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

by Clare Chase

  ‘And then there’s the evidence the CSIs found,’ Megan put in.

  They’d been filled in about that at the briefing. There had been traces of nuts and salt in the room at the mill and under Luke Cope’s fingernails.

  ‘I presume someone who was desperate to end it all would be unlikely to binge on cashews beforehand. Unless he ate and drank because he felt miserable.’ The DS frowned.

  Max shook his head. ‘Except the CSIs couldn’t find the cashew packet anywhere, don’t forget. Someone must have got rid of it – presumably because they were worried about the conclusions we might draw. Maybe whoever killed Luke Cope was eating and drinking with him until they were sure he was far enough gone for them to administer his lethal dose.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Blake said. His roll was finished. Tara noticed him reach absently to his plate and then glance down as he realised there was nothing left. ‘And my guess is that same person locked up when they’d finished, using the missing spare key. They’d better hope they were careful. I want all of Luke Cope’s contacts fingerprinted to cross-check against what the CSIs found at the mill. We can ask for DNA samples too, if people will volunteer them. And if they won’t I’ll want to know why.’

  ‘Think the DCI will approve all that?’ Megan asked.

  Fleming was still hesitating over the theory of it all being staged. She probably wouldn’t like Blake asking Professor Cross for a voluntary DNA sample – especially as there was no indication he’d know how to inject someone with heroin. But his son was diabetic. Tara had looked it up and found that insulin wasn’t injected intravenously, but it would mean both Oscar and Zach Cross were familiar with hypodermic needles.

  Blake sighed. ‘More work to do there. Our job is to convince her as soon as humanly possible. It’s true that everything we’ve got is circumstantial. But when you put it all together… I still can’t think why Luke would open the mill’s window on such a cold night if he was about to take his own life, but it would be a natural move for a killer. Especially one who murdered Cope, then took his phone and arranged to meet Freya Cross, in order to kill her too. The temperature at the mill means Agneta will never know which of them died first.’

  ‘The perpetrator must have been holding their breath for the last twelve days,’ Tara said. ‘They had no way of knowing how long it would take us to find the bodies. Freya could have been discovered much sooner, and Luke might have told other people that he’d rented the mill. Maybe he had, in fact, but they haven’t seen fit to let us know – or we haven’t asked the right contacts.’

  Blake nodded. ‘Imogen Field’s next on my list. As a GP, I presume she’ll be familiar with administering all kinds of injections.’

  And they knew she was Luke’s ex, the subject of one of his grisly paintings, and rejected by him in favour of Freya Cross… She’d be a juicy interviewee for her and Blake to get their teeth into.

  She watched as the DI raised his eyes to meet Megan’s. ‘You and Max take the son.’ And then he turned to face Tara. ‘And Tara, whilst I’m with Imogen Field I want you to head round to recheck alibis now we know we need to include the day before Freya Cross died, when Luke Cope’s car was caught on the traffic camera. I reckon that’s when he and the murderer drove out to the mill.’

  Tara nodded mechanically. Of course. That was just the job for her, as the most junior member of the team. Why would he take her along to meet Imogen Field? Just because they’d paired up the day before, that didn’t mean she was going be favoured with higher-level tasks in general.

  But was this him putting some distance between them? Was she suffering because he felt awkward when she was near?

  ‘All right?’ Blake asked her.

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘Start with Jonny Trent and Monique Courville at the gallery. I’ve sent my mother there to pose as a casual visitor later on today, so it’s best if you’re out of sight before she arrives.’

  Max raised an eyebrow.

  ‘She’s an art expert,’ Blake supplied. ‘I just want to get her take on the place in general. Luke Cope and Freya Cross were heard arguing there, and Freya clearly had some kind of issue she wanted to discuss with her boss. It makes me curious.’

  So Blake’s mother got to go undercover whilst she did alibi checking. ‘Do the higher-ups know what you’re up to?’ Tara asked.

