Murder in Hampstead

by Sabina Manea

  ‘Of course. I’d be very happy to help.’ Emilia smiled, as diligent as can be. She was wearing a high-necked black dress, expertly draped, that left less to the imagination than a low-cut equivalent would have done. The policeman’s eyes wandered to parts of her anatomy that were not relevant to a formal encounter.

  ‘First, can you tell me a little about yourself? How did you come to work for Professor Kiseleva?’

  Emilia tilted her head to one side and sighed. The statement had already covered all this ground, but Carliss wanted to get a direct sense of whom he was faced with.

  ‘I started as her personal assistant eighteen months ago. The job was posted on an academic website and involved research and proofreading. It matched my skills, and I was hired.’

  ‘Did you have previous experience in this line of work?’

  ‘I used to be a teacher. English at St Wenna’s.’ The inspector recognized the name – it was a well-known girls’ private school in West London.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Poole, why did you leave teaching to be a personal assistant? It seems an unlikely career progression.’

  Evidently, it was a question she was used to being asked. The half-smile she graced him with had changed from solicitous to sardonic. ‘You clearly have no idea what it’s like to be a teacher.’

  ‘Tell me. What is it like?’ DCI Carliss was secretly pleased that he had broken her composure, until it occurred to him that the rendition might be well rehearsed.

  ‘I don’t mean to speak ill of my former employer, but…’ She searched for the appropriate words. ‘The place was run shambolically. It prided itself on its liberal ethos. All it meant in practice was that discipline was impossible to enforce. In simple terms, Inspector, the girls were spoilt brats and there was nothing I could do about it.’ The self-righteousness she affected suited her. It was a valid reason for her not to have stayed on.

  ‘And you didn’t look for another teaching job?’

  ‘I fancied a career change.’

  Carliss consulted the notes from the preliminary interview that he had conscientiously stapled in his notebook.

  ‘You left your post at St Wenna’s two years ago, and you started your job with the Professor eighteen months ago. What did you do for the six months in between?’

  ‘Temping.’

  ‘Temping?’

  ‘Yes, temping. Working occasional office jobs here and there.’

  He knew what temping meant but couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do it. He had been in the police force since he left school.

  ‘Isn’t that a touch entry-level for a highly qualified teacher?’ He had read her CV – privately educated, English at Oxford. She had been at St Wenna’s since she finished her teaching qualifications and had swiftly risen to head of department. He also remembered Lucia’s remark, but allowed himself to think he had been first to articulate it.

  Emilia sat back into the sofa, crossed her legs, and stroked her smooth ponytail. She was undeniably the mistress of the anodyne rented flat.

  ‘I enjoyed it. It afforded the kind of freedom that traditional employment can’t offer. I have no partner, dependants or mortgage to account to, so I can do as I like.’ There was a light but unmistakable note of defiance in her tone.

  ‘Do you live alone, Miss Poole? Any family?’

  He thought he caught a fleeting cloud pass across her serene face, but, if it ever existed, it was gone in a fraction of a second. ‘My flatmate is an ICU nurse. She’s hardly ever here and when she is, she’s generally asleep. As for family, my parents died four years ago. Car accident. I’m an only child. To my knowledge, I don’t have any other relatives that are alive.’

  Although he was keen to dig deeper into her background, Carliss didn’t feel it was directly relevant to the investigation, and thus appropriate, to continue with this particular line of questioning.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your parents. I’d like to move on to the day of the party. Can you give me a brief account of your whereabouts?’

  ‘I arrived at Beatrice Hall around nine in the morning, as I usually do. I was there all day. Apart from stretching our legs and eating a sandwich lunch in the garden, the Professor and I were in the library. She was writing a new chapter and I was reading an older draft. At three-thirty or so, the Professor went to her room to change. I went down to the kitchen to help Mrs Byrne prepare the food and drink, and we took it out onto the terrace.’

  ‘Did you know the Professor had a recognizable champagne coupe that was different from the other glasses set out for the guests?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone did. She always used that coupe. It had been a gift from her mother.’

