‘And he saw Maryanne.’
‘She saw him, that was the problem.’ She pauses, rolls her eyes. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, do you honestly think Leo had any idea who she was? He’s a teenage boy, Detective. He doesn’t register anyone unless they’re half-naked or carrying some sort of sports equipment. But she knew though. She knew straight away.’ Her face sours. ‘Touching, isn’t it?’
I picture Leo Hicks walking into that house. His hair blackened a shade darker by the rain, the sculpted spikes dampening into curls. And those tell-tale blue eyes staring straight into the eyes of the woman on the floor. The woman who gave birth to him.
Of course Maryanne knew and it was the reason she had to die.
If Gina didn’t have the balls to do it, daddy dearest would, and she knew this. She as good as killed Maryanne when she called Patrick Mackie, asking for his help.
‘I tried to do everything right by Leo. He was my perfect boy. Private school, extra-curricular everything, educational holidays, piano lessons.’ Even now, she can’t help but puff up with pride. ‘He’s so incredibly gifted, you know? He sat grade eight on his sixteenth birthday.’
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say so I say nothing. I feel a quiver of something though. Things quickly falling into place.
‘And it was all fine until my dad came back.’ She looks straight at me, defiant. ‘You have no idea how it feels to be scared of your father.’ I blink away something. A laugh? A tear? ‘To feel like he defines you and that no matter what you do and how hard you try, you’ll never escape what he is. That maybe you’re as bad as he is, deep down? I didn’t want that for Leo. I had to get him away, out of the country, away from my dad’s poison.’
I don’t have the heart to tell her I think it’s too late. That Leo is no longer Maryanne’s baby or her perfect boy.
Leo Hicks is Patrick Mackie’s boy now.
He was the second he helped his grandad dispose of Maryanne’s body.
Maybe even helped murder her?
The shallow slash-marks to her throat – hesitation marks, Vickery suggested. Someone trying to work up the courage. An inexperienced killer, the whole team had agreed. Not the shaky work of one of the UK’s most wanted criminals.
But can we prove it?
Will we ever be able to prove that Leo Hicks unwittingly killed his own birth mother?
*
From the car park I call Richard Little – the piano teacher whose car was stolen and used to dispose of Maryanne’s body. He confirms he has a pupil called Leo Hicks. He’s been rather worried about him, in fact. He was supposed to be back in lessons from 17th January and he hasn’t heard from anyone, neither Leo or his parents. No one appears to want to take his calls.
He also unwittingly confirms that Leo knew he’d be in Malta at the time his car was stolen. He explains they’d talked about Malta in their last lesson, a few weeks before Christmas. Leo had been to Valetta with his parents when he was younger and he told him it was a beautiful place. Such a cultured young man, he gushes. So talented.
I let the gushing praise burn out then thank him for his time, tell him he’s been very helpful
Which he has, I suppose.
His confirmation is hardly cast-iron evidence but at least it’s something. Something to build a case from if Leo Hicks is ever caught.
With a heavy heart and the rumblings of a migraine, I call HQ and ask for Forensics to be sent back over to the Hickses’ to seize all of Leo’s shoes. You never know, we might get lucky with a footprint, although we haven’t been too big on luck lately, and I strongly suspect Leo’s clothes would have been destroyed within minutes anyway.
Patrick Mackie doesn’t like loose ends, you see.
32
‘I hear you’re considering a secondment.’
For once Dr Allen isn’t bang on the money. I’m not considering a secondment, I’m going on secondment. On ‘attachment’ anyway, which isn’t pure semantics or fart-arsey Met-speak, it’s actually the main reason I agreed.
On ‘attachment,’ while I might be learning new stuff in a new building with new people, I essentially stay under the wing of my Operational Command Unit. Or in simpler non-Met speak, I stay tethered to Steele’s apron strings.
Still very much part of Murder, in spirit if not in body.
‘I’ve decided to take it,’ I tell Dr Allen, who looks pleasantly surprised. ‘Well, it is only for five months and it’s “very prestigious”,’ I add, mimicking Steele’s mantra.
She allows herself a smidge of a smile. ‘So where are you off to?’
‘The Mayor’s office, no less. Working on the final draft of the Police and Crime Plan. It’s a four-year plan, quite a big project.’
Dr Allen sips her black coffee, nods her approval. ‘Very prestigious indeed. And high profile. It sounds like a fantastic opportunity, Cat. The content of the work must be hugely appealing?’
It is. Sort of. What’s more appealing is not having to look Parnell and Steele in the eye for the next five months, although I’m not entirely sure five whole lifetimes will lessen the guilt I feel every time Parnell praises me for playing a blinder with Gina Hicks in the interview room. For going after her confession like my world depended on it.
I’m not entirely sure Parnell’s not suspicious about that either, but that could just be my paranoia.
The kind of paranoia five months’ distance might go some way to dissolve.
‘Sod the content of the work,’ I say. ‘The job’s based in Southwark which means I can walk to work in half an hour, no public transport. Who in their right mind would turn that down?’
‘It’s a bonus, yes, I can see that. But I don’t believe for a second it’s your main reason. It must have been a very hard decision.’
It was. I miss Parnell already and I haven’t even left yet.
‘It’s nine-to-five, that’s an ever bigger bonus.’ That’s met with a stern stare but I’m only half-joking this time. ‘Seriously, nine-to-five is good. I’ve got some stuff going on in my personal life, family stuff. I could do with my work life being a bit more routine.’ I laugh out loud, stick my fist in my mouth. ‘Jesus, did I just say “routine”? Not exactly the maverick rookie cliché I thought I was.’
‘Really, is that how you see yourself? Mmm, I’d challenge you to think about that, Cat.’ I lean forward, challenge accepted. Dr Allen reads my body language perfectly. ‘Well, it’s just that only a few weeks ago, you talked about your obsession with fairness, your need for reassurance that certain rules work. Those aren’t generally the concerns of a dyed-in-the-wool maverick. You may be more conformist than you think.’
I nod because she’s right. It’s true there’s part of me that has this deep desire to conform. To be like the Emily Becks of this world, breezing through life with a kind of universally alluring blandness that makes everyone look at you, but not too closely.
Neither ignored nor adored.
‘So what happens now?’ I ask. ‘Do you tick the “not batshit crazy” box and send me on my way?’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘I’m definitely sleeping better.’
Of course, it’s easier to sleep better when you’re being spooned by a sexy Irishman several nights a week, but I gloss over that fact. God knows where ‘shagging a member of the victim’s family’ comes on Dr Allen’s over-empathy scale.
‘That’s encouraging,’ she says, manufacturing an encouraging smile. ‘A good night’s sleep should be a priority, not a luxury. But it’s not the only benchmark of progress.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you’ve moved forward in other ways.’
But backwards in the ways that count. Integrity. Honesty. Trust.
I swallow down the self-loathing and try to sound pleased. ‘Really, do you think so?’
‘You certainly seem more present than in our earlier meetings. I never really had the sense you were ‘here’ until recently. You were physically here, of course .?.?.’