Murder in Hampstead by Sabina Manea (read this if txt) 📕

‘But you think something’s off.’

DCI Carliss squirmed a little in his seat and crossed his arms defensively. ‘OK, yes. I just don’t think it looks right. But that’s not enough to justify roping in extra manpower for what could be a wild goose chase.’

‘Which is where I come in.’

‘Which is where you come in. You look like you could be of use. Nobody ever pays attention to tradespeople, remember?’

The challenge had been laid down, and Lucia could hardly refuse. ‘So, what am I supposed to be looking out for?’

‘How they’re behaving, how they’re talking to each other. Anything out of place.’

‘You mean, like the argument between Adam and Mrs Byrne?’ Lucia couldn’t resist bringing that up again.

DCI Carliss pursed his lips. ‘Yes, like the alleged argument between those two, which may or may not be relevant.’

Lucia leaned into the comfortable armchair and stretched out an arm over the back. ‘I’m in. Good call, by the way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Getting me on board. You wouldn’t want a civilian solving the murder before you, would you? That wouldn’t make you look too good.’

‘Unbelievable. Not exactly modest, are you?’

‘Modesty gets you nowhere, in my experience. Sharp eyes, however, do.’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s see what you can get for me first,’ warned the inspector, drawing his features into the most serious look he could muster under the circumstances.

‘So, what’s your take on the whole thing? You must have some suspicions, otherwise you wouldn’t have got me all the way here.’

‘Let’s assume for a moment, hypothetically of course–’

‘Hypothetically, of course,’ Lucia interrupted with a sarcastic smile.

‘Let’s assume the old bird didn’t commit suicide or take the poison accidentally. If she was poisoned with the stuff under the sink, that would make everyone a possible suspect. All of them had access to the tin. And anyone could have slipped the poison into her special fancy glass – no danger of a mix up there. It would either be very stupid, or it would be the perfect murder.’

‘In this scenario, whoever killed her would be far from stupid.’ Lucia sipped her tea thoughtfully. ‘It would be risky though. The execution would have to be faultless.’

She glanced at the policeman. She knew he’d crossed a line, but he looked relieved at the prospect of being able to pour out his thoughts to a sympathetic listener.

It turned out she was right. Carliss pulled out his notebook. ‘Let’s start with the Professor herself. Alla Kiseleva. She’s seventy-eight. In the UK since 1983. Her passport says she was born in Yaroslavl – textbook place, onion domes and all that. She hasn’t got dual citizenship, as far as I can tell from the records – we’ve only got her British passport on file. Shortly after she arrived in this country, she married one Louis Stone, an insurance broker, who died ten years ago. No children. He left her the house and a nice bit of money. Before retiring she worked for the Collaborative Mathematical Society.’

‘That rings a bell. It’s in Bloomsbury. Left-leaning. Didn’t they pride themselves on hiring dissident Russians who managed to get out?’

‘That’s the one. A bit of a hub for Soviet mathematicians – smart enough to get their hands on the talent when it came their way. Anyway, she started off as a junior researcher and rose up the ranks to Head of Cybernetic Research. Plenty of papers, lecturing, the standard trajectory. I’ve got my team looking into her background in Russia, so we’ll know more shortly. What do you make of her?’

‘Before the party, I had only met her once. It was her nephew Adam who hired me. She wasn’t rude as such, but she liked to keep her distance. On the face of things, she was obsessed with her work. She was apparently writing a new book on cybernetics. She struck me as imperious and self-centred. I can’t imagine she was easy to work for. And there’s the business of redecorating the house, of course. It seems money’s no object when you’re the widow of a rich broker. The Professor left Adam in charge, and he practically hired me on the spot.’

‘Interesting. Brings me neatly to a question that’s been bothering me all this while. How did you get this job?’

‘All the builders around here have had their eye on Beatrice Hall for years. When word came out that it was due for renovation, I tracked Adam down and asked him upfront. It’s odd, actually. He gave me the job straightaway. I guess he didn’t want to spend too long interviewing tradesmen, just wanted the work to start.’

‘You might be right. What’s your take on Adam Corcoran?’

‘Troubled. Drinker. He lives at Beatrice Hall, as does the housekeeper. As I said before, I heard them having a row a few days before the party. They were down in the kitchen, and I was on the ground floor, so I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I’m positive I recognised their voices though. On the day the Professor died, he was talking about selling the Hall. It was the first I heard of it – I suppose that’s why he was so set on doing it up. The Professor wasn’t best pleased. I also got the impression she wasn’t sharing her wealth, although he would have liked her to.’

‘People are drawn to money, like flies to the proverbial. How about Mrs Byrne?’

‘Quietly angry about something, though I haven’t been able to figure out what. She follows Adam around like a fawning puppy. It’s pathetic to watch how he strings her along. She doesn’t like his drinking habits; it might be she thinks she can save him. She told me she’s been with the Professor for twenty years. Nonetheless, there’s no love lost between them. Mrs Byrne is