  Carliss was hoping to shock her into revealing something of note, though he had no idea what. ‘Did you know there was a tin of rat poison kept under the kitchen sink?’

  Emilia looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘No, I had no idea. I’ve never looked under the sink.’ Her compelling eyes widened in horror. ‘Is that what killed her? Rat poison?’

  ‘I’m not in position to say just yet. So, you went downstairs around three-thirty, set up for the party, and then what?’

  It took Emilia a few moments to shake off the unpleasant recollection of the Professor’s death. ‘Sorry, yes. The guests started to arrive shortly before four. The Walkers were the first, I believe, if you don’t count Adam, who appeared not long after we brought out the food and drink. Dr Glover arrived at four on the dot. I remember because I thought to myself how wonderfully punctual he always is. I was mingling, eating, drinking – I didn’t leave the terrace – until… until the incident.’ She couldn’t bring herself to describe it more specifically.

  Carliss noted that Emilia had omitted to mention Lucia’s arrival. As the decorator herself would have said, tradespeople were generally forgotten about.

  ‘You’ve been very helpful, Miss Poole, much appreciated. Just one last question, if I may. Did you notice anything out of place, anyone acting strangely during the party, or beforehand?’

  After the bland responses from Adam Corcoran and Mrs Byrne, Carliss had in all honesty not expected this to be the killer question. Emilia furrowed her shapely eyebrows, deep in thought.

  ‘Now you mention it, there was something.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s probably nothing, which is why it slipped my mind completely.’ She was being both helpful and apologetic.

  ‘Don’t worry. It often takes some time after the event to recall snippets of information that we’ve filed away as unimportant. It’s how the human brain works.’

  ‘This wasn’t on the day of the party. It was about a week before, though I can’t be sure of the precise date. It was shortly after nine in the morning, as I’d just arrived. The Professor and I had settled in the library as usual when the doorbell rang. Shortly after, Mrs Byrne came in to say that John Walker was there to see her. The Professor went downstairs. The door was left open, and I heard what sounded like a heated discussion, albeit with lowered voices. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I’m fairly certain it wasn’t friendly. It only lasted a few minutes, and the Professor came back up. She acted as if nothing had happened. As I said, it’s likely to be meaningless.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it’s a fact worth banking. Was there anyone else in the house who could have heard the row?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Adam had gone out. I heard Mrs Byrne’s steps going down the stairs back to the kitchen, so she was probably out of earshot.’

  ‘Well, thank you again for your time, Miss Poole. If anything else occurs to you, please give me a ring anytime, day or night.’ He handed her a business card, which she slipped into the pocket of her fitted dress.

  As he turned to leave, Emilia’s phone started vibrating noisily. It was on the kitchen table, within easy reach. She scooped it up with a deft hand, but not sufficiently fast to prevent Carliss from catching a glimpse of the caller’s name – Stewart R
oss. She silenced it and set it aside with a dismissive glance.

  They said their final, terse goodbyes at the door. Carliss decided on a detour via a greasy spoon for an imperative late breakfast. The first couple of places that could have been likely contenders had misleadingly retained the old shop windows but turned out to be serving coffee that took a good fifteen minutes to produce, despite the major role in the process being performed by a reliable Italian-manufactured machine. He was lucky on the third attempt – no calligraphed blackboard and a greasy linoleum floor patched with gaffer tape. It was time to give Lucia a ring.

  Chapter 18

  Lucia sat cross-legged on her bed, poring over her laptop, and surrounded by a growing pile of mugs and plates that she had been too engrossed in her train of thought to notice. A pattern of connections was gradually starting to take shape – a labyrinthine, asymmetrical spiderweb. She even managed to shut out the uniform whirr of the phone; it took Carliss three attempts before he heard her voice.

  ‘So, there you have it,’ Carliss concluded, having delivered his account of the morning’s rendezvous. ‘I bent over backwards to pick holes in her story, but there aren’t any. The only thing I can accuse her of is being well versed in social interaction with the opposite sex.’

