by Sabina Manea
DCI Carliss winced, as if the cacophony of colours and the shapelessness of the compositions were giving him a migraine. It was pretty far removed from the kind of tasteful landscapes that populated the walls of his home.
Clearly there’s no demand for this sort of thing, pondered Lucia, or Amanda Penney would be raking it in. Lucia herself didn’t much care for the style – very derivative and done to death.
‘Mrs Penney?’ The inspector’s voice echoed plaintively across the cavernous room.
‘Over here,’ replied a disembodied voice, as a shapeless form drifted towards them from a nook at the back of the room that had gone unnoticed. ‘Is that the police?’
‘Yes, Detective Chief Inspector Carliss and Lucia Steer. Is now a good time?’
‘Yes, of course.’
As the form approached, Lucia saw a slight woman of around her own age. Her skin was as pale as watery milk through a glass bottle, and she was swamped by a messy bun of Pre-Raphaelite red hair piled on top of her delicate head. She wore what could only be described as a floor-length grey sack. Two bare arms and a pair of scuffed walking boots stuck out, mismatched to the rest of the body. She surveyed the pair with vacant, pale grey eyes, as if she didn’t know what sort of creatures they were.
‘Mrs Penney, is there anywhere we can sit down? As I said earlier on the phone, we’ve got a few questions about your husband’s death.’
Amanda Penney nodded vigorously and pointed to a crumpled rug on the floor. ‘That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. I don’t believe in chairs, you see. Sitting upright saps away my creative energy.’ She explained this very matter-of-factly, with no trace of sarcasm on her lightly freckled face.
Carliss lowered himself onto the floor and clumsily attempted to sit cross-legged. Lucia, while suspending a considerable amount of disbelief, found the experience highly amusing. This Amanda was putting on a good show. She could afford to play the bohemian artist, as if she didn’t know how much the rent cost.
‘Mrs Penney, I’m sorry to intrude at such a difficult time. I understand you and your husband were separated, is that correct?’ asked the policeman, shifting awkwardly as he tried in vain to settle into a comfortable position.
Amanda sat motionlessly on her knees, her mouth slightly stretched in a congenial, detached smile. ‘Yes. The divorce hasn’t been finalised yet. I suppose I can call myself a widow now.’
She managed to sound very pleased with herself, as if it were a badge of honour. Lucia didn’t want to beat around the bush and resolved to go straight in for the kill.
‘Are you the sole beneficiary of your husband’s will, Mrs Penney?’
The DCI flinched at the directness of the question, but Amanda Penney’s expression was unchanged. After a few seconds of silence, she calmly replied, ‘Yes. I get all the money.’
‘And am I correct in assuming the divorce included financial proceedings?’ asked Lucia, unfazed by Mrs Penney’s impenetrability.
Amanda Penney’s previously expressionless eyes narrowed menacingly. Jackpot, thought Lucia with some satisfaction.
‘Yes. We couldn’t agree about the division of assets.’ Amanda finally squeezed out a reply.
Not so airy-fairy now, are you, mused Lucia now that she had the upper hand. ‘Tell me a little about your husband, Mrs Penney. What was he like?’
Amanda patted her bird’s nest hair and gave out a smile that didn’t reach the eyes.
‘Alec is – was – charming when he wanted to be. When you’re out of favour, he discards you like a dirty rag.’ She spoke as if the bitterness had worn away, and all that was left was faint revulsion. ‘I was one of his first patients, you know, when he set up his business. Clients, as he calls them. Looking back, I don’t know why he married me. I was besotted with him. When he’s in a good mood, it’s like the sun shines on you. But when he’s bored with you, he just moves on.’
‘Do you mean, he was having an affair?’ asked Carliss, now sounding very curious. This was the first real glimpse of the man they had had so far, and the picture unfolding in front of them was intriguing.
‘An affair? Many affairs, most likely. Don’t ask, don’t tell, that’s how we lived. A tacit understanding, if you like. Why are you asking all these questions? Didn’t he just die accidentally?’
