by Clare Chase
Bea’s look contrasted Lydia’s. Her mother’s cousin was still wearing a bright red and navy striped apron over a green linen shirt and jeans.
‘Absolutely first-rate, Bea,’ Lydia said, putting down her knife and fork and reaching for her glass of wine. ‘And lovely that you could join us, Tara. Work all right?’
‘Fine.’ She didn’t want to go into details; didn’t want to think of the sight of Luke Cope, slumped dead at the mill with his eye pecked out.
Bea gave Tara a knowing look, but Lydia took her assurance at face value.
‘Splendid. And are you coming to your father and Melissa’s anniversary do? Nice of them to invite us all, don’t you think? I spoke to him yesterday and he mentioned that he had.’
‘Delightful.’
Lydia gave her a look. ‘Don’t be like that, darling. It’s all a long time ago now.’
A long time since Robin had told Lydia she should have had a termination rather than bring Tara into the world. Funny how it still weighed on her mind… ‘The invitation’s a bit last minute. It wouldn’t look odd if I made an excuse.’
‘Last minute?’ Lydia said. ‘What do you mean?’
A creeping realisation came over Tara, coupled with fresh resentment. ‘When did you get yours?’
Lydia met her gaze, then looked away hurriedly. ‘Oh, um. I don’t quite remember.’
Tara carried on staring until her mother glanced up again.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. About a month ago, I suppose.’
‘Whereas mine’s only just arrived.’ As an afterthought, at best, but probably carefully planned that way, in the hope that she’d already be booked up.
‘You know how it is,’ her mother said, airily. ‘So much to think about when you organise that sort of thing.’
‘I can see how the odd daughter could easily slip one’s mind.’ She turned deliberately away from Lydia. ‘Are you going to go, Bea?’
‘I thought I might, in fact.’
‘Please try to see it from someone else’s point of view, Tara,’ Lydia leapt in, before she’d had a chance to respond. Clearly, she’d picked up on the guilty look Bea had shot Tara. ‘It might be quite nice for Bea to be waited on for a change, eating food cooked by someone else.’
Tara felt about two inches high. Lydia hadn’t lost her touch. She decided not to address her mother’s specific implied criticism of her own character. ‘Kemp told me I should go too,’ she said, ‘for much the same reason. Eat drink and be merry at Robin and Melissa’s expense.’
‘Really, Tara!’ Lydia said. ‘I hadn’t realised police force pay was that bad.’ There was a pause as she sipped a little more of her wine. ‘But enough about that. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you a favour.’
Here it comes. Tara had known there must be a reason for her mother to want Bea to invite her along to supper. She raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s Harry,’ Lydia said, shooting a conspiratorial smile at Bea. ‘He’s had excellent news – his offer’s come through to read natural sciences here at the university – Bosworth College – but,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘he’s at that rebellious stage. UCL’s offered him a place too, and he’s talking about studying there instead.’
‘UCL’s excellent.’ That was what Tara had heard, anyway, and a place at a London university would mean she wasn’t in danger of running into her half-brother.
‘Yes, but it’s not quite the same, is it?’
Tara took a deep breath. She knew Lydia would be repeating her stepfather’s deeply biased thoughts on the matter. But after being brought up in the sticks, Harry might want to head for the capital, instead of being press-ganged into accepting a place at his dad’s old university.
‘I was hoping you could convince him Cambridge is a lovely place to live.’ Her mother’s words seemed to confirm her theory. ‘You know the city – and you might not have been a student here, but you must see them out and about in town all the time. You’ll know the kind of things they get up to. I was thinking you could have Harry to stay for a few days. It would give him a chance to get to know Cambridge properly; fall in love with the place.’
Bloody hell! That was one of the most unappealing ideas she’d ever heard. If he was being rebellious Lydia would probably be glad of a few days’ peace and quiet whilst Tara dealt with his teenage mood swings. Great. The silver lining was that there was no way he’d want to come. Chilling out with his thirty-one-year-old half-sister wouldn’t be the stuff of his dreams. Just as well, as it certainly wasn’t hers either.
So, her mother wanted Tara to jolly along the wanted child; to make him feel better about life in one of the most beautiful cities in the country. Fine.
Bea reached over and topped up Tara’s wine, catching her eye as she did so with a pleading look. She’d never liked seeing Tara and Lydia argue.
‘Mum, you know what my work’s like,’ Tara said. ‘I’m not around enough to entertain him.’
‘Darling, he’s eighteen years old. He doesn’t need you to hold his hand.’ Lydia gave her a look. ‘Try to remember what it was like to be that age.’
She’d rather not. She’d still been getting over the effects of being stalked for a year and a half. Going off to university had been a chance to escape, but because she hadn’t known where the danger had come from she still hadn’t felt safe. She didn’t remember anyone except Bea paying her any special attention.
But the whole conversation was academic anyway. There was no way Harry would agree.
So she shrugged. ‘If you think a short stay in a cold damp house in the middle of nowhere will convince him, then by all means,’ she said. ‘He’ll need to bring a sleeping bag though. I haven’t got a spare bed.’
Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘Thank you, darling. I’ll let Harry know. He’ll be so pleased.’
But Tara rather doubted that.
Twenty-Nine
It felt weird for Max that evening, walking into the Flag and Diamond for his second recce, on this occasion with Megan in tow. It was the first time he’d been to a pub alone with another woman since his wife, Susie, had died. It was only for work, of course, but it was after hours, so it felt informal.
He glanced around the room they’d just entered, noticing it afresh now he’d got company. It was dingy, with grubby flock wallpaper – certainly not a venue he’d choose for a date. That made it less awkward; it wasn’t the environment that would make either of them forget why they were there.
Megan had asked how she should dress to fit in, given that Max knew the pub. He’d advised jeans and a jumper, but thanks to the weather they’d both got more layers on top of that – the least self-advertising that they owned. He was in a black bomber jacket and she was wearing a brown faux-suede number with a fluffy hood. They’d waited until mid-evening, but Max guessed it wasn’t the sort of boozer that ever really filled up.
Several of the clientele glanced round at them as Megan made for a table, but there was only one guy he recognised from the day before and he was in a corner, engrossed with something on his phone. Max didn’t reckon they’d been spotted for what they were, but they sure as hell didn’t fit in.
‘They don’t do food,’ one guy with a grizzled-looking beard said. His eyes were small and beady.
‘No problem, mate,’ Max said. ‘We’re just after a beer on our way home.’
The bearded man took longer than Max would have liked to nod his acceptance. Megan was doing a great job of looking unconcerned, though, and managed to cast the sort of glance that made the guy who’d spoken defrost by a degree or two.
‘You sit down,’ she said, still smiling and sliding her eyes to meet Max’s, her look rather intimate. ‘I’ll get them in. What do you fancy?’
Max caught the bearded guy’s envious glance. The serious, methodical DS he worked alongside had great acting skills. It wasn’t something he’d expected.
‘Go on then, love,’ Max said, still feeling odd himself. He hoped to God it didn’t show. Was
he blushing? ‘I’ll have a pint of Old Speckled Hen.’
Megan nodded, her dark curls falling over one eye, and went up to the bar. They’d arranged it that way in advance, in case the senior guy who’d served Max the night before was on duty. Max hoped if he lurked near the door and Megan bought the drinks, no one would notice that he – a stranger – had been in two nights running. He swallowed as he dropped into a seat. It was still a risk. He was half turned away from where Megan stood, queueing at the bar, but he could see there was a woman on tonight anyway. She wore a black hoodie and had more piercings than Max had ever seen before – and he’d seen a lot.
‘Not often you get a woman telling you to sit down whilst they buy you a drink,’ the man with the beard said, leaning across from his table.
Max grinned and tried to look natural. ‘I know what you’re saying.’
‘Not used to it either, are you? New, is she?’ He slurred slightly. Must have been in all evening, Max guessed. ‘What made you choose this dump for a date?’ He gave a low laugh.
‘I don’t know about dump,’ Max said. ‘Reminds me of one of the locals my dad used to go to, out in the Fens. I like traditional places.’ They might have an edgy-looking bartender, but the venue itself was 100 per cent old-fashioned pub in its décor. ‘But we were just passing anyway – found this place on the off chance.’
The guy gave him a look. ‘You might want to take her somewhere else next time.’
There was nothing exactly aggressive in his tone; but there was a slight warning note to his voice. He was quietly pointing out that it wasn’t really the place for him and Megan. Just making sure Max knew they weren’t altogether welcome. What had he done wrong? He’d messed up in double-quick time.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ And if he’d really just stumbled across the Flag and Diamond he wouldn’t have needed a drunk guy built like a brick shithouse to tell him he’d picked the wrong venue.
As he glanced round he realised their exchange had caught the attention of a few of the other regulars too. Their eyes swivelled towards him and common politeness didn’t stop them from staring when he looked back.
He felt a sinking feeling inside. He and Megan had decided to come together to avoid Max having to interact with the bar staff, but in fact they’d just made themselves more conspicuous. It wasn’t a couples’ pub. And now, no one would say anything telling whilst they were there. But he was loath to leave completely empty-handed.
‘A mate of mine mentioned coming here a few times – guess he likes this place all right.’ Max watched the bearded man intently.
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Guy called Luke Cope.’ It was the last time Max would be able to drop the artist’s name casually into conversation and get away with it. The identity of the body at the mill hadn’t been made public yet.
‘Luke Cope?’ The guy’s unflinching gaze met his. ‘Never met him.’
Megan had arrived back at the table with Max’s pint and a Coke for herself.
‘That all you’re having?’ the bearded guy asked.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Got to drive, worst luck.’
The man jerked a thumb at Max. ‘You could get him to do it.’
‘Have him touch my car? You’re kidding, right?’
At that, the large guy shook his head and turned away, but Max heard him say, under his breath, ‘Your car? Assumed it went with the job…’
They’d been rumbled.
Megan caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic glance. He was hoping for promotion, just like her, and she knew it. For years, career progression had been the last thing on his mind, but suddenly he knew it was something he really wanted. This was hardly going to help.
