by Clare Chase
Forty-Three
Tara had glanced at Kit Tyler’s face when she’d heard her phone ring. She’d seen his expression, just before he’d chucked the instrument out of the window. As she’d watched it bounce on the road behind them in the rear-view mirror, he’d told her to drive faster.
They were navigating one of the banks, alongside a massive drain below. All around them the land was criss-crossed with channels of water: fenland stretching as far as the eye could see.
For the most part, Tara was holding her breath, staring at the way ahead, and trying to plan without knowing what would happen next. Every so often random, disparate thoughts came to her. Now the sudden appearance of Kit outside the Copper Kettle when she’d stormed out from her meeting with Giles flashed up in her head. Why hadn’t she seen through him? He’d been on his way into one of the shops on King’s Parade when she’d spotted him – supposedly. But that had all been a bluff; she realised it now. He’d been following her and for once she’d taken him by surprise when she’d burst onto the street so quickly. And what had he done when they’d exchanged their pleasantries? Walked off up the road. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time, but thinking back, he’d never gone into the shop at all.
‘Tell me about your childhood, Tara,’ Kit said, breaking into her thoughts.
He made it sounds like a challenge. She felt a cold sweat trickle down her back. ‘Pretty mixed really. Like most people’s.’ Her teeth were chattering, though the sun was beating down outside.
‘And yet,’ he replied, ‘you’ve come through it fine, haven’t you?’
She thought for a second of her parents’ rejection and the effect a stalker had had on her, but her mouth was too dry and her brain too muddled to articulate what was going through her head.
‘I mean, you’re self-sufficient. You managed to get a decent education and a good job.’
‘I resigned earlier today, on principle.’ Her voice shook.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Would you have felt able to do that, if you’d known real hardship?’
She didn’t answer. She felt numb; she knew whatever she said it wouldn’t make any difference. And maybe he was right about that one, small thing.
‘We analyse all this as part of our research,’ Kit went on. ‘People have to deal with all sorts of awful things, but nine times out of ten, that isn’t what makes the difference. It’s their background that wins through.’ His voice was calm now, almost detached. ‘There are exceptions of course. Like me. Like Simon. We’ve got where we are despite our heritage, but we’re the tiny minority. And even when we make it through, the people we have to deal with can’t see us as equals.’
He paused for a moment and she glanced at him. His eyes were on her still, her knife held ready.
‘I know a lot about all this, and for the most part,’ he said, ‘I’d argue that your future’s set in stone, thanks to the circumstances you were born into. Think of the head start you’ve got if your family’s got money and education. Your parent dies – okay, that’s hell. But if you have relations who can step in, fund you through your childhood and fight your corner, just think how much more secure you are than someone in the same situation without that backing.
‘Even if your relations suddenly lose all their wealth, if you come from the right background, you’ll likely have books in the house, nice things around you, and people who speak in a way that makes those in authority take them seriously. Once again, you’re streets ahead of people who’ve suffered long-term deprivation.’
Tara’s hands were clammy on the steering wheel. ‘What you’re saying makes sense. I don’t see how it’s given you the excuse to kill two innocent women though.’
‘Innocent?’ Kit’s voice was like ice in the sultry air. ‘None of you are innocent. Samantha Seabrook talked so much about childhood inequality, but most of the kids she claimed she wanted to help haven’t had anything like a “childhood”. They’re in the harsh adult world from the word go.’ He passed his hand over his brow. ‘I had to sit there, watching her on that television programme, Tomorrow Today, saying how few people really understand what their poorer contemporaries go through.’ He thumped the dashboard suddenly with his free hand, making Tara jump. ‘There never was such a hypocrite! Samantha Seabrook was responsible for my sister’s death. Let me tell you about that.’
Forty-Four
Blake sat opposite the head teacher of the high school in Great Sterringham. The woman looked to be around sixty. She had lines around her eyes, and streaks of grey in her hair. He’d found her via the caretaker, whose mobile number had been on the school sign. Thank God she’d got back from her holiday in Wales the day before. She’d invited him into her front room, and he’d already refused a cup of tea.
‘I’ll actually be back in school again from tomorrow,’ she was saying, ‘getting ready for the new term.’ She gave him a look. ‘People don’t realise the amount of admin and preparation involved, along with our day-to-day tasks.’
Blake nodded and tried to suppress his impatience. ‘I’m sure. Can you tell me,’ he asked, ‘did you work at the school twenty years ago?’
She nodded. ‘I was just an ordinary teacher then, not head of the whole place.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t want to move areas, so I’ve stayed put. It’s not uncommon.’
‘Do you remember a family called the Tylers?’ The woman’s expression clouded immediately. The chills in Blake’s stomach reached a new high. He’d been half hoping he was wrong.
‘Hard to forget a family in those circumstances,’ she said. ‘Jane Tyler was a fifth former here when her mother died. She’d always been quiet and conscientious, but at that point she withdrew into herself. None of us felt we were managing to connect with her any more. Unfortunately, others succeeded where we failed. She got in with the wrong lot. And after that…’ the headmistress sighed, ‘well, after that she went off the rails.’
