Murder on the Marshes_An absolutely gripping English murder mystery

by Clare Chase

  She guessed that the rest of the congregation was a mix of family friends, acting and publishing contacts of Sir Brian’s, and academics too. There were no spare seats. Glancing behind her she could see a handful of people standing next to an arrangement of lilies by the door.

  Her eyes drifted back to Blake, on his feet now, holding a hymn book. As she focused, she realised there was a circle of paler skin on the ring finger of his left hand. It made her pause. She hadn’t noticed it before. What was the story there? He must have been married. And if it was over, then it was only recently. The sun hadn’t filled in the pale circle.

  It wasn’t any of her business of course, but she hadn’t thought of Blake as being involved with someone.

  As the vicar spoke between hymns, more and more handkerchiefs came out. Pamela Grange was looking up at Sir Brian, her hand slightly raised, as though she wanted to touch his arm. Da Souza was watching him too, with pain in his eyes. It must be so difficult to witness the man he loved suffer in such an extreme way, yet have to maintain a level of distance.

  Tara noticed Mary Mayhew cross herself when the vicar prayed for Samantha Seabrook’s soul. She hadn’t seen anyone do that in an Anglican church before.

  At last the service was over. Refreshments on trays had been put on a table at the rear of the church but the late afternoon sun was still warm, and most people were helping themselves and then moving outside, into the churchyard. A woman with a walking frame approached and eyed the glasses of sherry. She’d find it difficult to follow the others outside holding a drink.

  Pamela Grange frowned and Tara guessed she was thinking the same thing. ‘Let’s take the drinks into the churchyard,’ she said. ‘It will make it easier.’

  Tara put her bag down to help and picked up one of the large trays as Peter Mackintosh took a second. Da Souza was unfolding an iron table he had dragged outside. It had chipped blue paint, and probably got used for church jumble sales, but once Pamela Grange had reinstated its white lacy cloth it looked all right.

  Tara was standing by the drinks table herself, pouring an orange juice, when she spotted Kit Tyler coming outside. He nodded in her direction.

  ‘Good to see you again, despite the awful circumstances.’ He hesitated. ‘Maybe one day we could go for a drink, when things are less pressured?’

  ‘Sounds good.’ And it did; though she found it hard to think beyond what was happening at the moment.

  Kit nodded again, smiled and then turned to pick up a glass of sherry as Blake appeared at her elbow.

  ‘I’d like to talk more,’ the DI said, ‘but I’ve got to get back once I’ve said goodbye to Sir Brian. One of Chiara Laurito’s neighbours thinks they saw her with a man on the night she died. It could be a proper breakthrough. They’re working on a photo-fit. Maybe we can catch up later when you’re free? I want to go through all the facts again; every single thing you’ve seen that’s struck you as odd.’

  She nodded. ‘All right. Call me.’ He sounded as though he was onto something. A new theory? She hoped he’d share more information when they did talk. His request made her start to mentally trawl through the facts again, to try to grasp at the thin threads he was attempting to weave together.

  But at that moment Peter Mackintosh came over. He wanted to know how her article was going, and when it would be published: the latter part of the question was tricky to answer, given her conversation with Giles earlier. She had to give up on trying to guess at Blake’s train of thought and focus on some fast talking.

  Gradually the crowds began to drift away until there was just a handful of people still present, including Sir Brian, Pamela Grange, the vicar, Peter Mackintosh and da Souza.

  Ms Grange was talking to another woman of a similar age on the opposite side of the churchyard to Sir Brian. Tara overheard snatches of what she said. (‘Of course, what she did was admirable.’ ‘Brian always tried to get us together when she visited.’ ‘We were never quite on the same wavelength, that was the trouble.’ ‘Too set in my ways, I suppose… I never meant to imply that I disapproved.’ And ‘Things were so different when we were young, weren’t they?’)

  ‘Do you need a lift, Tara?’ Peter asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  She held up a hand. ‘I’m fine thanks. I’ve got my car parked up the road. I’ll just fetch my bag.’

  She went to pick it up.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Sir Brian said, but his tone was cool; a contrast to how he’d been when she’d visited him last.

