‘No. But as I explained, I didn’t hear Maryanne say very much at all.’
I get specific, eyes primed for the slightest reaction. ‘Do you know Nate Hicks?’
The name doesn’t faze her. ‘I know who he is. I don’t know him personally.’
‘Did you ever see him with Maryanne?’
A languid shake of the head. ‘No.’
‘Have you ever seen him here?’
‘Not in a long time, but then I’m only here a few times a week.’
‘What about his wife, Gina Hicks?’
Her face stays blank, unreadable. ‘No.’
‘Did you know Saskia was having a relationship with Nate Hicks?’
Her head tilts. ‘You mean he’s a client?’
‘Well, it was a bit more than that. They were having an affair, a relationship. In Saskia’s mind anyway.’
She seems to find this amusing and lets out a deep gravelly laugh that doesn’t quite match the la-di-da accent she obviously works hard to maintain. ‘That’s an absurd idea,’ she says, recovering quickly. ‘A client maybe, but a lover?’ Her brown eyes sparkle as she says the word. ‘Saskia likes them young, skinny and arty. I don’t think I’ve ever known her date anyone over the age of twenty-five and the Hicks chap must be in his mid-forties at least?’
‘Saskia confirmed it,’ I say.
‘Well, that surprises me.’ She concedes quickly, too disinterested to argue the toss. ‘Why are you asking about him anyway? Has he got something to do with what happened to Maryanne?’
There’s a boredom to her voice that I find refreshing. A complete lack of emotional investment which means she’s less likely to lie, unlike every other person involved in this case.
On this basis, I decide to make her my trusty assistant.
‘I need to make a quick call,’ I say. ‘Can you see if there’s anything obvious missing from Saskia’s room? Do you know where she keeps her passport, for example?’
She looks unsure. ‘Well .?.?. I .?.?. I’m not really sure Saskia would be comfortable with me going through her things. I .?.?.’
‘Naomi, she’s been out of contact for nearly a week and she’s been sharing a flat with a woman who was murdered. We’re extremely worried about her, as I’m sure you are.’
I’m sure she’s nothing of the sort but she has the good grace to pretend at least, nodding solemnly and heading towards Saskia’s bedroom, if not exactly at a worried pace.
Parnell answers instantly on his crackly hands-free. ‘Calm down, kiddo, I’m about fifteen minutes away.’
‘Listen, Boss, I’m not sure Saskia has done a bunk. It looks like there’s been some sort of scuffle here. Nothing major, no blood that I can see, but a table’s been knocked into and there’s a mess on the floor, a broken vase. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
Nothing for a second except static and the sound of car horns. ‘All right, I’ll let Steele know and I’ll get the team down to start knocking on doors. See if anyone heard anything, saw anything.’
‘OK, I’m going to have a root around Saskia’s room.’
The crackling intensifies. ‘The previous warrant covered the whole flat,’ he shouts as best he can. ‘Forensics have already gone through Saskia’s room.’
‘Yeah, but they were looking for Maryanne’s bag and phone, things related to her. I’m looking for something that might tell us where Saskia is.’
A pause. ‘OK, fine, there might be something they wouldn’t have considered relevant the first time. I’ll get someone from Forensics over to have a butcher’s at this scuffle, OK.’
He hangs up without a goodbye. I open the door to Saskia’s room.
‘Any joy?’ I say, taken aback by the messy, windowless box. It looks like a modern art installation called ‘Pandemonium.’
‘I’m surprised she’d leave her room like this.’ Naomi’s sitting on the bed, a king-size divan with a brass metal headboard. Clothes, make-up and an arsenal of electrical beauty gadgets that I’d struggle to even identify are strewn across the wooden floor. I have to tiptoe across just to reach a clear patch. ‘Her passport’s still here,’ she says, pointing to a nightstand. ‘But it’s strange she didn’t take this.’ She leans towards the headboard and unscrews a brass knob from the railing, pulling out two bulging rolls of twenty-pound notes. There must be easily ￡2,000.
‘And she’s definitely not with a client.’ She slides open the fitted wardrobe and presents various swatches to me – red velvets, black silks, a sky-blue lace number similar to the bridesmaid dress I wore at Jacqui’s wedding – the memory slices through me. ‘Because she hasn’t taken any of her good stuff.’
Much as she’s being helpful, I want her out of here now so I can have a proper scout around.
‘Thanks, Naomi. Any danger of a cup of tea?’ I’m used to this being a reasonable request to make of anyone, Naomi Berry looks affronted. ‘Weak, no sugar,’ I add, smiling. ‘Not too much milk.’
She realises I’m being serious and walks out of the room, her posture straight out of finishing school. Spine straight, head high.
I take the wardrobe first, fishing among the clothes and shaking out every shoe, completely clueless as to what I’m looking for. There’s a few handbags flung at the back – designer labels, although I think they’re fake – each one containing nothing more than a few screwed-up receipts and half-used lipsticks. The shelves are full of cosy winter jumpers and throwaway vest tops, apart from the top shelf where a small suitcase sits with the baggage tag still on – London Heathrow to Prague. There’s nothing in the case. I turn my attention to the bed, checking under the mattress and then pulling out the drawers where a suite of sex toys rests on top of neatly folded towels and bed linen. I check the nightstands on both sides and discover nothing more revelatory than the fact Saskia French takes Microgynon for heavy periods and hydrocortisone cream for dry skin.
There’s little else to search as the bed swamps most of the room and I’m just about to start thumbing through a handful of paperbacks on a slightly wonky shelf when my phone rings. It takes me a minute to locate it and when I do, the caller’s voice is impatient and crabby.
‘Are you still there?’ It’s Steele.
‘I am. So you heard? About the parents? Well, the potential lack of parents …’
‘Zip it, Kinsella.’ The line’s echoey – speakerphone? ‘Listen, I’ve got Sonny Shah from SERIS with me. He’s been going over the videos from the search of Saskia’s flat before Christmas.’
SERIS. Specialist Evidence Recovery Imaging Services. Responsible for a smorgasboard of tasks including crime-scene video recording. Essential to all murder investigations as you just never know what innocuous item might become relevant further down the line.
‘Hey there.’ A meek, nervy voice. Brummie, I think.
‘Sonny, you explain,’ says Steele.
He clears his throat. ‘Um, well, as you know, we take panoramic recordings of every room and um, what with Christmas and that, there’s been a bit of a delay in getting through everything but I, um .?.?.’
Steele cuts in. ‘Basically, Sonny thinks he’s spotted something on the video and I need you to check.’ My heart quickens, she’d have left this to Parnell to sort if it wasn’t critical. ‘There’s a room at the bottom of the hall, across from the kitchen. There’s a single bed in it but it looks like more of a spare room, a dumping ground.’
I’m standing in the doorway before Steele’s finished the sentence.
Sonny Shah comes back on the line. ‘Um, there’s a photo on the wall. Er, well, it’s more of a collage really.’
It’s to my left as I walk in, twenty-plus versions of Saskia French looking back at me. Saskia French and various people – smiling, pouting, smouldering, posing and probably a whole load of other ‘ings’ that I’d be able to identify if I put my glasses on. I fish them out of my pocket, give them a cursory wipe with the sleeve of my coat. ‘OK. Got it.’
Steele again. ‘Towards the top left-hand corner. It’s a bit faded, it’s an old photo.’