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

by Sabina Manea

  ‘And look. There are more spacers in each of the corners. They’ve been glued down,’ she added, as she struggled in vain to scratch them out with her nails.

  Carliss rummaged through the cutlery drawer and handed her a small paring knife, to which the tiny pieces finally succumbed, breaking into bits as they came out.

  ‘The tile’s loose.’ She pressed it with her hand, and it wobbled slightly from side to side. ‘The spacers had clearly been keeping it in place.’ She slid her fingers under the tile, and, to Carliss’s surprise, it lifted easily off the floor. ‘And it’s got holes in it, as if someone’s drilled through.’ As Lucia placed it carefully to one side, they stared incredulously at what lay underneath. ‘It looks like a door.’ It was more like a wooden lid with a recessed metal handle in the centre, sufficiently flat to have a tile lying on top. ‘More holes. It’s pretty stiff. You have a go,’ she beckoned after giving up.

  Carliss pulled on the handle as hard as he could, and the trap door creaked open against its will. There was nothing but darkness, and a musty smell of damp earth.

  ‘There are steps leading down.’ Lucia pointed as her eyes got used to the dark. ‘I’m going in.’

  ‘Great. I’m so looking forward to being eaten alive by rats. But seriously, is that a good idea? It’s probably not safe to go down there.’

  ‘I really couldn’t give a toss about health and safety right now, David. If my suppositions are right, this place holds the key to the murder – to both murders, I should say,’ she replied sharply before disappearing down the rickety steps.

  Scrambling down while trying to keep hold of the unstable handrail felt like it was taking hours. At last, their feet landed on firm ground, and Lucia switched on the torch on her phone. Under the unforgiving glare of the cold bright light, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She had been right. It was the entrance to a tunnel – tall enough for them to stand in without touching the ceiling, wide enough for an average-sized person to walk through. The walls and the ceiling were covered in neat rows of slightly grubby white tiles, and the floor appeared to be smooth concrete. There was no lighting apart from the source they had brought with them.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s see where it leads to.’

  Lucia was unable to conceal the rising excitement in her voice. This was promising to be a proper adventure. She didn’t want to reveal just yet that she had a pretty good idea where the tunnel would take them.

  Unsympathetic to her childish fervour, the policeman nodded doubtfully, but nevertheless followed on.

  ‘I remember reading something about foot tunnels a while back – or maybe it was a programme on the telly, I’m not quite sure,’ he said. ‘Apparently, there are quite a few under the city. I assumed it was one of those urban legends – you know, like the vampire in Highgate Cemetery, or Hitler wanting to live in Balham. It turns out the tunnel story at least is true – not that I thought I’d ever find myself in one of them.’

  ‘Yeah, I saw it on TV. I’d guess this one was built in the 1920s or 1930s, judging by the tiles and concrete,’ replied Lucia.

  ‘I couldn’t care less when it was built, I just hope we make it out of here alive.’ The inspector was breathing more heavily than usual.

  ‘I didn’t know you were claustrophobic.’

  ‘Neither did I. I hope we get out of here soon.’

  ‘Here are the steps up.’

  Lucia shone the torch on another precarious-looking staircase. The airlessness of the tunnel didn’t bother her in the slightest, but she was keen to put her wild theory to the test.

  ‘After you,’ he offered, more out of fear than out of a gentlemanly impulse.

  Before she could start the ascent, a faint glint on the floor caught her eye. She bent down to pick it up. ‘A bracelet. I wonder how long it’s been here.’

  ‘It’s got an engraving,’ said Carliss, struggling to read the tiny letters. ‘A date. I think it says 14 December 2008.’ He put it in his pocket.

  ‘Don’t drop it unless you want to retrace your footsteps,’ she warned and clambered up with ease, like a feline rediscovering a favourite tree. ‘Help me push this thing open.’ She panted as the trap door above refused to give way.

  There was no other way of doing it than to squeeze himself right into her side, practically locking her into an embrace. He didn’t want her falling down the stairs, so he wrapped one arm around her protectively while giving the door a determined push. She smelled of that warm, woody scent that he had first noticed at Lexington Hall, and her eyes were fixed expectantly on his face. She wasn’t finding this at all awkward. Their faces were mere inches apart, and he could have kissed her, but getting out of the tunnel was a much more pressing priority.