  Feeling uncomfortable, she shook his hand, then Pamela Grange’s, after which she exchanged a word with the vicar and said her other goodbyes. At last she was free to walk back along the edge of the country lane towards where she’d left her car.

  As she rounded the bend in the road, she realised she hadn’t been the only person who’d needed a parking space outside the church. A green car was now tucked in just behind her Fiat.

  Even from this distance it looked oddly close to hers. She dashed forward. Had they blocked her in? She increased her pace and felt for the keys in her bag.

  Her fingers scrabbled around – and found nothing.

  It was true. The green car was back to back with hers, its rear bumper hard up against her Fiat’s. And a couple of inches in front of her car’s bonnet was the high russet brick wall.

  Tara felt a chill crawling up her spine. Dimly, she remembered the green car she’d noticed on her tail as she’d driven over to see her mother. But even without that, she knew she was in trouble. Gut instinct told her.

  She stopped trying to find her keys and reached in the outer pocket of her bag for her knife.

  It wasn’t there.

  And nor was her phone.

  ‘I found your knife when I went to take your mobile,’ a voice said behind her. ‘What kind of a person brings a weapon to a funeral? Still, I’m very glad you did. It’ll come in handy.’

  Forty

  Blake was driving past field after flat field. Ahead of him he could see a heat haze rising off the road. His window was right down, and he was driving fast, but the flow of air wasn’t enough to make things comfortable.

  Why had the dolls Samantha Seabrook and Tara received been dressed so plainly? And who the hell had made them, back in the 1980s? Why more than one? What was the significance of the crucifix around the professor’s neck?

  What was the link with the past? He thought about the people they knew with connections to Samantha Seabrook back then: Hugo da Souza, Patsy Wentworth, and, he now knew, after a quick bit of probing at the funeral, Pamela Grange too. She’d lived in the village all her life, apparently.

  What had that note to Sir Brian meant? Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes. It related to Samantha Seabrook’s job. Did the killer resent the professor – and maybe her family – for their comfortable lifestyle?

  He remembered Samantha Seabrook’s agent saying there’d been some kind of Twitter outcry to that effect after the professor’s television appearance.

  Chiara Laurito told Tara that she and Samantha Seabrook had been alike in many ways. And they had both come from money and had the support of parents who were used to getting their own way. Had Chiara really been killed because she could identify her professor’s killer? Or was it their similarities that had made them both a target? And if so, where did that leave Tara, child of a famous mother, whose family home was a mansion in the same deserted fenland through which he was now travelling?

  Blake’s mind snapped back to the road. He was fast approaching a farm vehicle. There wasn’t enough room to overtake – and wouldn’t be for a while – but he was coming up to a turning off left. He took it. His satnav would reroute him.

  His mind ran back to Samantha, Chiara and Tara. Sir Brian had donated money to the institute where his daughter worked, albeit before she landed her job there. Chiara Laurito’s father had waded in to support her when her academic work had been criticised. And he’d heard – on the grapevine – that
Tara’s mother had helped put Not Now magazine on the map…

  He was forgetting to pay attention to the directions. He looked up at the signpost at the junction he’d just come to. The satnav was telling him to take a right towards somewhere called Peverton, and he made the turn.

  For some reason the name sounded familiar. The realisation sent a wave of fear through him, which he couldn’t pin down.

  Peverton. Peverton. Where the hell had he heard that name before?

  Forty-One

  ‘You’ll drive my Honda,’ Kit Tyler said.

  Tara’s throat felt so tight she could hardly breathe. She backed up against his car’s green paintwork as he came closer with the knife. Her knife. ‘How did you know where I was parked?’

  He laughed, and the sound was harsh and cold. Gone was the smile of earlier. It sent a thrill of fear through her, to think of how she’d taken him at face value.

  ‘It wasn’t difficult,’ he said. ‘I know your Fiat. I’ve been keeping an eye on you for weeks. When I saw the church car park was full and your car wasn’t in it, I knew you’d be close by. But I didn’t box you in when I first arrived for the service. It was only when I heard DI Blake talking to you over drinks that I knew today had to be the day. I left early, drove round and found your car in minutes.’

