It turns out Felix Whiteley is a bit more partial to a New Year knees-up than Nate and Gina Hicks and when they do finally get hold of him, two hours later, he’s already halfway to the New Forest where he and his good lady wife are attending a seven-course dinner and a ‘Masquerade Ball’.
Whatever that may be.
Of course, he agrees to turn round and come charging back up the M3, however with warnings of a jack-knifed lorry just before Basingstoke, he really can’t say what time he’ll be able to join our little NYE soiree, which leaves the Hickses contemplating life in a holding cell and Patrick Mackie with the police surgeon. Word is, he’ll be deemed fit to be detained as long as he’s kept under regular observation.
Steele’s appeal for information on Saskia’s whereabouts went out a short while ago. I’m not sure how many people actually watch the six o’clock news on New Year’s Eve – most people have started the final blow-out by then, I suspect – but we’ve all agreed to stay in the office on stand-by, manning the phones and ready to leap into action if required.
Someone’s ordered in pizza but for once I don’t feel hungry. Parnell’s in his element though, regaling the team over slices of deep-pan Hawaiian.
‘Patrick Mackie. Quite the face when I was a wet-behind-the-ears-bobby.’
Ben can’t help himself, grabbing a clutch of fake snow from the base of the Christmas tree and sticking it in front of his chin. ‘Here, Boss, do you recognise me in this cunning disguise?’
To be fair, Parnell takes it in good humour. It’s not every day you overlook one of the UK’s Most Wanted because they were dressed like Father Christmas.
‘In my defence,’ he says, ‘Mackie answered the door once and I saw him for all of two seconds and as you’ve pointed out, I could hardly see his face. Them pair’ – a point towards me and Emily – ‘had a whole bloody conversation with him.’
‘We’ve never heard of him though,’ Emily protests. ‘We can’t be expected to recognise every criminal who’s ever existed since the Second World War!’
I smile but I’m too drained to enter the fray. And I know Parnell’s only messing.
‘Second World War! Cheeky mare,’ he says, smiling. ‘Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Patrick Mackie was definitely something of a big-shot back in the day. Made his name in the Seventies but really came into his own in the Eighties and kept going until around 2007. Drug trafficking, protection rackets, prostitution, security fraud, you name it. There were rumours he was involved in people trafficking too – maybe not actually running the show, but putting the money up. Same with a number of big-league armed robberies.’
‘Mainly London?’ I ask, just to say something. Asking questions makes me feel a little less isolated.
‘Mainly, but the big networks always spread it out a bit. That way, they exploit the fragmented nature of our so-called “great” British policing structure. It was definitely fragmented in those days, anyway.’
‘So what happened to knock him off his perch?’ asks Flowers.
‘SOCA, that’s what happened.’ Serious Organised Crime Agency. ‘Tony Blair’s vow to make life hell for the “Mr Bigs”. Mackie got a tip-off we were closing in on him, did a flit. Amsterdam for a while, apparently, then Spain. Not a peep out of him since.’
‘I suppose it was one of us that tipped him off?’ says a world-weary Flowers.
Parnell rubs his hands. ‘A high-ranking politician, if you believe the rumours.’
‘Bit of a risk coming back to the UK?’ suggests Craig.
‘He’s old, terminally ill. Not got a lot to lose, I suppose.’
Maryanne. This is about Maryanne, not some washed-up gangster in a Santa suit.
I look at Parnell. ‘Boss, this is all very interesting but what are we saying? Maryanne was mixed up in some sort of organised crime thing? And anyway, Patrick Mackie had retired, right?’
‘His sort never retire, they just retreat into the background. I mean, those nail bars that Nate Hicks supposedly owns. They’ve got Patrick Mackie written all over them. Nail bars, tanning salons, what have you – classic fronts for money laundering.’
Renée shouts over. ‘The Hickses both came up clean as a whistle though, nothing on the PNC. Nothing for a Gina Mackie either.’
‘They’re involved,’ says Parnell without a shadow of doubt. ‘Somehow. They have to be. We just have to pray Forensics turns something up at the house and we can worry about the “why?” later. For now, we just need something to hang our hat on. How are we going on Leo Hicks, Cat?’
Honest answer – we aren’t.
‘I’ve been on to Passport Control in Vienna. He definitely entered the country on Sunday 28th so maybe they are telling the truth about that and it’s nothing? Maybe he was sent to Saskia’s with some sort of message, he did his Billy-big-balls thing, and then he left? I managed to get hold of his head teacher – you know, in case the concert was a school thing and he could give me a location, but apparently it’s not. First he’d heard of it, actually. Kept going on and on about what a talent Leo is and how they’re hoping he’ll get into the Royal College of Music.’
‘We’ll find him,’ says Parnell, ‘it’s a matter of time. Even if Nate and Gina have stopped talking, we’ve got their phones now and they must have been in contact with him, surely? They both seem pretty hot on deleting texts but once Digital get digging, we should get something.’
‘I’ve got something!’ Across the other side of the room, Seth slams the phone down then struts a victory walk across the floor. ‘Saskia French.’ Parnell reaches for his car keys. ‘No, no, don’t get too excited, Boss, it’s not a sighting – it’s someone who thinks she worked with her in the late Nineties/early Noughties at an abortion clinic in Camden. She knew her as Sarah Finch though – very inventive – and she was a receptionist/admin type. They fired her early 2001 when she was caught taking sensitive information home, basically clients’ personal details. They thought she was maybe planning to blackmail some of them. Apparently, they didn’t call the police at the time because they didn’t want the drama – it’s hard enough for some women to visit them without hearing about that type of thing – but anyway, she just thought it was worth us knowing that if Saskia is this Sarah Finch, she’s always been a bit of a shady character.’
‘So she’s not certain it’s her?’ I say, raining on Seth’s parade which absolutely isn’t my intention.
‘Fairly sure but she wouldn’t “put the house on it”, were her exact words. I think it’s the same person though. She was able to give me a lot of physical detail – well, as much as you can fifteen years later – and I’ve just cross-checked with the extra description Naomi Berry gave to Steele for the TV appeal.’
‘What extra description?’ I ask.
I didn’t actually watch it. Couldn’t bring myself to.
‘Distinguishing features, that sort of thing.’
‘She’s not far off six feet, that’s fairly distinguishing,’ says Craig.
Seth nods. ‘Indeed, but she’s also a bit of a tattoo and piercing junkie apparently. My caller said this Sarah Finch used to have several piercings and tattoos. She’d get a little contrary when they’d ask her to cover them up on reception. That fits with what Naomi Berry told Steele about how when Saskia’s “off-duty,” she usually wears a ring in her nose, one in her eyebrow.’ He points to the deep groove under his bottom lip. ‘And a stud just here.’
An ice-cold sensation sweeps the surface of my skin. Seth’s voice fades to nothing and a sharper voice comes into unwelcome focus: Noel.
‘At a rough guess, I’d say he’s shagging that sweet-ass with the lip-stud, the one who comes in here.’
The one who stood with her back to me in McAuley’s. Tribal tattoos snaking all the way down her spine.
What had Dad said about her?
‘She’s in her thirties, actually, and anyway she’s just a friend.’