Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(92)

Emily sticks her head round the door, a giddy look on her face. ‘Sir, I think I might have something. A woman at 12b says she saw Saskia let a guy into the flat on Christmas Eve morning and heard raised voices. She doesn’t usually pay much attention to men coming and going – she seems to know the score – but she remembers this one because he looked pretty young.’

Young. Not in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that could melt granite. I nearly combust with relief.

‘Saskia likes them young.’ I say. ‘According to Naomi, anyway. So maybe she’s got a boyfriend? Maybe she’s with a boyfriend?’

Emily hasn’t finished. ‘You know who the description sounds like, Cat? The eldest Hicks lad. The one who came into the kitchen when we were there. You know, the one with the faux-hawk.’

‘Spiky hair,’ I confirm to a frowning Parnell. ‘She means the violin-playing geezer-boy.’

Emily continues. ‘I found him on Instagram. His profile pic’s not great, he’s used this stupid psychedelic filter which obviously distorts things a bit, but she’s still about eighty per cent sure it was him.’

Parnell stands up abruptly leaving the knackered mattress rippling. ‘Right, come on,’ he says to me. ‘We need to get over there now.’ To Emily, ‘Get this collage bagged up, please. Let what’s-her-name know we’re seizing it on the grounds it could be evidence in relation to an offence.’

I snatch one last look at the photo, wishing with every fibre of my being that we could leave it here, displayed in this safe, unthreatening place, far from the world of evidence bags and incident boards. Because, make no mistake, once it’s up on our board and ‘Uncle’ Frank’s familiar face becomes permanent MIT4 wallpaper, my failure to identify him definitely puts me in losing-my-job-territory.

As if I wasn’t there already.

It possibly puts me in losing-my-freedom territory too – attempting to pervert the course of justice wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for a particularly pumped-up prosecutor and misconduct in a public office would be mere child’s play. A prosecutorial walk in the park.

I trail Parnell back down the hall. His step’s surprisingly sprightly given he’s got nearly thirty years on me and over thirty kilos, but then he’s full of purpose while I’m full of guilt and the guilt is weighing heavy on me. My legs feel like lead. As I pass by the living room, I remember I opened a window earlier. I call out to Parnell to wait a second while I close it.

And that’s when I see it.

‘Boss,’ I shout.

Parnell’s talking to a recently-arrived SOCO and doesn’t come straight away. I walk out into the hall and tug on his arm like an overwrought child wanting attention. ‘Boss.’ He shakes me off, tries to finish his conversation. ‘Parnell, now! Please! You need to come and look at this.’

The SOCO mutters something sour but I couldn’t care less. All I care about is another another pair of eyes confirming what I think I can see.

I literally push Parnell into the living room. ‘Wait there,’ I say, running back to the spare room where I take the collage out of Emily’s hands without explanation. Back in the living room, Parnell’s looking grumpy, jiggling his e-cig in his pocket, and so I bypass all the usual preambles of ‘I can’t be sure’ and ‘Now, I might be wrong’ and cut firmly to the chase.

‘Look.’ I point to the wall then back to the image of Maryanne and Saskia. ‘The paint’s a different colour but the flouncy plasterwork hasn’t changed. Check out that dado rail.’

Words I never thought I’d hear myself say.

Parnell swipes my glasses off my nose and onto his, holding the photo close to his face, looking back and forth, his smile growing wider with each gawp. ‘You know, I think you might be right, kiddo.’

‘Too right, I’m right. It’s unmistakable. It’s unmistakably hideous.’ It’s harsh, but roses and ribbons really aren’t my thing. ‘I’m telling you, Boss, that photo was taken in this flat.’





25

Amber, the teenage daughter, answers the door, sullen-faced and red-eyed. She jerks a thumb towards the family room then tiptoes quickly up the stairs, hunched and uninterested, eager to get back to the sanctuary of her bedroom.

There’s a definite frost in the air. A bleakness that can’t be masked by lavish decorations and cosy festive scents. It’s there in the quietness of the house, the unnatural stillness. The sheer distance between them as they occupy the same space – Gina Hicks sitting stiffly on the window seat, scrolling through her iPad, Nate by the opposite wall, idly browsing The Times. Instantly, I’m thrust back to the countless days when Mum and Dad would skulk around each other, brooding and wallowing in whatever argument had caught light the night before. Just the occasional slammed door slicing through the pained, loaded silence. Me, Jacqui and Noel quietly going about whatever business we’d have usually executed at ear-shattering volume.

The atmosphere is obvious.

Gina knows about Nate’s affair.

However, it’s amazing what a police caution can do to reconcile a couple. The words seem to bond them as they move in sync from the far corners of room to the sofa, side by side, hand in hand, looking for all the world like a staged royal photo.