by Sabina Manea
‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you in peace then. My car’s still outside the posh house. Is there a pub nearby that you’d recommend?’
‘The Red Lion. Good beer if you don’t mind drinking with the local builders.’
‘There are worse people I could be drinking with. Thanks. I’ll have one for the road.’
The day needed to end. Lucia climbed the stairs to the front door, let herself in and collapsed on the bed rehearsing all that had happened. She got out a bottle of wine and ordered a takeaway. Once her stomach was full and the alcohol had hit, she slept like the dead.
Chapter 5
Friday, 11th September
(one week after the murder)
It had been a trying week, and Lucia was glad it was over. Professor Kiseleva had died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. Mrs Byrne said it was heart failure, but no other information had been forthcoming. Lucia stayed away from Beatrice Hall for a few days while the police were combing the place. On her return, the house was even more silent than usual. Everything was preserved exactly as it had been after the ill-fated party. She had half-expected police tape and other such contraptions, but the place bore no trace of the forensic investigation. The housekeeper had confined herself to the kitchen, and Adam was barely ever around. On the rare occasions that he did make an appearance, he was mostly glued to his phone and would vaguely acknowledge Lucia with vacant, glassy eyes when she greeted him. She could only assume he wanted her to continue with the work and so she kept coming back, carrying on as if they hadn’t been interrupted by a harrowing death.
That evening, settled on a comfortable bar stool at the Red Lion with a large glass of ice-cold wine, Lucia made a solemn promise to herself that she wouldn’t give the Professor’s death another thought. If it was a tragic accident, then there was nothing more to be said or done. And if it was something more sinister, then it was none of Lucia’s business. It was a police matter, that much had been made clear to her by that uppity inspector.
Sat as she was in the corner furthest away from the door, she was able to watch those coming in without necessarily being noticed. The usual crowd was in attendance, and they were particularly rowdy tonight. Some sort of football-related chat, as far as she could work out. Lucia could have easily gone to one of the other pubs in the area, but the truth was, she liked the atmosphere here – the unfussiness suited her. She certainly wasn’t in the mood for an evening alone in her flat.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the latest arrival, who took her entirely by surprise. Detective Chief Inspector Carliss walked in and sat at the other end of the bar from her. He looked like he too had had a very long week. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed as he eyed up the beers on offer. Becky wasn’t working tonight, and Jez, the lad who was taking her place, couldn’t pull a pint to save his life, poor thing, and not for want of trying. Lucia watched DCI Carliss order himself some best bitter which Jez managed to spill all over the counter before refilling it twice. The policeman was doing his best to hide the pained look on his face, but that flustered the boy even more. At last, a relatively full glass was placed in front of the customer and money exchanged hands. DCI Carliss breathed a sigh of relief as he took the first, long-awaited sip.
Despite the earlier resolve to keep her nose out of trouble, Lucia just couldn’t help herself. She stared in the policeman’s direction long enough for him to glance over. As he caught her eye, he looked as if he wanted to make a run for it. Talking to witnesses to a death down the boozer wasn’t exactly proper procedure, Lucia mused, not that she planned to let that stop her.
‘Hello, Detective Chief Inspector.’ She picked up her wine glass, which was nearly empty by now, and walked decisively in his direction. ‘Mind if I join you?’
The policeman raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t have much of a choice, seeing that Lucia was practically hovering over him, so he gestured to the free stool. ‘Miss Steer. Sure, go ahead.’
She perched on the chair with an expectant look on her face. The wine on an empty stomach had spurred her on, and she hadn’t had time to think through what she was going to say. DCI Carliss watched her as he sipped his pint. Those piercing blue eyes could be very disconcerting, the way they scanned her face and didn’t look away. Lucia shook off an indelicate thought. ‘So you took my advice then?’
‘What advice would that be?’
‘You tried the Red Lion after you dropped me off at home the other day. After we left Beatrice Hall.’
‘I did. It’s a nice little boozer, this. Not snooty like the rest of the places around here.’ The policeman’s face stretched into a quizzical smile. ‘Feeling better now?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Sorry for being such a weakling the other day. I don’t see many dead bodies in my line of work.’
He laughed. ‘No need to apologise. If it makes you feel better, it never gets any easier.’
Lucia brushed back a strand of hair and looked at the empty glasses in front of them. ‘Would you like another, Inspector?’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes, why not? I’m not on duty tonight.’
Miraculously, Jez succeeded in producing two unscathed drinks. Lucia and DCI Carliss sat for a few moments in what was starting to be a rather companionable silence.
‘Have you interviewed everyone then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everyone who was at the party when Professor Kiseleva died. Have you taken statements from them?’
He patently knew what she meant and was trying to avoid talking about it.
‘Yes, obviously. But, as I said, I’m not on duty. I just want a quiet drink before I head home. And I’m not about to discuss confidential police business with you, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
Lucia turned over in her mind a fresh angle of attack. ‘Did you get the tin of poison from the kitchen?’
Carliss sat up very straight, as if she’d just slapped him hard across the face. ‘What the… How do you know about that?’
