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

by Sabina Manea

  ‘Here, let me warm you up,’ offered Will and wrapped his arms protectively around her.

  He put his cheek against the side of her head, and they stood there wordlessly for a few seconds. He smelled slightly of beer, but mostly of warm skin, with a trace of cologne. It felt good, Lucia thought, pleasurably numb from the alcohol.

  ‘Drink at mine, since we’ve been so cruelly thrown out?’ she offered euphorically.

  He pulled back a little, not letting go, and looked very suggestively into her eyes. ‘I’d love to.’

  Chapter 11

  The morning had gone well so far, to Lucia’s relief. Will had made a move first thing, and she was dressed and ready to leave for the station a good fifteen minutes earlier than usual. Must be all that guilt, she joked to herself, as her thoughts involuntarily turned to the inspector. She hoped she might see Will again, but she wasn’t going to shed any tears if he didn’t get back to her. It had been a fun night.

  ‘What time are we expecting Roberta Musgrave then?’ she asked her boss, who was already on his second coffee of the day, despite only being in for less than half an hour. They had a busy schedule ahead.

  ‘Five minutes. We’ll sit in the conference room. Don’t want to intimidate her – we’re not treating them like suspects, for now at least,’ replied Carliss. He was wearing a passable outfit for the public-facing occasion – freshly pressed shirt, blazer, and unusually clean chinos.

  Lucia was dressed in her usual office attire, smart, well-fitting jeans and a soft cashmere jumper in a neutral colour – camel was today’s choice.

  ‘Quite the society hostess, if the tabloids are anything to go by. Don’t think she’ll be impressed by this place,’ said the inspector. ‘I like to call it a conference room, but it’s really a glorified cupboard.’

  ‘You looked her up, did you?’

  Lucia too had had a snoop around. Roberta Musgrave was a regular on the society circuit and would not be best pleased to be interviewed by the police. Presumably, sneaking out to attend the station was the less embarrassing choice. The alternative, having officers in her own home, would have given rise to even more gossip, and not of the desirable kind.

  ‘This one’s all yours. I’ll just sit there and make the tea.’

  Lucia looked at her boss with some surprise. She was flattered to be entrusted with conducting an interview. It was a sure sign that her budding career in the police was secure, but she couldn’t help feeling like a smug teacher’s pet every time DCI Carliss commended her. Despite her stubbornness and pride, his opinion meant a lot, more than she liked to admit.

  Dressed in wide-legged trousers and a luxurious wrap coat over a crisp white shirt, Roberta Musgrave emerged out of the lift with the kind of expression reserved for treading in dog faeces. Her hair was cut into a close crop and coloured to perfection, leaving her well-maintained face clear to express as much disgust as she could muster at the surroundings that she found herself in. Even the sound of her vertiginous heels on the worn vinyl floor sounded displeased. Lucia half expected she would be carrying a bottle of antibacterial spray in her lustrous handbag, to be deployed imminently. She looks good for her age, Lucia thought; amazing how enough money can make a forty-something not look a day over thirty-five. It was the hands that were always a giveaway, she found. Roberta Musgrave’s were groaning under heavy, bejewelled rings of all shapes and sizes, which only accentuated the puckered, dehydrating skin.

  ‘Mrs Musgrave, through here, please. Can I get you a drink?’ DCI Carliss offered politely though they already knew the answer to that question, seeing that she was clutching a disposable coffee cup from an upmarket establishment in Hampstead.

  ‘No, thank you, I’ve brought my own,’ Roberta snapped back impatiently and looked pointedly at her watch. ‘I hope this won’t take too long, Inspector. I’ve got a rather busy schedule ahead.’

  Those designer clothes aren’t going to buy themselves, Lucia thought as she took a seat on the other side of the tiny table, doing her best not to get squashed into the windowsill. She wasn’t planning to cut the woman any slack, and she sensed that the kind of rapprochement that had worked with Elsa wouldn’t cut the mustard with the present, much more seasoned customer.

  ‘How long had you been receiving counselling from Alec Penney, Mrs Musgrave?’ asked Lucia.

