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

the plan on John Walker. He’s told Margaret he’s working late tonight – I know because I phoned her with the excuse of running some decorating ideas past them both this evening. We go to his chambers and see what he’s up to.’

‘That sounds like a recipe for disaster. On the other hand, I’m better off coming with you so I can keep you in check.’

‘What else are you going to do on your sick day? We’re all set then. I’ll come pick you up at five.’

Chapter 22

5 Fresenius Court, the chambers of Christian Etherington QC and obscurely named after an eighteenth-century German jurist, sat in the south-eastern corner of Lincoln’s Inn. For generations, the first born male Etheringtons had all been given the same name, signalling that, whatever his personal aspirations may be, the heir was inextricably bound to the family business. The present Christian Etherington was acutely aware of the legacy of the founder, his great-grandfather – it had cost him two failed marriages and the same number of crippling financial settlements. The consolation was that his chambers was top of the list every time the big litigators hunted for counsel. John Walker was the name they often asked for – QC quality at junior prices, though it was rumoured the value for money wasn’t likely to last much longer. A discerning choice of financial services work had cemented his position as a ‘rising star’ in the Legal 500 and was meticulously paving his way to silk. Lucia insisted they should go in her van. Carliss was sceptical as to how they would wangle their way in but could see she had a plan. His curiosity got the better of him.

At the main gate, the modern red and white barriers stood ominously closed, in case the knobbly towers and fierce lion rampant on the coat of arms hadn’t provided a sufficient hint. The freshly painted van bearing her unadulterated business name waited for the porter to approach.

‘I’m working at 5 Fresenius Court. They’re expecting me for a last-minute job.’

The man fished out a visitor’s pass and waved them through, no questions asked.

‘How did you do that?’

‘They’re having work done to the building. Besides, no one questions tradespeople.’

It was the gateway to a secret London, accessible to all, unknown or of no interest to most. The cloistered community reminded Lucia of her old Cambridge college – authoritative, intimidating and removed from reality, which was the working definition of a barrister. Carliss, who was spared any such associations, was enjoying his procedurally suspect adventure. Star-struck by the daunting majesty of the enclave, he even insisted on a detour via the kitchen garden before she peeled him away. She firmly drew the line at the chapel, and they settled on a bench in the quiet square in direct sight of the door, van at the ready. They could do nothing but wait.

For a good forty-five minutes they watched the inhabitants of 5 Fresenius Court trickle in and out of the building – suits, wigs, gowns, bundles tied with pink tape and wheelie suitcases groaning with court documents. Commercial justice was a lucrative business. They were both drifting off, distracted by the picturesque environment, when John Walker finally made an appearance. His brand-new Porsche 911 Turbo S convertible, which Lucia had been admiring, was parked steps from the door – one of the many perks of the job. He threw his garb on the back seat and revved up the powerful engine. The only criticism was the unadventurous choice of colour – she would have chosen something bolder than white. Still, it fitted with the Walkers’ unimaginative home and was a predictable choice for a lawyer.

All this chat was wasted on the detective. He viewed cars as a way of getting from A to B, so the beauty of the present specimen was entirely lost on him. His own vehicle was an offensively gold Corsa that nobody else wanted to touch, optimistically patched up over the years. ‘Quick, let’s go,’ he urged Lucia.

The van started abruptly, and they followed John Walker out of the gate. He weaved effortlessly through the early evening traffic, down and along Fleet Street, heading west. Lucia’s minimal use of the brakes ensured they stayed closely behind him. Carliss felt sick and held on tight. He avoided driving wherever he could, and his style was of the sedate variety. The route was part car advert, part involuntary sightseeing tour of London – past Somerset House, Trafalgar Square, St James’s Park, Hyde Park Corner and the Royal Albert Hall. The Porsche pulled over outside the Whole Foods on Kensington High Street, hazards on. Walker jumped out and went in. He emerged less than five minutes later clutching a bottle of champagne, only to find the traffic warden had already slapped a yellow ticket on his windscreen. He threw it on the ground and sped off.

‘So that’s how lawyers treat the Highway Code. I should have known, judging from your maniacal driving,’ remarked Carliss.

Lucia wasn’t surprised. The council would have been ripped to shreds by Walker’s pupil in the traffic tribunal – assuming it ever came to that.

They took a right turn on Phillimore Gardens, where the purring vehicle ground to a halt in front of a semi-detached white stucco house which made its Belsize Park equivalents look like squats. The steps were adorned with two urns bearing ostentatious red azaleas, which were being fastidiously watered by a slight, dark-haired woman. Her short, smooth bob and bright crimson nails, finished off with a Japanese cross-back apron which had just been announced fashionable, indicated she was not domestic staff.

‘Well, well, well. He’s done alright for himself. Nice lady at home and another one on the go. What do they see in him?’ Carliss asked.

‘Money, power, the usual.’ He wasn’t unattractive either. Lucia wondered if Margaret really had no inkling of the affair.

‘Mind