‘I’ve been in the house long enough to know where most things are kept – downstairs at least. Don’t look so appalled. It’s not like I’m stealing from them. But I can’t not notice what’s in front of me.’
‘So you rummaged around in the kitchen, did you? Fancy yourself as a bit of sleuth?’
She really had managed to step on his toes, she could see that quite plainly. ‘Well, you got there first, I’ll give you that.’ Lucia crossed her arms defiantly as she ploughed on. ‘Oh, come on, I’m not stupid. You took your time making that cup of sugary tea for me, didn’t you? Had a good snoop around?’
Despite his best efforts to keep up the stern face, the policeman was mollifying. Lucia smiled endearingly – the equivalent of a hand stretched out to the loser in a match. She wasn’t trying to be patronizing, but she sensed mutual agreement that she had scored a very good point.
‘Sodium fluoroacetate – 1080, as it’s commonly known,’ she continued. ‘Very nasty rat poison. Odourless, tasteless, soluble, no antidote. The symptoms appear to fit. With a large enough dose, you don’t stand much of a chance of pulling through. It tends to start with nausea and convulsions, around half an hour after ingestion. After that, you’ve got an unenviable choice of ends – heart or other organ failure, coma, or septicaemia. If you’re lucky, you’ll survive with severe brain damage. But I guess you know all this stuff already.’
Carliss sighed in apparent defeat. ‘Yes, I do. But before you jump to rash conclusions, it doesn’t mean a thing. So they kept rat poison in the kitchen – so what? Doesn’t mean the Professor died because she took it.’ He stopped himself before he could go any further and breathed in with fresh determination. ‘Look, this isn’t really on. I can’t talk about it in public. It’s a police matter. You need to get that in your head once and for all and drop this stupid little Miss Marple act. It’s not a game for a bored housewife.’
That kind of brush-off wou
ld have made most people lose their rag, but not Lucia. She was determined she wouldn’t take the bait. ‘For your information, I’m not a bored housewife. I’m not even married. Tell me something else, Inspector. When you spoke to the witnesses, did Mrs Byrne mention the row she had with Adam a few days before the party?’
From the policeman’s stony silence, Lucia inferred this was news to him. ‘No, I didn’t think so. I wonder what else they’re hiding, don’t you?’ she added.
She really did feel sorry for him now. He looked torn – on the one hand dying to find out what else she knew, and at the same time unwilling to get himself entangled into a highly suspect way of uncovering information. In the end, caution won. He downed the rest of his pint and stood up abruptly. ‘I think we’re done here, Miss Steer. Have a good evening.’ And with that, he turned on his heels and walked out without looking back.
Lucia scowled and took another sip of her wine. It hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped. Nonetheless, she had a feeling that this wasn’t the last she’d hear of the matter. If all the police could come up with after a whole week was heart failure, there wasn’t much of a chance that the inspector could hack it on his own.
Chapter 6
Saturday, 19th September
(two weeks after the murder)
It was gone three in the afternoon. Just as the kettle had finished boiling, the shrill sound of the phone ringing on the kitchen table made Lucia jump. She didn’t recognize the number but picked it up anyway, involuntarily tense.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Carliss here. How’re you doing?’ The low, purring voice set her mind at rest. She’d half expected to be told that Mrs Byrne or Adam had keeled over. They both managed to look so despondent all the time.
‘I’m fine, thanks. I was about to ask how you got my number, but I suppose it is your job.’
‘I’ve got contact details for everyone who was at the Hall.’ The line went silent. The inspector’s initial confidence had waned, and his hesitation was palpable – he was obviously having second thoughts about whether this was a good idea. At last, he spoke. ‘Look, er… OK, this might sound a bit odd. It’s not an official call, you understand. I’m not speaking to you right now.’
‘But you are, aren’t you?’ She had to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. He was nervous, that much was clear.
‘Yes, of course I am, physically. What I mean is, I’m not speaking to you in my official capacity as a policeman. Can we meet?’
‘Sure, do you want me to come down to the station?’ teased Lucia, knowing that wasn’t what he could possibly have in mind. At the same time, she overrode the imaginary brakes that should have held her back, warning her to stay out of trouble.
The little poke was totally lost on DCI Carliss. ‘No, absolutely not. Nowhere public.’
He gave her an address in Kentish Town. She marvelled at its quaintness – two-storey, Georgian, with a bright red door opening straight onto the pavement. It had to be where he lived. She decided to walk all the way, first down to South End Green, where the cacophony of buses and assorted hospital traffic stood in sharp contrast with the haughty emptiness of the windy village streets above. The fashionable resurrected railway cottages of Gospel Oak gradually gave way to tidy, secluded council estates. The latter’s fastidious separation of hard surfaces and trimmed greenery brought back memories of hiding places and carefree ballgames. She glimpsed herself as a little girl on a swing, before the days of rubber-floored playgrounds, when knees and elbows would be perpetually covered in half-healed scabs. Those were altogether more innocent times. The estate playgrounds were mostly empty these days.
The policeman’s house was one of a cluster overlooking a narrow, cobbled street, like a cardboard cut-out incongruously positioned by a nostalgic town planner. It only had one doorbell.
