by Sabina Manea
It turned out she was right. Carliss pulled out his notebook. ‘Let’s start with the Professor herself. Alla Kiseleva. She’s seventy-eight. In the UK since 1983. Her passport says she was born in Yaroslavl – textbook place, onion domes and all that. She hasn’t got dual citizenship, as far as I can tell from the records – we’ve only got her British passport on file. Shortly after she arrived in this country, she married one Louis Stone, an insurance broker, who died ten years ago. No children. He left her the house and a nice bit of money. Before retiring she worked for the Collaborative Mathematical Society.’
‘That rings a bell. It’s in Bloomsbury. Left-leaning. Didn’t they pride themselves on hiring dissident Russians who managed to get out?’
‘That’s the one. A bit of a hub for Soviet mathematicians – smart enough to get their hands on the talent when it came their way. Anyway, she started off as a junior researcher and rose up the ranks to Head of Cybernetic Research. Plenty of papers, lecturing, the standard trajectory. I’ve got my team looking into her background in Russia, so we’ll know more shortly. What do you make of her?’
‘Before the party, I had only met her once. It was her nephew Adam who hired me. She wasn’t rude as such, but she liked to keep her distance. On the face of things, she was obsessed with her work. She was apparently writing a new book on cybernetics. She struck me as imperious and self-centred. I can’t imagine she was easy to work for. And there’s the business of redecorating the house, of course. It seems money’s no object when you’re the widow of a rich broker. The Professor left Adam in charge, and he practically hired me on the spot.’
‘Interesting. Brings me neatly to a question that’s been bothering me all this while. How did you get this job?’
‘All the builders around here have had their eye on Beatrice Hall for years. When word came out that it was due for renovation, I tracked Adam down and asked him upfront. It’s odd, actually. He gave me the job straightaway. I guess he didn’t want to spend too long interviewing tradesmen, just wanted the work to start.’
‘You might be right. What’s your take on Adam Corcoran?’
‘Troubled. Drinker. He lives at Beatrice Hall, as does the housekeeper. As I said before, I heard them having a row a few days before the party. They were down in the kitchen, and I was on the ground floor, so I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I’m positive I recognised their voices though. On the day the Professor died, he was talking about selling the Hall. It was the first I heard of it – I suppose that’s why he was so set on doing it up. The Professor wasn’t best pleased. I also got the impression she wasn’t sharing her wealth, although he would have liked her to.’
‘People are drawn to money, like flies to the proverbial. How about Mrs Byrne?’
‘Quietly angry about something, though I haven’t been able to figure out what. She follows Adam around like a fawning puppy. It’s pathetic to watch how he strings her along. She doesn’t like his drinking habits; it might be she thinks she can save him. She told me she’s been with the Professor for twenty years. Nonetheless, there’s no love lost between them. Mrs Byrne is always grumbling about the state of the house and boasting how indispensable she is – was – to the Professor.’
Carliss nodded pensively. He was scribbling furiously in his notebook, which was rapidly filling up. Lucia was captivated by the diagrams he had drawn to show the connections between the characters, like a mind map of mistrust.
‘What’s the story with the young woman?’ he continued.
‘Emilia. She’s the Professor’s assistant. It sounds like she’s been tasked with the donkey work on the book – research, typing, proofreading. She was on good form at the party. With me, she’s polite but reserved – but then, I’m not a man, nor susceptible to schoolgirl charm. She strikes me as a touch old for such an entry-level job. Not to mention being at the Professor’s beck and call.’
‘The doctor?’
‘Outwardly pleasant, for which read reptilian. Probably ex-military.’
‘What were the couple called?’
‘The Walkers. John and Margaret. Run-of-the-mill Hampstead types. Barrister and stay-at-home wife. Unremarkable at first sight, but these people always are. They’ll have a handsome period house done in graceful shades of white, the kind that photographs well. Nevertheless, as soon as they’re finished with it, they’ll want to change it all again – the wife, that is. Displacement activity for the lack of purpose that’s gnawing away at her.’
