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

by Clare Chase

  He and Agneta had been out together once, long ago, before he’d married Babette and she’d met Frans. They’d parted firm friends.

  ‘Correct. Anything to hint my gut instinct is right?’

  Agneta shrugged. ‘That’s for you to say, but there are several things here that make me wonder.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Want me to start with the time of death?’

  ‘Don’t tell me. It’s hard to be precise?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘There’s nothing to say he didn’t die at around the same time as Freya Cross, so he could have killed her, driven to the mill and then put an end to it all.’

  ‘But?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, the open window and the lack of heating in the building mean he’ll have been as cold as Freya Cross was until the thaw came, and still well chilled even then, thanks to the temperatures.’

  Blake had known those elements would muddy the waters. And he’d doubted from the start that Luke Cope would have opened the window before settling down to take a lethal overdose. Why would he?

  ‘There are other things of note that will interest you too,’ Agneta went on, folding her arms across her chest and leaning back against the bit of worktop where her computer was stationed. ‘Stomach contents for one. He’d eaten fish and chips a while before he died, but the last thing he had was salted nuts. Cashews, to be precise.’

  ‘When say you the last thing – what? You think he ate the nuts at the mill?’

  She shook her head. ‘Cut me a little slack, Blake! I can’t be that precise. But it will be interesting to see what’s found at the scene. Any empty nut packets, for instance.’

  Blake hadn’t seen anything that obvious, but the CSIs might find trace evidence. Nuts were covered in loose salt and messy to eat.

  ‘Either way, I can say he ate heartily at one point in the evening.’

  That might still fit if he’d tucked in before heading out to meet Freya. But not so much if the food had been consumed just before he’d supposedly taken his own life.

  ‘Analysis of his vitreous fluid, taken from the undamaged eye, shows high concentrations of alcohol and heroin. Looking at the distribution of the drug in his body, I’d say death came very quickly.’

  ‘That would fit with the fact that the needle was still in his arm.’

  Agneta shuddered. ‘Yes. Which brings me to another point. The drug was expertly administered, yet I couldn’t find any other injection sites on his body. If he’d used it before that would suggest that he’d smoked it, or it was rare, and long ago.’ She stood up from where she’d been leaning and stretched. ‘You can inject heroin several ways: into the vein, into muscle or into the fat just below the skin. This case was intravenous, which has the quickest effect.’

  ‘What about the alcohol you found? How drunk would he have been?’

  Agneta’s blue eyes met his. ‘Very, very drunk, Blake. I would honestly be surprised he was conscious to inject that drug himself, let alone steady enough.’ She looked at him more intently. ‘You’re a bit pale. Do you want to get a coffee? I could use one before I head home anyway. Elise had me up at three this morning.’

  That would be him soon, too…

  Five minutes later, he sat with Agneta in the Costa on the Addenbrooke’s concourse.

  ‘So, how are things?’ The pathologist’s eyes were speculative. She’d be wondering how Blake was going to cope with the unexpected new addition to his family. Only she knew the full background to Babette’s betrayal, years earlier, and about her subterfuge more recently, over the pregnancy she’d kept secret until she was over three months gone.

  He pulled a face. ‘I tried to get Babette to tell me more about Kitty’s father.’

  Agneta whistled. ‘Any luck?’

  Blake shook his head. ‘Nothing of use. Her story was the same as ever – that he was a brief fling and he means nothing to her now. The only new information I got was his name: Matt Smith, apparently.’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Seriously? Hard to track down then. I mean – not that you’d want to.’ Her eyes were suddenly worried.

  ‘No need to fret, Agneta.’ Blake managed to laugh, albeit briefly. ‘I’m not planning to seek him out and take my revenge. Besides, Babette claims he’s still in Australia.’

  ‘Claims?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t think she’d tell me if he’d moved back to the UK. Assuming he’s British in the first place.’

  ‘What would you do, seriously, if you managed to find him?’

