Murder in Hampstead: a classic whodunnit in a contemporary setting

by Sabina Manea

  Lucia was reluctant to step in. At the same time, the revelation was of considerable importance, and pertinent questions had to be asked.

  ‘Herb, I’ve got some very upsetting news, I’m afraid. I used to work for the Professor. She died a couple of weeks ago.’

  His already ashen face showed genuine heartbreak. It was touching that he cared about a woman who, by all appearances, had failed to forge any emotional attachment to those closest to her.

  ‘I’m alright. Just a funny turn. I can’t believe she’s gone. I suppose none of us is getting any younger.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’s a big shock for you. Especially when you knew her so well.’ She hesitated slightly before releasing the next, vital detail. She didn’t want to miss any element of his reaction. ‘It doesn’t look like the cause of death was natural.’

  She watched Herb crumple into his baggy suit. He suddenly looked like he was going to vanish altogether, like a cheap magic trick. He wobbled over to an armchair and tumbled down, head in his hands. When he eventually reappeared, the pallor of his face could give any death mask a run for its money. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and croaky, as if from beyond the grave.

  ‘You’re saying someone killed her? That’s impossible. Why would anyone want to do that? How did she die? And how do you know all this?’ His expression was gradually turning hostile, and Lucia feared he was yet again slipping through her fingers.

  ‘She hired me to paint her house. I’m a decorator, you see. I was there when she died. It was awful. The police suspect it was poison, but it hasn’t been confirmed yet. And I don’t know why someone would want her dead. I came here hoping I’d come across something that will help me find out. Nobody deserves to go like that.’

  Herb lifted his head a touch, like an ancient tortoise tentatively peeking out of its shell. Lucia hoped her honesty would disperse any suspicions on his part. She had to cling on to him. He was the first source of information on the Professor she had encountered who was unlikely to have an ulterior motive.

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you. She was well liked here, on the whole. I remember crystal clear the day I met her. It was 1983, just before we were due to break up for Christmas. She came to be interviewed for a researcher position. I said a little prayer for her as she went in. The then-President terrified the life out of his underlings, but she had him right where she wanted him. She was beautiful, there’s no doubt about that, and he was a man, but more than that, she had this natural authority. Bossy and confident. When she smiled, it was like the sun shone on you, and you were the only person in the room. She won him over, and he gave her a job. It turned out the institute was her natural home. She spent more hours here than any of the others – long days, even long nights reading and writing papers. She lectured and published as if she was running out of time. But nobody here would want to hurt her.’

  ‘You said she was liked, on the whole. Was there anyone who didn’t share that feeling?’

  Herb seemed slighted at the very suggestion. The Professor was evidently skilled at harnessing loyalty when she was so inclined.

  ‘Everyone liked her.’ He repeated his statement, though a little less convincingly this time. ‘There was this one senior researcher. When she joined the institute, he was the only one who voted against her. You see, we have this rather particular system for letting new members join. Old-fashioned, you could say, like barristers’ chambers. The President gets first dibs at interview. If they like the candidate, they recommend them to the existing members, who get to snoop through the CV and intimidate the newcomer over a fancy lunch. At the end of the lunch, once all the booze has been consumed, the members write their vote on a piece of paper and put it in the ballot box. Not many make it through. She held her own and did, bar one vote – Dr Oleg Ivanov’s, a fellow countryman, of all people. He said he had read in the original the articles she had submitted as samples of her work. The language was clumsy and stilted, he said, like they’d been written by someone subconsciously translating but not interpreting. He mocked her in front of the President – for all the knowledge she claimed she had, she couldn’t write proper Russian. It didn’t matter in the long run, but they never saw eye to eye. He never said anything to her face, but gossip travels fast. You don’t think it could be him, do you? He retired around the same time that she did. I’ve heard he lives quietly in Clapham, gardening and waiting to die, like we all are.’

  The lengthy speech had obviously worn him out, and Lucia decided to call it a day. ‘You’ve been incredibly helpful, Herb. I know it’s hard, but I really appreciate your talking to me. I want to find out who did this to Professor Kiseleva. Do you think I can have a look at her work?’

