Murder in Hampstead: a classic whodunnit in a contemporary setting

by Sabina Manea

  ‘You see, that’s just it. Ordered. It’s too ordered. Don’t get me wrong, we had it done a couple of years ago and I absolutely love it. But then I saw what you did with the teal wallpaper at Beatrice Hall and it got me thinking that perhaps I haven’t been very… adventurous. Or true to myself.’ She hugged her mug of coffee to her chest. ‘You see, deep down I’m a free spirit. I love art and colour and life… and I feel that’s what we’re missing here.’

  Lucia queried whether a virtue-signalling outfit automatically endowed its owner with bohemian credentials. In her imagination, the harsh lines of the cruelly gutted house had already been softened with pattern and colour. She had come thoroughly prepared and produced some choice photographs of past projects where she had encountered precisely the same problem – it came with the territory. Margaret let out a range of approving noises. She desperately wanted Lucia to instruct her who she should be, and to make it happen. Personal development was one of the many tasks in her military-grade planner to be outsourced to the professionals.

  ‘I’m impressed how you manage to keep everything so tidy, with children in tow.’ Lucia had spotted a single tell-tale sign – two pairs of small squeaky-clean shoes at the entrance. The housekeeper must have had her work cut out.

  ‘Thank you. See, that’s why I think this place needs a woman’s touch.’ Despite falling into that category herself, Margaret didn’t see it fit to perform the function. ‘Johnny has no idea. He comes home from work and takes the cleanliness and tidiness for granted. He probably thinks a fairy leaps out of the cupboard at night and sprinkles her magic dust. Keeping house is a full-time job.’ For someone else, evidently. ‘Of course, I’m very lucky. Lily and Oscar are such well-behaved children. We struck gold with the latest nanny. You just don’t know whom you’re going to get these days, and where they’ve come from. Well, we have a few hours of peace and quiet left. They won’t be back from school until half three. Kumon Maths is off today – the teacher’s pulled a sickie – so it will be lovely to have them around a bit earlier than normal. Child-rearing is such hard work, but so rewarding. Being a mother is definitely my calling. Do you have children?’

  Lucia had to work hard not to switch off during Margaret’s waffling. Lonely, under-occupied housewives were invariably a treasure trove of information, although some effort was required to sift through it.

  ‘I don’t. I can imagine it’s a lot of work.’

  ‘Oh, it is. I’m practically a single mother. Johnny works so hard. He’s barely ever home before nine, and that’s if I’m lucky. I shouldn’t complain. He mucks in so enthusiastically at the weekend. Last Saturday I was able to send the nanny home at midday, and he took them to see the ducks on the Heath. Such a devoted father.’

  With the relentless stream of consciousness that was being fired at her, Lucia had forgotten to observe the kitchen itself. She glanced around her with an expert eye. The effect was the same as the rest of the downstairs. There was no indication that anyone ever used the space, let alone tainted it with cooking. The white marble-effect quartz worktops were gleaming. The vast solid walnut and brass dining table must have easily equalled the housekeeper’s gross annual salary. In the middle of it sat a generously waisted Fornasetti vase bursting with a magnificent bouquet of blush pink hydrangeas, cream roses and viburnum.

  ‘They’re gorgeous, aren’t they? Johnny is such an attentive husband.’ Margaret had noticed the direction of Lucia’s gaze. Her expression was impenetrable – either she had no control over her facial muscles, or she was a great liar.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ Lucia was keen to divert the conversation to their neighbour.

  ‘Going on six years now. The twins were nine months when we moved in. I remember it like it was yesterday – such a sweet age. Exhausting though, seeing how they were both such early walkers. Oh, you should have seen the house. It was a disaster. Hardest six months of my life, living on a building site with two toddlers, handling the builders, the cleaner, the nanny. Johnny was always out, of course. I think I’m due an honorary degree in business management.’ There was absolutely no irony in her pronouncement.

