We get our plan together over bone-dry turkey and over-cooked veg in the staff canteen – or in ‘Santa’s Grotto’ as a sign, messily scrawled on the back of a road traffic collision report, informs us. Flowers is on charity bucket duty, lumbering between tables and bullying everyone into digging deeper, which I suppose is the point.
‘A tenner, you mean bastard! You’ve paid more for a blow-job . . .’
‘Tighter than a nun’s chuff, you lot.’
Above the clamour of insults and X-rated grumbling, Jim Reeves tries to raise the tone, crooning on someone’s iPod about the magic of Silver Bells, and I find myself getting a sharp pang of sentimentality for something I never knew. Christmas was never the most enchanted of times in our house. It was the only time Mum ever drank and although it was never really much – just a couple of G&Ts here and the odd glass of bubbly there – it was always enough to add that extra few degrees of heat to a marriage that somehow managed to simmer along just below boiling point for three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.
‘So we start fairly soft.’ Parnell pushes his plate away, finally admitting defeat in the war of Man vs Heinous Food. ‘Me and Seth will kick off. We’ll say we’re just following up, now that he’s had some time to digest the news about Alice/Maryanne. Has anything occurred to him that might help? How’s he coping . . . appreciate it was a huge shock . . . that sort of thing . . .’
The rest, as outlined by Parnell, is relatively simple. We’ll try different approaches to fox him and switch line-ups when it looks like he’s getting comfortable. Parnell’s going to do the authority thing, the wizened old hand trying to dot all the is and cross all the ts, and Seth will do the posh thing – I may have had my vowels rounded out at Lady Helen’s School for Girls, but what I know about birthday suppers at Claridge’s and boats you could write on the back of a postage stamp.
Which leaves me in the observation room, watching it all unfold on TV – primed to do the female thing, whatever the hell that means.
‘So I either glide in and wet-nurse him, if that’s what the interview needs, or I burst in like a madwoman and tear his nuts off with my teeth?’ I say, biting into a stuffing ball.
‘Exactly,’ says Parnell, only slightly alarmed. ‘Depends which way it goes . . .’
*
What we didn’t plan for was it going a different way entirely. Parnell and Seth barely have time to do the ‘sorry the coffee’s awful’ skit and my arse has barely hit the observation room chair before Thomas Lapaine blindsides us all with an unexpected chattiness. And not the verbal diarrhoea that suggests nervousness or guilt. He’s entirely relaxed and composed. Like he’s settled down into the confessional box for a therapeutic offload. There isn’t a speck of red left in those rich brown eyes to suggest he’s lost even an hour’s kip, never mind his wife in the most brutal of circumstances. His hair looks different too, coiffured, parted slightly to the left. He’s prepared for this visit like it’s a business lunch.
This is a different Thomas Lapaine.
Emboldened.
Betrayed.
But not lawyered-up, mercifully. And with no intention of doing so either, despite Parnell’s reading of his rights.
‘For the benefit of the tape, it is Thursday 18th December, 2016 and the time is six twenty-nine p.m. I am Acting Detective Inspector Luigi Parnell and with me is Detective Constable Seth Wakeman and—’
Lapaine leans in. ‘Thomas Lapaine. Look, I think I know why you’ve called me back here. You want to know why I cleared out the joint account. I don’t know a lot about the workings of police investigations, detectives, but I assumed you’d find out.’
Parnell does his ‘disappointed parent’ voice. He does it to me sometimes when my language gets a bit sordid or I eat M&Ms for breakfast. ‘So why didn’t you just tell us, Tom? You must realise that us finding out the hard way doesn’t exactly show you in a great light?’
A tiny lift of one shoulder. ‘You never asked.’
The fact he genuinely seems to think that’s an acceptable comeback makes me conclude that Thomas Lapaine possibly isn’t the sharpest tool in the box
Parnell leaves it though, there’s no point arguing with true idiocy. ‘So come on then, why did you clear out it out?’
Lapaine’s eyes wander but there’s nothing to look at. Just walls the colour of smog and a carpet that makes the walls look upbeat.
‘If I say it was to force her back, I suppose that doesn’t show me in a great light either?’
‘A piece of advice, Tom, I’d forget your image and concentrate on the facts from now on, OK?’
He nods, stares at the hand where his wedding ring used to live. ‘I assumed if she had no access to money then she’d have to come back, and I desperately wanted her home for Christmas.’ If there’s a tiny swell of sympathy for the melancholy contained within this statement, it’s soon extinguished. ‘Mother was asking questions already, you see, and she’d have asked a whole lot more if it was just me turning up for Buck’s Fizz and Classic FM on Christmas morning.’ He lets out a cruel snort. ‘Ten a.m. on the dot, don’t be late now.’
