Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(108)

Parnell tries to throw a crumb of comfort. ‘I’ve seen him, Saskia, he weighs less than Renée here. He’s not the man you remember, trust me.’

She taps her chest. ‘Doesn’t matter if his body’s broken, it’s what’s in his heart – and there’s nothing there, trust me, just a black void.’ Parnell opens his mouth but Saskia’s not finished. ‘But I’m also telling you because a very long time ago, Maryanne was my friend, and she didn’t deserve to die. She didn’t deserve me running out on her. I didn’t help her that day but maybe I can help her now.’

Parnell lets out a pained sigh. ‘We still don’t know who killed her though, Saskia. What you’ve given us isn’t quite enough. Ridiculous as it sounds, Gina Hicks could claim Maryanne walked out of her house and straight into the path of a violent stranger. It’s called reasonable doubt and it’s the good friend of the guilty.’

‘Then do your job better.’ Her voices pulses with anger. Anger at herself. At Parnell. At the sheer misfortune of landing the receptionist job that led to this miserable mess. ‘Find out what happened to Maryanne or we’ll both have failed her, won’t we?’ Her eyes well up again. ‘And take it from me, Detective Parnell, it’s a not a nice feeling.’

As I slip out of the observation room and into the lift before Parnell catches me, I consider Saskia’s words and can’t help but agree.

Failing those who’ve put their trust in you is not a nice feeling at all.





28

‘I’ll be honest, it’s not looking good, Gina.’

Silence.

Parnell, king of the understatement, sits across from a rigid Gina Hicks the next morning. Renée simmers gently beside him, ready to jump in with a barbed word or a subtle knife twist as per the interview plan. Felix Whiteley looks like every other extortionate brief I’ve locked horns with, bloated in speech and bloated in stature, with an air of cool arrogance masking a hawk-eyed hyper-vigilance.

I’m back in the observation room, this time with Seth and Ben. Flowers sticks his head in occasionally, asks if there’s ‘anything juicy’ to report.

The short answer’s no. Nothing juicy at all, unless you count Whiteley’s fruit smoothie. Smoothies, in fact – plural. One for him and one for Gina. That’s what ￡650 an hour gets you – a radioactive-looking Fibre-Blast and a hairbrush by the looks of Gina’s mane. Her smoothie sits untouched though. According to the custody sergeant, nothing more than a few sips of water have passed her lips since he took her through the charge-room process seventeen hours ago.

Same goes for me almost. Just a couple of pints of water and a few tots of rum. The thought of anything solid makes me heave.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Parnell had said when he’d found me hunched over my desk this morning, researching concert venues in Vienna. ‘Seriously, you look worse than yesterday. Do you know what would do you the world of good, Kinsella? A dose of home comforts. Chicken soup, a bottle of Lucozade and a few days’ rest.’

Home.

Comfort.

Two words I’d never put in the same sentence. An oxymoron, Seth would say.

‘Honestly, it’s not looking good Gina,’ repeats Parnell. ‘And it’s looking worse every minute we sit here. I’m losing my patience and you’re losing any chance of getting out of prison before pension age.’

It’s been an hour already. The gist of Saskia’s statement has been outlined to Gina but ‘no comment’ is the order of the day. ‘No comment’ peppered with the odd, ‘My client declines to answer’ from Felix Whiteley, just to mix things up a little. Keep everyone on their toes.

Same from Nate Hicks a little earlier – Seth and Flowers had toiled through that one.

‘Come on, Gina, you must realise that “no comment” makes you look guilty?’ says Parnell.

Whiteley objects. ‘It makes her look nothing of the sort. My client is acting on robust legal advice, nothing more.’ His voice doesn’t quite suit his body – it’s twee, almost girlish.

Parnell sighs, crosses his arms. ‘Mr Whiteley, I’m no legal expert, but as I understand it, the point of “no comment” is to prevent yourself from saying anything that might incriminate you. But this clearly incriminates your client.’ Parnell hands him a photo – a high-resolution crime-scene snap. ‘As you can see, luminol has been sprayed and blood detected close to the bottom of your client’s stairs. The swirling pattern suggests an attempt has been made to clean up this blood.’

Whiteley surveys the photo. Gina stares straight ahead.

‘I’d say it’s rather early to confirm exactly whose blood that is, Detective Inspector. I doubt your forensics team have even started recovering the blood yet, much less testing it for DNA?’

‘Correct. But we all know it will turn out to be Maryanne Doyle’s, and therefore combined with Saskia French’s statement, we’ll have irrefutable evidence against your client.’

Whiteley offers Parnell a thin-lipped smile. To the likes of a ￡650 per hour lawyer, ‘irrefutable’ is a challenge laid down. Gloves off, game on.

Parnell appeals to Gina instead. ‘Are you listening? Irrefutable. So there’s very little point to this “no comment” palaver. The best thing you can do is just talk to us.’