Murder in Hampstead, Sabina Manea [best way to read ebooks .txt] 📗

would disperse any suspicions on his part. She had to cling on to him. He was the first source of information on the Professor she had encountered who was unlikely to have an ulterior motive.

‘I don’t know what to tell you. She was well liked here, on the whole. I remember crystal clear the day I met her. It was 1983, just before we were due to break up for Christmas. She came to be interviewed for a researcher position. I said a little prayer for her as she went in. The then-President terrified the life out of his underlings, but she had him right where she wanted him. She was beautiful, there’s no doubt about that, and he was a man, but more than that, she had this natural authority. Bossy and confident. When she smiled, it was like the sun shone on you, and you were the only person in the room. She won him over, and he gave her a job. It turned out the institute was her natural home. She spent more hours here than any of the others – long days, even long nights reading and writing papers. She lectured and published as if she was running out of time. But nobody here would want to hurt her.’

‘You said she was liked, on the whole. Was there anyone who didn’t share that feeling?’

Herb seemed slighted at the very suggestion. The Professor was evidently skilled at harnessing loyalty when she was so inclined.

‘Everyone liked her.’ He repeated his statement, though a little less convincingly this time. ‘There was this one senior researcher. When she joined the institute, he was the only one who voted against her. You see, we have this rather particular system for letting new members join. Old-fashioned, you could say, like barristers’ chambers. The President gets first dibs at interview. If they like the candidate, they recommend them to the existing members, who get to snoop through the CV and intimidate the newcomer over a fancy lunch. At the end of the lunch, once all the booze has been consumed, the members write their vote on a piece of paper and put it in the ballot box. Not many make it through. She held her own and did, bar one vote – Dr Oleg Ivanov’s, a fellow countryman, of all people. He said he had read in the original the articles she had submitted as samples of her work. The language was clumsy and stilted, he said, like they’d been written by someone subconsciously translating but not interpreting. He mocked her in front of the President – for all the knowledge she claimed she had, she couldn’t write proper Russian. It didn’t matter in the long run, but they never saw eye to eye. He never said anything to her face, but gossip travels fast. You don’t think it could be him, do you? He retired around the same time that she did. I’ve heard he lives quietly in Clapham, gardening and waiting to die, like we all are.’

The lengthy speech had obviously worn him out, and Lucia decided to call it a day. ‘You’ve been incredibly helpful, Herb. I know it’s hard, but I really appreciate your talking to me. I want to find out who did this to Professor Kiseleva. Do you think I can have a look at her work?’

‘Of course. Everything she published is here, in the library. She wasn’t appointed Head of Cybernetic Research for nothing. See for yourself – here, on your left.’

The Professor’s output was neatly catalogued. Much of it had been bound, including what appeared to be her magnum opus, Cybernetics in the Soviet Consciousness – A Critical Approach, a polished version of her doctoral thesis. The rest consisted of journal articles, largely a rehash of her doctorate in pot-boiler instalments, book reviews and lecture notes. They were written in passably academic English of the bland variety that permeated the higher education environment – devoid of irony or idiomatic nuance. So far, so unremarkable. Nonetheless, Dr Ivanov’s snipe troubled Lucia. It was a strangely specific gripe to have with a newcomer.

‘You don’t happen to have Dr Ivanov’s address? I’d very much like to talk to him.’

‘It’ll be in the records. But I’m not allowed to give it out. Data protection, they call it.’ He didn’t sound particularly convinced.

‘Oh, I know. Such a nuisance, this data protection stuff. You know, the other day I phoned the GP surgery for my mum’s test results – she’s deaf as a post, bless her – and guess what they said. We’re not authorised to give out personally sensitive information. What did they think I was going to do with it? Ludicrous, if you ask me.’

Herb smiled, persuaded, as the shared injustice spurred him on. ‘Tell me about it. These days, you can’t even pick up a parcel without a piece of paper vouching that you’re who you say you are. You know what – it’ll be our little secret.’ He winked and scrambled to his office. After much leafing of a greasy ledger, he shouted out triumphantly, ‘Ah yes, here he is. If he’s still with us, that is.’

‘Thanks, Herb, you’ve been an absolute star. I owe you a stiff cup of tea next time I see you, or a stiff anything of your choice.’

Herb beamed out of his carapace. ‘Lovely to meet you, despite the circumstances. Careful, I might have to hold you to that.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

It was a good plan to leave on a high note. Besides, there was some South London sleuthing to do. Lucia said her lengthy goodbyes – Herb was unwilling to part from company he was unlikely to enjoy again any time soon – and jumped on the underground. She had no plan beyond knocking on Dr Ivanov’s door and asking him the obvious questions outright.

The house was one of a snaking row of nineteenth-century