I grin a little as if I’ve been caught out. ‘Look, I wanted to check out a burglary at the Hickses’, OK?’ It’s not a complete lie. ‘I forgot to do it yesterday before I left and it was niggling at me.’
She raises a toast. ‘Well, that’s very commendable, but sometimes – only very occasionally, mind – you need to ignore those niggles and concentrate on having a life for a few days. Do you have a life?’
I look around. ‘Do you?’
I instantly regret saying it but she doesn’t take offence. ‘I’ve got a lot more to lose than you, m’dear. It’s been ten days and we still don’t have one truly viable suspect. We haven’t found any skeletons in Nate Hicks’ closet yet – well, none that he hasn’t told us about anyway, and he’s got an alibi for the night of the murder – he was in Cardiff on business. We’ll obviously try to pick holes in that, Cardiff’s less than a three-hour drive but .?.?.’ But, it’s unlikely. ‘There’s still Thomas Lapaine, I suppose, but Abigail What’s-her-Chops is adamant he was with her all night so we need something more on him before we can even think about turning the screw. Unfortunately, there’s a very fine line between diligence and harassment as far as the IPCC’s concerned, and Lapaine’s got form for complaining.’
Of course – the accusation of police brutality twenty years ago. I’d forgotten about it if I’m honest. That first briefing feels like twenty years ago.
‘We do have another suspect,’ I say, sitting up straighter. ‘Saskia French. She had a lot to lose if Alice told Gina she was running a brothel out of the fla—’
‘I know, I know, I’ve read your report, and I agree, we definitely need to re-interview her. But look, that’s enough about work, it’s Christmas Day.’
‘So you agree, it’s the strongest motive we’ve .?.?.’
‘Sssh.’ She pulls a pretend zip across her mouth. ‘No work, I said.’
I wait for her to take the lead because I haven’t got the faintest idea what we’re going to talk about. I’m hoping ‘no work’ means we don’t have to dissect my flip-out in the bedsit again but at least that would be terra firma. The only non-work conversations I’ve ever had with Steele have been about the stinginess of the sandwich fillings in the staff canteen and once about my shoes – a gorgeous pair of maroon suede ankle boots she couldn’t believe only cost thirty pounds.
‘Have you got a boyfriend, Kinsella?’
I smile over the rim of the mug. ‘Nope. Why, do you know someone? I like them over six feet and preferably not still living at home, if that narrows it down.’
She takes another sip of vodka, winces as it hits her gullet. ‘And do you want a family?’
‘Have you been talking to Gina Hicks?’
‘Eh?’
‘Oh nothing, it’s just she started going on at me about not leaving things too late. I’m only twenty-six, for crying out loud. That’s practically teenage today!’
‘I’m not saying you should start a family, I’m asking, do you want one? Or a husband, or a life-partner, or whatever the correct term is these days if you’re not the marrying kind.’
‘To be honest, Boss, I don’t know whether I want a fringe at the moment, so I think I’m going to have plead the fifth on the bigger questions.’
She leans forward, pours the remainder of her vodka into a vase of orchids.
‘I’d have liked kids, you know. Never thought I did, but when you get older you see things a bit differently.’ She pauses for a second – not sad, just reflective. ‘But it was the right decision, I’m sure of that. I couldn’t have got to where I am and had kids, it wouldn’t have been fair.’
I’m enthralled but also slightly embarrassed. This woman-to-woman thing is new territory.
‘What I’m trying to tell you, Kinsella, is that it’s true you can’t have it all but you can have some of it. You don’t have to become the dysfunctional cliché. I’ve made damn sure I haven’t.’ She holds a hand up, halts my obvious observation. ‘And yes, I know I’m sitting in this bloody office on Christmas morning, drinking cat’s-piss vodka like something out of a Raymond Chandler novel, but, I have a lovely man waiting for me at home with a bottle of wine, a four-course lunch and if he knows what’s good for him, the Mulberry clutch that I’ve been dropping hints about since April. So you see, I never did the whole two-point-four kids thing but I do have a wonderful marriage. It is possible.’
I nod politely. I can’t think of what else to do.
Steele keeps lobbying hard. ‘This job doesn’t have to be your life, Cat. I’ve got nieces and nephews I see regularly. Fantastic friends. I’ve got two chickens and a greenhouse.’ She laughs at my shocked face. ‘Ah see, you thought I was being lazy pouring the vodka into that vase, didn’t you? Well, it’s good for them, keeps them fresh. And it’s all that bloody vodka’s good for.’ I laugh too and it fires her on. ‘What else? I go to a book club sometimes – bet you didn’t know that. Granted, they get a bit narked when they’re discussing themes and imagery and I haven’t got past chapter two but I try.’ She folds her arms. ‘What I’m saying, Kinsella, is you should try to have a life that doesn’t involve death.’
Maybe I will meet Aiden Doyle for that drink.
I stand up abruptly, banging my knees on the desk. ‘Look Boss, thanks for the pep talk and all that but I better crack on. My sister will flip out if I don’t get there soon and I do want to check out that burglary at the Hickses’.’
‘No need,’ she shoots back. ‘I’ve already done it. 14th September 2014. Mainly gadgets, a few bits of jewellery, some silverware.’ A pause. ‘Who even has “silverware”?’
Of course she’s already done it. Kate Steele – green-fingered, bookwormish, chicken-owning DCI Extraordinare is always one step ahead.
I reckon she’d have made a great mum.
19
Christmas Day at McAuley’s Old Ale House.
Opening for two hours over lunch and badgering old men, who only normally removed their caps for funeral corteges and the Irish national anthem, to don metallic paper hats and play whatever sappy board game I’d got from Santa. Beating Reg at Hungry Hippos then wiping the floor with Sligo Tom at Buckaroo. Mum and Dad flat out serving, not watching me close enough. Getting bloated on fizzy pop then leaving half my lunch.
Mum getting angry and Dad getting blamed.
Opening up again in the evening. A younger crowd this time. Dad’s friends and their lesser-spotted wives, drenched in new musky perfumes and flaunting new bling.
Being sent to bed but then creeping back down. Sitting on the stairs and watching all the dancing, the laughing, the fighting, the crying.
McAuley’s isn’t opening today.
All part of Jacqui’s ‘proper family day’ treaty, no doubt. A treaty I’ve already flouted by turning up ten minutes before lunch.
Dad snares me at the kitchen door. The attention’s suffocating and feels more like a chokehold than a bear-hug. It also seems a little left-field given the last time I saw him I accused him of sleeping with Maryanne Doyle. I’d expected him to be civil, of course. Maybe to feign a little affection even, if only for Finn’s sake. But there’s an intensity to the way he’s holding me, the way he’s breathing me in like I’m a newborn.
I daren’t breathe him in. He reeks of something awful – a chemical lemony scent, like bug-spray.
Jacqui, flushed from the kitchen, clocks my face. ‘Yeah, I know, it’s disgusting. It’s called Silver Man. Finn chose it.’
‘Because Grandad’s got silver hair,’ says Finn, hugging my thigh as tight as a tourniquet.
Dad looks down, ruffles his hair. ‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me, champ.’ A bit quieter. ‘I’ll wash it off in a bit, he probably won’t notice.’
Which is probably true. He certainly never notices that Auntie Cat and Grandad Mike barely say two words to each other.
‘Drink?’ asks Dad, loosening his grip and easing me out of my coat. ‘We have red, white, Prosecco, Aperol .?.?.’