Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(54)

“Yes. The same names keep coming up,” said Tristan. “Noah Huntley, Max Jesper . . . Max’s husband, Nick Lacey, has come up for the second time. And now Ashley Maplethorpe is linked to them.”

“Isn’t that a very British thing? You find your clique, your tribe, your friends, and once you’re in, you’re in for life. Even if you hate them all. It’s better to be in a tribe than out?” said Kate.

“And now Gabe Kemp is linked with Noah Huntley. Gabe met with Joanna and was prepared to go on record, and then chickened out.”

“The question is, how are David Lamb and Gabe Kemp linked? Joanna wrote down both of their names. If we can link Gabe Kemp to the commune, that gives us the link with David Lamb and Max Jesper . . . If Nick Lacey and Max have been together for years, he may have known David too; presumably he would have visited the commune, being Max’s boyfriend, and now we have Ashley as an investor in the hotel. If he’s a closeted gay, then what’s to say that he didn’t visit the commune?”

“Did you see Juliet’s face when we brought up him visiting the commune?”

“Yes, and he was denying he even knew about it, but Gabe Kemp was a key source in Joanna’s story about Noah Huntley, and Ashley must have had detailed discussions with her about Gabe. It would have been a huge thing to print details of a serving MP paying for rent boys.” Tristan shook his head. “It’s too fishy.”

They were quiet for a moment as they drove over a high bridge and looked out over the cornflower-blue water in an estuary, lined with green reeds swaying in the breeze. The windows were open, and the warm summer breeze smelled sweet with the scent of mowed grass.

“Joanna’s friend, Marnie, said the same thing as Ashley,” said Kate.

“What?” asked Tristan.

“That Joanna might have been the victim of a random serial killer. There was no planning or motive. Some psycho was in the right place at the right time and saw an opportunity.”

“Do you think that?”

“Sometimes. When I wake up in a cold sweat, wondering if we’re ever going to find out what happened to her. Ashley Maplethorpe has generated a huge number of questions and suspicions, but he was in London when Joanna went missing.”

Kate rummaged in her bag and found a pack of painkillers. The heat and the awkward meeting had given her a headache. She pushed two tablets out of the foil and put them in her mouth, swallowing them dry.

“Yikes! Don’t swallow pills dry. I’ve got some water in the back,” he said, rummaging behind his chair and handing her a bottle.

“Thanks,” she said, unscrewing the lid and taking a big gulp. “That’s better.”

The fresh salt air blew into the car and soothed Kate’s headache.

An earsplitting ringing sound made them both jump.

“Sorry, that’s my hands-free,” said Tristan, turning down the radio volume. He pressed a green button next to the steering wheel to answer.

“Hello?”

“Oh, you’re alive, Miss Marple,” said Ade, his voice booming through the car speakers.

“Sorry, things have been busy,” said Tristan.

“Yes. I was beginning to think you’d been murdered on the Orient Express, or perhaps you were doing something deliciously evil under someone’s son?”

“I’m in the car. With Kate,” said Tristan, looking embarrassed.

“Oh. Sorry. Hello, Kate,” said Ade, putting on something akin to a telephone voice.

“Hi,” Kate replied, grinning. “I like your Agatha Christie puns.”

“Thank you. I had Roger Ackroyd on the tip of my tongue . . . But that’s enough about what I get up to in my spare time.”

Kate laughed.

“I was going to ring you when I got home, Ade,” said Tristan, still sounding a bit embarrassed.

“I think you’ll want to hear this, Miss Mar—Tristan,” he said. There was a pause.

“Well, go on, then,” said Tristan as they reached a huge roundabout and the first traffic they’d seen all morning. They closed their windows against the stink of exhaust fumes.

“Okay, well, I’d best start from the beginning and give you a bit of background . . . Set the scene,” said Ade. Tristan rolled his eyes and mouthed Sorry to Kate. Ade went on, “I was walking past the church hall above Ashdean High Street, and there was an old note stuck to the board outside saying that they’re hosting an evening tomorrow to meet our local MEP. That means Member of the European Parliament, or Euro MP . . .”

“We know what it means,” said Tristan.

“Apparently, this skinny slip of a lass called Caroline Tuset is our local MEP! I was so annoyed that I hadn’t even heard when the European elections were being held, so I got home and jumped online. Did you know they were last year?”

Tristan pulled out of the traffic and went around the huge roundabout, taking the Exeter exit.

“No. But what’s this got to do with anything?” said Tristan.

“I’m coming to that, if you’ll let me, Miss Mar—Tristan. Oh, fuck off. I’m calling you Miss Marple, I’m sure Kate can cope,” said Ade. Kate laughed. “Anyway. I find the EU website, and I discover that I’m not registered to vote, so I do that, and then there’s this page where you can look at all the Euro MPs’ photos, and I wondered what this Caroline Tuset looks like, and if she’s local, cos she sounds a bit French with a name like Tuset . . . And there, two rows up, is George Tomassini.”