Death Comes to Call: An absolutely unputdownable English cozy mystery novel (A Tara Thorpe Mystery Book 3)

by Clare Chase

  What could have made him angry enough to paint that picture? And then –

  perhaps – to have made the imagined scene a reality?

  But he agreed with Tara – Zach Cross was of interest too. Could the man be responsible for a double murder? The circumstances would fit with a crime of passion, and it would explain Luke Cope’s disappearance just as neatly.

  He walked back towards the spot where Freya Cross lay, via the path next to the river.

  ‘How’s Babette?’ Agneta asked, glancing up at him as he approached. She was still crouched down by Freya Cross’s body.

  ‘She’s well.’ The adrenaline started up the moment Agneta mentioned her name. There was a long pause. ‘Nearly six months along now.’ The pregnancy had gone fast – mainly thanks to him not knowing about it to start with. He sighed. ‘I’d made up my mind to leave,’ he said at last. ‘On my way home, just before she told me she was pregnant, I realised that was the only way forward. But as soon as I heard the news everything changed.’ He met her eye. ‘It had to. Kitty’s really happy. You can imagine how delighted a six-year-old is at the thought of a baby in the house.’

  Kitty was his and Babette’s first. Only it turned out she wasn’t his at all, but some other bloke’s – he still didn’t know whose. He adored her just the same. Babette hadn’t told him the truth about her parentage until she was eighteen months old. At which point his wife had secretly planned to take her abroad to be with her natural father. She’d gone, in fact – made the flight to Australia, leaving him alone in their cottage in Fen Ditton, the last memory of Kitty’s face imprinted on his brain. But for whatever reason, Babette had decided within a fortnight that she’d made a mistake. Blake had wondered more and more over the intervening years why that had been. Whatever the truth, Kitty was the main reason he’d agreed to give their marriage another go. That and the sight of Babette in their sitting room, sobbing and clearly in such anguish. Or so it had seemed at the time.

  ‘Blake.’ Agneta stood for a moment and her blue eyes met his. ‘We’re old friends. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m glad Kitty’s pleased.’ But her expression was serious. ‘I just hope you’re okay too, you know?’

  He nodded. ‘Thanks, Agneta.’

  Her eyes were still on his. He could tell there was another question coming.

  ‘You really think it was an accident, her forgetting to take her pill?’

  Blake remembered Babette’s sheepish look as she’d trotted out that excuse. He’d immediately felt that she’d done it on purpose – to try to cement their relationship maybe? The thought made him feel desperate. But he’d been primed to blame her by that point – furious because of her dishonesty and her unwelcome news, tying him to a marriage that was no longer working. The thought that the new baby might not be his lingered too – though if she’d been having an affair, he imagined she’d have been more careful about contraception, given what happened last time. A DNA test was still an option, once Babette had given birth, but what would he do, if the answer proved he’d been betrayed again? Walk out, leaving Kitty? And a new baby too? ‘I’m honestly not sure. In a way it doesn’t matter. The result’s the same.’

  But of course it did matter really. His suspicion and anger weren’t healthy for him, her, the baby or Kitty. And his attitude was the reason he hadn’t told his colleagues at work that he and Babette were expecting another child. He’d somehow hoped to find a way out of the situation – except there wasn’t one.

  Agneta patted his white-suited arm. ‘Come round again soon for fish and chips. Frans and I need adult company and he liked that you were so appreciative of his cooking.’

  They had a small baby, Elise. Agneta claimed her conversation was becoming limited to ‘Look, Elise, there’s a duck. Ducks go quack.’ She didn’t get to chat much at work, given her main contact was with corpses.

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  At that moment he looked up and saw his DC, Max Dimity, had turned up. He was approaching Tara, who’d finished talking to the dog walker. Max looked calm, as usual, but there was something in his eye that caught Blake’s attention. Tara glanced up at Max, and, as he spoke, her expression changed. It was like watching storm clouds scud across a clear sky. He strode over to them – avoiding the tangled slippery roots at his feet.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Max frowned. ‘Sorry, boss – no idea how, but the press have got hold of this. Shona Kennedy from Not Now magazine is at the barrier towards Lammas Land, asking if someone will give her a comment.’ His look matched Blake’s feelings.

