Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(59)

‘Could it be pure coincidence?’ I ask.

Parnell drums the steering wheel with his spare hand. ‘What, that she was living in their flat and a completely unconnected looky-likey turns up at the gates here?’ He stares through the windscreen, marvels at a grey squirrel attacking a bird feeder. ‘Could be,’ he says, eventually. ‘I’m actually part of a rare breed who believes coincidences can happen.’

I’m not sure if I am. Conspiracy out-glams coincidence by a country mile.

Still, I’m a pragmatist.

‘The kind of lawyers the Hickses can afford will get a hard-on at the word “coincidence” though, that’s our problem.’

‘Exactly,’ says Parnell. ‘So do you know what we do?’

‘Give up? Plant evidence?’

Parnell turns his body to face me, the seatbelt strains across his bulk. ‘Are you a James Bond fan, Kinsella?’

The seriousness of his tone tickles me. ‘Not really. I went through a bit of a spy phase when I was little but it was more Danger Mouse than 007. Why?’

‘But you’ve heard of Goldfinger, though? Tell me you’ve heard of Goldfinger?’

I do a little Shirley Bassey which Parnell takes to mean ‘yes’.

‘Well, after he comes across Bond for the third time, Goldfinger says – and bear with me, my Latvian accent isn’t the best. “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”’

I think about this, nod sagely. ‘So we find coincidence number three, and when we do, we consider the Hickses to be the enemy.’ Parnell joins me in the sage nodding. ‘We might find it in the phone records?’

Parnell puts his e-cig down, holds up two fingers. ‘One, that wouldn’t be a coincidence, that would be us blatantly catching them out in a lie, and two, we won’t find anything, he was far too relaxed.’ Suddenly his head juts forward and he squints into the distance. ‘Although, hold up. Speak of the devil.’

I follow his line of sight and see Nate Hicks jogging towards the car. Parnell gives the accelerator a rev for pure devilment and the jog turns into a lumbering sprint.

‘What does he want?’

‘You didn’t forget your glasses again, kiddo?’ I glare at Parnell but it’s a fair question. It happens all the time; pub toilets, train journeys, witnesses’ homes. I live in fear of leaving them at a crime scene.

Parnell winds down the window. I scowl at the cold and in doing so scowl at Nate Hicks, who’s only wearing a thin rugby shirt, making him either rock-hard or panicked.

‘Can we talk?’ he says, ‘Quickly.’

I look back to the kitchen window. Gina Hicks is framed in early-evening light, nursing a cut knee as one of the toddlers sits on the sink. ‘I assume you know your wife can see you?’

‘I said I was checking you could get out the main gate. The sensor plays up occasionally so it’s not a complete lie.’

I didn’t exactly lie, I just didn’t tell the truth.

‘Hop in,’ says Parnell.

He gets in the back, looking completely incongruous. Nate Hicks strikes me as the type of guy who always likes to be at the wheel, metaphorically or otherwise, and there’s something satisfying about the sight of him scrunched up in the back of Parnell’s Citroen C4.

‘I’m sorry I was a bit aggressive back there,’ he says.

I’ve an urge to tell him he wasn’t aggressive at all, just a pompous oaf, but it’s only a thirty second drive up to the main gates so there’s not much time for small talk.

I shift around in my seat. ‘You know, if you have something to tell us about “the dead woman”, your wife is going to find out anyway, and we don’t generally take statements from the backs of cars.’

‘No, no, it’s not about her. Well, not really.’ He drags his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking out at all angles in small fuzzy tufts. ‘God, this is all so embarrassing. I swear I don’t know who this Alice/Maryanne, woman is. Really, I don’t.’ He pauses. ‘But I do know what Saskia is. I’ve known for a while now. By pure accident. Despite what my wife thinks, I do listen sometimes and I did check in on the flat .?.?.’ It’s paining him to go further.

Parnell let’s out a knowing ‘Ah’ and pulls up on a verge, a little to the side of the main gate. A BMW squeezes through and the female driver gives a confused wave to Nate Hicks. He looks mortified which makes me toasty warm inside.

‘So you’ve known your tenant is a prostitute for a while?’ I say, acting like I’m just getting it all straight in my head. ‘But you didn’t see fit to tell your wife?’

It’s obvious where this is heading but it’s fun watching him squirm.

‘No, I didn’t. I couldn’t, we .?.?. I don’t know how it .?.?. I’ve never done anything .?.?.’

Parnell hasn’t got time for bluster, he’s got the twins’ carol concert tonight. ‘Shall I help you, Mr Hicks? You had sex with Saskia French, yes?’

He looks at us both, all hunched-up shoulders and hangdog eyes. In his stripy rugby top and cheeks reddened by the cold – or shame – he resembles an overgrown schoolboy. I turn back to the front to hide my disdain.

‘Was it a financial arrangement?’ asks Parnell.