  ‘Nearly a year. I don’t understand how this is relevant. When your people called to ask me to come in, they said it was an accident. Why are you asking me all these questions?’

  Roberta crossed her arms defensively, clutching her handbag to her chest as if afraid it would get contaminated if left to its own devices on the floor.

  ‘Look, I’ve been generous enough already, coming here to speak to you.’ Roberta Musgrave leaned over the table threateningly, her powdery make-up crinkling at the corner of her eyes. ‘My husband knows your Superintendent. I should think she won’t be best pleased when she hears you’ve been harassing me like this.’

  Lucia hadn’t expected quite so much vitriol, but it quite amused her. It was generally those with something to hide that made the most noise.

  ‘I don’t mean to upset you, Mrs Musgrave. We’re simply trying to understand what happened that day. It’s all just standard procedure. I understand you were in Alec’s office the evening he died?’

  Roberta backed down a little, and her face settled into something that resembled resignation – mixed with a touch of sadness, Lucia thought.

  ‘Yes, it was a last-minute thing.’ She paused pensively. ‘I… we, my husband and I, we’ve been seeing Alec about our marriage. Ten years together, it’s only natural that people… need help.’

  ‘What did you and Alec talk about that evening?’ asked Lucia in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone.

  ‘This and that.’ Roberta Musgrave stroked her hair, somewhat subdued. ‘I was upset – hurt, actually. He’d said that I wasn’t trying hard enough to work through my issues. As if it’s all my fault! After a few minutes I’d had an earful and left.’

  It was plain for anyone to see that Roberta’s mood had drastically changed. The anger wasn’t to do with being summoned to the police station, Lucia surmised. She hoped that she could work her usual magic and get the woman talking. She watched Roberta quietly for a short while and smiled encouragingly. Under the pristine power outfit, the woman was bursting at the seams.

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’ With a bit of luck, she hoped her interviewee would treat the session like therapy and would just let it all spill out.

  ‘I got there shortly before seven, I think. That girl was sitting at the desk pretending to work, as usual. I knocked on Alec’s door, but he said he was busy. I said we can’t talk through the door, and could I come in. He wouldn’t have any of it, so I had a go at him – told him he wasn’t being fair to me. I’d had enough of shouting, so I just went in – it wasn’t locked or anything. He was in the kitchen and told me to go away. And that was the last straw! He was so unbelievably rude. I said, “I’m going home for a soak. I need a bottle of wine to deal with this,” and he said, “Enjoy your bath,” in the most unbelievably sarcastic tone. I ran out.’

  Roberta’s neck and cheeks were aggressively flushed, and even the precious handbag had been unceremoniously dumped under the chair. She breathed heavily and blinked through darkened eyelashes, thick as feather dusters.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Musgrave. I’m sorry it’s been so upsetting for you. You’ve been a great help, if that’s any consolation.’ Lucia congratulated her as if she were a small child succeeding at a menial task. ‘I think we’re done here unless you have any other questions, DCI Carliss?’

  ‘Nothing from me. Thank you for your time, Mrs Musgrave. I’ll show you out.’

  As Carliss escorted Roberta Musgrave back to the lift, Lucia headed back to their shared office and stationed herself by the window. It had been a very peculiar day, and she felt they hadn’t even scratched the surface of who this Alec Penney character
really was. Why make a rich client like Roberta Musgrave angry? How was that good business? They had a collection of dry facts, times of arrival and departure, but no real sense of what might lurk beneath.

  ‘Got the CCTV. Fits with Elsa’s account. That girl sure watches the clock,’ said the detective as he returned, glued to the screen of his phone. ‘Here’s the list of names for the others we’ve got to interview. The builder – Will Sherriff. And then there’s Amanda Penney, Max Penney, and George Coddington. I’d like to know why they paid Alec such late visits. This case is bizarre, don’t you think? All these people flitting in and out, and somewhere in the midst of all of these comings and goings, Alec Penney dies. Not run-of-the-mill, is it?’

  Lucia couldn’t hear a word Carliss was saying. Her heart had skipped a beat when he mentioned the name of Will Sherriff.