  It was a good question. In truth, despite the obvious difficulties, he had googled the name, desperately trying to get past all the references to the Dr Who actor. Just before Babette had walked out on him, way back when Kitty was a toddler, she’d told Blake that their daughter was the result of a one-night stand with someone she’d met ‘through work’. But having that extra clue hadn’t helped. If he’d been a colleague, Blake hadn’t found him. And had Babette even been straight with him about the guy’s identity? He sighed. ‘Nothing like what you’re thinking. But I’d want to know how he and Babette met, and if it was truly just a one-night stand. Most importantly, I need to know what kind of a guy he is. Babette claims she decided to leave him and come back to me when she realised he wasn’t paying Kitty the attention that he should.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Yet one day, Kitty has a right to know who her biological father is. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t tell her the truth. So I need to reassure myself that he wouldn’t harm or hurt Kitty.’

  Agneta put her head on one side. ‘I can understand that. Nothing’s more important than your child’s well-being. When I think of how I feel about Elise…’

  Blake was profoundly grateful that Agneta understood the bond he still felt with Kitty, despite not being her natural father. To her, she was his child, plain and simple, and that was just how he felt too. He’d thought she was his until she was eighteen months old, and his love for her was fierce. Nothing would change that.

  ‘Is there something else?’ Agneta said.

  He shrugged. ‘I still feel Babette’s lying to me about what happened. She told me the guy – Matt Smith – convinced her to leave me because he was Kitty’s natural father and he wanted to be there for her. She says she came back because he lost interest within days of them emigrating. But who makes the sort of dramatic, life-changing move Babette did, only to rush back home without trying to fix things?’

  Agneta’s anger was obvious in her eyes. They were a cool blue but they could convey hot fury as well as anyone’s. ‘I hate Babette for doing this to you. And for affecting you for so many years. As for her motivations, I could believe anything of her.’

  Twenty-Seven

  Blake had missed Kitty’s bedtime. At least he’d managed to call her before he’d left Addenbrooke’s though. He’d talked to her before heading back to the station to do more paperwork and had found he could remember the whole of ‘Red Riding Hood’, from Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes, by heart. He wondered what information he was failing to retain in the bit of brain space that gem was occupying… but it was worth it to hear Kitty laughing.

  Babette knew he’d be late, so he figured it didn’t matter if he made it that bit later still. He wanted to quiz his mother. She wasn’t one for small talk but she was happy to converse when there was a proper reason to. When he explained his mission she agreed to his visit without hesitation.

  As with most streets in the city centre, there were very few garages on Alpha Road and parking was at a premium. He ended up round the corner and had to walk back to his mother’s place. The rain had finally stopped but a thickening mist had descended. He wrapped his dark wool coat tightly around him as he strode down what – for Cambridge – counted as a hill. His mother’s house was a bay-windowed end of terrace, close to the main road. From the front you’d think she was out, or away even; the place appeared to be in darkness, and she hadn’t drawn the curtains. But that was par for the course. She’d have
forgotten all about them, her mind focused on the research she’d got funding for currently, which was on the way in which art showed women’s roles in society over the last hundred years. It included looking at how male artists viewed and used women. He always felt his mother’s attitude towards him – as a man – was influenced by her work. If he turned up just after she’d been studying a particularly frustrating product of the patriarchy her ire extended to him. She seemed to forget it was she who had brought him up single-handedly and he’d learnt a lot of his guiding principles from her. That said, he still thought his way of spending his life was more useful than hers. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be dealing with misogyny too – right there and in your face with no need to spend months analysing the subtext.

  He rapped loudly on the door using the brass knocker, knowing he’d have to rouse her from whatever she’d been thinking about, even though she was expecting him, in theory.

  His mother – Professor Antonia Blake – appeared. Her iron-grey hair was close cropped except on top, where she’d allowed the curls to grow longer. She was wearing a dark-blue sleeveless shift dress, with a scarlet top layered underneath, and knee-length boots. She always said fashion wasn’t her thing, but Blake could see where his clothes-designer sister had got her sense of style.

