by Sabina Manea
Lucia wasn’t so sure, but she decided to keep her suspicions to herself, for now at least.
‘Is anything missing off the body?’ asked the DCI, not wanting to get in the way of the forensic team as they busied themselves with prodding and labelling what was left of Roberta Musgrave.
‘Her wallet’s still here – that’s how they identified her so quickly. The bastard must have got spooked.’
‘What about her rings?’ asked Lucia, recalling Roberta’s bejewelled hands when she came to give her interview at the station.
DC Harding gave her a sharp sideways look. ‘I’ll go check, shall I?’ He ambled reluctantly to the forensic tent and emerged a few seconds later. ‘Rings are still on her hands. Maybe he couldn’t take them off.’
Maybe, Lucia reflected sceptically. Or maybe it’s been made to look like a mugging when it’s something else altogether.
‘Harding, over here. First thing tomorrow, you and Braydon are on the door-to-door,’ instructed the inspector.
‘Yes, boss. If you don’t mind me asking, why did they call us out and not Holborn? It should obviously be one of theirs.’ DC Harding didn’t sound too happy to have been dragged away from a comfortable evening indoors.
‘Because it might be a mugging gone wrong, but equally it might be connected to Alec Penney’s death.’
Lucia turned over the various possibilities in her mind. If Roberta Musgrave had been killed for some reason other than to steal her valuables, a much more sinister alternative presented itself. The killer would have followed her home, watched her every move, waited for the perfect moment to do away with her by the cover of darkness. Lucia didn’t believe in coincidences – what were the chances the woman would turn up dead just before she had a chance to impart new information to the police?
Chapter 22
‘I’ve got DS Trinh going through Alec Penney’s phone. Took them long enough to break into it,’ complained DCI Carliss, to whom technology was another planet, best avoided or judiciously outsourced.
It had been a long night, and by the time Roberta Musgrave’s body had been removed, it was nearly four in the morning. A couple of hours’ sleep, a hot shower and a pint of caffeine would have to do by way of restorative interlude.
‘While she’s busy with that, we’d better go and speak to the secretary. We need to get to the bottom of what Roberta Musgrave was doing at Alec Penney’s offices yesterday.’
On Well Walk, the door was opened by a washed-out Elsa, who beckoned them in wearily. With her face bare of make-up, her hair scraped severely back and dressed in a scruffy sweatshirt and jeans, she looked like a teenager. She shuffled to the sofa and indicated the armchairs for the two detectives.
‘I was under the impression the office was closed,’ said the inspector, looking around somewhat surprised. It all looked exactly the same as it had done the day Alec Penney was found dead.
‘I’m working out my notice,’ replied Elsa, boredom seeping out of her voice. ‘I’ve notified the clients that we’re shutting up shop, and I’m going through all their information. It’s not a lot of fun, I can tell you. Delete this, keep hold of this, transfer that. It’ll take me weeks to get through it, and I don’t expect I’ll get paid overtime.’
‘Do you know what’s going to happen to this place?’ asked Lucia, though she could see where this was going.
‘Amanda’s putting it on the market.’ The girl spat out Mrs Penney’s name as if she were referring to a common criminal. ‘Had a couple of estate agents sniffing around the other day. She’ll get plenty of cash for it, even after the mortgage is paid off. Alec bought this place during the downturn.’
‘That should pay the rent on the Hackney studio for quite some time.’ Lucia wasn’t intending to mince her words.
‘Yeah. Lucky her, marrying a rich man who conveniently goes and dies before the divorce is through,’ sniggered Elsa, arms crossed on her chest. Her face had hardened into unadulterated loathing which she was making no effort to conceal.
‘Miss Whittle, were you here when Roberta Musgrave dropped by yesterday?’ asked the policeman.
