Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(47)

I don’t know with absolute certainty that Dad knows anything about what happened to Maryanne Doyle.

Problem is, while the lie may be sweet as it falls from your lips, the feeling in your gut is always putridly sour.

And almost always bang-on.

*

When we get back to the Incident Room, Parnell’s already there, pacing up and down giving Steele the low-down and generally emitting the kind of pissed-off pheromone that ensures no one dares venture within punching distance. While Parnell’s not known for being a violent man, he’s not usually known for being a sweary man either, but the air’s thick with the sound of ‘fucking alibi’ and it feels thickest around me, although that could be my tendency towards self-blame taking hold – my unintelligible need to hold myself in some way responsible for everything that goes wrong.

Because Parnell did the first interview too.

He was the senior officer.

And OK, maybe we could have pressed Lapaine harder on his ‘Home Alone’ alibi but did we have any real reason to?

‘Softly softly’ Steele had said. ‘I don’t want him feeling like a suspect.’

I only hope Parnell’s got the knackers to remind her.

I repeat all of this to Renée in the hope she’ll work her Renée-magic and say something soothing but she can’t seem to find the right words today. She does find a packet of Oreos though and they kind of work the same. Feeling slightly sick but undoubtedly calmer, I go back to my desk and call Abigail Shawcroft, Googling her as I wait for her answerphone to kick in. It turns out her ‘high-profile role in the community’ involves being reception class teacher for a local primary school and according to her Twitter bio, she’s ‘Mummy to Alexa and Rowan. Loves Glastonbury, netball and cheese lol!!!!’

I leave a message asking her to get in contact ASAP. I’m just hanging up as Parnell puts the phone down.

‘All OK?’ I say, tentatively.

Parnell sits down to deliver the verdict. ‘Seems she’s getting philosophical in her old age. Ruling him out is as good as ruling him in, apparently. At least it’s something concrete.’

‘So we’re not on the naughty step?’

‘No?’ Clearly this hadn’t even occurred to him. I definitely need to dial down the self-whipping. ‘And Lapaine’s not in the clear yet either, not until we’ve spoken to the fancy-woman. And even then .?.?.’

Even then, starry-eyed lovers, especially those of the secret kind, can’t exactly be classed as rock-solid alibis.

‘Well, I just left a message.’ I flop back in my chair. ‘For the fancy-woman.’

‘For all the good it’ll do,’ says Seth, sitting with his Barbour jacket on, waiting for the green light to go home. ‘He’s had more than enough time to get his story straight with her.’

‘He gave it up very easily, didn’t he?’ Parnell puts a hand to his forehead with an actor’s flourish, ‘“Oh what’s the point, you’ll only find out anyway.’’’

Seth nods. ‘All that “I was protecting her” nonsense. Why didn’t he keep protecting her then? He’s right that we’d have probably found out eventually but it could have taken ages, whereas he handed her to us on a silver platter.’

I get their logic, but I’m not feeling it. ‘I don’t think there’s anything necessarily sinister in that. I think he’s extremely angry, understandably, and trashing the memory of their marriage is the only way he can hurt Alice now. Maybe he wants people to know he was cheating because it makes him look less of a gullible idiot – you know, “she may have fooled me, but haha, I fooled her too.”’

‘Maybe, maybe.’ Parnell rubs his hands up and down the side of his face. ‘OK, folks, it’s getting on so let’s call it a day. Kinsella, let me know if Abigail Fancy-woman calls you back but if not, we’ll get someone over to the school first thing tomorrow. Surprise her on her work turf, make her feel uncomfortable. With any luck she might trip up, if there is anything to trip up. Oh, by the way, Steele’s done a piece-to-camera appealing for anyone who might have seen something early Tuesday morning to come forward and’ – he pretends to look scared, braces himself for the backlash – ‘we’re going to get an appeal out in the nationals tomorrow for anyone who thinks they might have come into contact with Maryanne/Alice during the “lost years” – between 1998 when she leaves Mulderrin and 2001 when she turns up on Brighton beach, making eyes at Thomas Lapaine.’

In other words, we’re going to hold up a beacon to all the crack-pots, crazies and police groupies in Great Britain.

An air of resigned dread settles on the incident room as we start to pack up. Molly, our cleaner, weaves in and out of our desks, giving an extra spruce to those who take the time to get to acknowledge her every evening, a cursory swipe to those who think they’re too important to engage.

I look over at Parnell, hunched and haggard and wrestling with the zip on his Arsenal backpack with a ferocious anger not usually reserved for backpacks.

There’s only one thing for it after an interview like that.

‘Boss .?.?.’





12

It doesn’t take long to twist Parnell’s arm. A quick call to Superintendent Blake to be told he’s a good boy, then an even quicker call home to get clearance from Mrs P, and we’re leaning up against the quiz machine in the Bell Tavern, Parnell supping a festively named guest ale (Rocking Rudolph!), and me, the house Pinot. One turns into four alarmingly quickly and it’s not long before the photos come out. One hundred and twenty-nine snaps of varying-sized Parnells in varying locations emanating varying degrees of happiness.