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ Tara said. But her expression spoke of what she’d like to do to the woman, rather than say to her.

  Not Now had once employed Tara. She and the magazine’s editor, Giles Troy, hadn’t parted friends. And then Shona Kennedy – one of his staff reporters – had written a poisonous article about Tara’s handling of the last murder case she’d worked on. Shona had been eagerly helped by Blake’s now suspended DS, Tara’s boss, Patrick Wilkins. Wilkins’ leaks had been hugely damaging to the case and a massive abuse of his position. Blake had always disliked the smug idiot anyway. He’d never trust anyone who paid that much attention to their appearance. How could you be serious about your work if you whipped out a comb every time you passed a mirror?

  Blake mostly tried to ignore the fact that Tara had already made a few enemies. He admired her for the reasons behind it, even if it was disruptive. She was clever, uncompromising and although she was smooth as hell when she wanted to get information out of a suspect, she could tell it very straight when she saw no need for tact.

  Having her talk to Shona about the current case seemed like a bad idea.

  ‘I’ll deal with her.’ He gave Tara a look.

  ‘You can trust me, you know.’ Her voice was tight.

  Tara had once got into a fight with a fellow journalist, resulting in a broken finger and a black eye for him. But she’d only lashed out because the man had been following her. She’d thought he was the stalker who’d plagued her during her teenage years. Extenuating circumstances.

  Blake sighed. ‘It’s not you I’m worried about. Whatever you say to her she’ll twist it. She’s on a mission and she’s guided by Giles Troy. Max – would you come and listen in? You can witness what I say, in case she takes the same tack with me.’

  Max nodded. ‘I’d be glad to.’

  Blake turned to Tara again. ‘I want to starve the flames she’s fanning of oxygen, that’s all.’

  He’d managed to keep his tone calm, but Shona Kennedy was a serious threat. Not only had she rubbished Tara’s professionalism in her article back in December, she’d also hinted at some kind of improper relationship between him and his DC. In the event, Tara’s theories about that case, which they’d derided at the time, had proved to be entirely correct. He smiled for a fraction of a second. Not Now had been made to look like a pack of fools. It had been satisfying, but it would have left Giles Troy with a new score to settle. Blake suspected he’d already been prepared to stop at nothing to bring his former employee down, and he certainly wouldn’t worry about the fallout.

  Four

  Tara wanted to explore the murder site like Blake had, but she’d only got halfway round when she saw that he had returned. The ‘chat’ with Shona Kennedy had taken all of two minutes. Max was no longer with him.

  It was Blake’s turn to avoid her eyes as he strode past her. ‘We’re going out the rear way,’ he said, nodding towards the Owlstone Road end of the nature reserve. ‘I’ve sent Max back to the station to talk to Fleming and prepare the incident room.’

  Karen Fleming was the detective chief inspector. She attacked each new case with ruthless efficiency, driven by personal ambition and the welfare of the victim in fairly equal measure.

  ‘Hopefully the very unlovely Shona Kennedy will follow Max,’ Blake went on. ‘If not, Sue and Barry will keep her at bay. There are plenty of our people out front. I want to make damn s
ure we get to Professor Cross before he gets wind of his wife’s death on the local grapevine. It won’t take long for the rumours to start circulating. Sue looked him up. He’s based at the faculty of History, but the administrator there told her he’s working at home this morning.’

  Tara kept pace with him, watching his expression. ‘You managed to deal with Shona pretty quickly.’

  ‘Said she’d have to wait for the press conference like everyone else.’

  His jaw was tight, and wondering what Shona’s response had been set Tara’s pulse racing. Maybe she could persuade Max to fill her in later. There was no way Blake would tell her, even if she asked – he’d see it as ‘fanning the flames’. And she wasn’t in the mood to coax the information out of him, anyway.

