ‘We need to find out if Chiara had ever undergone a similar procedure.’

  He nodded. ‘Put in the requests for that, would you?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And I’d now like to know when Dieter Gartner last slept with the professor. Shame he’s just left for the railway station. I wonder if he’ll answer his mobile this time.’

  ‘If not we can get someone to intercept him.’

  ‘And I’d also like a word with Sir Brian bloody Seabrook. I’m guessing he knew exactly what his daughter was going through, yet he didn’t think we needed that information.’

  ‘I suppose you can see why he wouldn’t want it spread around.’

  Blake gave a look.

  ‘Sorry, boss. It’s no excuse, obviously.’

  Blake stood up, turned away and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets so hard it would have made his fashion-designer sister wince.

  Thirty-Five

  The following day, Tara was walking along St Edward’s Passage, past the Haunted Bookshop, when her mum called. The place was named for the ghostly lady, swathed in white, who was said to prowl its dusty rooms. Tara carried on, past its red-framed windows, crammed with second-hand volumes, and picked up. ‘Mum?’

  A sigh was the first sound she heard. Lydia had found something out about Sir Brian or Bella Seabrook, Tara guessed, and passing it on went against her better judgement.

  ‘A close friend of mine, Simon Pace, knew the Seabrooks much better than I did,’ she said, without bothering to say hello. She was getting it over with. ‘He’s always had a soft spot for me, so I thought it was worth calling to see what he remembered about the old days.’

  Tara thought again of the photograph she’d seen: the sadness in da Souza’s eyes as he’d looked on at the actress and her publishing-tycoon husband. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She hovered outside the church – St Edward King and Martyr – as a throng of book enthusiasts walked past, clutching parcels. They were probably heading straight from the Haunted Bookshop to another second-hand dealer, David’s, just the other side of the church.

  There was a pause. ‘Yes, well, anyway, we got it wrong you and I, I think. We were both imagining that chap looking on was a discarded lover of Bella’s. But if Simon’s right it was Brian that the onlooker was gazing at. Simon said that the man – Hugo da Souza apparently – had been smitten with Brian Seabrook for years. There was never anything in it; Brian was straight. But he and da Souza were terrific friends and even though Simon thinks Brian must have known how da Souza felt, the friendship was as strong as ever.’

  Any passing thought Tara had had that da Souza might have killed Samantha Seabrook in some kind of crime of passion was gone now. He’d minded about her all right, but she wasn’t some love child to be kept secret, and not a lover either. It was da Souza’s love for her father that had ensured his regard for her and the protectiveness she’d seen him show.

  ‘Are you still there?’ her mother asked.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. Yes, I’m still here. Thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t see it could do too much harm to share it with you. It’s not something you’d put in your article is it?’

  Giles’s greedy face flashed into her mind for a moment. ‘No. No, it isn’t. Mum, this friend of yours, Simon. Does he know how Bella Seabrook died?’

  ‘Urm, no,’ she said.

  Yeah, right. Tara knew what that meant. For ‘urm, no’, read, ‘yes, but that bit I’m not going to tell you’.

  ‘If you change your mind about confiding in me, just give me a call,’ Tara said before she hung up.

  Two minutes later, Tara was in the Tourist Information Centre, showing them a blown-up image of the craft shop in the photo she’d seen at Samantha Seabrook’s apartment. The smart-looking woman standing in front of the window full of ceramics and jewellery had become
somewhat pixelated thanks to her treatment of the picture, but the shop itself wasn’t too bad.

  ‘I’m trying to locate the business,’ she said to the guy behind the counter. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s here in Cambridge, but I can’t place it.’ She wanted to speak to the woman in the photo and was hoping she might be the proprietor. She had that look about her: one eye towards the window displays and pride in her eyes. If she was based in Cambridge she might be the one thing Tara was lacking: a personal friend of Samantha Seabrook’s from recent times.

  The guy behind the desk frowned. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, and glanced over to a second assistant who walked forward to join them.

