Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(29)

He reaches for a glass of water, pours me one too.

‘When did you stop believing Maryanne was alive?’

‘I don’t know, after a few years, I suppose. And then when that one started going on about declaring her dead, well, it just kind of confirmed that something bad must have happened. And she was always hitching into town, you know? Jumping into the first car that stopped, not a bother on her. “Too fucking lazy to walk,” me old fella used to say. From him! A man who’d been on the social his whole bloody life.’

‘What did the Guards make of it?’

‘Bog all, really,’ he shrugs. ‘Me old fella wasn’t exactly on great terms with them so that didn’t help. Although to be fair, she was seventeen and she was known for being a bit wild. She’d ran away before, you see – only to Ballina for some festival but she was gone a few days, so I don’t think they paid much mind. Maybe I should have pushed them more but I was only fourteen. They’d have laughed me out the station.’

‘No other siblings?’

‘We’ve an older brother. He’d left home years before Maryanne went missing though and he’s in Canada now. We haven’t spoken properly in years. I get the odd Christmas card, pictures of his kids – well, they’re not kids now, they’re in their teens. I suppose I’ll have to give him a bell now .?.?. tell him about Maryanne, me dad .?.?.’

‘He doesn’t stay in contact with your dad?’

‘Nope. Let’s just say my folks weren’t really cut out to be parents. Both too fond of the sup. Mam was a happy drunk, at least. That’s how we saw it anyway. When the old fella was pissed, he’d dole out punches and rebel songs, but me mam, she’d be all kisses and promises. You know, things she was gonna buy us, places she was gonna take us. You knew it was baloney, but it was nice baloney. I miss her.’

‘How old were you when she died?’

‘I was twelve, Maryanne was fifteen. Cirrhosis of the liver. It wasn’t a nice death.’ A pause. ‘The women in our family don’t have much luck, do they?’ He reflects on this for a second but he’s not a wallower. ‘Come here, you said you’d answer any questions I have and I do have one. My question is, “what’s with all the questions?”’ What has Maryanne doing a runner out of Dodge all those years ago got to do with her being murdered yesterday?’

I steel myself to answer in the entirely politic, non-committal way that I’m paid to do.

‘We’re not sure at the moment. We’re just trying to get an idea of who she was. It could be the key to everything or it could mean absolutely nothing. I’m sorry, but that’s the most honest answer I can give you.’

And because screaming, ‘Wouldn’t I like to fucking know?’ in your face really wouldn’t benefit either of us.

‘Fair enough,’ he says – genuinely, I think.

He looks around the room, dwelling a beat or two on a canvas of pink poppies that I think he’s supposed to find soothing.

‘You know, Maryanne was a pain in the hole from the minute she got up in the morning until the minute she went to bed but she was my big sister, you know? She didn’t deserve .?.?. this. She wasn’t a bad person.’ He drags his eyes away from the poppies, plants them on mine. ‘Ah, would you listen to me, Cat. I haven’t set eyes on her in eighteen years, I’ve no idea what type of person she was. She could have been some gangland crime boss for all know. The Don Corleone of, where’d you call it, Thames Ditton.’ His smile gets broader. ‘Yeah, I could imagine that. Totally. Always had big plans, did Maryanne. Always so sure she was going to be someone. Be famous, like.’ A sharp rueful laugh. ‘She’s famous now, isn’t she?’

*

The office is quiet as I slink back in. Not exactly empty, but empty of anyone who’d have the remotest interest in what I’m up to. Seizing my chance, I breeze towards Steele’s office, smiling at people as I pass, even hovering for a few minutes to give my dishonest opinion on a pair of fleece pyjamas some Romeo has bought his lucky Juliet for Christmas.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

Just a lowly DC walking into a mighty DCI’s office and raiding her desk like a junkie scavenging for a fix.

Nothing to see here, folks.

I find the featherweight file under a pile of overtime sheets and there’s not much to see there either. They definitely weren’t joking when they said it was light on detail. I quickly scan the pages, all three of them – one standard Missing Persons form and two faded sheets which I’m loath to call witness statements as they read more like a sketchy Who’s Who of Mulderrin – a Sergeant Bill Swords’ private census, complete with withering observations and snippy little asides.



Martha Higgins – neighbour. Nothing relevant, couldn’t get any sense out of her, not playing with a full deck.



Manda Moran – friend. Hasn’t seen MD in days. Suggested some fella in Galway? Colette Durkin told her about him (Hazel Joyce told Durkin). Durkin a fierce liar though and M. Moran would believe the moon was made of cheese.



Colette Durkin – friend. Saw MD in the Diner on Sat morning (30th). Said she had ‘a right puss on her’. Denied knowledge of any fella in Galway. Wouldn’t know what to believe. Slippery as the day is long.