Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(112)

Patrick Mackie sits across from us, radiating calm and contentment, as chilled as a man sitting on a deckchair watching the sun rise over the Serengeti. His illness has ravaged him, no doubt – he used to be good-looking in his day, according to Parnell – and close up, under the glare of the single light that hangs over the table, the six-to-twelve months prognosis strikes me as somewhat ambitious. But there’s a steeliness to him, a mental strength that seems to prop up his ailing body and it’s fair to say he looks like a man who has no trouble sleeping. Maybe that’s what happens when you only have a limited number of sleeps left.

Or when you don’t have a conscience.

‘So were you in the house?’ asks Parnell. ‘Did you see what happened, how things went down.’

He shakes his head. ‘No, I was out with the twins, minding my own business. I don’t go far, obviously, but at the end of the day, who in a kids’ playground is gonna recognise me and it was dark by then. You didn’t recognise me in broad bloody daylight.’ He points at Parnell, exploding into a chuckle which inevitably tips over into a dry, violent cough. ‘Anyway,’ he says, wiping his mouth, ‘There I was spinning Max and Mia on the roundabout – loves of my bloody life, them two. Getting to spend time with them was worth all the risk of coming back, even now. They really ground you, little kids, don’t they?’

‘I wonder if the little kids you sold into god-knows-what ever went to a playground or had a spin on a roundabout. Do you ever wonder about that?’ asks Parnell.

I don’t know what twisted evil leads him to shrug, ‘No, not really’ but when he clocks my face, he feels the need to explain. ‘Look, I did what I did, love. No point dwelling on it. Take that as a bit of advice from a dying old man.’

The cough starts again. I could offer him more water but I stare at him dispassionately, warmed by the thought of him drawing his last breath in this dark, depressing room.

‘So there you were playing dear old grandad in the playground and what?’ asks Parnell, once the hacking dies down.

‘Gina calls me up, explains what’s happened. And I think, Maryanne Doyle, now there’s a blast from the past. Cocky little Irish mare with a right gob on her.’

This surprises me. ‘Do you remember every foot soldier you ever employed, Mr Mackie?

‘Foot soldier? Are you having a laugh? She came up with the plan. She was a right piece of work. And I was hardly likely to forget her, anyway – little bitch did a runner from the flat with a stash of coke and around four grand. I don’t forget those sort of things.’

‘You must have been delighted to hear that same “little bitch” was currently lying on your daughter’s floor, half-conscious.’

He waves a hand, bone-thin and veiny. ‘Oh do me a favour, love. Over ten grams of coke and a few thousand quid? Yeah, maybe if I’d got hold of her at the time, I might have taught her a small lesson in respect. But nearly twenty years later? What I did had nothing to do with all that. I was just helping my daughter, like any good father would. There was no way Gina was going to prison, not over that little tramp.’

‘But she is going to prison, Patrick.’ I drop the Mr Mackie, it’s too deferential for this piece of dog shit. ‘Whether Maryanne’s fall was an accident or not, Gina played a key role in a child trafficking operation.’

He points a finger at me. ‘She made sure those babies were born healthy, that’s all she did. And she only did that because I told her to. I controlled that girl, I can see that now. I should never have brought her into the business but like I said, no point dwelling on things.’

Parnell’s voice is low and steady. ‘Forget what Gina did. Tell us exactly what you did to Maryanne.’

He pauses for a few seconds, playing with us, savouring the game. ‘Oh, what the fuck,’ he says eventually, smiling broadly. ‘I suppose I might as well. There’s not a lot you can do to me now, is there? I’ll be dead by next Christmas.’

And the world will be a brighter place for it.

‘I knocked her out first,’ he says, flippantly, looking at me, then Parnell. ‘Couldn’t be bothered with all the kicking and scratching and it’s not like she took much knocking, she was barely conscious by the time I got there. Then I got her into the garage. I was going to cut her throat at first – I was knackered, wasn’t sure if I’d have the strength to strangle her – but then I didn’t want any more blood to deal with, there was enough back in the house.’ He throws his hands up. ‘So that’s it really, I strangled her. And then I waited a good while – until, God, half-three, four in the morning – and then I headed up to north London, dumped her by her precious fucking gardens. Made sure folk got the message loud and clear.’

‘Folk?’

‘Anyone who’d passed through that flat with even a half a mind to open their mouth.’

‘A big risk though,’ I say. ‘Dumping her in the middle of central London?’

He shrugs. ‘Not at that time of day, not really, not around there. And when you’re dying, nothing feels that risky, love, trust me.’

Parnell reads my mind. ‘Mr Mackie, no offence, but I’m finding it hard to believe you did this all by yourself. You’re dying, you’re very weak. How did you get Maryanne into the garage? Into the car, for that matter? Gina?’