‘We’ve worked through all the timings,’ Parnell adds gently. ‘He couldn’t have got to Newcastle early and then back in time to meet Holly at 4 p.m. because Brandon Keefe saw him in the shop at 8.15 a.m. and it’s a ten-hour round trip, and that’s if you’re putting your foot down.’ A sharp look from Steele. ‘Yeah, don’t worry, we’re not just taking Keefe’s word for it. There is an old statement from another witness who saw Masters dropping off tools at Valentine Street, just like Keefe said.’
I take over. ‘But there’s also no way he headed to Newcastle after his supposed encounter with Holly, because the fishing tackle shop shuts at 5.30 p.m.’
‘He wasn’t in London, Kate.’ Parnell sounds almost apologetic. ‘There’s no two ways about it, Bailey was either lying or mistaken.’
‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’ Steele pretends to headbutt her desk, then lays her head down, looking up at us. ‘Seriously, guys, there have to be easier jobs than this. Am I too old to join the circus? I could be one of those glamorous women strapped to a big target – the ones they throw knives at. It’d be a breeze compared with broaching this shitshow with Dyer.’
Dyer.
I look at Parnell, hoping he’s going to say it. The words feel stuck in my throat, thickened like glue that’s sat in the bottle for too long.
‘Dyer knew, Kate.’
‘Knew?’ She lifts her head slowly, dread rising in her voice. ‘Knew what?’
‘That Masters wasn’t in London. She requested his bank records back in 2012.’
‘They always flag two requests for the same information,’ I remind her. ‘And Dyer requested everything on 1st March – two days after Bailey came forward. They sent them to her the following day.’
‘But none of it’s on the system?’ A question. A statement. A death knell for Dyer’s career.
I shake my head. ‘We triple-checked the physical files too, just in case. Nothing.’
After another torrent of ‘fuck’s, Steele stands up and walks over to the blinds, peering out at the team. ‘Does anyone else know about this?’
‘Renée knows something’s up,’ I say. ‘But you know Ren – she doesn’t make it her business unless you make it her business. I don’t think anyone else noticed me having an aneurysm.’
‘OK, good, keep it that way – for now.’ She points a finger. ‘I mean it, this is confidential. In fact, it’s more than confidential. It’s bloody classified. Think JFK, think Watergate. Think bloody weapons of mass destruction.’
We nod our understanding, respectful of the shitty privilege bestowed on us.
‘So . . .’ Parnell takes a deep, loaded breath. ‘Why would Dyer withhold information that proves Masters wasn’t in London?’
‘And why would Serena Bailey insist he was?’
The answer to Parnell’s question borders on sacrilege. The answer to mine is plain baffling.
Steele sits down again, leaning forward onto the desk. ‘OK, so I’m Dyer. I’ve got Holly on CCTV in Clapham, I’ve got Bailey’s doorstep ID – a rock-solid ID.’ She holds a hand up to stop me. ‘Everything’s looking neat and rosy and tied up with a nice silky bow, even if Masters is playing mind games and won’t admit what he did with her, and then, boom, suddenly an email from HSBC is pissing on my chips. Everything I believe to be true is called into question because of a Double Whopper and some fish bait.’
‘So?’ says Parnell, a little tetchy. ‘That sort of thing has happened to me a hundred times. I didn’t ignore it just ’cos it messed up the narrative.’
‘But you’re not under the pressure I’m under,’ says Steele, still channelling Dyer. ‘Pressure from the powers-that-be to get the case wrapped up. Pressure to be at my sick husband’s bedside. Pressure to reassure my kids it’s all OK, Mummy’s home. And then on top of that, pressure to keep all this personal stuff from the top brass in case they take me off the case.’
I pick up the next verse. ‘And it makes it a lot tidier – I’ll get back to my ailing husband and my devastated kids a lot quicker – if Holly is one of Masters’. If those bank records don’t exist.’
Parnell stares at us, open-mouthed. ‘Can you pair hear yourselves? She should have stepped down if she couldn’t handle it – if she was that bloody stressed she was tempted to withhold information just to get a quick conclusion.’
Information. He used that word before. Of course, he’s dancing around using the word ‘evidence’ because that word packs a far more devastating punch. That word will finish a career, ruin a reputation, show you up for who – what – you really are.
‘Look, I’m not condoning it, Lu. No way! I’m just trying to step into her shoes for a bit before all hell rains down.’ She hesitates, tapping her foot against her chair leg. ‘And as for “she should have stepped down” – well, yeah, she should have done, obviously. But it wouldn’t do you any harm to put yourself in the shoes of a female colleague for one minute. And I know it’s not the Seventies. We’re not still getting felt up in the lift or being told to put the kettle on. But if you think a female officer can step down due to “personal reasons” and not have a massive blot on her copybook, you’re living in a lovely male dream world. Because I promise you, Lu, I might be senior in rank, but if it came to it, they’d make more allowances for you than for me.’
‘I know, boss. I know. It’s just all this . . . it’s a lot to get your head around.’
‘What I can’t get my head around is why Dyer was even requesting bank records in the first place?’ Confusion coats Steele’s face. ‘I mean, sitting on the phone to HSBC is a hundred miles below her pay-grade. I couldn’t tell you the last time I did something like that. I’m talking fifteen, twenty years ago. That type of task is spadework, it’s DC fodder – no offence, Cat.’
‘’S’OK, I know my place. Although, this lowly spadeworker was right about something. I knew there was something off about Serena Bailey, although, I admit, I didn’t think she was outright lying.’
‘So you’re not with your bosom buddy here.’ A thumb to Parnell. ‘Mistaken.’
I hesitate before answering, conscious I should follow Steele’s lead and plonk myself in Bailey’s size fives.
And I try. I really try. However, I keep arriving back at the same conclusion.
‘I can’t buy that, no. Maybe if she’d shown a flicker of doubt at any point, I might feel different, but she’s been unshakeable, boss. And both times I’ve met her, particularly the first time, I all but invited her to admit that she might have been wrong – no repercussions, we all make mistakes, la-di-la-di-la – and the lady was not for turning. And there’s something else . . .’
The pebble in my shoe.
Steele manages a weary smile. ‘There always is with you.’
‘OK, so it was Serena’s daughter’s birthday last week, and she’s just finishing Year One so that would make her six. We’re mid-July now, so assuming a normal pregnancy, Serena would have been four months pregnant in February 2012. And if you’re four months pregnant, you know it, right?’