  ‘It’s such a good area for families. It helps having friendly neighbours, of course,’ Lucia said.

  ‘Oh, it does. Alla was such a darling. She never once complained about the noise, and there’s plenty, as you can imagine. I just can’t believe she’s gone. Did they work out what it was? I hear the police have been back at the Hall.’ If she harboured any animosity towards the Professor, it was skilfully concealed.

  ‘I guess they’re just going through the motions, seeing how it was a sudden death. I envy you. My downstairs neighbours are frightful. Any tiny noise and they’re at my door. You’d think I keep elephants.’

  Margaret laughed. ‘Oh, how irritating. Some people just exist to make others’ lives miserable. We have done well. Alla was never anything but charming. She’s very much missed.’ The last statement was a polite utterance rather than heartfelt. ‘Well, I thought we could wander upstairs. I really like what you did with the Arts and Crafts house you showed me. Now why didn’t I think of that? The Apothecary’s Garden wallpaper is just the ticket for Lily’s room.’

  In the space of less than an hour, Margaret’s taste had undergone a 360-degree turn. In two years’ time, the plain colours would undoubtedly make a comeback as yet another remodelling loomed.

  The sleeping quarters bore no aesthetic surprises. There were four bedrooms, with virtually no concessions made to differentiate between the occupants. The children had been allowed a few prints illustrating popular nursery rhymes, a shelf of books and a toy basket each. The master bedroom was as washed out as Lucia had come to expect, apart from something she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘May I use the bathroom?’

  ‘Of course. Just here on the left.’

  Lucia opened and closed the indicated door, then tiptoed to her intended destination. On the sofa at the end of the bed were two gift bags in sober black and white with the unmistakable camellia. Judging by their volumes, one contained a handbag and the other perfume. She pressed the flush button and made her way back downstairs.

  Margaret was perched on the stool, fidgeting with her phone. ‘Another coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’d better get back to Beatrice Hall. I’m very much looking forward to starting here. It’s such a pleasure working with like-minded people.’

  ‘Likewise. I think that together we can really transform this place.’ Margaret could barely contain her excitement at having been promoted to deputy designer. As for Lucia’s part, she hoped Johnny would nix the commission. The most unbearable clients were those that constantly breathed down your neck while you were trying to get the job done, casting themselves as your trusty assistant, only to change hats and shout out irrational orders on a whim.

  Lucia got herself a sandwich and sat in her van. She still had a few minutes left before it would start looking like she wasn’t taking her work seriously. Just enough time to fill Carliss in. ‘On that basis, I’m inclined to think her husband’s having an affair.’

  ‘Or he could be a genuinely nice bloke who buys his wife treats,’ the detective retorted, sounding like he thought her conclusion was a tad far-fetched this time.

  ‘Seriously? You won’t get much change from two hundred pounds for those flowers. And not even hotshot commercial barristers buy their wives Chanel on a whim.’

  ‘Maybe it’s her birthday.’

  ‘I think I wouldn’t have heard the end of it if it had been. She told me just about everything else that was going on. Oddly laconic about the flowers though. No, nobody buys gifts that extravagant unless it’s to assuage guilt.’

  ‘OK, let’s imagine you’re right. What’s that got to do with the Professor?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I think we might fill in some gaps if we can find out the identity of the mistress.’

  ‘And how exactly are you planning to do that?’
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  ‘I thought you didn’t want to hear about my methods.’

  The few seconds of silence indicated that DCI Carliss had dug himself into a hole. ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind. Full disclosure from now on, so I can keep tabs on you. Snooping around people’s houses – you’re a bit of a loose cannon, aren’t you?’

  ‘How else did you think I could find out what I just told you? In any case, please do join me. Let’s leave it till tomorrow though. I need to put in some more hours at Beatrice Hall.’

  ‘Alright, we’re on. Famous last words, no doubt. What about the argument between John Walker and the Professor?’

