Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(40)

‘The intercom, you fool,’ snaps Bernie.

I hand my card across the counter, give another thumbs-up for the cake. ‘That’s very helpful, June, thank you. And anything the till roll throws up would be great.’

‘Waste of time,’ says Emily as we stand outside, shuddering against the shock of the cold, our shoulders huddled up around our ears.

Most investigative work is, I should tell her. However I’m taking a surprising amount of pride in my prefect role so I do my best to strike a positive tone.

‘Not necessarily. Let’s check out this gated road. If it was Alice Lapaine, someone must know her.’

Emily curls her lip. ‘Yeah, if it even was her? I’m not sure anything those two said would stand up in court.’

‘True. But if you want your murders sewn up in the space of two hours, go and binge-watch Morse with the lovely June over there. Otherwise, get your arse over the road with me.’

*

Keeper’s Close is a pronounced curve of nine houses, the kind of street a child would scrawl with gravelly paths meandering between perfectly manicured lawns, primary-coloured front doors decorated with pine cones and Christmas wreaths, and white picket fences sectioning off the Haves from the Have-Mores. At the top of the close, a Waitrose van is parked outside what is clearly the best house – a three-storey period property that makes the other million-pound drums look a bit pedestrian and naff. Like plain and frumpy bridesmaids forming a guard of honour for the far more elegant bride.

Emily tries not to look impressed but when ￡50,000 of Range Rover pulls up to the gates she practically goes cross-eyed with envy.

‘You’re in the wrong job,’ I say to her, signalling to the driver to wind down his window. ‘If it’s fancy cars you’re after, you’re going to have to make damn sure you marry well. And you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree with Ben Swaines.’

She feigns outrage. ‘Get lost, I don’t fancy Ben. It’s just flirting, livening up the .?.?.’

I’m spared the girly chat by a frail old man leaning out of the car window, waif-like in his behemoth of a car. ‘Can I help?’ he says in a quiet, raspy voice.

I flash my ID. ‘Do you live here, sir?’

‘Yes. Well, no. I do at the moment, most of the time anyway. What’s this about?’ His face clouds. ‘God, it’s not that arsehole, Bingham, again, is it? She’ll go mad.’

I file Bingham for later and pull Alice’s photo out of my pocket. ‘Do you recognise this woman?

A quick but curious glance. ‘No, sorry. But you’d be better off talking to my daughter.’ He points towards Keeper’s Close’s very own Taj Mahal. ‘The house at the top.’

He pulls off and we follow behind slowly. By the time we reach the barn, the elderly man isn’t looking so fragile, berating the Waitrose driver for some barely noticeable scratch on a pillar while behind him, a good-looking woman wearing skinny jeans and a poncho-cum-granny blanket-type-thing, looks ready to commit murder. We wait a few seconds for her to acknowledge us but she’s too busy pacifying her father and pleading with a small child to stop tormenting the cat.

‘Hello,’ I shout, over the racket of alpha men and cranky kids.

The elderly man looks round, momentarily confused, like he’s completely forgotten his encounter with the Law in the time it took to drive up the pathway. ‘Oh sorry. Gina, these officers want a word.’

Gina looks at us unmoved, as if somehow resigned to yet another drama. ‘Oh, OK.’ She scoops up the cat-tormenting child. ‘Can you bring the shopping through, please? I’ve rather got my hands full.’

I figure the instruction’s aimed at the Waitrose man but I make myself useful anyway, hauling a case of Pouilly-Fumé off the van and following her into a cavernous hall – all stone floors and timber beams and a Christmas tree to rival Rockefeller’s.

‘So what’s this about?’ she says, craning her neck round, trying not to be strangled by the clinging toddler.

‘We’re investigating a murder, Mrs? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Hicks. Murder?’ The usual blend of alarm mixed with macabre delight.

We follow her into the kitchen where an identical toddler is slumped on a beanbag in front of Paw Patrol, and a neighbour, who introduces herself as Tash Marwood, is wrapping ham around figs. I lean against the Aga and blow Tash Marwood’s mind with the ‘M’ word while we wait for Gina to bribe the toddlers out of the room with Fruit-Shoots and Pom-Bears. Eventually negotiations cease and she closes the door.

‘Murder, you said? Good God! Who? Where?’ She looks towards Tash Marwood. ‘God, it’s not someone on the close, is it?’

‘No. Central London. The victim went by two names, Alice Lapaine and Maryanne Doyle.’ I wait a beat to see if there’s a flicker of recognition from either of them. Nothing. ‘We’re following a line of enquiry that she was seen at your main gates recently, talking into the intercom. We’ll need to speak to all the residents.’

Gina lets out a long breath. ‘Well, the names mean nothing, I’m afraid. Tash?’

Tash shakes her head, eyes full of appalled excitement. ‘Do you have a picture?’

Emily offers the photo. Tash offers an instant ‘No, sorry’. Gina’s just about to say something when her father staggers into the room, legs buckling under the weight of two cases of wine. She bolts towards him, furious.