Murder on the Heath: a suave murder mystery with a great twist

by Sabina Manea

  The detective gazed longingly at his much-loved item of clothing and decided his opinionated partner might be right after all.

  Chapter 3

  The team knees-up was, as usual, at the pub down the road from the station. The Nag’s Head was an old-school establishment, one of the few left of its kind, untroubled by the recent fashion for drinking and dining. Its only culinary concession was a small selection of stale crisps, to be washed down with pints of lukewarm London Pride. Apart from the dwindling number of regulars propping up the bar, the Kentish Town Police Station lot were by all accounts its only remaining customers.

  Lucia and Carliss agreed it wouldn’t do if they turned up bang on time – better to let the others get there first and unwind with a drink or two, unencumbered by the boss’s presence. At two minutes to six the desks had magically emptied, and at six o’clock sharp the first pints were being poured. DS Cam Trinh had got there first, followed closely and rather too keenly by DC George Harding. Tina Braydon and a couple of other PCs privileged enough to tag along made an appearance shortly after. By the time DCI Carliss and Lucia arrived, the atmosphere was pleasantly merry.

  ‘Shh, the Guv’s here,’ hissed Harding. ‘And look what the cat dragged in – if it isn’t Her Highness with him.’

  ‘Give her a break, will you. She’s not so bad,’ said Tina.

  ‘And since when are you on her side?’ retorted Harding. ‘I don’t trust her as far as I can spit. Whatever her game is, she’s clearly on the up, and what better way than to get in with the boss. He’s probably banging her, for all we know,’ he concluded crudely.

  ‘Leave it, Georgie boy, you’re just jealous because her brain’s bigger than yours. Not that it would be hard,’ interjected DS Trinh, who had been slowly creeping up on the two, amused by the ludicrous conversation.

  ‘Yes, well,’ mumbled DC Harding, uncharacteristically silenced. ‘Anyone up for another?’

  As he walked away, he couldn’t help giving Cam Trinh the once-over. The DS was fairly easy on the eye – slim and fine-featured, with a serious face that only went to emphasise her attractiveness. With a husband who was a professional boxer, nobody was stupid enough to do anything about it.

  ‘Save it, Harding, I’m buying,’ interjected DCI Carliss.

  He fetched another round and stationed himself comfortably by the bar, lest he should have to walk too far for his next drink. His team gathered eagerly around him. They were a good bunch. Standard bickering aside, they worked well together, and were known across the rest of the borough for getting results. ‘My elite squad’ was what the Super endearingly called them – though Lucia knew full well it was just a polite way of saying resources at Kentish Town had been savagely cut. We should call ourselves the Odd Deaths Squad, she reflected sarcastically.

  The evening ambled on pleasantly, with the DCI getting sucked into a protracted discussion on the merits of various lower league football players. Cam and Lucia naturally gravitated towards each other in the far corner, away from the guffaws of the men and PC Braydon’s equally enthusiastic interjections. Lucia recognised another ambitious woman when she saw one, and so had a lot of time for Cam. Unlike others in the team, DS Trinh harboured no resentment against Lucia and knew better than to waste time on petty gossip and rivalries. She always had her eye on the next promotion, not that it made her in any way nasty towards her colleagues. On the contrary, the fact that she aimed high seemed to make her more forgiving of everybody else’s failures and foibles.

  ‘It can’t be easy, juggling a young family and police work,’ remarked Lucia sympathetically. ‘I can barely find enough hours in the day to keep it all together, and I haven’t got anyone else to worry about.’

  Cam had just got back from maternity leave and had a three-year-old and a baby at home. Lucia herself had never had the slightest interest in settling down. As far as she was concerned, children were a different species, best avoided.

  Cam sighed. She looked tired but happy and smiled proudly as only a mother could.

  ‘It’s not a walk in the park, but I can’t complain. Patrick does a lot. And since my mum’s given up that godforsaken job in the nail bar, she can’t get enough of the children. Plus, I love my job to bits. You just get used to not having any time off. Sleep is for the weak.’

