by Clare Chase
Her mind went blank for a second. At last she came up with a question. ‘What about the necklace that was found on Professor Seabrook’s body?’ she said.
Kit paused for a moment. ‘I had it with me, and I made her put it on when I let her up for air. I was stronger than she was. In every way. I had her by the hair, from behind, pinned against the fountain wall. I think she thought if she did what I said I might let her go.’ He laughed. ‘As if. The crucifix belonged to my sister. My father gave it to her at her confirmation. Samantha didn’t recognise that either, even though Jane always wore it. But she knew the significance by the time she died. I explained everything bit by bit, each time I allowed her up from the water.’
Tara heard his voice slow as he reached the end of his sentence. She felt as though she could hardly breathe and again her mind went blank. She must think. ‘What about Chiara?’ she said after a moment.
‘I wasn’t going to kill her at first, but can you imagine what it was like? I had to listen to her day after day, criticising Samantha, when she came from exactly the same mould. She wasn’t even a good academic, and yet there she was, sailing along, thanks to her rich papa throwing his weight around. I went and knocked on her door after the party. I thought I’d play it by ear, see how it went. By the time we were out on the common I couldn’t wait to shut her up. I was evening up the balance again.’
‘And I’m next on your list.’ Tara was determined not to cry. She channelled all her determination into her voice.
‘You are,’ Kit said. ‘Partly because you failed to find out the truth, and partly because you’ve been helped on your way, just as Samantha and Chiara were. But most of all, because you can help me get my message across.’ His eyes had been hard – shuttered – but now they held some emotion. ‘I’m glad I’ve come back here to do the job,’ he said. ‘It’s the only place Jane was ever happy. I can remember her playing with me out in the garden of my aunt’s cottage.’ He nodded towards the derelict house. ‘She used to laugh once.’ His eyes met hers and she saw the determination in them. ‘Her luck ran out. And so, as you can see, did my uncle and aunt’s. None of this is a coincidence. I’m intervening now, so people pay attention to what happened to us all – to achieve change, so it’s different for others in future. My work today will get far more attention than a lifetime’s research at the institute. You’ve got until the press arrive, Tara. Once the cameras are rolling I’ll use your knife to finish things. It won’t be long now.’
He was right beside her, his free hand gripping her arm. She could feel his breath on her neck.
‘Do you know what my sister did, just before she hanged herself?’ he asked. ‘She cleaned the whole house. She left it spotless. I can still remember the smell of bleach. My father noticed any mark we made – anything that was out of place. She must have wanted to avoid his disapproval, even when she was beyond his reach. Or maybe she just wanted to do that one last thing for us, before she took herself off. Can you imagine a childhood like that?’
Tara listened for emotion in his voice, but she could hear only iron. He’d gone beyond sorrow now; there was just an absolute determination to hit back at a world that had caused him so much pain.
‘When I came home that day with my father he let me go ahead and find her body, even though he’d guessed what she’d done. And then he told me I ought to have guessed too. And that it was for the best. He was glad to be rid of such a sinful girl. He—’
He broke off suddenly. They’d both heard it. Very faint and distant. The sound of a siren. Kit knew how to handle the situation – even if the police reached them before the press – but it was clear he hadn’t thought they actually would. And for that one instant, Tara knew his focus wasn’t entirely on her.
Forty-Eight
Tara had a split-second to react. Instinct took over and she jerked sideways. The knife’s point grazed her arm as she yanked free of his grip. She didn’t stop to fight. She knew her self-defence, but he was armed.
Instead she ran, kicking off her shoes as she went. She flung a look left and right as she fled, her eyes flying over the landscape. Her options were almost non-existent. The road was long and straight. There was no way of escape in sight. Could she outrun him? Who would fail first? He was fit. He’d climbed that college wall. Maybe he’d got into scrapes as a kid in Liverpool. He could probably handle himself…
She gasped for breath and stumbled on as her foot struck a sharp stone. Her heart was lurching, her chest aching.