  He raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘I can’t believe you asked that. She’s just an interested individual who happens to fancy a visit.’

  Right.

  ‘The tech gang are having a go at enhancing the traffic camera image,’ Blake went on. At the briefing they’d heard that it looked as though Luke Cope had been carrying a passenger when he’d been recorded, but the picture was too grainy for them to make out whether they’d been male or female. ‘I’m sending some officers back to Cope’s neighbours too, to see if any of them clocked any visitors at his place on the night of Thursday twenty-second, before he headed off in his car. His passenger might have joined him at home first.’

  And then there was the question of how the killer had got away from the scene, if they’d been travelling with Luke. Officers at the station were checking with the local taxi firms as a matter of course, but no one reckoned the perpetrator would have left that kind of trail. Tara guessed they’d most likely walked to somewhere where they could catch a bus. Cash was still accepted on the fenland routes, so their journey would be untraceable. The only hope was that someone had seen the killer walking away from the mill. But the road wasn’t exactly a superhighway and the weather had already turned bad by then. Most people had probably stayed indoors.

  ‘We’ll reconvene at the station,’ Blake said. ‘By that time, I hope we’ll have Luke Cope’s bank records. I want to know just how much money he had coming in and going out, and where it came from.’

  ‘I keep thinking of what Fleming said about his fingerprints on the syringe,’ Max said, staring into the middle distance, a part-eaten sausage sandwich in one hand.

  The CSIs had found his, and only his. And in just the right position too, apparently. It was true that only a real expert could have placed the man’s dead fingers on the syringe so accurately. That was why Fleming still hesitated over the fake-suicide theory.

  ‘It’s Freya Cross’s holdall that’s on my mind,’ Tara said.

  Professor Cross had managed to dig out a holiday photograph of his wife carrying it, but no one had managed to find the item. Why had the killer taken it? Of course, it wasn’t impossible that a down-and-out or a junkie had stolen it from next to her body, but surely in that case they’d have taken her phone and purse too?

  ‘We definitely need more answers,’ Blake said. ‘But we’ll get them. I’m not letting this rest. There’s no way Luke Cope’s death wraps this case up. We’re looking for a third party that either wanted them both dead, or was ruthless enough to use one of them specifically to help themselves look innocent. And it has to be someone who knew Luke Cope had hired the mill, and who could access and administer heroin.’

  ‘And who was possibly on good enough terms with him to go out there and spend the evening drinking and eating nuts,’ Tara said. ‘And who knew enough about Luke and Freya’s relationship to be aware of their standard rendezvous.’

  ‘And even to know they’d had some kind of quarrel,’ said Megan, ‘so they could write a convincing text from Luke’s phone, suggesting the meet-up.’

  The message had been sent from central Cambridge, so if their theories were right, the killer must have taken the phone into town and then replaced it at the mill, once they’d finished covering their tracks.

  ‘Anyone want more coffee?’ Blake asked. ‘Apart from me, that is?’

  Everyone went for it. Once they were settled again and Blake had downed half a cup in one swig, he said: ‘Of course, our killer might not have a personal motive at all. What if Luke Cope was getting his mysterious extra cash from selling drugs? Maybe he’d crossed the wrong person? Freya could have known
what was going on and that would have made her a target too. It would explain why Luke’s killer knew how to inject heroin – and the fact that they had the drug to hand. And the set-up of the two deaths was pretty showy – it would be a good deterrent to point to, if anyone else caused them trouble.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Whatever the case, Luke Cope was certainly getting a reasonable income from somewhere.’ He glanced at Tara for a moment. ‘Despite the mill’s dilapidated appearance, the agents were charging a fat rent for it.’

  Tara pulled a face. ‘And I presume we should treat inheriting Luke’s house as a potential motive too?’

  ‘Oh yes. The half-sister, Vicky Cope, has to be in the running. That’s a two-point-five million pound motive right there if the estate agent’s valuation is to be believed,’ Blake said. ‘She’s no direct motive for killing Freya, as far as I can see, but we have to keep her in mind.’