  ‘You’re right there. And your husband sounds like a good sort, Cam.’ Unlike my dad, who fucked off as soon as mum got pregnant, Lucia thought. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why she didn’t want to get close to any man.

  As the drinks flowed freely, the voices got more and more animated until last orders were insistently called, and they stumbled out into the chilly autumn night, their senses blanketed over by the alcohol. Lucia and Carliss were the last to leave. They were both pleasantly tipsy, only just teetering on the edge of drunkenness.

  ‘You look cold. I’ll hail you a taxi,’ offered the detective, seeing Lucia shiver in the misty air.

  ‘Thanks. I’m knackered, that’s what it is. It was a good night though. The Nag’s Head never fails to disappoint.’ Despite her best efforts, her eyes lingered on him.

  His own blue eyes weren’t doing much better – they were staring right back. He forgot he was supposed to keep an eye out for a taxi. They moved imperceptibly closer, just enough for both parties to realise the outcome was becoming inevitable.

  A sudden deafening screech of tyres broke the spell, and an extravagantly pimped up car sped past. Distracted, Lucia looked on admiringly.

  ‘Bloody kids. Here’s a cab. You’d better jump in, or we’ll both freeze to death.’ He ushered her into the taxi and ambled home.

  Lucia woke up the following morning with a stonking headache, disappointed and relieved at the same time. A lucky escape – she had clearly been drunker than she thought. She squinted at the rolled-up blinds. Judging by the bright light outside, she knew she must be late for work.

  Just as she stumbled clumsily into the shower, the phone on the bedside table rang shrilly. Nearly slipping on the cold tiles, she jumped over the pile of discarded clothes to pick it up.

  ‘David, I’m sorry I’m running late. I’ll be there as quickly as I can. Shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine,’ she wittered on apologetically.

  ‘Get yourself here now. There’s been an unexplained death.’

  Chapter 4

  Fortunately for Lucia, the rest of the team didn’t fare any better. The kettle was working overtime to keep up with the fluctuating symptoms of the collective hangover. DCI Carliss glowered behind his computer screen. He looked in pain, as if his head was being squeezed mercilessly from both sides. He ferreted around in the drawer and washed down a painkiller with the long-neglected coffee on his desk. Had it not been for this wretched death, they could have all bagsied an extra half hour of restorative sleep.

  ‘Took you long enough to get here,’ he mumbled, as a fresh wave of caffeine-induced nausea washed over him.

  Lucia studiously ignored him. He had bags under his eyes and looked as if he’d slept in his clothes, so he must have been feeling pretty rotten.

  ‘So what’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Uniform went out about half an hour ago. They called me, so it’s got to be something odd. They’re waiting for us to take over, so don’t bother taking your coat off.’

  ‘Anyone else coming with us?’

  Attending a death scene wasn’t, strictly speaking, part of a civilian investigator’s job description but, given the size of the Kentish Town CID team and Carliss’s faith in Lucia’s abilities, it had become a matter of habit. The Super had certainly been more than happy to turn a blind eye, so long as they got the job done.

  ‘Nope. Trinh’s knee-deep in catching up on all the fun she’s missed while on maternity leave, and Harding’s been roped back to Holborn on some stabbing. It’s just you and me, kiddo.’

  The drugs had started to kick in, and he was becoming more amenable. He bent down to tie his shoelaces and realised his trouser cuf
fs were caked in dry mud from stumbling into a puddle the night before. Serves you right, Lucia thought, getting pissed as a newt, but at least we had the sense to sleep in our separate beds.

  They jumped into the inspector’s battered, virulently gold Corsa that he refused to part with – probably just as well, given the budget cuts. Unlike Lucia, he couldn’t care less about cars. He drove prudently as always, sat neatly upright and with both hands on the wheel, while Lucia tapped her fingers impatiently on her knee. It would have only taken ten minutes if she’d been in charge, but Carliss wouldn’t hear of it. He was still traumatised after the last time he’d been in the passenger seat of her work van – the contents of his stomach hadn’t been safe, to put it politely. Lucia had taken great pleasure in disclosing that she used to indulge in a spot of street racing as a student, if only to rile him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘Hampstead. Well Walk, to be exact.’

