Murder on the Heath: a suave murder mystery with a great twist

by Sabina Manea

  ‘Oh, closer to the entrance. It’s not a fancy one, like the rest.’

  Elsa appeared placated by the explanation, and her expression softened. ‘Yeah, this place isn’t cheap.’ She gazed wistfully at the headstone in front of her.

  ‘Someone close?’ Lucia ventured to take her chances.

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Elsa, and turned her head, but not before Lucia could see that her eyes were welling up.

  The two women stood there in silence, until Lucia placed her hand gently on the girl’s arm. ‘Sometimes it feels better to talk about it, you know. It’s not easy losing a loved one.’

  The girl ignored the approach at first. Eventually, she angled her head and made timid eye contact. ‘It’s supposed to get easier, they say, but it hasn’t.’ She turned around fully and fixed Lucia with desperate, imploring eyes. ‘When will it get easier?’

  ‘In time. The sadness doesn’t go away, but it mellows. There comes a day when you don’t think about them anymore,’ replied Lucia quietly. She wasn’t finding it hard to empathise because she was being completely honest.

  ‘She only breathed for a few seconds, when I held her in my arms,’ continued the girl in an absent voice. ‘There was nothing the doctors could do. Her lungs couldn’t cope. She came out too early, they said. Twenty-six weeks. For all their fancy science and magical contraptions, they were useless.’

  Her voice was shrill now, and out of it seeped all the pain. She was crying and shaking, and Lucia put her arms around her and held her tightly, like a terrified, hunted animal that had found shelter.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a baby. But you’re brave. You carried on with your life, your work. You got through it.’

  ‘Sort of. I guess eventually you just block it out, you know. Distance yourself from it. Except at night. I see her face in my dreams and I wake up sweating, screaming. The pain my body went through to have her – I thought I was going to die, it felt like being split in two. But it was nothing compared to the pain of losing her, the pain up here.’ Elsa pointed to her temple, where a vein was pulsating angrily.

  ‘Was she Alec’s?’ As she said this, Lucia stood motionless, wondering if she had overstepped the mark.

  ‘Yeah, she was his daughter. Not that she meant anything to him. He wanted me to get rid of her as soon as I found out I was pregnant. I couldn’t. Not just because I’m Catholic, though it counts for something, but because she was mine. She was a part of me, you know. It would be like cutting off a limb. I just couldn’t.’

  Elsa bent down and stroked the inscription on the gravestone as if it were the child herself.

  ‘In the end, it suited him, her dying at birth. He said it was for the best. Oh, I could have throttled the bastard, except… I loved him. In spite of everything, I still loved him.’ There were no tears left for Alec, just bitterness etched into her young face. ‘I’m sad he’s gone but, in a way, I wonder if it’s, you know, divine retribution. Do you believe in God?’

  ‘No, unfortunately not. I wish I did – it would give me some comfort.’

  Lucia tried to detach herself from the emotion of the moment and think on her feet. As far as motive went, Elsa’s was a solid one.

  Chapter 16

  Hanging around her boss’s house after hours wasn’t the most professional thing to do, but there were mitigating circumstances. Lucia persuaded herself of the same as she deliberated whether to accept the invitation. She had expected DCI Carliss would still be in the office, but when he picked up the phone she could tell he was relaxed. He thought he’d head home early for a change, carry on from there.

  Lucia needed to share the information on Elsa, not just because it was relevant to the case, but because she felt unusually affected by the girl’s plight. The poor thing seemed so fragile, so vulnerable. Alec Penney had certainly deserved everything he got. Lucia admonished herself for thinking so unprofessionally. Not all men had to be bastards. What she needed was a stiff drink and some distraction.

  ‘Come on in.’

  Inside, the quaint little Georgian house in a secluded corner of Kentish Town glimmered invitingly. The ceiling light in the sitting room had been turned off, and instead it was lit by warmly glowing table lamps. It was homely and hospitable, unlike Lucia’s own impersonal flat, a place where she merely slept and kept her books.