Had the siren even been for them? Or had it been a coincidence? She snatched a glance over her shoulder. Kit was hard on her heels and her feet were being shredded by the tarmac. She couldn’t see anyone ahead. He would easily outpace her if she carried on.
Her other choice was to run into the fields. But it wouldn’t be long before she came to one of the deep, water-filled drains. She looked left and right, trying to see if there might be bridges to help her escape, but there were none. She was approaching one of the drains on her left, which sank below the level of the field next to it.
She only had a split second to decide. Her feet couldn’t take the road. She stumbled off into the field, tripping between the crop stubble and furrows, kicking up the black, peaty soil. The cereal stalks, dry and cut short, stuck into her soles, hurting her as much as the tarmac had. Within a moment she was on the bank that bordered the drain, and then going over the edge, skidding down towards the dark water.
Just before she lost sight of the field she risked glancing over her shoulder for a fraction of a second.
Kit was horribly close.
She was faced with a narrow stretch of uneven mud and reeds to either side of her, running right next to the drain. If she took that route she’d probably fall into its watery depths before she made it very far. And the drain went on for miles: dead straight. Her only other option was to swim for it. The channel of water wasn’t that wide, and she could already hear Kit behind her. She knew he could run and climb. She could only hope he wasn’t great at swimming. There was no way she could escape him quickly enough if she tried to scramble back up the bank again.
She jumped into the drain.
The sun had been beating down all day, but nothing prepared her for how cold the water would be. She was gasping for breath, her arms and legs flailing as she tried to recover from the shock. Just as she managed to take a stroke, she heard a splash. Kit was in the water with her.
She took a great lungful of air, but it was hard to get the oxygen in: panic, the freezing temperature and the exertion were making her feel light-headed.
And then she felt a hand grip her ankle. She went under, the water swirling in her ears, reaching down her throat, blocking her nose. With every ounce of strength she had she kicked out, and felt the kick hit home. Her foot was free again, but she was spluttering, coughing up water. She took another stroke and ahead of her she could see the far bank: tufts of green grass and solid black mud.
But then the hand came again, firmer this time, grasping her leg.
Forty-Nine
Blake drove like a maniac, but there were police cars ahead of him, blocking the way down the narrow lane surrounded by fenland.
He got out and ran, hurtling across the black fields, following the officers ahead of him. Someone had called an ambulance. It was stuck at a distance, still on the roadway. He could see some press, too, running with their cameras. And someone with a microphone? How the hell had they heard what was going on?
He reached the top of the bank and stared down into the drain. In front of him, an officer was in the water grappling with Kit Tyler. More were jumping in after him. He looked for Tara. She was nowhere to be seen. She had to be under the water.
He looked right and left. His gaze skittered feverishly back and forth over the surface of the dark depths. The scene was one of utter confusion, heads bobbing, arms flailing and the water swirling. At last he thought he caught a glimpse of Tara’s hair; red-gold strands in the water like exotic seaw
eed.
‘She’s there!’ he shouted, and in that moment, an officer turned and spotted her. Blake was in the water in half a second, ploughing towards the spot where he’d seen her body. He was fast, but the other guy was closer. Blake was just feet away when he saw the man heave her lifeless body up onto the far bank of the drain.
Fifty
The following day in hospital, Tara was still unclear about exactly what had happened after Kit Tyler tried to drown her in the drain. Apparently she’d blacked out and had been given CPR at the scene – but by whom? She didn’t remember anything after Kit had grabbed her leg that second time.
She’d already had a series of visitors, including Bea, who’d arrived first and fussed over her just as she had when she’d minded Tara as a child. Bea’s husband, Greg, had come too, and been a calming influence. Her mother had also visited, causing a stir amongst the nursing staff, several of whom had asked for her autograph.
Tara hadn’t been entirely honest with any of them about the threat she’d known she’d been under, and Bea had looked suspicious. Matt, her ex-partner in crime from Not Now magazine had also been in. He’d sworn he wasn’t after an exclusive and that Giles didn’t know he was there. The news had made the press though. Even Kemp had seen the reports of her narrow escape.
