I gesture to her dress. ‘Well, I assume you’re working today and it’s still switched off?’
‘Is it?’ A false gracious smile. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘You know it is. You took the SIM out and put it in your other phone.’
‘Look, I needed to check a client’s number, OK? The handset had been playing up so I put the SIM in my other phone to save time.’ She fixes me with a glare. ‘You know, this really is fucking tedious. How much longer are you going to be?’
I don’t respond. ‘What was Maryanne calling you about, on these dates?’ I show her the piece of paper with the calls highlighted but she pushes it away.
‘Just house things. Do we need loo roll? Leave the hall light on. That sort of thing.’
Annoyingly feasible.
‘Obviously I need to ask you where you were on the night of Monday fifteenth, into the early hours of Tuesday sixteenth.’
She doesn’t seem fazed by the question. ‘I was here, alone. I told you, I wanted a few days off to get some proper rest, catch up on some admin, spring clean the flat – you know, normal stuff. I have the same old boring crap to deal with as anyone else, you know. I’m a human being, not just a whore.’
I think I’m supposed to be moved by this plaintive cry but there’s something about this woman that inspires minimal sympathy.
‘So where exactly did you meet Maryanne?’ I say, face completely blank.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Not good enough.’
She grips the edge of the worktop and gives me that crazy stare again, eyes wide and threatening. I’m starting to think she might launch herself off at any minute but to my surprise, she starts talking.
‘I think it was the Diamond, oh no, hold on, it was Silks.’ A strip club, basically. ‘I haven’t danced in years but I still go there for a drink, a lot of the girls do. It’s good for business and I know the staff. Anyway, Maryanne was there one evening, we get talking – it was actually nice to meet someone English and a bit more my own age for a change – and she mentions she’s looking for a room and I think, why not? Earn some extra money and have someone a bit older, a bit more sensible, running the show while I’m away. I work abroad occasionally,’ she adds.
‘Running the girls, you mean?’
She lifts her chin. ‘I don’t operate like that.’
‘Look, I’m not from Vice, Saskia, I’m not here for that.’
And even if I was, this is small fry. As long as no one’s trafficked or underage, work away.
She slides down off the worktop, stretches forward for her cigarettes in a long lean pose. ‘How it works is, not every client can afford to stump up for a hotel room every time he wants to get his dick wet, you follow? So I’ve got a few trusted girls who use the spare rooms occasionally, and I take a small percentage. I’m saving up for’ – to my shame I assume she’s going to say ‘bum lift’ or something equally depressing – ‘a camper van. A fully-restored 1960s VW.’ She gazes at her surroundings with not quite disgust, but fatigue. ‘I need to get away from all this for a while.’
‘What did Maryanne tell you about herself?’
She lights the cigarette. ‘Nothing. Just what I told you. That she was looking for somewhere to stay.’
‘And when she was here?’
A deep draw, I recognise it well as the first of the day. ‘Well, it did seem like she was running from something. We didn’t chat much, but we did have a laugh about dodgy clients one day. She mentioned she’d had a few. I got the impression something had happened fairly recently but it was just an impression. I didn’t ask for details.’ A blank look. ‘I wasn’t very interested, to be honest.’
I make a note of this. ‘We’ll need a list of all the people she came into contact with while she was living here. We’ll be as discreet as we can.’
She slams her hand down, raises her voice nought to sixty. ‘Are you fucking deaf, copper? I. Don’t. Know.’
I actually jump. There’s a jerkiness to her mood that’s hard to keep up with. Totally disconcerting.
‘Look,’ she says, a bit nicer, ‘we weren’t “roomies”, OK. We didn’t sit around plaiting each other’s hair and talking about first kisses. She dossed here for around three weeks.’ A thought suddenly occurs to her. ‘And it looks like I won’t get paid for that now, doesn’t it?’
I don’t dignify that. I doubt she expects me to. ‘What about you? Any dodgy clients we need to be aware of. Anyone who could have seen Maryanne and taken a shine?’
That sing-song tone again. ‘No. No one. Contrary to myth, I could count the number of weirdos I’ve had on one hand. Most of what I do is nothing any self-respecting girlfriend wouldn’t do if she could be bothered.’
Nice.
‘Do you own this property?’
Her nose twitches, a nervous tic. ‘No, why?’
‘So you were subletting the room to Maryanne?’
She mutters ‘motherfucker’ and to be fair, I probably deserve it. I only said it to rattle her.
‘I don’t think the owners would mind that much, actually. I’ve lived here for years. I’m a very good tenant.’
‘Why’s that? Because you pay them a percentage of your earnings?’
‘God, no!’ She seems to find this hysterical. ‘They haven’t got a clue what I do. They think I’m a yoga teacher.’
She could be, I think. She’s got the posture if not the temperament.
Parnell comes back into the kitchen, looks straight at Saskia. ‘Miss French, we haven’t been able to recover Maryanne’s bag or phone and it doesn’t look like it’s in her room either. Can you give us a description?’
She purses her lips, pretends to think. ‘Er, her bag might have been black. That help much?’
‘Immeasurably,’ he says drolly. To me, ‘There’s nothing much in there, a few items of clothing, a washbag, some cold and flu tablets.’
‘Yeah, she was a bit under the weather,’ says Saskia, kicking her feet, suddenly all helpful. ‘I told her Ginseng but some people won’t listen.’
Parnell looks at her, slightly baffled, then back to me. ‘Anyway, I’ve requested a Section 8. We’ll need Forensics here ASAP, we need the bedding, her clothes, the lot.’
‘Forensics!’ Saskia flies at Parnell, a whirling dervish of milky-white limbs and red PVC. Parnell steps back just in time which stops her making contact and earning herself a night in the cells, but her eyes are flaming. I think I’d take a punch any day rather than stare down those eyes at close range. ‘Listen, mate,’ she spits, ‘I’ve answered your fucking questions now get out of my fucking flat and take your work experience girl with you.’
Parnell straightens his spine and draws his neck up, just about eye-level. ‘I need to make another phone call, Miss French, so I’m going to leave the work experience girl here to explain to you exactly what’s going on because I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation.’
She turns back to me, confidence quickly draining, belligerence giving way to panic. ‘Please. You don’t need a warrant. I’ve given you permission so just take what you want and go. I can’t have my flat crawling with your lot.’
Technically, she’s right. Parnell and I could probably get away with a bit of a treasure hunt without a warrant. But Parnell’s not in the business of getting away with things. He’s a ‘just to be safe’ kind of character.
I try to explain this. ‘It’s not as easy as just taking what we want, Saskia. Forensics will need to go through Maryanne’s room with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘I’d let your “friend” know not to come over,’ shouts Parnell from the hallway. ‘Unless he’s a “friend” you think it’d be worth us talking to.’
She moves to the doorway, hands on hips. ‘Oh, do me a favour and quit the sarcasm, would you? It really doesn’t suit you.’ She draws her eye downwards. ‘Neither does that tie.’