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

always grumbling about the state of the house and boasting how indispensable she is – was – to the Professor.’

Carliss nodded pensively. He was scribbling furiously in his notebook, which was rapidly filling up. Lucia was captivated by the diagrams he had drawn to show the connections between the characters, like a mind map of mistrust.

‘What’s the story with the young woman?’ he continued.

‘Emilia. She’s the Professor’s assistant. It sounds like she’s been tasked with the donkey work on the book – research, typing, proofreading. She was on good form at the party. With me, she’s polite but reserved – but then, I’m not a man, nor susceptible to schoolgirl charm. She strikes me as a touch old for such an entry-level job. Not to mention being at the Professor’s beck and call.’

‘The doctor?’

‘Outwardly pleasant, for which read reptilian. Probably ex-military.’

‘What were the couple called?’

‘The Walkers. John and Margaret. Run-of-the-mill Hampstead types. Barrister and stay-at-home wife. Unremarkable at first sight, but these people always are. They’ll have a handsome period house done in graceful shades of white, the kind that photographs well. Nevertheless, as soon as they’re finished with it, they’ll want to change it all again – the wife, that is. Displacement activity for the lack of purpose that’s gnawing away at her.’

‘Ouch. That’s harsh. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty like them in your line of work.’ He put the notebook to one side and stretched out his legs. ‘To be honest, this whole business is one big headache.’

He didn’t look like someone with a headache – he looked thrilled to bits. You’re as bad as I am, Lucia judged. Just can’t resist a challenge.

The inspector finished his tea and fixed her with newly found determination. ‘How about an actual drink? I think we’ve earned it.’

Lucia laughed, and found herself unusually relaxed. ‘OK, but only if you promise not to talk about this wretched death.’

‘Deal. I know a pub just round the corner with dubious carpet and excellent wine. Will that do?’

‘Perfect,’ she replied instantly – after all, it wasn’t every day that she met a policeman as eccentric as this one was.

Chapter 7

They walked out onto the anachronistic cobbles, and the day revealed itself in all its glory, like a saccharine pathetic fallacy. The pub was a mere hundred yards away, but they ambled slowly, delectably, savouring every step. In eighteenth-century Kentish Town, nothing could go wrong on a hazy, warm Saturday afternoon. They settled at a table outside, gulping first mouthfuls like holy water.

‘What did you do before you became a decorator?’

‘How do you know I haven’t always been a decorator?’ retorted Lucia with a playful smile.

‘Oh, give me a break. You don’t exactly sound like those geezers down the Red Lion.’

Lucia turned her face to the sun. ‘I used to be a lawyer.’

‘City type, I assume?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Too arrogant to be anything else.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Suit yourself. Why did you jack it all in?’

She found she didn’t mind the interrogation. ‘It’s a thankless line of work. You’re only in it for the money, but you never get to spend it because you’re so busy slaving away for all sorts of shady types. I’ve always been good with my hands, so decorating felt like a good get-out.’

DCI Carliss tilted his head, somewhat puzzled. ‘You are something else. When you said you’re good with your hands, I would have thought baking or sewing, you know, the popular stuff that disillusioned posh girls get into. Isn’t it weird to be the only woman with all these macho blokes around you?’

‘I don’t mind it. They’re easy enough to handle. Besides, I can barely boil an egg, and I’ve never sewn anything in my life. I thought I might become a mechanic, but you need to do a qualification, and frankly I’m sick of those. I can fix a car anyway, so I thought I could be a decorator and, if the van breaks down, most of the time I know what to do. And you? A copper with an inherited pile in North London and no regard for procedure? Where does that fit in?’

It was the detective’s turn to affect an air of mystery. As his expression turned to an easy smile, Lucia twigged that he was gently poking fun at her. ‘I figured I’ve got nothing to lose. If I get sacked, I’ll have had a good run of it. The only thing I care about is getting to the bottom of the case. And as to the house, my parents worked for the Home Office. Jobs for life, as it used to be in those days. Mind you, when they bought the house in the late 1960s, this area was rough. But they were blissfully happy, a young couple starting out, with their own place to call home. When they died, I couldn’t bear the thought of the house being sold, so I moved back in.’

‘Isn’t it unsettling, living as an adult in your childhood home?’ Lucia recalled how swiftly she had forsaken her own nest. People moved on – that’s what adulthood was all about.

‘I made it my own. Before, I was flitting from one rented flat to another, tracing my way across the city, like everyone does when they start out. In the end, my old village drew me back. And you? Oh, indulge me briefly. Rented flat in Hampstead. Nobody in that block stays for longer than a year or speaks to any of their neighbours. Rich parents in Hampshire. You head back occasionally, but they’re disappointed you gave up a stellar legal career for manual labour, so you avoid them like the plague. Pony, boarding school, the lot. Just not enough affection.’

Lucia couldn’t suppress an inner smile that she hoped hadn’t travelled to her lips. He’d missed the mark