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

by Sabina Manea

  ‘OK, got it, Miss Whittle,’ said Carliss.

  ‘Then, just when I think it’s all nice and quiet again, at twenty past seven there’s another client just dropping in out of the blue. George Coddington, he’s called. Said he made an appointment directly with Alec. He went through and shut the door behind my desk. Only a few minutes later he darted out saying he’d changed his mind and didn’t need to speak to Alec after all. Very odd, I thought, but these people often are. And here’s me thinking he’s not even on our books anymore.’

  Elsa looked like she wanted to go further but stopped herself before divulging any further so-called confidential client information. Lucia could see the girl would have gladly embarked on a thorough gossip session given the opportunity. As the sugar in the tea kicked in, the PA wittered on without the need for prompting.

  ‘Then, at seven thirty, I thought I’d make a run for it, before any more unexpected visitors arrived. I shouted bye to Alec and left. He didn’t reply – busy with his work, I expect, after wasting his time with all those interruptions.’

  The DCI was scribbling frantically in his notebook. ‘That’s very helpful, thank you. So Alec was the last one left in the building, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’ The girl put a hand to her mouth, and her eyes widened again. ‘He must have gone to the kitchen to make himself a drink and… look what happened.’

  ‘Can you tell me what sort of a guy Alec was? Good employer?’ asked Carliss.

  Elsa straightened her back and looked up – wistfully, Lucia thought. ‘Yeah, he was really nice to me. I’d been with him a couple of years. Nice bloke,’ she repeated. ‘We didn’t hang around much socially, you know. Occasionally we’d pop out for a quick drink after work in the pub around the corner, but we didn’t make a habit of it.’

  She looked down and embarked on an examination of her chronically chewed nails. They were losing her, Lucia could tell, and she couldn’t help feeling there was more to the story than the girl let on. This wasn’t the time or place for a full confession.

  Lucia and Carliss looked at each other, and a tacit understanding passed between them. There was nothing to be gained from dragging out the interview any longer.

  ‘Elsa, you’ve been a great help, thank you. I want you to go home and have a lie-down, try and get some rest. Call a family member or a friend to come sit with you if you don’t want to be on your own. And get some food in you. Low blood sugar is going to make you feel even worse,’ ordered Lucia. ‘We’ll call you a taxi.’

  Before the girl had a chance to protest, DCI Carliss had rushed out and flagged down a black cab, bundling the girl and her ridiculously oversized coat and handbag into it. They already had her home address and contact details, courtesy of the efficient PC, who had also requisitioned a spare key to the building.

  As they stood on the doorstep watching the taxi speed off, the inspector looked expectantly at Lucia. ‘So what do you make of all that?’

  ‘It looks straightforward enough,’ she said enigmatically.

  ‘But you don’t think it is?’

  ‘No. I wish I did.’ She was patently lying – the thrill of a promising case was too much to resist, even if it did involve the very unfortunate demise of a human being.

  ‘What’s bothering you?’

  ‘I can’t put my finger on it.’

  ‘You need to do better than that, I’m afraid. For my part, it looks like accidental death, so I’m ready to hand it back to Holborn.’

  Lucia winced. She couldn’t have that – she trusted her instincts. ‘Don’t. If it really is an accident, it’ll be on me. Incidentally, “George Coddington” rings a bell. I’ll do a bit of digging.’

  Carliss huffed grumpily and rummaged in his trouser pocket. He had left his coat inside, and it was starting to drizzle. Luckily, he kept his packet of cigarettes close. The occasion called for a curative smoke.

  ‘I can’t kick up a fuss unless you can point to something that suggests foul play. We can’t just be merrily blowing the budget on forensics. The Super will have our guts for garters.’

  Despite his protestations, Lucia knew that deep down he always trusted her judgment. She just needed to get her head around what had happened to Alec Penney. There was something about her that none of the coppers had – a sixth sense, for anyone that believed in that kind of nonsense. The DCI didn’t, but also knew better than to call it “female intuition”, which would have earned him a well-deserved slap – so he diplomatically referred to it as “covering all bases”.

