by Sabina Manea
‘A literary salon? What does that even mean?’ grumbled Carliss as he fumbled with a cigarette which he had to regretfully replace in his pocket.
Lucia smiled wryly. ‘Something fashionable, by the sounds of things. I’m sure we’ll be enlightened shortly.’
It took the detectives a couple of long, insistent rings of the doorbell before the door was cracked open just an inch or two. Lucia was hit by a smell of airlessness and musty, unwashed clothes, and it took her a good few seconds to make out the person who had answered. The man was anywhere between thirty and forty, with a mop of shoulder-length wavy brown hair that looked like it hadn’t encountered water or shampoo for quite some time. He brushed his mane out of his eyes and edged reluctantly into the light. He was topless, wearing only a pair of bright blue, baggy harem trousers and sporting bare feet. Despite his unkempt appearance, judging by his upper body, Lucia assessed that he must have spent a considerable time exercising. He was undeniably good-looking, albeit in a feral sort of way.
‘Darius Major?’ asked Carliss with a totally bemused look on his face. The set-up had clearly taken him by surprise.
‘Yes. Who’s asking?’ The man spoke with an American accent, a languid Southern drawl that made Walter Chanler, Nina’s husband and a native of South Carolina, sound positively Yankee in comparison.
‘DCI David Carliss and Lucia Steer of the Metropolitan Police. We have an appointment, remember? We spoke on the phone yesterday,’ continued the policeman.
‘Ah, yes, the police. My apologies, our rendezvous appears to have slipped my mind. Late night yesterday. Do come in. You’ll excuse the mess, won’t you?’
Lucia couldn’t help a little smile at the theatricality of the situation. It all seemed rather staged. As the door opened widely, she saw that it led directly into the flat, not into a communal corridor. A narrow hallway revealed an open door on the right-hand side and another, closed one straight ahead. The floor was covered in innumerable pairs of shoes of all conceivable persuasions: boots, trainers, sandals and loafers that had once upon a time been smart, with the one unifying trait of being very scruffy and haphazardly distributed.
Darius Major ushered them through the open door, and the detectives found themselves in the sitting room. It was very dark, on account of the thick, ruby red curtains being fully drawn. Darius walked to the window, and moments later the bright morning light was allowed in.
The room was as much of a mess as Lucia had expected based on what she had glimpsed of the rest of the house. The space was principally occupied by a large, sagging sofa covered in a myriad of multicoloured throws and cushions of all shapes and sizes. Dotted around the room were pouffes and beanbags, and the large, heavily scratched wooden coffee table housed the remnants of an evidently big night in. Empty beer and wine bottles jostled side by side with empty pizza boxes and a couple of overflowing ashtrays. It smelled of stale smoke, sweat and general dinginess. Lucia could see that the inspector was trying to repress an involuntary shudder. His own house was tidy, immaculate in fact, and beautifully furnished, the opposite of this squalid den.
‘Please, have a seat. I would offer you a drink, but as you can see, we’re all out.’ Darius gestured to the sofa and the empties on the table.
‘We’re OK, thank you,’ replied DCI Carliss as he moved a load of cushions to one side and sat down, only to find himself sinking deep into the piece of furniture. The effect was comical; his knees were higher than they should have been, and he looked like he was being swallowed whole. Lucia took note and perched on the edge next to him.
‘Mr Major, as I said when we spoke on the phone, we’re investigating the death of Genevieve Taylor. How long have you known her?’ Carliss asked.
Darius, who had installed himself cross-legged on a desolate beanbag, blinked as if he had just noticed he wasn’t alone in the room. ‘Only a month or so. Rosie brought her along one evening, and we took her under our wing. How terrible. Rosie told me. A terrible shock.’ He stopped in his tracks, at a loss for words. He looked like something had taken the edge off his senses; drugs perhaps, Lucia surmised. He wasn’t quite there, in any case.
Carliss ploughed on, evidently for the sake of eliciting some sort of near-normal reaction. ‘It appears she drowned in the bath.’
