by Sabina Manea
‘That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?’ replied Lucia as she scavenged through her indecipherable notes.
She hadn’t slept a wink since they got back to London. The new theory had turned everything on its head. She had turned over every possible scenario. At least they had concluded that Amanda Penney, the last person to actually see Alec in the flesh, couldn’t have been the killer. Somebody else had lain in waiting, unheard, unknown, and had struck at the opportune time. The thought sent shivers down her spine. If her theory was correct, the killing had been clinical, premeditated – a far cry from the impetuous motives they had ascribed to the suspects so far.
‘If Amanda Penney left at six thirty-five, and Roberta Musgrave arrived at six forty-five, that would give us a very precise window for Alec’s murder. What I can’t get my head around is, where did this mysterious killer go? We’ve been through the CCTV with a fine toothcomb, from both the front and the back of the building. There’s nobody unaccounted for.’ The policeman slurped the dregs of his revolting black coffee, already on the lookout for another. ‘People don’t just disappear into thin air. However much we’ve tried, we just don’t seem to be able to crack this one.’
Lucia didn’t reply, and the question was left hanging in the air, like the sword of Damocles. A picture lingered in her line of sight – the starry sky at Lexington Hall, brightly lit on that freezing cold night, and the two of them standing side by side trying to make out the constellations, pleasurably woozy and open to new possibilities. It had almost been something. She shook her head violently from side to side to get rid of the memory. Back in the real world, there was death and hatred and pain that no amount of daydreaming could displace. The puzzle lay stubbornly before them, unwilling to admit defeat. She needed to clear her head, and sitting behind her desk in the stuffy room at the station wasn’t going to do it.
‘I’m going out. Call me if you find out anything new,’ she shouted behind her, already halfway out of the door before Carliss could question her whereabouts.
She made her way to Kentish Town Road, the start of a virtually straight line down to Trafalgar Square, where she planned to lose herself in the National Gallery for a while. As a young graduate back in London from Cambridge, this had been one of her favourite past times, and one she had liked to indulge in as frequently as possible. Back in the day, she could just about squeeze twenty minutes of quiet, contemplative gazing in her lunch break, if she walked briskly down from her old firm’s offices in Holborn.
Today, as was usual during the working week – holidays excepted – the place was practically deserted, and the Italian Renaissance paintings, her favourites, unfolded like a private spectacle before her eyes. Against the dark red walls, under the dimmed spotlights, the sumptuous colours brought the dramatic scenes to life – angels, demons, and a copious amount of bare flesh. Her thoughts turned briefly to her father, the man she had never known. She wondered what he looked like – dark and brooding, like Caravaggio’s Jesus, the archetypal Italian man, or youthful and light-haired, like a character descended from one of Botticelli’s canvases? When she had tidied away her mother’s belongings, she had found no evidence of her father, nothing to know or remember him by. She wondered if her predilection for these intense paintings was innate, like a brand she couldn’t remove.
Lucia weaved her way through the rooms and stopped before a picture she didn’t recall ever seeing before. A young woman rested her head on her hand in melancholy, embraced tightly from behind by an old man. The composition was unexpected and bizarre. The woman’s doughy ennui stood sharply against the man’s keenness to dress – or undress – her in a richly pigmented green cloak. The flowing blonde hair and half-exposed breast left little to the imagination, and yet something arrested Lucia. ‘There are two sides to every story.’ The sentence suddenly popped into her head, seemingly out of nowhere. What did it mean? She couldn’t help thinking they had been looking at the whole case from entirely the wrong angle.
An awkward shuffle to her right jolted her out of her thoughts. A thin girl with a shock of white-blonde hair, anywhere between fourteen and eighteen, had settled at the other end of the bench and was sketching furiously in her notepad. Her fingers were black with the charcoal of her pencil, and they left long streaks as she rubbed her hands on her light-coloured jeans. Sensing she was being watched, the girl raised her head and gave Lucia the briefest of acknowledging smiles. Her eyes were grey, like those of a fish on ice.
