Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(54)

‘Five minutes.’ She turns and sweeps down a narrow hallway, all five feet eleven of her, pulling doors closed as she passes. ‘We can talk in here.’

We follow her into a small cramped kitchen, the kind of adjunct they build on to an office so people can make tea and microwave porridge but that’s about it. There’s no washing machine as far as I can see – unless Saskia French’s whole wardrobe is of the wipe-clean PVC kind – and even the cooker, a free-standing hob sitting on top of the worktop, looks like something you’d take on a camping trip. The fridge is as dinky a child’s toy.

Still, someone’s feeling festive, at least – there’s a snowflake sprayed on the window and a sprig of mistletoe dangling from the door.

Saskia busies herself throwing fresh mint into a mug. She doesn’t ask if we want anything. While her back’s turned, I channel ‘what-the-fuck?’ frequencies across the lino to Parnell.

Why the hell was Maryanne/Alice calling a prostitute?

Parnell cracks on. ‘How did you know Maryanne Doyle?’

She sighs. Hops up on the worktop and stretches out her legs – bare, unashamedly pale and elegant like a dancer’s. ‘I didn’t know Maryanne. We shared the same space for a few weeks but I barely saw her. She saw most of her clients off the premises.’

I sense the bomb go off in Parnell’s head but it’s me that reacts. ‘Clients? You’re saying Maryanne was working here.’

She looks me up and down, finds me wanting on just about every level and turns back to Parnell. ‘I’ve just said, she didn’t see a lot of clients here. She was using it more as a base. She left her stuff here.’

‘Maryanne’s stuff is here? She has a room here?’ I’m struggling to keep my professional cool, but in the space of half an hour we’ve gone from laborious grunt work to the revelation that might just light a fire under this case and it’s taking me a moment to adjust. To reset my skillset from phone-answerer-cum-form-filler to actual detective

Parnell doesn’t need any time. ‘Which room?’

‘The second on the right, she didn’t have much though.’ Another sigh. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’

Parnell walks out. I hear a door open and it takes every last piece of my resolve not to burst in behind him.

‘Why didn’t you contact the police about Maryanne? It’s been all over the papers for almost a week.’

‘Has it?’ she says, vaguely. ‘I don’t really read the papers, or watch TV. I’m more of a muso. Anyway, the less I have to do with the police, the better.’

‘Your colleague, Petra, seemed to be aware of it. She implied you were too – she was surprised you hadn’t contacted us.’

‘I only found out a day or two ago when I picked up a paper on the tube.’

‘And you didn’t think to call us?’

A shrug. ‘I had nothing to tell. I have nothing to tell.’

‘Maryanne was staying here and you think that’s nothing?’

She bends forward, clasps her hands together like a teacher talking to an imbecile. ‘Do. You. Understand. English? I hardly ever saw her. I really can’t help you.’

I change gear, try to ruffle her. ‘Why do you have two phones, Saskia?’

Her voice takes on a bored, sing-song tone. ‘It’s fairly standard practice. I like to keep my life and work separate. The pay-as-you-go is for work.’

‘It’s been switched off for a week, maybe longer. Why?’

She whispers something I assume to be derogatory, then, ‘I wanted some R&R, even tarts need a week off now and again and when I’m not working, I switch it off. I don’t want to be pestered.’

I gesture to her dress. ‘Well, I assume you’re working today and it’s still switched off?’

‘Is it?’ A false gracious smile. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

‘You know it is. You took the SIM out and put it in your other phone.’

‘Look, I needed to check a client’s number, OK? The handset had been playing up so I put the SIM in my other phone to save time.’ She fixes me with a glare. ‘You know, this really is fucking tedious. How much longer are you going to be?’

I don’t respond. ‘What was Maryanne calling you about, on these dates?’ I show her the piece of paper with the calls highlighted but she pushes it away.

‘Just house things. Do we need loo roll? Leave the hall light on. That sort of thing.’

Annoyingly feasible.

‘Obviously I need to ask you where you were on the night of Monday fifteenth, into the early hours of Tuesday sixteenth.’

She doesn’t seem fazed by the question. ‘I was here, alone. I told you, I wanted a few days off to get some proper rest, catch up on some admin, spring clean the flat – you know, normal stuff. I have the same old boring crap to deal with as anyone else, you know. I’m a human being, not just a whore.’

I think I’m supposed to be moved by this plaintive cry but there’s something about this woman that inspires minimal sympathy.

‘So where exactly did you meet Maryanne?’ I say, face completely blank.

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Not good enough.’

She grips the edge of the worktop and gives me that crazy stare again, eyes wide and threatening. I’m starting to think she might launch herself off at any minute but to my surprise, she starts talking.