  ‘Nothing from Margaret. She maintains it was all hunky-dory between them.’

  ‘Time for a telephone chat with the man himself, then. Speak to you later, Lucia.’

  Chapter 20

  DCI Carliss looked at the time and hoped his interviewee wouldn’t be in court. The phone didn’t ring for long, and the clerk put him through straightaway.

  ‘Hello, John Walker speaking.’ A rigid, expertly honed advocate’s voice.

  ‘Mr Walker. I’m sorry to bother you at work. It’s Detective Chief Inspector David Carliss from the Metropolitan Police. It’s about the death of Professor Alla Kiseleva. I wondered if you could spare a few minutes. Just a follow-up from your statement.’

  John Walker sounded unimpressed. ‘Yes, if you must. I’ve already imparted everything I know to your colleagues. I’m in the middle of something, so can you please make it quick?’

  Carliss wasn’t used to being addressed in this manner. The criminal barristers he knew were considerably more gracious – probably because they earned a lot less. ‘I’ll be very quick. About ten days ago you went to visit the Professor at Beatrice Hall and were heard arguing with her. Can you tell me what that was about?’

  The detective got his deserved comeuppance. The line was silent for a second or two, long enough to confirm that John Walker had been caught on the back foot. ‘Oh yes, that. Silly thing really. I’d forgotten about it altogether. The fence between our gardens had started leaning over. I went through the title deeds, and it emerged the Professor was responsible for mending it. I paid her a visit to let her know, politely of course, that this was the case. She disagreed. We had a robust discussion, but she relented. She had the fence replaced a few days after, so that was the end of it.’

  It was a credible enough explanation, as well as conveniently unverifiable unless Mrs Byrne had been eavesdropping. That was easy to check, but Carliss doubted that a man like John Walker would be so stupid as to produce a lie that could be easily exposed.

  ‘Thank you for clearing that up, Mr Walker. That’s all from me. Have a good day.’

  The abruptness with which the receiver was replaced at the other end suggested the barrister wasn’t accustomed to having to explain himself, especially not to a policeman with ideas above his station.

  Carliss looked at his daily to-do list. On the case of Professor Alla Kiseleva, there was only one outstanding task to be completed – an appointment with her solicitor. Morris Llewellyn LLP was nestled at the Strand end of Chancery Lane. Having been bequeathed its substantial offices in the 1890s, it had held its own against the larger marauders responsible for inflating commercial property prices. The more recent glass extension would have undoubtedly offended the Victorian sensibilities of Sir Peregrine Morris, conservative as it may have been compared to its neighbours’ bombastic efforts. The Professor’s will fell under the jurisdiction of Julius Platt, a descendant of the other co-founder by a tortuous route. The small meeting room was in the newer part of the building, bland but adequately equipped. Julius Platt did not keep the DCI waiting for long. He had just made partner, an achievement which had regrettably coincided with the birth of his first child. He would have been wholly within his rights to take paternity leave, but he didn’t judge it wise at a time when the firm was contemplating linking partners’ pay to performance. He looked broken.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to give up your time, Mr Platt. As you know, I’m investigating the death of a client of yours, Professor Alla Kiseleva. When we spoke on the phone, you intimated you have information that you’re in a position to voluntarily disclose to the police.’

  Julius Platt sat on one of the straight-backed chairs and immediately wished he had campaigned for an increase in the meeting room budget. It was cold and uncomfortable.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, I thought it would be best to meet in person. The situation is too irregular and convoluted to explain on the phone.’ He took a deep breath and blinked profusely. His pulse was through the roof, and he was horribly light-headed. What he most wanted was to lie down on the abrasive carpeted floor and have a nap. No such luck. ‘Before I go into details, I should preface this meeting with the mention that I’m permitted to disclose the information by the written instruction of Professor Kiseleva herself.’

  ‘Why did she give that sort of permission?’ Carliss was fully aware of the rules on legally privileged information, especially as nobody was being interviewed as a suspect.

