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

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 her 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