There’s an acidity to his voice. A mockery of all that he and Alice were. Their traditions, their in-jokes, their shared frustration at not being able to stay in bed eating Quality Street because they had to gather around the radio at ‘Mother’s’ every sodding Christmas morning. All of that seems risible now, tainted even, by the words Maryanne Doyle and the revelation that his wife was not who he thought.
We can use this anger though. The martyrdom stuff gets you nowhere. As long as this stays on the right side of demonisation, this could be good.
‘And what about when she didn’t come back?’ says Parnell, crossing his arms. ‘Weren’t you concerned about how she’d survive? Weren’t you worried when she didn’t call to ask what the hell you were playing it? Didn’t you call her?’
‘I did, actually.’ Which his phone records bear out. ‘But no, I wasn’t overly worried when she didn’t ask “what the hell I was playing at” because I thought I knew my wife, Detective, and I thought that wasn’t her style. However, it turns out I didn’t know my wife, Maryanne Doyle, quite as well as I thought I did.’ He spits her name out like a germ.
Parnell changes tack. ‘How much was in your joint account, out of interest?’
‘Not a huge amount. £10,000 or so, maybe a bit more. Most of our money is tied up in the business. I was hoping the money in the joint account would see us to the end of the tax year.’
Parnell does a mental calculation. ‘So you had more than one reason to track her down then? She was going through nearly £500 a week.’
A tiny shrug.
‘How is business?’ asks Seth without the slightest hint of edge. They could be a couple of hedge-funders nursing a single malt at Annabel’s.
‘How is any small business doing, Detective? It’s been a turbulent few years. The uncertainty over Brexit certainly isn’t helping, but we stay afloat, if you pardon the dreadful pun.’
Seth smiles, shyly. ‘Do you know, it’s always been a dream of mine to own a boat. My Grandparents had a Fairline Mirage 29. They bought in the mid-Eighties, brand new. It was blue and white. Absolutely stunning.’
‘A mid-Eighties Mirage?’ Lapaine looks impressed. ‘That would have been one of the last Mirage MK11s. The blue and white colour scheme is quite rare too.’
Parnell pretends to look annoyed. ‘Er, ahoy there, shipmates! If could we knock the nautical stuff on the head and get back to business.’ Seth looks chastised. They’ve played it well. ‘So Tom, bearing in mind we can request to see your business accounts like that’ – a quick snap of his fingers – ‘would it be fair to say your business is failing?’
‘I wouldn’t say “failing”, no. “Troubled” would be more accurate.’ He crosses his arms, mirroring Parnell. ‘Can I ask what exactly this has got to with anything, because if you’ve found a way that I financially benefit from my wife’s death, then honestly, I’d be grateful if you’d share it.’
Parnell leans forward. ‘Well, it’s just that viewed from the outside, I see a marriage that was troubled, despite the picture you tried to paint last time. A business that was troubled – your own admission, remember. And frankly, an ability to conceive a child that was – I don’t think we can really use the word “troubled” here – it was failing.’ He thinks for a second then corrects himself. ‘Well, it wasn’t failing. It had failed, past tense.’
I wince at the cruelty of the statement and decide it’s probably time to switch places. Big Bad Parnell’s unlikely to get anything more from him now. He’s got him rattled. Emasculated. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing but I might have to build him back up before we hit him with the phantom baby or he might shut down entirely.
Or worse still, lawyer-up.
I swipe a slick of clear lip-gloss across my mouth and push my hair behind my ears, showing off my simple stud earrings. Feminine, uncomplicated and unthreatening.
I knock.
‘Excuse me, Inspector, can I have a word?’
Parnell pretends to look peeved again and walks out. We leave the door slightly open and stand in the corridor, earnestly discussing Parnell’s acid reflux in serious, hushed tones until Thomas Lapaine practically dislocates his neck craning to see what’s going on.
After a few minutes I go in, give him news of the fresh line-up.
‘Everything OK?’ I say, blithely. Seth and Lapaine break off from some chummy chat, presumably about boats. ‘Unfortunately, Acting Detective Inspector Parnell has been called away unexpectedly. Really sorry about that, Tom, but it happens.’ I sit down, dump a pile of papers on the table and pull my chair up close. ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with me instead. So . . .’ I turn to Seth then back to Lapaine, smiling. ‘Where’d we get to?’
Seth’s all casual. ‘Oh we’d just cleared up that business about the joint account.’
