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

‘I’m a friend of Adam Corcoran’s. I’m sorry to come up to you like this, but I’m worried. We all are. He’s been acting strangely – he’s not sleeping, not eating, drinking himself stupid. For a while I’ve suspected he’s out of a job, but he won’t talk about it. I just want to know what’s going on, so I can help.’

Gemma scrunched her face in disbelief. Before she could say anything, Lucia went on. If this didn’t work, nothing would.

‘Please, I really am desperate. His aunt’s just passed away – they were very close – and that’s made him retreat even further into his shell. I know you understand. Don’t we all have a friend, a cousin, a brother, or someone who needs help but won’t ask for it?’

One of the elements in the plea had hit the spot – at a guess, the brother part. Gemma thought hard. She flicked her head to one side, then back to her phone and eventually looked Lucia straight in the eye.

‘Alright. They sacked him a couple of months ago. I don’t know what came over him. He was one of the well-behaved, quiet types, you know, always polite to us girls, buying everyone drinks after work on a Friday. A few weeks before they let him go, he changed. He was in late, left early, hardly spent any time at his desk. Always popping out “for coffee,” he said. The day he got sent home was a train crash. He shouted at a client and stormed out in the middle of a meeting. He was in a bad way, practically foaming at the mouth. They told him not to bother coming back.’

‘Did you ever speak to him? Did he hint at what may be wrong?’

‘No. Not for want of trying, mind you. He always put on a brave face and said he was fine. I’m guessing that’s what he does at home, too.’ Gemma looked genuinely concerned.

‘Yes, just like at home. Thanks, Gemma. You don’t know what a great help you’ve been.’

‘I hope he cleans himself up. He’s a good bloke, just lost his way.’

She had a soft spot for him, that much was obvious. In films, naïve girls always fell for cold-blooded killers, Lucia thought. She reminded herself she hadn’t yet proved he was in that category.

She debated whether to call Carliss straightaway and decided against it. He was probably poring over the remaining witness statements, and there was no point in distracting him. Besides, she thought she should get back to Beatrice Hall and settle into her work, lest Adam might think she was slacking off. It really was the perfect cover for gathering further intelligence on the suspects. She was incorrigible.

Chapter 15

The walk back to Bank had been marred by a downpour that no longer dried as soon as it hit the ground. By the time Lucia emerged shivering into the daylight at Belsize Park, the rain had given way to unabated sunshine, and she warmed up a little in her damp clothes. Haverstock Hill was liberally sprinkled with the familiar mid-afternoon clientele – mothers and maternal substitutes carting around varyingly sized children, elderly ladies lugging mysterious packages to the post office and builders enjoying surreptitious cans of Red Bull. Nobody had anything urgent to do, nowhere pressing to be. The wheels of this corner of affluent North London, well-oiled by an army of absent City workers, turned slowly.

Lucia let herself in – Adam had thankfully entrusted her with a key, so she could come and go as she liked, without owing an explanation – and headed straight down to the kitchen. She half hoped she might bump into Mrs Byrne, although she would have preferred the interlude of a solitary cup of tea first. Her wish was granted. She couldn’t resist checking under the sink. The unexceptional selection of cleaning products matched what she had expected to find. Once she had had her few minutes of peace, she wondered where the housekeeper might be. A sudden clatter of what sounded like metal on metal interrupted the solitude. It was coming from the direction of the back garden. Aside from the tea party, Lucia realised she had never seen Mrs Byrne out of the semi-obscurity of the house.

The French doors in the drawing room were wide open, just like they had been on that day. The garden was large for London, although at least a third of it was paved. Scrawny weeds had shot up in between the worn-down slabs, comfortable in the knowledge that they would not be disturbed. The lawn was hay-like, having evidently lost a fair few battles with the sun. Despite the maturity of the plants, the borders were straggly and unkempt, a mixture of neglected long-timers and accidental growth. At the bottom of the garden, Mrs Byrne was busy hacking away at a patch of unsuspecting dahlias, now withered to a crisp, that would have happily provided a final taste of summer had they been regularly deadheaded. Adam must have been trying to save himself a few pennies on the gardening. At the rate the housekeeper was going, the costs of remedying the carnage stood to overtake any savings made.

‘Hello, Mrs Byrne. Do you want a hand with that?’

The woman jumped, as if she had just been caught in a compromising situation. ‘Lucia. Hello, love, I didn’t see you there. I’m alright, thanks. Been doing this for years. Nice to see you. You’ve been busy, I take it.’

Lucia sensed Mrs Byrne welcomed the interruption.

‘Yes, it’s not too bad. It’s the wallpaper that’s giving me the most trouble. Layers and layers of it, all on top of each other. That’s how things were done, before these new-fangled steamers we’ve got now.’

Mrs Byrne’s huffing and puffing was somewhat out of proportion to the light task in hand. ‘Oh, I’m done in. I’ve been at this garden