  Chapter 12

  Lucia splashed ice-cold water on her face a few times, enough to make her fingers tingle painfully. As she faced her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she steeled herself for the upcoming visit. If she had been religious – which she wasn’t – she would have prayed that the name was a mere coincidence. Surely there must be plenty of builders called Will in North London. It was a common name.

  ‘What kept you so long?’ Carliss had already strapped himself into the car seat and was tapping his fingers on the wheel. They were running late.

  ‘Anything of interest from Alec’s home, or from the client list?’ Lucia asked. She really had to shake off the unease. It was distracting her from focusing on the case.

  ‘No, nothing so far. I’ve got the PCs on it, not that Alec’s clients are likely to welcome them with open arms. The kind of people that employed his services like to keep a low profile, if you know what I mean.’

  His words washed over her as she was drawn back into her own thoughts. She turned away from him, as if she couldn’t face the invisible barrier that her night with Will had created between them. Out of the car window, autumn had been and gone, but instead of the customary exhilaration in the run-up to Christmas that rubbed off on her whether she wanted it or not, she felt nothing. The length of Kentish Town Road streamed past in a blur – down-at-heel local shops interspersed with self-conscious eateries and upmarket florists. The buildings were grimy, and the pedestrians were well-dressed. The road was too wide to make the place a village – to Lucia, it looked uninspired and suburban. She was almost glad of Regis Road – at least it didn’t try to pretend it was anything other than an industrial estate.

  Will Sherriff’s workshop was nested all the way at the bottom, past the courier depots and the municipal tip, euphemistically termed the recycling centre. The workshop was a corrugated iron building with a forecourt, much like the other establishments around it – solid and real, with the smell of wood shavings and hot metal hanging heavily in the air.

  As Lucia and DCI Carliss got out of the car to the deafening sound of polishing and drilling, Will Sherriff was already walking purposefully towards them.

  ‘Mr Sherriff, good morning. Detective Chief Inspector Carliss of the Metropolitan Police. We spoke on the phone. And this is my colleague, Lucia Steer. I hope this is still a good time?’

  Unflinchingly, as if he had never set eyes on Lucia, let alone spent the night in her bed, Will shook both their hands and warmly waved them in. Lucia took a deep breath in a futile attempt to lower her heart rate. This wasn’t good at all. Why did it have to be him, of all people?

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess. Here, take a seat, please. I can guarantee these are as clean as I can make them.’ Will pulled out a few folding chairs and placed them at the entrance, away from the noise and the dust.

  ‘Big place you’ve got here,’ remarked Carliss. ‘I thought you did building work.’ His tone was more than a touch suspicious.

  Lucia stopped herself from glancing at her boss and wondered what it was about Will Sherriff that was getting on his nerves. Surely, she wasn’t giving away any hint of their previous liaison, or so she hoped.

  Will breezily ignored the policeman’s unduly aggressive opening.

  ‘We do all sorts. I work with a bunch of carpenters, hence the workshop.’ He pointed to a couple of workbenches and the panoply of assorted tools on the wall, all being put to good use by two youngish men who paid no attention to the visitors and carried on with their tasks. ‘We offer a full service, so to speak. Makes business more worthwhile.’

  ‘How long had you been working for Alec Penney, Mr Sherriff?’

  Lucia could see the inspector was now a little embarrassed by his unwarranted assault on the witness.

  ‘Just under a month.’ Will wiped his hands on the legs of his overalls, leaving behind streaks of white dust on the navy-blue material. His hair was slightly ruffled, and his hands looked dry from work. He was answering the DCI’s questions in a frank, measured way, all the while shifting his intense gaze to include Lucia in the conversation.

  She tried very hard not to think about how attractive she found Will, but the fact that he was staring right at her didn’t help in the slightest. She desperately hoped that Carliss wouldn’t notice.

  ‘What was he like, Mr Penney?’

  Thankfully, the inspector seemed oblivious to the tension unfolding before his eyes.

  Will leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. The expression on his open, handsome face was unchanged, but something had imperceptibly shifted, and Lucia could sense it. A couple of seconds lapsed before he replied.

  ‘He was OK. Paid on time, kept out of the way. Good customer, really.’