  ‘Here we go. Just as I thought,’ Lucia exclaimed as the door folded over with a loud crash and she scampered out.

  The policeman lifted himself out somewhat less gracefully and surveyed their surroundings. It looked very much like a church vestry. In fact, it couldn’t have been anything other than a church vestry. The trap door was similar to that in Alec Penney’s kitchenette, except it was covered over with a heavy rug – that explained why it had been so hard to lift open.

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘Your Baptist church in Heath Street,’ Lucia replied with unabashed satisfaction.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ The minister stood in the doorway, looking as if he had seen a ghost. The fact that there was a hint of recognition on his face as he directed his gaze towards Carliss didn’t seem to reassure him in the slightest.

  ‘Sorry to frighten you. I was here the other day – not sure if you remember me.’

  The man nodded like a rabbit in the headlights, and the policeman stretched out a hand.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector David Carliss of the Metropolitan Police, and this is my colleague, Lucia Steer. Apologies for intruding on you like this. We’re in the middle of an investigation, and we discovered a tunnel that runs from a building in a neighbouring road all the way here. Did you know anything about it?’

  The minister shook his head vigorously, as if he’d lost the power of speech. At last, he managed to shake hands with the policeman and open his mouth.

  ‘James Robinson. I’m the minister. Sorry, you know that already,’ he added apologetically. ‘No, I had no idea there was a tunnel.’ He approached the detectives gingerly, as if pussyfooting around a dangerous wild animal. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever moved that great big rug, certainly not since I’ve been here. What’s it like down there?’

  ‘Dark. A bit smelly. Just like you’d expect, really,’ lied Carliss. It was best not to expand on their motive for using the tunnel, let alone bring up the strange find. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s going to be some disruption. We’ll need to cordon off the entrance and get our forensics team to have a look. We’ll be out of your hair as quickly as we can.’

  His attempt to reassure the alarmed-looking minister plainly wasn’t working.

  As soon as they were safely out of the church door and on the pavement, DCI Carliss was glued to his phone. There was no time to lose – they desperately needed to find out who had been using the tunnel and left traces of themselves behind.

  Chapter 32

  ‘You’re awfully quiet,’ said the inspector, waiting for Lucia’s reaction.

  ‘Sorry. I’m trying to make sense of this bracelet and what it’s got to do with Alec’s death, if anything.’

  ‘Full marks for narrowing in on the loose floor tile,’ said Carliss, evidently impressed with her efforts. ‘How did it come to you?’

  ‘I’d worked out the killer must have been hiding somewhere in the offices – the kitchen being the most likely place, given all the commotion in Alec’s study. But it would have had to be a well concealed spot, not just lurking behind the door or whatever. That would be too risky. And the killer couldn’t have left through the window or gone back through the study as they would have been ca
ught on CCTV or seen by Elsa. That’s what gave me the idea of a tunnel. And when you mentioned the Baptist church being open late into the evening, I began to suspect that perhaps it was the route out. That programme about tunnels was pretty memorable.’

  ‘Not bad, partner. You’ve certainly convinced me. Let’s park it for now, shall we? I’m sure we’ll crack the mystery of the bracelet soon.’

  The policeman sounded more confident than he had since the beginning of the investigation, seeing how much progress had been made in such a short space of time.

  ‘In the meantime, we’ve got another pressing matter to attend to. The Super’s been on my tail about that burglary in Hampstead – the Rowlands’ house, remember? They’ve been chasing her for an update. I haven’t got any news to give them, but she’s asked that we drop by and say so in person.’

  Lucia sighed. A petty burglary was as far removed from the reality of two murders as could be. Still, at least that particular investigation could be laid to rest.

  * * *

  On Frognal, the imposing gates protecting the Rowlands residence glided open noiselessly, and the Spider pulled up in the now familiar spot. Lucia wasn’t exactly looking forward to delivering the news that they’d got nowhere. In her mind, it wasn’t good police work to just give up, but unfortunately, they had hit a dead end.

