Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(26)

A murmur of ‘fair play’ rings around the room. I’m obviously pleased for him but I can’t help getting a pang of new sibling syndrome. More people to manage means less time steadying me.

‘So the brother’s ID’d the body and he’s confirmed it’s his sister, Maryanne Doyle.’

‘The moron brother’, as Jacqui used to call him

‘Maryanne went missing from Mulderrin, a small village on the west coast of Ireland, in 1998. Not a call or a letter or a proverbial sausage since. We’re obviously waiting for a DNA comparison before we go public but basically, it’s her. He was able to tell us several distinguishing features.’

‘So might the killer,’ I say.

‘What? He kills her then draws attention to himself?’ muses Seth. ‘He’d have to be supremely confident, or supremely mad.’

‘It’s not unheard of.’

‘And confident fits with the relaxed dude on the CCTV,’ adds Ben.

Steele picks up the stapler, tosses it from hand to hand. ‘Mmm, I think the brother’s a bit taller than CCTV man, although it’s hard to say for definite so I wouldn’t rule him out. Anyway, look, the file’s been sent from Ireland but I’ve been warned it’s a bit thin on detail, and I’m not sure how much attention we should be paying it, in any case. It was eighteen years ago, people go missing all the time, and “Maryanne Doyle” was alive and well and living as Alice Lapaine until yesterday so there may be absolutely no relevance at all.’

I cling to Steele’s words yet feel sick at their implications.

Could I have been wrong about Dad all this time?

But then why? Why did he lie?

In the cold light of day, with doubts flooding my head, this question starts to seem na?ve at best. OK, Childhood Me might have allowed herself to believe in the steadfast honesty of Grown-ups, but Grown-up Me knows that people lie all the time, and for an abundance of reasons, not all of them sinister.

But he knew her.

He flirted with her.

She disappeared.

Then he lied.

Pieces of a puzzle I completed a long time ago. Could I have been wrong?

However, now isn’t the time for regret or introspection. Now is the time to get hold of that file.

‘I’ll go through the Ireland stuff,’ I announce, maybe a little too eager. ‘Let you know if I think anything needs following up.’

Steele looks to Parnell, formally passing the crown.

‘No, I want you to interview the brother,’ says Parnell. ‘He’s coming back in, after work.’ He refrains from adding ‘the heartless git.’ ‘Go easy, but see if you can sense any motive, because if we’re looking for reasons for why she might have been in London, the brother’s a reason, isn’t he?’

I nod, there’s nothing else I can do. It’s an instruction from a senior officer and a favour from a friend. A patronage of sorts. But rather like the Mafia, Parnell’s public show of faith means I now can’t let him down without bringing him down, and yet I’m letting him down just by sitting here with my memories – Maryanne serving ice-cream, licking Rizlas, putting my Tinkerbell pendant into her denim jacket pocket.

Flirting with Dad. Calling him the Diet Coke man.

Acting Detective Inspector Luigi Parnell deserves far better than me.

‘Right, back to the grindstone folks,’ shouts Steele, waving ta-ta to Chief Superintendent Blake as he slips out. ‘Parnell’s off to the post-mortem later so news from that very soon.’

‘Lucky me,’ says Parnell, who after nearly thirty years’ service still shudders at the sound of the rib shears.

Renée picks up her bag. ‘Think yourself lucky, Boss. I’ve been lumbered with telling Thomas Lapaine that his wife had been lying to him about her identity for the past fifteen years. Wanna swap?’

He doesn’t. Most of us would take stomach contents and rib shears over the awkwardness of emotional pain any day.

‘I’ll tell you who is lucky though – that one, there.’ Renée points at me, grinning. I’m confused. ‘Ah, of course, you didn’t see Aiden Doyle when he came in first thing, did you? Well you’re in for a treat, lady, the man is an absolute D.I.S.H.’

‘Sexist!’ shouts Flowers, and for the first time today I crack a genuine smile.

*

Much later, I walk into the ‘soft’ interview room – the squishy, pastel sanctum we preserve for children, vulnerable people and now smokin’-hot brothers of dead Irish colleens – to find Aiden Doyle tapping on his smartphone, left knee bouncing. Six feet something of pure crackling energy and cheekbones you could cut turf with.

I can’t fault Renée’s taste. The moron brother doesn’t look so moronic now.

I half expect to recognise him but there’s nothing, not one single recollection. I’m not sure why I’m so surprised as I didn’t really register boys when I was eight. Boring, non-pop-star boys anyway. To me, every teenage boy was just another superfluous version of Noel – spiteful, monosyllabic and unwashed – whereas teenage girls embodied everything I thought was good about life – giggling, glitter and clip-cloppy high heels.

Maryanne was wearing candy-pink peep-toes the day we gave her a lift.

I offer my hand. ‘Detective Constable Cat Kinsella.’