  ‘It’s cold out there, so I got some red Burgundy, if you can stomach the change,’ he said, his blue eyes crinkling welcomingly.

  ‘That sounds perfect. Thanks for having me. You were probably looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.’

  As she sank into the substantial linen-covered armchair, she felt her overactive mind starting to gradually empty. The carefully chosen pictures, the shelves of much-loved books, the soft Persian rug under foot – it was a proper home, and it reminded her of the one she had left behind on Grove Place. Making a nest of her own was a talent she regrettably hadn’t inherited from her late mother.

  The inspector brought two large glasses and a freshly opened bottle. He had lit the fire in the wood-burner and laid out a silky blanket on the armchair that she was now settled in. He brought out a small platter of cheese and olives, for which Lucia was grateful.

  ‘Want to talk about it?’ Carliss sipped the warming wine as he sat in the armchair the other side of the fire from her.

  ‘I guess I do.’

  Lucia sighed as she took a large mouthful of the delicious drink, which went straight to the back of her head. She felt herself relax – this was as far removed from the sadness of Highgate Cemetery as could be. As she spun the story of her afternoon, Carliss listened gravely, without interrupting.

  ‘God, that’s an awful story. No wonder you’re out of sorts. The man was a bastard. I know I shouldn’t say it, but I’d have done him in. I must say I like her for it. The girl was the last to leave, after all. She could have gone in, tasered him and left, then alerted the ambulance and the police in the morning.’

  ‘But that would make her a very obvious suspect, surely?’

  ‘Not necessarily. For all intents and purposes, it looks like an accident. Alternatively, the blame could just as easily be shifted onto Coddington.’

  This much was true, and Lucia knew it. Equally, she was conscious of the fact that every one of the three women that had been around Alec Penney that fateful evening had a bone to pick.

  ‘We’ll know more when we’ve spoken to Coddington and to Alec’s brother, Max,’ said Carliss, reading her thoughts. ‘The picture’s incomplete without them.’

  Lucia curled up into the chair and clutched the glass to her chest. She closed her eyes for a few moments and felt herself drift off pleasurably.

  ‘You’ve had a long day. Can’t say I envy you. Graveyards give me the creeps. But you did a splendid job. If you hadn’t followed Elsa, we’d be none the wiser about her real relationship with Alec Penney. How about a film on the telly and a bite to eat? Take your mind off this whole sorry business?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Is it always the boss’s job to mother his minions?’

  ‘It sure is. All part of the job description. Now, what’s it to be? Thai or Chinese?’

  As she lay wrapped in the blanket, toasty warm from the generous fire, the miserable thoughts dissolved one by one, until there was nothing left.

  Chapter 17

  A single minute behind schedule, the train had shot out of King’s Cross Station past labyrinthine railway tracks and densely packed buildings. Before long, the urban sprawl began to thin out into rows of sooty, cramped terraces, which in turn gave way to bristly, green and yellow emptiness. Lucia’s gaze flickered apathetically, unimpressed by what some would relish as open space. With the notable exception of the Lexington residence, she found the countryside disconcerting. It was a different universe that seemed either ghoulishly unpopulated or forced people together against their will. Being urban through and through, she found the anonymity of the metropolis infinitely preferable.

 
It was just as well the ticket had been pre-booked, or she would have missed the train. She had woken up at the crack of dawn, with the jagged edge of a dream tugging at her subconscious as she took stock of her unfamiliar surroundings. It took a good few seconds to register that she was still at the DCI’s house. Panic briefly hit her, before he walked in with an innocent smile and offered freshly made coffee. Something else arose in her, resembling gratitude, although she wasn’t used to being looked after, nor did she welcome it. She had fallen asleep in the chair, and he had carried her over to the sofa and tucked her in, he casually explained. There had been a tentative shoot of emotional closeness between them that evening, an easy companionship that Lucia had never experienced with anyone before.