With her face now sharp and focused, she didn’t look at all like a grieving widow. They had been deceived by her fragile appearance, when in fact she was proving to be hard as nails.
‘We’re covering all aspects. Police procedure,’ Carliss replied with the usual vague formula. ‘The evening of his death – why did you go to see your husband, Mrs Penney?’
‘To tell him he was being a dick,’ Amanda retorted forcefully, taking both detectives by surprise. ‘He was trying to get away with giving me zilch. Said I hadn’t contributed anything to the marriage. That shark of a lawyer of his made out as if I was some sort of harpy. We had no children, so Alec had no duty to provide for me, he said. Who stood by him while he built his business from scratch? I did, that’s who. It’s only right he should share the spoils with me.’
Her voice was angry and loud, but she remained perfectly composed. Well-rehearsed, you could say, thought Lucia.
‘So what happened when you confronted him?’ asked Carliss.
‘He told me to kiss goodbye the possibility of a single penny. And before you ask, yes, he was paying for this place. It’s not cheap, I know, but don’t I deserve it?’
Not sure you do, judging by the quality of the output, reflected Lucia. Still, at least the woman was speaking her mind and then some.
‘I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I left. That little rat of a girl was just slinking back as I was on my way out. Amazing how she gets any work done with all the fag breaks she takes.’
By now, Amanda had completely shed the artistic pretence. She looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time.
‘I’ve got to get back to work if you don’t mind. I haven’t got anything else to add.’ She leaned forward with a satisfied look. ‘To be honest with you, I don’t give a toss that he’s dead. It’s not like I bumped him off. And now all the money’s mine. All’s well that ends well,’ she concluded gleefully, standing up to signal that the audience was over.
‘Wow. Wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her,’ exclaimed Carliss as they braved the suicidal stairs back down. ‘She’s probably been sticking pins in a doll, for all we know. All that window-dressing, as if she’s some misunderstood artist. Sharp as a tack, and with her eye on the prize. Except she can’t have killed him. Four people spoke to the man after she left: Roberta Musgrave, Max Penney, George Coddington, and the secretary.’
‘Not quite. According to Elsa, George Coddington didn’t actually go into Alec’s study. And Elsa didn’t get a response when she said goodbye to him. So only two people spoke to him after Amanda left – Roberta and Max. Assuming Max corroborates that.’
‘You’ve got a point. Bloody hell, my head’s spinning. We’re no closer to working out how this bloke died, or by whose hand. He wasn’t in Amanda’s or Roberta’s good books, that’s for sure. We’ve got to get hold of this George character. He’s proving a slippery customer. Some sort of property developer in Mayfair, except nobody’s picking up the phone, and the office address seems to be registered to one of these shell companies. Smells pretty fishy if you ask me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m already on the case. Get in the car. We’re going to Belgravia.’
DCI Carliss rolled his eyes in mock horror. ‘Christ, if the Super knew how you get your information, she’d chop us up and feed us to her terrier.’
Chapter 14
At Lygon Place, Nina Chanler, née Lexington, surveyed the neat line-up of glasses, like toy soldiers ready for battle. A single ray of artificial light slithered timidly through the sash window and hit the black marble surface of the drinks trolley. The caterers weren’t due for a while, and the house was dead still, as if dampened b
y a thick blanket of snow. It was the calm before the storm, the feverishly quiet hours before the drawing room would be filled with writhing, warm bodies against the midnight blue and gold chevron wallpaper. Nina smoothed down her mass of unruly blonde curls, and her disconcerting eyes, one green, one hazel, darted to the door exactly a fraction of a second before the bell rang.
‘Come in, you two. You’ve kept me waiting.’ Nina ushered her friends into the warmth. ‘You’ve got to help me decide which champagne to serve. I bought a hundred bottles of each, just in case.’
‘A bit early for a preview, isn’t it?’ DCI Carliss objected only rather feebly, knowing that he would soon be persuaded to indulge.
