‘Hmm-mm,’ nods Renée. ‘Not a very nice thing to do, but completely his right. Either account holder can clear it out at any time.’
I’m not sure whether to pity or envy couples with this level of faith. It seems absurdly na?ve on one hand, but then the whole point of intimacy on the other. Literally putting your money where your mouth is when it comes to the word ‘trust’.
‘Right, get him back under this roof today,’ says Steele to Parnell. ‘Just for another “chat” of course. Try to avoid any tears, or shouting, or glasses hurled at walls, please. In any case, there’s not a whole lot we can hurl at him at this stage, not until we’ve got more forensics, but just get him to quit with all the “we understood each other” bollocks, OK? There’s something rotten at the core of that marriage and we need to know what it is.’
Parnell nods. ‘Ben? Anything come back on the phone records?’
Ben’s edgy. ‘Well, yeah, kind of. We’ve got the call she made to Lapaine on his birthday and then various unanswered calls to her phone – a few from Lapaine and then a couple from someone at the pub the day after she left, probably just seeing why she hadn’t turned up for work, and then there’s your usual PPI stuff etc.’ He takes a breath. ‘But most interestingly, we’ve got six calls from Alice to two different pay-as-you-go numbers over the past few weeks. First one, November 23rd. Last one, December 12th. Problem is, both phones are switched off. We need to wait for them to be switched back on before they ping the mast and we get a location. And if either person is somehow involved, that might never happen, of course.’
‘Can we trace where they bought the top-up?’ I say. ‘Pull the CCTV?’
Ben nods. ‘We’re on it, but if they bought the top-up in a tiny offy in the arse-end of nowhere, forget about it .?.?.’
‘All fun and games,’ someone grumbles. I think it’s Flowers.
Parnell does his best to rally everyone. ‘Right, good work, folks. We are making progress even if it doesn’t feel like it.’
As everyone starts to disperse back to their desks, Parnell grabs me. ‘I want you to get over to Wandsworth. That café she bought the coffee in on Friday, it re-opens today.’
‘Righto.’
Steele appears. ‘And take Emily with you. Let me know if she’s good for anything other than picking her nails and looking at ASOS.’
Poor Emily Beck. It’s a novelty we all fell for. The freedom to be fashionable again after two years in uniform.
‘Boss, can I have a word.’ Parnell and Steele both turn around. ‘Big Boss?’ I say, and then, to my shame, ‘Lady-Boss?’ – aware I’m making Steele sound like a cheap market-stall perfume.
‘Sure. We’ll have to walk and talk though.’ She holds out two box-files. ‘Here, carry these for me.’
I wait until we’re outside the room and halfway down the corridor. I suspect she’s not even listening properly but at least I can say I told her. ‘Er, I just wanted to let you know, I took the Ireland file off your desk yesterday. Had a quick shuftie.’ A tiny flash of ‘oh, did you now?’ crosses her face but it could just be the dodgy strip lighting messing with me. ‘I knew you were busy and well, after meeting the brother, I was curious. There’s nothing much in there, nothing relevant, I think.’
We get in the lift. ‘What did you make of him then, the brother?’
‘I sent you my report.’ I say, instantly defensive. ‘One for Parnell, one for you. I emailed it to you last night.’
She hits the button for the ground floor. ‘Whoa, Kinsella. I wasn’t checking up on your paperwork, I was just asking. Making conversation.’
My face burns. ‘Oh right, sorry. Well, it’s hard to know what to make of him, really. He’s not exactly grief-stricken but it’s been eighteen years. He’s moved on with his life and then, this. If you’re asking if he’s a serious suspect, my gut says no. He says he hasn’t laid eyes on her since 1998 and we’ve nothing to contradict that. No contact between them on Maryanne’s Facebook or Hotmail, etc.’
She lets this sit as the lift descends. When the doors open into reception, we’re greeted by a teen with a busted eye socket and a woman raising hell over a lost coat.
‘He could still be the mystery pay-as-you-go,’ says Steele, signalling ‘one minute’ to her driver outside.
‘He could. And he was home alone, so yeah, it’s about as reliable as Thomas Lapaine’s alibi, but he did he have a text exchange with a friend at around one a.m. and Tech are looking into it now. If that comes back kosher, and the phone masts bear him out, we’ve got him tucked up in bed in Mile End around the time of death so .?.?.’
‘So we go again. We dig deeper.’
‘Yup.’
‘You OK?’ she asks, eyes fixed on mine. In her stiletto suede boots, we’re about the same height.
Petty cynic that I am, I wonder why she’s asking.
She’s on to me though. ‘It’s just a question, Kinsella. A fairly common one in polite society. If it helps the most common answers are, “I’m fine thanks”, “Not too bad” and “Can’t complain.”’
‘All those things then,’ I say, smiling.
‘Mmmm.’ She scrutinises me for a few seconds which makes me feel twitchy and exposed. However, just as I’m starting to think about my next move, about what I might have to deflect next, a car-horn sounds and she bolts suddenly for the door. ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming, all right! Keep your knickers on. Jesus!’
I’m waiting for the lift when I feel the draught again. Steele’s standing in the doorway, eyes already watering from the barbaric cold outside.
‘Hey, Kinsella, just to stress again – even though I’m not here, what we talked about still stands, you hear me? You report everything to me. You check everything with me. Everything, OK?’
Everything except the thing I can’t tell you. The thing that’s forced me to pick sides.
And I haven’t picked you.
Not yet, anyway.
10
There’s no Donatella to be found at the Donatella Caffé, just two squawking pensioners called June and Bernie who can only seem to agree on two things. The first being that we really must try the stollen cake, the second being that I have lovely hair. The issue of Maryanne Doyle is proving a little more contentious though, with June insisting she’d only been in a few times, while Bernie’s adamant they could near enough erect a plaque to her.
I honestly don’t know where to hedge my bets as they’re both as dotty as each other and equally ancient. Not that old means unreliable, of course. Far from it. Give me an eagle-eyed OAP over a self-absorbed Gen Y any day of the week. Nosiness trumps narcissism every time
These pair are breaking the mould though.
‘Well, she was definitely here Friday morning,’ says Bernie, pointing at the receipt, stating the obvious.
‘But do you actually remember seeing her?’ It comes out a bit snotty so I quickly make amends. ‘Go on then, give me a bit of that stollen. I’m useless. I’ve no willpower at all.’
Bernie looks appeased and hands me a slice the size of a car battery. ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I had a lot on my mind on Friday. I’ve got to have an operation, you know.’
June looks up from a tub of tuna mix and mouths ‘Gallstones’.
‘And it’s chockablock on a Friday, always is. There’s a Zumba class up the road who come in here afterwards. Sit for hours, they do.’ I offer her money for the cake but she shakes her head. ‘No, no, it’s on the house, I insist. I’ve always been a big fan of the police, haven’t I, June? Dangerous job, specially for young girls like you pair. Call it repayment.’
I smile. ‘Repayment comes out of your council tax, Bernie, but thanks all the same. I’ll be needing a few Zumba classes myself after this.’
Emily takes over as I tuck in. ‘Did you ever see her with anyone?’
They eye each other nervously, like the wrong answer could get them life without parole. It’s June who eventually braves it.