‘Ah right, OK.’ I say, nodding. ‘You know, my dad did it to me once. I had a bit of a blow-out, island-hopping across Greece one summer and he only went and cancelled my allowance, stopped my credit card. It worked though. I was back the next day.’
‘Unlike Alice,’ Lapaine says, coldly. Reporting a fact, not lamenting a loss.
‘Unlike Alice.’ I leave it there for a few seconds then turn to Seth again. ‘Did you ask about the phone numbers?’
Lapaine sits up, confused. ‘What phone numbers?’
‘We hadn’t got to the phone numbers,’ Seth confirms.
‘What phone numbers?’ he repeats, growing antsy.
I make a bit of a performance of sifting through my papers. Lapaine tries to flash-read but frankly half of them aren’t relevant, just whatever I could grab in the squad room, most of it bound for the shredder.
Thing is, paper makes people nervous. Far more than technology, surprisingly.
I find what I’m looking for, slide the piece of paper towards him. ‘Do you recognise either of these numbers?’
His eyebrows knit together. ‘No, but then I don’t recognise many numbers off-hand. Just Alice’s and maybe my parents. Whose are they?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. Alice made several calls to both over the past few weeks.’
‘Well, I can’t help.’
I flick my hand. ‘No worries. We knew it was a bit of a long shot.’ I draw in a little closer, watch his jaw set as the chair legs make a scraping sound across the floor. ‘Tom, you said that Alice had initially been very keen to start a family. You sort of implied it was the main reason she agreed to come back to the UK.’
Impatient. ‘Yes.’
I take a deep breath, a warning to him that he’s not going to like what I say next. ‘You see, the post-mortem report has confirmed something that may, or may not, come as a shock to you.’
That gets a laugh. ‘My wife turned out to be a completely different person to who I thought she was, Detective. I’m not sure anything can come as a shock anymore so please, say what you have to say.’
I take him at his word and don’t bother with a preamble. ‘Your wife had at some point given birth to a child, Tom. Not just got pregnant – that’s not what I’m saying – she’d actually delivered a child.’
It’s subtle, so subtle that I’ll probably doubt later that it was ever really there, but there’s a momentary rigidity to him – from the set of his eyes to the ram-rod straightness of his spine, that tells me he’s thunderstruck.
‘What exactly are you telling me?’ he says, eyes boring into mine. ‘That my wife carried and delivered a child and somehow managed to conceal it from me? Clearly Alice’s ability to deceive was far beyond what I imagined but still, I think I’d have noticed that.’
I answer coolly. ‘Then it must have been before you met. So can you tell us, did she ever speak to you about it? Or did you ever suspect that she’d had a child?’
‘Did I ever suspect she’d had a child?’ He repeats it back, seeming to consider the question, and for one bright moment I think he might be gearing up for a revelation. A little nugget to bring this case into some sort of focus.
‘Yes, she had a child when she was a teenager, by an older man who was visiting on holiday.’
The thought ambushes me before I can block it out. My head buzzes as it starts to take root. Suddenly, Thomas Lapaine’s voice seems echoey and distant.
‘Alice always said that she was born to be a mother, Detective. She said it was all she ever wanted, until one day in late October she decided that apparently, it wasn’t. And do you know all I suspected then? That she was looking into the adoption route, or maybe surrogacy. I thought perhaps she wanted to do all the research first and get all the facts before suggesting it to me.’ He leans in close, as if it’s vitally important we understand what he’s about to say. ‘Because that’s how the Alice I knew would have behaved. How this Maryanne Doyle would have behaved, and whether she’d given birth to a litter of children, I honestly couldn’t tell you, and if I’m being perfectly straight with you, Detectives, the way I feel right now, I really couldn’t care less.’
Seth nods. ‘You’re understandably very angry, Mr Lapaine. Who wouldn’t be?’
‘Angry,’ Lapaine muses. ‘It doesn’t seem strong enough a word but yes, I am angry. I’ve felt more anger towards Alice in the past thirty-six hours than I ever felt in our entire relationship. And I’ve got nowhere to direct that anger. I can’t speak to her. I can’t ask her any of the questions that have been running around my mind ever since your colleague walked into my sitting room and told me my wife was a completely different person to who she claimed to be.’
I figure he might as well direct his anger at me. Anything to distract from the anxious knots clustering in my brain, in my stomach, in my whole being.
I go for broke. ‘Did you ever suspect Alice had boyfriends?’
‘Boyfriends!’
I’m not sure if he’s shocked by the accusation or the word.
‘Lovers,’ I say, holding his gaze. ‘A bit on the side?’