Four in the afternoon on a dark, dreary December day was a perfectly acceptable time for a glass of something, especially in this particular household. Walter and Nina Chanler were well-practised socialites and liked to entertain any day of the week, all year round. You wouldn’t expect any less from a South Carolina tinned fish magnate and his diplomatic parentage wife. From the first moment Lucia and Nina had set eyes on each other at Cambridge, they had become the closest of friends, even ended up working for the same law firm. Since Nina had helped DCI Carliss with the investigation into Professor Alla Kiseleva’s death, he had slowly but surely been adopted by the Chanlers into their fold.
‘What have you got for me, Double N?’ Lucia asked.
She surveyed the heavy walnut furniture and the lavish chandeliers. Nina did always have a taste for the theatrical. She only seemed to properly come alive at dusk, as if the sunlight took the edge off her senses. The bizarre nickname, Northern Nina, had stuck since primary school in Nottinghamshire, home to innumerable generations of Lexingtons.
Nina’s feline features stretched out into a sly smile. She had pulled some strings, done her homework, and was very pleased with the results.
‘This George Coddington character you asked me to look into – what a nasty piece of work. Property development, ha! More like money laundering, by the looks of things.’
‘I hope you didn’t have to sell your soul for the information.’
Carliss looked like he was only half-joking. Lucia had taken much pleasure in baiting him to Belgravia with the prospect of some valuable intel on one of the suspects. He had learned from past experience of tapping into Nina’s myriad shady sources that it was best not to ask too many questions.
‘Not at all, my dear inspector. Mater just happened to be having tea with your chap – what’s his name – Robertson, and the Coddington name… well, it came up in conversation.’ Nina winked suggestively, well aware of her mother’s skilful interrogation tactics. ‘I’m told your Mr R turned a very angry shade of red – don’t think he expected having his darkest secrets aired in the middle of Fortnum’s. It turns out Coddington is a police informer. They’re keeping their hands off his racket in exchange for information on his rivals.’
The DCI turned to Lucia with some confusion. ‘How did you narrow in on George Coddington, out of all of them?’
‘You remember I said his name rang a bell. I did some ferreting around and remembered we once represented him, didn’t we, Nina? He financed that project in Chelsea worth half a billion. Lawyers have to jump through a lot of hoops to check it’s not money laundering. The more questions we asked, the murkier the answers, so we got told to stop asking. All he had to do was shake hands with our managing partner and slip her a share of the proceeds when the properties got sold. Yes, not all lawyers are upstanding citizens, shocking as that might seem, David.’
Lucia felt the need to explain this possibility to a horrified-looking Carliss.
‘Nina had an idea – to be so shameless about that kind of money, Coddington had to have connections in high places. For a gangster like him, that’s the Met. So we asked Ginny to arrange a social get-together with her old friend, Commissioner Robertson and, lo and behold, it turns out Coddington’s in bed with the big boss.’
Carliss’s mouth was wide open. The very notion of Alf Robertson, the Met Commissioner, having a cuppa with Dame Virginia Lexington, DCMG, former Ambassador to Oman was enough to send shivers down any policeman’s spine.
‘Sorry for pointing out the obvious, but aren’t we getting a bit side-tracked here? So what if George Coddington’s a bad egg? That doesn’t make him Alec Penney’s killer.’
‘Not in itself, no, but Coddington wouldn’t shy away from dispatching a man, that’s for sure,’ replied Lucia. ‘We need to find out why he went to see Alec that night. Remember what Elsa said – she didn’t think he was a client anymore. Given past form, I’d venture to guess Mr Coddington wasn’t there to exchange pleasantries.’
‘Darlings, I’ve given you everything I know, and now it’s time to help me with that champagne in the kitchen. We’ve got another bottle to sample before we put it to a vote.’
And so Nina set in motion what was to become a very enjoyable, though headache-inducing evening of festivities.
Chapter 15
Lucia sat stock-still behind the wheel of her car. The DCI hadn’t exactly given his blessing to this latest escapade, but neither had he expressly forbidden it. Lucia was adamant there was more to be extracted from Alec Penney’s PA than the official interview would allow. On the other hand, following the girl for a day or two might help put them on the right scent.