  Through a fug of fear, Tara tried to focus on what Blake had said to her; the words Kit must have overheard. Of course. Someone was creating a photo-fit of a suspect for the second murder. ‘They’ve found a witness who saw you with Chiara?’ Her voice shook as she spoke.

  ‘It sounds like it. I might be in custody by tomorrow. I can’t let that happen before I’ve made my point. I wanted you to make it for me; I thought it would have plenty of impact that way. I wanted you to see Samantha for what she’d been – to uncover the harm she’d caused as a teenager. How she’d robbed others of their childhoods, then got an international reputation as some kind of saviour. But you failed. You weren’t even looking in the right direction. Even in this day and age, people are blinded by wealth and class. They hardly ever see beyond the unfair advantages they bring.’ His expression was fierce. ‘But if you’d succeeded, I’d still have ended up in jail. I knew that. Once you’d unearthed the truth, I’d be the obvious suspect for Samantha Seabrook’s murder. That was a sacrifice I was willing to make: to get the word out there. It would have made the story you were meant to tell all the more dramatic. People across the world would have seen Samantha and her class for what they are. Views would change, action would be taken, and my loss of freedom would be a small price to pay, in memory of my sister.’

  His sister? Tara was still trying to work it out. Her mind felt frozen. She had to lean against his car to stop herself from sinking to the ground. Through the haze that had engulfed her, Askey’s words about Kit started to filter back into her mind. Askey had said he’d had a tough childhood, just as deprived as Askey’s had been. Kit’s mother had died when he was young, and his sister had killed herself. But how did that fit with what Samantha Seabrook had done as a teenager? What was the connection?

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  Kit threw her his car keys with his free hand. ‘I’m going to get the publicity I wanted another way; before it’s too late. And you’re going to play a starring role.’ For a second a smile crossed his lips, but it was a far cry from the one she’d witnessed before. The cold hatred was clear in his eyes. ‘Open the door and slide across into the driver’s seat.’ He never took his eyes off her. He was only inches away, her knife in his hand, her back to the car. She’d got no room for manoeuvre, no chance to run.

  As she turned to unlock the driver-side door she looked up the road, but there was no one. They were around the corner from the church now, and in the opposite direction from the village. For a second she thought of the crime reduction officer Blake had sent round to her house. Shit. Her legs shook; they felt like liquid. She’d let her guard slip. But she’d been on her way to a bloody memorial service, for God’s sake.

  A memorial service for a murder victim. For a woman who’d been drowned by the man standing behind her now, holding her knife.

  There was no central locking and she had trouble turning the keys to open the door. She would have given almost anything not to reveal her fear like this. Other keys on the fob rattled against the car’s green paintwork as she tried to let herself in. Her hand was visibly shaking. Bastard.

  At last she managed it. Just for a second she wondered about making a sudden turn. She could hold the sharpest of the keys outward, ready to lash out. But she’d never overpower him. Keys versus a kitchen knife was no match. As she manoeuvred over to the driver’s seat she wished to goodness she’d left her weapon back at the cottage. It was only down to weakness that she’d carried it in the first place.

  ‘Drive,’ Kit said, sliding into the car too. He pulled the passenger door shut with his left hand, his eyes never straying from her. ‘Take the first right. We’re not going past the church again. And don’t bother doing anything stupid. I always knew I’d end up in prison anyway, and if I have to stab you where you sit I will.’

  As she turned the key in the ignition, she caught sight of his eyes. Her stomach turned over. Once again she saw pure loathing, ice cold, sharp and resolved. She didn’t doubt his words for one moment.

  A few metres down the road she made the turn he’d asked for. Away from civilisation. Towards open fenland. The blink-inducing sun and the hot blue sky were relentless. The fields around them had never looked so stark. They went through a village, past a house with a thatched roof, hard up at the roadside, and a pub. But it was still only late afternoon; too early for anyone to be outside, drinking. No one would spot them.

  After that they went back to the deserted lanes again and she saw water on her right. She tried to orientate herself. She was born and bred here, but it didn’t look familiar. She fought to claw herself back from panic, her breathing so short she felt faint.

