Parnell sighs. ‘We still don’t have any proof to throw at him. We’ve got a load of circumstantial. We’ve got our victim actually naming him as someone she was scared of. And now, we’ve got this. But it all amounts to zero. Nothing tangible.’
Steele bites. ‘Hey, not so gloomy, Eeyore! We’ve got probable cause to turn Nicholas Balfour’s house upside down to find that phone, and if I can convince a judge that Balfour spends a lot of time at his daddy-in-law’s place, we might get a warrant for Fellows’ house too. And that could be a goldmine.’
‘And when do we turn Oliver Cairns’ life upside down?’
Silence curls around the room.
I can’t say I take too much pleasure in firing a direct shot at a dying man. But it’s obvious, surely? Oliver Cairns hand-in-glove with Simon Fellows.
Predictably, Parnell’s cautious. ‘Cat, it was an anonymous call. We can’t be sure . . .’
‘Why?’ I butt in. ‘What the caller said about Pope was bang on. So why would they be lying about a senior officer working with Fellows?’
‘Settling an old score, maybe? Either with Fellows or the Met. And as for Cairns, the caller didn’t name the officer, so be careful is all I’m saying.’
‘Oh, come on!’ It’s a direct plea to Steele. I take her silence as permission to keep going. ‘Cairns consistently steered Dyer away from all lines of inquiry that didn’t point to Masters, not to mention ordering her to get rid of Masters’ bank records. He can say he was trying to protect the case, but he wasn’t, he was derailing it. He played on Dyer’s loyalty and the fact he knew she was needed at home and therefore desperate to get Holly’s case solved too.’ An afterthought. ‘And the caller implied the officer’s no longer “on the scene” – well, that fits.’
‘But he has money. His ex-wife was a multi-multi millionaire. Accepting bribes from an organised crime boss? There’s greed, then there’s lunacy.’
‘He and his wife were already on the skids. Maybe he thought it was time to build his own nest egg.’ I bite my lip, knowing I might regret my next statement. ‘Or maybe it wasn’t about money. Maybe Fellows had something on him?’
There’s a greyish undertone to Steele’s skin; she knows there’s a logic to what I’m saying, at least. ‘So come on then.’ She leans forward, chin in hand. ‘You’ve obviously thought about this. Talk me through what you think could have happened.’
The urge to holler ‘I don’t fucking know’ almost overwhelms me. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. Who I am. What I want. Where to live. What my police oath is even good for.
Is there any fucking point to it all?
‘As I said before, Holly was involved with Simon Fellows.’ My calm voice sticks two fingers up to the clamour in my head. ‘Something happens and he kills her. Worried she’ll be linked to him somehow, he steals her laptop, dumps her phone, does everything he can, but he’s still vulnerable. He doesn’t want Holly’s complicated life looked into, which he knows it will be – and it would have been if she hadn’t been given the “poor Masters’ victim” tag straight off. So he calls his friendly police officer, Oliver Cairns. Says he has to help him. Holly’s friends, in the meantime, have told Dyer’s team – which is effectively Cairns’ team – that she was headed to Clapham that day and CCTV confirms it. And by that time they have Masters under arrest and he’s maintaining he was at Valentine Street all day on the 23rd – probably because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s just a sad old fuck who regularly drives three hundred miles north to pine over his ex-wife.’
Parnell’s warming up a little. ‘I can buy that, actually. People assuming he committed another murder – that’s fine, no skin off his nose, he’s going away for life anyway. But having people think he’s a sad loser, hung up on his ex – there’s shame in that.’
‘Exactly.’ I turn back to Steele. ‘So Cairns realises they’ve struck lucky. If they can quickly shoehorn Holly into the Masters case, he can pull the strings and there’ll be no need to start looking into every corner of Holly’s life. She’s just another Bryony, another Ling, another Stephanie – she answered the wrong advert, pure bad luck. But to make it work, they need a witness. And a bloody good one. A “model citizen”. Someone who’ll be believed even if Masters starts backtracking.’ I gather a breath before saying the name that’s become as familiar as my own. ‘Serena Bailey. She’s always been our stumbling block. No matter how flimsy certain aspects of her story seem, we still can’t ignore the fact that she gave a spot-on description of Holly, far more detailed than anything released in the media. And the only way she could have known these details is if she genuinely did see Holly, which I’ve never been less convinced about, or if they were fed to her by the real killer, or someone close to the real killer.’ I shrug. ‘Oliver Cairns.’
I expect resistance, rebuttal. To be laughed at, or even kicked straight out the door. Because even to my ears, it sounds fantastical. The over-elaborate product of a 3 a.m. restless mind.
But it fits.
With everything we know, with everything we think we know, it makes perfect, abhorrent sense.
‘A model witness is perfect,’ says Steele, tapping her cheek. ‘It’s strong enough to get conclusions drawn, but probably not strong enough to get to court – Olly would have known that.’ And with that one admission, Steele’s in. She’s open. She’s up for the discussion. ‘But why would Bailey agree to be involved?’
‘Money,’ Parnell says, in a way that suggests it’s obvious. ‘She was pregnant, broke, struggling on a low wage.’
‘It seems like such an extreme resort, though,’ I argue. ‘I mean, I’d be wanting a hell of a lot of money – and I’m talking life-changing money – if I was going to tell such a whopper of a lie in a murder investigation. And her bank records didn’t show anything sexy, and even if it was paid in cash, it doesn’t seem to have changed her life particularly. She still has the same career. Her flat is small – homely, I guess, but the estate’s pretty grim. I suppose we need to check if it’s rented or owned – if it’s owned, that could be interesting.’ Something occurs to me. ‘When I interviewed her on Saturday, she did say something that . . . ’ I pause, trying to quickly work out if I’m reading too much into it.
Steele’s patience is paper-thin. ‘Kinsella!’
‘She said she was in a “much better place” by the time she met Robbie. I took it to mean emotionally, but she could have meant financially, I guess . . . ’ I shake my head. ‘Oh, I dunno, boss. I’m just not feeling money. People who do things purely for money tend to crack easier – and that woman is uncrackable, I’m telling you. It doesn’t matter how you catch her out, she just comes back to the same point – she saw Holly and that’s the end of it. It’s like she’s personally invested in us believing that. But in here—’ I tap my chest, ‘—not in her wallet.’