  ‘OK, let’s go back to the day of the death. What were your movements?’ The change in mood had gone entirely unobserved by the policeman.

  ‘I got in just before half past eight. Elsa, the secretary, let me in. Me and Rob, the bloke I work with, started on the bathroom. We were at it all day. Rob left after lunch to go to another job, and I stayed till five. Alec was there when I left, and so was Elsa.’

  ‘You saw him, did you?’

  ‘Yeah, like I said. He was standing in the waiting room, talking to the girl.’

  ‘And you went where?’

  ‘Straight home. Athlone Street.’ Behind the apparent politeness, Will’s voice carried a tinge of impatience. ‘Look, this is all pretty terrible. I feel sorry for the poor geezer. Elsa said it was probably that old coffee machine that did it. But I wasn’t there when it happened. He was alive and well when I left him. Sorry I can’t help.’

  ‘We’re just trying to get a picture of what happened that day. You didn’t come back the following morning then – when the body was found?’

  ‘No. We were booked on another job.’ The brevity of Will’s answer indicated he didn’t want the interaction to continue for much longer.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Sherriff. We’re done for now. If anything else comes up, we’ll be in touch.’

  Lucia, having kept quiet throughout the interview, was relieved to be out of focus. They walked back to the car in silence.

  ‘Well, we can cross him off the list. Something too cocky about this Will character though. Can’t say I took a shine to him,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Yes, it seems like he’s in the clear,’ said Lucia, keen to leave it at that and not push her luck any further. In broad daylight, there was something about Will that had seemed very familiar, as if she had seen his face somewhere else before their paths crossed at the Red Lion. It was no use – she couldn’t place him. Hopefully, now he had been eliminated from the investigation, their paths wouldn’t have to cross again. She certainly didn’t plan on seeking him out.

  Chapter 13

  Amanda Penney had proved harder to track down than DCI Carliss and Lucia had expected. Her address was recorded as the house on Well Walk that she shared with her estranged – and now deceased – husband, but that soon proved to be inaccurate. Some follow-up investigative work had to be done to reveal that she resided in Hackney. This, as Lucia had been reminded at length, was well
out of the inspector’s comfort zone.

  ‘The kind of place where you need to keep your wits about you, or you might be mugged in broad daylight.’ DCI Carliss wrinkled his nose at the prospect of leaving the folds of North London and heading east.

  ‘You must be joking if you think the down-at-heel can afford to hang around Hackney Wick. It’s all City workers these days. Properly gentrified. You’re more likely to get a fancy cocktail in a jam jar than a cup of tea and a full English,’ Lucia told him.

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Carliss replied. The detective sounded distinctly unconvinced as Lucia negotiated the Spider into the parking lot outside what looked like a disused warehouse. ‘You should have brought a steering wheel lock. It doesn’t look that gentrified to me.’

  As high up as a standard-issue ladder could reach, every inch of the buildings on the street were covered in graffiti. Lucia judged some of it as rather good, possibly even by a best-selling celebrity. She also noted the artfully brushed black metal sign announcing that the warehouse housed artists’ studios. Amanda Penney was either successful in her own right, or Alec had been paying some very hefty bills. Lucia suspected it was the latter, since a spot of judicious trawling had failed to reveal much information on the woman.

  Before they had a chance to press the doorbell, the glass door swung open and a girl came out dressed as an extra in a Second World War film, except for her spotless white trainers.

  ‘Excuse me, do you know where we can find Amanda Penney’s studio?’ asked the inspector, looking very much like he had landed in a parallel universe.

  ‘Second floor. Can’t miss it, it’s the biggest one,’ the girl replied, not altogether kindly.

  They wound their way up the treacherous spiral staircase. The place was teeming with young people in achingly fashionable clothes, busy lounging around on beanbags with cups of coffee and tiny laptops. The second floor was considerably quieter. The staircase led directly into an open space of which every inch was splattered with paint, from the rough wood floorboards to the exposed brickwork. Despite being extensive, the room was dotted with canvases that appeared to be nothing more than a continuation of the décor – smeared with angry streaks of brightly coloured paint, reds and oranges and yellows and neon greens.