‘Yes, I was.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Just before seven in the evening. I was sat here churning through the backlog of work when the doorbell started ringing like mad. Scared the living daylights out of me, with it being pitch-black outside and all. So I open the door, and there she is, looking like she’s on the warpath. No hello, no nothing. She barges in past me and says she needs to have a look at Alec’s study. I said, no way – I haven’t got round to clearing it up yet, and there’s all sorts of confidential paperwork lying everywhere.’
She paused for a brief moment, searching the detectives’ faces for approval.
‘What did she want?’ asked Lucia, wondering if Elsa was telling the whole truth.
‘Don’t ask me, I’ve got no idea. When I told her she couldn’t go into the study, she started effing and blinding, saying I had no right to speak to her like that. She called me trailer trash – can you believe it! I’m from bloody Highgate, for God’s sake. I don’t know what bee she had in her bonnet, but she was definitely up for a fight. In the end I couldn’t take it anymore and I said she could go in, but only if I stood there with her – to check she wasn’t going to snoop, you see. She paced around a few times and peered into the kitchen. Kept mumbling something to herself that I couldn’t hear, then she turned on her heels and stormed straight out of the front door. I think she was on the phone for a bit, not that I could hear much. Make of that what you will.’
That must have been when she called the inspector, Lucia thought to herself. The vague contours of an idea were gradually starting to take shape.
‘We’d like to have a look at Alec’s study, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure, go ahead. You’re the police, so I trust you. But why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘I’m afraid we’ve got some very upsetting news, Miss Whittle. Roberta Musgrave was found dead last night.’ Carliss watched closely for the girl’s reaction.
With a sharp intake of breath, Elsa sat down on the chair at her desk. It seemed that Roberta Musgrave’s demise was going to be met with little more than a frown and a vaguely disgusted look.
‘That’s horrible. How did she die?’
‘We suspect it was a mugging gone wrong, but the investigation is under way, so there’s not a lot I can say about it. That’s why we’re looking into her whereabouts.’
Seeing that they were unlikely to get any more of a reaction from the PA, the detective beckoned to Lucia and headed towards the study. As he closed the door behind them, he remarked, ‘Not in floods of tears, was she?’
‘No, I suspect there wasn’t any love lost between those two.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘I don’t know but I’m fairly certain Roberta Musgrave came back here because she remembered something she saw or heard. I’m hoping if we have a look around, we might stumble across a clue as to what it was that she was looking for.’
The study, like the rest of the building, had been left untouched, with no traces of the forensic investigation that had recently taken place. A few sheets of paper lay on the neat little desk, and the kitchenette door was open. Inside, the offending coffee maker had been removed. There’s nothing here, thought Lucia with frustration.
‘Found anything?’ shouted Carliss from the study.
‘No.’ She stood still for a few seconds, focusing on the inspector’s disembodied voice, processing the information that was coming to her. No, it was too early to share this with him. ‘I’m done in here. None the wiser, I’m afraid,’ she concluded, brushing past the policeman and leading the way back to the waiting room.
Chapter 23
Back at Kentish Town station, DS Cam Trinh sat back in her chair, feet up on the desk, trawling through the contents of Alec Penney’s phone. PC Tina Braydon eyed her up enviously.
‘Why do you
get all the juicy stuff? I’ve been stuck in Holborn for the past two weeks. Missing out on all the fun.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get roped in sooner or later, Tina, so careful what you wish for. Fancy doing this for me? It’s as exciting as watching paint dry.’
‘On second thoughts, it’s a good while since I’ve had a break…’ PC Braydon headed purposefully for the kitchen, relieved that she was at least back in Kentish Town.
Lucia and Carliss walked in just as DS Trinh was about to give them a call.
‘Let’s go through to my office,’ beckoned the inspector. ‘What have you got for us, DS Trinh?’
‘Calls with clients, his wife, a load of appointments. So far so good. The usual pattern was one appointment a week for each client – individual, couple or family. What I did think was a bit odd was the number of appointments with this one – Roberta Musgrave.’
‘Three or four a week? That’s a lot of time spent together, not to mention the fees,’ said Lucia as she exchanged a wide-eyed glance with the inspector. ‘Were there any messages between them?’
