‘Why do you want to be a different person?’ He looks genuinely perplexed. ‘For Christ’s sake, just don’t start acting like a different person, that’s all I’m going to say. You, Steele, Renée, and maybe Seth on a good day – but mainly you, kiddo – are the people who keep me sane in this job. If you’re going to go all shoulder-pads-and-attitude on me, I might as well bloody retire.’
And what if I moved to New York, I want to say, would you be sad? Would you visit? Would you send me funny emails every day, ranting about Arsenal’s defence and the stinky filling in Flowers’ sandwiches?
But I don’t say anything. A car’s slowing down, indicating, then hovering, the driver readying themselves to park in a ridiculously tight space. I can’t see their face, although I could lay bets right now that Dyer wouldn’t be seen dead in a 2013 Nissan Micra. But you never know, so we keep watching, only turning away once the driver reveals herself to be a small Asian lady with a limp.
Silence again. Parnell goes back to his phone and I go back to appreciating Mr Stud-Muffin. It’s not long, though, only maybe a minute or two, before a heavy weight descends again.
‘Dyer’s sons,’ I say. ‘I wonder what’ll happen to them if this plays out the way we think?’
Parnell feels it like a personal ache. ‘Eleven and thirteen, she said. God, I remember my eldest two at that age. It’s not easy. Lots of physical and emotional changes going on.’ He shakes his head out the window. ‘There’s never only one victim, is there?’
‘Only one we’re paid to worry about.’ Brutal, but that’s the way it is.
‘She’ll go to prison, Cat, which is absolutely where she belongs . . . but Jesus, they lost their dad too. I could lie down on the tarmac and cry for them, I really could.’
Losing both parents at a young age, just like Holly Kemp. She may have been a car crash of an adult, but I could cry for that child too.
‘When did he die?’ I ask. ‘Was it a while ago? ’Cos she’s still wearing her wedding ring. It’s kinda sad . . .’
Only a fraud can feel sympathy for another fraud.
‘Yeah, a good while back. Not that long after “The Roommate” case, I think.’ He picks up his phone again. ‘I’ll tell you exactly when, shall I?’
I roll my eyes. ‘You and your bloody phone! You’re worse than a teenager. You don’t have to check every single fact on the internet, you know? I was only making conversation.’
He’s in a Google trance already. ‘Now . . . where is it?, where is it? . . . I know the Met did a fundraising thing to buy a few defibrillators. It was quite a big deal, made London Tonight. Ah – here we go . . .’
One of the life-saving machines has pride of place just outside Elgin Library, near Gordonstoun, where Paul Dyer went to school. Paul died at the Royal Papworth Hospital on October 19th, 2012, just a week before his fortieth birthday.
I let out a low whistle. ‘Wow, that last bit is a kick in the guts! Goes to show, doesn’t matter how fancy your education is, how privileged you are, death doesn’t discriminate.’
‘Your health is your wealth,’ adds Parnell, always one for a natty phrase.
Suddenly, a loud wolf-whistle. I glower over at the council-workers, then turn my ire on Parnell, ‘Fucking idiots! Are they still allowed to do that?’ My hand’s on the door catch. ‘Actually, I don’t care if they are or they aren’t, I’m going to say something. I’m in the mood for a fight.’
Parnell’s arm flies over. ‘Wait! Don’t open that.’ His eyes are on the rear-view mirror. ‘Jesus, Cat, she’s here! Dyer’s here. That must be who they were whistling at. Look – she’s heading this way on the other side of the road.’
I twist around and there she is, all grim-faced and purposeful; designer bag slung over her forearm, her silver-spun hair iridescent under the blazing afternoon sun. Striding towards the school gates, she looks less a police officer, more like a hacked-off mother who’s been called out of a work meeting to come and pick up a sick child.
In another few seconds, she’ll be level with the car.
‘Turn to me, turn to me,’ Parnell’s saying. ‘Just make sure she doesn’t see your face. I don’t think she’ll recognise my car.’
A distant male shout carries up the street. ‘Oi, wait up!’
I risk a glance back. Simon Fellows is locking his car. Tall, dark and ominous. No cutesy kids and plates of cookies to soften the overall effect this time.
‘T– hold on,’ he calls again.
Dyer pivots at the sound of her nickname.
‘T’. He knows her well.
Which means I call checkmate, Tessa Dyer.
‘Holy shit.’ I stare across at Parnell, my breath choppy and short. ‘What are they planning to do? What are we planning to do? Do we let them get inside? We’re going to have to let them get inside if we want to get anything concrete.’
Parnell watches them in the rear-view mirror, knocking a knuckle against his clenched jaw. Dyer’s walking back towards Fellows. There’s a discussion. A heated one. Fellows gesticulating, Dyer shaking her head, jabbing a finger downwards, as if ordering him to ‘Stay here.’ A few more seconds and she strides off again. Fellows doesn’t follow, just thrusts his hands in his pockets and circles the pavement, head bent low. I turn my face again as Dyer draws level with us, then turn back to watch her strut past the main gates and up the path that leads to the side entrance.
She’s either been here before or she’s been told where to go.
Parnell picks up his phone, brings up Steele’s number. ‘You go, Cat, follow her. I’m going to have to stay here and watch Fellows. We can’t let a man like that – someone we know has access to firearms – take another step closer to a school. If it looks like he’s heading in, I’ll arrest him.’
‘On what grounds? We haven’t seen a weapon.’ A shiver crackles through my core. ‘And Christ, he’s as bad as they come, allegedly, but you don’t think he’d start shooting in an infant school?’
‘I think I don’t want to take the chance. He’s here for a reason and it won’t be a good one.’ He looks back. ‘Go on, now. He’s got his back to us. Go. Quickly.’
I dart across the road, silently thanking myself for putting my hair up this morning. Even if Fellows does spin around, he probably won’t recognise me at a distance without my wild Celtic thatch. I follow Dyer’s path, past the main gates and up the side entrance, figuring she’s had maybe a minute on me, then possibly two, when it takes forever for the school receptionist to buzz me in.
‘My colleague, which way did she go?’ I say, flashing my warrant card, peering all around. There are three corridors off reception and a set of stairs leading to the second floor.
‘Look, what’s going on?’ she demands, arms folded, significantly less chirpy than last time. ‘We can’t have this disruption. The mums are panicking. Phoebe Denton’s mum said you arrested Miss Bailey at the school gates yesterday.’
Then Phoebe Denton’s mum was getting ahead of herself.