  Lucia glanced at her watch. The burglary victims, Jim and Sally Rowlands, were expecting them in just over an hour.

  ‘Coffee, then Frognal?’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  Nothing like a glitzy footballer’s pad to take their mind off a dead body, she thought.

  Chapter 8

  The Rowlands residence definitely lived up to Lucia’s expectations. Occupying the entire street corner, it had every distinguishing feature imaginable; majestic Victorian façade, turrets, and not one but two blue plaques. It stood well hidden behind forbidding electric gates. The shrubbery was so immaculate that it looked fake. The generous floodlights bathed the edifice in a flattering warm glow, a considerable improvement on the bleak murkiness of the late November sky.

  They waited for a few seconds before the gates opened smoothly, noiselessly, and they were let into the inner sanctum. As they climbed out, the front door opened wide.

  ‘Hello. Inspector Carliss and Miss Steer, I assume. Please come in.’

  Flanked by two gigantic, brushed metal pots topped with perfectly spherical evergreens either side of the door stood a statuesque woman dressed head to toe in black, skin-tight gym kit. Her voice was surprisingly mellifluous, gravelly, and unmistakably estuary. They followed her obediently. Lucia could see that so far DCI Carliss was more than a little star-struck, and not just by the opulence of the building.

  ‘Nice car.’ Lucia glanced admiringly at the vintage red Corvette sat on the ample driveway. One or both of the Rowlands were clearly connoisseurs – not for them the obvious footballer’s choice of a Ferrari or a Lamborghini. As soon as she had folded her interior design business, Lucia had treated herself to a satin blue Alfa Romeo Spider to replace her van. It was a real driver’s car, a frippery that she could have dispensed with, but the toy gave her a great deal of pleasure despite its chronic unreliability.

  As proper introductions were made, Sally Rowlands led the detectives into the hallway and showed them where to hang their coats, politely declining their offer to remove their wet footwear. If the outside had been impressive, the entrance hall was breath-taking – white marble floors as far as the eye could see, an enormous gleaming chandelier and a magnificent, curved staircase.

  ‘Through here. Would you like a drink?’ Sally led them through to the sitting room and gestured to a pair of white leather armchairs.

  ‘We’re fine, thank you, Mrs Rowlands,’ the inspector declined.

  ‘Jim should be here any minute now. His training ran over, as usual. They work them hard. It’s an early start, most days.’

  As they made themselves at home in the voluminous armchairs, Lucia took in her surroundings. The room was large, but less palatial than the entrance hall. In fact, it seemed devoid of any of the original architectural features that the age of the house would have suggested. Clearly, it had been gutted out and done up from scratch.

  The walls were sparsely decorated with family portraits, of the photographic rather than the painted kind – tasteful in black and white, but indicative of an absolute lack of interest in art, and not for want of affording it. The floors were wood – solid oak, by all appearances – laid in an intricate herringbone pattern. The built-in linear fireplace was topped with a cinema-size TV screen, and mirrored console tables were scattered around the room, all uniformly topped with large bouquets of white hydrangeas. It was straight out of a catalogue – a two-page spread of what success looked lik
e. And yet, where Lucia would have often frowned upon the décor choices in the self-consciously middle-class homes of her former clients – bankers, lawyers and other supposedly educated professionals – she felt that the Rowlands were at least being honest about their wealth. No hiding behind faux shabby furniture, no excruciatingly colour-coordinated books destined never to be read.

  Sally folded her tall body into a gargantuan low-backed sofa that matched the armchairs. She was striking to look at, with long dark hair scraped up into a high ponytail accentuating her perfect cheekbones, large green eyes and flawless skin emphasised by a full face of make-up. She was athletic rather than skinny, with curves in all the right places. Highest earning lingerie model in the country, thought Lucia – she’d done her research – and she could certainly see why. By now DCI Carliss was openly staring, only just short of drooling.