  ‘Of course. Everything she published is here, in the library. She wasn’t appointed Head of Cybernetic Research for nothing. See for yourself – here, on your left.’

  The Professor’s output was neatly catalogued. Much of it had been bound, including what appeared to be her magnum opus, Cybernetics in the Soviet Consciousness – A Critical Approach, a polished version of her doctoral thesis. The rest consisted of journal articles, largely a rehash of her doctorate in pot-boiler instalments, book reviews and lecture notes. They were written in passably academic English of the bland variety that permeated the higher education environment – devoid of irony or idiomatic nuance. So far, so unremarkable. Nonetheless, Dr Ivanov’s snipe troubled Lucia. It was a strangely specific gripe to have with a newcomer.

  ‘You don’t happen to have Dr Ivanov’s address? I’d very much like to talk to him.’

  ‘It’ll be in the records. But I’m not allowed to give it out. Data protection, they call it.’ He didn’t sound particularly convinced.

  ‘Oh, I know. Such a nuisance, this data protection stuff. You know, the other day I phoned the GP surgery for my mum’s test results – she’s deaf as a post, bless her – and guess what they said. We’re not authorised to give out personally sensitive information. What did they think I was going to do with it? Ludicrous, if you ask me.’

  Herb smiled, persuaded, as the shared injustice spurred him on. ‘Tell me about it. These days, you can’t even pick up a parcel without a piece of paper vouching that you’re who you say you are. You know what – it’ll be our little secret.’ He winked and scrambled to his office. After much leafing of a greasy ledger, he shouted out triumphantly, ‘Ah yes, here he is. If he’s still with us, that is.’

  ‘Thanks, Herb, you’ve been an absolute star. I owe you a stiff cup of tea next time I see you, or a stiff anything of your choice.’

  Herb beamed out of his carapace. ‘Lovely to meet you, despite the circumstances. Careful, I might have to hold you to that.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  It was a good plan to leave on a high note. Besides, there was some South London sleuthing to do. Lucia said her lengthy goodbyes – Herb was unwilling to part from company he was unlikely to enjoy again any time soon – and jumped on the underground. She had no plan beyond knocking on Dr Ivanov’s door and asking him the obvious questions outright.

  The house was one of a snaking row of nineteenth-century carpenters’ cottages which had been recently elevated to accommodation for the professional classes. It was instantly recognisable even before Lucia saw the door number, being the only one without a modishly painted front door. The patch of grass at the front was missing the touch of a lawnmower. She rang the doorbell and waited for what seemed like an eternity.

  The door was opened by a well-fed woman anywhere between thirty and fifty, complete with pink velour tracksuit, curled blonde hair, and laboriously applied eyelashes.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Lucia. I’m looking for Dr Oleg Ivanov.’

  ‘Hello, love. Well, you’re a bit late. He passed away a couple of years ago. What business have you got with him?’

  ‘I’ve come to bring news about a mutual friend. Someone he used to work with.’

  ‘Oh, that. Yes, he was always talking to me about h
is work. Not that I understood any of it, mind you. It came with the job, caring for him, that is. And I did it well, if I do say so myself. He was an easy one, I must say. No trouble at all – up early, at his desk and writing, then reading in his chair and only wanting plain little meals. No trouble at all. I was chuffed when he left me this place. Didn’t see it coming. Though you do think, all this time wiping his you-know-what, I deserve something for it, don’t I? He took care of me in the end. No family to leave it to, so it would have been a waste, nice house like this.’

  The long stream of verbal diarrhoea was very welcome since it saved further questioning. Lucia was running out of steam – it was early afternoon, and she hadn’t had a chance to stop for lunch. Besides, she was itching to share her findings with Carliss. She found herself having imaginary conversations with him, filling him in on her findings, and berated herself for it. She didn’t need his approval.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that he’s gone. Well, I’ll be off then. Thanks for your help.’

  Typical, that it should be a dead end. After the initial elation of pursuing an exciting lead, Lucia was deflated. Still, what she had unearthed about the Professor was serious food for thought.

