‘Ah, but they keep me young. I mean, I haven’t had a decent lie-in for years and my wrinkles have got wrinkles, but at least I can recite the entire script of Lego Batman.’
She laughs. ‘Enjoy it. Mine are eleven and thirteen and it’s all Fortnite and FIFA. And, of course, I’m a “total loser” at both.’ Her eyes lower to the table. ‘Funny, the things that make them miss their dad. It’s not just Christmases, birthdays, it’s bloody computer games – which is ridiculous, because he was useless at anything like that.’
Her kindness yesterday, her genuine concern. The bossiness, the fussing, making sure I got to the hospital in the shortest possible time. It all makes sense now.
‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I thought . . .’ I look down at her left hand.
‘I should take the ring off, really. A lot of people, widows – God, I hate that word – they wear them around their necks, which I suppose is nice, but I don’t want to.’ She twists it round her finger, now easily a size too big. Grief can do that to a person; strip the meat from their bones. ‘And anyway, the ring’s handy for dealing with tradesmen. They’re less likely to fleece you if they think a big bad husband might appear at some point.’ Before I can offer another inadequate ‘sorry’, she’s on her feet, beaming at something behind us. ‘Well, look who the cat dragged in.’
‘Do not talk to me about cats, Tessa Dyer. They have me lawn ruined, pissing and shitting all over the place.’
Smooth, melodic tones, honed somewhere in the south of Ireland. As entrances go, ex-Chief Superintendent Oliver Cairns’ is a bold one.
He’s a striking man in a well-cut suit, although a thousand miles east of conventionally handsome. Tall and reed thin, with a thatch of white hair sweeping back from a high forehead and a clutter of large features fighting for room on his lined face. I’m guessing if he was still on the job in 2012, he must be late sixties at most, although he could pass for late-seventies with his papery skin and crooked gait.
Still, he smells wonderful, all musky and rich, and what he lacks in good looks, he makes up for in verve.
I stand up, sticking my hand out. ‘Another cat, I’m afraid, sir. DC Cat Kinsella. I’ve never pissed in your garden though.’
Why, oh why, oh why did I say that?
He roars laughing, giving me a bone-crusher of a handshake, then grabs Dyer in an embrace with the force of a prop forward.
Dyer’s voice is muffled in his shoulder. ‘Cat works with Kate.’
‘With Kate.’ Steele’s name has him wagging his tail even harder. ‘Jesus, even I didn’t work with Kate and I was her guv’nor for five years. Dances to her own tune, that one.’ He looks around. ‘Where is the madwoman, anyway?’
‘Budgets.’ Parnell offers a hand. ‘DS Lu Parnell, another of Kate’s minions.’
Cairns shakes it warmly. ‘Nice to meet you, Lu. And did I hear you right? Budgets? Kate Steele passing up a session for a spreadsheet? Well, she’s changed.’ He empties his pockets onto the table: keys, phone, lighter, Rizlas, a pouch of Amber Leaf tobacco and a ball of screwed-up bank notes.
‘You haven’t.’ Dyer picks up the tobacco. ‘I thought you’d quit.’
‘I did. Four long months and Christ, didn’t everyone know about it? Honestly, I’m brutal without nicotine. I bit the head off my cleaner over a broken casserole dish I didn’t even know I owned! Trust me, the world’s better off if I’m smoking.’
Parnell, predictable as the moon, says, ‘Have you tried the vape?’
‘Ah now, Lu, there’s nothing more tedious than a “how-I-quit-fags” story. Save your breath, I’ve heard them all. Sure, I’ve told half of them meself. And yet here I am, still smoking like the Poolbeg Chimneys.’ He snatches a crumpled twenty off the table. ‘Now, what I can get you?’
Parnell calls time, shuffling out of the banquette. ‘Nothing for us, sadly. We’re still on the clock. Things to do, people to see.’
‘Well, if you see your boss, tell her to get her arse down here. All work and no play makes Katie a dull girl.’
Katie.
Brilliant.
Parnell’s squinting at his phone, holding it a few feet away from his nose, having brought the wrong glasses. ‘Speak of the devil. Looks like I’m off to church tomorrow. There’s some sort of memorial service being held for Holly. Steele wants someone there.’
‘Bloody hell, that was quick,’ I say. ‘We only formally announced ID this morning.’
He scans the rest of the message. ‘Her friends have put it together. An impromptu gathering at All Saints in Dollis Hill. All welcome. 12 p.m.’
‘And am I coming?’
Before he can answer, my phone dings: a text message from Steele.
And yes, Cinderella, you may go to the ball
8
We didn’t get many women in the shop, but when we did, something came over him. His eyes darkened. His posture went as rigid as a steel bar. His voice took on a rough, husky tone, like he’d entered some sort of altered state.
Bit of a windbag, Brandon Keefe. The type who’d craft a Hollywood script out of making a ham sandwich.
‘You hear people saying, ‘It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for,’ but I never understood what that meant until now. Because that was what Chris was. Just a quiet, unassuming guy. Some days he was so quiet, I’d think I’d done something wrong. Maybe the till was £5 down or I’d let the stockroom get too messy. But then at the end of my shift, after he’d said no more than ten words to me all day, he’d always do the same thing – pat me on the back and say, “Night, Brandon. You’re a good lad, you are.” He certainly never said anything that made me think he’d do this.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I look up from the Mail article. ‘Such as? “Hey, Chris, see the match last night?” “Nah, mate, too busy slicing the flesh from a young barmaid’s thigh.” I wonder how much he got paid for this tripe?’
Parnell’s driving and only half-listening, concentrating instead on the swarm of headphone-wearing, smartphone-ogling pedestrians playing dodge-the-traffic as we muscle our way through the havoc of King’s Cross.
‘Seriously, how much do you reckon he got?’ Being broke always makes me consumed with other people’s windfalls. ‘The price of a holiday? A new car?’
‘Maybe both, and change to spare. Gossip on Masters would have been high currency.’
I attempt a vague calculation, settle on ‘a lot’. ‘What are the chances we work with a serial killer? State of my overdraft, I could do with selling a story.’ I lean my head against the window, taking in the ever-changing face of the main hub of King’s Cross; from Shitsville to Live-Work-Playville in less than a decade. ‘I think my money’d be on Cooke. He’s a quiet one. I mean, he mentions “his Karen” from time to time, but has anyone actually met her? And do we even know that he’s got kids?’
‘Sorry to rain on your parade, but I’ve met Karen and so have you. Steele’s fiftieth, don’t you remember? She did “Ice Ice Baby” on the karaoke.’ A vague, Sambuca-soaked memory resurrects itself. ‘And it’s a myth, you know – “the quiet ones” theory. Sure, some people fit the bill. Dennis Nilsen wasn’t exactly Mr Congeniality. Ed Gein, neither. But for every Dennis and Ed, you’ve got a Ted Bundy or a John Wayne Gacy. Gacy was a children’s entertainer. You’ve got be outgoing if you can face being stuck in a musty church hall with thirty pre-schoolers wired on cake pops and orange squash.’