  ‘Come on in,’ she said, ushering him down the hall towards the light at the end. It came from her kitchen, which she’d had extended to form a large room where she did most things, including her work. She lived alone, so she didn’t have to hive herself off to get peace and quiet. The room’s walls were painted dark red, and lamps dotted here and there gave the space a cosy feel. It reminded Blake of an old-style Paris bar.

  ‘Whisky?’

  He sighed. ‘Can’t, I’m afraid. Got to drive home. I’ll grab myself a Coke, if you don’t mind?’ She tended to have a ready supply, preferring it to coffee when she needed a pick-me-up.

  She nodded and he went to the fridge to fetch one, not bothering with a glass.

  ‘What’s all this about then?’ She sat down at the weathered wooden table she used to eat at, a finger of amber liquid in a tumbler at her elbow.

  He drew up a chair too. ‘You saw the news of the woman found dead in the Paradise Nature Reserve?’

  ‘I did. Freya Cross. I met her at the odd private view.’

  ‘Do you know Zach Cross at all? Her husband? He’s on the history faculty.’

  She frowned. ‘Name rings a bell, but nothing more than that. That’s not what you wanted to ask though, surely?’

  She’d be thinking he could have done that over the phone, rather than interrupting her evening. ‘No. I want to talk you about the gallery Freya Cross worked at: Trent’s, out on the Babraham Road. It’s a curious place and the owner, Jonny Trent, makes my skin crawl. I can’t justify it, but I have a feeling you’d agree if you met him.’

  ‘I already have,’ she said. ‘And I can confirm that I concur with your gut reaction. I dropped in to the gallery once on my way past out of curiosity. Dark place. Full of atmosphere. I’ve got a friend who owns a gallery in Chelsea. She says it’s amazing how readily some people will part with their money if you can simply create the right ambience. You have to make the place feel special, and your customers to feel that they’re special too, by extension. It’s all about psychology. Unbelievable what people spend their time and effort on. Still, it works for her. Never liked her all that much, honestly.’

  His mother had always used the term ‘friend’ rather loosely.

  Blake found the tactics she was talking about weird and fascinating in equal measure. But if people were vain enough to be duped into overspending like that, it was fair enough, he supposed. And everyone knew presentation made a difference. Otherwise, why were restaurants these days charging extra for food served up on roughly finished boards, rather than plates? Blake liked to eat off something with raised sides, so he could have a decent helping without losing any to the table.

  ‘What influenced your opinion of Jonny Trent?’

  ‘The way he behaved around Freya Cross, as a matter of fact.’

  Her tone made him guess what she was driving at. ‘You mean he was sexually harassing her?’

  His mother nodded. ‘That’s what it amounted to, but he was just subtle enough about it to make it difficult for her to complain, I’d imagine. No hand on the bottom or anything like that, but he was invading her personal space and I could see him leering at her when her back was turned.’

  ‘You think she was aware of it?’

  His mother raised her eyebrows and gave him a disdainful look. ‘If someone ogles you to the degree I witnessed you’re bound to turn round and catch them at it sooner or later. And at one point, when she was busy tidying some brochures on a side table, she had to worm her way round him, he was standing so close to her.’

  Could that be the trouble at work Freya had been facing? It would have put her in a horrible position if his mother was right, and there’d been no concrete accusation she could lay at Trent’s door. Blake could see why she hadn’t walked out. She’d clearly loved her work – why should she lose a job when she wasn’t at fault? Jonny Trent was the one who should pay.

  ‘As for the artworks,’ his mother went on, ‘I did see some that were of interest when I visited the gallery. I’d imagine Freya was so passionate about her work that she’d decided to put up with her horrible boss. I wonder if she ever confronted him about his behaviour.’

  Blake wondered too.

  ‘Was the other member of gallery staff there when you called in, do you know? Name’s Monique Courville?’

  Antonia Blake frowned. ‘There was another woman – I remember wondering if she suffered from the same treatment. But it seemed to be Freya that Jonny Trent had in his sights.’

