And all the time, Dad said nothing.
In the corner of the room, on a relic of a TV, Nick Cotton was back in EastEnders, snarling at the locals and harrassing his ‘Ma’ for cash. I instantly thought of Noel and glared at him across the hearth, channelling waves of pure poison, willing the legs of his chair to cave in so he’d fall into the fire, but most of all wishing that he’d harrass our ma for cash sometimes instead of always taking mine. But then big kids were always taking what they wanted from little kids.
Maryanne Doyle had taken my Tinkerbell and now she’d gone missing.
16
‘Well, I’m glad I’ve got a double shot eggnog latte for this one.’ Steele shakes her head, exasperated. ‘So let me get this right, his grand hypothesis is that supposed bunny-boiler Saskia French might have sent Alice Lapaine to his house to deliver a message because he’d stopped taking her calls and blocked her everywhere?’
‘It’s a bit teenage,’ I say. ‘She seemed perfectly capable of fighting her own battles to me.’
Christmas Eve. It’s not even seven a.m. and there’s already a few of us clamouring for space around Steele’s electric heater, thawing out our limbs while trying to get our heads around this mindfuck of a case.
‘Oi, budge over.’ Parnell nudges me with his hip. ‘You forget I’m older than you, Kinsella. An Arctic chill could finish me off.’ I laugh. ‘It’s true, I saw a poster in the doctor’s.’
At least Parnell’s trying to be funny. Renée and Flowers clearly haven’t had their Weetabix yet if their moods are anything to go by.
‘So what does this Saskia say about it?’ grunts Flowers.
I wouldn’t know. Parnell insisted on dropping me home on the way back from the Hickses’ last night, which left him with the happy task of wrangling with Saskia again and me to a night of ‘normal stuff’ – as coined by the woman herself.
Washing. Tidying. Microwaving. Dodging phone calls from my sister.
Starting to write out Christmas cards before deciding it’s nearly Christmas anyway and what’s the point.
With the exception of Parnell, of course. My work-dad gets a card depicting a glittery robin perched on an equally glittery branch. He’s already moaning that he’s covered in the bloody stuff.
‘What did Saskia say?’ repeats Parnell, blowing hot breath into his glittery hands. ‘Well, in between saying that Forensics were “taking fucking liberties” and stressing about having to pack to go to her parents’ today, she confirmed, yes, they were having an affair but no, she didn’t send anyone to the house.’
‘Alice could have gone to the Hickses’ under her own steam?’ I suggest. ‘Maybe she found out about the affair with Saskia and decided to blackmail Nate Hicks. We know she needed money.’
‘Which gives him motive to kill her,’ says Flowers, stating the bleeding obvious.
Steele doesn’t look too excited. ‘Yeah, OK, maybe it does, but it’s just that – a maybe. We’ve got no proof whatsoever that Maryanne had any knowledge of Saskia and Nate’s affair. And also, why blackmail him? There can’t have been a shortage of married men frequenting that flat with guilty consciences and deep pockets. Why pick on the lover of your newfound flatmate? Doesn’t make sense.”
‘Maybe Saskia put her up to it and they were going to share the spoils?’ I say.
‘Another “maybe” but that one sits a bit better.’ Steele chews her lip, twists the holder on her coffee cup. ‘Devil’s advocate, but what do we think about Saskia French as a suspect. She didn’t report her missing, that’s dodgy, surely?’
Parnell’s open to it. ‘We said we couldn’t completely rule out a woman. And she’s statuesque enough.’
‘Alibi?’ croaks Renée.
‘Another Home Alone,’ I say. ‘Damn these early morning murders, eh.’ I give up trying to claim my patch of heat and plonk myself in the corner instead. ‘What’s her motive, though?’
Steele’s not bothered about motive. Means, opportunity and watertight forensics are her Holy Trinity. As long as she’s got the who, the when and the how, she’s happy to leave it to the psychiatrists to impress everybody with the why.
Parnell’s a big fan of motive, though. He likes things tidy. ‘Wouldn’t be the first fight in a brothel to turn nasty. And as they’re usually over money or men, that obviously brings us back to Nate Hicks.’
I have to say it. ‘I’m not convinced she was working in that flat, you know. No semen, no condom residue.’ I look to Parnell. ‘And do you remember, Saskia said she assumed she saw her clients off the premises, so we haven’t even got a confirmed sighting of her with a punter.’
Steele sweeps her eyes across us, deadly serious. ‘While we’re on the subject of confirmed sightings, how definite are we that it was Alice on the Hickses’ road, because we’re basing an awful lot of hypotheses around it, m’dears.’
‘It’s not a foolproof ID at the gates,’ I admit. ‘But we’ve definitely got her in the café down the road and it’s just too much coincidence to be anyone else, surely?’
‘Mmmm,’ says Steele. It’s a long ‘Mmmm.’ One that says there’s a big gulf between a coincidence and a murder conviction. ‘Right, let’s stop hypothesising for a minute and look at the latest facts. I’ve had it off-the-record from Forensics that Saskia French’s flat is unlikely to be the primary crime scene, nothing obvious flagged up. We’re going to have to wait until after Christmas for Maryanne’s clothes, bedding etc., but who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky there – I think we’re due some luck, don’t you?’ Steele drapes another cardigan over her shoulders, scowls at the heater. ‘So what else? Tox screen’s come back, nothing exciting there, either. Craig and Ben went over to Silks last night – bless Benny-boy, all those near-naked honeys, Christmas really did come early – anyway, the bar-staff recognised Saskia but not Maryanne, and they don’t have CCTV for the night Saskia says she met Maryanne as they only keep the tapes for twenty-one days. We’ve got the rest though so that will keep someone busy after Christmas, Emily or Ben probably. Oh, and there’s still nothing on the car.’
Parnell turns to Renée. ‘We’ve checked the Hickses’ and Saskia’s names with Thomas Lapaine, right?’
Steele steamrollers on, Renée doesn’t get a look-in. ‘Oh, don’t talk to me about Thomas frigging Lapaine. He’s about as much use as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. Knows nothing about his wife apart from what she wanted him to know.’ Parnell gives a duty-bound harrumph but it’s jovial, mischievous. ‘We’re still keeping tabs on him though. Seth’s been stalking his “paramour”, Abigail Shawcroft, on Facebook and he reckons Lapaine might have given her the heave-ho. She’s been posting all these cryptic quotes about heartbreak and self-reliance: “Let your tears water the seeds of your future happiness”, that sort of crap. So if he has dumped her, she’s definitely worth a re-interview, see if we can crack that alibi. Renée, sit her down for a woman-to-woman, OK?’ Renée nods.
‘You know what’s bugging me,’ I say, keen to shift the focus – Thomas Lapaine isn’t our guy, I’m almost sure of it. She went back to using her using her original name when she came to London. That’s certainly how Saskia and the other girl at the flat knew her. Why would she do that?
‘Going back to her roots.’ says Renée.