DCI Carliss opened the door, wearing his predictably unkempt attire. The blue eyes rested on her face – somewhat timidly, which wasn’t how he’d looked at her before.
‘You found me OK? Come in.’
The inside was homely but far from prosaic. Carefully selected mid-century items, smooth and clean-lined, were complemented by handsome, lived-in soft furnishings and original watercolours. With the mellow afternoon light streaming in through the tall sash windows, as if through a filter, it was a faultless illustration of domestic contentment. It was evidently his sanctuary. Lucia sank down into a capacious armchair and felt like a child in possession of a coveted invitation to a wealthy neighbour’s house.
‘I’ll make us some tea. Or coffee if you’d prefer?’
‘Tea is good. You have a beautiful home. I must admit it’s taken me by surprise.’ She purposefully affected an easy manner, hoping to put him at ease.
It seemed to work, and he grinned. ‘Did you think I lived in a hovel with empty whisky bottles in the kitchen?’
‘I did, and I was wrong. This is a proper house.’
‘It used to be my parents’ house.’ He cast a look around, observing it with fresh eyes, and smiled proprietorially. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’
Tea came. They sat for a few moments until the atmosphere became awkward. This wasn’t a purely social call. ‘Do you always invite witnesses to a death round for a cuppa?’ asked Lucia.
The inspector shuffled in his seat, a little put out. ‘A bit unorthodox, I know. If my boss got wind of this, I’d be out on my ear.’ He broke eye contact and stared down at his feet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘I thought about what you said the other day in the pub – about the poison under the kitchen sink. To be honest, I haven’t thought of much else since. The post-mortem confirmed the Professor had enough 1080 in her to definitively write her off.’
‘You’re ruling out suicide?’
‘I’m not ruling out anything. I’m just setting out the facts. We’re treating it as an unexplained death.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means all options are on the table.’
‘Is murder one of them?’
‘Perhaps. Yes. Along with suicide and accidental ingestion of the poison.’
Lucia blinked. The image of the Professor writhing on the ground refused to leave her brain. ‘The Professor wasn’t suicidal. And even if she did want to end her life, why choose such a horrendous way to die?’
DCI Carliss didn’t reply, but Lucia could tell he didn’t have a counterargument. ‘It could have been an accident,’ he finally offered, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced.
‘Come off it. How does the rat poison accidentally get out from under the kitchen sink and into the Professor’s system?’
‘As I said, we can only look at what’s in front of us.’ Carliss leaned forward in an attempt to regain some ground. ‘Listen, if you’re to get involved at all – and I’m not saying I’m letting you do that – no one can find out about it.’
‘I won’t breathe a word.’ Lucia had always been partial to a bit of gossip, but this time she knew it was serious. She would keep this to herself – it was a chance she didn’t want to blow. She had so desperately hoped that the inspector would come round to the idea that she could be of use. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Just go about your normal business at the Hall. Keep your eyes and ears open.’
‘You mean, spy on them?’
‘I never said that.’
‘But that’s what you mean. You’re not making much progress with the investigation then?’
The inspector didn’t reply.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, you’re not getting anywhere.’
‘It’s not exactly a priority for the Super,’ he said tersely.
‘But you think something’s off.’
DCI Carliss squirmed a little in his seat and crossed his arms defensively. ‘OK, yes. I just don’t think it looks right. But that’s not enough to justify roping in extra manpower for what could be a wild goose chase.’
‘Which is where I come in.’
‘W
hich is where you come in. You look like you could be of use. Nobody ever pays attention to tradespeople, remember?’
The challenge had been laid down, and Lucia could hardly refuse. ‘So, what am I supposed to be looking out for?’
‘How they’re behaving, how they’re talking to each other. Anything out of place.’
‘You mean, like the argument between Adam and Mrs Byrne?’ Lucia couldn’t resist bringing that up again.
DCI Carliss pursed his lips. ‘Yes, like the alleged argument between those two, which may or may not be relevant.’
Lucia leaned into the comfortable armchair and stretched out an arm over the back. ‘I’m in. Good call, by the way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Getting me on board. You wouldn’t want a civilian solving the murder before you, would you? That wouldn’t make you look too good.’
‘Unbelievable. Not exactly modest, are you?’
‘Modesty gets you nowhere, in my experience. Sharp eyes, however, do.’
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s see what you can get for me first,’ warned the inspector, drawing his features into the most serious look he could muster under the circumstances.
‘So, what’s your take on the whole thing? You must have some suspicions, otherwise you wouldn’t have got me all the way here.’
‘Let’s assume for a moment, hypothetically of course–’
‘Hypothetically, of course,’ Lucia interrupted with a sarcastic smile.
‘Let’s assume the old bird didn’t commit suicide or take the poison accidentally. If she was poisoned with the stuff under the sink, that would make everyone a possible suspect. All of them had access to the tin. And anyone could have slipped the poison into her special fancy glass – no danger of a mix up there. It would either be very stupid, or it would be the perfect murder.’
‘In this scenario, whoever killed her would be far from stupid.’ Lucia sipped her tea thoughtfully. ‘It would be risky though. The execution would have to be faultless.’