  Any other woman would have been envious, intimidated, bitchy, or all three. Not Lucia – she was admirative. To look like that and have sustained a long-term career in a merciless industry, now that required a good head for numbers and an impressive work ethic. It was public knowledge that Sally Rowlands had been modelling since she was sixteen. Nineteen years in the business, starting on the third page of a well-known tabloid and culminating as the top earner at the world’s biggest lingerie designer was no mean feat. Despite being old by the shallow standards of the sector, Sally Rowlands didn’t show any signs of being willing to give up her crown. And yet she came across as well brought up and down to earth, as far as first impressions went, at least.

  ‘Thank you for making the time to see us, Mrs Rowlands. I understand you were burgled a few days ago. I know you’ve already given a statement to our colleagues in uniform, but would you mind repeating yourself, for our benefit?’ asked DCI Carliss. ‘We’re trying to ensure we haven’t missed any leads, given we seem to be dealing with some very seasoned criminals.’

  ‘Not at all. It happened on Tuesday. We went out for a family dinner. Jim had Wednesday off training, and I had the week off, so we thought we’d make the most of it. I’d booked India’s favourite restaurant.’ Sally shuddered. ‘We didn’t notice anything at first when we got back, until we walked into the kitchen, that is. The laptops and tablets, our watches, all gone.’

  The portraits on the walls that weren’t wedding photos showed, presumably, various members of the immediate and extended family. A lot of family, Lucia noted. The most prominently featured were Jim, Sally and a teenage girl who looked like the spitting image of her mother.

  Lucia shuffled uneasily in her seat. It wasn’t like the Rowlands couldn’t afford replacements, but the thought of someone rummaging through your private possessions was a deeply unpleasant one. She was about to open her mouth to follow up when they heard the front door open.

  ‘Jim’s here.’ Sally got up gracefully and went to welcome her husband.

  Jim Rowlands put his training bag down in the hallway and walked purposefully into the sitting room, hand stretched out as he did so. He was tall – even taller than his wife – and muscular, with the sharp good looks that his status entailed. They did make a very striking couple.

  ‘Hi, Inspector. Sorry I’m late. They work us like dogs. The manager likes to get his money’s worth. And you must be Miss Steer.’ He smiled and gave Lucia a firm but friendly handshake, accompanied by sincere eye contact with no hint of sleaziness.

  Niceties out of the way, they got back to business.

  ‘Mr Rowlands, your wife was just telling us about the burglary. Were there any signs of a break-in when you got back from the restaurant?’ asked DCI Carliss.

  ‘No, it was all locked, just as we left it.’ Jim’s handsome face darkened as he recalled the events. ‘Except for the window in the downstairs toilet – that was open. I can’t remember if we left it like that, to be honest. I assume that’s how they got in. You can just about squeeze through, if you’re not a big bloke.’

  ‘Was anything else taken apart from laptops and watches?’

  Jim sank deeper into the sofa and put his arm protectively around his wife. ‘We didn’t keep cash in the house. There was something else, remember, babe – India’s phone. You told her to leave it at home so she wouldn’t be fiddling with it at the table.’

  ‘Oh yes. I’d forgotten all about it. That thing’s a menace. I’m not sad they took it, though I’ve had to order her another one,’ said Sally. ‘She’s addicted to it. Teenage girls.’ She turned conspiratorially to the detectives, expecting that at least Carliss, given his age, would agree. The two tried to look as sympathetic as they could, not having any personal experience of the matter.

  ‘Was any jewellery taken?’ asked Lucia.

  ‘No. They didn’t touch any of that, thank goodness,’ replied Sally. ‘The thought of their grubby hands on my things…’

  ‘Where do you keep it?’

  ‘In a box in my dressing room. It’s mainly family heirlooms – not only valuable but also very precious to me. I guess they didn’t make it as far as that.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said the inspector. ‘These people are usually in and out in a flash. Five minutes tops and grab as much as possible.’

  ‘Or maybe they got spooked, like a noise outside or something,’ said Jim.

  Maybe, thought Lucia.

  ‘I take it you have a working alarm system,’ she asked.

