Murder in Kentish Town: an elegant mystery set in Bohemian London

by Sabina Manea

  ‘Genevieve Taylor hasn’t been in the country for that long, and we know next to nothing about the woman. The first place to start is her work.’ Carliss consulted his own notebook before continuing, ‘Creasy & Gotts LLP. Solicitors’ firm. No prizes for guessing who’s going to be coming with me for that one. Lucia?’

  ‘Absolutely. As it happens, it’s where I used to work. Some blast from the past,’ she replied instantly. ‘Can’t seem to get away from it however much I try.’

  ‘Well, isn’t it a small world? Hopefully that means you’ll be able to get as much as possible out of them,’ said Carliss as he eyed the clock. ‘Make a list of whom you think we should speak to and let’s get on with it.’ He turned on his heels to signal to Trinh and Harding that the talk was over. ‘Right, you two, out of here and let me know what you find.’

  DS Trinh and DC Harding had been put on desktop research duty, which was a lot less exciting than the prospective trip to the High Holborn offices of Creasy & Gotts that Lucia and Carliss were set to embark on. Lucia took a deep breath as she steeled herself for what was to be an unexpected incursion into her old life.

  * * *

  Creasy & Gotts LLP occupied the top two floors of an outwardly unattractive building approximately halfway between the old end of the City and Covent Garden. Neither old-fashioned nor brazenly glitzy, the entrance to the edifice categorically refused to allow visitors to form any opinion as to the identity of the organisation. In reality, those that did visit knew exactly what it was that they were after: discreet legal advice from leaders in their field with a sparsely detailed public presence, reachable mainly by word of mouth. The relative drabness of the address was the logical consequence of this somewhat unusual branding exercise. There would have been little point in concocting a PR spin based on longstanding tradition and suchlike, of the type preferred by the various legal establishments clustered around Chancery Lane and the Inns of Court. The firm was less than ten years old: a boutique commercial affair expressly set up to serve the interests of entities whose activities were a touch too adventurous for mainstream lawyers. In short, when it came to taking on new clients, money talked, and it certainly didn’t stink.

  Lucia mulled this over in her mind as she and DCI Carliss walked briskly up the escalator at Holborn underground station, keen not to waste any time. As solicitors didn’t make an appearance in the office before nine, it was later than she would have liked by the time they emerged into the commotion and traffic fumes. Outside, High Holborn stretched out before the detectives in all its grimy, overbuilt glory. It was a curious affair: neither corporate world, for which you had to go quite a lot further east, nor London’s West End. The architecture was largely late Victorian and Edwardian, metropolitan in height and frontage. The contemporary widening of the thoroughfare had mercilessly cut through the previous seventeenth and eighteenth-century street pattern. The cramped messiness of the earlier era had been whittled down to a few narrow backstreets, which even in the relatively salubrious twenty-first century appeared to have successfully preserved much of the original urban stench and resulting claustrophobia. Lucia liked this area precisely because it wasn’t quite anything: a disorderly amalgamation of offices, cultural buildings, shops, bars and restaurants. It was a place where you could work your way through different incarnations from morning through till night. She could quite happily live with that sort of shapeshifting.

  At the building reception, a vast, highly polished concrete and metal affair seemingly designed to fob off the uninitiated, the equally glossy receptionist graced Lucia and Carliss with a practised blank expression on her carefully drawn face.

  ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’ The polite but cold voice revealed just a tinge of what Lucia recognised as an Italian accent.

  ‘Good morning. Detective Chief Inspector David Carliss and Lucia Steer, Metropolitan Police. We’re expected at Creasy & Gotts,’ replied the policeman in his most commanding tone, so as to nip in the bud any notion that he somehow wasn’t the type to be let in.