‘That one’s new. They’ve got it on loan from Philadelphia. It’s called The Nymph Agapes and Her Old Husband.’
‘Who’s the painter?’ asked Lucia, gripped by the oddly mature child.
‘Jacopo de' Barbari. Not very well known any more. It’s gripping, isn’t it?’ replied the girl, locking her cold gaze with the listless eyes of the painted beauty.
‘Creepy, I’d say. I think we’re programmed to shrink back at seeing an amorous old man force himself on a younger woman. These unbalanced relationships were actually fairly common in those days.’
Lucia suddenly remembered a paper she had read some years back. Her own garrulousness surprised her, and she stopped, somewhat embarrassed, anticipating a dismissive wince from her young interlocutor.
The girl assessed her for a few seconds, as if she were letting the meaning of the words sink in. She smoothed her hair and replied, ‘You could say that. But then again, how do you know she’s not reciprocating? Or initiating, for that matter?’ before returning to her sketch.
Chapter 29
Back in Kentish Town, DCI Carliss had had enough of solitary confinement in his office. Instead of heading south, like Lucia had done, he opted for Hampstead. By the time he’d got to Heath Street it was close to midday, too early for the shop assistants and office workers to have escaped from their confines. There was one place that he had passed innumerable times and never had the inclination, or courage, to walk in.
The Heath Street Baptist Church stood right on the pavement, with no protective buffer between its entrance and the passers-by. The exposure lent it a peculiar vulnerability, as if it didn’t have a choice as to whom it let in. The building itself was unremarkable on the outside – a run-of-the-mill Victorian Neo-Gothic affair of the kind that usefully filled up space in most cities. He pushed the door cautiously, afraid of disturbing the silence within. As the heavy wood creaked, he tried to recall the last time he’d been inside a church and realised that it must have been at his mother’s funeral, seven years previously.
The place could be aptly described as a large preaching barn, with neat rows of pews that gave it the semblance of a concert hall – conveniently so, since it seemed to be a popular use, judging by the rack of leaflets at the entrance. The light streamed in through tall, Art Nouveau stained glass windows, and at the front stood a table and chair, much like an old-fashioned headteacher’s study. Above it, an impossibly high pulpit looked down on the congregation. It felt like anyone could simply wander up there and take charge. The policeman was unfamiliar with Baptist conventions, and the whole set-up looked bizarre. He sat near the front and watched the fine dust particles float through the air, taking in the reassuring smell of old wood and musty carpet that was the recurrent theme of most religious buildings. Quite what had made him so curious about this particular one, he didn’t know – but here he was, with the spell having been broken.
‘It’s lovely and quiet here during the day, isn’t it?’
The voice that resonated across the empty space was a solid, measured baritone, honed for preaching to the masses. The man that had emerged from one of the side doors at the back was about ten years younger than the inspector and was casually dressed in cord trousers and an open-necked shirt. He didn’t look much like a vicar.
‘Sorry to butt in. I just needed somewhere to sit and think,’ apologised Carliss as it suddenly dawned on him that he might be intruding.
‘No need to apologise. That’s what we’re here for. Quiet contemp
lation, rousing sermons, loud concerts – whatever floats your boat,’ replied the minister with an encouraging smile.
‘It’s nice in here. Feels very welcoming, like anybody can just walk in.’
‘Yes, we try and keep it that way. You’d be surprised how many people loiter just outside the door, too worried to come inside. We’re not a scary bunch, honest.’
‘You don’t look particularly frightening to me.’ The inspector relaxed into his seat a little. ‘Do you have a large congregation?’
The minister sat in the pew in front and faced the policeman, his arms crossed on the back.
‘Not anymore, unfortunately. Numbers have been dwindling for a while now. This church used to be an important meeting point – people would travel from afar to hear sermons. But, like all churches that haven’t got a school attached to it, interest has waned over time. I’m lucky if I can count the Sunday attendees on two hands, if I’m being honest,’ he added, a shadow of resignation washing over his otherwise upbeat countenance.
