Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(84)

I take a breath. ‘Gina Hicks specifically told her to make any contact through Saskia, but we know she was in the café down the road on the Friday before she died, so she obviously wanted to speak to Gina without Saskia knowing. What other conclusions can we draw?’

Steele throws her hands up. ‘That she thought the Donatella Caffé did the meanest espresso ristretto this side of the equator? That she was dropping off a Christmas card? That she was lunching with Lord Lucan? We don’t know!’

I bite my cheeks but Steele’s wise to my little angry ticks.

‘Look, we’re all on the same side here, Kinsella, and I agree there’s motive to be explored, but Saskia French hasn’t lied to us any more than anyone else, including Gina Hicks, and at this point we don’t have any reason to believe she’s even gone AWOL. She’s gone to her parents, that’s what she said, isn’t it, Lu?’ Parnell nods. ‘Which is entirely normal at this time of year and given the fact she wasn’t under arrest or even a formal suspect, we had absolutely no right to stop her. No right to even ask for the address.’

Renée asks Parnell, ‘Where do her folks live?’

‘Somerset, apparently.’

‘If it’s rural Somerset, mobile reception’s not great,’ says Renée.

‘Or she’s switched her phone off because she doesn’t want punters calling her at her parents?’ adds Steele.

I’ve got no choice but to nod along. Steele calls the shots and she invariably calls them with a combination of searing logic and calm reason. She’s virtually impossible to argue with.

‘And another thing,’ she continues, ‘I’ve been looking at the CCTV again and yes, I’m going to keep an open mind, of course, but honestly .?.?. I don’t think it’s a woman. I don’t think a woman could have lifted the body that leisurely. Maryanne, Alice, whatever we’re calling her, she wasn’t exactly tiny, was she?’

‘Five feet six, just under ten stone,’ I say, keen to show I have concrete facts as well as unsubstantiated theories.

‘Saskia French’s a unit, Boss, I wouldn’t rule it out,’ says Parnell.

Steele puts her palms flat on the table. ‘I’m not, Lu. I’m just not prepared to start panicking and canvassing the Somerset countryside just yet.’ She nods towards Renée, who’s packed up, wrapped up, and ready for the off. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to follow my learned friend’s lead and bugger off home. Tomorrow, we go again.’

But I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m not ready to be alone.

Parnell reads my mind with a resounding, ‘No, Kinsella! No pub today. I’m in the doghouse enough already. Turns out that buying your wife and your mother the same perfume for Christmas is a bit of a no-no.’ He looks to us for sympathy, finds none. ‘I don’t know .?.?. women .?.?. it’s a bloody minefield .?.?.’

*

Aiden Doyle doesn’t knock me back, though. He says he has an appointment with Sky but if I give him ten minutes, he’ll try to change it. Then he asks me if I enjoyed Mulderrin. Did I get a chance to do the open-top bus tour? Have a ride on the Mulderrin Eye?

The joker.

As promised – well, fourteen minutes later, but who’s counting? – he calls me back to say we’re on. An hour later, we’re sitting in the upstairs window of the Chandos, sipping cheap ale while overlooking the relative calm of Trafalgar Square as it braces itself for tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve onslaught. He’s looking even more handsome than I remember. The same distressed jeans but with a white long-sleeved top that shows off a chest that manages to stay on both the right side of toned and the right side of vanity.

‘So you cancelled your Sky Engineer, I’m honoured,’ I say.

It’s tragic but I actually mean it.

‘Ah sure, I hardly watch the bloody thing anyway. What is there to watch? Baking shows and bad news, that’s about it.’ His accent seems stronger, richer, from his flying visit back to Mulderrin – more of a pulse than a lilt. ‘I reckon you’ve saved me forty pounds a month and you’ve introduced me to London’s cheapest pint. You’re like my financial guardian angel.’

I catch myself in the window, wish I’d put my hair up. ‘God, don’t let my boss hear you say that. She’s threatening to second me onto Financial Intelligence as it is.’

‘Don’t fancy it?’ he asks, trying and failing to open a bag of peanuts.

I take over, tear the corner with my teeth and hand them back. ‘Would you? Spending eight hours a day analysing SARs.’

‘SARs?’

‘Sorry, Suspicious Activity Reports.’

‘Sounds like heaven to me, but then I am a bit of a numbers freak.’

I pick up my bag, pretend to leave. ‘Look, if I’d known you were such a nerd, I’d have never called .?.?.’

‘I am,’ he says, laughing. ‘A proper nerd. I’ve even got a T-shirt that says “I Heart Sums”.’

‘You sure know how to impress a lady.’ I sit back down. ‘So what is it you do then? You don’t look like a banker, or an accountant.’

‘You don’t look like a detective.’

‘What’s a detective look like?’