by Sabina Manea
‘Thank you for seeing me, Dr Glover. I just have a few routine follow-up questions.’ Dr Glover glanced at his watch. Carliss had been allocated half an hour, and he wasn’t going to be entitled to a single extra minute. ‘How long have you known Professor Alla Kiseleva?’
Dr Glover fixed him with a pair of interrogator’s eyes. He wasn’t used to being on the other side of the table. ‘Just under five years, when she became my patient.’
‘And you became friends? She invited you to her social occasions.’ Despite the apparent banality of the question, the detective felt like he was treading on dangerous ground.
‘We were friendly acquaintances. She was a fascinating woman. We enjoyed talking about her work.’
The clipped answers were making it hard to elicit any useful information. Carliss decided to experiment with a shock tactic.
‘The post-mortem results indicate the Professor died from poisoning with sodium fluoroacetate. Are you familiar with it?’
Dr Glover slowly cupped his hands together, his rigid fingers not quite grasping their counterparts. His expression was unchanged. ‘I know of it. It’s a rodenticide. How could she have ingested it?’
‘That’s something we’re still working on. To your knowledge, did she ever exhibit any depressive tendencies?’
‘You think it was suicide?’
‘We can’t rule it out.’
‘Evidently, I’m not in a position to disclose her medical records, but no – she wasn’t depressed, not insofar as I could tell.’
‘Were you aware there was a tin of the poison in her house? In the kitchen, to be precise.’
‘No, I had no idea. I’ve never been in the kitchen at Beatrice Hall.’
‘Even though you’ve known the Professor for five years?’
Dr Glover wasn’t one to keel over in cross-examination. A minuscule smile stretched out his thin lips. ‘I don’t make it my business to snoop around my patients’ houses, DCI Carliss.’
The detective wiped his brow. He felt hot and cold at the same time. Dr Glover sensed his weakness and pounced.
‘Are you quite alright, Inspector? Would you like some paracetamol?’
‘If you don’t mind. It’s just a pesky cold. Sorry to be a bother.’
‘No bother at all.’
Within a few seconds of his picking up the phone, the nurse came in bearing two tablets and a glass of water. Carliss swallowed the lot thirstily.
‘Thank you. That’ll sort it out.’ He tried to refocus his mind on the interview. It was frustratingly blank.
‘Was there anything else, Inspector?’
‘Yes. Yes, there was one more thing. I’ve read your account of the party. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary that day, anyone present acting in an unusual manner?’
Dr Glover contemplated the question with the same concentration he would have applied to the wine list at the In and Out.
‘Nothing technically out of the ordinary.’
‘But there was something that caught your attention?’
‘When I arrived at four sharp, Adam Corcoran was on his telephone in the entrance hall. He didn’t see me come in. He was having a heated discussion as far as I could tell. He ended it with some rather bad language.’ Dr Glover was clearly intending to keep up the suspense – the information was trickling out at a glacial pace.
‘What did he say?’
‘I quote: “Fucking bitch, she’s ruined my life. She’s going to pay for it.”’
‘Do you know whom he was referring to?’
‘Absolutely no idea.’
‘What happened next?’
‘He saw me and cut the conversation short. He muttered a hello and scuttled off to the garden.’
‘Did you talk to him during the party?’
‘Only cursorily. He seemed embarrassed at my having overheard him.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this during the first interview?’
‘Nobody asked me to report on the whereabouts of the other guests.’
‘Are there any other whereabouts that you think are worth mentioning?’
‘None, as far as I can recall.’
This was as much as Carliss could take. The medication would soon kick in, but he needed to lie down. The combination of the lurgy and the unexpected role reversal – whereby he had become the vulnerable party – had finished him off.
‘Thank you, Dr Glover. That’s all for now. If you do remember anything else of note, please give me a ring any time.’
The policeman couldn’t remember how he got home. He must have hailed a taxi – there was no way he could have walked or negotiated public transport in that state. Before he fell into the kind of profound sleep that either heralded recovery or a prolonged illness, he managed to text Lucia to postpone the search for John Walker’s supposed mistress.
He must have slept for over eighteen hours, uninterrupted. It was four in the morning when he woke up, desperate for a glass of water. He took another dose and went back to bed.
In her flat, Lucia debated what to do. She would leave him to sleep it off and give him a ring on the Monday morning.
When she did, he answered almost straightaway.
‘Still alive?’
‘Yes, just about. You can’t get rid of me that easily.’ The weekend-long hibernation, in conjunction with an invalid’s diet of buttered toast, bananas and water, had done him good. He still wasn’t a hundred percent, but the improvement was considerable.
‘How did it go with the good doctor?’
‘About as fun as pulling teeth. You’re right, he is reptilian. Terrifying too. Ex-army, according to what we’ve unearthed, so wouldn’t have expected any less.’ Carliss reported the story about Adam. ‘If he was referring to the Professor, the noose is tightening.’
The odds certainly looked well stacked against Adam Corcoran, Lucia thought. ‘OK. Now here’s 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. Bes
ides, 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 you, the mistress seems a bit older than the wife, which is not so common.’
Lucia had just spotted this, and an incipient thought began to take shape.
They didn’t have to wait long for an indication of the nature of the relationship between John Walker and his host. There was no obvious kiss, only a tender arm around her waist as they went in. That they were intimate was unmistakable.
‘There you go. Now we find out who she is.’ Lucia whipped out her phone.
‘How? I could phone the station and ask someone to look into her.’