‘When you say, “the wrong lot”, do you remember who it was that Jane Tyler got in with?’ Blake held his breath.
The woman took off her glasses, put them down on the coffee table in front of her and rubbed damp eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly after a moment. ‘Yes, I do. It was the girl who was killed recently, Samantha Seabrook.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘Jane Tyler hanged herself in the end, and it struck me at the time how similar the circumstances were that she and Samantha had had to endure, yet how different the outcome. But now they’re both gone.’
‘Could you tell me please, what happened?’ Blake said.
‘Samantha had already gone wild,’ the woman said. ‘Her mother – well, you perhaps already know the background there, the way she died?’
Blake nodded.
‘Her father, when he was around, spent most of his time trying to cope with it. It was clear to us that Samantha played up in a bid for her share of attention. She was too young to understand what her father was going through, and of course she was suffering herself. For her it was boys, drugs and petty theft all the way. She pulled another girl, Patsy Wentworth, along in her wake.’
‘And then Jane Tyler became rudderless?’
The headmistress nodded. ‘Exactly. I think Samantha enjoyed scooping her up and including her. Jane had been such a mousy little thing. Certainly not part of the popular set, and when Samantha paid her attention she was so vulnerable. I could see the whole thing unfolding before my eyes, but I couldn’t work out how to stop it. I tried talking to Jane, but by that stage it was no good.’
‘What happened then?’
The headmistress bit her lip. ‘Things came to a head when Samantha, Patsy and Jane were caught shoplifting in Wisbech. Before that, they’d only taken things from the village store, and Sir Brian had found it reasonably easy to smooth things over, because he knew the owners personally.
‘He stepped in again though, and saved the day, or so he thought. The school got involved but not the police. Sir Brian gave the Wisbech shopkeeper more than enough money to restock, plus
a large donation to the man’s favourite charity, and the matter blew over. That is, it did for Samantha. Sir Brian always felt guilty that he wasn’t giving her the attention she needed. He drew her in closer after that incident. For a while at least.’
‘But it was different for Patsy and Jane?’
‘Patsy was more of a classic rebel. Her parents were cross, and she was grounded. You know the sort of thing.’
Blake nodded.
‘But Jane Tyler’s father was a vicious drunk. We all knew that. He ruled the household with a rod of iron. He’d been brought up by a strictly religious father himself, and he regarded what Jane had done as sinful. According to her suicide note, he’d told her it would have been better if she’d died, instead of her mum.’
She was crying openly now. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s so long ago, but someone ought to have been able to prevent it. I ought to have been able to.’ She blew her nose. ‘I went to Jane’s funeral and her father’s face was so cold. I’ll always remember Jane’s young brother standing next to Mr Tyler, looking up at him. I often wondered what kind of future he might have, but I couldn’t do anything for him either.’ Her eyes were far away and still full of tears.
‘At the crematorium they didn’t have the money to buy a proper urn for the ashes, so I bought them one on behalf of the school: blue with silver birds on it.’ She looked at Blake. ‘That was the only thing I managed to do.’
Blake was in a hurry to leave. He got up and thanked the woman. As he strode to her front door, he remembered the ornate pot he’d admired on the shelf in Kit Tyler’s flat: blue, with silver birds. It had been next to a photo of a woman and her daughter, of primary school age when the shot had been taken. In that moment the image came to him clearly, and he realised the girl had been wearing blue and white school uniform.
Forty-Five
The story Kit had told her, about his sister and her suicide, still swam in Tara’s head as she drove. She’d only started stealing after she’d palled up with Samantha Seabrook. At first it had been small things, like a pound from the handbag of a visitor. His father had put that coin on the mantelpiece at home where everyone could see it. Then he’d told each guest they had what Jane Tyler had done, and that they’d have to watch out for her. He’d made her stand in the corner with her back to the room as he recounted her wrongdoings so publicly. She knew what would happen if she stood up to him. Their father had been handy with a belt.
According to Kit, after that Jane had wanted to stop stealing, but at school she could only keep Samantha’s good opinion if she carried on – and that mattered. Suddenly, Jane counted for something, in her friend’s eyes at least – but only for as long as she idolised Samantha. Kit had presented it as coercion. Tara had pointed out that Samantha wouldn’t have known the damage she was doing. It was then that Kit had shouted, making her swerve, almost sending them off the road. He said he remembered Jane crying: torn between displeasing her father and displeasing her ‘friend’.
Samantha had upped the ante and taken Jane and Patsy to a chemist’s shop in Wisbech. One of several things Jane had stolen was the Rimmel lipstick Tara had seen in the professor’s flat. Kit had sent it to prick her conscience. Surely she’d remember, and understand why she was being targeted? But he said she’d never mentioned it. He doubted she’d worked it out.