  Blake found the gallery website on his phone and called up a mugshot of Monique. He showed it to his mother and she gave a quick nod.

  ‘Yes. That was her.’

  He remembered Tara talking about Monique’s indulgent attitude towards her boss – though she’d speculated it might stem from a desire not to rock the boat. It had been clear Freya Cross’s assistant needed the income from her role.

  ‘Trent’s gallery is on my mind for other reasons too.’

  Antonia raised an eyebrow.

  ‘One of the artists whose work they display, Luke Cope, seems to have had a disturbing relationship with Freya.’ It felt odd, not sharing the fact that they’d found the man’s body. His mother wouldn’t talk – he knew that – but equally she wouldn’t care that he’d not told her the whole story. It was best to wait until their discovery was public knowledge. So, instead of explaining further, he used his mobile again to call up the photo of the painting Luke had done of the dead woman.

  She glanced from the screen up into his eyes and her expression was exhausted for a moment – almost defeated – but then she rallied. ‘If this goes public I’ll include the bastard in my research.’

  ‘There’s another example, I’m afraid,’ Blake went on, scrolling so that she could see the portrait of Imogen Field. ‘In this case the subject’s not actually dead, thank God. But then there’s one of a man too.’ He didn’t fill her in about the identity of the guy at the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to get her unbiased reaction.

  She was quiet for some time. ‘The paintings of the women confuse me,’ she said at last. ‘They’re so exact in the way they are composed and executed… and yet the image itself speaks of white-hot anger.’ She looked at him. ‘You did a good job with the photos. I can see how controlled the brush strokes are. These weren’t works slapped down in a hurry.’

  ‘So what’s your conclusion? They weren’t painted in the heat of the moment?’

  She shrugged. ‘I think not. Perhaps Luke Cope doesn’t experience emotion in the same way the rest of us do. And the one of the man is different again, because of the emotional distance between the onlooker and the body.’

  Blake nodded. He’d have to digest t
hat later. ‘I was going to ask you a favour,’ he said, taking a swig of his Coke as she took a slug of her whisky.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Out with it, then.’

  ‘I wondered if you could drop in to Trent’s again. Sniff around as an expert and just let me know if anything seems off to you.’

  ‘And I suppose you want me to do this sooner rather than later?’

  He gave her a look. ‘Like, tomorrow, for instance?’

  She pulled a face, but he could tell she was intrigued. ‘All right,’ she said at last, as though he’d just beaten her at a game of chess. ‘I’m lecturing in the morning, but I can head over later in the day. I didn’t let on about my background last time I visited; didn’t talk much at all in fact, beyond a “Good morning”, so I doubt they’ll remember me.’

  ‘Excellent. There are two front galleries but also one at the back that’s Trent’s pet project, apparently.’

  ‘Am I looking for something in particular?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just anything that makes you wonder.’

  She put her head on one side and watched him with her bird-like eyes. ‘Got it. I’ll make sure I take all the galleries in. If this Jonny Trent’s up to something then I’d be glad to catch him out. The man’s a toad.’

  Twenty-Eight

  Tara had been in the doorway of the supermarket when Bea had called to invite her to supper. The food she was now enjoying at Bea’s table was so good, she felt almost emotional. Game pie, parmentier potatoes, perfectly cooked green beans and a warming Pinot Noir. The one slight fly in the ointment was the presence of her mother. Tara couldn’t help feeling she’d been lured to the scene because Lydia wanted something. She had that air of a person waiting for the perfect moment to spring their request. Each time Tara glanced up, her mother’s eyes were on her. She looked swiftly in the opposite direction, though, when she realised she’d been caught out.

  Bea’s cheeks were rosy from the heat of the kitchen, where they were all sitting to eat. Lydia was wearing a beautifully cut suit, complete with a miniskirt – a style that she carried off far better than Tara ever would. Her warm, mid-brown hair glowed in the lights that shone from under Bea’s wall-mounted units. Tara felt tatty in comparison. The woollen jumper she was wearing had bobbled. At least she had her good boots on.