  She scanned the photo now. ‘Green Street,’ she said immediately. ‘Pomphrey’s.’ She met Tara’s eye and smiled. ‘And in fact I think that’s Adele Pomphrey in the photograph. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a Pomphrey’s addict. It’s pretty expensive but once in a while I crack. I go there for presents for close family.’

  ‘Perfect. I’d heard it was good,’ Tara lied. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Glad we could help.’

  An old-fashioned shop bell jangled as Tara opened the door of Pomphrey’s and walked in. Her eye was caught by an enormous verdigris bowl on sale for three thousand pounds. Inside, the walls were stark white, all the better to display an array of artwork. If she hadn’t been under imminent threat of either death or the sack she’d have looked at the price tags for the smaller ones, just in case. They might have made her house feel more like home.

  A woman who wasn’t Adele Pomphrey walked over to greet her. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Do feel free to browse, but I’m right here if you need any help.’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if Adele was around?’

  ‘Ah,’ the woman smiled, ‘I believe she was on the phone a short while ago, but I’ll just check.’ Always good to have a get-out clause. ‘What name shall I give?’

  ‘Tara Thorpe. I’m writing about Samantha Seabrook’s life and I understand Adele and the professor knew each other well.’

  The woman nodded. She looked more uncertain now and disappeared through a door at the rear of the shop. Tara firmly expected to be told the proprietor’s phone call was still in progress, and would be for some time.

  But a moment later Ms Pomphrey herself appeared. Her eyes were sad, but not unfriendly. ‘You’re writing about Samantha, I understand? What publication do you work for?’

  Tara gave her a business card. She wondered if the proprietor might not like the idea of talking to someone from Not Now, but her expression didn’t change as she read Tara’s details.

  ‘I’m free now if you’d like to talk?’ she said. ‘I was just about to have a lemonade. It’s not the fizzy sort. Would you like some?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tara followed Adele Pomphrey to a small kitchenette where she removed a bottle with a swing-top stopper from a fridge and poured them each tall glasses of the sharp-smelling drink.

  After that she led them through to her office, which was as stylish as her shop. The chairs were upholstered in green and yellow silk. Tara watched as Ms Pomphrey dabbed her eyes quickly with a tissue.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m still trying to get used to the idea of Samantha’s death. If ever there was a person who seemed invincible, it was her. Larger than life, pumped-up with energy. The thought of her in any other state is unbearable. And your visit’s rather unexpected.’

  ‘I’m sorry to take you by surprise,’ Tara said. ‘I was in town and I thought maybe dropping in would be better than emailing. When something awful like this has happened being hands-off feels worse, somehow.’

  Ms Pomphrey nodded. ‘I know what you mean. I’m the same. I like to bite the bullet if I have to deal with an awkward situation.’

  And, of course, it was slightly harder to ignore someone if they fetched up on your doorstep instead of sending you a timid message, asking to be seen. Harsh but true, as Tara knew all too well. Even now, she’d have to tread carefully. She decided not to ask to record the interview in this instance. She’d take notes instead.

  ‘Do you mind telling me how you and Samantha Seabrook met?’ she asked, taking a pad and pen from her bag.

  ‘It was very soon after she first came to Cambridge,’ Adele Pomphrey said. ‘She popped in for a present for a colleague, in fact; the woman was getting married, I seem to remember.’ She toyed with a glass paperweight on her desk that looked modern and elegant enough to have been designed by one of her craftspeople. ‘I well remember it. It had been worryingly quiet all morning, and then suddenly the door opened, and in came a whole throng of people, with Samantha leading them. She caught my attention straight away; she was talking to them, not to me, but she had that kind of clear, ringing voice that carries.’ She paused to smile. ‘As well as buying the present, she ended up buying a ring for herself too, and then a couple of the others bought as well. I remember thinking she’d be great to have along to a private view. I could envisage her as a trend-setter.’

  ‘And did you see each other often after that?’ Tara said, sitting back in her chair.

  ‘Not straight away. After a month or two, I had a private view featuring new work from the woman who’d designed the ring she’d bought. I invited her along to that, and she bought some more items. It was after that that we got chatting, and then we began to meet up socially.’