‘Not a lot. Just confirming the appointments.’
‘That’s strange. You’d expect a client would confirm the appointments with the PA, wouldn’t you?’ said Carliss. ‘Anything else of note?’
‘Just this message – I couldn’t make any sense of it: “I swear to you by my virginity xxxx”, and it’s from someone called J.’
The inspector scratched his head in defeat. ‘I haven’t got a clue what that can mean. Lucia?’
‘It must be from someone that he didn’t want identified, that’s for sure. Cam, can you find out whom the number’s registered to?’
‘Sure, I’m on it.’
‘Where have I heard that phrase before? “I swear to you by my virginity.” It sounds really familiar,’ said Carliss.
‘Why don’t we look it up?’ As the policeman was still deliberating, Lucia had already leaped back to her desk and turned on the screen. ‘Here it is. It’s from Romeo and Juliet – where Lady Capulet’s talking to the nurse, looking for her daughter. I assume that’s what the J stands for.’
‘Juliet? Well, that’s as clear as mud then. There’s nobody called Juliet on the client list, or anywhere else in Alec Penney’s records.’
‘Well, there wouldn’t be. It’s obviously a pseudonym,’ replied Lucia with an involuntary roll of the eyes. Men just weren’t born with the ability for lateral thinking, she thought to herself.
‘One of his bits on the side?’
‘That would add up. We just have to figure out which one.’
* * *
On the other side of town, Nina admired her reflection in the mirror. The transformation was complete. Nobody would suspect that she was anything other than a flower delivery courier, and a heavily pregnant one at that. No expense had been spared – she had ordered herself some overalls with the neatly embroidered logo of the swankiest florist in Hampstead. A fake baby bump underneath – a very convincing stage prop – completed the look. The most lavish bouquet that Belgravia could offer sat obediently on the table. She had decided against going as far as faking a note to go with it – they could be from a secret admirer, not that she expected the conversation on the flowers to get that far. She was fully intending to steer it in a completely different direction.
Nina was over the moon to have been roped into the caper by her old friend. Lucia would have dearly loved to do it herself but was conscious that it would have probably spelled the end of her consulting arrangement with the Met. Not even the most indulgent of bosses would have condoned obtaining information by deception, and so Nina got the gig instead. As she sat in the taxi, careful to cover up the branded outfit with a thin waterproof that could be disposed of easily in the nearest bin, and with the huge bouquet on her lap, she was both excited and nervous.
Roberta Musgrave’s house was one of the biggest in Hampstead’s Vale of Health, that tiniest of urban villages, a singular enclave somewhere between unmanned woodland and film set. The house was hidden from view by a tall brick wall, and as Nina rang the bell at the outer gate, a feeling of apprehension wormed its way into her stomach. She stood up a little straighter and steeled herself for the adventure ahead, beaming her most enticing smile for the benefit of the intercom camera.
‘Can I help you?’ The voice was young, female and Eastern European.
‘I have a delivery for Mrs Musgrave,’ replied Nina, cradling the bouquet in her arms as if it were an oversized infant.
There was no reply; instead, the buzzer released the latch. Nina pushed open the gate and strolled in, taking care to waddle as ostentatiously as she could. She even paused for breath halfway down the beautifully laid stone path leading to the front door, holding her back to indicate pain. All the while, she couldn’t help taking a good look at the edifice – early nineteenth century, elegantly proportioned in white and cream, with a Doric portico framing the entrance. Not quite in the same class as Lygon Place, but not too shabby either. Given that Roberta Musgrave was a professional party girl who had never stooped down to require employment, she had done very well for herself in life. Her husband was a high-flying banker, as they all were living in that sort of house, at this end of town.
The front door opened to reveal a slim, youngish woman in fashionable jeans and a garishly logoed T-shirt. She frowned as she watched Nina amble up the path. She looked like a Byzantine icon, with hooded dark brown eyes and a dejected expression. It wasn’t clear if she was upset by her employer’s demise or she simply always looked like that.
