Parnell laughs. ‘Oh, I’ll do you a favour, Miss French. If you say sorry for being rude about my favourite tie, I might just let you get rid of some of the more obvious signs of cocaine use littered around this flat before the cavalry arrives. How’s that sound to you? Fair enough?’
She gives an exaggerated shrug and stalks off into a room, presumably her bedroom, to call her ‘friend.’ I walk into Maryanne’s room, not touching anything, just glancing around at a whole lot of nothing. A small double futon, a cheap-looking nightstand and a clothes rail, that’s it.
I turn back to Parnell.
‘I’m on bloody hold,’ he says, tutting,
‘What are you thinking?’
He trains one ear on what Saskia’s saying, lends the other to me. ‘Something’s definitely off.’
I keep my voice low. ‘Seriously off. I can just about accept that a mousy little pub chef might embark on a double life as a lady-of-the-night. I mean, nothing surprises, right? But there was no semen? No condom lubricant?’ Parnell nods, encouraging me to go on. ‘And this room? I’m not being funny but where’s the racy underwear, the sex toys. There isn’t even a scrap of make-up, just some roll-on and a few face-wipes.’
‘The coke’s not mine.’ Saskia walks back into the hallway, her face illuminated by her phone.
‘Maryanne’s?’ I say, surprised by nothing anymore.
‘No, no, I mean, it’s mine, I suppose. But I don’t use it. I don’t do drugs,’ she adds, proudly. ‘But some clients like it. It, you know, helps .?.?.’
Parnell raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t know, actually.’
There’s a voice down the line and he ushers us away, back into the kitchen. We assume our positions again, her on the worktop, me on the chair. There’s so much to ask that I can’t think where to begin. Parnell needs to take the lead from here, anyway.
‘We’re going to need the name of the owners of this flat,’ I say, just to break the silence. ‘I appreciate that’s going to be awkward but we have to speak to them.’
‘I’m sorry?’ The muscles in her neck tense. ‘Why?’
‘They own the property, Saskia. Out of courtesy we need to reassure them that any damage caused by the search will be put right.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ she says, quickly. ‘There’s no need.’
‘It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid.’ I take out my notepad. ‘Name, please.’
She says nothing. Stares at the back wall. But I don’t think it’s petulance, it’s discomfort.
I let out a long sigh. ‘Saskia, do you know how quickly we can find this out? This isn’t Scooby Doo, we’re the police. It’d just be a whole lot easier if you’d tell me.’
‘Nathaniel Hicks,’ she mumbles eventually, then louder, ‘His name is Nate Hicks.’
*
It takes me ten seconds to place the name. Five minutes to confirm it with HQ. Ten minutes to arrange for two uniforms to preserve the scene and it’ll probably take an hour for us to get over there at this time of day.
Nathaniel Hicks.
Owner of this flat and husband of Gina Hicks.
She of the impossibly perfect life on the impossibly perfect Keeper’s Close, where an imperfectly sighted pensioner thought she might possibly have seen Maryanne talking into the intercom.
God bless lovely June of the Donatella Caffé.
15
It takes more than an hour. Eighty-five minutes, to be precise. Eighty-five minutes of Parnell getting grief from Maggie about something and crunching his mood out on the gearstick, while I fiddle with the radio, flicking between songs that all seem intent on telling us what a wonderful time of the year it is. What a fabulous time we must be having.
There’s no let-up at the Hickses’, either.
The door’s opened by Santa. A crooked, puny Santa with a rattly chest and slow laboured movements who I recognise to be Gina Hicks’ father under the synthetic beard and cheap silly hat. He ushers us into the family room where, fittingly, the whole Hicks family is congregating in picture postcard style. Gina Hicks, nailing ‘casual chic’ again in tawny beige cashmere and brown furry boots, is hanging chocolates on a tree with the elf-suited toddlers, while the man I assume to be Nate Hicks – blondish and brawny, with features just the wrong side of handsome but with the confidence not to care – throws logs and muttered curses onto a smouldering fire that refuses to catch light. On a cream Chesterfield sofa, the eldest lad, whose name escapes me, tunes a violin and quietly hums ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman’ to himself, while his sister – flat-ironed hair, must be around fourteen – records every twee middle-class moment on her glittery pink phone.
If domestic smuggery could be bottled it would smell just like this. Topnotes of gingerbread and basenotes of cloves.
It only takes two phrases to break the spell though. ‘Murder victim’ and ‘Your flat’.
I feel like we’ve walked onto a Bing Crosby film-set and pissed on the fake snow.
‘That girl was staying with Saskia?’ A stunned Gina Hicks drops to the arm of the sofa. ‘Was she a friend?’
‘What girl are they talking about, Mum?’
I clock the bouncy intrigue in the daughter’s voice and know where this is heading: Facebook.
‘Perhaps we could speak alone?’ I say.
Nate Hicks is swift to oblige, scrambling to his feet and throwing the door open. ‘Right, out, the lot of you. Amber, take the twins. Leo, go and do that elsewhere.’
There’s a whiny, monotone protest from Amber but an exodus ensues, including the ailing Santa.
‘And don’t let the twins torment Grandad,’ Gina calls after them.
As soon as their voices become distant, Parnell clears his throat. ‘It’s been alleged that the victim, Alice Lapaine, aka Maryanne Doyle, had been working as a prostitute.’
There’s a deep line across Gina’s botox-free brow, complete incomprehension in her voice. ‘And this woman was friends with Saskia? Darling, can you actually believe this?’ A quick glance to her husband and then back to us. ‘I mean, we don’t know Saskia that well on a personal level, but she’s always been a reliable tenant and I didn’t think she’d associate with—’ She catches herself, looks embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m being judgemental and the girl’s dead, I’m just surprised that Saskia would be friends with .?.?.’
‘Saskia French is a prostitute,’ announces Parnell.
‘Oh my God!’ It’s barely a whisper but her eyes are open wide. Nate Hicks looks less surprised, more solemn. Like a grim-faced politician about to make a keynote speech. He walks over to the sofa and attempts to take his wife’s hand.
He doesn’t succeed. Gina’s hell-bent on resurrecting what feels like an old argument.
‘This is your bloody fault. I said we should check on the place more often, didn’t I? Well, didn’t I? Heaven knows, you’re in London enough, would it have hurt to do a spot-check now and again?’
Nate throws his hands up. ‘On what basis? You said yourself, she’s been the perfect tenant? Rent on time, never a peep. We can’t just barge in there inspecting the place on no grounds, Gina. They’re not student digs, she’s a grown woman.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ says Gina to both of us. ‘She’s been our tenant for years, absolutely no trouble .?.?.’
I shake my head. ‘It was obvious from the minute we got there, and Miss French didn’t exactly hide it either.’
A jubliant child’s scream carries through from the kitchen followed by the sound of the Grandad laughing. The laugh quickly gives way to a savage, hacking cough.
‘Oh God, they shouldn’t be climbing all over him. He’s got stage four lung cancer, they reckon about six to twelve months.’ She puts her head in her hands, sighs deeply. ‘God, I really don’t need this, on top of everything else.’