  The haughty receptionist arched an eyebrow and mustered a considerably friendlier smile as she picked up the phone receiver to confirm that the two detectives would be allowed to enter. Minutes later, equipped with visitor passes and ready for action, Lucia and Carliss sat expectantly on the comfortable, elegant leather sofas in the waiting area of the law firm. The glass panels separating the public area from the actual offices revealed the hustle and bustle beyond: people hunched behind computer screens, printers whirring, and those fortunate enough not to be squashed together in the open plan room peering thoughtfully at reams of documents.

  A small cold shiver ran down Lucia’s spine, and it wasn’t because the room was anything but warm. She remembered only too well what it had been like to be in the shoes of one of the associates behind a computer screen. The work had been good, even thrilling in parts, and the pay even better. She and Nina had carved out a niche for themselves, mainly due to their teamwork and knack for sniffing out neatly crafted solutions to clients’ problems that nobody else could crack. The partners respected them and generally left them to their own devices, inasmuch as independence was possible in a highly hierarchical organisation. Lucia was under no illusion that their relative freedom of action owed much to Nina’s lucrative connections. Nina’s mother, Dame Virginia Lexington, DCMG, former ambassador to Oman, had a lot of irons in the fire and was a reliable source of referrals. Those with business interests in the Middle East were generally well served by a discreet firm of solicitors that did the work well and didn’t ask too many probing questions.

  In time, however, the superficial sheen of the corporate life had worn off. Lucia had felt burned out, as if her senses had been dulled to a chronic level of mediocrity. She needed a drastic change, which was where the decorating came in. In turn, Nina got married to Walter and, in a slightly surprising turn of affairs for someone as independent and bloody-minded as she was, instantly became a full-time socialite wife, with all the perks and entrapments that the position entailed. Lucia felt a frisson of satisfaction knowing that, back in the place where she had once been subservient to others, she now held the upper hand.

  Over the next few hours, Lucia and Carliss methodically trawled through the staff list of the firm, from PAs and administrative assistants and all the way up to the managing partner, who hadn’t been best pleased to have been dragged out of his cubby hole and consequently made to miss a potentially fruitful client lunch. Eventually, as the clock hand moved decisively towards five in the afternoon, the two detectives sat down in the small conference room they had been allocated for a well-deserved cup of coffee.

  ‘So, what do you think so far?’ asked Carliss as he plonked himself down into an uncomfortable chair that had clearly been designed to discourage lingering.

  Lucia shuffled around in her own seat and rubbed the tip of her nose with a pensive look. ‘Not much to go on, is it? We haven’t learned much that we didn’t know already. Genevieve Taylor applied for and was offered the job while she was still in New Zealand, got her visa and arrived in the UK four months ago. Good reports from her supervising partner. She seemed to be liked by her colleagues; well enough for no one to bother saying otherwise, at least. She even managed to do some pro bono work on the side at the community centre in Kentish Town: immigration cases, visa and asylum applications, that kind of thing. Always good for the CV. She was pretty private, which fits with what her cleaner told us. Went to the work drinks, but didn’t socialise more than the bare minimum required, and didn’t really talk about herself. She’s from a city called Hamilton. Pretty place by the looks of things. No partner or lover that anyone knew of.’

  Lucia tapped her pen on her notebook as she spoke, a sure sign of frustration. ‘This woman’s a mystery. There’s nothing of interest that we’ve been able to dig up to date. And if we’re to understand why someone would want to kill her, we first need to understand who she is. We’re not doing very well on that front.’


  ‘Hold your horses. We don’t know that anyone has killed her. We’re just tying up loose ends, remember?’ cut in Carliss. ‘I don’t like this business of jumping to conclusions, you know that.’

  ‘Sorry, spoke out loud what I was thinking. But it’s definitely messy, you can’t disagree with that.’ Lucia turned over the page in her notebook and looked at the last name on their list of interviewees, the only one that hadn’t yet been crossed out. ‘We’ve got one left. Rosie Venter, another associate. She’s been out in client meetings all day. She should be back any moment, by all accounts.’

  ‘I think she’s just behind you,’ said Carliss as he glanced pointedly at the door.