That was a close shave, mate, he’d texted. I would have come back if I’d realised you were dealing with such a nutter. Still, I might have known you had it covered.
Hmm. The press had played up her attempted escape, making her sound as though she’d taken control quickly and decisively. She was glad her reputation was intact, but in no way had she ‘had it covered’. It had been Blake and his team who’d saved the day. He’d found evidence Kit might be involved in the murders on his way back from Samantha Seabrook’s memorial service. It had been Emma who’d got a lead on where Kit might have taken Tara, and then Blake had called in the cavalry. He’d arrived at the scene just as the posse of journalists Kit had rallied had turned up, but the police reinforcements he and Emma had summoned had beaten them all to it.
And then Blake had spotted her in the water. He had saved her life. He’d kept his promise about improving her opinion of the force.
He’d left her a message saying he’d see her soon, but so far it had only been other officers – the slimy Patrick Wilkins amongst them – who’d come to interview her.
Fifty-One
Whilst Patrick Wilkins rushed around with various detective constables, gathering more evidence for the court case that would come, Blake and Emma were questioning Kit Tyler.
Tyler’s grief for his sister and hatred for Samantha Seabrook had come across loud and clear – as had his motive for involving Tara: a desire for the world to know what had happened, and the underlying causes as he saw them. But the papers were telling a very different story today from the one he’d envisaged. The coverage was all focused on the dramatic chase across the Fens and Tara’s escape. And when it came down to it, the history of what had happened back then was tragic, but not entirely of Professor Seabrook’s making. Lots of kids went through wild times and egged each other on. Lots of kids came through the other side – more or less. The professor hadn’t intended to make Jane Tyler’s life hell.
He put this point to Tyler.
The man’s eyes were a mixture of fire and ice. ‘Samantha Seabrook was one of the brightest people I ever met. She might not have anticipated what would happen in advance, but what about when my sister committed suicide? The guilt from that ought to have hung around her neck like a millstone for life. But she threw it off. By the time I went to work at the institute, the name Tyler meant nothing. She didn’t recognised the lipstick I sent her – which she bullied my sister into stealing – or the doll either.’
The doll. A minor matter in the grand scheme of things, but a mystery he wanted to clear up. ‘What was the background to the dolls?’
Kit slumped forward suddenly, and put his head in his hands. ‘My mother made them for Jane,’ he said, his words muffled, his mouth half-covered by his upturned palms. ‘They were meant to look like her – the same long, dark hair and her primary school uniform.’ His voice shook – whether from sorrow or anger, Blake wasn’t sure. ‘I put a noose around the necks of the ones I sent to Samantha and Tara Thorpe, because that’s how Jane killed herself. Yet still Samantha didn’t make the connection.’
Blake remembered again the little girl with the older woman in the photo in Kit Tyler’s flat.
‘My mother made three dolls in total. She was a good seamstress, but she held herself to high standards. The first two weren’t quite perfect.’
Blake thought of the uneven legs Tara had mentioned on the doll she’d been sent. He didn’t recall any imperfection on the one sent to Professor Seabrook, but his rag doll standards weren’t very exacting.
‘She gave the best doll to my sister when she was small,’ Tyler went on, ‘but Jane still had it when she and Samantha palled up. Samantha would have seen it. Jane used to keep it on her bed.’ Blake could hear the tears in his voice now. ‘She’d still cuddle it at night, even though she was fifteen. She was heartbroken when our mum died, and the doll represented her love. It was only after Jane committed suicide that I got all three dolls.’
What a mess. So much tragedy, and more than one childhood spiralling out of control, moving towards disaster.
‘You didn’t give the third doll to Chiara Laurito.’
He shook his head, which was still down in his hands. ‘Chiara was never part of the original plan. I just saw red when she was sounding off at the garden party about how reasonable it was that her father should smooth her way in life.’ And now he looked up. His eyes – red and damp – met Blake’s. ‘But I’d never have given away the doll that was Jane’s, anyway. It means too much to me.’