  As the carriages emptied at Grantham, a mere hour after leaving the capital, the icy sheets of rain lashed down against the smooth metal with herculean force. It was a good five degrees colder than London, and Lucia had come woefully unprepared, with just a thin raincoat over a jumper. With the damp already through to her bones, she pulled up her hood and stepped boldly towards the taxi rank, determined to have the whole unpleasant business done and dusted in the shortest time possible.

  As she mouthed ‘St Hilda’s Hospice, please’ to the driver, she pictured a stately Victorian prison on the outskirts of town, staffed by nuns or stern nurses in starched uniforms, gatekeepers to a purgatory of semi-conscious beings waiting to be released from their suffering. She had deliberately not looked up her destination, to avoid engaging with the process any more than strictly necessary. To her surprise, the car sped out past unassuming, manicured suburbs, untouched by the decades of industrial filth that marred their southern counterparts. The A52 went by in a blur, cutting through the Lincolnshire flatness that straddled the county border until they turned off sharply at Bottesford, studiously ignoring the neat centre and instead ploughing on towards Normanton.

  The hospice was hidden away in a cul-de-sac off the main road – a newish, purpose-built red brick affair with none of the airs and graces that Lucia had so inaccurately imagined. As she got out, her heart was racing so fast she could barely breathe. To think that people came – were brought – here to die was a disquieting thought. She would have wished to remember her aunt Rachel as she was when they had last met – brave, happy, with her wavy dark-blonde hair blowing in the wind as she and Lucia’s mother, Denise, strolled arm in arm on Hampstead Heath. There was no turning back now – it had to be done.

  ‘How can I help you?’ asked the kindly nurse at reception.

  ‘I’m here to see Rachel Harper. I’m her niece.’

  A few taps of the keyboard and another professional smile later, and they were on the move down the long corridor that smelled of bleach and air freshener to disguise the less palatable odour of demise. The nurse opened the door into one of the rooms where an oversized bed housed the shrivelled, papery-skinned leftovers of a human on her last breaths. Lucia’s heart sank. It looked nothing like the Rachel she knew.

  ‘I’ll leave you be,’ said the nurse in an encouraging tone. ‘She’s still conscious, but very weak. If you need me, just give me a shout. The rest of the family are due in about twenty minutes, so you won’t be alone for long,’ she added by way of reassurance, not knowing that Lucia would make sure she would avoid crossing paths with them if she could help it.

  The wipe-clean bedside table housed a large bunch of garishly coloured chrysanthemums of the kind found at petrol stations and convenience stores. Lucia wondered if every room had a variation thereof – perhaps the nurses bought them in bulk and distributed them equitably, so that no patient would go without. There were no cards – no point at this stage, she deduced.

  ‘Hi, Rachel. It’s me, Lucia.’ She ventured a sheepish greeting to the form under the dusty pink blanket, who had shrunk down to an almost transparent wisp. Rachel’s face and the top of her shoulders were the only parts visible, and the blue-tinged eyelids were clamped shut. Her breath was rattling and laboured, and Lucia realised she had got there in the nick of time – her aunt barely had hours left to live. There was no answer, indicating with reasonable certainty that the body was letting go.

  Lucia tried to arrange her features into an expression that would have been judged suitable for the occasion, but to no avail. All she could feel was anger – anger that the disease had reduced this vibrant woman to a bag of bones. She supposed others in her place would pray or cry, but she couldn’t bring herself to do either – what was the point? Instead, hoping that hearing would be the last sense to shut down, Lucia placed her hand on a frail shoulder and quietly sang an Italian lullaby. Together with her name, they were the only traces of her absent father that Denise had allowed into their lives, and so it seemed a fitting farewell to the last of her family.

  Chapter 18

  ‘When’s she getting back, boss?’ asked DS Cam Trinh, two coffees down. She was palpably excited about the chance to get stuck into some good old-fashioned police business.

  ‘Not till tomorrow afternoon. Aren’t you lucky to get a break from the paperwork? Or would you rather keep drinking the dishwater here?’ replied Carliss. He looked a little apprehensive about conducting the upcoming interviews without his trusty sidekick, as if he hadn’t done it a thousand times before.