‘You must have considered it,’ adds Seth, all man-to-man. ‘If my girlfriend took off for a prolonged period of “me-time”, it’d certainly spring to my mind. I’d say it’s a fairly obvious conclusion for anyone to draw.’
He’s unruffled. ‘Fairly obvious unless you knew Alice. She wasn’t exactly the most sexual of people, and before you ask, it wasn’t an issue. That side of things was healthy enough. But the idea of her seeking out more sex, is just, well, highly unlikely.’ A bitter laugh. ‘Although who knows, Maryanne Doyle might have been a complete goer.’
‘Not all affairs are about sex,’ I say.
This stirs something. ‘That’s very true, Detective. They’re often about looking for warmth when you’re not getting much warmth at home.’
There’s clearly something substantive in his statement but I wait to see if he’ll hand it to me.
The silence serves its purpose and he starts rattling within seconds.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, what’s the point, you might as well know,’ he says, clamping his hands on the edge of the table, steeling himself. ‘You’ll only find out anyway, I suppose. I’ve been seeing someone, OK?’
‘You were unfaithful?’ Seth makes this sound as if it goes against the very tenets of some ancient Wakeman code.
‘I suppose I was. Although not physically, until recently. And I felt wretched about that. Although, my deception rather pales into insignificance compared with hers, wouldn’t you agree?’
I wouldn’t. Maybe I would? I don’t know. My head’s banging.
I pull a file from the bottom of the stack, open it and quickly refresh. ‘So when you told us, and I quote, “I’m not in the habit of spending evenings with anyone but my wife,” you were lying.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He actually sounds genuine, the barbed tone is missing.
‘How long?’
‘We’ve been spending time together for a few months.’
‘And how long have you been getting naked together?’
He looks at me like I’ve let myself down. ‘About a month or so.’
Seth raises an eyebrow. ‘So since Alice left?’
I nudge Seth, a bit jokey. ‘No wonder he wasn’t in any initial hurry for her to come home. You must have been having a whale of a time, Tom. When the cat’s away and all that. What plays in Thames Ditton, stays in Thames Ditton, eh?’
The words spill out of my mouth but I don’t exactly know what I’m doing. Am I being a shrewd detective, goading the suspect into admitting he wanted his wife out of the picture for good, or is it actually me talking?
Me misdirecting my anger at another weak man.
I do know that I need to catch hold of myself. I need to make the most of this new information and stop trying to twist it into something personal.
‘She’s never been to our house,’ says Lapaine. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with another woman in my marital bed.’
My hackles rise again. His bullshit flawed morality sounds achingly familiar.
‘We spend time at hers, mainly. I was with her, at her place, the night that . . . the night Alice . . .’
My jaw actually drops. Seth stiffens beside me.
This is big.
‘Let me get this straight. You’re telling us you were with your mistress the night Alice died?’ I throw the file down on the table, a sheet scatters to the floor. ‘I’ve got to be honest with you, Tom, I’m a bit confused as to why we’re only hearing this now. That’s called an alibi. That could have saved you all this bother.’
Not exactly, but he doesn’t know that.
He pulls his chin up, noble, defiant. ‘I was protecting her. She has a high-profile role in the community. Two young children. And she’s going through a nasty enough divorce already, I didn’t want her getting dragged in to this.’
‘Well, she’s going to get dragged in now, I’m afraid.’ I shove a pen and paper towards him. ‘I want her name, address, contact numbers—’ He opens his mouth but I shut him down. ‘And don’t you dare ask us to be discreet because the time for asking favours from us is long gone, Mr Lapaine. You should have told us this right from the start.’
He scribbles, head down low. The top-dollar haircut masks a thinning crown. ‘It wouldn’t exactly have looked great, would it?’
Seth seizes on this. ‘Oh, so you weren’t protecting’ – a glance at the page – ‘Abigail Shawcroft. You were lying to protect yourself.’
When Lapaine looks up again, his eyes shine with something. I think it’s relief. Relief at having confessed all there is to confess.
‘Everyone lies, Detective Wakeman,’ he says, wearily. ‘If anything, I’m more guilty of lying to myself than to you.’ I literally couldn’t look more unimpressed. ‘Oh, you know what I’m talking about, I’m sure you do. Those sweet little lies you tell yourself to make life more bearable – “My wife isn’t secretive, she’s just private.” “It’s not an affair until you get naked,” to use your words, Detective Kinsella. I’m sure you have a few of your own.’
Yeah, a few.
It’s puppy fat, not pizza fat.
I haven’t lied to my colleagues, I just haven’t told the truth.