  Kit spoke: ‘Some people find this landscape beautiful, but it always made me feel trapped. There was no one to help me and my sister here.’

  ‘You were brought up in the Fens?’ Tara tried to remember. She hadn’t heard that, had she? He had a strong Liverpool accent.

  ‘We only moved north when I was seven,’ Kit said. ‘I even told your policeman friend, DI Blake, that, but he didn’t put two and two together. He hasn’t been looking in the right direction either.’

  Forty-Two

  Blake had only been in Peverton for two minutes when he’d remembered. Kit Tyler. Tyler had told him he’d been born ‘up the road’ from Cambridge, in Peverton, but he’d moved to Liverpool when he was a small child. The name had meant nothing to him, but he’d held it in his head somewhere.

  The place was a far cry from Samantha Seabrook’s home village. It was just a few short miles away, but it was down-at-heel and shouted poverty. Three of the five shops in the centre of the village were boarded up, and a row of houses he drove past told the same story. The front garden of one was full of rubbish – a rusty washing machine and a child’s bike with one wheel missing.

  He didn’t see any school.

  His mind ran on again. Kit Tyler would have spent almost all of his schooldays up in Liverpool anyway, but what was it that Simon Askey had said about his researcher, when Tara had interviewed him? He tried to recall the recording. Hadn’t he mentioned Tyler’s sister had committed suicide? And that his mother had died? Had that been before the move to Liverpool?

  Suddenly he felt all the hairs rise on his arms. No school here in Peverton, but Samantha Seabrook had attended one in her home village. Just the local, thanks to Sir Brian’s socialist principles. Might the Peverton kids bus in to attend school in Great Sterringham?

  Kit Tyler had been born bloody close to where Samantha Seabrook grew up. It was too much of coincidence. There had to be a link. What if Kit’s sister had been older than him?

  What if she’d been Samantha Seabrook’s contemp
orary?

  Suddenly he thought of the recording Tara had sent him of the Patsy Wentworth interview. Patsy had pointed out that Samantha had had a tough home life. Her childhood had been a mix of glamour and tragedy. Because of that she’d never got the blame, according to her school friend. ‘People used to assume she’d got in with a bad lot,’ she’d said. ‘They never realised she was the bad lot.’

  And then, suddenly, Tara’s words at the funeral came back to him. Whoever had made the dolls had done ‘a professional job’. Professional. And what had Kit told him his mother had done for a living? Altering clothes for boys who went to the local fee-paying school. She’d been a seamstress before she’d died, leaving Kit to be brought up by his alcoholic dad. Had she made the dolls? But why two? And if it was Kit who’d sent his mother’s home-made toy to Samantha, then had he meant her to recognise it? If she and his sister had been contemporaries might she have seen it before? Had he sent her some message that, after the passing of time, she’d failed to see?

  Blake pulled the car into a U-turn, back towards Great Sterringham. He needed to speak to someone from the school, but of course it was bloody August. Bang in the middle of the holidays. And if he managed to track down any of the staff, would they remember the Tyler family? It had to be twenty-odd years since they’d left the area.

  But he wasn’t going to wait for confirmation.

  He dialled Tara’s mobile. She and Tyler had both been at the memorial service. What if he was the one? What if he decided to make good his threat against Tara, out there in the middle of nowhere?

  The phone rang and rang, then went to voicemail.

  He’d got no proof that his theories were right, but at that moment he just knew, in his bones, that he’d hit on the answer.

  He put his foot down harder and called Emma at the station. ‘I need to find Kit Tyler,’ he said. ‘I want him brought in. Now. We can use his mobile: triangulation or GPS. Try Tara Thorpe’s phone too. They might be together.’ But then he thought of how far flung all the base stations would be, out there in the sticks. Fear flared up again inside him. He pushed the worst thoughts from his mind. ‘Their last known location was Great Sterringham. Put a call out. Talk to Tyler’s friends and relatives. Turns out he lived in a neighbouring village when he was small. Find any place that might have had special significance for him.’ How slim were their chances? Blake swore. ‘Try everything, Emma – and get everyone on it.’