  ‘No, certainly not. So it’s George Coddington first, is it?’

  ‘That’s right. We’re starting in Mayfair, and after that it’s back to glamorous Camden Town. Psychiatry doesn’t pay as well as relationship counselling, that’s for sure.’

  Once the inspector had double-checked the details of the address they had for Max Penney, the two detectives were on their way.

  The ironically named Great Plains Property Ventures dwelled in a boxy office building on Bruton Street, surrounded by the assiduously polished windows of high-end designer shops, presumably aimed at distracting customers from the gum-spattered pavement beneath their feet.

  ‘Wow. You won’t catch me browsing around here, Guv,’ exclaimed DS Trinh as she glanced enviously at a particularly tempting wine-red handbag that didn’t carry a price tag. ‘I’d have to mortgage my house and sell my children before they even let me in.’

  ‘This place isn’t for the likes of us, DS Trinh. We pay too much tax to have any spending money left. Unlike Mr Coddington, from what I’ve been able to glean,’ the inspector replied wryly.

  The security guard behind the reception desk looked up from the magazine he was reading, evidently annoyed by the interruption.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Metropolitan Police. We’re here to see George Coddington. Can you please let him know we’ve arrived?’ replied Carliss sternly, keen to shut down what was promising to be an ill-mannered brush-off.

  The man jumped to his feet, all of a sudden very solicitous.

  ‘Of course. Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll call him straightaway.’

  The detectives had barely sat down when the lift doors opened to let out a small, densely packed man anywhere between forty and fifty, with a balding head of reddish hair. He was smartly dressed in a beautifully tailored shirt and perfectly pressed chinos.

  ‘Inspector. My apologies for keeping you waiting.’ He held out his hand to DCI Carliss, after which he assessed DS Trinh and graced her with an unpleasant, smarmy grin. ‘Follow me.’

  The police officers were led through a side door and into a cavernous meeting room that looked like it hadn’t been used for some time. There was dust on the table, and the chairs were stacked up in a corner. The window faced away from the road, and all that was visible was the grimy back of the neighbouring building.

  ‘I thought you had offices in here,’ said the inspector.

  It was just a test, as they already knew the answer. The place looked like a ghost town. Carliss had got DC Harding to do some sleuthing on the occupiers of the building – they were all shell companies, hundreds of them. For all they knew, upstairs was probably just empty space. The entities must have just paid for
an address, which was all that Companies House required.

  George Coddington bared his teeth as he set out three chairs for them.

  ‘We’re moving out. Greener pastures and all that. Now, what is it that you wanted to talk to me about, Inspector? Your man was very secretive when we spoke on the phone.’ All this time he fixed DS Trinh with a particularly lecherous look.

  ‘Alec Penney. You were his client, I understand.’

  Coddington’s expression was unchanged, save for a fleeting involuntary shadow that passed over his features.

  ‘Yes, I know Alec. What’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘He was found dead at his offices nine days ago.’

  George Coddington crossed his shins and slightly raised an eyebrow. The arrogant smirk on his face was still there.

  ‘Oh. Bad luck. What was it? Heart attack?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Well, he had a dodgy ticker, didn’t he? Common knowledge.’

  ‘It looks like foul play, actually. We’re interviewing everyone who was in contact with him on the day of his death. You went to see him that evening, didn’t you, Mr Coddington?’

  The revelation had the desired effect, in that it made Coddington sit up a little straighter and raise his eyebrow a bit higher.

  ‘Oh. You think someone did him in?’

  ‘As I said, Mr Coddington, we’re speaking to everyone at the moment. The records show you were no longer a client of Alec Penney’s, so what business did you have seeing him that evening?’

  It was evident that Coddington hadn’t had the opportunity to cook up a cover story, as he didn’t answer straightaway.

  ‘I had some unfinished business with Alec.’ Coddington’s reply came back somewhat unconvincingly. ‘One last session before we parted ways.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Mr Coddington, what was it that you were seeing Alec Penney about?’

  ‘That’s private information, and I’d rather not talk about it, Inspector.’