Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(50)

‘Jesus, you should have gone home, Boss, put your kids to bed. Why didn’t you, for God’s sake?’

‘Because you asked me to come for a drink. And the only reason a young girl like you asks an old duffer like me for a drink is if she’s drowning her sorrows. If she’s lonely or upset about something.’

I say nothing.

‘I’m right, aren’t I? You’re still brooding over the little girl in the bedsit – and, well, it’s obvious this case, Thomas Lapaine’s affair anyway, has brought stuff about your dad to the surface.’

Yeah, just a little.

I don’t know whether to laugh like a drain or cry myself dry.

I opt for more silence.

‘Look, you can’t let it cloud your judgement, kiddo. You’ve got a long career ahead of you, you’re going to meet a lot of cheating slimeballs, I’m afraid. Can’t arrest them all.’

‘S’pose not,’ I say, after a while. ‘Hey, unless you become a private investigator when you retire and I help you out with the cheating spouse cases. Parnell PI. It’s a got a ring to it.’

‘Retirement.’

Parnell exhales the word but it’s not a peaceful exhale. Feeling bad about bringing it up, I draw the conversation back.

‘Anyway, I do have one thing to thank Dad’s affairs for.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Set me on the path to being a detective.’

Parnell settles onto a barstool. ‘Oh, this I have to hear.’

‘Then you shall.’ I take a deep theatrical breath. I’ve never told anyone this before. ‘OK, I’d have been about nine, maybe ten. Jacqui had picked me up from school and she was supposed to be taking me to Irish dancing but I’d hurt my foot playing rounders so we didn’t end up going. Anyway, when we get home I go upstairs to get something and as I walk past Mum and Dad’s door, I can see someone in the bed. Well, two people. And I’m confused because Mum and Dad are both supposed to be out somewhere – that’s why Jacqui had to pick me up – but I can clearly see two people. So I go a bit closer and peer through a crack in the door and I can definitely make out Dad, but I can’t see the other person. All I can see are her feet sticking out the bottom of the bed. And her toenails are this sort of damson colour. So I’m thinking “is that Mum?” and the idea’s obviously grossing me out so I can’t knock the door, but I can’t phone Mum either because a) I don’t have a clue what her number is and b) even at nine years old, I’ve got the measure of my dad and I’m thinking “But what if it’s not Mum?” So I do nothing, but I decide the next chance I get, I’m going to go through all Mum’s nail polishes to see if I can match one to Plum Paws.’

Parnell’s doing a great job of looking transfixed. ‘And you couldn’t?’

‘Nope, all pale pinks and boring nudes. But I decide that’s not conclusive proof anyway, because Mum could have just used the last of the damson polish and thrown it away, or she could have left it at Auntie Carmel’s or something, so I decide I need another plan.’ I tap the side of my head. ‘See, Sherlock Holmes, even then.’ Parnell grins. ‘So for weeks, right, I save my pocket money and I beg Jacqui to let me tag along a few times when she goes up to Oxford Street, and I keep looking and looking and eventually I find this dark purple polish in Boots, just like Plum Paws, and I buy it for Mum in the hope she’ll at least say, “Oh what a lovely colour, thank you sweetheart” but kind of hoping she’ll say – because it’ll be more conclusive, “Oh, what a coincidence, I had one just like this.”’

I pause, but I’m being deliberately melodramatic this time. Parnell’s loving it.

‘But she didn’t,’ he says.

I shake my head. ‘No she didn’t. She’s not exactly rude about it but she says something like “Good God, it’s a bit gothic, poppet” – I didn’t know what “gothic” meant but I could tell it wasn’t a good thing. And then she says, “It’s not the type of colour I’d ever usually wear but maybe I should have an image change, ha ha.”’

‘Oh dear.’

I nod. ‘Indeed. Anyway, I had this friend at the time called Katy Kielty and her mum used to take us swimming at Finchley Lido. She had dark purple toenails this one time.’ Another pause. ‘I’d found Plum Paws.’

Parnell laughs. ‘On one piece of circumstantial evidence! No forensics, no witnesses?’

‘Yeah, but she’d always fancied my dad so I had motive.’

‘Hold up.’ Parnell stops laughing and looks over the top of my head towards the TV. ‘This’ll keep us busy tomorrow. Forget Plum Paws, it looks like we’re on.’ To the barman. ‘Turn that up, mate.’

Steele’s elfin features fill the screen, earnestly appealing for witnesses to come forward to help solve this ‘particularly heinous crime.’ Her face is sombre, unflinching and flawless. Eyebrows perfectly shaped. Lips, a deep raspberry red. If Plum Paws triggered my desire to be a detective, meeting Steele stamped it across my heart and I’m willing to bet that I’m not the only female in the force who dreams of being DCI Kate Steele when they grow up.

‘Never shy of the spotlight, our Kate,’ says Parnell, not unkindly. ‘Do you know what Craig’s taken to calling her?’