  Lucia chuckled. The poor unsuspecting man had fallen hook, line and sinker for Emilia’s wholesome charm, as she had correctly predicted he would. Nevertheless, that didn’t make the woman a liar or furnish her with a motive for the murder. ‘She does make for a convincing ingénue,’ she said, not without a hint of jealousy.

  ‘She mentioned her parents died in a car crash, but I didn’t get a chance to probe any further,’ added the inspector.

  ‘I can fill in the gaps on that.’ Lucia hadn’t spent the entire morning locked up in her flat for nothing. ‘Her parents are – were – Richard and Christine Poole. For years they managed a small, exclusive investment fund in Mayfair – the minimally regulated kind that looks after people who want to keep a lid on the source of their funds. Their death made the papers, on account of the theatrical backdrop: “Secretive Financiers in Ferrari Smash-up on Italian Riviera”. You couldn’t make it up. Their disastrous fame didn’t end there. Shortly after the accident, it came to light that they had been mismanaging clients’ money, dipping their hands in the cash, making reckless investments – you name it, they did it. The aftermath of litigation wiped out their entire estate. Even the serious financial publications entertained their readership with endless pictures of the enviable Chelsea house, now shamefully repossessed. There was a single mention of their daughter, an afterthought, but sufficient to confirm the link.’ Lucia was in her element.

  ‘So that explains why she lives in a grotty house share. Long way to fall, from Chelsea to Bethnal Green,’ Carliss concluded. ‘Which makes it all the more peculiar why she gave up her cushy teaching job.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s a hell of a lifestyle change. But hear me out. Imagine you’re the adored only child of wealthy parents. One day, your whole world is shattered by a freak event. Isn’t it plausible that she might have been affected? Mentally, I mean.’

  ‘You’re saying she lost her marbles?’

  ‘She wouldn’t necessarily have to go as far as that. I think they call it depression these days, by the way. It’s eminently treatable, but it could plausibly account for her behaviour.’

  ‘So, she was short of money. That’s not in itself a motive. I can’t see how she would profit from the Professor’s death.’

  ‘Neither can I. What intrigues me is her account of the so-called argument between the Professor and John Walker. Funny she didn’t mention it before – she had plenty of opportunity, and surely any abnormal occurrence involving the victim is relevant.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what your mind blocks out following a shocking event.’

  Lucia was, unsurprisingly, provoked. ‘You don’t actually buy it, do you? Amazing what a pair of limpid eyes and a tight dress can do to a man’s judgment.’ The utterance came out more dramatically than she intended. She wasn’t being objective, and she knew it. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit on edge. Too many hours in a confined space reading nonsense on the computer. We should check out this supposed quarrel. I’ve got a plan if you’ll let me get on with it. Oh, and send me the Walkers’ home number, please.’

  ‘Go for it. Just don’t tell me how you got your results.’ This time his tone was light. ‘Any idea who this Stewart Ross might be?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She did have a vague supposition, but it was not sufficiently well formed to be worth disclosing.

  ‘Right. I’ve got to go. Let me know how you get on with Walker. And don’t do anything stupid – by which I mean put yourself in danger.’

  ‘I’m flattered by your concern, but I have managed to get to my venerable age without your expert assistance. See you later.’ She knew he would take the comment as it was intended – in jest. She was comforted by his concern for her wellbeing, not that it would have stopped her acting recklessly if the situation so required. She dialled the Belsize Park number.

  ‘Good afternoon, Walkers’ residence. How can I help you?’ Phone answering duties had evidently been relegated to the Eastern European housekeeper.

  ‘Please could I speak to Margaret? It’s Lucia Steer, the interior designer.’

  After what seemed an interminable wait, Margaret’s breezy voice popped up. ‘Lucia. How delightful to hear from you. Yes, of course I remember. We met at the Professor’s tea party. What a terrible, terrible thing. Oh, we’ve been so distraught. Such a lovely neighbour. What an unspeakably awful way to go.’

  The use of emphatic superlatives was tiring – no doubt they sought to disguise the emptiness inside. Stop it. You’re just being mean now, Lucia admonished herself. She wasn’t immune from forming her own prejudices at times.