‘Ouch. That’s harsh. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty like them in your line of work.’ He put the notebook to one side and stretched out his legs. ‘To be honest, this whole business is one big headache.’
He didn’t look like someone with a headache – he looked thrilled to bits. You’re as bad as I am, Lucia judged. Just can’t resist a challenge.
The inspector finished his tea and fixed her with newly found determination. ‘How about an actual drink? I think we’ve earned it.’
Lucia laughed, and found herself unusually relaxed. ‘OK, but only if you promise not to talk about this wretched death.’
‘Deal. I know a pub just round the corner with dubious carpet and excellent wine. Will that do?’
‘Perfect,’ she replied instantly – after all, it wasn’t every day that she met a policeman as eccentric as this one was.
Chapter 7
They walked out onto the anachronistic cobbles, and the day revealed itself in all its glory, like a saccharine pathetic fallacy. The pub was a mere hundred yards away, but they ambled slowly, delectably, savouring every step. In eighteenth-century Kentish Town, nothing could go wrong on a hazy, warm Saturday afternoon. They settled at a table outside, gulping first mouthfuls like holy water.
‘What did you do before you became a decorator?’
‘How do you know I haven’t always been a decorator?’ retorted Lucia with a playful smile.
‘Oh, give me a break. You don’t exactly sound like those geezers down the Red Lion.’
Lucia turned her face to the sun. ‘I used to be a lawyer.’
‘City type, I assume?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Too arrogant to be anything else.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Suit yourself. Why did you jack it all in?’
She found she didn’t mind the interrogation. ‘It’s a thankless line of work. You’re only in it for the money, but you never get to spend it because you’re so busy slaving away for all sorts of shady types. I’ve always been good with my hands, so decorating felt like a good get-out.’
DCI Carliss tilted his head, somewhat puzzled. ‘You are something else. When you said you’re good with your hands, I would have thought baking or sewing, you know, the popular stuff that disillusioned posh girls get into. Isn’t it weird to be the only woman with all these macho blokes around you?’
‘I don’t mind it. They’re easy enough to handle. Besides, I can barely boil an egg, and I’ve never sewn anything in my life. I thought I might become a mechanic, but you need to do a qualification, and frankly I’m sick of those. I can fix a car anyway, so I thought I could be a decorator and, if the van breaks down, most of the time I know what to do. And you? A copper with an inherited pile in North London and no regard for procedure? Where does that fit in?’
It was the detective’s turn to affect an air of mystery. As his expression turned to an easy smile, Lucia twigged that he was gently poking fun at her. ‘I figured I’ve got nothing to lose. If I get sacked, I’ll have had a good run of it. The only thing I care about is getting to the bottom of the case. And as to the house, my parents worked for the Home Office. Jobs for life, as it used to be in those days. Mind you, when they bought the house in the late 1960s, this area was rough. But they were blissfully happy, a young couple starting out, with their own place to call home. When they died, I couldn’t bear the thought of the house being sold, so I moved back in.’
‘Isn’t it unse
ttling, living as an adult in your childhood home?’ Lucia recalled how swiftly she had forsaken her own nest. People moved on – that’s what adulthood was all about.
‘I made it my own. Before, I was flitting from one rented flat to another, tracing my way across the city, like everyone does when they start out. In the end, my old village drew me back. And you? Oh, indulge me briefly. Rented flat in Hampstead. Nobody in that block stays for longer than a year or speaks to any of their neighbours. Rich parents in Hampshire. You head back occasionally, but they’re disappointed you gave up a stellar legal career for manual labour, so you avoid them like the plague. Pony, boarding school, the lot. Just not enough affection.’
Lucia couldn’t suppress an inner smile that she hoped hadn’t travelled to her lips. He’d missed the mark by a long shot. ‘Yes, something like that. Don’t feel too sorry for me, will you?’
