Murder in Hampstead Read online

  MURDER IN HAMPSTEAD

  A classic whodunnit in a contemporary setting

  Sabina Manea

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2021

  © Sabina Manea

  Polite note to the reader

  This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  List of Characters

  More books in this series

  Other titles of interest

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  Prologue

  Friday, 4th September

  (the day of the murder)

  The murder took place on a late afternoon in September.

  Lucia stumbled in from an errand to find a small party in full swing. The French doors in the drawing room had been flung open, and a table heaving with high tea had been set on the mossy stone paving. Professor Alla Kiseleva held court in a flowing dress. Emilia Poole was in thrall to a sinewy, straight-backed man in his sixties. Adam Corcoran clutched a near-empty glass of champagne, his glassy gaze drifting off while a loud City type brayed on. The expensive-looking wife hovered expectantly, knowing she’d be ignored.

  Mrs Byrne, brimming with nervous energy, sauntered over to Lucia. ‘Oh, you’re back, child. I forgot to tell you. The Professor fancied she’d have a gathering – what with the weather being so nice. She has these whims, you see, goes for weeks locked up with Emilia and her books, then decides to invite everyone round.’

  It wasn’t unexpected – once hired, tradespeople were generally forgotten about. The housekeeper nudged Lucia and whispered, ‘At least it shows she’s still human, eh?’

  The Professor caught Lucia’s eye. ‘Come have some tea and meet everyone.’ They all gathered around, gawping. ‘This is Lucia Steer, our decorator – sorry, interior designer. She’s doing a splendid job – Margaret wanted to know where you got the teal wallpaper in the hallway. My neighbours, Margaret and John Walker.’

  The wife was thrilled at being noticed at last. ‘It’s gorgeous. And you’re an interior designer! How lovely! We’re looking to have the house done, aren’t we, Johnny, and what’s better than a personal recommendation, isn’t that what you always say?’

  Johnny looked unimpressed. Dealing with the staff was clearly not on his list of domestic duties. He took a step back, as if getting too close might dirty his beautifully cut suit, the pinstripes of which he’d regrettably got wrong – too wide for a barrister. ‘Yes, well. Do you work with anyone else?’

  Uncharacteristically, the question took Lucia by surprise. ‘Yes, I have a couple of lads who help out.’

  ‘You’d need more manpower to tackle our house.’ They were back on familiar territory now.

  ‘My clients prefer me to a load of boys drinking tea and playing with rollers. There’s plenty of manpower available at the Red Lion down the hill, if that’s what you’re after.’

  The tamed barrister grimaced and stared at the sandwiches. The Professor grinned appreciatively. She looked peaky. ‘Let me introduce you to Dr Edmund Glover, my GP.’ She beckoned to the elegant man in Emilia’s company. ‘And you know Emilia, of course. Dr Glover, this is Lucia. Don’t make any jibes at her being a lady decorator unless you want to be eviscerated in public.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of being so tasteless.’ Dr Glover smiled winningly, like a panther weighing up the merits of its prey. ‘I think it’s marvellous to have given up a desk job for something so enjoyably physical.’ He waited to ascertain from her reaction how close to the mark he was.

  Lucia returned a blank stare. ‘How’s the book going, Professor?’

  The Professor sighed, relieved to be restored into focus. ‘Good days and bad days. Do you know anything about cybernetics?’

  ‘In the Soviet or the American sense?’

  ‘Very good. Both, actually; rather, how Soviet research influenced the Americans. Emilia has been invaluable – organising my papers and transcribing my scribbles. Slowly, slowly, we’re making progress.’

  ‘It’s fascinating,’ Emilia joined in. ‘I didn’t know anything about cybernetics before I started working for the Professor. I just hope my proofreading is up to scratch.’ She manifestly believed it was. Her lightly freckled face was almost bare, and she looked younger than her years. The plain summer dress added weight to the convincing picture of simplicity.

  Adam, who had stationed himself within immediate reach of the champagne, trundled towards them. He had been abandoned by the Walkers, by now immersed in a quiet marital spat at the other end of the terrace. ‘Lucia, how nice to see you. Aunt Alla, did I tell you she used to be a lawyer? She could help with selling the house – save us a few pennies and all that.’ The alcohol had loosened his self-control. He looked defiant, like a wilful teenager pushing for a reaction.

  The Professor was stony-faced. Dr Glover and Emilia visibly held their breath. Lucia broke the silence, ‘I didn’t know you were looking to sell.’

  Adam pressed further, seeing that his target didn’t take the bait. ‘They’ll take it off your hands in a second, Auntie, you know that. A lick of paint and you and Mrs B could be out of here and into a chic little cottage by the Heath.’

  ‘We’ll see. Early days yet.’ The Professor had regained her composure and gave Adam a pitying look.

  Mrs Byrne had crept upon the group and was fixated on Adam’s glass. ‘Do you want some tea, Adam?’

  ‘No, Mrs B, it’s too late for caffeine. More of that delightful fizz is what I want – while it’s still flowing freely.’ Having delivered the parting shot, he swung on his heels and headed back to the spread, blind to the housekeeper’s reproachful gaze.