  The woman who came in as soon as she knocked, clearly out of pure formality rather than an expectation that she would have to wait for permission to come in, was a few years younger than Lucia, somewhere in her late twenties to early thirties. She was tall but not thin. She stepped in decisively, without any hint of nervousness. She looked like nothing could really faze her. Lucia couldn’t help noticing her piercing green eyes, ever so slightly almond-shaped, and her unusual, naturally red hair, cut into a slightly old-fashioned pixie shape, a bit like a 1960s actress. She was dressed in beautifully cut, wide-legged trousers and a crisp white shirt. Not a woman you would mess with, Lucia concluded.

  DCI Carliss, whose jaw had suddenly slackened considerably, sat up a little bit straighter in his chair in an attempt to compose himself for the upcoming interview. He stood up to greet the newcomer. ‘Miss Venter, I assume?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry I’m late. My last meeting ran over, and I couldn’t get away.’ The voice was low, almost contralto, with a distinctive accent which Lucia identified as South African.

  ‘Not a problem. Have a seat, please, Miss Venter,’ said Carliss as he beckoned her to the free seat across the table from him and Lucia. ‘Would you like a drink before we start?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’d rather we got on with it. I have some work to finish tonight,’ the woman replied, curtly but not altogether unsympathetically. She had looked the inspector up and down as she had entered the room and had evidently declared him to her satisfaction. Lucia felt a touch of colour rising to her cheeks and busied herself with her notebook, hoping that nobody had noticed.

  ‘Miss Venter,’ DCI Carliss said, ‘as you know we are here to make enquiries about the recent death of one of your colleagues, Genevieve Taylor. We’re asking everyone questions as a matter of routine, so it’s nothing to worry about. Just answer as fully as you can, and please take your time if you need to.’

  Personally, Lucia didn’t think that Rosie Venter needed that much mollycoddling, but she let this one pass.

  ‘Of course. Fire away,’ said Rosie. Despite the sad turn of events, her face was curiously expressionless.

  ‘Did you know Genevieve well?’ asked Carliss.

  ‘Yes, fairly well. As well as anyone could know her. She kept herself to herself most of the time. But yes, we were sort of friends. More work friends than anything else, to be precise.’

  Lucia thought she detected the faintest hint of defensiveness in the last sentence.

  ‘She hadn’t been in the country for that long, is that correct?’ continued the detective.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. About four months, I think. She was really keen to leave New Zealand, she said, and explore London. Bright lights and all that. It’s why we’re all here.’

  ‘You’re South African, I assume?’ interjected Lucia.

  ‘Yes. Joburg born and bred, as it happens. I’ve been in the UK three years now,’ replied Rosie.

  ‘Do you know what happened to Genevieve?’ continued Lucia. It was odd that Rosie hadn’t asked any questions so far. Everyone else at the firm that the detectives had interviewed had been immediately curious, as was human nature.

  ‘No, nobody has spoken to me yet.’

  Carliss said laconically, ‘She was found dead in her home last Friday.’

  ‘That’s awful. How did she die?’ asked Rosie at last. She looked like someone who was making an effort to be affected by the disclosure.

  ‘It appears that she drowned in the bath. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say any more at this stage. We’re conducting a routine investigation, as is the case with all sudden deaths,’ replied the inspector. ‘Did she have anyone living with her, do you know? A lodger, a partner?’

  ‘No, she lived on her own, I’m fairly sure of that. She did have a boyfriend though. It was a fairly recent relationship. Edoardo, he’s called. Would you like his phone number? I have it here somewhere.’

  ‘Yes please, that would be very helpful, thank you,’ replied the policeman as the woman busied herself with her phone and eventually produced the number.

  Lucia repeated the name that Rosie had just fished out of her address book. ‘Edoardo da Carrara. Do you know where they met?’

  ‘At this book club we go to. I suggested Genevieve should come along when she said she didn’t know anyone in London. I thought it would be a good way for her to meet people, make some new friends.’

  Lucia suddenly twigged. It was definitely worth a shot. ‘Is it called Aurora Borealis, by any chance?’