  ‘And I’d be resentful too, if my father swapped my mother for a new woman and forced me to move away from my childhood home.’ Tara had nursed a grudge against her own father for years. She wouldn’t commit violence over it, but she could imagine people who would.

  ‘I agree,’ said Max.

  Tara thought once again of the legal provisions Luke, Matthew and Vicky’s father had made for them all after his death. Vicky Cope had been left her father’s business, and that was valuable too. Presumably her dad had thought she’d got the best skills and temperament to carry it on, whereas Matthew and Luke had been left their inheritance in trust until they’d reached an age that was well past maturity. But maybe the father had thought it would lead to arguments if he tried to make the business a shared venture. As it was, Vicky had something valuable, but which demanded hard work and a mature approach. Meanwhile the boys had bequests that wouldn’t involve any effort on their part.

  No doubt the arrangements had made sense to Mr Cope senior, but Tara could imagine each of the three children being angered by the provisions for different reasons. Vicky had been forced into a position of responsibility she might not want, carrying on a business built up by a man she had every reason to resent. And neither Luke nor Matthew had been trusted to behave sensibly.

  ‘I wonder why the father picked Vicky to take over the business,’ Blake said, as though reading her thoughts. ‘I can understand he might write Luke off as unsuitable for the job – from what everyone says – but what about Matthew?’

  Tara shrugged. ‘His employer says he’s a fantastic salesman – but it’s clear he’s one of a team. Not as senior as he had me believe, in fact. Maybe he’s not a leader, and his father knew it.’ But her mind was still on who stood to gain from the recent deaths. ‘I know the house is the big prize, but I wonder if Luke Cope made any other bequests that might be significant?’

  Blake swigged some more of his coffee and shook his head. ‘I spoke to the Cope family solicitors after we got back from the mill yesterday. They can’t release firm details until all the right paperwork’s been signed off, but they did tell me Luke died intestate. Then again, beyond the house – and the furniture, which I understand goes with it – he didn’t have much to leave.

  ‘Matthew’s his next of kin, and I’m sure he’s looking forward to taking possession of his brother’s eerie paintings, the contents of his wardrobe and his old paints… If there genuinely was any valuable jewellery, left by their mother, it sounds as though it will have been sold by now.’

  ‘And if Matthew wanted to kill his brother to inherit something he could just have faked the suicide anyway,’ Max said. ‘He wouldn’t have any need to bring Freya Cross into it, as far as we know. He and the half-sister, Vicky, are in the same boat there.’

  ‘True.’ Blake nodded.

  And then, into Tara’s head came the image of Jonny Trent once again. What had he got to do with all this? Why had Freya been so angry with Luke? And what was the problem she had at the gallery?

  Her alibi-checking might just be routine, but she would make it count.

  Thirty-One

  Oscar Cross looked at the two detectives sitting opposite him, one on a padded upright chair and one on the edge of his bed, for God’s sake. Oscar was already seated in the office chair of his university room, so that left the guy, DC something, short on options, but it still sparked something like fury inside his chest.

  It wasn’t often that students studying at St Francis’s College got visits from the police. If anyone ran into trouble, the institution’s authorities stepped in first, meting out discipline and justice. For one second a flicker of pride rose up inside him. So much for the ‘tame guy’ down the corridor who nothing ever happened to. He knew that’s what the others thought of him. Jack Paris, who’d almost been sent down last term for climbing the college chapel’s bell tower – on the outside – sometimes patted him on the head. Dear old Oscar, who’s only really here, as we all know, because his father is a fellow of this very college. Family connections or no, he’ll never be one of us…

  It was a lie! The rules for getting in were strict.

  Oscar put his shoulders back. News of this visit would get around all right. There had been at least two people out in the corridor who’d heard Sam, the porter, announce the detectives by name when he’d opened up to let them in. Normally, Oscar had to fetch his visitors from the porters’ lodge, but he guessed Sam hadn’t wanted a couple of cops hanging round the official gateway to the college, even if they were in plain clothes. They might say something awkward and it wouldn’t do to compromise St Francis’s reputation.