‘Sorry, my back’s killing me,’ started Nina as she huffed and puffed her way towards her host. ‘My belly feels like it’s about to drop off. Here, would you mind taking these off my hands?’
She handed over the ridiculous bouquet and rubbed her very convincing bump, panting all the while.
‘I’m due in four weeks. God, it just feels like it’s going to come out any second now.’ Registering the alarm on the other woman’s face, she rushed to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not actually coming out. Just feels like it, you know?’
Once she had concluded her assessment of Nina, the woman’s expression changed from distrustful to commiserative.
‘You look tired.’ She touched her own stomach, with just a hint of roundness about it. ‘I’m pregnant too. Thirteen weeks. I’m not looking forward to being like that,’ she added bluntly.
The directness boded well. Nina congratulated herself on the success of her little ruse. She had done her research before embarking on the escapade. A spot of judicious ferreting had unearthed the identity of the Musgraves’ housekeeper – twenty-six-year-old Catalina, hailing from Bucharest and in the habit of liberally sharing her life with the rest of the world on a number of public channels. It was Catalina’s first baby. Nina had correctly judged that she would be both apprehensive and curious about another woman’s pregnancy.
‘Sorry to be a pain, but do you think I could sit down for a minute? I’ve got this sharp ache at the bottom of the bump, like a cramp or something.’
‘Of course.’ The woman beckoned Nina in. ‘There’s nobody at home. Come sit in the kitchen, I’ll get you a glass of water.’ She dumped the exorbitant flowers dismissively on a side table, clearly not intending to bother with a vase.
‘That’s really kind of you. I’m sure I’ll be fine in just a minute.’
Nina followed the housekeeper. The entrance was decorated in the unremarkable, generic style of all period houses lucky enough to retain a few original features, but not enough to make them interesting – off-white walls and just a hint of contrast with the white ceiling, and a couple of awkwardly positioned, bland occasional tables topped with abstract ornaments. The place looked characterless, but it could not have prepared anyone for what lay beyond. The kitchen was straight out of a sci-fi dystopia, all sharp corners and studied asymmetry, with metal surfaces in abundance. It was unlikely anyone ever cooked in it – the housekeeper probabl
y spent all day dutifully polishing the brushed steel.
‘I’m Nina, by the way.’ She drank her water in a single desperate gulp and sighed. ‘Ah, that’s so much better.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Catalina.’ The girl sniffed nervously, her eyes pointing down.
‘Are you OK? Feeling a bit rough?’
Without warning, the girl burst into a teary wail.
‘It’s been like hell on earth. Roberta – the lady of the house – they found her dead last night. They say it was a robber. You think you’re safe in a place like this, and they cut your throat next to your own home. Jonathan’s gone to see her parents to break the news. And I’m here, all on my own, scared. I can’t even open the front door – you never know who’s outside.’
She sat down on the bar stool beside Nina with her head in her hands. ‘I’m quitting. I’ve got my baby coming, and I don’t want to end up murdered in a bush like her,’ she added, somewhat melodramatically.
‘Oh, that’s awful. Poor you.’ Nina placed a sympathetic hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘It’s not good for the baby, getting so worked up. So she was mugged, was she? This place isn’t what it used to be, I’m telling you. You get all sorts of shifty characters nowadays, ready to kill for a watch and a phone.’
‘I know, it’s shocking.’ Catalina wiped her nose on her sleeve. She paused, her eyes darting from side to side. She looked on the verge of blurting something out.
‘What was she like, was she OK, your employer?’ asked Nina, seizing her chance.
‘Yeah, she was alright.’ The girl sounded pretty unconvinced. She tapped her fingers on the shiny island before adding, ‘Who am I kidding? It’s not good to talk bad of the dead, but she was a right bitch. When I told her about the baby, I thought she was going to sack me on the spot. She’s not allowed to do it – it’s illegal, you know.’
‘Why was she so angry that you’re pregnant?’