All of a sudden, I’m not sure what’s more flimsy. Dyer’s reasoning for believing there could be an accomplice or Cairns’ reasoning for discounting it.
‘Listen, Olly, I want your opinion.’ Steele looks at Cairns like he holds the keys to the universe. ‘And I need you to be honest with me.’
‘Nothing but, Katie. I always was.’
‘You said before, “It seemed half-cocked back then.” Does that mean you’ve changed your mind? I guess what I’m asking is, are we going on a wild goose chase?’
Barely a breath. ‘Maybe not. Maybe Tess had something, after all.’
She wanted an answer and she got one, and a more resolute one than I think either of us expected. Something’s vexing her though. She turns to face me, eyebrows raised, then back to Cairns. ‘ “Maybe not”. Seriously, Olly? The man who’d argue black was white admits he might have called it wrong, just like that.’
‘It’s not about being wrong. I stand by my decision. I still say Tess’s theory was too weak for us to have run with, based on the facts we had at the time.’ He bends forward, his face inches from Steele’s; his shock of white hair, her raven-black bob. ‘But you, Katie, you have different facts. You have Holly Kemp rotting in a ditch one hundred miles from the other victims and a bullet-hole in her skull, no signs of strangulation. I’d say there’s a fair to middling chance you could be looking at an accomplice.’
‘Or a different killer entirely? What’d you think to that?’ I try to keep it light, playful. My tongue firmly in my cheek.
‘What do I think? I think if I was your guv’nor, I’d be putting the leash on you right now. Check Serena Bailey’s statement, Cat – we got the right man.’
*
Steele tops up her make-up in the rear-view mirror, our post-match analysis more or less complete.
‘Christ, though, he’s aged,’ she says, head tilted back, mid-mascara.
‘He might be thinking the same about you.’
It’s a joke. She knows it’s a joke. While I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea of Steele as a gauche young woman, the idea of her getting old doesn’t seem at all possible.
‘I aged in that meeting, I tell you. Don’t ever turn up at my door questioning my management skills, Kinsella. There’s a piece of advice for you.’ She drops her make-up bag in my lap. ‘Here, you’ve got a date, haven’t you?’
I wasn’t going to bother, bar a slick of tinted lip-balm, but it’d be sacrilege to pass up a rummage through Steele’s treasure trove: sleek designer brands, everything with its lid on, nothing blunt, smashed or smeared, or well over five years old.
‘So what did Cairns have your back about?’ I ask, surveying something called a Parsley Seed Antioxidant Serum. I fully expect to be told to mind my own business.
‘Nothing major, don’t get too excited.’ She blots her lips, keeping them closed a fraction longer than necessary. ‘I made a mistake with a warrant. It could have been bad. It wasn’t. That should have been the end of it, but it was 1992 and I was a woman on a murder team, same age as you are now, and Cairns knew they – “the lads” would make a thing of it, make it the Biggest Mistake Ever, so he took the heat, said I was just following his orders. He’s got his flaws, Olly, but he’s a good’un.’
I bring my hands to my face. ‘Oh my gaaaaaawd! Kate Steele made a mistake! How can we ever trust her again?’
‘That was about the size of it,’ she says, grinning. ‘You know, I don’t envy your generation much – I wouldn’t want to be in my twenties the way the world is now, or my thirties for that matter – but it’s definitely easier to be a woman in the Met these days. Not easy, but easier. Sexism isn’t as passé as they like to claim, but it isn’t half as bad as it was, trust me. I mean, I know Flowers can be a bit of a relic, but he knows he’s a relic, at least. And he’d have your back if you needed it. The whole team would. We’ve got a really nice set-up.’
Now’s as good a time as any. I’ve made so many mistakes, told so many lies that would pulverise our ‘nice set-up’ if they ever came to light, that this almost seems like the least of them.
‘You know the guy I’m seeing?’ I pull down the sun visor, check myself out in the mirror; a nice couldn’t-care-less gesture.
‘Well, no, I don’t. I don’t actually know you’re seeing anyone because you never talk about it, bar references to picnics and dinner dates, but, as you were . . .’
‘Well, he’s . . .’ I challenge my own reflection. Say it. Say it. ‘He’s . . .’
She reaches over, pushes the visor up with a snap. ‘He’s what, Kinsella? A Mormon, a zookeeper, the King of Tonga . . . ?’
‘He’s the brother of one of our old victims.’ I pause. ‘Maryanne Doyle, remember her?’
‘Of course.’ Her eyes are wide, but not hostile. ‘The Irish girl. Leamington Square. Strangled.’
‘Yeah. Well, him. Aiden.’
And so, once more unto the breach, I tell our tall tale. The chance meeting a few months ago, the rain, the pub, the drinks, the easy chemistry. Steele listens, expressionless. She even attempts something tricksy with an eyeliner as I reach the crescendo, which I take as a good sign that she’s really not that bothered.
‘So what do you think?’ I say finally, waiting for the verdict.
She’s looking straight ahead, seemingly hypnotised by the sweeping cherry blossoms. In Japanese culture, they symbolise the fleeting nature of life. If she’s contemplating this, she might be inclined to go easy.
‘I think you’re batting above your average, Kinsella. Good work. I remember him from court. Tall bloke, broad. Bit of a heart-throb, right?’
‘Right.’ I allow myself a cautious smile, feeling wrongfooted but relieved. ‘So you’re OK with it? You don’t think it’s a mistake?’
She turns suddenly. ‘Oh, I think it’s almost certainly a mistake, Cat. I think you’d do well to have a life completely outside of the job, and dating the brother of one of your victims . . . well, there’s something highly Freudian in that, if you ask me. But if you mean have you done anything wrong, professionally? Then no, absolutely not.’
And with this steadfast vote of confidence, I become Steele’s Biggest Mistake Ever.
13
I’m only fifteen minutes late, which by London standards is more like five, and knowing Aiden will be expecting far worse, I take a moment outside L’ingordo to call Nurse Jacqui and check on Dad. I could call Dad, of course, but there’s a very real danger that he would actually answer, and it’s not connection I’m after. It’s voicemail. I want to do my duty, register my interest, cross it off the list, that’s all. And since the dawn of time, or the dawn of expensive self-improvement courses at least, Jacqui has always spent Thursday evenings bettering herself somewhere, her phone switched to silent for maximum concentration.
The latest: The Art of Decluttering and Minimalism.
Sometimes I wonder if we’re related at all.
As I zone out her message, I spot Aiden through the window, smiling and laughing and gesticulating with a breadstick.