The blue eyes narrowed. He had probably worked out she was pulling his leg as he changed tack. ‘Another one?’
Lucia caught a glimpse of her watch. They had seamlessly moved into early evening, as if there had been a moratorium on time. How bizarre to have spent so long, and not notice, with someone she barely knew. She fruitlessly sought to conjure up a reason to leave – an appointment, a date, a class. Her mind was wilfully blank. Ultimately, there was nothing to lose.
‘Go on then.’
The second glass of cold wine erased all her misgivings, and she decided to give free rein to her curiosity. ‘What made you become a copper?’
Carliss glanced sideways into the light, just like Lucia had done moments earlier, and she sensed he hadn’t yet made up his mind on how much of himself to disclose. She knew she baffled him with the strange mix of artless and unreadable that she affected. He seemed like the kind of man who had spent his life sheltering from excessively strong feelings that might threaten to rattle his equilibrium.
He finally answered. ‘I felt this strong sense of duty. I know it sounds clichéd. My parents instilled it in me. I’m not a stickler for rules, as you may have gathered already, but I’m a firm believer in basic decency. Plus, I wasn’t brainy enough to be a doctor.’
‘I find that hard to believe. I think you enjoy the power you wield. Having the psychological advantage.’
‘Yes, I admit I do. I don’t use it for nefarious purposes, so that’s me absolved.’
Lucia couldn’t resist carrying on with her assessment of the policeman. ‘How come you haven’t risen any higher than Detective Chief Inspector, at your age?’
She waited to see if she’d gone too far – if he would take offence at the impertinent line of questioning. She had a habit of directness which most people – especially men – found disconcerting.
To her relief, the corner of his mouth lifted into a relaxed smile, as if he’d been expecting the question all along. ‘I like working in the field, not sitting behind a desk writing polite emails and sucking up to the boss. I couldn’t care less about getting promoted.’
And so it meandered, pleasurably, on and on, until a decision loomed.
‘Hungry?’
In her head, she hesitated for a split second, but the reply shot straight out. ‘Famished.’
By now, all prudence had gone to the winds, the way it does, deliciously, when you’ve got a bottle of wine and not much else swirling around your stomach. Carliss knew a quaint little French restaurant a few streets away, a home from home for hankering Parisians who had got waylaid on the pilgrimage trail to Kensington. They ate, drank and talked until they were unceremoniously turfed out at midnight.
‘Good night, Miss Steer.’
‘Good night, Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘David.’
‘Good night, David. And thank you for a very nice evening.’
He teetered on the step but thought better of it.
They parted.
Chapter 8
It was past ten o’clock when Lucia finally stirred. Shards of light streamed into the darkened bedroom along the edges of the blind. She quickly ran over the events of the previous evening in her head and was relieved she’d kept her wits about her. It would have been pretty bad form if she’d ended up in bed with the copper investigating her former client’s death – even though he did have very nice eyes and she had genuinely considered it a few times.
With plenty of strong coffee inside her, Lucia’s senses sharpened. All roads led to the Professor, and yet she eluded their grasp. To make any sense of her death, they had to start with an element of certainty. Where the Professor had come from was an unknown. Where she had landed, however, was not, so the logical first point of call was the Collaborative Mathematical Society. If the Professor’s work had really been all-encompassing, she was likely to have left deep footprints there. More importantly, Lucia relished the prospect of getting one up on the DCI.
A near perfect straight line joined her flat to the destination, Montague Street, where the Society was protectively tucked under a wing of the British Museum. The 168 was waiting patiently for her at the bottom of Rosslyn Hill and duly deposited its cargo on Southampton Row. Booth’s poverty map had categorised the area as predominantly red, with smatterings of yellow on the Squares, Bedford and Russell – middle class, well-to-do, with touches of upper-middle and upper classes, wealthy. Montague Street was definitely in the former category – respectable, though categorically out of the price range of the middle class. Every other door marked the entrance to an overpriced hotel that unsuccessfully tried to distinguish itself from its neighbouring rivals. They all had dingy basement dining rooms with litter piled up outside the windows.