  ‘Congratulations on your news, by the way.’ The words came out quickly but she reckoned she’d managed to keep her tone nonchalant. ‘I caught a glimpse of your wife as you were about to the leave the building last night.’

  Blake’s brown eyes met hers for a long moment, but he didn’t speak.

  ‘When’s she due?’

  ‘The end of May.’

  They were on the path that led round the nature reserve’s interior, away from the river. The raised boardwalk wove its way through the tangle of ice-covered fallen leaves from the previous autumn – a decayed bed under the trees. Here and there a snowdrop showed there was new life to come. The white petals made Tara think of Freya Cross. They were the same colour as her skin. The fact that someone had cut her time on earth short, whilst everything else was rejuvenating, gave Tara a heavy feeling inside her chest. She blinked away the emotion that threatened to break cover – sorrow overlaid with a thick dose of fury, partly at herself. However long Freya had been dead, it didn’t change the guilt she felt. She should have looked for her the evening before.

  After a moment she and Blake ducked under the police cordon at the nature reserve’s exit, nodding to the uniformed officers stationed on Owlstone Road. Then they stood there in the street, peeling off their masks and overalls, ready to hand them back to the CSI team. Having Blake there in front of her, suddenly revealed in all his scruffy glory, was unhelpful. Tara had a strong desire to share and offload after what they’d just seen, but her automatic reaction to him ensured she held back.

  As she finally stepped out of her protective suit, she caught a glimpse of a man with a tote bag over one arm, glancing back at the spectacle from the corner of the road. When he caught her eye he turned away hastily and carried on walking. Believe me, you don’t want to know…

  The narrow lane was lined with evergreen hedges and trees, still coated with the remnants of the snowfall. The roof of the spacious, red-brick Edwardian villa opposite maintained a dusting of white too. Blake turned left and Tara followed him.

  ‘Which road are we looking for?’ she asked.

  ‘St Mark’s Street. Number eight.’

  She knew it. It ran between a branch of Owlstone Road and Grantchester Street. Professor Cross could easily have found his own wife’s body if he’d gone out for a walk. Paradise Nature Reserve would have been one of the first places he’d have come to.

  Tara googled and found Zach Cross as they walked. ‘He looks a bit older than his wife in the faculty mugshot,’ she said in an undertone. It was the kind of age gap that might have got the neighbours talking. In Tara’s experience, it didn’t take much. She was glad her own house was so isolated. She’d hate to have people breathing down her neck, judging her behaviour.

  Blake glanced at her phone screen and raised an eyebrow. ‘I see what you mean.’ He sighed. ‘A case involving an academic always fills me with dread. One of these days I’m bound to end up interviewing someone who knows my mother. I’m glad he’s a professor of History, rather than History of Art, but there’s still a chance they’ll have crossed paths.’

  ‘Your mother’s an academic?’ Surprise made her drop her guard a little.

  He put his head on one side and gave her a half smile. ‘You were bound to find out sooner or later.’

  ‘Whatever your mother’s like she can’t beat mine in the weird parents’ stakes.’ He needn’t think she was going to sympathise.

  ‘Being an actress isn’t that weird.’

  ‘Not per se.’ Tara was the product of a teenage liaison between Lydia – now famous for her acting career – and Robin, who had grown into an architect. They’d both gone on to marry other people and have families that were planned in a way that Tara wasn’t. When she turned up to visit them she always felt superfluous.

  They turned into St Mark’s Street and Tara was forced to focus her mind on what they were about to do. Breaking bad news couldn’t be anyone’s favourite job, and on top of making sure they gave the information in the right way – with sympathy yet total clarity, making their message gentle but unambiguous – they also had to give it whilst keeping in mind that it might not be news to Zach Cross at all. Maybe he’d killed his wife and Luke Cope too, if they’d been having an affair. She knew the thought would have gone through Blake’s mind.

  She realised he was looking at her.

  ‘Ready?’ he said.