  The detectives were greeted by both Jim and Sally Rowlands, evidently at home for the occasion, and their expectant faces made Lucia feel even worse about what they were going to say. DCI Carliss accepted the offer of a hot drink and signalled discreetly to Lucia to do the same, if only to buy a little more time to work out how to phrase it.

  ‘So, Linda – sorry, Detective Superintendent Perretti – said you had some news for us,’ opened Jim with a hopeful manner. He was dressed casually in a monogrammed grey tracksuit, deceptively low-profile but evidently expensive.

  DCI Carliss shuffled uneasily in the capacious armchair, with two pairs of eyes resting keenly on him.

  ‘Yes, yes, we do. I’m sorry to say we haven’t got any closer to catching the culprits. The checks that our team carried out showed the alarm system and the CCTV had been tampered with – disabled, if you will. That would lead us to assume that whoever did this was most likely an insider. We didn’t find any prints either, so they must have worn gloves.’ He leaned forward, conscious this was going to be a delicate subject to broach. ‘Mr Rowlands, I know this is an unpleasant possibility to consider, but is there any chance someone from your household could have been responsible?’

  It was Jim’s turn to squirm uncomfortably, with a horrified look etched into his handsome face.

  ‘You mean, a family member, or a friend?’

  ‘Or a member of staff – your housekeeper, perhaps, or anyone else you employ at home?’

  ‘We trust the housekeeper as one of our own,’ replied Sally. ‘She’s been with us ever since India was born – she was her nanny. And as for anyone else… I don’t know. There’s the gardener and his helper, but they’re good guys – recommended by a family friend. They wouldn’t do this to us, I’m sure of it. There isn’t really anyone else I can think of.’ She turned to her husband for reassurance. ‘It’s unthinkable that a friend or a family member would do this to us. We’re all very close, you see, Inspector – extended family is very important to us.’

  The conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of stomping steps upstairs. The detectives glanced up in unison, but nobody made an appearance.

  ‘Sorry, that’ll be India. I don’t know what’s up with her today. She’s been in a right huff, even worse than usual, if that’s possible,’ said Sally. ‘She seemed to take it badly when we broke the news of Alec’s death. Maybe all those counselling sessions weren’t for nothing, and she was paying attention to the guy after all.’

  The visit had reached a natural end, and DCI Carliss stood up to leave. ‘Mr and Mrs Rowlands, I’m sorry I couldn’t bring better news. We’ll see ourselves out if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s no trouble, I’ll walk with you,’ replied Sally as she got up. ‘Thank you for your efforts anyway. We know you’ve done your best.’

  The inspector walked briskly ahead and was through the front door before Lucia. As she followed on his heels, she spotted something on the wall. She blinked profusely, as if to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her.

  ‘That’s a beautiful photo, Mrs Rowlands.’

  ‘Thank you. They’re my auntie and uncle, with my cousin Will. We grew up together, like siblings. He’s India’s favourite – the only one that can get any sense out of that girl.’

  The black and white portrait was, unmistakably, the face of Will Sherriff. Lucia chided herself for not making a connection earlier. Out of professional habit, she’d looked up both him and the Rowlands. The Claytons, Sally’s maiden name, and the Sherriffs were old Romany families, but the idea of a connection hadn’t occurred to her – until now.

  ‘Family is so important. You’re lucky to be so close to yours,’ said Lucia as she put on her best blank face.

  Sally beamed with pride. ‘Thank you. We like to celebrate all the special people in our lives, and all the milestones. See here–’ she gestured as she stroked the frame around the exquisite calligraphy of a neighbouring picture ‘–they’re the dates when Jim and I were baptised.’ Conscious that the explanation had confused more than it clarified, she continued, ‘Sorry, it probably doesn’t make sense to you. We’re Pentecostals, you see. We practise adult baptism.’

  ‘Fascinating – I had no idea. So, I’m guessing your cousin Will got baptised as an adult too?’ asked Lucia nonchalantly, hoping against hope that the answer wouldn’t be the one she already suspected.

  ‘Yes, of course. Jim, can you remember when it was? He’s very good at remembering dates, unlike me – I’m terrible with birthdays and all that.’