‘That’s a shame,’ replied Carliss. He knew full well that this wasn’t a unique case. Church attendance, even for simply social reasons, wasn’t at the top of people’s priority lists in this day and age. ‘Well, thank you for letting me use the space. It’s done me a world of good.’
‘My pleasure. I’m glad it’s helped. I know how important it is to take time out for some quiet reflection. Balm for the soul, trite as that may sound – but it happens to be true. I keep the church open as long as possible every day, precisely for this reason – so that people can wander in and out at will. At least this way it’s serving its purpose.’ The minister checked his watch. ‘I won’t be locking up until about nine tonight, so if you’d like to come back at any time before then, you know we’re here.’
‘I appreciate it, and I’ll remember to drop by again. Maybe even try a Sunday service.’
Chapter 30
It was early evening already, and Lucia was in no mood for company. The prospect of team drinks would normally have been appealing, but tonight it sounded like an unpleasant chore to be endured. Still, there was nothing for her to do in her tiny, impersonal flat but drink on her own and skulk around on her computer, trying in vain to tie up the loose ends of the case. Perhaps a couple of glasses of white Burgundy down the pub would help blow out the cobwebs after all. She wondered what the inspector had been up to in her absence.
As she walked into the boozer, Lucia was amused by the tableau before her. DC George Harding propped up the bar wearing a flashy purple shirt, hair slicked back, ready for an evening out in the company of a woman that he rather liked the look of. DS Cam Trinh was perfectly aware of his game, as she always had been, but took no note of what she saw as frankly ridiculous posturing. Not only was she a happily married woman, but if she were to contemplate an extramarital affair, George Harding would be fairly low down the list of candidates.
‘Here come the lovebirds,’ whispered Harding a little too close to Cam’s ear.
‘What a relief,’ Cam whispered in turn to Lucia as they faced away from the men. ‘I thought I’d be stuck with him for ages. He’s a harmless idiot, but I really can’t be bothered tonight.’
‘Don’t take any notice of him. He’s just trying to get ahead – not that he’s going about it the right way,’ replied Lucia, taking charge of the large glass of chilled white wine she had been looking forward to all day.
‘Anyway, how are things with you? Any closer to cracking the counsellor’s conundrum?’
Once an investigation had acquired a nickname in the team, it was a sure sign it was giving them all a headache.
‘It’s all very woolly, I’m afraid. We seem to be dealing with some sort of shape-shifting ghost, or alternatively we’re just being blind.’
‘Do you want to walk me through it? A fresh pair of eyes might be of some help.’
As Carliss and Harding joined the conversation, Lucia took them through the events, making sure she didn’t leave anything out. If she and the inspector had hit a wall, perhaps someone less involved could offer a fresh perspective on things.
‘So, there you have it. The last person to have seen Alec Penney alive was his wife. Whoever it was that Roberta spoke to afterwards, it wasn’t him. And whoever killed Roberta must have done so because she had worked it out – and presumably it wouldn’t have taken long for her to deduce who the impersonator was.’
Cam angled her head as she tried to assemble all the pieces, but Harding, not one to miss an opportunity for self-promotion, butted in unceremoniously.
‘My money’s on the estranged wife. If she was the last to see him alive, then logically she’s the one to have bumped him off.’
‘But how do you account for the person who spoke to Roberta afterwards then? Why was someone pretending to be Alec if it wasn’t the killer?’ replied Cam, visibly peeved at the interruption.
Harding was stumped. He scratched his head, nervously searching for a justification.
‘Well, maybe Roberta was lying.’
‘What do you mean, lying?’
‘Maybe she didn’t talk to Alec at all.’ Harding had evidently fashioned an explanation that he was quite proud of. Lucia could see through his frankly ridiculous attempts to impress Cam Trinh and had to stop herself from sniggering. ‘Maybe she just told you she did. If she hated that Elsa girl so much, she could have lied to the police to make it look like Alec was still alive when she left. The secretary would then be the only one who could have done away with him.’