  She nodded, keeping her true feelings hidden.

  Blake raised the brass knocker below the glass panels of the glossy red front door and rapped to get the owner’s attention.

  It was interesting to watch Professor Cross’s face as he opened up. Tara recognised the first look of slight confusion – he’d been deep in something, she guessed, and their interruption had pulled him part way out of his thoughts. And then almost instantly, she could see he was on high alert. There was unease in his eyes – and that was a very quick reaction for someone with no reason to suspect there was anything wrong. She glanced at Blake, wondering if it was their physical appearance that had rung the professor’s alarm bells. Was it obvious that they were police officers? But Blake was wearing a long, dark woollen coat she guessed might have something to do with his fashion designer sister. He wore her wares to please her. The suit trousers underneath looked like hers too. He teamed the look with an otherwise scruffy air. His hair was a bit all over the place and his tie was wonky. Nothing about him said detective. She herself was wearing a padded jacket, trousers and boots, thanks to the intense cold.

  ‘Professor Cross?’ Blake said, taking out his ID. ‘I wonder if we could come inside to talk to you?’

  The professor stepped back into his hallway – a wide room with polished floorboards and a dark red rug. The wall was hung with several paintings. They were mostly old-fashioned in style, with gilt frames, but one modern, abstract piece was present amongst the rest. Tara wondered if Freya Cross had bought it from the gallery where she’d worked – and if she owned any paintings by Luke Cope.

  The professor still hadn’t made a sound.

  Tara closed the door behind them, making a noise that seemed loud in the silence.

  ‘Is there anyone else here in the house with you?’ Blake said. Cross shook his head, before Blake added: ‘Is there somewhere you’d like to sit?’

  The professor moved through to a drawing room with a box bay window and sank into an armchair. He filled it. He was an impressive looking man – well-built and good looking, with iron-grey hair.

  ‘Would it be all right for us to sit here?’ Blake indicated a couple more armchairs.

  Zach Cross nodded.

  ‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Freya – Mrs Cross – was found dead this morning in the Paradise Nature Reserve.’

  There was a long pause. Tara knew there was no point in wading in with more information until the fact had had time to sink in. In the meantime, she watched the professor’s reaction.

  ‘This morning?’

  His shock looked genuine. Then, within a fraction of a second, his face spoke of his pain, mixed with some kind of bereft bewilderment – as though he was trying to make sense of something. Something more than the fact that his wife was dead?

  ‘That’s right, sir,’
Blake said. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have much firm information yet. We’re waiting on reports from our medical and forensics teams, but I have to tell you that we’re treating her death as murder.’

  The professor’s mouth was half open. He stared at Blake.

  ‘Can I get you a glass of water, Professor?’ Tara asked after a moment.

  He managed to nod, and she left the room. He’d need a minute before Blake could ask much else anyway. And probably a lot longer than that before he fully assimilated what had happened. But, then again, if he had killed his wife a week ago he’d have been waiting for her body to be discovered ever since. Tara imagined him on tenterhooks, listening out for their knock. Their appearance at last could have been enough for him to look that stunned. And he’d have had plenty of time to practise faking surprise.

  She opened a couple of cupboards before finding a tumbler, then went to the gleaming Belfast sink to fill the glass up with water. As she waited for it to run cold she cast her eyes around the room. The furniture looked old and valuable. A highly polished oak dresser with brass handles, and an ornate vase containing dried flowers stood out. In one corner though, standing on a low mahogany cupboard, was a modern designer lamp. It was constructed from wood, like a lot of other objects in the room, but its detailing was in stainless steel and she guessed its flat bulb was an LED. Was that Freya Cross’s style creeping in, just as the modern artwork had taken a tiny foothold in the hall? The place didn’t feel as though it represented two people’s tastes equally. For a second, as she filled the glass, Tara tried to imagine sharing her cottage with someone else, and how she’d feel about letting them stamp their imprint on it. It wouldn’t be easy, but she’d either be fair about it or avoid sharing her space altogether. Possibly the latter.