I don’t know with absolute certainty that Dad knows anything about what happened to Maryanne Doyle.
Problem is, while the lie may be sweet as it falls from your lips, the feeling in your gut is always putridly sour.
And almost always bang-on.
*
When we get back to the Incident Room, Parnell’s already there, pacing up and down giving Steele the low-down and generally emitting the kind of pissed-off pheromone that ensures no one dares venture within punching distance. While Parnell’s not known for being a violent man, he’s not usually known for being a sweary man either, but the air’s thick with the sound of ‘fucking alibi’ and it feels thickest around me, although that could be my tendency towards self-blame taking hold – my unintelligible need to hold myself in some way responsible for everything that goes wrong.
Because Parnell did the first interview too.
He was the senior officer.
And OK, maybe we could have pressed Lapaine harder on his ‘Home Alone’ alibi but did we have any real reason to?
‘Softly softly’ Steele had said. ‘I don’t want him feeling like a suspect.’
I only hope Parnell’s got the knackers to remind her.
I repeat all of this to Renée in the hope she’ll work her Renée-magic and say something soothing but she can’t seem to find the right words today. She does find a packet of Oreos though and they kind of work the same. Feeling slightly sick but undoubtedly calmer, I go back to my desk and call Abigail Shawcroft, Googling her as I wait for her answerphone to kick in. It turns out her ‘high-profile role in the community’ involves being reception class teacher for a local primary school and according to her Twitter bio, she’s ‘Mummy to Alexa and Rowan. Loves Glastonbury, netball and cheese lol!!!!’
I leave a message asking her to get in contact ASAP. I’m just hanging up as Parnell puts the phone down.
‘All OK?’ I say, tentatively.
Parnell sits down to deliver the verdict. ‘Seems she’s getting philosophical in her old age. Ruling him out is as good as ruling him in, apparently. At least it’s something concrete.’
‘So we’re not on the naughty step?’
‘No?’ Clearly this hadn’t even occurred to him. I definitely need to dial down the self-whipping. ‘And Lapaine’s not in the clear yet either, not until we’ve spoken to the fancy-woman. And even then . . .’
Even then, starry-eyed lovers, especially those of the secret kind, can’t exactly be classed as rock-solid alibis.
‘Well, I just left a message.’ I flop back in my chair. ‘For the fancy-woman.’
‘For all the good it’ll do,’ says Seth, sitting with his Barbour jacket on, waiting for the green light to go home. ‘He’s had more than enough time to get his story straight with her.’
‘He gave it up very easily, didn’t he?’ Parnell puts a hand to his forehead with an actor’s flourish, ‘“Oh what’s the point, you’ll only find out anyway.’’’
Seth nods. ‘All that “I was protecting her” nonsense. Why didn’t he keep protecting her then? He’s right that we’d have probably found out eventually but it could have taken ages, whereas he handed her to us on a silver platter.’
I get their logic, but I’m not feeling it. ‘I don’t think there’s anything necessarily sinister in that. I think he’s extremely angry, understandably, and trashing the memory of their marriage is the only way he can hurt Alice now. Maybe he wants people to know he was cheating because it makes him look less of a gullible idiot – you know, “she may have fooled me, but haha, I fooled her too.”’
‘Maybe, maybe.’ Parnell rubs his hands up and down the side of his face. ‘OK, folks, it’s getting on so let’s call it a day. Kinsella, let me know if Abigail Fancy-woman calls you back but if not, we’ll get someone over to the school first thing tomorrow. Surprise her on her work turf, make her feel uncomfortable. With any luck she might trip up, if there is anything to trip up. Oh, by the way, Steele’s done a piece-to-camera appealing for anyone who might have seen something early Tuesday morning to come forward and’ – he pretends to look scared, braces himself for the backlash – ‘we’re going to get an appeal out in the nationals tomorrow for anyone who thinks they might have come into contact with Maryanne/Alice during the “lost years” – between 1998 when she leaves Mulderrin and 2001 when she turns up on Brighton beach, making eyes at Thomas Lapaine.’
In other words, we’re going to hold up a beacon to all the crack-pots, crazies and police groupies in Great Britain.
An air of resigned dread settles on the incident room as we start to pack up. Molly, our cleaner, weaves in and out of our desks, giving an extra spruce to those who take the time to get to acknowledge her every evening, a cursory swipe to those who think they’re too important to engage.
I look over at Parnell, hunched and haggard and wrestling with the zip on his Arsenal backpack with a ferocious anger not usually reserved for backpacks.
There’s only one thing for it after an interview like that.
‘Boss . . .’