  ‘I can remember it like it was yesterday. 14 December 2008,’ replied her husband.

  * * *

  As the detectives settled at their respective desks at Kentish Town Police Station, Lucia busied herself by rifling manically through the pile on her desk. It was very out of character to have so much paperwork lying around and indicated that the investigation had got the better of both of them. Finally, she popped up for air.

  ‘Do you remember what we found on Alec Penney’s phone?’

  ‘A load of messages between him and Roberta Musgrave, as far as I can recall. Why?’

  ‘Yes, I know about those, but there was something else. Some odd message about Juliet. Ring any bells?’ She persisted, despite his puzzled expression.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s come back to me now. Something about virginity, wasn’t it?’

  The inspector fired up his long-suffering computer and peered at the screen, tapping clumsily with two fingers. Touch-typing was a skill he had never bothered learning.

  ‘Here we go. “I swear to you by my virginity xxxx”, from the cryptic “J”.’

  ‘Got it. It’s a quote from Romeo and Juliet, remember? And we never did work out who “J” was.’ Lucia thought for a moment and scribbled something down in her dog-eared notebook.

  ‘We figured it must be one of Alec’s many affairs – sounds like a very personal sort of missive, doesn’t it? We never went back to check if Cam tracked down the number. I’ll ping her a message now.’

  It would be good to have definitive confirmation, but in Lucia’s mind the answer was already clear.

  Chapter 33

  It was painfully cold to be standing still in Highgate Cemetery, despite the fact that everyone had wrapped up in the thickest coats they owned. The funeral party was a small one, and they stood unwillingly side by side under the icy, overcast skies. It was a fitting tableau for the interment of a man who had set out to alleviate unhappiness in others and yet managed to leave behind so much pain. The task of organising the event had fallen to Amanda Penney, in her official capacity as grieving widow, and the manner in which she had fulfilled her d
uty could not be faulted. Alec Penney hadn’t been a particularly devout man in life, but it was nonetheless felt that he should receive a standard Church of England send-off. Lucia was amazed to see the local vicar was the same one she remembered from her primary school days – older, balder, but with the same lively twinkle in his intelligent eyes.

  DCI Carliss, resplendent in his best suit – one of only two that he owned – stood at the back of the group, not wishing to draw too much attention to himself. Lucia too had been instructed to be as inconspicuous as possible, but whether it was just her general confident demeanour, or perhaps the narrow-waisted black coat and matching ribbon in her hair had something to do with it, she ended up looking like a Sicilian widow and caused a few heads to turn. There had been some murmurs of surprise at this reasonably discreet police presence, but, in the absence of an official explanation, most of the attendees had settled into a false sense of security, reassuring themselves that the officers were simply there to pay their respects.

  Lucia and Carliss surveyed the crowd, if it could be called that – Amanda Penney, Max Penney, Elsa Whittle, the three Rowlands, George Coddington and Will Sherriff. In addition, a few former colleagues from Alec’s hospital days and a smattering of former clients stood uneasily at the back, clearly keen to pay their respects and get out of there as fast as they could. It was a good indication of the kind of man Alec Penney had been in life – someone you couldn’t be genuinely close to. The Penney brothers’ parents were long dead. Lucia wondered if it didn’t all look too staged, if the attendees would cotton on to the possibility that something was brewing. To appease her own nervousness, she placed a gloved hand on Carliss’s arm for reassurance. She reminded herself that they had planned everything very carefully.

  The vicar had given a beautifully crafted eulogy, in as much as it was possible to speak of a man who hadn’t been a regular worshipper in the parish church. Amanda had once again excelled at providing precisely the right information to make the occasion solemn, yet personal. It was admirable, Lucia noted – the woman clearly had more skills than they had originally assumed at that meeting in her artist’s studio in East London. Amanda Penney looked the picture of polite grief – winter-pale, with her poetical red hair reined back in a severe bun and her face punctuated by just enough judiciously applied make-up. She was in a suitably mournful outfit – a quietly stylish knee-length dress, plain black, with a vintage mink coat on top, like an actress out of a silent film.