And OK, maybe we could have pressed Lapaine harder on his ‘Home Alone’ alibi but did we have any real reason to?
‘Softly softly’ Steele had said. ‘I don’t want him feeling like a suspect.’
I only hope Parnell’s got the knackers to remind her.
I repeat all of this to Renée in the hope she’ll work her Renée-magic and say something soothing but she can’t seem to find the right words today. She does find a packet of Oreos though and they kind of work the same. Feeling slightly sick but undoubtedly calmer, I go back to my desk and call Abigail Shawcroft, Googling her as I wait for her answerphone to kick in. It turns out her ‘high-profile role in the community’ involves being reception class teacher for a local primary school and according to her Twitter bio, she’s ‘Mummy to Alexa and Rowan. Loves Glastonbury, netball and cheese lol!!!!’
I leave a message asking her to get in contact ASAP. I’m just hanging up as Parnell puts the phone down.
‘All OK?’ I say, tentatively.
Parnell sits down to deliver the verdict. ‘Seems she’s getting philosophical in her old age. Ruling him out is as good as ruling him in, apparently. At least it’s something concrete.’
‘So we’re not on the naughty step?’
‘No?’ Clearly this hadn’t even occurred to him. I definitely need to dial down the self-whipping. ‘And Lapaine’s not in the clear yet either, not until we’ve spoken to the fancy-woman. And even then .?.?.’
Even then, starry-eyed lovers, especially those of the secret kind, can’t exactly be classed as rock-solid alibis.
‘Well, I just left a message.’ I flop back in my chair. ‘For the fancy-woman.’
‘For all the good it’ll do,’ says Seth, sitting with his Barbour jacket on, waiting for the green light to go home. ‘He’s had more than enough time to get his story straight with her.’
‘He gave it up very easily, didn’t he?’ Parnell puts a hand to his forehead with an actor’s flourish, ‘“Oh what’s the point, you’ll only find out anyway.’’’
Seth nods. ‘All that “I was protecting her” nonsense. Why didn’t he keep protecting her then? He’s right that we’d have probably found out eventually but it could have taken ages, whereas he handed her to us on a silver platter.’
I get their logic, but I’m not feeling it. ‘I don’t think there’s anything necessarily sinister in that. I think he’s extremely angry, understandably, and trashing the memory of their marriage is the only way he can hurt Alice now. Maybe he wants people to know he was cheating because it makes him look less of a gullible idiot – you know, “she may have fooled me, but haha, I fooled her too.”’
‘Maybe, maybe.’ Parnell rubs his hands up and down the side of his face. ‘OK, folks, it’s getting on so let’s call it a day. Kinsella, let me know if Abigail Fancy-woman calls you back but if not, we’ll get someone over to the school first thing tomorrow. Surprise her on her work turf, make her feel uncomfortable. With any luck she might trip up, if there is anything to trip up. Oh, by the way, Steele’s done a piece-to-camera appealing for anyone who might have seen something early Tuesday morning to come forward and’ – he pretends to look scared, braces himself for the backlash – ‘we’re going to get an appeal out in the nationals tomorrow for anyone who thinks they might have come into contact with Maryanne/Alice during the “lost years” – between 1998 when she leaves Mulderrin and 2001 when she turns up on Brighton beach, making eyes at Thomas Lapaine.’
In other words, we’re going to hold up a beacon to all the crack-pots, crazies and police groupies in Great Britain.
An air of resigned dread settles on the incident room as we start to pack up. Molly, our cleaner, weaves in and out of our desks, giving an extra spruce to those who take the time to get to acknowledge her every evening, a cursory swipe to those who think they’re too important to engage.
I look over at Parnell, hunched and haggard and wrestling with the zip on his Arsenal backpack with a ferocious anger not usually reserved for backpacks.
There’s only one thing for it after an interview like that.
‘Boss .?.?.’
12
It doesn’t take long to twist Parnell’s arm. A quick call to Superintendent Blake to be told he’s a good boy, then an even quicker call home to get clearance from Mrs P, and we’re leaning up against the quiz machine in the Bell Tavern, Parnell supping a festively named guest ale (Rocking Rudolph!), and me, the house Pinot. One turns into four alarmingly quickly and it’s not long before the photos come out. One hundred and twenty-nine snaps of varying-sized Parnells in varying locations emanating varying degrees of happiness.
One of them pretty handsome, actually, and not too far off my age. A little clean-cut for my hobo tastes but I’m tipsy enough not to care.
‘You never created that fine specimen, surely?’ I snatch Parnell’s phone and hold it close to my face. ‘We could DNA test him, you know, on the QT. It’s not too late to go after the milkman.’
‘Cheeky cow.’ Parnell loads another pound into the quiz machine.
‘Seriously, can you get me a date? I’d make a great daughter-in-law.’ I give him a quick poke. ‘Just think, you could see me all the time then.’
‘I don’t think you’re Dan’s type. No offence.’
‘Plenty taken though. Why? What’s wrong with me?’
‘You’re female, for a start.’
The Pinot’s dulled my brain and it takes me a second to catch on. Parnell rolls his eyes as the penny drops.
‘Boss!’ I say, punching him on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t know you had a gay son. Well done you,’ I add, inexplicably.
He spits his pint. ‘I wasn’t aware it was a personal achievement, but thanks.’ A sideways glance. ‘You know, a pint of water between drinks wouldn’t do you any harm.’
‘Oh bore off, Dad.’
The ‘D’ word pulls me up and I get a surge of affection for Parnell, simply on account of him being just about as far away from my dad as a man could be.
Slightly old-fashioned. Overweight. Decent.
‘Seriously though. Why’ve you never mentioned Dan’s gay?’
‘I’ve never mentioned Adam’s a coeliac either.’
It’s a fair point. I don’t know why I’m getting so giddy about it. In my defence, I’m feeling off-kilter tonight. Twitchier than usual. The thought of a pregnant, teenage Maryanne Doyle is sucking the air out of my lungs and I’ll do anything to block it out, whether that means soaking it with wine or bantering it away with Parnell.
‘I’ve never mentioned the twins are left-handed either.’
I gesture for another round of drinks. ‘Yeah, yeah, point taken.’
I could add it’s about the only thing he’s never mentioned. Parnell talks about six-year-old James and Joe – aka his forty-seventh year birthday presents – a lot, although it’s never quite consistent. They’re either his later-life miracle or his punishment from God, depending on how early they woke him up that morning.
‘So anyway, changing the subject,’ he says, looking curious. ‘Why are you drinking with an old duffer like me on a Thursday night? Are there no nice young men you’re currently interested in? Straight ones,’ he adds.
I laugh. ‘Plenty I’m interested in.’
He steps back, sizes me up like a prize bull. ‘You must do all right?’
‘God you’re a real charmer, Parnell, do you know that?’ He grins. ‘I suppose I do do all right. It’s not much to shout about though, is it? “All right”. I bet Emily does better than “all right”.’
‘I bet Emily’s at home right now wishing she made the team laugh as much as you do. Wishing she had your brains.’
I give Parnell a flat-eyed stare. ‘Christ, you can tell you haven’t raised women. Trust me, she won’t be thinking anything like that. She’ll be thinking, “Oh aren’t I lucky to be so princess-perfect and isn’t Kinsella lucky that she got a good personality to make up for that unfortunate nose.”’
It’s self-pitying and I don’t really believe it but it makes Parnell laugh and that always feels nice.