Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(27)

‘Kinsella. There’d be Irish in you then?’

His west-coast accent curls around my heart like an old blanket. Gran, cousins, aunts, old men with old sheepdogs. Nice people I never saw again after that holiday.

‘My Mum’s side,’ I say, sitting down. ‘Thanks for coming back in, Mr Doyle – and thanks for sorting a photo so quickly. I’m sure this has been a huge shock and I’ll answer any questions you have the best I can, however I’ll warn you, we have far more questions than answers at this stage.’

‘No problem.’ He stands up, dwarfing me. ‘And call me Aiden. Mr Doyle makes me think of my old fella and believe me, it’s not a happy thought. Do you mind if I help myself to tea?’

‘If you don’t mind that it tastes awful.’

He smiles and goes about his business. No obvious signs of distress. Although in fairness, eighteen years is a long time. Maryanne’s been out of his life longer than she’d been in it.

He sits back down, sighs. ‘Well, yeah, it’s been a shock, all right. Not that she’s dead, I mean, I kinda assumed she was dead. It’s more that she was alive all this time, you know?

You and me both, mate.

‘I looked out for her for years,’ he goes on. ‘Like, I went to Galway once for a piss-up, just after the leaving cert, and I thought I saw her in the queue for the Alley.’ He smiles. ‘As if Maryanne would have been seen dead in the Alley, of all places. Always thought she was a class above, you know.’ There’s no side to that statement, just fact. ‘Then I thought I saw her at a football match. Mayo v Roscommon. Spent hours and hours rewinding and pausing the tape, convincing meself it could be her from a certain angle, if you added a few kilos. I suppose I just wanted to think that she was out there somewhere, having a good time, going to nightclubs, watching the match. She was football mad, you know. Well, footballer mad.’

I let him talk, tactically and for pure enjoyment.

‘I stopped looking after a while, though. Then after seven years, this woman from some new set-up, Missing in Ireland Support Services, rings up and says we can apply to have her declared dead if we want.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘“If we want,” she says, like it’s a great fucking option.’ Then, ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t swear.’

‘Swear away. You’re not in confession.’

‘Ha, not in a long time, Detective. Same as yourself, no?’ I smile. ‘Anyways, we didn’t have her declared dead. I mean, what would be the point? She didn’t have an estate or anything, unless you call a crate of shit CDs and more shoes than Imelda Marcos, an estate.’ He scratches at his head like he’s tearing at his brain rather than tending to an itch. ‘Jesus Christ, I just can’t believe she was right here in London, right under my fucking nose.’

He doesn’t apologise this time.

‘We think she was only in London for a few weeks. She lived in Thames Ditton, in Surrey.’

A quick hunch of the shoulders. ‘Don’t know the place. Don’t know London that well, to be honest. I’ve not been here long meself, got transferred from the Dublin office two months ago, and it’s been non-stop work, work, work. I need to get out more.’

I want to ask what type of work allows for distressed denim jeans and threadbare grey T-shirts but it’s not exactly relevant. We’re not on a date. ‘Aiden, we’re trying to find out why Maryanne was in London in the weeks prior to her death. We’ve spoken with her husband .?.?.’

‘Yeah, your boss said she was married. Fair play to her. I’d like to meet him.’

One suspect meeting another suspect? I don’t think so.

‘Now’s really not the best time .?.?.’

‘O’ course. Jesus!’ He gives me a look that says, ‘what do you think I am?’ ‘I meant when the dust settles a bit, maybe .?.?.’

I nod vaguely, bring things back on track. ‘Her husband tells us she wasn’t the greatest fan of London.’

‘Sure, who is? You can’t get a pint for less than a fiver.’

I can’t help but bite. ‘Christ, I don’t know where you’re drinking? The tourist traps, I bet. You’re right, you definitely do need to get out more.’

If it sounds like flirting, I’m not. Flirting implies a certain amount of effort and guile and I’m capable of neither today.

Still, I overcompensate by going in for the kill.

‘Aiden, Maryanne’s husband can’t think of any reason why she would have been in central London. Maybe you can?’

If he’s annoyed, his face gives away nothing. ‘I haven’t seen my sister in nearly two decades, she could have had an appointment with the feckin’ Queen for all I know?’

I lean forward. ‘Or maybe she was visiting you? You could be the reason?’

His chin lifts. ‘I’m not following.’

‘Well, it just strikes me that here we have a woman who, by all accounts, can’t stand London, who never visits London, who seems content living her very quiet life in a sleepy village in leafy Surrey, and then her brother arrives in the capital two months ago, and all of a sudden London isn’t such a bad place?’ I leave it hanging for a second. ‘So can you see where I’m coming from? Can you see why I might make a connection.’