The Society was in the same category, with its yellow stock brick darkened by two centuries of man-made grime and indistinguishable from the rest of the row, except for a matt brass plaque announcing its name to the world. Lucia had done her research – the Society was open to the general public on a Sunday. If they couldn’t yet determine what kind of person the Professor was in private, Lucia wanted to at least craft a picture of who the woman was professionally. She also hoped there would be one or two members of staff that she could gently interrogate – if she was particularly lucky, perhaps even someone who had been there long enough to remember the Professor.
The doorbell rang timidly. No answer. The second ring was cut short by the slow-motion opening of the door. In the dimly lit entrance hall stood a man somewhere in his eighties who looked like he might fall apart at the lightest touch. He wore a dated suit that was a few sizes too big for his emaciated body.
‘Hello. You’re open today, aren’t you?’ Lucia beamed her most endearing smile.
The man shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, looked her up and down a few times and computed the level of danger as low.
‘Yes, yes, we are. Come in, come in.’ His manner shifted to mild embarrassment, perhaps at how unkempt the interior promised to be, but was shortly overcome by an eagerness to please. ‘I do apologise. Sundays are visiting days, but I can’t remember the last time anyone turned up. I didn’t catch your name. Herbert Jennings is mine. I look after this place. Everyone here calls me Herb.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Herb. I’m Lucia Steer.’
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lucia. This way. I have to sign you in before I let you loose in the library. All this health and safety business. Nonsense, if you ask me. If there’s a fire, you just run for it. Putting your name down in the book won’t save you.’ He doddered ahead, switching on the lights as he went. The entrance hall was more attractive than first impressions had suggested. With an experienced eye, Lucia admired the tasteful stone-coloured walls, not long painted, and the precious chandelier.
The bureaucratic requirements were ticked off in a cramped, windowless room carved out of what could only have been a broom cupboard. Its door dismissively bore the label “Caretaker”, leaving no doubt about the purpose of the dingiest space in the building. Once formalities were out of the way, Herb ushered her back into the hall a
nd through a pair of imposing panelled doors. He stood back proudly as he opened them to unveil the pièce de résistance. It stood in clear contrast to the last library Lucia had been in. This one was light and airy, painted in a richly pigmented green. The shelves were sturdy but pared back, of a recent design that paid homage to the original space but didn’t copy it. Lucia brushed her hand against one of the armchairs that rested on the softly carpeted floor.
‘It’s wonderful. I could while away hours in here. What a superb job you’ve done, taking care of this place so well.’
Herb puffed up like a venerable peacock, nearly filling his suit. ‘It’s the best library in London, if not the South East. I would say the country, but the Bodleian might object. Oh, you should have seen it before we smartened it up. But the money came in very handy, and just at the right time. So good of her…’ He stopped mid-sentence, not exactly upset, but ostensibly stirred.
‘Who paid for it?’
He regained his composure. A keen flicker in his eyes indicated he was anxious to unburden himself. She was good at coaxing out people’s internal monologues. The honest eyes always did the trick.
‘Oh dear, I don’t know if I’m supposed to be blathering on to strangers.’
She couldn’t lose him, not now. ‘With things you want to get off your chest, it’s sometimes easier to talk to a kind stranger, who won’t judge.’
The respite was almost palpable. Now he had given himself the green light to open up, there was no stopping him.
‘The Professor. That’s what everybody called her. Professor Alla Kiseleva. She was so generous when it came to the institute.’ It was an unnecessarily pompous way to describe the place, no doubt born out of long-standing exposure and the necessity for self-affirmation. ‘She was in a class of her own. Not just brains – she had plenty – but an air, an elegance about her. Mind you, she could destroy you with a single stare when she was so minded. I saw her take down more than one unsuspecting sod who dared argue with her. I do miss her, I must say, since she retired.’