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

‘Hi, Lucia. I’m down at the station. Do you mind coming here? I’m not quite done yet.’

Chapter 16

Kentish Town Police Station had all the attributes of the average public institution – ample late Victorian frontage, engraved round-arched entrance and late twentieth-century additions that Richard Norman Shaw would have frowned upon. The only indulgence was the spindly palm tree guarding the steps up to the door, which lent an air of dissonant frivolity to an otherwise perfectly functional construction. Lucia presented herself at the front counter and asked for DCI Carliss.

‘I’ve never been inside a police station,’ she remarked.

‘You haven’t missed much. They’re all the same. For reasons I won’t bore you with, my team’s only been here a short while. At least this place looks nice on the outside. Inside, it’s all flimsy partitions and false ceilings. The view isn’t particularly thrilling either.’

Carliss’s office looked precisely as billed. His desk was scrupulously tidy and devoid of any personal items. No framed certificates marked the bare walls. The public sector had enthusiastically adopted the paper-free edict and obeyed it religiously, if his room was anything to go by.

They sat across from each other, separated by the desk. Carliss was uncharacteristically quiet. Lucia decided she would go first.

‘I’ve had a very productive day.’

‘I bet you had.’ He sounded fed up, like he had run out of steam.

‘I paid a visit to the forensic accountants. Our boy Adam is out of a job. They sacked him for erratic behaviour, which tallies with his drinking. That would explain the money worries.’

The inspector perked up a little. Perhaps his day had been dull in comparison. ‘That’s good. I don’t mean for him. It confirms his motive. He was in dire need of cash. Don’t tell me how you found out. I get the feeling that, with you, some things are best kept under wraps.’

Lucia wasn’t certain whether or not he was joking but resolved to act as if he did. ‘Nothing fruity, don’t worry. Just made friends with the receptionist. You’d be amazed what you can find out, if only you dare ask.’

‘So far I like him for it. In any case, never mind he’s got motive, we don’t even know how the poison got into the Professor’s system. For now, at least, it’s all moot.’

It all fell into place. He was angry with her for not sharing how the Professor had been killed. She hadn’t realised that holding on to this piece of information had affected him so much. It was high time she put things right. ‘I haven’t told you yet because I wasn’t sure myself. Now I am.’

He listened keenly as she expounded her theory. When she was done, he leaned back in his chair, his face coloured by surprise and relief. ‘And you’re sure of this?’

‘As sure as I can be without actually having witnessed the event. I’ve run a test, and it works.’

Now that bridges had been mended, Lucia recounted her get-together with Mrs Byrne. ‘Heart-breaking stuff,’ she concluded. ‘Mrs Byrne isn’t exactly highly qualified, so she stayed on. She blames her employer for her son’s death, that much is clear. That’s arguably motive. But why now? Why not kill her at any point after Connor died?’

DCI Carliss considered this latest revelation. ‘You know what they say – revenge is a dish best served cold. Maybe the poor woman just couldn’t take any more and snapped. Or maybe she was more calculated than that and waited until the ideal opportunity presented itself.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t sound like you buy it.’

‘Not entirely. It doesn’t quite fit. Mrs Byrne doesn’t strike me as the calculating type. She can certainly hold a grudge, we know that, but if she were to take any action, it would be, as you say, because she can’t bear the pain any longer. That would lead her to commit a violent, unplanned act – hitting the Professor over the head, stabbing her with a kitchen knife – which she would then go to great lengths to cover up.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Now you don’t sound convinced.’

‘I don’t think we should rule her out just yet. In my professional experience, a mother blaming someone for her child’s death doesn’t herself know what she’s capable of.’

The telephone on the desk interrupted them with a metallic screech. ‘Carliss. Yes. PC Harding.’ He got Lucia’s attention with a flick of the eyelids. ‘OK. Thanks. Make sure you stay on his tail tomorrow, and the day after, until we get something on him.’

‘Nothing on Danny then?’ Lucia was convinced they were wasting their time. With no CCTV or witnesses, it would be nigh on impossible to prove he was responsible for vandalising her van.

‘Nothing as yet. Danny arrived for his job just after eight this morning. A flat on Flask Walk. He left on his own at four and drove to the builders’ merchant in Colindale, then went home to Rhyl Street. Something’s telling me not to give up. Call it instinct, or experience.’

‘It’s your call. I honestly don’t care about the van. It’s easy enough to fix.’ They both knew this was a futile protest. Despite her stubbornness, Lucia was flattered that someone should want to look out for her. She had been on her own for so long that she had forgotten how to rely on others. She didn’t want to ever depend on another person if she could help it. But there was an undeniable feeling of contentment in knowing that he cared.

The inspector raised an eyebrow. Lucia sensed he wasn’t at ease – the confusing soup of motives and hidden feelings thrown up by the Professor’s death was evidently perplexing him. He scoured through his encyclopaedic notebook. ‘I’ve heard back from my people in the Home Office.’

Lucia piped up. ‘Oh, yes. And?’

‘Nothing. From what they’ve got sight of, there’s no trace of