Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(39)

‘So we go again. We dig deeper.’

‘Yup.’

‘You OK?’ she asks, eyes fixed on mine. In her stiletto suede boots, we’re about the same height.

Petty cynic that I am, I wonder why she’s asking.

She’s on to me though. ‘It’s just a question, Kinsella. A fairly common one in polite society. If it helps the most common answers are, “I’m fine thanks”, “Not too bad” and “Can’t complain.”’

‘All those things then,’ I say, smiling.

‘Mmmm.’ She scrutinises me for a few seconds which makes me feel twitchy and exposed. However, just as I’m starting to think about my next move, about what I might have to deflect next, a car-horn sounds and she bolts suddenly for the door. ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming, all right! Keep your knickers on. Jesus!’

I’m waiting for the lift when I feel the draught again. Steele’s standing in the doorway, eyes already watering from the barbaric cold outside.

‘Hey, Kinsella, just to stress again – even though I’m not here, what we talked about still stands, you hear me? You report everything to me. You check everything with me. Everything, OK?’

Everything except the thing I can’t tell you. The thing that’s forced me to pick sides.

And I haven’t picked you.

Not yet, anyway.





10

There’s no Donatella to be found at the Donatella Caffé, just two squawking pensioners called June and Bernie who can only seem to agree on two things. The first being that we really must try the stollen cake, the second being that I have lovely hair. The issue of Maryanne Doyle is proving a little more contentious though, with June insisting she’d only been in a few times, while Bernie’s adamant they could near enough erect a plaque to her.

I honestly don’t know where to hedge my bets as they’re both as dotty as each other and equally ancient. Not that old means unreliable, of course. Far from it. Give me an eagle-eyed OAP over a self-absorbed Gen Y any day of the week. Nosiness trumps narcissism every time

These pair are breaking the mould though.

‘Well, she was definitely here Friday morning,’ says Bernie, pointing at the receipt, stating the obvious.

‘But do you actually remember seeing her?’ It comes out a bit snotty so I quickly make amends. ‘Go on then, give me a bit of that stollen. I’m useless. I’ve no willpower at all.’

Bernie looks appeased and hands me a slice the size of a car battery. ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘I had a lot on my mind on Friday. I’ve got to have an operation, you know.’

June looks up from a tub of tuna mix and mouths ‘Gallstones’.

‘And it’s chockablock on a Friday, always is. There’s a Zumba class up the road who come in here afterwards. Sit for hours, they do.’ I offer her money for the cake but she shakes her head. ‘No, no, it’s on the house, I insist. I’ve always been a big fan of the police, haven’t I, June? Dangerous job, specially for young girls like you pair. Call it repayment.’

I smile. ‘Repayment comes out of your council tax, Bernie, but thanks all the same. I’ll be needing a few Zumba classes myself after this.’

Emily takes over as I tuck in. ‘Did you ever see her with anyone?’

They eye each other nervously, like the wrong answer could get them life without parole. It’s June who eventually braves it.

‘No, I don’t think so. Nice looking girl, weren’t she? Classy, I mean. Had one of those fancy brown coats. We used to call them flasher macs back in the day but they’re all the rage now apparently.’

I hoover up another forkful, dutifully faking a cake orgasm. ‘Any chance of the other dates she came in, ladies? Apart from Friday. I appreciate it’s not easy.’

‘Well, we don’t sell many of those Ristretto things,’ offers June. ‘I could go through the till roll for the past few weeks, see if I can find another.’

‘We do actually,’ says Bernie, all superior. ‘That fat man with the cap, he always has one. And that lady with the Down’s syndrome lad, not that she gets a minute’s peace to drink it, the poor creature.’

June looks smug. ‘Ah, but the police can cross-reference to see if they were here on a particular day, and if they weren’t then it must have been this dead girl. It’s called “process of elimination”, Bern.’

‘It’s called watching too much bloody Morse.’

‘Did you ever talk to her about anything?’ I interrupt, breaking up the spat.

Bernie frowns. ‘Such as?’

‘Well, where she’d been? Where she was going? Why she was in the area?’

Baffled expressions. Customer engagement clearly isn’t their forte.

It’s June who pipes up again. ‘I think I saw her over there once, if that’s any help.’ She points across the street. ‘Some time last week. That gated road where the posh houses are. It might have been her, anyway. Same sort of hair, same browny coat.’ She adds a hint of warning to her voice. ‘But I was going past on the bus and he doesn’t take any prisoners when he’s behind schedule so I didn’t exactly get a good look, and I wasn’t wearing the right glasses. I’d had to borrow our Eileen’s because I’d left mine at the Harvester.’ A small shrug. ‘Anyway, whoever it was was bending down talking into that walkie-talkie thing.’