Darius’s eyes, glazed over as they were, shot out the briefest spark of panic, but it instantly disappeared. ‘Awful. Genevieve was so lovely, so kind.’ He started rocking backwards and forwards gently, with his eyes half closed, as if in a trance. ‘I saw into her soul, you know. She was a free spirit at heart. All this go-getting corporate lawyer stuff, it was just a front. She was so much more than that.’
‘What exactly is Aurora Borealis, Mr Major?’ interrupted Carliss with some impatience.
‘My brainchild. My literary salon. My refuge from the world.’
‘Can you elaborate on that, please? What exactly do you do?’ The policeman was tapping his foot on the floor, evidently trying not to lose his rag.
‘We seek to leave the mundane behind and create a space of beauty and free intellectual discourse. We talk about books we’ve read, art we’ve admired, music that has touched us.’ Darius Major paused for effect.
The affectation was starting to get on Lucia’s nerves. ‘How do people know about your salon? And how often do you meet?’ she asked.
‘News travels. Friends bring friends, and so on. I don’t like to make too much of a fuss about it. No social media or anything like that. We want our sort of people only. All slightly lost souls, looking for something to grasp on to. We meet once a week, here at my place. We talk, drink and stay up late. No doubt you would disapprove of our shenanigans, Inspector.’ This last comment he directed snappily at Carliss.
‘Did Genevieve have anyone in her life?’ asked Lucia, allowing herself a resigned inward sigh. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Darius sat up a little straighter, and a flash of palpable contempt crossed his placid features. ‘Yeah. Edoardo.’ He said the name in a mocking, exaggerated Italian accent. ‘His Lordship was a lucky man.’
‘You don’t like him much, then?’ asked Carliss.
‘Eh, he’s not so bad. I can’t remember who introduced him. He’s Italian aristocracy, or so he claims, and looks down on the rest of us mere mortals. He liked Genevieve though. Didn’t waste any time cosying up to her. They’d only been together a couple of weeks. They met here at the salon. Something about that guy I didn’t like. Arrogant prick.’ Darius’s eyes narrowed as he spat out the words. For whatever reason, there was clearly no love lost between the two men.
Lucia and Carliss exchanged a brief conspiratorial look. The dead woman had been exceptionally beautiful, and that couldn’t have been a negligible fact. If Darius Major’s outburst was anything to go by, she had evidently made an impression on more than one man.
Chapter 10
With the interview at an end, DCI Carliss and Lucia sat in the policeman’s battered old Corsa. The policeman was smoking a cigarette out of the open window while scrolling through his phone. It had been more than an hour since the last break. Lucia could see that something was on her boss’s mind, so she waited. It was a few moments before Carliss spoke.
‘What a prat.’
‘Not your type then?’ joked Lucia. ‘Misunderstood artist, long flowing locks and all that?’
‘Absolutely not.’ The policeman looked genuinely horrified at the suggestion. ‘Why? Is he your type?’
‘Not especially. Looks a bit too high-maintenance for my liking,’ replied Lucia as she wondered what her type actually was. A man who knew who he was, comfortable in his own skin. She pushed away the thought of the familiar man with the piercing blue eyes that fitted the bill, the one who was sat next to her.
‘What exactly is his game, I wonder?’ Carliss said. ‘Besides getting pretty women to join his salon. Sounds like an excuse to perv over them. Culture, my arse. Some things never change.’
‘You’re probably right. He�
�s got a little game going, that’s for sure. Cam’s looking into his background as we speak, so we should know more soon. I couldn’t find much about him to start with, but then I didn’t really persevere.’ Lucia flicked through her notes, which were unintelligible scribbles to anyone but herself. ‘Darius says he was at home with his girlfriend all evening on the day that Genevieve died. Marie Cassel. They spent the night at his flat. Marie’s a member of the salon too.’
Carliss stretched out his legs as far as the small footwell of his car would allow and said, ‘So, from the list he’s given us, we’ve got Darius Major himself, whoever he might be, Rosie Venter, the lawyer, Marie Cassel, Edoardo da Carrara, the boyfriend, and Miles Donovan. Cam just messaged to say Marie’s a sculptor. Another bloody artist, what a joy. I bet she’s going to be a pleasure to chat to. Miles is a janitor for some temping company. And Genevieve, the dead woman.’