  ‘You must excuse Adam. He has so many ideas about what’s best for me. He gets ahead of himself sometimes.’ The Professor wiped her brow. It wasn’t sufficiently hot to be sweating. Her hand was shaking violently as she put her glass down on the table. Lucia had been so engrossed in the peculiarity of the occasion that she’d only just noticed the old-fashioned coupe with an exquisite fish scale pattern. Everyone else was drinking out of ordinary flutes.

  ‘Excuse me, I feel a little off. Must be the sun. Mrs Byrne, could you fetch me some water, please?’ The Professor stumbled and swayed her way down to the stone step. The lush garden stretched out before her, impassive to her predicament. Without warning, she started convulsing violently, her limbs twisted, her face frozen as neurotransmitters fed into her body the knowledge that there was no redemption. What was left of he
r lay on the ground, draped in the shell of her now purposeless clothes. Silence weighed down on the house, as if a film had been paused.

  The first sound was an agonising scream from Margaret. Dr Glover, his training having kicked in, rushed over to administer first aid. A panoply of formulaic human responses followed – Margaret, Emilia and Mrs Byrne were crying at various volumes, while Adam and John Walker settled for mute distress and unmistakable nausea.

  Lucia heard her own voice speaking to the 999 operator. The ambulance arrived a few minutes later, promptly dispatched from the Royal Free. The suddenness of the incident triggered the usual protocol of notifying the police. The place was soon teeming with uniforms.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, 21st August

  (two weeks before the murder)

  The alarm rang and Lucia Steer willed herself out of bed, heavy with sleep. By the time she reached the bathroom mirror she was fully awake. She gave herself the usual morning appraisal – it was her ritual to set her up for the day ahead, to reassure her that whatever the challenges would be, she was ready to take them on. She was thirty-seven, with shoulder-length brown hair that changed subtly with the seasons, and slightly oversized features. The frank, expressive eyes were too large, the nose was too long, and the mouth was too big, as if they had been mismatched with the face. She had a knack for turning heads as she walked into a room, with her easy confidence that really got under your skin.

  The flat she rented in Hampstead was in a dull red-brick block, furnished like a hotel except for the books that took up a whole wall in the bare living room. The contents of her wardrobe had been whittled down to a suitcase’s worth, as if she had to pack and go at a moment’s notice.

  Lucia allowed her mind to wander. She didn’t regret walking away from a legal career to strike out on her own as an interior designer. She could still conjure up the exhilaration of leaving the office for the last time that thick, close summer’s evening three years previously. The following morning, she’d bought herself a white van. The salesman had weighed her up with amusement. It turned out she was serious, with her generous leaving bonus, so he sold her the best he had – a Transit Custom Sport with an extravagant body kit. At last, her life was finally about to begin.

  Lucia scrolled quickly through her phone. She was planning to head out shopping for new supplies. Flicking through fabric swatches and drawing up mood boards was all very good, but she also liked the manual labour. Stripping and painting were satisfying and therapeutic, so unlike being chained to a desk poring over commercial documents.

  She had her eye on a very big prize. Beatrice Hall, the local Victorian monstrosity, was legendary among North London builders. Rumours had been circulating of late that the owner, a reclusive Russian scientist whom nobody had ever met, was looking for decorators. A job that size would be the making of any tradesman, and Lucia knew she was up against Danny Garrett. With his boundless confidence, he was certain he would get it. He lorded over Hampstead in the knowledge that no self-respecting banker’s wife would employ anyone else. After all, he was unparalleled at sweet-talking them into doing three times more work than they had asked for. He also knew his coarse good looks were just the ticket to console them for their husbands’ neglect.

  Lucia had first crossed paths with Danny at the builders’ merchant in Colindale, where she used to attract confused stares from the various muscled men who inhabited the shop floor. The idea that she was one of them had caused much amusement at first. A few had tried it on, of course, and were swatted off like flies. Those that patronized her – they couldn’t imagine she knew anything about tools or painting – soon found out just how icy her stare was, how annihilating her put-downs, and quickly learned to behave. She gained their respect because she was so sure of herself, without scrimping or cutting corners or wasting time with empty talk. It was this attitude that brought in her first clients, and it kept them coming. Danny never did warm up to her. She was a threat, the probable end of his long reign of tea drinking and snail’s pace work.

  ‘Morning, Danny.’ Lucia was determined to maintain a veneer of politeness, even though he made her skin crawl with his unpleasant gaze, a mixture of arrogance, lecherousness and contempt.

  ‘Lucia.’ This time he made a passable attempt at the Italian pronunciation, an outward sign of reluctant acceptance that she was a permanent fixture. ‘Stocking up then? Did you hear Beatrice Hall is up for grabs?’

  Lucia shot him a sideways glance, a preliminary warning shot. ‘Yes, I’d heard something. Are you thinking of quoting for it then?’

  ‘Quoting? You make me laugh. I know that young geezer the Professor’s got in to clean up the place. Adam Corcoran, he’s called. He’s her nephew. When I bumped into him down the Red Lion the other day, he told me they’re looking to have the whole pad done up, top to bottom. So yeah, I think I’m pretty much in there, y’know.’