Blake nodded.
‘Going back to the first murder, where did you learn how to climb?’
Kit sighed. ‘Back in Liverpool, and in an unconventional way. I got into scrapes as a teenager, just like Samantha did. I never got caught, though. I became expert at running fast, and scaling anything that blocked my escape route when someone I’d wronged was on my tail. I never joined any clubs but I’d test myself each time I saw a climb that looked challenging.’
‘And you discovered Samantha had the same passion?’
He nodded. ‘I’d browsed the web, looking for good places to try, and found her secret Instagram account. There were various photos – as well as some gossip in the climbing community – that made me think it was hers. And it was her all over, anyway – attention-seeking and self-satisfied.’ His fists were clenched tight. ‘Ever since I’d arrived in Cambridge I’d been trying to work out how to make her see what she’d done to Jane. And suddenly here was a way. I’d heard about someone else managing to climb their way into the fellows’ garden at St Bede’s. They said how beautiful it was once they’d got inside, with its fountain in the moonlight. So I made my plan, and of course Samantha was all for it, and she loved the idea of making the whole adventure a secret. I knew she would. She thrived on attention and keeping everyone guessing ensured she had it.’
He stared into Blake’s eyes. ‘You can see what she was like, Inspector. The world needs to change. It shouldn’t produce people like her.’
And then Blake remembered Kit’s words, the very first time he’d interviewed him. He’d said he was ‘in the right place to bring about change…’ He could see what he’d meant now. He’d been close to Samantha Seabrook; ready to make his move when the time was right. Blake shivered.
‘Tara Thorpe is just the same too,’ Tyler went on. ‘Her mother used her fame to make Not Now popular. Her product placement put Tara in the magazine’s good books, and on the back of that she got her current job. It would have been fitting to have her help me get my message across.’
His tone was harsh; full of angry regret at a lost opportunity. Blake felt himself rise in his seat – in a move beyond his control – and th
en Emma’s hand on his arm.
‘We need to ask you about the times you followed Tara,’ his DS said, as Blake sat back down.
Gradually they got the details. The night Tyler had tailed Tara by bike from Samantha Seabrook’s old apartment had played out much as Blake had thought. Tara had stopped to eat close to the institute before heading off for the evening and Tyler had spotted her. He’d then followed her and hung around outside Samantha Seabrook’s apartment until she reappeared. He’d had the balaclava in his panier. He wore it sometimes in winter, and had chucked it in there in case it proved useful. He’d spent a lot of time recently trying not to be seen.
Frightening her then, and when he’d left the note in her bike basket, had been his way of focusing her mind, he said. He wanted her to know she needed to get on with the job he’d given her.
‘Why did you leave her in the dark?’ Emma said. ‘You could have told her where to look, if you wanted her to help publicise what went on between the professor and your sister.’
‘That was the whole point,’ Kit said, as though Emma was unforgivably stupid. ‘It was a test. A test for Tara, as a representative of the press and society, to see if someone from the mainstream would look in the right direction. I wanted her to do it on her own: prove she could see beyond Samantha’s glamour and her reputation to the little people she’d trodden underfoot before she got where she was.’
He’d admitted he’d been following Tara on other occasions too – and that she’d even caught him at it when she’d dashed out of the Copper Kettle on King’s Parade unexpectedly on Saturday. He’d been wired after killing Chiara – unable to settle – so he’d hovered around all day, observing the crime scene from a distance. He’d been in amongst the trees on Stourbridge Common, near the cattle grid leading to Oyster Row, when he’d seen Tara approach her cottage, stop, answer her phone, then turn and cycle back towards town. He’d been curious and had cut round to Riverside to see if he could see where she was headed. After that he’d kept an eye on her until she’d caught him at it. He’d used the opportunity to chat her up. He knew that, sooner or later, he’d need to get her on her own if she failed in her task and he decided to kill her.