Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(85)

He struggles to answer. ‘Oh, I don’t know? Long brown mac, dishevelled hair, a big fat cigar.’

A deadpan stare. ‘Columbo, basically.’

‘That’s yer man. You don’t look anything like him.’

‘They’re not wrong about that slick Celtic charm, are they?’ He smiles. We smile. ‘Seriously though, what is it you do?’

‘I work for an online betting company. I’m a risk analyst, well’ – he doffs an imaginary cap – ‘a senior risk analyst, if you please.’

I look impressed even though I have no idea what this means. ‘My dad always used to back a horse for me on the Grand National, that’s about my experience of betting, I’m afraid.’

‘Any luck?’

‘I won thirty pounds once. I was only six, it seemed like a windfall.’

‘I hope you invested it wisely, you being so financially intelligent ’n all.’

‘Very. I bought my dad a West Ham keyring, myself a Barbie Porsche and I gave ten pounds to the PDSA.’ He doesn’t recognise the acronym. ‘Poorly animals, I add’

‘Sweet kid. I send my nephews in Canada fifty dollars every Christmas. All they buy are computer games where you slaughter people.’

‘Well, I don’t know about “sweet”.’ I put my hand out for peanuts and he holds it steady as he pours. It’s nice. ‘As my brother never stopped pointing out, I won the money on a sport that’s cruel to animals and then made myself look good by giving some of it back to animals. Bit Machiavellian, don’t you think?’

He sups his pint. ‘I think that’s a shitty thing to say to a six-year-old, to be honest, but hey, I’m trying to impress you – you know, after getting off to a great start with the whole “I Heart Sums” thing – so I won’t start slagging your brother off as well.’

‘Oh please do, slagging him off will impress me big-time.’

His eyes narrow. ‘Mmmm, I’m not sure, I’m feel like I’m being walked into something I’ll regret later. Can I not just send massive bouquet of flowers to your work with a balloon and a “I Wuv You” teddy?’ Eyes twinkling now. ‘That always impresses, right?’

I twinkle back. ‘Oh every time – flowers, cuddly toys and equal pay, that’s all us women want in life.’

He laughs. ‘For that dig, I might just do it, you know. Send you the biggest, tackiest bunch I can find.’ He starts Googling florists on his phone. ‘Are you based at Holborn all the time?’

‘No I’m not and don’t you fucking dare.’ I snatch his phone. ‘My boss would have a fit if I got flowers from you. She’d have a fit if she knew I was here.’

‘Why?’ He looks momentarily confused before remembering that we aren’t just two ordinary people enjoying an ordinary pint. ‘Christ, I’m not still a suspect, am I?’ Panic with a tiny hint of boyish excitement. ‘Seriously, was I ever really a suspect? Or do you have to go through all that, “On the night in question” stuff with everyone.’

I’m not prepared to answer that. I may be two pints down, and more than a little smitten, but I haven’t completely lost the run of myself.

I do have a question for him though. A serious one.

‘Can I say something?’ He looks ominous, which is the only way you can look when someone utters that statement. ‘You don’t seem that cut up about Maryanne.’

He turns his head and looks out of the window. His Ready-Brek glow extinguished. I instantly wish I could claw my words out of the ether and ram them straight back down my stupid fucking throat where they should have fucking stayed.

I try to make amends. ‘That’s not a judgement, Aiden, honest, it’s just an observation.’

God, that’s worse. Condescending.

He stays gazing towards Nelson’s Column. ‘I don’t know how I feel is the honest truth, Cat. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. You know, I met her husband in the end.’ He smiles apologetically, warding off a lecture. ‘He’s a strange guy, isn’t he? An awful dry shite, as we say back home.’ Agreed. ‘Anyways, I was pleased, you know, when he said he’d meet me. I thought maybe it’d make me feel closer to her.’

‘I can understand that. I’m sensing it didn’t, though?’

He swills the foam around at the bottom of his pint. ‘It was just plain weird, hearing him talk about “Alice”. And the way he described her too – quiet, passive. I nearly said, “Who? Motormouth Maryanne?” a few times.’ He takes a sad little breath. ‘I dunno, I just came away feeling further away from her – Maryanne, that is. I mean, this Alice woman, I don’t know her at all, and I can’t grieve for someone I didn’t even know.’ He rubs at his face. ‘God, I’m talking some existential shite this evening, aren’t I?’

He’s talking sweet, perfect sense to me. I hope my face shows it.

‘He’s going back to Sydney,’ he adds.

My investigative ears prick up. ‘He is? When? Soon?’

‘Soon-ish. Well, that’s what he reckons, anyway. Said he wishes they’d never left, they were happy there apparently. I said he shouldn’t rush into anything. I said it’s easy to make the wrong decision when you’re raw, but he just looked at me as if to say, “Who are you to tell me what I should do?” And he’s right. Who am I? I don’t know him. I didn’t know “Alice”. We’re all just strangers to each other.’