  ‘How are you holding up? You must be so upset,’ added Margaret.

  ‘I’m not too bad, thank you. It’s such a dreadful affair. I’m still working on the house, keeping myself busy. I know you mentioned you were thinking of having some work done. I’d very much like to help if that’s still on the cards.’

  ‘Of course! I didn’t want to ask, what with the recent… events. The loss of someone close takes time to bed in, and I didn’t want to seem – well – insensitive.’

  Lucia didn’t have the Professor and Margaret down as bosom buddies. The latter came across as one of those people who labelled everyone that they met a ‘friend’ to demonstrate the width of their social circle.

  Notwithstanding the professed ordeal she had recently experienced, the minor matter of a violent death hadn’t deterred Margaret from fantasizing about paint colours. ‘I’m sure you’re positively swamped with Beatrice Hall, but is there any chance you could squeeze us in, say, this week?’

  ‘No problem. I can drop by in my lunchbreak tomorrow if that suits?’

  ‘Marvellous. Johnny will be thrilled, I’m sure. It’s such a drag finding good tradespeople. I can’t stand all these gruff men who think they know best and then charge you double for what you didn’t tell them to do.’

  Perhaps Margaret wasn’t so dim after all, which made the prospect of the visit all the more enticing.

  Chapter 19

  The work at Beatrice Hall had become cursory, a lull in the established routine of the investigation. Still, nobody seemed to mind. Lucia barely saw Adam – he rushed in and out, perpetually on his phone, or hid upstairs in his room. Since her impromptu divulgence, Mrs Byrne kept well out of the way.

  The Walkers’ garden abutted the Professor’s, separated from each other by a wooden fence tall enough to protect the privacy of the respective households. Lucia walked around the corner and past their front door, then back again, so as to get a full view. The Walkers lived in a square, dependable mid-terrace Edwardian house. The exterior had been fairly recently restored, with the addition of a Staffordshire blue brick fence partially covered by a methodically trimmed box hedge.
Lucia walked up to the door and noted the pristine front garden, with its bristly patch of lawn and orderly, well-attended planters. Margaret certainly possessed an unequivocal talent for engaging efficient staff. She opened the door with an all-encompassing smile.

  ‘Lucia, come in. So nice to see you.’

  Lucia detested public displays of affection, but in this instance decided that resistance would be both futile and ill-advised. She submitted to Margaret’s double air kiss with all the polite tolerance she could muster. She was naturally suspicious of clients who were overly keen to blur the boundaries between themselves and the service provider. They were the most likely to complain profusely about the work done.

  Despite her preconceptions about John and Margaret Walker, many of which she liked to think she was conscious of, Lucia felt vindicated as she entered the house. It was just as she had pictured it. There were two shades of white – one with a touch of grey for the communal areas, and one with a hint of green for the rooms. There was nothing wrong with it. Coupled with the fact that the renovation had entailed ripping out the majority of the original three-dimensional features, the overall effect was neutral and indecisive.

  Hot drinks were offered and accepted. They sat on tall stools at the island in the middle of the kitchen, which happened to act as a perfect viewing platform. The housekeeper was either not present or had been sent on a conveniently timed errand.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Lucia surmised that Margaret’s expectant look could not have coped with an accurate assessment.

  ‘You have a lovely house. Very ordered.’

  The route to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house and was mostly comprised of an oversized glass extension, took them past the living room and gave Lucia ample chance to pass judgment on the décor. Grey carpet, grey sofas, even grey scatter cushions, an item which Lucia violently disliked irrespective of its colour. Vapid abstract pictures – no doubt originals – peppered the walls, chosen primarily to add a limited range of colours to the otherwise blanched setting. The original fireplace had been cauterized out of existence, and its shiny showroom replacement was framed by built-in shelves lined with sparsely distributed books. The place was box-fresh and uninspiring. It suited Margaret to a tee, with her long, flawlessly blonde bob, intentionally at odds with her unfitted jeans and band T-shirt. She wanted to be Lucia’s age, but must have been at least five years older, despite concerted efforts to reverse natural decline.