‘Neither Rosie nor Darius knew about Genevieve’s unusual water allergy, or so they say,’ noted Lucia. ‘Hard to know what to believe at this stage. If Genevieve was very private, it does seem unlikely she would have shouted it from the rooftops.’ Lucia racked her brains. What did it matter if they knew or not? Something troubled her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
‘What a crock of shit we’ve got on our hands.’
Carliss threw the fag butt unceremoniously out of the window. It landed next to a squashed piece of chewing gum, a common decorative feature of London pavements. Ignoring Lucia’s disapproving stare, he revved up the engine, and they set off.
* * *
Coffee mugs parked in front of them, Lucia, Trinh and Carliss sat in the inspector’s office reading through the lengthy report that Trinh had painstakingly prepared. Lucia had recently persuaded her boss to procure a small table and four chairs that could be housed in the corner of the room, precisely for such team meetings. It was far preferable to all of them huddling around Carliss’s desk, uncomfortably stretching out their necks to look at his computer screen. Amazing what working in a corporate office taught you, Lucia pondered sarcastically. Since she had joined the police, she was constantly surprised by how much they were stuck somewhere in the 1990s. Or maybe it was just the DCI being old-school; a likely possibility.
‘Well done, DS Trinh. This is exceptionally thorough, just the way I like it,’ said Carliss with a satisfied look.
Cam Trinh beamed at the compliment. ‘Thanks, boss. All those hours spent trawling the internet paid off then.’
‘Let’s see where we are,’ Carliss said. ‘Darius Major. Thirty-two. He’s a US national. He’s been in the UK for four years. It’s a long time to be a waster in London. Being a bohemian doesn’t come cheap around here. Well done, Cam, for finding out that he comes from a rich family. A hefty legacy from Georgia steel. Alright for some, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t forget he’s ex-US Army,’ Lucia added. ‘He used to be in the 3rd Infantry Division, based at Fort Stewart in Georgia. He only just narrowly escaped a dishonourable discharge. Caught with prostitutes and illicit drugs on base. What an absolute idiot. Luckily Darius Senior pulled some strings, and our boy got off a lot more lightly than he should have done. Daddy’s now bankrolling his artistic lifestyle in Europe to keep him out of the country and out of trouble. You were right to call him a prat, boss. I can think of stronger expletives but I’m going to refrain.’
‘Don’t feel you have to. We need to speak to Marie Cassel and check Darius’s alibi for the Thursday night when Genevieve died, to see if they were really together as he claims. Now, what about her?’ asked Carliss.
‘Twenty-nine. She’s French. She only arrived in the UK about nine months ago to take up a job as a curator at Redline Space. An art gallery in Whitechapel. You’d hate it, all abstract paintings and angry installations, very now,’ replied Lucia. ‘She’s a sculptor herself, though not a very successful one by the looks of things. She met Darius at an exhibition preview.’
‘OK. What about the solicitor?’ continued Carliss.
Trinh looked at her notes. ‘Rosie Venter. Thirty-three, South African, here for three years. It fits with what she’s already told you when you went to her offices. She’s been working for Creasy & Gotts ever since she arrived in the country. Nothing much on her. Looks like she’s been a corporate lawyer all her working life. University in Johannesburg, then a big local firm before moving to London.’
‘What about the boyfriend, Edoardo?’ asked the inspector.
‘Born in Padua, Italy, brought up in the UK. Boarding school since he was eight. He’s very old money. The da Carrara name has been around since the Middle Ages, and his family still owns a huge estate in Italy. He’s in London property, buys flats and does them up as flashily as possible, then flogs them off to shady rich buyers at eyewatering prices. Good business to be in, especially if you’ve got plenty of inherited cash to fritter away. Come to think of it, he’s not that dissimilar to Darius in that respect. Rich dilettantes, the pair of them,’ said Lucia contemptuously. She herself had always had to work hard, seeing how she had been born to and brought up by a single mother on a council estate.