  It had been Lucia’s old stomping ground until she left home to go to university. She had grown up in a small council flat on Grove Place, just around the corner from her primary school, where her mum had been a dinner lady. Contrary to what DCI Carliss had always assumed before meeting her – being born and bred in Kentish Town himself – Hampstead wasn’t all bankers and footballers if you knew where to look.

  On arrival, he parked studiously next to the marked police vehicle that was also parked there, the sole indication of trouble. They got out of the car, and both surveyed the building with a critical eye. Slightly raised from the level of the road, it had once been a pleasantly rectangular Georgian edifice, were it not for an added lower height extension that marred the symmetrical effect. It stood out like a sore thumb amongst the frilly, unashamedly red-brick Victorian mansion blocks that swamped it.

  ‘Not bad, if you can afford it,’ remarked Carliss with some disdain.

  They walked up the steps to the front door, which bore a shiny metal plaque inscribed with “Connections Counselling” and a phone number.

  ‘What a surprise. These people are two a penny around here,’ he said. ‘Who knew being rich was such an ordeal?’

  Lucia knew the DCI was resolutely unsympathetic towards anything to do with mental health, being from a generation that was simply expected to grin and bear it.

  ‘Hold your horses, they’re hardly touting for your business. Let’s see who’s died first, and then judge.’

  The inspector rang the bell firmly, and they were let in by one of the PCs, who embarked on a thorough handover of the case. The ambulance crew had already been in attendance, though it had only served to confirm the death. As Carliss did his best to focus his suffering braincells on the incoming information, Lucia stood quietly behind him, taking in the place.

  The front door had led them into a tall, narrow hallway, painted in what she recognised as an expensive, elaborately named shade of cream. It was empty save for a spindly console table topped with an ornate mirror – both well-chosen antiques, by the looks of it. From the white ceiling hung an oversized spherical glass pendant, whose simplicity belied the almost certain fact that it was hand-blown. Immediately on the right was an archway leading into what appeared to be the reception area, which, from where they were standing, looked quiet and empty. Under foot was a restored wood floor, and straight ahead was a sleek staircase with a tastefully chosen runner. The place managed to be discreetly expensive whilst also homely and calming. Whoever ran the business was evidently a smooth operator.

  ‘Right, uniform’s done here, so the place is all ours. Who knows, it might be a wasted journey after all,’ complained the detective. Genuinely unexplained deaths that warranted a complex and protracted investigation were, in reality, few and far between. ‘Did you get all of that?’

  ‘Most of it,’ said Lucia. ‘I was busy having a look around.’

  ‘Good. Any thoughts?’

  ‘Very nicely done. Business is plentiful, clearly. Just the paint in the entrance hall, no labour included, would set you back a good few grand,’ she remarked, putting her decorating experience to good use. ‘And as for the table and mirror, I very much doubt they’re from the charity shop. It’s an upmarket establishment we’re dealing with here.’

  ‘Hmm. OK, let’s go see the body, and we can decide whether to call for reinforcements or go back to the office for a nap. Oh, and we’ve got someone to speak to. The secretary. She’s the one who found the body, apparently.’

  They stepped through the curved archway into the waiting area, which was larger than it had first appeared to Lucia. Its walls matched those of the hallway. The full-height original sash window with a view of the street was framed by soft, duck egg blue curtains. The sofa and two matching armchairs in the same colour completed the picture of comfort and tranquillity. The polished glass coffee table housed a few well-chosen, dauntingly pristine interior design and commercial psychology magazines – this clearly wasn’t the place for well-thumbed fashion tomes. A fresh bouquet of delicate white and pink roses adorned the windowsill. The reception desk was as minimalist as could be, with a fashionable transparent chair which looked the part, but couldn’t have been particularly comfortable to sit on day in, day out.