‘Hmm, that doesn’t add up. How would Roberta have known that nobody else was going to visit Alec that evening?’
Harding was at a loss again. ‘Erm… she assumed it was late, so it would only be Elsa left? Makes sense,’ he said, more for his own reassurance.
‘I don’t buy it,’ replied Lucia. ‘Roberta didn’t know the time of Alec’s death when we interviewed her. She also didn’t know who was around in the offices that evening. So, lying about speaking to Alec when in fact she did nothing of the sort wouldn’t have got her anywhere.’
‘OK, in that case there’s an even simpler explanation. Roberta Musgrave killed Alec. And there you have it,’ concluded Harding triumphantly, looking over in Carliss’s direction for reassurance.
‘We’ve been through this already.’ Lucia rolled her eyes in exasperation as she could see that Carliss was suppressing a smile at their bickering. ‘If she killed Alec, why would she go back to the offices, and then call the DCI on top of that? Why attract attention to herself?’
That shut Harding up, and he beckoned for another pint, keen to step out of the spotlight.
‘It’s a muddle, isn’t it?’ agreed Cam sympathetically. ‘I think another round’s in order. We’re not going to get to the bottom of it tonight, that’s for sure, so we might as well have a good time.’
DCI Carliss decided to change the subject. ‘I went to church today.’
‘Didn’t have you down as a religious man, Guv,’ said Harding, keen to redeem himself after the latest debacle.
‘No, I didn’t have myself down as one either. It’s the Baptist church – you know, the one on Heath Street. Must have walked past it a thousand times, but never dared go in. It’s quite nice, actually. I bumped into the minister – friendly bloke, a far cry from your regular fusty vicar. I feel sorry for him – it doesn’t sound like he’s got too many worshippers left in his congregation.’
‘Not these days, I wouldn’t have thought,’ said Cam with a haughty tone of disapproval. ‘As my mum always says, people just don’t believe in anything anymore. She heads off to the Catholic church in Bow every Sunday, whatever the weather.’
‘The minister keeps the church open late into the evening, he said – just so people can walk in for quiet reflection, or a chat if they feel like it. I thought that was really touching,’ said the inspector. The place had evidently made an impression on him.
And, just like that, the pieces of the puzzle started falling
into place at last.
Chapter 31
‘What are we looking for?’ DCI Carliss winced as he straightened his back. The ride in Lucia’s Spider had been traumatic. ‘That was scandalous, even by your standards. If I were a betting man, I’d guess you’ve broken the speed record for a Kentish Town to Hampstead rally.’
‘I’ll know when I see it,’ she replied cryptically, ignoring his jibe.
Inside the Connections Counselling offices, the surfaces in the long-neglected kitchenette were gathering dust. The place looked deserted, unloved. One could only hope that whoever ended up buying it from Amanda Penney would derive more happiness from it than the previous occupants had done. The inspector had had to use the spare key. Lucia was glad not to have Elsa breathe down their necks for a change. If a discovery were to be made, it was best done without an audience.
In the kitchenette, Lucia got down on all fours and started with a corner of the room. She ran the palm of her hand methodically across every one of the large floor tiles, prodding them gently to check for any movement. The inspector watched her, mesmerised, not daring to ask what she had in mind. Finally, she pointed to a tile in the middle of the room. ‘Look at that.’
‘What am I looking at?’ Carliss got down on his knees and peered at the smooth floor. ‘I can’t spot anything amiss.’
‘It’s a tile spacer.’
The inspector shrugged. ‘What difference does that make? DIY’s never been my strong point.’
His lack of enthusiasm was met with a distinctly unimpressed stare. ‘Why would there be a spacer on a floor that’s been down for a while?’
She reached down and pointed to a plastic item between the offending tile and the next. It was a minuscule white plastic T-shape, easily missed by anyone less sharp than she was. She too had missed it the first time around, and for that she was very annoyed with herself – not that she had known what she was looking for then. But she did now.