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

flattered by your concern, but I have managed to get to my venerable age without your expert assistance. See you later.’ She knew he would take the comment as it was intended – in jest. She was comforted by his concern for her wellbeing, not that it would have stopped her acting recklessly if the situation so required. She dialled the Belsize Park number.

‘Good afternoon, Walkers’ residence. How can I help you?’ Phone answering duties had evidently been relegated to the Eastern European housekeeper.

‘Please could I speak to Margaret? It’s Lucia Steer, the interior designer.’

After what seemed an interminable wait, Margaret’s breezy voice popped up. ‘Lucia. How delightful to hear from you. Yes, of course I remember. We met at the Professor’s tea party. What a terrible, terrible thing. Oh, we’ve been so distraught. Such a lovely neighbour. What an unspeakably awful way to go.’

The use of emphatic superlatives was tiring – no doubt they sought to disguise the emptiness inside. Stop it. You’re just being mean now, Lucia admonished herself. She wasn’t immune from forming her own prejudices at times.

‘How are you holding up? You must be so upset,’ added Margaret.

‘I’m not too bad, thank you. It’s such a dreadful affair. I’m still working on the house, keeping myself busy. I know you mentioned you were thinking of having some work done. I’d very much like to help if that’s still on the cards.’

‘Of course! I didn’t want to ask, what with the recent… events. The loss of someone close takes time to bed in, and I didn’t want to seem – well – insensitive.’

Lucia didn’t have the Professor and Margaret down as bosom buddies. The latter came across as one of those people who labelled everyone that they met a ‘friend’ to demonstrate the width of their social circle.

Notwithstanding the professed ordeal she had recently experienced, the minor matter of a violent death hadn’t deterred Margaret from fantasizing about paint colours. ‘I’m sure you’re positively swamped with Beatrice Hall, but is there any chance you could squeeze us in, say, this week?’

‘No problem. I can drop by in my lunchbreak tomorrow if that suits?’

‘Marvellous. Johnny will be thrilled, I’m sure. It’s such a drag finding good tradespeople. I can’t stand all these gruff men who think they know best and then charge you double for what you didn’t tell them to do.’

Perhaps Margaret wasn’t so dim after all, which made the prospect of the visit all the more enticing.

Chapter 19

The work at Beatrice Hall had become cursory, a lull in the established routine of the investigation. Still, nobody seemed to mind. Lucia barely saw Adam – he rushed in and out, perpetually on his phone, or hid upstairs in his room. Since her impromptu divulgence, Mrs Byrne kept well out of the way.

The Walkers’ garden abutted the Professor’s, separated from each other by a wooden fence tall enough to protect the privacy of the respective households. Lucia walked around the corner and past their front door, then back again, so as to get a full view. The Walkers lived in a square, dependable mid-terrace Edwardian house. The exterior had been fairly recently restored, with the addition of a Staffordshire blue brick fence partially covered by a methodically trimmed box hedge. Lucia walked up to the door and noted the pristine front garden, with its bristly patch of lawn and orderly, well-attended planters. Margaret certainly possessed an unequivocal talent for engaging efficient staff. She opened the door with an all-encompassing smile.

‘Lucia, come in. So nice to see you.’

Lucia detested public displays of affection, but in this instance decided that resistance would be both futile and ill-advised. She submitted to Margaret’s double air kiss with all the polite tolerance she could muster. She was naturally suspicious of clients who were overly keen to blur the boundaries between themselves and the service provider. They were the most likely to complain profusely about the work done.

Despite her preconceptions about John and Margaret Walker, many of which she liked to think she was conscious of, Lucia felt vindicated as she entered the house. It was just as she had pictured it. There were two shades of white – one with a touch of grey for the communal areas, and one with a hint of green for the rooms. There was nothing wrong with it. Coupled with the fact that the renovation had entailed ripping out the majority of the original three-dimensional features, the overall effect was neutral and indecisive.

Hot drinks were offered and accepted. They sat on tall stools at the island in the middle of the kitchen, which happened to act as a perfect viewing platform. The housekeeper was either not present or had been sent on a conveniently timed errand.

‘What do you think?’

Lucia surmised that Margaret’s expectant look could not have coped with an accurate assessment.

‘You have a lovely house. Very ordered.’

The route to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house and was mostly comprised of an oversized glass extension, took them past the living room and gave Lucia ample chance to pass judgment on the décor. Grey carpet, grey sofas, even grey scatter cushions, an item which Lucia violently disliked irrespective of its colour. Vapid abstract pictures – no doubt originals – peppered the walls, chosen primarily to add a limited range of colours to the otherwise blanched setting. The original fireplace had been cauterized out of existence, and its shiny showroom replacement was framed by built-in shelves lined with sparsely distributed books. The place was box-fresh and uninspiring. It suited Margaret to a tee, with her long, flawlessly blonde bob, intentionally at odds with her unfitted jeans and band T-shirt. She wanted to be Lucia’s age, but must have been at least five years older, despite concerted efforts to reverse natural decline.

‘You see, that’s just it. Ordered. It’s too ordered. Don’t get