Just for a second, Megan touched her glass to his and their fingers brushed.
They made small talk about a heist movie they both wanted to see, but even she sounded a bit stilted now. Max drank his pint in larger draughts than he might usually have done, though he was trying not to look uncomfortable.
At last he was able to make as dignified an exit as he could, with Megan at his side. He glanced over his shoulder as they reached the door to the outside world and saw the bearded guy was stirring in his seat. A knot formed in Max’s stomach as he looked to see if he was going to follow them, but that didn’t seem to be his plan.
In the fog-enveloped car park, Max paused for a moment. Standing well to one side of the window, he strained to see what was going on.
Megan was at his elbow and raised an eyebrow as he turned to her. The bearded guy had gone up to the bar, and was talking to the barmaid there. But instead of pointing to the beer he’d like to order, the guy had nodded in the direction of the table he and Megan had recently occupied. And instead of pouring him a drink, the barmaid had nodded, turned and walked out of the back of the bar.
They’d better get going…
As he got into the passenger seat of their car and Megan started the engine, he let out a sigh.
‘It wasn’t a total disaster,’ she said.
Max sat back and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Which element would you say was successful?’
‘Well,’ she reached the end of the driveway and indicated left, ‘we know it’s a dodgy pub where they want to discourage genuine drinkers. And given Mr Beardy went straight up to the bar to dob us in, it seems likely they’re hiding something specific, maybe from us in particular. Perhaps Luke Cope’s sudden influx of cash has something to do with whatever trade they do at the pub, alongside watery beer.’
Max nodded. ‘There is that. It’s hardly evidence, though.’
‘But it’s something to consider.’
Max shrugged, unable to shake off the feeling of failure. But she did have a point.
‘And beyond that,’ Megan added, ‘we also established we both want to see the remake of The Getaway. Do you fancy going along together?’
She’d taken him by surprise. Was this like a date? He glanced sideways at her but her eyes were on the road. She was smiling though.
A few of his friends had told him he should get himself back out there, but each time he thought of it, it felt like a betrayal of Susie. Hell – it was only a trip to the cinema. But part of him felt like crying just at the thought of it. It was something he and his wife had done together, as a treat. What if he couldn’t control his emotions when the time came? Megan probably meant as friends. If he got all maudlin about it that would frighten her off in five seconds. And even though he didn’t feel ready, he didn’t actually want to put her at a distance…
He glanced sideways and realised she’d let her eyes drift left towards him. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I understand. Seriously. But if you ever do fancy something similar, let me know, okay?’
Thirty
Tara was in the Lord Butterfield Café on the Downing College site, her hands wrapped round a steaming mug of black coffee. It wasn’t the only thing that was steaming: it was damp outside, the air thick with fog, and her coat, which she’d eased off, also had a humid fug coming off it, brought on by the warmth of the room they were in. At least the wet hadn’t seeped through to reach her woollen dress underneath. It was cosy and fitted – designed to keep out the worst effects of a cold English spring. She glanced round at each of her colleagues in turn. Blake was next to her and Megan and Max opposite.
Her eyes roved over the café as she took a bite of her roll, which was stuffed full of halloumi. The place was thronging with students and academics, but they wouldn’t be overheard – it was still the busy breakfast period and there was a relaxed level of hubbub and chat that meant they could talk. The halloumi was very, very good. Not healthy, but sustaining, and this was no time to quibble about diet. She could save her good intentions for when the weather was warmer and less insulation was required. At least she’d had Bea’s home cooking yesterday.
It was Blake who’d suggested stopping off for breakfast – no doubt realising they’d all operate better on a full t
ank of fuel. She reckoned he wanted time for an informal chat too, after Fleming’s headmistress-style briefing. (She’d had them writing suggestions on a whiteboard and putting their hands up in turn.)
They’d spent a moment eating in silence, but now Max and Megan were recounting their trip to the Flag and Diamond the evening before.
‘And there’s been nothing from the background checks you’ve done on the place so far?’ Blake said, frowning.
Max shook his head. ‘Nothing official on record.’
‘Keep digging – take the search wider: gossip, rumours or more tangential links with past crimes.’ He took a large bite of his bacon roll and appeared to swallow it whole.
Tara noticed Megan give Max a tiny, conspiratorial nod. They seemed to be getting on well together. She wondered if it was just professional rapport or something more. Max was owed some happy times, though Tara wondered whether Megan was the right person to supply them.
‘So let’s take stock before we head off,’ Blake said, swallowing down more food and picking up his coffee. ‘We think Luke Cope’s death was staged to look like suicide. Agneta said he was so drunk she’d be surprised if he was conscious, let alone capable of accurately injecting heroin intravenously without messing up. Plus, there are no signs he was a regular user, so why would he choose that method? And where would he have got the drug? Or learnt how to inject it?’
‘It just doesn’t fit, does it?’ Tara said, taking a swig of her drink. ‘Unless he had the drug hanging about the mill then using it would suggest the suicide was pre-planned. That he knew he’d want to kill himself after he’d murdered Freya – and went to a lot of trouble to make sure he could do it via this particular method.’