  Chapter 9

  There wasn’t anything Lucia was particularly keen to do, nowhere she had to go. The prospect of returning to her empty flat and whiling away the hours until she fell asleep didn’t really appeal. The Red Lion would be the perfect place to have a quiet drink and regroup. She was wrong. The pub was far from empty. Luckily, the crowd had spilled outside, cigarettes and vapes in hand. The clientele was the same as on a Friday, minus the ones who hadn’t been able to escape weekend family duties. The average age was early twenties – old enough to be drinking legally, young enough to live with their parents and be desperate to get out of the house after Sunday lunch.

  Becky smiled conspiratorially from behind the bar. Lucia had her down as a good sort. She was nineteen and invariably looked picture-perfect, halfway between Old Hollywood and second-rate adult movie. Newcomers would often mistake her appearance for availability but were soon put right. Becky had a boyfriend in the Marines and a low threshold for suggestive comments.

  ‘Alright, Lucia? You’re not going to turn me down this time, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m definitely here to drink. Pour away.’

  Becky fetched a large glass of the white Burgundy and stirred herself a sickly concoction of flavoured gin and tonic. It was the weekend for her too, after all.

  ‘Busy for a Sunday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nah, this lot are always in here. Nothing better to do, I suppose. No chores, no kids. Might as well have a good time before they’ve got to be back at the grindstone tomorrow. Cheers then. I hear you got the big house. Not that it makes a difference, now the old bat’s gone.’ Becky leaned over, her gravity-defying false eyelashes quivering like giant spiders. ‘I hear you were there when she died. What was it like?’

  ‘Pretty awful. She must have been in a lot of pain. They took her to the hospital straight away, not that it made any difference.’

  ‘It’s mental. Like something you read about in the papers, but you never think you’d see it on your own doorstep.’ Becky looked more titillated than terrified, like she’d magically stepped into a popular crime drama. ‘And the coppers turned up. They don’t just drop in on every single person who’s kicked the bucket. They obviously think something fishy’s going on.’

  ‘Yes, I spoke to them. Adam was there too.’ Lucia left it there, hoping Becky would stay true to form and fill in the information gap.

  ‘Adam? Ooh, that’s exciting. Maybe he’s the one who bumped her off. Doesn’t strike me as the killing type. But then again, it’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for. The ones who don’t look like they’ve got it in them.’ She was off on a wander in her imaginary murder mystery. ‘Getting him in to do all her dirty work and stringing him along like that. He must have just snapped.’

  ‘What do you mean, stringing him along?’

  ‘Oh, you know, everyone’s gossiping about it around here. He’s like her butler or something, running the house, doing all her errands, except he’s not getting paid for it. Or not getting paid enough. He spends plenty of time drinking the bar dry in here, and that’s not cheap. Mind you, he must have a day job. Always wearing that suit. He and Danny were having a good old chinwag in the corner the other day. I heard Adam whinging that he’s got no money. Tight old cow. It’s not like she was poor, with a pile like that.’

  So, Adam and Danny hadn’t just ‘bumped’ into each other down the pub. ‘Who does Adam talk to when he’s in here, Becky?’

  ‘Just Danny, now I think of it. They don’t spend too long together normally. Just a swift pint and Danny’s off. Adam’s the one who hangs around afterwards, drowning his sorrows. Speak of the devil. Pint of IPA, Adam?’

  Adam crawled in with his usual funereal look. He briefly acknowledged Lucia, but his eyes were glazed over, like he was in a trance. ‘Thanks, Becky. I’m just going to sit down and do some work. Do you mind bringing it over?’

  Lucia wondered what sort of work this was. He didn’t have a laptop or notebook with him.

  ‘Told you. That man’s got guilt written all over his face.’ Becky had cast herself as the lady detective, and she clucked with delight. ‘Only a matter of time till he goes down. Better bring him his pint. One of his last.’ For all her practised façade, her childish delight betrayed the fact that she was still very young.

  Distracted by Becky’s career aspirations, Lucia failed to notice Adam had been on the phone all this time. The conversation had started out as civilised, but before too long he was hissing angrily, doing his best to keep his voice down to avoid being heard. His sallow face had been upgraded to an aubergine shade of purple and was dotted with sweat. Lucia thought she could make out a meaningless ‘What was I supposed to do?’ He put the phone down and slurped his nearly full pint before heading to the toilet.

