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

stinky refuse bag perched precariously on the kerb. Despite the eye-watering rents, the blocks of flats housing families with droves of small children didn’t tend to come with adequate bin provision. The whole episode managed to impress the Polish builders on the scaffolding next door, so much that they forgot to wolf-whistle when Lucia got out.

Uncharacteristically, the outer gate was unlocked and slightly ajar. The steps up to the entrance were cluttered with the debris of dry leaves and petals that heralded the arrival of autumn. What was left of the flower border bore the dejected look of abandonment. Now that its mistress was gone, the house was unloved – Mrs Byrne had to all appearances given up.

When Lucia got to the top of the stairs, the door opened with perfect timing and she was greeted by DCI Carliss, whose face broadened into a smile. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. This place gives me the creeps. I hope they’re paying you well for it.’

‘They will be if I ever get the work done. I’ve got some news to share.’ Lucia was more thankful to see him than she would have liked.

‘So do I. That’s why I called out of the blue. Let’s settle in first.’

They walked through the overbearing doors and stood in the entrance hall. There was no sign of Mrs Byrne – she must have been in a bad way after the death and the consequent upheaval.

Carliss said, as if reading Lucia’s mind, ‘The nephew and the housekeeper are around, but we should be pretty safe for a while. I’m about to interview them, so they’re probably hiding in their respective cubbyholes, getting anxious. Shall we?’

They went through to the cavernous drawing room with its blistering gold pillars. The heavy wallpaper was peeling in places, and the paint had turned a chain-smoking yellow. Lucia opened the French doors for some fresh air, and in doing so inadvertently glanced at the spot where the Professor had collapsed. Against the serene backdrop of the garden, it didn’t seem real. Outside, with school drop off and the commuter rush hour nearing their end, the noise of the traffic had subsided, replaced with a dull whirr of a drill. Home renovation was a beloved local sport that could be practised in all weathers since it could be so conveniently outsourced and expertly directed from the comfort of a crisp office or a yoga studio.

Carliss launched himself into a shabby armchair. ‘We’ve got the tin from under the kitchen sink – if we’re dealing with a killer, let’s hope they’ve left something of themselves behind. What makes no sense is that there’s no 1080 anywhere else – in her glass, on the other glasses, on the crockery, cutlery, food, drink, you name it, they’ve tested everything. It takes about thirty minutes for the first effects of the poison. She collapsed at five thirty-five. Even assuming a delayed reaction, she couldn’t have ingested it earlier than four thirty. We know she was at the party, in full sight of everyone, since around four. Nobody remembers her going back into the house during that time. So, unless we’re missing a trick, we’ve got ourselves an impossible death.’

Since Lucia had last seen him, he seemed to have acquired two deep furrows cutting across his forehead. He looked like he was taking the case very personally, like a specially crafted puzzle that he was under intense pressure to crack.

‘In case you were wondering, the timing of the death rules you out,’ the inspector added with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘You’d only just got back to the house when she collapsed, so there’s no way you could have administered the poison.’

‘You weren’t seriously suspecting me, were you?’ gasped Lucia incredulously.

‘No, not really, but I’ve got to keep my eyes peeled, haven’t I? All in a day’s work.’ He looked through his well-thumbed notebook. ‘We can discount suicide. I suppose she could have had the 1080 on her and slipped it into her mouth when nobody was looking. But traces would have been found in her pocket. Or a wrapper with traces of poison would have been found somewhere in the house or the garden. She could conceivably have disposed of the wrapper in some ingenious way that escapes me right now, but that’s really pushing it. Any bright ideas?’

Lucia racked her brains, trying to lure out a niggling image that had stuck in her subconscious. The Baccarat coupe that the Professor was drinking from was so distinctive from the others. It was as if someone was taunting them with the obvious solution, only to snatch it away by making it unfeasible. ‘Do you think you can get me the Professor’s champagne glass from police evidence? Just for us to examine ourselves, and then you can sneak it straight back.’

Carliss was baffled. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I could. Nobody else is looking at the case right now, so I should be able to get away with it. But I don’t see what it’s going to add if forensics have already been all over the glass. I suppose two more pairs of eyes won’t hurt. Your turn now. What’s the news?’

Lucia savoured the anticipation of recounting the outcome of her trip to Bloomsbury, secretly pleased with herself for taking the initiative to play detective. Her resolve to leave her former life behind was being seriously undermined. She hoped the inspector wouldn’t reprimand her for going further than the brief she’d been assigned, but she figured that by now he had little choice.

The policeman’s eyes did widen, but by the end he looked more impressed than annoyed. ‘Bloody hell. I should be angry, shouldn’t I? I told you to listen, not to ferret around. But I’ve got to hand it to you – you’ve done some excellent work. Better than most of the sergeants I’ve trained over the years, all pointless diplomas and not an ounce of