  ‘Did she talk to you much about her family? Or life at the institute?’

  ‘Her family, never. I only knew about her parents, in all honesty, because one day I got curious and looked them up on the net. It started to seem odd that she never mentioned them, even when I confided in her about mine. Occasionally I’d probe, just very gently, but the shutters always came down. I got the impression that she was – or maybe had learnt to be – fiercely independent.’

  Tara hesitated. Was it too soon to try to draw Adele Pomphrey out? ‘I had that impression too. It seemed she had a very active social life, for instance, but that she’d never felt the urge to settle down with anyone.’ It was a leap, but pretending to know more than you did often reaped dividends. Besides, she’d seen the professor’s party shoes in her flat, and of course she knew she’d gone out and done her night climbing too. She hadn’t been a shrinking violet, that was for sure. And then there was the absentee boyfriend Blake had accidentally mentioned…

  ‘Oh no, that’s right,’ Adele Pomphrey said. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted to be one half of a unit. I admired her for that. She’d occasionally let slip something about the man of the moment, but never with any proper details; just enough to give a flavour and a sniff of some gossip.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve wondered since she died what it must be like for the man she’d been seeing most recently.’

  Tara’s pen was poised over her pad but she let her hand relax. ‘Dieter Gartner?’

  Adele Pomphrey frowned for a second. ‘Dieter? Ah, I met him once. They certainly had some kind of ongoing romance. But it wasn’t him.’ She gave a shrug of her elegant shoulders. ‘No, all I know is that Samantha’s latest was from the US.’ The tears were back in her eyes again. ‘I can see her now. We were sitting opposite each other in the Eagle. She was laughing and she told me her new man was someone she’d never considered previously as lover material. But he was actually very attractive, with a voice just like Robert Downey Junior’s.’

  Tara caught her breath and resisted the urge to stand up there and then and walk out of the room. It was time to cut the interview short.

  Thirty-Six

  Blake cut the call with Tara Thorpe and looked at Emma. ‘When she died, or just before, Samantha Seabrook was seeing a man with a New York accent. Remind you of anyone?’

  Emma blinked for a second. ‘Wait. Simon Askey?’

  ‘Damn right.’ He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and closed his eyes for a moment. How would it have worked? ‘We’ve got Chiara Laurito going to Simon Askey for support over the harsh way she’s been treated by Samantha Seabrook. According
to Chiara’s housemate, Askey promises to help, but fails to follow through. According to Askey himself, Samantha Seabrook talked him round to her way of thinking. What if, during the course of winning him over, she turned on the charm and he found he liked it? They became lovers, and Chiara – who looks as though she had a crush on Askey – was left out in the cold. She must have felt very let down.’

  ‘So Askey could have been the father of the baby that Samantha Seabrook aborted?’

  ‘He could have been, if I’m right.’

  ‘D’you think he knew about the termination?’

  ‘In advance?’ Blake let out a long breath. ‘Hard to tell. But I do have a theory.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We know that Chiara Laurito and Simon Askey had a humdinger of a row at the institute. Professor da Souza heard them at it, and Askey’s words were audible outside his room.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Emma said, glancing at her notes. ‘Askey says he told her she could be too honest. And he claims that was in response to her repeating back something insulting Samantha Seabrook had said about him. What?’ She looked at him. ‘You reckon maybe she was telling him about the abortion?’

  Blake looked steadily back at her. ‘I’d say it’s possible. If she’d somehow found out – and she was working in the same room as Professor Seabrook – then it probably seemed the ideal way to drive a big, fat wedge between Askey and her supervisor. If she fancied Askey herself, and was furious with the pair of them, then I could imagine her doing that.’

  Emma nodded. ‘It would fit. Then Askey doesn’t let Samantha Seabrook know the secret’s out. Instead, he arranges a clandestine midnight outing and drowns her in revenge. So he’d have to have been angry about her arranging the termination.’

  Blake nodded. ‘But not necessarily because he wanted her to go through with the pregnancy. He might just have been furious that she’d made the decision without consulting him.’