  Lucia smiled like a winsome Medusa. ‘Well, Danny, I guess they’ll have a choice then. I’m quoting for the Hall.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Lucia. Think you’re wasting your time though. This is a big job – a man’s job, right, lads?’ A couple of them laughed to keep up, so he knew they were on his side. They too weren’t best pleased that Lucia had rocked up out of nowhere to steal their thunder.

  ‘I was thinking I’d get a reference from the Leclercs. They were so chuffed with the way their house turned out. You remember them, don’t you, Danny?’

  Danny winced. He remembered the Leclercs better than he cared to admit. He’d got the gig after doing his usual magic trick on Madame Leclerc but got sloppy and fell foul of the husband. Monsieur Leclerc wasn’t best pleased when he came home early one day and found his wife doing some serious damage to the new sofa with Danny. Mr Leclerc was a tall, wiry Swiss who spent a lot of time at the gym, so Danny got a punch on the nose and a kick up the backside, and no more work from them. Naturally, Lucia swooped in to pick up the pieces. The story had made the rounds in the Red Lion, and he didn’t want to be reminded of it. Luckily the Leclercs had moved back home last month, so it was just starting to blow over.

  ‘Danny, you legend, that was classic! Caught you with them all the way down, didn’t he?’

  Danny could have done without the sarcasm from his apprentice. Everyone knew Jimbo was always eyeing up some business on the side.

  ‘Well, gents, have a good day. Danny, I’m sure I’ll see you around.’ Lucia walked out, conscious of all eyes resting on her.

  Being the only woman in a man’s world didn’t bother her in the slightest. She found she tended to prefer it to female company. Men were simple creatures, motivated by a finite set of goals and with predictable reactions to a short list of stimuli. With women, she never knew where she stood, whether they genuinely wanted to be friends or were laughing at her behind her back.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, 28th to Saturday, 29th August

  (one week before the murder)

  Lucia pushed open the pub door and was met with the overwhelming stench of Lynx. She knew most of them by now – young men in their twenties with fresh undercuts, tight T-shirts, and elaborate tattoo sleeves. They were harmless. Nobody else but the local builders and their occasional female hangers-on drank in the Red Lion. It was the stepping-stone for the usual Friday night carnage down in Camden. They were the ones lucky enough to afford this pastime – the rest had to make do with cans of weak lager on a bench before heading back to their dingy shared housing in East London.

  ‘Usual?’ The barmaid eyed up the unopened white Burgundy, which only Lucia and the landlady drank.

  ‘Not today, thanks, Becky. Listen, do you know if a guy called Adam Corcoran comes here?’

  ‘Yeah, I know Adam. Quiet guy. Doesn’t really fit in with these lunatics. He’s over there in the corner, by the window. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I hear he’s in charge of Beatrice Hall. I wouldn’t mind that job if it’s going.’

  Becky raised a perfectly drawn eyebr
ow. ‘Beatrice Hall? I heard Danny Garrett’s after that.’

  ‘I know. Which is why I’m after it too.’

  ‘Suit yourself, babe, but I’d watch my back if I were you. You know how he holds a grudge.’

  ‘I always do. I’ll go have a word with this Adam bloke then. See you later, Becky.’

  Lucia saw a washed-out man in his early thirties, feverishly tapping on his phone, half-drunk pint on the table. His cuticles were bleeding, and there were thin lines of sweat running down his temples. Accountant, or tax lawyer at a stretch. He had that air of commitment to an outwardly dull but inwardly all-consuming profession. He finally sensed her staring down at him and looked up.

  ‘Hi. Are you alright?’ His eyes flickered appreciatively. Her hair was still streaked with gold from the summer sun.

  ‘Hi. You’re Adam Corcoran, right?’ He nodded and gestured to the free bench opposite him. ‘My name’s Lucia Steer. I hear you’re after a decorator for Beatrice Hall. I’m interested in the job.’

  ‘I like it, Lucia. Straight in there, no messing.’

  He had a few inside him – not drunk, just merry and overly confident. Perfect state of mind.

  ‘News travels fast around here then,’ he said. ‘The place hasn’t been touched in years. I’m trying to convince Aunt Alla to smarten it up a bit. It’s not like she can’t afford it.’ He laughed, somewhat bitterly. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you come have a tour and see what you think?’

  ‘Sounds good. I can do tomorrow, even though it’s a Saturday, if that suits. Do you want me to bring references?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do my own digging. I like to think I’m a good judge of people. Sorry to be boring, but I’ve got to make a move. Shall we say nine thirty?’

  ‘Perfect. See you then. Good to meet you, Adam, and thanks again.’

  He gobbled his drink with a trembling hand and got up to leave.

  The day after, Lucia circled Beatrice Hall before ringing the bell at the outer gate. The building was a doll’s house of Gothic Revival turrets and Italianate window arches. Close up, the bright red and yellow brick had dulled to a dirty brown, like everything in the city eventually did. It was the housekeeper who opened the door before handing her over to Adam. She introduced herself as Mrs Byrne – glum, bloodless, with a raspy Irish voice. Inside, the overload of porphyry and stained glass jarred, like a silent film set.