Carliss picked up the thread. ‘Last one on the list is Miles Donovan. He’s Kiwi, like Genevieve, but from Auckland. He’s an office caretaker here in London. Moved to the UK two years ago, after getting married to a British citizen back in New Zealand. It didn’t last long, and they eventually got divorced. Decided to stay on in the country though. No children or other dependants. Sounds like a regular sort of guy, unlike the others in this motley crew.’
‘What do all these people have in common, DCI Carliss?’ asked Lucia, though she knew the answer already.
‘They’re not British?’ ventured the inspector.
‘Precisely. They’re all expats. Maybe that’s what Darius meant by “lost souls”. They’re all away from home, on their own in a foreign country. Maybe that’s what brought them together; their being different was what they had in common. London isn’t an easy place to live if you haven’t got anyone to share it with,’ replied Lucia.
Carliss didn’t look particularly impressed or sympathetic. ‘If I wanted company, I wouldn’t go looking for it in Darius Major’s house, but maybe that’s just me. Alright, Lucia, you and me are off to see His Lordship, as Darius Major calls him. I think you’ll agree that a trip to Mayfair can’t be too shabby an outing.’
Chapter 11
True to expectations, the offices of CASATA, Edoardo da Carrara’s property business, were in the heart of Mayfair.
‘I’m with Darius Major. The guy’s clearly an arrogant prick: “casata” means “lineage”, doesn’t it? Well, he’s got plenty of that, and there’s no need to show it off quite so much. You couldn’t make it up,’ muttered DCI Carliss as Lucia expertly manoeuvred her satin blue Alfa Romeo Spider into an implausibly tight parking spot right outside their destination.
She’d managed to persuade her boss to take her car instead of his, arguing that the policeman’s crappy Corsa was a step too far for the smart area. In reality, Lucia didn’t give two hoots about the impression they made. She simply couldn’t bear the DCI’s driving; too slow and careful for her liking.
‘Thank God. I thought I was going to barf my breakfast all over your swish leather seats. Do you have to use the brakes so aggressively? What’s wrong with slowing down first?’ groaned Carliss as he folded himself out of the car.
‘Slowing down is for the weak,’ teased Lucia. She drove even more manically than usual when she had the inspector with her, just to wind him up a little.
‘Well, this looks expensive. Good job I cleaned my shoes this morning, or we might not be let in,’ said Carliss, eyeing up the white stucco-fronted building in front of them. ‘Hertford Street. One of the best addresses going. Shall we?’
After a swift exchange with the receptionist, the two detectives were accompanied upstairs. As the lift doors opened, as if to order they were greeted by a slim youngish man, not particularly tall but with a posture th
at suggested he was used to giving orders and getting his way. His naturally dark blonde hair was slicked back with rather too much product for Lucia’s taste, and he had a small smile that hung just off the left corner of his mouth, giving the appearance of permanent disdain. Judging by what they’d gleaned about the man, the assessment was likely to be accurate. Edoardo da Carrara was beautifully dressed in a sharp light blue shirt and branded chinos, complemented by shoes that had been without a shadow of a doubt handmade in Northampton. The outfit had been painstakingly curated. He certainly seemed to confirm all of the detectives’ prejudices.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Carliss and Miss Steer, welcome.’ He spoke perfect English, with no trace of an Italian accent. The top boarding school where he had been shipped had clearly got his parents a good return on their investment.
Introductions were made, hot drinks were offered, and the parties settled into a conference room that was a lot better appointed than the one the detectives had been grudgingly assigned at Creasy & Gotts. Edoardo da Carrara sat on one side of the vast glass table, facing Lucia and Carliss. The overall effect was of a job interview taking place, except it didn’t feel much like Edoardo was the one being grilled.
DCI Carliss began the questioning in an attempt to regain some ground and clearly conscious that they were on the man’s closely guarded territory. ‘Mr da Carrara, I understand you were in a relationship with the deceased, Genevieve Taylor. Is that correct?’
Edoardo’s subtle smile had by now disappeared. ‘Yes, we were seeing each other. It’s a huge shock. We’d only been going out a couple of weeks, but she was a really nice girl. The kind you see yourself spending a lot of time with, you know.’
‘And you met at Aurora Borealis, Darius Major’s literary salon?’ continued the inspector.