  ‘Sure we do. State-of-the-art, only just recently serviced. I was dead sure I put it on when we left, but it wasn’t on when we got back. What I don’t get is how they could have disabled it. It’s fool-proof. The guy who sold it to me said the Israeli embassy uses it, and you wouldn’t mess with that lot, would you.’ Jim was plainly distressed by the whole sorry episode.

  ‘These people are hardened criminals, Mr Rowlands. They have ways and means. What about CCTV?’ asked Carliss.

  ‘Also off. Again, I could have sworn I’d checked everything before we left. We’ve been lucky enough not to be burgled so far, but practically everyone on the street has, at least once.’

  Lucia and Carliss looked at each other. Evidently, the culprits knew what they were doing. In all likelihood, they had been watching the house, and implicitly any comings and goings, very closely for some time. People like that didn’t just strike on a whim. They stalked their potential victims, recorded their movements, their habits, researched into the types of alarm systems that they might use. It was even known that burglars had got jobs with alarm fitting companies, so as to get first-hand information on the kind of technology they would have to tackle.

  ‘Mr Rowlands, given the situation, the best thing I can do right now is send some of our people round to look for prints. If we find anything, we can take it from there and see if they match anything on our database. We’ll also check your alarm and CCTV systems just in case something has been recorded. To be perfectly honest with you, these people are pros. I’m confident you’re not their first or their last victim, so at some point they’ll slip – and we’ll be there to catch them. Sorry I can’t do more for you on the spot. It’s a horrible business.’

  Lucia could see that her boss felt genuinely sorry that they couldn’t do more, but as things stood there was little, if anything, to go on. Just as she caught his signal that the visit should come to an end, the stairs resonated with angry, shuffling steps. Lucia turned around first to see a morose-looking mini-Sally stomp into the sitting room and plonk herself down cross-legged on the ample cowhide rug in front of the fireplace.

  Sally looked at her watch, unquestionably embarrassed. It was gone eleven, and the girl was still in her pyjamas.

  ‘Feeling better, then, sweetheart? This is our daughter, India. She wasn’t well this morning, so I’ve let her have the day off school.’ The look on Sally’s face suggested she was biting her tongue. She didn’t look particularly sympathetic to her offspring’s alleged ailment. ‘India, this is Inspector – sorry, Detective Chief Inspector – Carliss and Miss Steer of the police. They’ve come to ask about t
he burglary.’

  India huffed and stared at the detectives dismissively, as if they were well below her station. ‘Well, have you found my phone yet?’

  ‘India! Manners, please. They’re doing all they can. And anyway, your new one’s coming tomorrow.’ Sally was by now mortified at her daughter’s behaviour.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s no good, is it? I had stuff on my old one that I can’t get back. It’s really shit.’

  ‘I’m not having any of that language in my house. You watch it, or you’re heading for a grounding,’ Jim said, with a stern look on his face.

  India stared back even harder. Lucia wasn’t sure he was going to win that particular stand-off.

  ‘Enough of this nonsense. Upstairs, please, if you can’t be polite in public.’ Sally’s quiet though much firmer tone achieved the desired effect. The slighted ball of rage shot a last bitter look behind her and stomped out of the room.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Sally. ‘As you can see for yourselves, teenage girls. I don’t know what’s happened to her. She was as good as gold until about six months ago, and then overnight she turned into a monster. It’s like having a toddler with terrible tantrums all over again, except this time it’s an oversized one. We’ve been having family counselling to try to fix it, not that she’s got much out of it. If only she’d put that flipping phone away and listen, we would get somewhere. The poor man does try, bless him, but even he’s been looking like he can’t be bothered anymore.’

  Lucia twigged. ‘Counselling? Do you mind me asking with whom?’

  ‘No problem. We’re not about to hide it. No shame in asking for help, is there?’ replied Jim. ‘It’s a guy called Alec, not far from here. Connections Counselling, it’s called.’

  Lucia and Carliss exchanged incredulous glances. Sally cottoned on to the fact that something was up and leant forward expectantly.