‘I need to make a call now,’ Kit said suddenly, and she was back with him again. The decisive tone in his voice made her tremble. She couldn’t imagine who he needed to contact, but she was sure it meant the worse for her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’re nearly there, and I need to prepare the ground. I’m calling the press, you see. They’re going to witness my last murder.’ Tara felt his eyes on her. ‘You’ll be live on TV, Tara. And this is a far better way to get my message across. I’ll have the world’s eyes on me when I tell my story. I want everyone to know what Samantha Seabrook did – and why she and people like her, who sail through life without even seeing how lucky they are, shouldn’t be in charge of shaping the future of children who need better chances.’ For a second there was a catch in his voice.
And then he made the call. She wasn’t sure who’d he’d chosen to contact – a press agency maybe, to make sure his message spread as quickly as possible? She tried to swallow. Her throat was so tight.
‘The press will call the police,’ she said, once he’d finished. ‘They’ll reach us first.’
But Kit’s voice was calm. ‘Sure, they’ll call the police, but not – I think – all that quickly. They’ll want their scoop. They’ll probably be in their cars and on their way before they raise the alarm. And even if the police do reach us first, they won’t dare approach.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘They’ll see me as a madman; a loose cannon who could kill you at any second if they make the wrong move. I’ll be in control of the situation.
‘Turn left here,’ he said suddenly. ‘This is the place.’
Ahead of her the low-lying land sparkled as sunlight hit the water that wove its way through reeds and between higher patches of ground. To her right was a deep, wide, water-filled drain, and to her left two more channels of water, cutting them off from the land beyond.
Tara’s body was shaking. Adrenaline. Once she was out of the car she’d be ready to run. But there was nowhere to run to. They were miles from anywhere.
Ahead of her she could see a cottage, but hope died as they drew closer. Its windows were broken, and the roof was falling in.
‘Stop here,’ Kit said. ‘Park with the driver’s door hard up against the wall. I want you to follow me out of the car on the passenger side.’
She did as she was told. The way he’d arranged it meant he was waiting for her as she slithered across the two seats, the knife held ready. But even if she’d been able to dodge past him she wouldn’t have known where to turn. All around flat fields stretched, intersected by water-filled drains, ditches and marshy stretches of land.
Forty-Six
Blake didn’t know where to turn. He didn’t want to go back to Cambridge – there was no reason Kit Tyler would make for the city. Instead, he circled the roads around Peverton, waiting for news. He kept thinking of the things Tara didn’t know – like where Kit Tyler had been brought up. If he’d shared everything with her, could she have foreseen the danger? She was every bit as sharp as he was.
It felt like forever before his phone rang. Emma. He answered hands-free. ‘Blake.’
‘No one knows where Tyler is. Da Souza was expecting him back at the institute but no sign, and he’s not at his flat. His phone’s switched off. But we’ve got a possible lead. Next of kin’s an aunt, according to Mary Mayhew – Tyler’s mother’s sister. We called her and she used to live out in the Fens too. She’s in a flat in Wisbech now. But years ago she and her husband had a smallholding. She says how Tyler’s dad used to be handy with his fists, and when they could, she and her husband used to have Kit and his sister to stay, to keep them out of harm’s way for a bit. They were out in the middle of nowhere – near a hamlet called Fen Reach. It might hold sentimental value for Tyler.’
She paused. Blake was already tapping the name into his satnav.
‘We looked at the coordinates of the last location that showed up using Tara Thorpe’s phone, when you rang it,’ Emma went on. ‘It would place them on the route from Great Sterringham to Fen Reach, assuming they’re together.’
It was slim, but it fitted. Everything Kit Tyler had done had harked back to his roots: the use of the crucifix, and the dolls in his sister’s school uniform. Blake felt his pulse quicken. ‘Great work, Emma. Send—’
But she cut across him. ‘Backup’s on its way.’
Before her words were out Blake had accelerated away from the villages and out towards the Fens, the screech of his tyres breaking the silence of the marshland.
Forty-Seven
‘Samantha didn’t see what was in front of her eyes,’ Kit said. ‘When I first arrived at the instit
ute, I thought having a Tyler in the very building she worked would make her wonder. But she’d long since forgotten about Jane and what she had done to her.’
Tara was out of the car now, with Kit perilously close to her, still holding her knife. It glinted in the sun. Dare she try to reason with him? He’d already flown off the handle whilst they were in the car. She remembered her fear when he’d suddenly shouted at her. But she had to try. She edged back slightly in the hope he wouldn’t catch her if he lashed out. Her palms were slick with sweat. ‘Kit, this makes no sense.’ She could hardly get the words out, her mouth was so dry. ‘I found out a lot about Samantha Seabrook. True, I looked in the wrong places, but that was because it was clear someone from the institute was involved. And for the professor herself, yes, she made your sister’s life a misery, what she did was horrendous – even if she didn’t understand the full effect of her actions. But I’m guessing Jane wouldn’t have killed herself if your father had treated her better.’ She tried to make her tone as gentle as possible. ‘What you’re doing isn’t justice.’
‘Justice?’ His eyes were fiery. ‘There’s no justice. I’m just evening the balance.’
She could see the fury in his face. She was desperate to calm him, or he’d do for her in a moment of passion instead of waiting for the press as he intended.