  Becky’s mouth was half open with a logically faultless interpretation of Adam’s predicament when she was interrupted by the slam of the door behind the bar. The landlady was out of her lair, scanning her surroundings with the meticulousness of a sniper. She narrowed in on her target and poured herself a large glass of the Burgundy.

  ‘Lucia, how wonderful to see you. It’s been too long. How have you been holding up? Such a nasty business at Beatrice Hall. You must be traumatised.’

  Leila was mad as a box of frogs at the best of times. By all accounts, she was wholly within her rights – better a dipsomaniac in Hampstead than under house arrest in the Middle East. She prided herself on only having spent one of her nine lives, namely when she packed up a bag and fled across the Turkish border in the early 1980s. What happened before she left and how she lived since arriving in London were bottomless sources of inconsistent stories. She never spoke of the part in between. The most enduring relic of her origins was her dress sense, an unrepentant tribute to one of the more culturally insensitive Carry On films.

  ‘I’m fine. Horrible business, Becky and I were just saying.’

  Leila draped herself theatrically on the bar and inhaled most of the glass in one fell swoop. ‘They say it was’ – she paused for maximum effect, fixing them with dilated pupils under the heavy make-up – ‘MURDER!’ She took a deep breath and squinted. ‘I remember another case like it, up by the ponds. Woman was found hacked to death in her own house. Perhaps a serial killer is on the loose.’ Her eyes widened – if any further widening was physically possible. ‘We shouldn’t be out and about. We could be in mortal danger!’

  This was ridiculous even by Leila’s standards. The stock of Burgundy must be nearly depleted at this rate, thought Lucia.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, babe. It looks like it was one of her own that did her in.’ Becky was back in the game and eager to publicise her deductions. ‘I reckon it’s Adam.’

  Leila nodded frantically in approval, as thrilled as Cleopatra
before her milky bath. ‘Of course! So clever of you, Becky. He’s got that look about him. Shifty and intense. He must be the mass murderer.’

  Lucia didn’t want to point out that the chances of a serial killer being on the loose were close to nil. The incident of the dead woman that Leila brought up was undoubtedly macabre and had made the rounds in the neighbourhood. However, since there was no way the police could have charged a starving Alsatian, the case – along with the unfortunate animal – had been put to rest.

  Before a more plausible version of the Professor’s death could be put forward, the women were interrupted by Adam returning from his excursion. ‘Can I get another, please?’

  ‘Coming right up,’ Becky said. ‘I’m with you, Leila. I bet he’s not right in the head. A psychopathic mass murderer.’

  As Becky and Leila continued exchanging increasingly fantastical theories, Lucia watched him. The pallor was still there, but he seemed revitalised. He focused intently on the screen of his phone, his foot tapping under the table. The shrill ring of her own device startled her. It was Carliss. She decided she would let it go through to voicemail. She didn’t want to risk talking to him with an audience, even with Becky and Leila engrossed in their respective monologues. No sooner had the ringing stopped that she listened to his message.

  ‘Hi, Miss Steer. Hope I didn’t keep you up too late the other night. Sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I thought you’d want to know. I’ve just got off the phone to forensics. There was no poison of any kind in the champagne. Not on the Professor’s glass, nor anywhere else. Seems like we were on the wrong track all along. Meet me at Beatrice Hall tomorrow morning, first thing. We need to get to the bottom of this.’

  Chapter 10

  In the morning, on the narrow road outside Beatrice Hall, life was carrying on undisturbed. Couriers, builders, parents, nannies and children scooted past, unsuspecting, unaware. The van screeched to a halt and was expertly manoeuvred into an impossibly tight spot right in front of the house. It narrowly missed an offensively stinky refuse bag perched precariously on the kerb. Despite the eye-watering rents, the blocks of flats housing families with droves of small children didn’t tend to come with adequate bin provision. The whole episode managed to impress the Polish builders on the scaffolding next door, so much that they forgot to wolf-whistle when Lucia got out.