  Oscar could look forward to some curiosity from his contemporaries at the very least.

  ‘So, let’s just go through your alibis again,’ the woman was saying. DS Mahoney or something like that. He hadn’t registered. It had taken him a moment to calm down, if he was honest. He hadn’t been expecting them to call. He’d have to ask about that. Shouldn’t they give you some warning or something?

  The woman glanced at the man who’d been writing down what he said.

  DC thingummy referred to his notes. ‘On the night of Thursday twenty-second February you were here in your room, working on an essay that had to be handed in the following day. You think you bumped into Patrick Jones, who’s in room 4b, at some stage, but you’re not sure when.’

  The man glanced at him. Did he think Oscar was going to have changed his mind in the last two minutes? He nodded. Couldn’t be bothered to speak to confirm that yes, that was the account he was sticking with. He was still irritated that they wanted to check his alibis at all. They had one murdered woman and one man, dead of an overdose. He’d assumed they’d put two and two together, but they had to ‘cover all their bases’ apparently. It was ‘procedure’. How dull to be governed by a set of rules. They could have taken what they’d seen at face value, gone home and saved the taxpayers some money.

  ‘On Friday twenty-third February you went to the dining hall at six p.m., where you had supper with Tom Cruickshank, after which you went for drinks at the college bar and then returned to your room by eight thirty, after which you saw no one.’

  Oscar nodded again.

  They went through Saturday and Sunday too, making him sound as unpopular as he felt. Each phrase: you saw no one you knew, you missed your friends at breakfast, you stopped for two minutes to talk to Tom Cruickshank (him again), made him feel smaller and hate them – and himself – more.

  ‘What kind of a relationship did you have with your stepmother?’

  His stepmother? Freya. Freya was what he’d called her – and how he thought of her, too. There’d been nothing motherly about his father’s second wife, closer to Oscar than she was to Zach Cross in age.

  ‘By the time she came on the scene I was just about through my A levels,’ he said, keeping his face expressionless. ‘After that I moved out, so I’ve never had much contact with her.’

  The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Wouldn’t most students choose to live at home, if they’re studying i
n the city where they live?’

  She really didn’t know anything. It was pathetic. ‘You have to live in college accommodation. It’s one of St Francis’s rules. That’s the case with a lot of the colleges. And besides, I would only ever have spent a couple of days a week at my father’s house. Once he and my mother divorced I opted to spend most of my time with her.’ Though he’d been glad enough to end that arrangement too.

  ‘How did it make you feel, when your father told you he was leaving your mum for Freya?’

  God, the woman had a fine line in questioning. How did she think it made him feel? But he was used to hiding his emotions.

  ‘I was sad, but I understood. I knew he and my mother hadn’t been getting on for a while and that not all marriages last forever.’ He kept his unblinking eyes on the woman’s.

  ‘That was a very mature attitude for an eighteen-year-old,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine it was easy, what with the pressure of exams, your mum being replaced so quickly and the neighbours gossiping.’

  She was pretending to sympathise, but he knew she was out to rile him – to keep poking until she got him to bite. He wasn’t going to let her win.

  ‘Lots of other people go through the same stuff. It’s commonplace.’ He couldn’t believe he was having to sit there trying to convince some woman that he hadn’t killed his stepmother. And all because his father hadn’t the brains to see Freya was wrong for him. She was too young, too beautiful, too lively.

  Oscar had been so angry at their wedding. He’d been shown up. People kept assuming he and Freya were contemporaries. Two people who only knew his father through work had asked if they were siblings. If Freya hadn’t been in a wedding dress and hanging on the arm of Zach, they’d probably have assumed he and Freya would have made a more likely couple than Freya and his dad.

  ‘And what about your father and Freya’s relationship? Did you ever hear them argue?’