The 1920s black-and-white Tudorbethan gated development where Elsa lived would have posed an obstacle to any rule-abiding police officer. The choice was between two equally unappealing options – to attract attention by hovering around in a marked vehicle, or to turn up as a civilian and flagrantly breach the ‘permit holders only’ parking rules. Needless to say, Lucia opted for the latter. It had only just occurred to her that the Spider was highly unsuited to a stake-out, given how it contrasted with the sea of grey and black SUVs chaotically parked on both sides of the narrow street.
After an hour or so of listening to the radio and getting steadily bored, Lucia began to wonder whether she was wasting her time. She had turned up as early in the morning as possible, but there was no guarantee that the girl would be at home, and even if she were, that she would be venturing out any time soon. Discovering where Elsa lived had been somewhat of a revelation – not many twenty-somethings with office admin jobs could be expected to afford the Holly Lodge Estate. Some subsequent digging had, however, revealed that the girl hadn’t yet left the parental home. Not the most thrilling place – the joys of living in a regimented garden suburb enclave were most likely lost on any young woman with a social life.
On the verge of giving up, Lucia caught some movement out of the corner of her eye and turned her head sharply. Dressed in scruffy jeans and a hoodie that had seen better days, and with precious little left of the smooth hair and overloaded make-up that had characterised her when they had first met, Elsa walked briskly out of the front door and headed out towards Swain’s Lane. Now wasn’t the time for a car chase, so Lucia gave the girl a reasonable head start and then followed her softly on foot up the hill, towards Highgate village. They had only been on the move for a couple of minutes when Elsa took a sharp and unexpected turn into Highgate Cemetery.
The walk into the East Cemetery led them past manicured tombs in the shape of Greek temples and a mishmash of gravestones ranging from the traditional to the absurd. As Lucia followed Elsa’s determined footsteps deeper into the artfully dilapidated Gothic Elysium, she cynically remarked to herself that you wouldn’t get much change from twenty thousand pounds for a burial plot these days. She recalled her own mother’s sterile, conveyor-belt cremation, sharply at odds with the resplendence of the stone memorials sprawled out around her.
Distracted, by the time she realised she’d lost Elsa, it was too late. A group of chirping tourists had gathered around Karl Marx’s tomb and were snapping away excitedly on their phones. The overgrown vegetation stood motionless, ominous, concealing the human remains beneath. Scrambling haphazardly, Lucia hit a dead end, and amongst the petrifie
d angels, she felt like letting out a scream. At her feet, a tiny, weathered slab marked the resting place of a Victorian child with a maudlin inscription that stuck like an icy shard in her chest. It was no use – she had to sit down for a moment, or she would be sick. The grass beneath her feet had been trodden to a mulch, and the water seeped through the bottom of her waxed coat, but she took no note. How people found graveyards peaceful was beyond her. It wasn’t the visuals that disturbed her, it was the earthiness that she could sense on her tastebuds, as if the dead bodies had been laid out fresh above the ground. The nausea overcame her, and once the cold sweat had subsided – relief.
She lifted her head just in time to make out the lumpish shape that was unmistakably Elsa crouched over an unassuming headstone a few metres ahead. Safe behind a tree mired in ivy, Lucia could observe her target at leisure. She could just about read some of the words on the grave – “CC, Born Asleep”. Lucia thought quickly and opted for a direct approach.
‘Hi, Elsa. I thought it was you. Hope I’m not disturbing.’ Lucia gave a small, sympathetic smile. ‘I was visiting my mother’s grave and I saw you. Thought I’d come and say hi,’ she continued apologetically, hoping that her credentials wouldn’t be challenged.
The sound of her voice made Elsa jump. She looked like she had been caught in the act.
‘Hi. Sorry, you startled me. It’s usually so quiet here.’ A suspicious frown replaced the expression of surprise. ‘Where’s your mum buried?’