Lucia laughed at his technological ineptitude. ‘You don’t need to call the station. Land Registry records are publicly available. For a few pounds, we’ll know exactly what she’s called.’ She typed in the address and waited patiently for the title register to download.
‘She could be renting.’ Carliss was evidently a little embarrassed at his own lack of initiative.
‘Nobody rents a house like that. Besides, have you seen her? She hardly looks like the renting type. Here it is. One owner – Frieda Marie Alexander. You won’t believe how much this place cost. Now let’s see what she’s been up to.’ Lucia typed in her name. Her supposition was instantly confirmed.
‘What is it?’
‘I suspected as much.’
They pored over the screen, eyes widening as they read on.
Mrs Justice Alexander belonged to a rare and readily identifiable breed. She was one of the few women judges to sit in the Commercial Court, where John Walker primarily plied his trade. Lucia read out the entry: ‘Born in Tokyo to a British diplomat and a Japanese hotel heiress. One of the youngest women to take silk.’ In the official photo, her delicate face and billowing, expertly tailored dress ensured she stood out in a sea of greying men.
‘You know what you said about money and power? Seems like you got it the wrong way round at the outset.’
Lucia admitted she had. ‘I should have known better. He was unlikely to swap his own housewife for another.’
The newly revealed information was dynamite. Lucia made a mental note to check how many cases Frieda Alexander had sat on that John Walker had won. Either way, career suicide loomed for both parties. How intelligent people could be so utterly stupid was beyond her – but then, in their boundless arrogance, they must have assumed they were invincible – a major defect that came with the professional territory.
‘He’s in a lot of trouble, that’s for sure. Titillating as this may be, what’s it got to do with our murder?’ said Carliss.
Lucia could tell the inspector was having more fun than he was willing to admit. ‘Nothing, perhaps. For now, at least, it’s just a useful fact to bank. You look like you could do with some rest. I’ll take you home.’
For once, it was Carliss who was being looked after, which was unprecedented. Given the pain had started again on the left side of his head, he was grateful. Lucia promised to drive more smoothly, and before long they were on the edges of Regent’s Park, back to the familiarity of North London. Carliss had dozed off. She touched his arm gently to wake him up. ‘You’re still unwell. Don’t do any more work. And that’s an order.’
‘OK, boss. So far, we’ve got a grieving housekeeper, a so-called nephew cut out of the inheritance, a shifty PA, an inscrutable doctor and a cheating husband. Oh, and a long-suffering wife who may or may not know what working after hours really means. Who’s the killer?’
‘Go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.’
She watched him go in and close the door behind him. Now that he’d been safely delivered, she needed some time to think. Her head was spinning with the attributes of their six suspects, but nothing fell into place. She would have to sleep on it, and in the meantime, she would drop off the van at home and head to the Red Lion. There was no trouble in the world that a large glass of chilled Burgundy couldn’t alleviate.
* * *
The boozer was respectably populated for a Monday night. Come to think of it, Lucia had never seen it empty. Bills, children, partners and overbearing parents could all be momentarily eradicated by a few cold pints. She approached the bar and sat next to a young lad she hadn’t seen there before. He was well bedded on the stool and fixed her with an uncensored suggestive expression.
‘Alright, love? Here on your own?’
‘Save your breath, I’m not on the pull. Hi, Becky.’ She indicated her usual with a raised finger and gave the unsuspecting lad a condescending look.
Becky, resplend
ent in a low-cut top, watched the exchange with an expectant look, hoping for entertainment.
‘Oh, don’t be like that. Give us a smile.’ He persevered, despite the unequivocal response to his advances. There was something off about him that intoxication alone didn’t explain. He stared at her with enlarged pupils surrounded by reddened whites. His breathing was visibly shallow, and his fingers shook on the beer glass.
Lucia brushed it off. His health wasn’t her business. ‘Pack it in, or I’ll give you a slap, and you’re never coming back here again.’
He grinned in vain for a moment longer and turned away, despondent at his failed romantic overture. She savoured the first sip of the buttery wine and blinked. She couldn’t stop turning over in her head what Carliss had uncovered at Morris Llewellyn. Nearly all the pieces pointing at Adam as the main suspect were in place. What she couldn’t quite reconcile was the role that Mrs Byrne played in the whole charade. One to squeeze out of her, if she was at all amenable to another session in the makeshift confessional. Mrs Byrne was perfectly capable of holding back information so long as nobody asked any direct questions.
The noisy chatter around her was grating. They seemed particularly elated about something.
‘What’s up with them?’
Becky shook her head. ‘Beats me. I think the football must have been on earlier. They’re all mad for it, this lot.’
‘Don’t let anyone take my seat.’
‘Got it. Don’t hold it against Kev, by the way. He’s new and hasn’t learned the ropes yet. He tried it with me the other day, but he just doesn’t give up. Not many girls around here to practise on.’ Becky laughed forgivingly.
Lucia stood up and slunk past the red-faced men shouting and swilling their glasses, spilling beer on the already objectionable carpet. They all had bloodshot eyes. The men’s and women’s toilets faced each other. As she came out, she nearly walked into Jimbo, Danny’s apprentice. The door hovered open for a few seconds before he let it slam behind him. It was long enough for Lucia to see Adam. The tightly rolled-up banknote was the ideal conduit for the thin line of white powder to make the journey from the countertop into his system. He was too engrossed in this activity to notice he had an audience. Jimbo’s eyes were glazed over. He didn’t recognize her, and, even if he had, the encounter would have been forgotten by the morning.