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

bombastic efforts. The Professor’s will fell under the jurisdiction of Julius Platt, a descendant of the other co-founder by a tortuous route. The small meeting room was in the newer part of the building, bland but adequately equipped. Julius Platt did not keep the DCI waiting for long. He had just made partner, an achievement which had regrettably coincided with the birth of his first child. He would have been wholly within his rights to take paternity leave, but he didn’t judge it wise at a time when the firm was contemplating linking partners’ pay to performance. He looked broken.

‘Thank you for agreeing to give up your time, Mr Platt. As you know, I’m investigating the death of a client of yours, Professor Alla Kiseleva. When we spoke on the phone, you intimated you have information that you’re in a position to voluntarily disclose to the police.’

Julius Platt sat on one of the straight-backed chairs and immediately wished he had campaigned for an increase in the meeting room budget. It was cold and uncomfortable.

‘Detective Chief Inspector, I thought it would be best to meet in person. The situation is too irregular and convoluted to explain on the phone.’ He took a deep breath and blinked profusely. His pulse was through the roof, and he was horribly light-headed. What he most wanted was to lie down on the abrasive carpeted floor and have a nap. No such luck. ‘Before I go into details, I should preface this meeting with the mention that I’m permitted to disclose the information by the written instruction of Professor Kiseleva herself.’

‘Why did she give that sort of permission?’ Carliss was fully aware of the rules on legally privileged information, especially as nobody was being interviewed as a suspect.

‘She was concerned that the actions she was about to take could pose a threat to her life.’

Carliss mentally celebrated what he considered to be the first real breakthrough in the case. ‘In what way?’

‘She rang me about three weeks ago with the intention to amend her will. There were two beneficiaries under the original will – her nephew Adam Corcoran for Beatrice Hall, and the Collaborative Mathematical Society for the rest of her estate, which comprised funds held in a savings account. The new will was to have a single beneficiary for both the house and the money – the Society.’

Carliss did not expect this particular bombshell. ‘So, you’re saying she wanted to disinherit Adam?’

‘Yes, in no uncertain terms. She also posted instructions for me to release the details of her old and new wills to the authorities, should they require them. I did point out this was not the done thing, but she absolutely insisted. Her precise words were: “I’m afraid this might cost me my life.” I assume she referred to the change in the will.’

‘Did she say what she was afraid of?’

‘No, and I didn’t probe. It wasn’t my place to.’

‘Did she make the new will?’

‘I drafted it as per her instructions. There was a bit of a delay – my wife and I have a new baby, you see. I had it ready for her to sign a few days later. Here’s the date of the appointment.’ It was the first working day after the Professor’s death. ‘Of course, she never turned up, which means the old will still stands.’

Carliss recalled the other, more crucial question he meant to ask. ‘These instructions – were they signed by her?’

‘Yes, they were signed, dated and witnessed.’

‘Who was the witness?’

Julius Platt consulted the folder he had brought in with him. ‘Orla Byrne, of the same address. She put her occupation down as housekeeper.’

Chapter 21

DCI Carliss woke up feeling like his head was in a slowly tightening clamp. He’d been studiously ignoring the tell-tale signs the evening before – a dull ache behind the left eye and a general malaise that he had put down to the broken sleep caused by the puzzling case of Professor Alla Kiseleva. The lurgy was in full swing. The bedside clock unforgivingly read seven eighteen. His appointment with Dr Edmund Glover was scheduled for eight thirty. The protracted telephone negotiations had made it clear that this was a reluctantly granted favour. The rationale behind the early timing was to minimise the interruption to Dr Glover’s packed schedule.

The surgery was high up on Heath Street, by the Quaker meeting house. It was private, of course – the Professor would hardly have entrusted herself to the NHS. Despite the corporate glossiness of the glass box waiting room, the subsequently added shopfront couldn’t avoid being a scar on the eighteenth-century building. The place was redolent of an upmarket hairdresser’s, complete with sleek receptionist, choice magazines and an oversized TV screen. An hour to discuss your real or imaginary ailments with a sympathetic medical professional, unaffected by public sector pressures, cost nearly two hundred pounds. Considering what most wares were being peddled for on Hampstead High Street, this seemed remarkably good value.

‘Dr Glover is ready to see you now.’

The office followed in the footsteps of the waiting room, with the addition of a pair of very inviting high-backed armchairs in a corner, where consultations were evidently conducted. Carliss very much doubted they would be used for this particular meeting.

Dr Glover stood up from behind his desk to greet his visitor. His handshake was firm, but not crushing – something he had refined over the years.

‘Won’t you sit down, Inspector?’

Apart from a notepad, opened at a blank page and accompanied by a discreetly expensive fountain pen, and a latest generation desktop, the white desk was bare. Dr Glover’s dress code was traditional smart casual – blazer, shirt, immaculate chinos and brogues. He was the sort of man who kept a tie in the desk drawer for impromptu visits to his club. Everything about him was very precise – his sharp vulpine features,