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

Professor Alla Kiseleva in Russia. Beyond what we know already through the standard police channels, she’s got no ascertainable past in her home country.’

This was regrettable. They had harboured high hopes of finding something new. Lucia wondered whether there was another channel that might yield better results. She had relatively unfettered access to it, although she held back from employing it unless strictly necessary. The current situation most definitely called for it.

‘Slippery character indeed.’ She looked around his bare office. ‘Not one for interior design, then?’

‘Not at work. I like to keep my personal taste private. Work is just where I go to – well – do work. It doesn’t need to be cosy. I’m calling it a day. Drink?’

‘Not tonight, thanks. I need to sleep off all this excitement.’ Lucia knew full well she wouldn’t sleep but felt a duty to at least try.

‘Alright then. I’m off to the depths of East London tomorrow to check up on Emilia Poole. I’ll keep you posted,’ said the policeman.

Lucia recalled Emilia’s symmetrical face and wondered what Detective Chief Inspector Carliss would make of her.

Chapter 17

East London was, as far as DCI David Carliss was concerned, a different country. Just as he was acutely conscious of crossing the Thames to travel south, the world that lay beyond the A1 was to be approached with heightened caution. Upper Street was the second last bastion of North London gentility, if the enclave of De Beauvoir Town was to be – rather generously, he thought – categorised as the last. Once you crossed the A10, all bets were off. He heartened himself that Hackney and Shoreditch had been subjected to an intensive programme of gentrification, as evidenced by the upscale farmers’ markets and attentively curated outfits that filled the Evening Standard. This led him to wonder how Emilia Poole could afford to live there. He finished his coffee and checked the address again. He took an old-fashioned approach to navigation, preferring to avoid street view maps – he viewed them as tantamount to cheating, or at the very least conducive to unnecessary prejudices.

The forgiving temperatures of mid-September had given way to the inescapable decline into low-lit melancholy that would not lift until the middle of spring. The pavement was pockmarked by a light drizzle, and the city looked in its element. The sultriness that other European capitals wore so well didn’t suit London. The natural habitat of Bethnal Green tube station was largely in line with expectations – sanitized chain cafes, down-at-heel neighbourhood businesses and self-consciously hip pubs. The address was a slim, grubby doorway beside a phone unlocking shop. There were three buzzers – how three flats could fit in the allocated space was unfathomable. No doubt C was a crow’s nest perched on top of the building and invisible from the road, the kind that would be uninhabitable in temperatures above twenty degrees. Emilia’s flat was B.

‘Come on in.’ Her voice was more high-pitched than he had imagined – he barely remembered her from the tea party. He climbed up the stairs and tried not to breathe in too deeply. The amalgamation of stale cooking odours and old carpet nearly made him retch. The door inscribed with B was wide open. He knocked out of generic politeness, walked in and shut it behind him.

Compared with the dinginess of the communal area, the flat was spotlessly clean. It was adequately furnished, but there was no question of the place being anything other than digs. Emilia sat on the low sofa, hands crossed in her lap.

‘Good morning, Miss Poole. Detective Chief Inspector David Carliss of the Metropolitan Police.’

‘Good morning, Inspector. Won’t you please sit down? And can I offer you a drink?’ She gestured to a dining chair that had been placed opposite her for this purpose.

His memory was jolted. Together with Lucia’s depiction, he had now formed a clear image of her. Her fair hair, neatly scraped back, was naturally blonde – not the Scandinavian variety, but a richer, golden shade of a less recurrent kind. The bareness of her face accentuated her earnest brown eyes. The presentation had the disconcerting effect of an open book. For all his preparation, Carliss found himself at a loss where to start.

‘No, thank you, I’ve just had a coffee. Thank you for making the time to see me. The statement you gave my colleagues was very comprehensive. There are only a few outstanding points I’d like to address, so it shouldn’t take too long.’

‘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