  Rosie turned sharply, and for the first time since she had entered the room her face reflected something resembling genuine emotion. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. How do you know?’

  ‘We found a piece of paper with the name scribbled on it in Genevieve’s flat. I couldn’t find anything on the internet,’ replied Lucia.

  A peculiar name like that fitted the bill. So-called ‘literary salons’ had recently become very voguish within a certain sub-section of the London population: wannabe bohemians, hipsters and generally bored professionals with artistic pretensions. Books didn’t seem to play much of a part. The salons were effectively private parties behind closed doors, with the implication that what happened there stayed there. Most of these clubs, for want of a better word, were copiously advertised on public channels, rendering their alleged exclusivity somewhat moot. Aurora Borealis, on the other hand, appeared to keep itself under wraps.

  ‘You wouldn’t. It’s an odd sort of place. He likes to keep it word of mouth. Darius, that is, Darius Major, the guy who runs it. I’ve got his contact details as well, if you want them. He calls it a literary salon. Sounds fancier, I suppose. It’s a good place to meet people over a drink and spend an evening talking about books, art, that sort of thing. Helps me unwind after work,’ explained Rosie.

  Evidently keen to get the interview back on track, Carliss said, ‘It appears that Genevieve died on the evening of Thursday the 18th of March, though she was only found on the following Friday morning. Do you know what her movements were on that Thursday?’

  Rosie thought for a moment and then checked her phone. ‘Thursday the 18th… yes, OK. She came into the office around nine in the morning, as usual. She left around five, I think. I can’t be sure as I can’t see her desk from where I’m sitting, but I walked past twice, once around quarter to five to get a cup of tea and then again around ten past five to use the bathroom. The first time she was there, the second time she wasn’t, so I assumed she’d left.’

  ‘A bit early to leave, isn’t it?’ said Lucia, remembering her own days at the firm, which had involved considerably longer hours.

  ‘Not really. We all take work home with us. The partners aren’t too bothered where we do it, so long as it gets done,’ replied Rosie.

  ‘Was Genevieve out of sorts at all recently, Miss Venter? Worried about anything that she might have mentioned to you?’ asked DCI Carliss.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. She seemed her normal self. She’s… was quite quiet. Not shy, you know, just not a big talker.’ Rosie leaned forwards over the table with a frown. ‘Are you suspecting she did it to herself? Drowned herself in the bath?’

  ‘As I said, we’re simply making our usual enquiries at this stage,’ replied Carliss curtly. ‘We have to ask all possible questions, but I wouldn’t
read too much into them if I were you. One final thing, if you don’t mind. Where were you on that Thursday evening?’

  ‘I left here at six-thirty and went for a drink with some of the other associates. The Three Tuns, just down the road. I got home around nine.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate that? Your getting home at nine, I mean,’ asked Lucia.

  ‘No. I live on my own.’ Rosie was sounding very defensive by now.

  ‘Don’t worry, this is all routine, so we can tick all the boxes,’ Lucia reassured her. ‘You live just off Camden High Street, is that right? Bayham Street?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  It is close enough to Genevieve’s house, Lucia thought. And there was no alibi to speak of. Even if Rosie could find a neighbour to confirm that she did get home at nine, she could have easily slipped out and headed to Genevieve’s flat later. The question was, would Rosie have any reason to wish her colleague and friend ill?

  DCI Carliss glanced over at Lucia, who knew as well as he did that there wasn’t much else to be gleaned from this particular encounter, for the time being at least.

  Chapter 9

  The following day, Lucia and DCI Carliss found themselves at the bottom of the street called Parliament Hill, which abutted onto the part of Hampstead Heath bearing the same name. The building that their sights were set on was an unremarkable red brick Victorian affair that had been predictably split into flats to maximise rental revenue in this affluent part of North London. The flat they were after was on the ground floor. Despite the fact that it was morning and therefore broad daylight, the curtains were drawn, not wanting to reveal anything of what lay beyond them.