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

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 Ross. 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