Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(98)

I’ve no idea whether I mean this or not.

I dial his phone again. And again. When it goes to voicemail the third time, I walk over to the rockery, now neglected, and pick up the largest stone I can find. Standing by the back door, I take three breaths to consider the consequences of what I’m about to do. An alarm could go off? Would Dad actually hurt me?

I’m about to lose my nerve when the door clicks open.

His silhouette’s enough to shock me. The heavy droop of his shoulders and the hang of his head. He looks smaller, somehow. Diminished. To think I’ve spent most of my life kicking against all his swagger and the gangster-lite bravado. Now I can hardly look at this sunken version.

Just a scared middle-aged man, hiding out in the dark.

‘You can’t stay long,’ he says, retreating into the house. ‘It might not be safe.’

I step into the kitchen, instinctively reaching left for the light. He grabs my arm and pulls me with him. ‘What do you mean, “not safe?’’’ I try to shake him off. ‘What’s going on, Dad? What’s with the blackout?’

‘In the study,’ he says, shoving me forward.

I walk into the so-called ‘study.’ The small enclave at the centre of the house, accessible through the dining room on one side, the ‘good’ living room on the other.

No windows to the outside world. So no announcements to the outside world that anyone’s here either.

And no ventilation. The air’s sour and smoky.

‘It’s all right during the day,’ he says, sitting down behind an oak desk that was bought purely for show. ‘I just stay away from the main windows. But at night, it’s the only room where I feel safe turning the lights on.’

I stay standing, sizing him up, waiting for an explanation. When it doesn’t come I sit down, taking the chair opposite. Committing myself physically to however long this is going to take.

‘Just tell me, Dad. Tell me what you did, or what you’ve done, and I promise things will feel a whole lot better.’

It’s the oldest trick in the book, of course. ‘Interrogation for Dummies’. My soft voice, the bedtime-story tone, I’ve done it countless times – ‘Come on now .?.?. I know you’re a good guy .?.?. you’ll feel a whole lot better when get it off your chest .?.?.’

He doesn’t fall for it though so I revert to basics. The ‘Specific-Closed’ I think they called it at Hendon.

‘Do you know where Saskia is?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know if she’s in danger?’

Silence.

‘Did you hurt Maryanne?’ My mouth won’t form the word ‘kill’.

He gives me a look so heartsick that I swear I feel the heavy sadness that’s crushing him. For a second I can actually taste his shame.

‘No,’ he says, a mere whisper.

‘Then who did?’

His eyes fix on a photo, just to the right of my head. One of those expensive family portraits that make it look like you all like each other.

‘It was supposed to be a one-off,’ he says eventually, sighing deeply. ‘Just Maryanne. But it spiralled out of control. I didn’t want what happened .?.?. I’m not a bad person, Catrina .?.?. I know you think I am, but I’m not .?.?. nor was Maryanne, really .?.?.’

I say nothing. He’s trying to convince himself, not me.

‘I was in deep shit, you see. I owed money to this .?.?. well, this guy you don’t want to owe money to, let’s just put it that way. I was playing a lot of poker back then. Underground poker, backroom stuff. Winning big sometimes, losing big more often. Anyway, this guy wanted his money back. One of his men approached Jacqui, you know. Stopped her in the street, told her how pretty she was, gave it all that “you could be a model” bullshit.’ He laughs, sadly. ‘Christ, she was hyper that night, do you remember?’ I do. Hyper’s not the word I’d use. Try insufferable. ‘I knew it was him playing games though. I knew what the threat meant.’

‘Patrick Mackie?’

A quick nod. If he’s surprised I know the name, he doesn’t show it. ‘So I needed to get away for a while. Get us all away. Lie low. And your mum felt guilty that she hadn’t been home for years – I mean, we hadn’t been back since you were born – so I thought two birds, one stone, why not? Just for a few weeks while I worked out what to do.’

‘So you were always a fuck-up, Dad. That really isn’t big news. What’s it got to do with Maryanne?’

He picks up a bottle of something clear; gin, maybe vodka, I can’t see the label. ‘We need to get one thing straight, sweetheart. I never laid a hand on Maryanne, then or now. That isn’t what this is about.’

I stay stock still. ‘OK, I’m listening.’

Something unlocks and the words spew out. Maybe if I’d offered to hear him out years ago, instead of all the teenage histrionics and grown-up passive-aggression, we might have got to this point sooner.

‘It started with that bloody barmaid in Grogan’s.’ He shakes his head bitterly. ‘We had a drunken kiss one night – and that’s all it was, Catrina, a stupid drunken kiss, I could hardly remember it the next day. But Maryanne saw us. She was a sharp one, I’ll give her that – had a bit of scandal on everyone and wasn’t afraid to use it if it benefited her. Anyway, she threatened to tell your mum what she’d seen and well .?.?. me and your mum were on a sticky wicket already, and on top of all the shit with Mackie, I just didn’t need it.’