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

thanks. I was about to ask how you got my number, but I suppose it is your job.’

‘I’ve got contact details for everyone who was at the Hall.’ The line went silent. The inspector’s initial confidence had waned, and his hesitation was palpable – he was obviously having second thoughts about whether this was a good idea. At last, he spoke. ‘Look, er… OK, this might sound a bit odd. It’s not an official call, you understand. I’m not speaking to you right now.’

‘But you are, aren’t you?’ She had to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. He was nervous, that much was clear.

‘Yes, of course I am, physically. What I mean is, I’m not speaking to you in my official capacity as a policeman. Can we meet?’

‘Sure, do you want me to come down to the station?’ teased Lucia, knowing that wasn’t what he could possibly have in mind. At the same time, she overrode the imaginary brakes that should have held her back, warning her to stay out of trouble.

The little poke was totally lost on DCI Carliss. ‘No, absolutely not. Nowhere public.’

He gave her an address in Kentish Town. She marvelled at its quaintness – two-storey, Georgian, with a bright red door opening straight onto the pavement. It had to be where he lived. She decided to walk all the way, first down to South End Green, where the cacophony of buses and assorted hospital traffic stood in sharp contrast with the haughty emptiness of the windy village streets above. The fashionable resurrected railway cottages of Gospel Oak gradually gave way to tidy, secluded council estates. The latter’s fastidious separation of hard surfaces and trimmed greenery brought back memories of hiding places and carefree ballgames. She glimpsed herself as a little girl on a swing, before the days of rubber-floored playgrounds, when knees and elbows would be perpetually covered in half-healed scabs. Those were altogether more innocent times. The estate playgrounds were mostly empty these days.

The policeman’s house was one of a cluster overlooking a narrow, cobbled street, like a cardboard cut-out incongruously positioned by a nostalgic town planner. It only had one doorbell.

DCI Carliss opened the door, wearing his predictably unkempt attire. The blue eyes rested on her face – somewhat timidly, which wasn’t how he’d looked at her before.

‘You found me OK? Come in.’

The inside was homely but far from prosaic. Carefully selected mid-century items, smooth and clean-lined, were complemented by handsome, lived-in soft furnishings and original watercolours. With the mellow afternoon light streaming in through the tall sash windows, as if through a filter, it was a faultless illustration of domestic contentment. It was evidently his sanctuary. Lucia sank down into a capacious armchair and felt like a child in possession of a coveted invitation to a wealthy neighbour’s house.

‘I’ll make us some tea. Or coffee if you’d prefer?’

‘Tea is good. You have a beautiful home. I must admit it’s taken me by surprise.’ She purposefully affected an easy manner, hoping to put him at ease.

It seemed to work, and he grinned. ‘Did you think I lived in a hovel with empty whisky bottles in the kitchen?’

‘I did, and I was wrong. This is a proper house.’

‘It used to be my parents’ house.’ He cast a look around, observing it with fresh eyes, and smiled proprietorially. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’

Tea came. They sat for a few moments until the atmosphere became awkward. This wasn’t a purely social call. ‘Do you always invite witnesses to a death round for a cuppa?’ asked Lucia.

The inspector shuffled in his seat, a little put out. ‘A bit unorthodox, I know. If my boss got wind of this, I’d be out on my ear.’ He broke eye contact and stared down at his feet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘I thought about what you said the other day in the pub – about the poison under the kitchen sink. To be honest, I haven’t thought of much else since. The post-mortem confirmed the Professor had enough 1080 in her to definitively write her off.’

‘You’re ruling out suicide?’

‘I’m not ruling out anything. I’m just setting out the facts. We’re treating it as an unexplained death.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means all options are on the table.’

‘Is murder one of them?’

‘Perhaps. Yes. Along with suicide and accidental ingestion of the poison.’

Lucia blinked. The image of the Professor writhing on the ground refused to leave her brain. ‘The Professor wasn’t suicidal. And even if she did want to end her life, why choose such a horrendous way to die?’

DCI Carliss didn’t reply, but Lucia could tell he didn’t have a counterargument. ‘It could have been an accident,’ he finally offered, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced.

‘Come off it. How does the rat poison accidentally get out from under the kitchen sink and into the Professor’s system?’

‘As I said, we can only look at what’s in front of us.’ Carliss leaned forward in an attempt to regain some ground. ‘Listen, if you’re to get involved at all – and I’m not saying I’m letting you do that – no one can find out about it.’

‘I won’t breathe a word.’ Lucia had always been partial to a bit of gossip, but this time she knew it was serious. She would keep this to herself – it was a chance she didn’t want to blow. She had so desperately hoped that the inspector would come round to the idea that she could be of use. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Just go about your normal business at the Hall. Keep your eyes and ears open.’

‘You mean, spy on them?’

‘I never said that.’

‘But that’s what you mean. You’re not making much progress with the investigation then?’

The inspector didn’t reply.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, you’re not getting anywhere.’

‘It’s