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

‘I’m not absolutely certain yet. I’ll need to do a bit of research to confirm my theory. I don’t want to toss around unsubstantiated claims.’

‘OK, if you say so.’ He sighed and suddenly looked very tired. ‘Assuming you’re right, on whatever basis, we’ve got our means. The killer slipped the 1080 in the Professor’s cup, she drank it and collapsed. We’ve made a scrap of progress, theoretically speaking.’ He looked around him. ‘Since I haven’t yet spoken to the other witnesses, I’m running out of excuses to hang around here. I thought I’d have a thorough look at the kitchen before I shoot off back to the station. What are your plans for today? You look like you’re cooking something up.’

‘I am. I checked out Adam’s employer. They’re forensic accountants, specialising in fraud investigations. I was planning to do a recce of their offices and see if I can glean any information about what exactly he does for them.’ There was nothing more enticing than a spot of fieldwork, just like old times.

‘Sounds like a good day out. OK, let’s keep in touch and see where we get to.’

Chapter 14

Most of the morning passed by in a haze. Lucia managed to scrape down a few walls in the music room. Their bareness emphasised the stained-glass bay windows in all their florid Pre-Raphaelite glory. She wondered whether the room might look best pared back – off-white walls, so as not to compete. There was no chance she could concentrate any longer. She went back to her van, away from prying ears.

‘Good morning, Runciman Parry. How can I help you?’ The voice on the other end of the line was young, female, with a well-spoken but indisputable London accent.

‘Good morning. Your firm was recommended to me – more precisely, Adam Corcoran, one of your accountants. Do you know if he’s taking on any new clients?’

The voice paused for slightly too long. ‘I’m sorry, nobody of that name works here. I can put you through to the managing partner, who I’m sure would be delighted to help.’

‘No, thank you, it was Adam in particular that I wanted. Not to worry, perhaps I got his details wrong. Thank you for your time.’

Lucia felt victorious to have her supposition confirmed. If Adam had ever worked for Runciman Parry – and the receptionist’s hesitation suggested this may have been the case – he no longer did. Not very clever of him to lie to the police, she mused. However, unless they had reason to disbelieve him, it was unlikely they would have followed up to check. She glanced at the dashboard clock. It would take the best part of an hour to get to Leadenhall Market. If she set off now, she would arrive in time to catch the office workers filtering out for their lunch break. There was nothing to lose.

The Northern Line took her to Bank. She walked along Cornhill, past the magisterial beauty of Tite’s Royal Exchange and through the medieval heart of the City. Next came Gracechurch Street, a thinly disguised pretext to cut across the kaleidoscopic Leadenhall Market before she would finally turn into Lime Street. There, Runciman Parry inhabited an understated Art Deco block overshadowed by the outmoded futurism of the Lloyd’s building. The route was satisfyingly deserted – the mobs had not yet been released for their allocated hour-long reprieve. Every other doorway was a bar, pub, or restaurant, with smartly dressed waiters and conservative menus to accommodate the tastes of the few professions that maintained their dedication to the disappearing art of client entertainment. Lawyers and bankers had long given up the luxury of a liquid lunch and had cornered themselves into bland, hypoallergenic meals washed down with still water in meeting rooms. Insurance was the only industry left to resolutely fly the flag for brightly coloured socks and sybaritic occasions lubricated with rivers of claret. The market was their stomping ground, where deals were sealed over lunchtime pints and afternoons were spent reluctantly sobering up before doing it all again in the evening.

On Lime Street, the neat row of brass plates at the main entrance bore evidence that the address housed a number of businesses. Lucia paced up and down on the pavement outside, struggling to conjure up a new strategy. When she lifted her head, she couldn’t believe her luck. Through the ground floor windows she glimpsed a reception desk inscribed with the unadventurous but assertive Runciman Parry logo. Behind it sat the neatly attired spitting image of the barmaid at the Red Lion. This had to be her girl. On the dot of one, the receptionist sprang to her feet, grabbed her large, soft-leathered handbag, outward proof that the firm was generous with its remuneration, and strode out of the door. She was wearing a pencil dress and vertiginous heels better suited to a photo shoot than the uneven cobbles that they were forced to negotiate. Lucia followed closely behind her. The girl walked into the nearest sandwich shop and joined the mercifully short queue. She soon settled at a table and pulled out her phone.

Over the years, Lucia had narrowed down her investigative techniques to the two that elicited the most results – cajoling and directness. The present situation called for the latter. She walked over and sat down at the receptionist’s table. The girl looked up for a moment and instantly retreated back to her phone. It was a busy lunchtime, after all, and there were no other seats left.

‘Hi. It’s Gemma, isn’t it? You work at Runciman Parry.’ As with the handbag, Lucia had deduced that outward presentation was key. The receptionist had ensured that her career progression was widely advertised on all public channels.

She had got the girl’s attention. The manicured hands clutched the phone tightly, but the thickly feathered cat eyes glanced up.

‘Yeah. Who are you?’