‘It’s a lot of money, don’t beat yourself up,’ I say, meaning it.
‘It was. And it meant I could go travelling, get away from the girl I liked flaunting her new relationship, get away from all the questions. So I took the trip I’d been dreaming about – Tokyo, the Philippines, Bali, Singapore, Borneo, Vietnam. I wasn’t even gone six months. Didn’t stop some idiots claiming I’d “fled the country”, though.’
‘So what do you do with yourself now?’
He may snipe that his Art History degree rendered him unemployable, but his graduate photo looked full of promise. And he’s clearly intelligent with a supportive family to boot.
‘What do I do? People always ask that question. Why do they never ask who you are?’ I wait for a less esoteric response. ‘If you must know, I contemplate the meaning of life a lot. And I’m not being facetious when I say that – I’m heavily involved in the Alpha programme. Are you familiar?’
‘I am.’ A nod to Parnell. ‘He’s probably not.’
‘You’re not a religious man, Detective?’ Parnell shakes his head. ‘So you never pray?’
‘It’s been known before the odd penalty shoot-out.’
And when Maggie went into premature labour with the twins.
And when Steele found a lump in her breast a few years back.
Parnell’s no different from a lot of people; an atheist with a very small ‘a’. Happy to suspend disbelief when the stakes are sky-high.
‘Well, you’d be very welcome within Alpha,’ he says, addressing us both. ‘We’re an evangelical church who throw our doors open to everyone, all religious denominations. We run courses designed to foster discussion about the Christian faith – anything from “Who is the Holy Spirit?” to “What would Jesus make of Instagram?” There’s a common misconception that it’s all earnest debate, but we have lots of fun and great food too. I’m leading a meeting tonight.’ He looks at his watch. ‘In half an hour, actually. Maybe you . . .’
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ I ask, cutting off the invitation.
He stands up suddenly, giving us a twirl and a sarcastic smile. ‘Oh, but of course. I’m such a catch, don’t you think?’
‘How about a job?’ asks Parnell.
He stops, shrugs. ‘Here and there. I look after a friend’s stall at Camden Market sometimes. I’ve been known to do the odd bit of decorating. I occasionally courier.’ He peers at Parnell with concerned eyes. ‘You know, it’s not good for the soul to be so wrapped up in things like jobs. How I pay my rent is the least interesting thing about me. It’s the least interesting thing about anyone, you included. All you need to know is that I’m a good person.’ He reaches under the bed and scoops out Nimbus, who doesn’t appreciate the disturbance. ‘Nimbus here is the only rule I’ve ever broken in my life. We’re not supposed to have pets, see, but what harm is she doing? “For the fates of both men and beasts are the same: As one dies, so dies the other. Man has no advantage over the animals, since everything is futile.” Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verse nineteen, if you’re interested.’
*
‘Guilt?’ Parnell’s buckling his seatbelt, staring up at Brandon Keefe’s open window. ‘The God thing, I mean.’
‘Is that a conclusion or a question?’ I snap.
In my defence, the car’s roasting and my seatbelt’s all twisted. I’m not in great humour.
‘It’s an observation and a question.’ He reaches over and sorts the problem with one hand. ‘What do you think?’
‘I suppose it could be guilt. He’s looking to repent, be forgiven. It’s a tidy interpretation if we’re rolling with this accomplice theory.’ I shift around in the passenger seat. ‘But it could also be loneliness, family background, too much time on his hands, illness – ’cos he hardly looks healthy.’
‘You’re telling me. A strong fart could knock him over.’
‘It could be a need for security, control, a sense of belonging. Or it could be, have you considered this . . .’ I perform a drumroll on the armrest, ‘faith, plain and simple. Honestly, I don’t think we should read too much into it. The whole Masters thing was bound to change his world view somehow.’
Parnell offers a noncommittal grunt, then, ‘Religion doesn’t seem to have changed his life for the better, though, does it? Did you see all those photos on the wall? The “before” photos. He looked happy then, smiley, well-fed.’
‘So does everyone on Instagram – well, maybe not well-fed – but it doesn’t mean they’re not lacking something. Searching for something . . .’ I draw a circle with my hands, attempt a silly, mystical voice. ‘Something bigger.’
‘D’you think that would be Jesus’s take on Instagram?’ Parnell’s voice is thick with sarcasm. I frown. ‘Ah, come on, Kinsella, you know me. Whatever gets you through the night and all that. If you’re religious, be religious, and don’t mind grumpy old me, but why, oh why, do they try to make it trendy?’ He puts the key in the ignition, still puzzling over something. ‘So what’s your gut feel? You think he’s a dead end?’
‘I think, statistically, most women are killed by their partners, not young accomplices of middle-aged serial killers. So if it wasn’t Masters, Spencer Shaw seems like a more interesting prospect to me.’
‘So you do think Keefe’s a dead end?’
I give him the side-eye. ‘Sarge, if you push me, you know what I’ll say.’
‘Yes. No. Maybe.’ Parnell mimics my usual evasive stance. ‘OK, give me your “no’s.” Why shouldn’t we rule him out?’
Across the road, a door slams. Keefe rushes down the litter-strewn path of 78 Gifford Way and turns right towards The Cally. He hasn’t changed his clothes for church but he’s buttoned his shirt up, at least.
‘I don’t know. If Masters did have an accomplice, I suppose Keefe’s the obvious choice. I mean, something’s clearly gone wrong for a first-class graduate to be eking out a living doing odd jobs – that sort of downward spiral could be a sign of guilt, of wrestling with something major, I guess?’ I turn back to face the front. Brandon Keefe’s now a mere sliver on the horizon. ‘And I’d say he’s got more anger in him than he’s prepared to let on. He can quote Bible passages all he likes, but he’s still spitting about that girl’s rejection six years on.’
Parnell finally pulls off. ‘Hey, listen, I caught my first serious girlfriend on the back seat of a mate’s Ford Fiesta, and let’s just say she wasn’t vacuuming it. I’m still angry about that.’
I try not to laugh for all of two seconds. ‘You are joking? That must have been nearly forty years ago.’
‘Nearer thirty, actually; I was a late developer on the romance front. And anyway, I’m not saying I lie awake plotting revenge, just that the memory still stings a bit. I wouldn’t read too much into it is my point.’
‘Oh, I get it, so we should only read into the fact he’s found God, is that it?’ I shake my head, laughing again. ‘You’re a bloody heathen, Luigi Parnell. Are you going to be OK at Holly’s memorial tomorrow? Don’t go freaking out when you see a crucifix. No one wants a scene from The Omen.’