  ‘She was concerned that the actions she was about to take could pose a threat to her life.’

  Carliss mentally celebrated what he considered to be the first real breakthrough in the case. ‘In what way?’

  ‘She rang me about three weeks ago with the intention to amend her will. There were two beneficiaries under the original will – her nephew Adam Corcoran for Beatrice Hall, and the Collaborative Mathematical Society for the rest of her estate, which comprised funds held in a savings account. The new will was to have a single beneficiary for both the house and the money – the Society.’

  Carliss did not expect this particular bombshell. ‘So, you’re saying she wanted to disinherit Adam?’

  ‘Yes, in no uncertain terms. She also posted instructions for me to release the details of her old and new wills to the authorities, should they require them. I did point out this was not the done thing, but she absolutely insisted. Her precise words were: “I’m afraid this might cost me my life.” I assume she referred to the change in the will.’

  ‘Did she say what she was afraid of?’

  ‘No, and I didn’t probe. It wasn’t my place to.’

  ‘Did she make the new will?’

  ‘I drafted it as per her instructions. There was a bit of a delay – my wife and I have a new baby, you see. I had it ready for her to sign a few days later. Here’s the date of the appointment.’ It was the first working day after the Professor’s death. ‘Of course, she never turned up, which means the old will still stands.’

  Carliss recalled the other, more crucial question he meant to ask. ‘These instructions – were they signed by her?’

  ‘Yes, they were signed, dated and witnessed.’

  ‘Who was the witness?’

  Julius Platt consulted the folder he had brought in with him. ‘Orla Byrne, of the same address. She put her occupation down as housekeeper.’

  Chapter 21

  DCI Carliss woke up feeling like his head was in a slowly tightening clamp. He’d been studiously ignoring the tell-tale signs the evening before – a dull ache behind the left eye and a general malaise that he had put down to the broken sleep caused by the puzzling case of Professor Alla Kiseleva. The lurgy was in full swing. The bedside clock unforgivingly read seven eighteen. His appointment with Dr Edmund Glover was scheduled for eight thirty. The protracted telephone negotiations had made it clear that this was a reluctantly granted favour. The rationale behind the early timing was to minimise the interruption to Dr Glover’s packed schedule.

  The surgery was high up on Heath Street, by the Quaker meeting house. It was private, of course – the Professor would hardly have entrusted herself to the NHS. Despite the corporate glossiness of the glass box waiting room, the subsequently added shopfront couldn’t avoid being a scar on the eighteenth-century building. The place was redolent of an upmarket hairdresser’s, complete with sleek receptionist, choice m
agazines and an oversized TV screen. An hour to discuss your real or imaginary ailments with a sympathetic medical professional, unaffected by public sector pressures, cost nearly two hundred pounds. Considering what most wares were being peddled for on Hampstead High Street, this seemed remarkably good value.

  ‘Dr Glover is ready to see you now.’

  The office followed in the footsteps of the waiting room, with the addition of a pair of very inviting high-backed armchairs in a corner, where consultations were evidently conducted. Carliss very much doubted they would be used for this particular meeting.

  Dr Glover stood up from behind his desk to greet his visitor. His handshake was firm, but not crushing – something he had refined over the years.

  ‘Won’t you sit down, Inspector?’

  Apart from a notepad, opened at a blank page and accompanied by a discreetly expensive fountain pen, and a latest generation desktop, the white desk was bare. Dr Glover’s dress code was traditional smart casual – blazer, shirt, immaculate chinos and brogues. He was the sort of man who kept a tie in the desk drawer for impromptu visits to his club. Everything about him was very precise – his sharp vulpine features, his cropped grey hair, the cut of his clothes, the slim watch on his wrist. He exuded perfect control. Behind his chilly politeness he made no effort to hide the disdain of the soldier towards the inferior policeman. Carliss hoped the painkillers wouldn’t wear off. It wasn’t going to be pleasant.