  As Lucia and Carliss walked in they noticed a woman hovering uneasily by the window with her back to them, arms wrapped around her slim body as if there had been a chill in the air. The room was perfectly well heated, so that reason could safely be discounted. As the pair approached her, she jumped and fixed them with frightened eyes, as if she were in fear of her life.

  ‘Miss Whittle, sorry to startle you. Detective Chief Inspector David Carliss of the Metropolitan Police, and this is my colleague, Lucia Steer. Shall we have a seat?’

  The young woman’s eyes darted to the sofa. She sat down in slow motion, smoothing her bright yellow skirt around her thin knees. She couldn’t have been older than mid-twenties, but there was something careworn about her mien, as if it hid a heavier burden than her years would suggest. Like many of her peers, she seemed a slave to the current trend of erasing any trace of her real face and replacing it with a thick layer of paint, on top of which new features would be drawn. The jury was out on whether it was an improvement on what nature had already provided. The montage was completed by an improbable pair of clumpy Doc Martens boots topped with a baggy black jumper – the kind of look that would be instantly forgettable as soon as it was slavishly photographed and posted publicly for the world to see. The girl looked vulnerable, assessed Lucia, as she and the inspector took a very spacious armchair each.

  ‘Can I get you a drink? Hot sugary tea works a treat in these situations,’ offered the detective in the best avuncular tone he could muster.

  Lucia suppressed an involuntary smile. She knew from her own experience that making a cup of tea gave her boss an excellent excuse to have a preliminary snoop around the place and tailor his questions accordingly.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Sorry, it’s been a bit of a shock,’ the girl replied croakily, as if she hadn’t used her voice for a while. ‘The other policeman said to wait for you.’ Her hands were visibly shaking, and she looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘Yes, much appreciated. If you don’t mind, we’re just going to have a look and we’ll be right back.’

  Having safely settled the girl, DCI Carliss, followed closely by Lucia, headed for the closed door behind the reception desk. The door led into a small corridor, with two other doors on the right-hand side and what looked like a brand-new window, judging from the unpeeled tape on the frame, at the end. Lucia was surprised at the pokiness, until she remembered from her interior design days how narrow these Georgian houses were inside – all high ceilings and no floor space. The unsightly extension they had noticed outside must have been a different building altogether. A faint but unmistakable smell of building materials, which had not been apparent in the waiting room, hung in the air.

  ‘Through here. First door on the right, that’s what the constable said.’r />
  Carliss directed them into a spacious study. The discreetly expensive theme of the public areas had been seamlessly carried through. The place was all cream walls and calming soft furnishings. A small, smooth white desk and matching chair were quietly tucked away in a corner. A mid-century leather armchair and matching footrest serving as a side table – both of which Lucia recognised as eye-wateringly expensive originals rather than the ubiquitous knock-offs – faced a capacious three-seater sofa, beautifully upholstered in olive velvet.

  ‘Can’t have squabbling couples sitting too close to each other,’ quipped the policeman, echoing Lucia’s own thoughts.

  In the left far corner was another door, and the apparent placidity of the study was about to be shattered.

  Chapter 5

  ‘I’ll go through the details, and you tell me what doesn’t fit, if anything,’ said the inspector wearily.

  He glanced at the lifeless body on the floor of the kitchenette, soon to be examined and prodded like it had never housed a breathing, discerning human being. This part never got any easier, no matter how many years you’d been on the job.

  ‘Alec Penney, thirty-nine. He owns this whole place – offices downstairs, living quarters upstairs. Worked as a counselling psychologist for the NHS, then set up his own gig six years ago. He calls himself a relationship coach, whatever that means. His secretary, Elsa Whittle, came in as usual this morning and found him like this. She called the ambulance, not that there was anything they could do. According to the paramedics, it looks like an electrical accident.’