Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(57)

If domestic smuggery could be bottled it would smell just like this. Topnotes of gingerbread and basenotes of cloves.

It only takes two phrases to break the spell though. ‘Murder victim’ and ‘Your flat’.

I feel like we’ve walked onto a Bing Crosby film-set and pissed on the fake snow.

‘That girl was staying with Saskia?’ A stunned Gina Hicks drops to the arm of the sofa. ‘Was she a friend?’

‘What girl are they talking about, Mum?’

I clock the bouncy intrigue in the daughter’s voice and know where this is heading: Facebook.

‘Perhaps we could speak alone?’ I say.

Nate Hicks is swift to oblige, scrambling to his feet and throwing the door open. ‘Right, out, the lot of you. Amber, take the twins. Leo, go and do that elsewhere.’

There’s a whiny, monotone protest from Amber but an exodus ensues, including the ailing Santa.

‘And don’t let the twins torment Grandad,’ Gina calls after them.

As soon as their voices become distant, Parnell clears his throat. ‘It’s been alleged that the victim, Alice Lapaine, aka Maryanne Doyle, had been working as a prostitute.’

There’s a deep line across Gina’s botox-free brow, complete incomprehension in her voice. ‘And this woman was friends with Saskia? Darling, can you actually believe this?’ A quick glance to her husband and then back to us. ‘I mean, we don’t know Saskia that well on a personal level, but she’s always been a reliable tenant and I didn’t think she’d associate with—’ She catches herself, looks embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I know I’m being judgemental and the girl’s dead, I’m just surprised that Saskia would be friends with .?.?.’

‘Saskia French is a prostitute,’ announces Parnell.

‘Oh my God!’ It’s barely a whisper but her eyes are open wide. Nate Hicks looks less surprised, more solemn. Like a grim-faced politician about to make a keynote speech. He walks over to the sofa and attempts to take his wife’s hand.

He doesn’t succeed. Gina’s hell-bent on resurrecting what feels like an old argument.

‘This is your bloody fault. I said we should check on the place more often, didn’t I? Well, didn’t I? Heaven knows, you’re in London enough, would it have hurt to do a spot-check now and again?’

Nate throws his hands up. ‘On what basis? You said yourself, she’s been the perfect tenant? Rent on time, never a peep. We can’t just barge in there inspecting the place on no grounds, Gina. They’re not student digs, she’s a grown woman.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ says Gina to both of us. ‘She’s been our tenant for years, absolutely no trouble .?.?.’

I shake my head. ‘It was obvious from the minute we got there, and Miss French didn’t exactly hide it either.’

A jubliant child’s scream carries through from the kitchen followed by the sound of the Grandad laughing. The laugh quickly gives way to a savage, hacking cough.

‘Oh God, they shouldn’t be climbing all over him. He’s got stage four lung cancer, they reckon about six to twelve months.’ She puts her head in her hands, sighs deeply. ‘God, I really don’t need this, on top of everything else.’

For all her cashmere and clove-scented domesticity, you’d have to be a robot not to feel a stab of sympathy. A sick parent is no fun. A sick parent, a prostitute tenant, and a link with a murder victim must be the absolute pits.

Nate puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders, nuzzles her head. ‘Look, darling, obviously the fact that this dead woman was in our flat is unfortunate, but in terms of Saskia, is it honestly such a big deal? Christ, remember that chap from the Camden flat? He turned out to be some sort of bogus tradesman, a complete fraudster. Saskia’s never given us any trouble whatsoever, so is it really our business how she earns her living, distasteful as it is .?.?.’

Gina’s head snaps up. ‘It is my bloody business if she’s turned my property into a knocking shop. You heard what they said, that dead woman was working there.’

I step in to referee. ‘If it’s any consolation, that’s not our concern. You do what you have to do with Saskia, there won’t be anything formal from our side.’ There’s a flicker of relief but it’s infinitesimal under the heavy mask of worry. ‘Mrs Hicks, you said, “my property” just now. Who exactly is the owner?’

‘It’s mine.’

Parnell takes a seat on the Chesterfield. It’s a bit low for his tastes and I see a twinge of regret as he tries to make himself comfortable. ‘Saskia gave your husband’s name,’ he says. ‘Why would that be?’

Gina scoffs. ‘Good old-fashioned sexism, I imagine. I just stay at home raising children and baking organic strudels, don’t I, darling? God forbid anyone thought I had a career of my own once. Investments of my own.’

The argument fails to ignite when the eldest son walks back into the room carrying a violin case. He gives his parents a bemused stare, as if he hasn’t seen them look anything other than wholly composed and efficient his entire life and he senses this might mark some kind of seismic sea change. One that might benefit him if he plays his cards right.

‘Not a good time, Leo,’ says Gina, massaging her forehead with her index fingers.